#i had a vague idea for a character earlier

[goblinroleplay]

im sooo normal about gustav and bonnie . anyway on a completely unrelated note im going to make two treasures ocs aha like the worlds butchest lesbian grizzled treasure hunter lady aha not like relevant to bonnie or anything at all haha and some guy idk i care less about men .

[presiding]

you'll never guess which level we're up to in this dishonored 2 rewrite

[astrxealis]

my ocs..... i love you

[lynnuvo]

୨⎯ Long Gone Princess ⎯୧

Characters: Yan!Thief x (Y/N) reincarnated as Rapunzel A lot of you guys enjoyed the Cinderella version, so why not make a Rapunzel version? Very much considering making this a Yan!Fairytales Series.

Stowed Away

When you first awoke in your tower, you panicked for days. There was literally no way out, no matter how much you clawed at the bricks. It didn't take long to figure out where exactly you were. Who else would paint a mural of herself, seriously long-haired, gazing at floating lanterns?

Meeting Mother Gothel was the most anxiety-inducing thing you had to push through. You pitied the real Rapunzel for falling victim to her sugar-coated, poisonous words. As much as you internally cringed at them, it wouldn't serve you well to raise suspicion. After all, you have nowhere to go.

Whenever Mother Gothel was gone and you finished tidying up the tower, you emptied one of your chests full of female paraphernalia and stuffed some "safety equipment inside." Hopefully, Mother Gothel wouldn't notice a missing pair of scissors. Or a few darts.

Your now abnormally long hair was disturbing, to say the least. It was pretty, but now that you were living her life, you wandered how Rapunzel managed to put up with the hair strands scattered around the house, washing the heap of keratin proteins for hours in just ONE day, and sleep knowing there was at least some hair flowing to the floor. And let's be real: you were not going to spend most of your day braiding it just to remove your work whenever Mother Gothel came back.

Unfortunately, you couldn't afford to cut your hair--not just because it'd give Mother Gothel a heart attack but because it might help you. It did have magical healing powers. The only huge problem was that you were not skilled enough to maneuver your hair like Rapunzel. In addition, if you were to leave the tower, how would you return? Until you found the secret entrance amongst all the brick, you needed a backup plan.

One day, you gathered the courage to ask Mother Gothel for more fabric to sew a beautiful wedding dress, one that was colorful and very long. Of course, you left out the part where you wanted it to be long enough to reach the bottom of the tower (it'd be a lot of work, but what else were you going to do to escape?). She was skeptical about the idea behind the dress, but you reassured her that you just wanted something like those girls in the fairytale books you had in your room. After her lecture about the dangers of the world, she agreed to get you fabric.

My Savior

One morning, while you sowed your dress, you heard the sound of metal jabbing into something growing closer and closer. In a panic, you shut off your sewing machine and tied up as much as your hair as possible. There was no way you could capture Rapunzel's beloved thief the way she did. You vaguely prepared for what to do when he arrived, but you hadn't expected it to be that day!

At last, he fell into the tower and froze at the sight of you. He glanced behind him and turned back around, stepping away from the window with hands up. "Uh. I am so sorry for breaking into your home."

You pointed one of your scissors (used to cut fabric earlier) at him with a glare. "I'll forgive you if you hand me that bag you have."

"Listen, miss, I think we can sort this out without--"

"The bag or I'll throw you back down."

He gulped and reluctantly threw you the bag, begging you to please return it to him afterwards. The shock he had at your nonchalant expression while pulling out the most sparkly crown you've ever seen was laughable. In reality though, you were in awe. You quickly snapped out of it, though, and threw it behind you. You both cringed at the clanging it made as it hit the floor.

"I need you to listen to me," you started, gripping your scissors and your dress. "I need your help."

You didn't hesitate to cut to the chase. You explained that you were kidnapped by a woman claiming to be your mother and trapped in the tower by her. Although it may backfire on you later, you shared that you were reincarnated from another world. He was in disbelief until you told him his full name, his criminal history, the companions he had who would soon betray him, and the small cottage he visited along with many more criminals or outlaws. He challenged that you just did your research, but then you told him what crime he had just committed: stealing the missing princess's crown, which was--by the way--you.

After some back and forth, he agreed to help on the condition that you return the crown. You agreed to return it on the condition that he not only help you escape but also help you live in safety.

Together, you both clawed at the bricks on the wall until the secret backdoor was found. He helped you come up with a way to hide the new backdoor again whenever Mother Gothel returned.

You found a pattern in the earlier months leading up to then on Mother Gothel's pattern of visitation. She comes back every three or four days in early evening. If she didn't return by the time the sun disappeared, she wouldn't be back at all. That day was one of those days she wasn't going back. You suspected she wouldn't return for a while since she had just left the day before. Although hesitant at the idea of a new roommate, you demanded that Yan!Thief spend the night in the same room as you. He balked at what he thought was an implication, but he soon found himself sleeping on the floor (you dropped a blanket for him). How were you sure he wouldn't use the secret backdoor while you slept? You boobietrapped it before bed, making sure he stayed in the room so he wouldn't see under the threat of murder.

Steal His Heart

Your new routine was a scary turn but also surprisingly relieving. Yan!Thief would leave the tower in search of a new home for you (and him too) and would return in the afternoon only if a piece of purple fabric hung outside the window. Otherwise, it wasn't safe to come back.

Although your relationship started off rocky (who's to blame him with how violently you approached him?), you two soon warmed up to each other. He sometimes returned with small goods that you sometimes got a clear answer for how he retrieved. That chocolate he got for you both to try? He pickpocketed it. That ripe fruit that tasted like mildew spring? He dodged all of the questions.

Eventually, you gathered the courage to leave the tower with him. Your activities differed from there. Sometimes, you both ventured a little ways from the tower to discover the terrain and help find a new home. Sometimes, you both would spend the day walking around, learning more about each other and chatting away.

With no other companion, it came as no surprise to Yan!Thief that he developed romantic feelings for you. You didn't want to admit that you did too. At least, not until you both were in a safe place.

At last, Yan!Thief found an abandoned shelter. It was rusty, but it was closer to the kingdom than the tower but sheltered away like the tower. With a pounding heart, you gathered as much as you could from your tower into a backpack that Yan!Thief had brought over and left forever. In the shelter, you cut your hair, rendering it free from its power. Yan!Thief initially didn't want it to happen due to your great abilities, but one look at your determined face told him that you knew better.

The next couple weeks was spent in paranoia, you in fear of Mother Gothel and him in fear of guards. Luckily, you two went as far as making it into the kingdom without getting caught.

One day, you brought up the idea of revealing your identity to the king and queen while fidgeting with your crown. You reassured Yan!Thief that you'd vouch for his safety and freedom for as much as possible. It took a while for him to warm up to that, but you two finally made your way towards the castle.

Everything went surprisingly as planned. The kingdom rejoiced at the return of their princess, Yan!Thief was spared of a prison sentence and was even given a home and job as a prize for bringing you back, and the dead, rotten body of Mother Gothel was found not far from the shelter you and Yan!Thief had found.

Life was a fairytale.

MY Princess

Until it wasn't.

See, although you and Yan!Thief seemed to start opening a romantic chapter, that soon closed. With your newfound title came new responsibilities, friends, and much to his worries, a possible new love interest.

He tried his best to remain just a friend to you, but it was unbelievably hard. He couldn't believe that you were slowly forgetting him, your savior! Why must you abandon your knight in shining armor?!

He did feel guilty for not appreciating his new life more. Any other criminal would probably fight tooth and nail to be in his position, but he just wasn't happy if you weren't there with him.

Once his selfishness began to boil over, he devised a plan he wasn't sure if he was going to regret. He paid a visit to your room in the castle (you had given your dear best friend special permission) and chatted with you a bit. You apologized for being so distant as of late; royal duties had been keeping you at bay. He accepted your apology more readily than he had expected. It was hard not to with your bright smile and the cute way you pushed your hair behind your ears. He asked if you had time to visit the old tower for memories sake, and you happily agreed. The kingdom had yet to find the tower (you insisted to him that you wanted it kept secret in case you needed to run away again), so you simply told your guards you were heading out for a stroll.

Once at the tower, you two ventured inside and reveled at how dramatic your lives had changed. You even reminisced your life before being reincarnated. As the sun fell, you got up and suggested that you both should head back before it gets dark.

"Yan!Thief?" You peered at his gloomy expression. "Is everything okay?"

He nodded. got up, and hugged you. You let out a gasp before embracing him back. When he left go, you caught a tear slipped down his cheek. Your hands shot up to cup his face. "Yan!Thief?! What's wrong? I'm here. Did something happen?"

He sniffled and brushed a hand over your cheek. "I'm so sorry."

You were about to demand an explanation until you caught a glimmer shine from a blade in his other hand.

When you woke, you found your ankle chained to your bed--not your bed in the beautiful castle you were meant to be in but in the tower you had escaped from a year ago.

Yan!Thief came in the room and apologized with tears streaming down his face, exclaiming that you were just too irresistible to give to any other man or even the kingdom. He promised to take care of everything.

No matter how much you screamed, threw items in a fit of rage, or revealed that you only had romantic feelings for him all this time, he wouldn't budge. It was only until he bought a longer chain that he freed you from the bed. Your heart broke when you discovered he had discarded the wedding dress you had worked hard on and abandoned in the tower long ago, and even more so when you saw that he had built a new door in front of the original secret entrance.

You were back to square one, only this time with no way out and betrayed by the one person you truly trusted in this universe.

[berriebombz]

POWERPUFF GIRLS! (ft Princess Morbucks....)

I had a great Powerpuff girl design idea an earlier this week, so I drew it immediately!!! And it was SO UGLY I immediately gave up!!! It was so bad i reevaluated my choices, which worked in my favor at the end! I much prefer these designs. Anyways, my version of the girls are a bit more covered so they won't get hurt as much in combat, having metal robot like combat armor on their legs to deliver heavier blows and protection. All of them have their own type earrings, and personal sleeves I think would fit them!

As for Morbucks, we all know she wants to copy the ppg so she copied their powers with tech.... I made her leg armor more complex, throwing some bolts in there for good measure, and made the stripe on her chest in a vague M shape (both to symbolize Morbucks and for her to not have a black neck like the girls.) Also brought back her silly jetpack! In conclusion, making your own ppg designs is an amazing practice for character design actually

(also bubbles slightly inspired by @lune-redd. Round bubbles just rocks.)

[cherrys-side-bitch]

The Great 7 AU

Note: This is only general headcanons, I'm definitely writing more for this AU later

Since a young age, Yuu has had their parents (mostly Jafar and Grimhilde) teaching them how to act appropriately while also being taught fighting and magic. So, with that, Yuu would know how to keep a cool head in almost any situation, though it may be hard to keep a straight face with some of the seven’s comments.

Even though they have the power of the seven, they decide to play the role of the “magicless” prefect. I headcanon that, similarly to the actual game, the mirror said that Yuu didn't have magic since Yuu, by default, is just a random human and can't use magic without the seven’s aid. Though the mirror possibly hinted at The Great Seven being present, it was likely vague and quickly forgotten due to the absurdity of the situation.

Despite only arriving in this world from another, they’re incredibly knowledgeable about magic, potions, and even the history of this world. It's almost suspicious to the other students that some begin to think that their story of being from another world might be a lie even though they insist it isn't. Admittedly, though Yuu knows the history, they are still clueless about the laws and places of this word. Don't let them play geoguessr. They might die. Either that, or they’ll cry, then you have the Great 7 to deal with.

On the topic of the Great Seven, they don't have physical forms, only visible to Yuu and possibly other ghosts (Sam also probably knows due to the whole “friends on the other side” thing, but who knows). However, I believe they can still influence the world around Yuu through magic, even if only a little. An example may be that Yuu fell asleep on the couch after one of their nightly strolls with Malleus, and Maleficent draped a blanket over Yuu to keep them warm. Another is if Yuu is getting harassed by one of NRC’s bullies, one of the 7 pulls some horror movie shit and breaks the lights or starts throwing things: that or one of Maleficent's iconic storms.

Adding to what I said earlier about them acting, the idea of Great 7! Yuu snapping is terrifying. Even if they don't use magic or attack someone, it's still scary seeing that. The calm and collected persona falling, and you get to see their genuine emotions? Terrifying.

Just your average, cute, little “magicless” human acting all prim and proper, then displaying magical prowess that could surpass Malleus.

If I were those side character students, I’d leave, tbh.

┉ˏ͛ ༝̩̩̥͙ ⑅͚˚　　 ҉　　⑅͚˚ ͛༝̩̩̥͙ ˎ┉

Also, since you asked me to tag you, @twisted-wonderland-but-gayer 🥲

[adobe-outdesign]

I've been reading some of your Pokemon reviews and you've mentioned the design philosophies of earlier gens vs later gens and I wonder if you've ever done a post elaborating on that? Like, how later gens have Pokemon be more characters and such, and how earlier gens they can be more monochrome in color and such? Idk if I'm making sense

There aren't any hard "rules" and each Gen tends to have its own subtle design philosophies and whatnot, but as a general rule here's some Gen 1-specific design things that you don't see as much of later on:

Colors tend to be muted and less saturated overall. Trends towards naturalistic colors, i.e., lots of browns

Often (though not always, see the Dragonair line as one exception) very simple in concept

More naturalistic fur/feathers—compare original Arcanine's fur, which is very fluffy, to Hisuian Arcaine's fur, which is comprised of easy-to-model shapes

Anatomy generally fairly realistic; less emphasis on shapes (as they weren't originally thinking of things like the anime or plushies)

Gen 1 specifically had an entire subgenre of designs based off kaiju that tended to be abstract monsters with a heavily "plated" look. These tend to be some of the earliest designs and mostly disappeared after this gen

Kind of a vague idea of what a Pokemon is. Can it have mechanical cannons? Sure! How about an item it carries? You bet! (Pokemon carrying items decreased drastically after this gen with more thought put into what the item is and how they obtained it)

Lines sometimes less coherent due to different 'mons getting slapped together during production

Less emphasis on making the mons "friend-shaped", for lack of a better term. A lot more designs that are creepy or more monstrous

Tend to be more animalistic without as much emphasis on having pre-defined personalities (like how Gholdengo is a radical surfer dude or how Sobble is always sad)

Lots of triangle eyes along with common 90s anime faces

Not too many finicky details like lots of markings due to sprite limitations

Disconcertingly large amount of head spikes

Many lines either change really drastically during evolution or barely change at all with little in-between

[possiblylando]

HTP; Ghoul Lore Audio Log Spoilers/Analysis/Discussion

Dude holy shit uh Spoiler barrier and then all in cause

Okay Okay fuck where to begin this episode literally changes everything okay I guess lets start at the Draught. Based on what we know about this unique Draught, it means Grimal might not be the ghoul?? If the ghoul potentially has this Draught (which I vaguely doubt will come into play in this arc specifically) it could mean anyone could be the ghoul so long as they were only in a place without 1 other person. Atleast I assume so because if they could use this high power Dominate on multiple people simultaneously then this whole operation would be cooked from the start. While I was very mixed on the idea of Gloria as the Ghoul previously, I think its far more possible now. This high level Dominate (Lets assume 4 dots) This ghoul could have access to Rationalize or Forgetful Mind, Or any others in that category. If Grimal is was being commanded to act that could explain why everything is so suspicious around her. Have someone else go in and take care of Occam while the ghoul sits with someone else and has the perfect alibi. So now I think the possibilities for Ghoul are; 1. Grimal is the Ghoul (The Draught is a red herring and simply setting up something in a future arc instead of this current one.) 2. Gloria is the Ghoul & has this Draught; this is based more on Vibes and the fact Gloria doesn't actually do too much in part 1 outside checking Occam's pulse. If she's the ghoul and commanded someone (Namely Grimal) to attack Occam, she would have a vested interested in knowing if the attack was successful. Okay thats about it for my thoughts on the Ghoul right now. Onto the far more important bit of this episode. Because this was not simpyl a Ghoul Lore episode, THIS WAS A MARCKUS LORE EPISODE TROJAN HORSE.

But before the deep Marckus shit- Markus was 12 in 1988. Door was present and seems to be in his 20s or 30s. Boy has not been born yet and Boy is 11 in 2006 so he was born in like 1995. So I think its reasonable to place door as being in his 20s here, having Boy in his 30s. This means Door is probably 8-15? (Maybe) years older than Markus which would make him roughly 40 in modern day. D does look markedly younger in these photographs but I'm not sure if thats art style or actually because he's aged. It does put a damped on my thoughts about D being MUCH older than he seems. But we do know his previous Ex-Wife Rozalia (The Ghoul) is roughly 108 in modern day. It seems to be implied D had met & later married her after she was pretty deep into being a ghoul so there probably was a large age gap already. But it still kinda stands out to me. D is very afraid or Marckus becoming a Ghoul because he sees himself in him. I don't necessarily think D was a ghoul (thought it could explain his weird age). Thought all this might be confirmation Bias as in the more recent episodes D's hair has been more consistently colored with grey streaks when compared to earlier episodes where it was more like a sheen in his hair. It just feels like D has done too much to only be roughly in his 60-70s and very fit. While older people can certainly be in good physical condition it doesnt seem like D has suffered any real negatives from aging? He's MINIMUM 18 years older than Door who is in his 40s but again that's a low ball. I don't know. Alright time for the Marckus stuff. So its rather basic background knowledge that HTP's main cast is inspired by the cast of Warhammer 40k TTS. Now up until this point I had thought it was mostly a baseline thing. Only really carrying over personalities and vague relationships between characters while having the freedom to change them with that background knowledge. But based on this episode it appears to be more relevant.

Whatever the fuck Marckus managed to summon, It was something not even D understood. This is in directly parallel with 40k's Magnus who Marckus is based on. For those who don't know about 40k lore (I don't blame you its VERY long.), Magnus is a Primarch (Emperor's special kids) who ended up being manipulated by 40k's god of trickery and ended up fucking up literally everything because of his lack of thinking things through and the influence of said trickster god. Gods in 40k are manifestations of humanity (and alien's) collective subconscious minds and often take the forms of their most volatile negative aspects. They're entited formed from 'The Warp' which is the source of magic in 40k. Magnus is very naturally tuned to the warp. Almost all the issues in TTS (and 40k) relating to Magnus are because he has a MASSIVE complex. He craves parental affection and affirmation but in TTS every time he thinks hes denied it, some shit goes wrong. When he actually gets that parental affection (Earlier season 2 iirc) he mellows out alot until finding out the only reason the emperor (D's counterpart) brought him back was so that Magnus would act as a pawn and decoy in his 5d chess game to deal with political enemies. Magnus is not happy about this. With all this background information, whats present in this episode slots into place. Marckus seems to have forgotten about the incident yes. The better case is that he blocked out the memory due to trauma. But the worse possibility is that a seed was planted. One that's been festering within him since that time. D may be planning to tell Marckus everything in a few months, But I get the feeling before those months are up, That seed will sprout. In one form or another, Marckus will be given the option to go down the same path of darkness as his predecessor. I don't think Marckus would go for such a path without a push but the one providing that push might be D, even if unintentionally. D is so focused on the forest that he's missing the trees.

[theemporium]

(totally not being self-indulgent rn) carlos seems like he'd be such a good listener with reader!girlfriend. she'd be the kind of person who's so quiet but chances are, when they're alone and he's got her curled up in his arms, she's going to talk about is whatever's happened in her latest read. he'd just be so patient with her and just listen to her ramble on. and sometimes, after a bad weekend, the one thing that can calm him down is her voice and her stories

this was so cute and i had to write something on it🥹thank you for sending this in!🫶🏽

.

It almost felt poetic to have a shitty ending to a shitty season, but it didn’t make him feel any better about the whole weekend. 

He was pissed. He was pissed when the tires started to feel shit. He was pissed when his race engineer kept reassuring him that they would pit soon. He was pissed when he was called into box at the last laps and practically gave up what was already a shitty position. He was fucking pissed when he ended the last race of the season in P18. 

He tried to grin and bear it. He took pictures with the team, he went through the debrief, he celebrated Charles finishing P2. He tried to just pretend like it wasn’t bothering him, like it wasn’t bubbling inside him just waiting to burst and blow up in his face. 

He had feigned exhaustion and a headache, leaving the club far earlier than anybody else even if it was at around one in the morning. He had stumbled into his hotel room, dragging his feet and even though he had only had a drink or two, his body felt like it was already on the brink of a hangover. 

He pulled off his clothes and fell back onto the bed, his eyes falling shut but sleep wasn’t an option for his racing mind. There was only one thing he wanted, but it was miles away and the mere idea of it made his chest feel like it was caving in.

So, he did the next best thing.

“If this is a drunk call, just know that I will be using whatever you say against sober you.”

Carlos felt the tightness in his chest ease as your voice sounded through his phone, his eyes falling shut as he let out a hum. “You always do.”

“You seem tired.” There was a pause, and he could almost imagine the adorable pout on your lips. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No,” he answered honestly, because he didn’t want to talk about it. He had spent the last few hours constantly talking about it: in debriefs, in interviews, in conversations with other drivers. He hadn’t stopped talking about his shit race and the fact his whole strategy was relying on a probability of a safety car happening, and now he just wanted to forget it ever happened. Even for a few minutes. “I just wanna hear you talk.”

“Hear me talk?”

“Yeah, I saw you finished another book,” he commented, a vague memory of a notification popping up on his phone at your Goodreads account being updated. “Tell me about it.”

“Stalker.”

He snorted. “How else can I know which books to buy you?”

“I’ll never finish my TBR! I don’t even have enough space for all the books you buy me.”

“Then I’ll buy you a library, amor,” he hummed, his body sinking into the bed. “Tell me about it. What happened? Who do we like? Who do we dislike?” 

There were a few beats of silence before you gave in, before you began rambling about characters and plots and little things that irked you enough to make you rant away to your boyfriend. 

He listened with a smile, just taking in the sound of your voice and your enthusiasm as he reminded himself he would have you in his arms in less than twenty-four hours, and this season truly would be behind him.

.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

good night, or whatever time of day it is for you 😅 i was never rly into the “traitor/evil ace” theories but book 7 has got me thinking; everyone who’s asleep has something that bothers them and so there dream is a simple solution to that, as an example epel being insecure about not feeling masculine so in his dream he’s big and buff. But I can’t think of any motivations like that for ace? So I wonder if maybe the game has intentionally not revealed personal details as a buildup for this book and we’ll find out something new abt him in his dream. The only others I could think of that don’t seem like they want to change anything are Jade and Floyd but I could be wrong.

I never bought the traitor Ace theories either; he is genuinely friends with Yuu, Deuce, and Grim and does not have any obvious malicious intent toward them. (Why would he make the tedious trip back to Sage’s Island over the winter break to respond to Yuu’s SOS message if he didn’t actually value them? And, mind you, this is during a break he was very looking forward to—so much so that he was willing to make a deal with Azul to take the easy way out to pass final exams).

If he “betrays” us at all, I definitely think it would be in a small way. Like maybe he makes a selfish decision that the rest of the group don’t agree with (such as throwing himself right at OB Malleus). This would be similar to how he is consistently the voice of dissent against powerful figures such as Riddle or Malleus.

As for what’s “bothering” Ace, I believe we’ve already seen two big potential culprits: Yuu going back to their world and insecurities about not having developed his UM yet.

The former is more vague, but it comes up early in book 7; when Grim and Deuce realize that they may not be able to see Yuu again once they return to their original world, Ace cheerily dismisses the idea and tells them they’re not even sure if this will work. It could be read like he was deflecting here, as if he’s in denial himself and is using cheer to tell others what he’s telling himself to cope with the situation. Bro would never outright admit that his true feelings because he’s cheeky like that 💀

The latter option is implied much earlier in the main story, all the way back in book 5. Ace has been needling Deuce the whole book about how he’s such a slow learner and how Deuce will never keep up with him. Then at the end of book 5, Ace has a quick throwaway line in which he expresses shock that Deuce got his UM before he did. We have yet to follow up on this point since book 6 had Adeuce knocked out cold and book 7 scarcely features them. If Ace’s coping mechanisms are anything like what his lines in book 7 imply, then Ace has not talked about the upsetting things and instead kept them to himself. Personally, I think this one is a solid concept that wouldn’t seem entirely out of left field, especially given that book 7 is making a show out of having every student use their at least UM once. There is perfect set-up for Ace to come into his own here.

I think they’ll at least find something really convenient yet superficial for the other characters; after all, we pretty much got that with Rook. Maybe Floyd has the freedom to so whatever he wants without people getting on his case and Jade is free to live in the mountains among the mushrooms 😂

[yuurei20]

(This was originally an ask received through Twitter)

"Hello! Can you please elaborate on the time loop theory in book 2 that you mentioned in the tweet where you talked about your favourite theories?"

I am wary about discussing this theory as there are many others who have put much more thought into it than I have, but I can certainly try with what I was able to find :>

(The information in this thread was combined from here, here, here, and here)

The basic theory is that everything we know is repeating in a loop in an attempt to either stop something from happening or to make something happen.

The game’s tagline of “I will show you a true happy ending” (EN: “Let us show you the real happily-ever-after”) could be insinuating that there have already been less than happy endings, and we may have already seen one: while some theorize that the events of the prologue are showing us what is going to happen in the future, others say that it is both that and something that has already happened.

The theory goes that the battle with the chimera (who may or may not be an overblotted Grim) was lost and everyone (or just the prefect) is sent back to try again, thus the opening lines of the game narrated in Crowley’s voice.

(Note: I would have translated this as “I—they—you—only have a little time left. Whatever you do, don’t let go”, but the situation is so vague that anything is possible.)

(Here is a short comic insinuating that this time loop is Crowley’s unique magic (warning: blood, death, a Yuu design))

This theory seems to be largely inspired by Mickey’s comment that he has seen the same dream three times but he also says “your voice gets clearer and clearer every time.”

Since Mickey also shows up in Books 2 and 3 but we were not able to speak with him, it is possible that this is not actually hinting at two earlier loops, just earlier events within the same timeline. This does not dismiss the time loop theory and might mean that this is Mickey’s first time interacting with the loop, but there have been far more than just two or three timelines.

(This account pretends that Book 7 does not exist yet, so that is about as specific as I can get.)

The theory gets kind of wild with references to STYX’s simulation system, supposed inconsistencies with Ace and Epel, Crowley’s potential connection to STYX, etc, but one thing that everyone seems to agree on is: Leona knows.

Leona is extremely powerful and extremely private.

He has had a number of contracts with Azul who is also a powerful mage, and according to Idia he seems like “the kind of guy who always knows he’s dreaming.”

Yana has confirmed that Idia has a part in Book 7 and, with both him and Leona halfway out of their coffins in promotional art, people are wondering if Leona will be stepping up as well.

We know that Riddle’s current personality is a 180 degree change from original plans and that this change was made pretty far into development, after everything had already been approved.

There are also rumors that Leona’s Book 2 was the original Book 6, looking at older promotional information (Book 2 was originally listed between Ignihyde and Diasomnia on the official website).

It is possible that—much like Riddle’s situation—Yana came up with a better idea than what had originally been decided, and it required shoehorning Leona’s drama into an earlier Book in order to make it work.

This would mean that Book 7 used to have significant space for Leona (there is a pattern of the previous Overblotter having a role in the next Book).

That space may have been rewritten for Idia, but it is also possible that Idia’s role was added separately and a role for Leona remains to some extent, which is why they went out of their way to say that Leona knows when he is in a dream.

Theories vary from “Leona is 100% aware of what is going on, broke free from the loop and he is the only one getting older as he tries to save the world” to “Leona knows something isn’t right but not exactly what.”

The proof that people usually point to is his comment where he is unsurprised by Grim “always” eating black stones (which he shouldn’t know anything about), but the phrasing is so vague that he could just be making the connection between the stones and a potential blot-risk.

Another scene that is often referenced in the “Leona knows” conversation is an interaction with Jamil where he accurately predicts Jamil’s attack on Kalim despite how rarely they interact before Book 6.

There are also the three white chess pieces on the chessboard in Leona’s bedroom that seem to correspond to the only three characters in the game with light cosmic magic: a white rook for Rook, a white knight for Silver and a white pawn for Kalim, whom Leona literally refers to as a pawn piece in chess during Tamashima-Mina (these three chess pieces are also displayed prominently in Leona's first Birthday groovy).

Leona also seems suspicious of Crowley, suspects what really happened in Book 5 and is able to literally sniff out magic, which we have seen no other character capable of doing.

Leona is very perceptive in general: he is suspicious of Lilia in Spectral Soiree, calls him an old man when no other character outside of Diasomnia knows his true age, is the first to figure out that Malleus is pretending to be possessed and is able to tell when someone becomes injured and is trying to hide it in both Book 6 and an event.

This is not proof that Leona knows what is happening, but it may be an argument for why it is likely that he knows more than he is willing to let on.

Some versions of the time loop theory say that the same prefect is being sent back over and over again to try and save everyone (which ties into the game’s opening), while other versions say that this is the prefect’s first time being summoned into a loop that has been going on for a long time without them, in an effort by someone (Crowley?) to change the ending of the story.

While not technically part of the game, the Twst novelization supports the first pattern while the manga series supports the second, with new prefects showing up after the previous prefect presumably fails.

Knowing Yana it is possible that the game is actually a third, entirely different pattern with the novel and manga exploring alternatives that were considered for the game but not used.

[the-monkeies-girl]

I was just going to ask you if you were thinking about writing about Proximus, they beat me to it hahaha. I'd love to read that! Proximus has potential 🫦🫦

I love you and your books, and how you write and AAAA-

I dont write characters like this very well someone kill me im crying im just gonna crawl into my hole and never write for him again </3

Title: Nightly Reading. Fandom: ( Kingdom of the ) Planet of the Apes. Pairing: ( Mildly, I am easing myself okay ) SUPER VAGUE Implied! Proximus Caesar x Human! Reader. Rating: K. ( Not fluffy, but not like, bad lol. ) Words: 2.3K Summary: You were brought in to share duties with Trevathan. The only task was to read to a King.

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Books were such fascinating things. All of Human history had been documented, years and years upon knowledge now sitting in your hands at once moment like all the time was squeezed out, like lemon. Your fingers flitted across the page as if your touch alone was going to memorize the words that your eyes were able to read and make out, some faded and lost to the same concept that marveled you about them. Time. 

Admittedly, three-hundred years was bound to do something to the poor pages despite some groups of Humans trying to keep them safe. But, once Apes got their thick hands on them, you thought bitterly and let your eyes glide over to the Bonobo sitting atop his throne, most didn't care and they were left to ruin just like the rest of Humanity. Water damage was prominent in the book you held in your grasp, finger gliding right along the spine and feeling the imprint of the title against your fingertips.

Your movement was full of intent and was languid, almost sitting on the notions of flirtation. Proximus Caesar has never said anything to you about it out loud, but the glances that often fell on your hands were nothing short of curious morbidity. He was probably thinking just how easy it would be to get them all to snap off, one by one in his own hand, if you refused to read for him, if you refused to teach and entertain the ideas of a very clear Tyrant. Swallowing softly at the feeling of a lump in your throat, your gaze skirted along the rather delectably decorated room itself. Draped in red, the window off to the side let in enough of the Summer breeze and you were blessed with the scent of sea water. It was clear that he favored Roman History, just from the sweep of his throne that any Emperor had to be jealous of, the copper shining of his head dress, a crown not strewn of delicate greens of an olive branch usually depicted in the books you read to him, the draw of the chest piece, same flushed color as the head dress, draping down the taut muscles of his chest that you knew could rip you limb from limb without remorse. 

You dwindled at that, as you so often did in the recent meetings you had with him. The allure of his tapering waist was substantial before you snapped yourself out of it and focused on the encapsulating red of the drawn in shawl around his admirable waist, tucked so intricately that you had to wonder to yourself which female Ape he chose to tie it every morning. Or maybe he did it himself, there was nothing there to cure your curiosity on that. If you weren’t flushed with red that matched his dress, you were now as you let your eyes linger on it momentarily, almost admiring the stance of which he sat. 

The elongated table that Caesar himself could have been stabbed against was next to beckon homage. The table was strewn with a dance of fruits, some nuts, and a neatly sat pile of books and the gaze Proximus had moved from your hands to your face was clearly stating and demanding that you begin reading. In comparison to the earlier mentioned table, you felt small in your seat, and even smaller when he would graze his eyes from head to toe, as if he were able to pierce the wood of the table itself to do so.

Afraid to meet his gaze, you brought your knees in together and looked at the book once more, taking a note of the words on the spine rather than feeling them. Today’s topic was a personal favorite of your own you realized, drawing many parallels that the Bonobo was going to refuse to see even if you were adamant and you had the pleasure of spilling each sadistically-sounding word to him every other day, coordinating the duty with Trevathan. 

Proximus, in all his glory, had blessed you with a one-on-one conversation when you first arrived in the Kingdom. And, looking back at it, it was very obviously a coy play against an already starved and half-alive Human, a tactic you knew he enjoyed using if you used or said something he disliked and he’d pull the rest of the meals from coming to your door for the rest of the day as a punishment. He liked variety, that his other advisor only told him what he wanted to hear, not what he needed to hear. It was recognizable that you were fastened to do the same thing, but you were more able to play the game that Proximus himself set up for you, at least that’s what you thought when you took the agreement just to get some food and to save your own life.

He valued more than one opinion, and thus the idea was born that you would also read the same things that your human counterpart offered, and give your counteractive opinions to see what the King thought was best. You had to give it to Proximus --- While you did not agree with his ideology, he was remarkably smart to think of these things on his own.  Given the topic, it made no sense to have a juxtaposition position though. It was history, and nothing, not even a crazed Bonobo with piqued interest in you, in the very history sitting in your hand, was ever going to change. 

You simply told him what he wanted to hear, more subtly than Trevethan who had a hard time even facing Bonobo face to face when he knew what he was saying was being taken out of context. A spineless snake, you thought to yourself, like you were any better. Proximus only took you in because you were able to read, and in return, he gave you refuge. Only part was you were able to play the same game that Proximus played, and deep down, you loved it because you knew that it kept waiting for more, and kept him eager to keep you around instead of the other human. More chance for your survival that way. 

Now, two months later, you found yourself in a dance with Proximus every other evening, sometimes in the mornings if he never sent for you in the evenings, knowing it to be a point of contention with you, a stickler for schedules. You knew all the pieces, pawns, queen, knights, and at times, when he came towards you with intense movements, his feet racketing the ground and sending shock waves through your entire body, his eyes focused and incredibly darkened,  you thought that he had figured out your game, but nothing ever came of it and you needed to remind yourself to stay calm. 

Proximus would just ask you a question, or he’d move towards you to point at the book, emphasizing that he wanted you to explain further. Never with the intent to kill you, never with the idea that he knew what game you were playing against him. You had to bargain with yourself that while you were indeed playing chess, you left him to play checkers.  A shiver exploded down your spine in pride that you were able to pull the wool over his eyes, using the charm of Humanity rather than the easier tactic of laying over. Still, the prospect rose from time to time. You were just a Human, he was just an Ape. It became a teetering routine that you were beginning to enjoy.

Now, telling him that History was just that and there were no opinions to be made on it, and getting into the vault was going to prove fruitless was going to get you skinned by either Lightening or Sylva. You held your tongue. Probably both at the same time, one taking your bottom half off and the other taking the top, when you stopped to think about how truly sadistic these Apes were, but you tried to push it to the back of your mind upon living with them. At the very least, you were alive now and even though you had to climb your way up the theoretical tree to gain favor with the King, and even though the Ape who gave you sick solace in life also gave you the option of death, you liked your position of power. Maybe, you laughed sarcastically, that’s why Proximus was so relentless to keep it. 

“Caligula.”

Your words always put him on edge, so different from Trevethan! He wondered about that. The fact that you chose to stay rather than choosing death - Many Humans were fast to do that once Proximus had offered a deal. Very sad, but he never rested on it for long and would have them slaughtered. Not full of fear or pandering, you were honest, at least that’s how it came across, he never knew the malice that you held towards him. It was gentler in nature, but still packed a punch when you inflicted your words a certain way, garnering you more favor to him as he liked the way you pronounced words.

Infliction was a strong thing, and Proximus himself took a lot of what you said based purely on the tone you chose to use. Flirty at times when you knew he was taking in the delectation of how your smooth lips formed the words, softer at others when you were speaking of the Roman Emperors wives or lovers, something he found intensely interesting as he himself only had concubines, as far as your knowledge went. Never anything serious, never anything to the level of standard he held himself to, harder and more adamantly aggressive upon talking of the concept of Wars waged in the past. 

“We usually read about Julius Caesar,” You noted almost dully having admired the book and knew the change of topic beforehand. Tilting your head at the Ape a few feet away from you, the action and your words seemed profusely innocent --- Always intended and always strategic. “Why---” You were cut off.

“Something… New,” Proximus’ voice leaked torturous enthusiasm which made your stomach turn in on itself. Not terrible, but it wasn’t something you’d want against the shell of your ear in the moments of intimacy. Too hard, too mean in all aspects. But, the idea did hit the back of your mind vaguely at that. For such a Tyrant, he looked at you with eased gentleness that never came naturally to him. Make the Human feel more comfortable, the action usually yelled at you but it did the very opposite once you were able to see what he was actually doing. It was usually faux, but for a moment as you stared at each other, it seemed a thoughtful idea was that he --- was genuine, giving you something new to read about, genuine, giving you more grace and time rather than Trevethan.

“Thought it good… I learned about the… Other Rulers."

Proximus staggered to his feet, the movement leaving your entire body on edge, hair raised. That was one thing that always struck you; he moved with such innate aggression in even the simplest of actions.

Your eyes widened at the pure strength and power in his gait as he sauntered closer to you, one foot after the other, shoulders bobbing with the walk. Mindlessly, your throat closed as he stood beside you, letting a finger tap against the book cover. You only looked at his hand, having him so close in proximity. Your breath escaped your lips, hitting Proximus at his wrist and you watched vividly as the fur against his forearm wrestled with your exaltation. He got close, often choosing to sit next to you but this--- 

Your eyes looked upwards towards him, catapulting you into a panic at the look of his canines as he was resting in his usual scowl. You’d never seen them that close, and your fingers twitched mildly at the idea of just… Touching them to see how sharp they truly were. Eyes were remarkably different than any other Ape you’d been in close quarters with. Not very many, but you knew that they had sharp, intuitive and smart green irises.

While Proximus’ were similar in color, the backdrop almost seemed… Black, like the rest of his fur, but upon further inspection they appeared more blood shot. You noticed the hackles rising and falling when you brought your gaze to his shoulders, admiring the density of the fur that cushioned against his chest piece.

You swallowed, suddenly hit with a fluttering of fear that ravaged the front of your skull. Why was he so close? Why was he so----

 “Is he… a good one? This…” Proximus brought his lips together and coated his mouth with saliva, a few droplets ultimately falling on you when he finally spoke again. “Emperor?” Your eyebrows furrowed at that question and your mouth popped open as you scrambled for an answer, cursing yourself silently for getting so distracted. Usually Trevathan would read to him first followed by you the next night, always the same book, he just took in the way that you both read the material. This was the first time that Proximus was asking you to read him new material exclusively. 

Patting yourself on the back for finally climbing your way into his lap, you raised your eyebrows now at the question and processed. From what you knew about Caligula, he was quite a fervent and crazy leader. Wild things were done under his rule and all the things were done with the justification that he was indeed the Emperor and he set the standards for his people. He was known as the Mad Roman Emperor for a reason. Huh. That sounded familiar. 

Gracing Proximus with a smile of sorts, baring your teeth in the way that you knew he found amusing, you nodded and whispered softly for only him to hear as he was so kind as to bring his entire being so close that you were able to smell the crisp nature of gunpowder mixing with crisped sand and ocean water clinging to his fur. Green gaze fell to your shoulders out of curiosity, a very easy way to see if Humans were lying was to see the rapid nature of their breathing but you forced yours to stay rational and calm.

“He’s a great one.”

Kind of crazy, actually really, really out of his mind, you wanted to tack on but only smiled to yourself as you watched Proximus leave your side, finally allowing yourself to take a deep breath in as he sat across from you, fingers cracking open the book to finally proceed with the lesson.

[genshindsau]

Pleasure for Two, Punishment for One - Part Two

Summary: Genshin!au, Empress!au. Its finally Scaramouche's turn to be dealt with after having to watch you and Aether. Except the fact that you are not done with his punishment and instead drag it out until he is completely pliant and submissive for you.

CW: Dom!reader, sub!character, reverse harem, bondage, tentacle use, OOC, mentions of voyeurism, throatfucking, gagging, unsafe sex, cum eating, urethral insertion, edging, use of "no" but there is a safeword system so reader ignored him when he says no, one line mention of rimming, anal, aftercare.

Part One

On top of the wrinkled bed sheets laid a naked and exhausted Aether. He was covered in sweat, cum, and drool but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he could feel was a satisfying ache run throughout his body. He was still trembling and just coherent enough that he could barely make out the feeling of your hand on his back as you rubbed it. One of your fingers grazed his backside and he couldn't suppress the flinch. His hole was bright red and sore to the touch, indicating just how well used he was. Despite wanting to curl up to you, he couldn't even make himself move.

He vaguely made out the breathless chuckle that left your lips.

"Are you okay to stay there for a while?" It took a second to process you were talking to him. Fighting the sleepiness that was starting to settle over him, he wrestled with keeping his eyes open.

"I still have someone else to take care of," He managed to spot you, who was also nude, but then he was able to remember one more person that was in the room.

Huh, I forgot he was here, Aether distantly thought. In the same position as earlier sat Scaramouche. Instead of the intimating concubine Aether was used to, sat someone who looked completely debauched. His body was shaking, constant watery sobs and pleads left his lips, tears fell freely from his eyes and the most noticeable were the tentacles that continued to explore and play with his body.

You brushed hair behind Aether's ears while waiting for his answer. It seemed to take a few seconds to register that you were asking him something. However, in the end he was able to nod. Knowing he was most likely about to fall asleep you decided that you would clean him later. Once you're done with Scaramouche it would be best to just let them soak in the baths for a while.

Speaking of Scaramouche, you moved to get off the bed and then stood in front of him. In the back of his mind he was able to understand that you were in front of him, but he struggled with lifting his head.

"I - please - I can't, i cant, i cant, i cant," he repeated as his head fell forward, his forehead against your thighs. He had no strength left in his body and every nerve felt like it was on fire. With no idea how long he was forced to deal with this pleasurable bordering on painful torment while watching you and Aether, it felt like it would never end. He stopped counting after Aether came the fifth time and you the second.

"Is it hard? Does it hurt?" Your words may have been sympathetic, but your tone was anything but. There was mockery underneath your words and your hand roughly pulled his head back and off your thigh. He felt a rush of tears well up in his eyes at the rough treatment.

"I'm sor-" he voices fell off into a sob when the tentacle that was in his ass gave a sharp thrust causing his body to jerk as best as it could while still wrapped in ropes.

"Hmm? I couldn't hear you." You squatted in front of him, your hand still in his hair. He was granted another thrust, followed by another and he was hoping that maybe this time you would let him cum. However, the tentacle also resumed its place back into his urethra. Just a few thrusts would have made him cum, he knew that, and you definitely knew that based on the way you manipulate the tentacle with your magic. You were dead set on not letting him cum.

"I'm - ahh - sorry. pleaseplease." Scaramouche was beginning to let out garbled nonsense. His prostate was being hit with each thrust, but he couldn't cum. He couldn't cum. He couldn't cum. That thought brought fresh tears to his eyes.

He could feel the burning in his stomach as he was forced to linger on the edge. His cock felt like it was about to combust, all slick and red. The tentacle slithered down his urethra, refusing to let him properly cum and scaramouche just broke, gasping sobs leaving his lips as drool slipped out of his mouth and onto the floor.

His hair was let go by you and he slumped down a little bit due to the loss of tension.

"Scaramouche," he could vaguely recognize your voice through his muddled mind. "Look at me."

You were speaking, he could hear you, but he couldn't comprehend what you were saying. It wasn't until a hand gripped his chin and angled his face towards you that he was able to focus on something. The rest of the world blurred out as he focused on your face and your face alone. When you saw the glossy look in his eyes, indicating how lost in his mind he was become, you softened your tone.

"I suppose it would be too much to expect you to listen. At least not when you're as mindless as you are right now." You offered false sympathy as you lightly shook his head with your fingers that were gripping his chin.

"Y'know many people complain about the words you spew out. About how you're too rude, too condescending, too arrogant." One of your fingers traced the glossiness of his lips as you spoke before dipping into his mouth and running over his tongue, coating your fingers with his saliva. "Afterall, this is what got you in this position in the first place."

"I guess I'm going to have to make it to where you won't be able to speak for a while."

The next thing Scaramouche was able to distantly recognize was the feeling of something soft on his tongue. His tongue moved at the pressure and felt around the new intrusion in his mouth. He was rewarded with a small moan that left your lips. For the first time you placed a gentle and delicate hand on his head which caused Scaramouche to lean forward, pressing against it and seeking out for that comfort.

"ah - ack," Scaramouche was interrupted with a garbled cough as he pressed forward trying to chase the comfort of your hand on his head, unintentionally pushing your cock deeper into the tight cavern of his throat. Even with the coughing and the obvious fluttering of his throat, you refused to pull out, opting to hold him still and force him to get used to the feeling of your length down his throat.

You gave him a few seconds to try and calm down until the majority of the coughing subsided. Scaramouche squirmed, his hands aching to come and rest against you but all that did was ignite a slight burning in the skin around his wrist due to him straining against the rope.

You pulled back a fraction but still kept the head of your cock in his mouth. Scaramouche eagerly sucked in as much air as possible, his chest heaving with his deep breaths.

Deeming he had enough time to situate himself you tightened the grip in his hair, "Be good for me and maybe I'll let you come afterwards."

That was all the warning he got before you pushed his head forward and thrusted your hips as well. With the first thrust, you only fed him half of your cock before pulling back a little and thrusting once more, this time forcing it all the way down his throat. He squirmed and tried to pull back instinctively due to the pressure in his throat, but you held firm. You kept him against your pelvis, his nose grazing your lower stomach before loosening your grip in his hair, letting him pull back just enough to where he could breath.

You slowly thrusted into his mouth one more time until his lips were at your base before pulling out. You did this a few times before you finally started to speed up. Scaramouche was unable to focus on using his tongue or suctioning his lips, but you didn't seem to mind, happily fucking up into his mouth. Instead of worrying about that he just adverted his eyes up to your face and tried to focus on that - wanting to see that you were feeling pleasure from your harsh treatment. However, this was deemed nearly impossible due to the tears that were welling up and trickling down his cheeks.

Glug, glug, glug, gurgling sounds filled the room along with soft moans that left your lips. Looking down you had to still your hips to stop from coming. Scaramouches eyes were unfocused and glossy and his lower face was covered in cum, drool, snot, and saliva. You could tell by the way he stopped struggling against your hold that he had finally fallen into that submissive headspace.

The loss of fullness in his throat led to scaramouche blinking away his tears and trying to look at you, afraid that he had done something wrong. Hurriedly, he had stuck his tongue out and tried to lick around the part of your cock that remained in his mouth. To appease you he even tried to swallow more of your cock, until it once again touched the back of throat. Despite the small convulses in his body he did not try to move away.

"Fuck... you're killing me here." You had let go of the tight grip you had in his hair and instead rested your hand on top of his head. You took a few deep breaths in order to push down your arousal.

Once you calmed yourself down, you pulled your hips back a small bit before shallowing thrusting back in. You were gentler this time around, not making it to where he violently choked against you. Instead, you set a steady rhythm. With each thrust you would still yourself at the back of this throat for a few seconds to feel the convulsions of his throat. You would finally pull back once he started to turn a little red in the face. You kept this going until you felt the familiar twinge of arousal in your lower stomach.

"Shit," Your hips picked up their pace. "Be good for me and swallow."

Scaramouche flinched at the first taste that spurted onto his tongue before he eagerly swallowed it down. He struggled to swallow it all and instead some flowed out of the side of his mouth. You kept him held against your stomach before pulling back and taking yourself out of his mouth.

Scaramouche's throat was burning from the rough treatment, and he had hunched forward coughing.

It took a moment before he realized he was being moved. One moment he was situated on his knees and the next thing he knew he was face down on the ground. His muscles burned at the new position; his weight was now resting directly on his knees, and he tried to move them but was unable to do more than scooch them. He rested his cheek against the floor and shivered at the coolness which was in direct contrast to the heat that was run rampage in his body.

"haah.. plea-ase," His voice cracked when he felt your fingers replace the tentacle that was previously shoved up his ass. There wasn't as much of a stretch but the fact that you were now touching him instead of a tentacle caused his body to shake.

When you entered three fingers into him, he reflexively grinded back against them, desperately wanting to feel them hit that one spot inside him that always set his body aflame. You didn't reprimand him for that and instead let him do some of the work, opting to just curl your fingers.

"nghhahh, there, right there." he cried out, but his voice was so hoarse and choppy that you could barely make out what he was saying. Even as he kept thrusting back and getting his prostate hit, you weren't allowing him to cum. That damned tentacle that was in his urethra and the rope that was tied around his balls was constricting him. "pleasepleaseplease - out. Need it out," he wailed, and his body was trembling so violently that you were worried he would pull a muscle.

You pulled your fingers out of him and wrapped them around his thighs and gently massaged them. He whined at the loss of touch, but his body unconsciously relaxed under your fingers that were pushing into the muscle on his thighs. You kept doing that until he became pliant once more and was not at a risk of harming himself.

"Relax," you cooed, moving to grip both of his cheeks with your hands and spread them. A small chuckle passed your lips when you saw his hole gaping and fluttering.

"cant." He gasped out. "hurts... need t' cum. please plea - ahh!" A throaty scream escaped his lips when he felt your tongue lick around his rim. You moved to kiss his cheek and traveled kisses and licks up his spine until you reached his neck. Your fingers traced the intricate ropes before tugging them and forcing his upper body off the ground. You continued to pull until he was once more on sat up on his knees but now, he had his back pressed against your chest.

Your cock situated itself right in between his ass cheeks and you rutted against him. "Want to cum?" It was a teasing question.

Scaramouche weakly nodded. "please. 'm sorry, I wont - I won't" his throat was burning through his pleads and in some distant part of his mind he knew he should not be talking anymore but he couldn't bring himself to worry about it. "won't talk back, wont be rude. prom-promise."

You both knew this was lie and that in a few days' time he will be the same condescending and rude concubine he always is but right now at this moment, he completely believed what he is saying.

"Promise," you decided to play along.

"Promise," he whined out.

"Alright. You're done with your punishment. I suppose you should get your reward."

He felt the slickness of the tentacles leave his entire body. All that is left from them was a trail of wetness that left goosebumps rising in their wake. The second you pulled it out of his urethra a scream left his lips. His hips tried to buck away from the feeling but he couldn't. All those previous denied orgasms that were pushed back due to the tentacle stopping them came rushing over him tenfold. His cock spurted out load after load and it felt like a never-ending pleasure to him that was becoming painful. His body shook uncontrollably against your hold. He wasn't sure how it felt like he was still cumming, his hole gaping and spasming.

It took a while for his body to calm down and even then, he was still having shaking. One of your hands had wrapped around his waist and rested on his stomach and was rubbing small circles onto it. In his twitching, the hands behind his back had grazed your cock a few times and despite your own arousal pressing against him you were well aware that he could be too sensitive to deal with anything else.

Scaramouche had felt the twitching of your own cock against his back and fingers. Despite the oversensitivity in his body, he still craved for the closeness of you inside him. He could handle one more, he wanted to feel you inside of him this time instead of the sliminess of the tentacle.

"s'okay," he managed to whisper out. At the same time one of his hands clumsily grasped your cock. His thumb ran over the tip (or at least tried to) before struggling to position it at his entrance.

You raised an eyebrow, "You sure?"

He eagerly nodded, "please."

You positioned yourself at his entrance and was able to easily sink into him. The breath was knocked out of Scaramouche and a loud keen left his lips and his back arched. Once you were completely sheathed inside him you let out a shuddering breath as he twitched sporadically around you. You knew this would be a short round, Scaramouche would probably be able to cum one more time before his body would no longer be able to handle anything else.

You pulled out only a small amount before shallowly thrusting into him, trying not to hit his prostate just yet. With each thrust, small uh - uh - uh's passed through his lips. Even with these shallows thrust he felt his stomach tighten. His orgasm was building and embarrassingly quickly too. His crying only got louder because he knew he couldn't hang on anymore.

"c-cumming," he managed to wheeze out. His whole body became tense and he squeezed down on your own cock. You let out a groan of your own, a small orgasm wracking through your body. It wasn't overly strong but it did not bother you. Scaramouche's on the other hand was strong, too strong. His mouth fell open in a silent scream and his body had convulsed before he fell completely slack, mind falling in and out of consciousness.

He felt the tension of the rope released from his body. He was distantly aware that he was falling forward but he couldn't make his body move. He didn't hit the ground and instead fell right into your arms. He first recognized your scent and unconsciously nuzzled into your chest wanting to be surrounded by the smell. He felt a new pressure around his body but this time instead of the coarseness of rope he felt the softness of skin as you wrapped your arms around him.

You sat down on the ground and situated yourself before moving him into a more comfortable position on your lap. One hand came up to run through his tangled-up hair whilst the other took to wiping away all the dried up cum and drool. You couldn't do a perfect job with just your hand, but you managed to clear up some so that it was not sticking onto his face.

Scaramouche was letting out small puffs of air that had undertones of wheezes in them, showcasing how well used his throat was.

You should get one of the servants to make him a tea, you thought while your hand left his jaw and mindlessly went to rub his throat.

Scaramouche opened his lips but strained to say something, anything but he couldn't due to the throbbing in his throat from his crying and your treatment of it. He unconsciously squirmed away from the hand at his throat.

You were befuddled before realizing that he thought you were going to start another round since you usually place your hand on his throat during sexual encounters. Quickly moving your hand to his shoulder, your cooed at him and brought him closer to you.

"shh, it's alright you're all done." He lost the last bit of tension in his body and slumped against you. "You did so good for me." If he had the energy, he would have preened at your words but all he could managed was a shaky smile.

Neither of you moved from your position on the floor for a while. It wasn't until you felt his breath even out and his body become pliant that you decided to stand up. You kept him in your arms as you carried him to the joining bathroom. He let out small sounds at the jostling but did not open his eyes. You carefully settled him on one of the cushions set aside the tub and used magic to start the tub.

Once it was filled up and at an appropriate temperature you carefully maneuver him into the tub making sure not to aggravate any of the rope burns. You did not join him and instead, once he was settled, let go of him and went to stand up. At the loss of your touch Scaramouche couldn't help the panic that welled up inside him. His eyes snapped open and one of his hands weakly clutched onto your arm.

"Do - " He winced as the pain in his throat finally settled in. He wanted to tell you not to leave him, but he couldn't. You could see the despair in his eyes and reached out to pet his head before moving to caress his cheek.

"I have to get Aether too, lovely." Even with your reassurance he didn't want you to let go of him. He shook his head and clutch onto you tighter. He wasn't jealous at this moment but instead all he could focus on was the fact that in order for you to get Aether, you would have to leave him and that caused an unimaginable amount of panic to form inside him. He did not want to be alone when he was feeling as vulnerable as he was right now.

You let out a sigh and squatted down behind the tub and ran your hand through his hair.

"You trust me, right?" you kept your tone light as you played with strands of his hair. He had his knees curled up and was resting his head against them.

He nodded without hesitation, and you couldn't help the pride that resonated in your chest.

"Then I want you to close your eyes and stay in this position for 30 seconds alright." As you were speaking, you had let your magic cast over him and mimic an embrace. You also mimicked the feeling of your hand playing with his hair. Once you felt confident in your spell, you had slowly and quietly gone to grab Aether who was still laying on the bed. His eyes blearily blinked open when you lifted him in your arms.

"Finally done with him?" He whispered but there was no malice in his tone. He was well aware that Scaramouche had gone through a tough punishment and that he would be dealing with some discomfort for a while.

You hummed in acknowledgment as you reentered the bathroom. Scaramouche was in the same position as you left him, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

The tub was more than large enough to fit the three of you, so you had place Aether in and made sure the both of them were comfortable before joining them. You made sure to sit in between them because even in their headspaces (or rather Scaramouche's, Aether seemed more well recovered) they could spiral.

Within a few minutes of joining them, you could feel weight against one of your shoulders (Aether fell asleep first) and then on the other side of your body, Scaramouche nudged under your arm so that he could lay against your chest.

[tropes-and-tales]

The Softest in the World

Day 15:  Fingering (Dave York x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event found here! Is it April? Yes. Am I that far behind in posting that it's April and I'm still working through Kinktober requests? Also yes.) 

CW:  Smut (Fingering; talk of masturbation; oblique talk of vague future sex acts); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4102

AN:  This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by an anon!

AN2: Never edited, never beta'ed. I live and die by my slopping typing.

The first Christmas without Carol goes far better for Dave than he ever thought it would.  Of course he misses his wife, nearly a year out from her sudden death.  Molly and Alice miss their mother too.  But the immediate grief—that sharp, cutting pain that left them breathless and stunned—has faded into a more mellow sorrow.  Ever-present, but it doesn’t take Dave out at the knees anymore.

He knows he owes much of his family’s collective healing to you, the nanny he hired months after Carol died.  You’re the one who stepped in and took charge of their lives.  You never tried to replace Carol, but you’ve managed their day-to-day moments and their larger healing.

This first Christmas was your idea too.  A month in Vermont, away from the family home where memories may have been too thick and pressing to allow for any joy.  It had proved out to be a great idea too:  long days sledding and snow-shoeing and building snow forts leave the girls exhausted by evening, too tired to ruminate about their missing mother.

And it allows Dave more time with you.

Usually you only live at the York home when he’s traveling.  You handle their lives at home—drive the girls to and from school, to and from activities.  You handle the maid who comes in twice a week to clean.  You keep the refrigerator full, get the girls bathed and put to bed with a story and a hug each night.  But Dave is never there to see it—when he returns home from his work trips, you leave for your own apartment.

This month in Vermont?  You sleep in the room just down the hallway from him.  You share a bathroom with him, leave behind the scent of your shampoo and soap after you shower.  He hears you each night when you, like clockwork, pad out into the kitchen for a glass of water that you gulp down until you’re breathless.

More than all of that, he has front row seats to how you care for his girls.  You’re tough but fair.  You cut them plenty of slack, grieving as they are, but you don’t allow them to run roughshod over you.  You play with them, you teach them, and you genuinely seem to love them…and they genuinely love you as well.

Him, though?  Dave can’t seem to get a bead on you when it comes to him.  Your ease with the girls disappears the moment the two of you are alone.  You can’t always meet his eye line.  You flinch away from him if he brushes against you.  Sometimes he wonders if you can sense his former double life—if you have some preternatural prey response to being so close to a predator.  But more than once, he’s caught you watching him on the sly.  He’s noticed your heavy-lidded eyes, the way you pull your lower lip between your teeth.

When he cornered you in the hallway a few days earlier, he definitely noticed how your breathing quickened.

Maybe you can sense his killer nature, but Dave would also guess that you are attracted to him.  And knowing what he does of your character, you probably feel conflicted about that.  Guilty.  Maybe even a cliché, the nanny falling for the widowed father of her charges.

If Dave has taken one lesson from Carol’s death, though, it’s this:  life is short, and life can end in a blink.  Why not live while you can?

-----

The day before Christmas is spent in a nearby town.  You plan it, of course, and you layer in fun stuff with all the errands you have to run and make it a family affair.  You take the girls ice skating at a nearby pond.  Dave stands along the rink’s edge and watches you take lazy circles on the ice, Molly’s and Alice’s mittened hands firmly in yours until they get comfortable on their own.  Then you skate over to him, and the two of you watch in silence.

Then there’s hot chocolate at a nearby café, last minute presents for the stockings, and the grocery store.  You return to the cabin laden with bags, and the evening flies by.  You and the girls make flat breads for dinner, and afterwards, you put on a Christmas movie while the girls put the finishing touches on the tree Dave bought earlier in the month.

Dave helps the girls with their evening baths.  He gets them tucked into bed, reads them a story.  He presses a kiss to each of their foreheads, and they are out like a light before he’s even quietly clicking their bedroom door shut behind him.

As he’s been tending to his daughters, you’ve tidied up in the kitchen and living room, and now you’re pulling the wrapped gifts from their hiding spot in the hallway closet to arrange them under the tree.

At the sound of his footfall, you glance up and offer him a smile.

“They out already?” you ask.

Dave chuckles.  “Before I even left the room.”

You smile, brush the back of your hand across your forehead, miming hard work.  “It’s exhausting work, trying to exhaust them.”

“And you manage to do it every time.”  He joins you near the tree, kneels down beside you.

“Sometimes I make them run laps at home,” you reply with a laugh, and maybe you don’t notice your casual use of the word home, but Dave notices.

Dave notices everything.

He noticed, for example, how you stood by him at the skating rink, perfect posture and a tension radiating off of you when Dave moved close enough for his coat to brush against yours.  He noticed the way you ducked your head at the café, how you pretended not to hear the women who sat nearby and remarked on the lovely little family that you, Dave, and the girls made.

He notices now how you lean away from him just a fraction, how you start when his fingers touch yours each time he hands you a wrapped gift to place.  He notices that you won’t look at him, that you keep your gaze carefully fixed on the presents or the tree.  He crowds you closer, plays dumb about it, and he notices when the pink tip of your tongue darts out and licks a wet line along your lower lip. 

Part of Dave—the dark part of him, the predator in him—wants to grip your face between his hand and force you to look at him.  He wants to hold your gaze until it’s too much for you; he wants to stare at you until you squirm and beg him to let you go.  And then he wants to not let you go, your begging futile—he wants to hold you tighter and lean in and draw his own tongue along that bitable lower lip of yours.

He keeps that part of him at bay.  He knows he has to go slow.  Slow movements.  You freeze around him, but if he comes on too strong or too fast, you’ll bolt.  He needs to quiet that prey instinct, make you feel safe.  Alleviate your guilt, if you have any, at being attracted to a widower.

So Dave decides to seduce you instead. 

When you reach for the next gift, he instead grasps your wrist lightly.  He can feel your pulse against his grip, and he hears the breath you draw in.  He holds you like that until you have the courage to look at him, and he smiles at you to put you at ease.

“I’ll finish up,” he tells you, his voice low.  “Why don’t you go get a bottle of wine and some glasses?  We can have a drink on the couch.”

You hesitate…then nod.  It shouldn’t be a turn-on, but Dave loves the hesitancy, then the obedient way you stand up and do exactly as he says.  It’s not hard for him to imagine other things he could order you to do, the same uncertainty before you obey him.

-----

The wine is Moscato-adjacent.  It’s one of those local vintages made with fruits other than grapes, and far too sweet for Dave’s taste, but you had picked it out at the grocery store, so he sips it carefully and hides his winces when the cloying sweetness burns against the back of his throat.

You?  You nearly gulp it down, and he realizes how nervous you are to be here:  alone on a couch beside him, the room dark except for the lit-up Christmas tree and the crackling fire in the fireplace.  It’s romantic, but you’re his employee, and he swears he can feel you flailing out of your depths to find yourself in this moment.

“Easy,” he says.  He stills your hand when you reach for the bottle.  You’ve bolted down the first glass so fast, and Dave doesn’t want you drunk.  He doesn’t even want you tipsy.  He wants just the barest bit of your nerves soothed, but he wants you fully in control of yourself. 

He wants you to be completely, stone sober when you beg him.

“Slow down,” he continues.  “You don’t want to overdo it.”

You laugh, a nervous giggle that spills out of your mouth, and you start to say, “I just…” but you trail off, don’t finish the sentence. 

What were you going to say, Dave wonders?

I just am nervous.

I just think this is too much.

I just think it’s wrong.  It’s too soon.  It’s too complicated.  It’s too unseemly.  What will people think, if anyone ever finds out?

“It’s okay.”  He says it soothingly.  He eases your empty glass out of your other hand, and he sets it down along with his own mostly-full glass, but he does it with one hand—his other, he keeps wrapped around your wrist, unwilling to break his hold on you.

“Mr. York…”  You start, and he hears the nerves in your voice.  He hears the wobble in your words, the faint tremor, but he also swears he can hear desire too—a huskiness to your voice, the slightest rough edge.  And you squirm in your seat, just a bit, but you don’t try to pull away from him.

“Mister York?  Since when did I become Mister?”  It shouldn’t be so hot, you calling him that, formal with the tremble in your words, but then you breathe out his first name—Dave—and you draw it out, and that’s even hotter.

His hand on your wrist, he pulls you to him, tugs your upper body towards him, and you let him.  You go willingly, but your eyes widen.  In shock?  Fear?  Lust?

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, his face inches from yours.  “If you don’t, say so now, and we’ll forget it ever happened.”

The tip of your tongue darts out, licks nervously against your lower lip.  “It’s just…”  You take a breath, try again.  “It’s just complicated.”

“That’s not a yes or a no, baby.”

You huff and offer him a tremulous smile at his use of a nickname, so he adds, “it’s a simple question.”

You hesitate, and Dave wonders if you’re really conflicted about it.  If you’re weighing how your life will change depending on how you answer…

…or if you just don’t want to seem eager, because you nod, then whisper “yes, I do want this,” and when he bridges the remaining distance between you, you’re right there, ready and eager to slot your mouth over his, to part your lips to his searching tongue, to cup his stubbled face with your free hand.

-----

Other men might take you then and there.  They might claim you right on the couch, in front of a dying fire and a Christmas tree sparkling with lights.  They might rush it, make it some sweaty, sad fumble, then parting to each slink to separate bedrooms.

Dave York has always enjoyed the long game.  If he were a game hunter, he would enjoy it better to sit in a tree stand for hours before dawn.  He would relish the cool planning, the stalking, the calculating and recalibrating as needed.

Dave York doesn’t fuck you just yet.  He wants to give you a taste, just a morsel, because he wants you slavering for it.  He wants you looking at him with those wide eyes, that lower lip caught between your teeth, as you beg him for more.

So this night, he only pushes you gently back against the couch as he kisses you.  He lowers himself onto you—lets you feel the weight and heft of his body against yours, lets you feel how he can press you into the couch with his weight.  He lets you feel the length of his growing erection where it presses against your hip, and each little whimper makes him harder.

He kisses you deeply—tastes the glass of Moscato you gulped down, tastes the sweetness of you beyond the tart, sweet wine.  He slides his tongue against yours, licks the inside of your mouth, and he smiles inwardly when you shyly try to do the same.  You are mostly led by him but there’s little movements—your tongue pressing back against his, say, or the upward press of your hips as you search for friction—where you try to lead too.

He braces himself with one hand, which allows the other to roam free.  He cups your flushed face, feels the heat of your blushing.  He draws his hand down, traces a path down your neck, circles his palm there, feels how much he can fit in the span of one palm.  Not because he likes choking—he’s never been into breathplay or anything so risky, but he does like the tame feel of his hand partially around your neck with the feel of your pulse and the ragged breaths you pull in.

Then lower.  He grasps the softness of your breast, and even through the sweater and bra, he can feel your pebbled nipple.  He brushes the pad of his thumb over it, back and forth, and it makes your hips lift up again…and then you groan when you find nothing to meet you, no friction and no touch.

“Be patient,” he whispers in your ear.  He nips at your lobe, darts his tongue against the whorl of your ear, and you whimper at the sensation of his hot breath fanning over you.

He moves his free hand lower still.  He finds the hem of your sweater, snakes his hand under it.  Then he finds the waistband of your leggings.  He sends up a silent prayer that he gets to live in a time and place where leggings are a thing—no tricky buttons or zippers, just an elastic waistband so easy to slip his hand under, and he cups your mound through the soft cotton of your panties.  Dave chuckles near your ear, then lifts his head to look at you because you’re already wet there, the damp cotton cleaving to you as he skates his fingers over you.

“Bad girl,” he whispers.  “Getting wet for your boss.”

He’s watching you as he says it, and he sees the flash of hurt that crosses your face before your pupils get wider and your lips part, as you breathe out a heavy breath.  You’re such a good girl; Dave obviously vetted you before ever letting you into his girls’ lives.  Straight A student, honors, full ride in college.  Not even a speeding ticket in your history.  He bets you’ve never been called bad, never been a bad girl, and it seems to hurt you for a beat before you embrace this tamest step outside of your erotic comfort zone.

Dave has so many more steps he wants to lead you on.  He wants to take your hand in his and lead you into darker, deeper waters.  He imagines spanking you, binding you, blindfolding you.  He imagines twisting your innate desire to please into something sensual; he imagines training you to greet him on your knees.  He imagines rewarding you, calling you a good girl instead, fucking you senseless until you are left overstimulated and weeping, ruined for any other cock but his.

“Is this just from right now?” he continues, and he strokes you through your soaked panties, feels how they are molded to your folds and cleft.  “Or have you been thinking about this?”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me.”  He pinches you lightly—not enough to hurt, but the sensation pulls a gasp from you, and your hand flies up to grasp his bicep where his bracing arm is near your head.  “Tell me why you’re so wet.”

“I’ve been thinking about this.”  It comes out a whisper, barely audible.  Tinged in shame, and that’s the first thing Dave will burn out of you.  Guilt.  Shame.  He’ll break you down and tear those useless emotions out of you.

“When?”  Another light pinch, another gasp.  Your hand grips his arm harder, and Dave will see dusty little bruises there in the morning.

“Since….ah, since a while.”  Another pinch, and you add, “over the summer.”

The summer.  When Dave was around more due to his busy period at work dying off.  When Dave ran each morning and returned home to find you cleaning up the breakfast mess, when he shed his sweaty shirt and walked through the house on his way to shower.  When he pretended not to notice the way your eyes followed him each step, and when he pretended like he needed a glass of cold water, shirtless, that he drank down in your eye line.

Bad girl indeed.

“You touch yourself to the thought of me?”  Here he moves his hand, shifts it to slip under the lacy band of your panties, and he’s delighted to feel a strip of damp curls there, happy that you haven’t shaved or waxed yourself bare.  He drags his fingers through them, then finds your clit, slick and swollen, and he touches you lightly there.  Strums you with his thumb and chuckles at the keening whine that tears out of your throat.

“Answer me.  You touch yourself, thinking about me?”

“….yes.”

“Like this?”

“S-sometimes.”

“Not every time?”

You fix him with a pleading look, but you’re barely able to hold his gaze for long.  When he brushes his lips over your cheekbone, he can feel how hot your face is.  This is a challenge to you, possibly humiliating, but also arousing because you continue to lift your hips, chasing the touch you’re desperate for.  Such a soft little thing, the softest in the world, and yet you’ve been touching yourself to the thought of him.

Dave stills his hand, and he chuckles again at the groan of disappointment you make.  “Tell me or I stop.”

You swallow, nod.  “Sometimes I…I have a vi…a vibrator.”

He can imagine it; a sad little tucked-away piece of silicone or plastic.  You probably pull it out in the darkness of your room, ashamed at pleasuring yourself.  You probably bury it under your socks and blush when your hand brushes against it when you’re putting laundry away.

He hums, considers the mental image that rises to his mind.  Your legs spread under the covers, running the toy over your clit, maybe pushing it inside you.  Imagining it was him instead.

Not that different from the times he’s gripped his own cock, stroked himself in the shower or in his room and pretended it was you instead of his hand.

Dave could demand to know your fantasies.  He could make you tell him what scenarios you’ve used to get off to him.  Him bending you over the kitchen counter?  Him fucking you in the shower?  Him sneaking into your bedroom at night, sliding under the covers and slipping his already-hard cock into your tight little pussy?  He could make you blush harder and demand to know these things, but he wants to take this slow, so he kisses you instead, murmurs his thanks, calls you a good girl for answering his questions, and when your face lights up at the praise, Dave pushes one thick finger into you and draws the sweetest, throatiest groan from you.

Other men might take you then and there, but Dave only finger-fucks you.  He goes so slow, eases it out, pushes it back in so you feel every goddamned bit of him entering you.  He keeps his thumb firm on your clit, and just the pressure makes you whimper each time he presses a little harder.

He adds a second finger and feels the delicious stretch as your pussy cedes to him.  You’re unbelievably warm, slick, and your pussy twitches and pulses around him each time he breeches the confines of your body.  It’s tight, but you’re nervous, and each bit of praise—good girl, such a good fucking girl for me, just relax and let me make you feel good, baby—makes you unclench a bit more.  You relax, and you find the rhythm that he fingers you, and you lift your hips to meet his fingers.

When he adds a third finger, you hiss at the thickness of it, the tight fit.  He stills, watches your face for any pain, and when he doesn’t see any, he continues.

Three fingers is a good start to preparing you for his cock, he thinks.  He imagines the feel of pushing into you, mounting you, and he imagines your fingers digging into his shoulders as he bottoms out in you.

In due time.  Now he fingers you, he scissors his fingers inside you and feels the answering throb in his erection each time you whine or whimper or groan, the sweetest symphony of sounds he’s able to pull from you.  When he starts circling your clit with his thumb, when he crooks his fingers inside you, pressing gently until he finds the spot that makes you gasp out his name, but you call him Mister York again, and it unlocks something inside him, the power you’re letting him have over you.  He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, right at the pulse point, and you gasp again.  Your other hand flies up and cradles the back of his head, and you twist your fingers through his hair, but you don’t pull him away—you hold him there, and he licks against the dimpled marks he’s left in your skin, he breathes against the wet line on your neck, and he’ll see a lurid bruise there in the morning too that will make him instantly hard.

“You’re going to come for me,” he growls against your neck.  “You’re going to be a good girl and come when I tell you.”

And his mind boggles at the possibilities with you because you do exactly as he says.  You nod at his order, and you press your hips in time to his searching fingers, and he feels when your orgasm approaches because you lose much of your embarrassment.  You swear in a hoarse whisper against his head—oh fuck, D-Dave, fuck fuck fuck, I’m close, I’m gonna, oh, don’t stop—and you spread your legs wider to make room for his hand, and the lurid sound of his hand working against your wetness doesn’t seem to even register to you.  The entire living room smells like sex and you don’t care, and when you gasp and buck your hips up into his hand, he feels your orgasm break around you:  the pulse of your cunt gripping his fingers, the hot slick of cum that coats his hand, the way your body shakes under his.

He fingers you through it.  He draws out your pleasure until you shove at him lightly, tell him it’s too much, and he stops.  He feels the tension of your orgasm—the arching body, the trembling—leave you, and you lay underneath him, sated and heavy with your release.

Dave draws his hand out from under your clothing, and he straightens the hem of your sweater where it rode up a bit.  Then he fixes you with an unblinking stare and lifts his hand to his mouth, and he smiles at your shocked expression as he licks his fingers clean.  Then, with the taste of you on his lips, he lowers his head and kisses you again—deep and slow, so you can taste yourself too.

“Good girl,” he tells you when he breaks the kiss.  “You’re going to be such a good girl for me.”

[notafragilething]

Late Night Buck & Tommy Ramble: Shit is getting interesting

I honestly thought today was going to be fucking chill with no promo and maybe only a whisper or two about tomorrow's episode. We currently have 21 hours left until the new episode airs and we have so much to unpack because everyone is just out there wilding right now

Get yourself a drink and a snack and prepare yourself. There is a lot to discuss. Minor spoilers for tomorrow's episode in regards to stills and vague-ish comments by people who have seen the episode.

Buck & Tommy Related Chaos:

I'm going to start with the chaos: OLIVER AND LOU ARE DOING A JOINT INTERVIEW that was filmed today for Access Hollywood / Access Daily that will air tomorrow before the episode.

I am in total shock by this because I've been vocal that I didn't even think we'd get more interviews from these two before the season ended. I would have never dreamed that they'd have them doing a joint interview together.

This is a pretty huge (and good) sign, in my opinion. You wouldn't suddenly have two actors going out doing press together unless (from a marketing point of view) you're trying to promote that couple to the audience. This to me really does suggest they're planning on keeping Lou around and pushing BuckTommy.

I've heard crazy speculation about what the interview will be about but it airs before the episode so likely we won't get major spoilers. We'll likely see the two talking about their characters, what it's like working together and hinting at what is going to happen moving forward.

With that said, I'm really curious at how they're going to sell this on the show. We've already seen Ryan hitting the talking point that Eddie is straight in recent weeks, which seems to be an attempt to distancing themselves from Buddie. This interview tomorrow may possibly give us an idea where their heads are at moving forward.

Regardless, I think this is a strong indicator that Tommy isn't going anywhere anytime soon. I know some people are trying to downplay this as happening because Bi Buck was such a huge storyline but they could have easily just had Oliver on the show. Them having both of them makes this about their relationship, not just Buck coming out as Bi and that's a pretty big shift from the marketing we saw around episodes 4-5.

Lou also posted about it on his Instagram and Ryan liked it.

Also I cannot remember a time that they had Oliver doing interviews with his love interest on the show. Can anyone else?

The kiss on Instagram reels continues to do well. It's almost at 1.2 million, sitting currently at 1183k.

General Cast Information:

Let's start simple with the tweets coming out from press who saw tomorrow's episodes. The overwhelming theme with all of them seems to be a warning for us to prepare for some hurt. I'm preparing myself to watch Hen, Bobby and Eddie all go through hell tomorrow based on what we've seen on social media over the last 24 hours. So let's get into that.

Hen: Early today the official Instagram posted stills from the earlier episode where the councilwomen's son refuses treatment after he accident and dies (which leads to Hen being investigated). They then captioned this "A moment from the past can become so pivotal for your future" because clearly they want to hurt us. It also seems like that congress women is in the episode and we see her in one of the stills at the medal ceremony.

Bobby: It seems like he's going to have a nice father/son moment with Buck at some point this episode based on the stills and what Oliver has hinted at. But I think he'll also definitely be dealing with guilt.

Eddie: Dude I don't even know. Between Marisol being at the medal ceremony with him and Christopher and him taking a row boat out with Kim? This is going to get ugly.

All of the stills were really happy and we know that isn't what is happening in this episode so I'm pretty sure they're from the first 15 or 20 minutes. This show has been fucking with our heads with these promos.

We're very, very likely to get a sneak peak sometime tomorrow along with the Oliver&Lou interview.

I might attempt to make a ramble post talking about the interview prior to the episode depending on what time it airs.

So how are we all feeling? Cause I'm having all the fucking emotions.

[stvharrngton]

a lesson in romantics; lesson one

summary: a multi-part series where reader is the new art teacher at hawkins high and the history teacher, mr. harrington, takes a shine to the new girl. mutual pining ensues on their road to love 🥀

a/n: so here's the first part to the series! i hope you all enjoy <3 it takes place in the early 90s where steve and reader are in their mid-late twenties. disclaimer: i have very limited knowledge on the american school systems or how they work lmao so i'm sorry if it comes across as british-y sometimes but i'll do my best to be as authentic as possible :^) also special shoutout to @inkluvs who originally gave me this idea 1635272 years ago and @onceuponaoneshot who inspired me to actually start writing it hehe

characters: steve harrington x fem!reader, robin buckley

word count: 1.3k

warnings: none, just some introductory stuff, steve being a flirt

taglist: @inkluvs @dukesmebby @sweetbabygirlsworld @kennedy-brooke

SERIES MASTERLIST

HAWKINS, FALL, 1992

September. Fall semester.

A new town. A new school.

Hawkins’ newest resident and Hawkins High newest teacher. You’d spent the last month settling into your new home - a small apartment, nothing extravagant but it was enough for you.

You looked forward to the new start, to get back into the classroom. You loved to teach but the prospect of a new bunch of kids always made you a little nervous.

Making your way into the teacher’s lounge, you quietly said your hello’s to the fellow teachers you had met at orientation a couple days earlier. You silently went about making your morning coffee when a bickering pair burst through the door, a petite girl with a dirty blonde bob who you vaguely recognised as the music teacher and a taller guy, with pretty brown hair and a patterned tie slung around his neck.

You caught his eye as you turned to see the source of the disturbance, a soft but cheeky smile donning his lips. He struggled to keep up whatever conversation he was having with the girl he strolled in with as he finally tore his eyes away from you. 

The blonde followed his eyeline to you, she smirked followed by a roll of her eyes. She swatted your mystery co-worker on the chest, followed by a hushed, “Steve! Are you even listening to me?”

He wasn’t. She knew he wasn’t. But at least your mystery co-worker had a name now. 

Steve. It suited him.

“You’re such a boy.” She groaned, waving him off before going off the mingle with some of the other teachers.

Steve responded with a laugh as he swanned his way over to the kitchenette where you were stood. “First day?” he asked calmly as he grabbed his regular mug from the cupboard above your head.

“Oh, uh, yeah—“ you stammered, caught a little off guard. 

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, “I never even introduced myself. I’m Mr. Harrington. History.” He said with much more candor, holding his hand out for you to shake.

You accepted the hand shake, making a mental note at how much bigger his hand was than yours. “I teach art.” You said, after telling him your own name, “Am I supposed to call you Mr. Harrington, then?”

Any confidence and swagger he was sporting crumbled, his cheeks flushed with a pink tinge, “I’m such an idiot,” he confessed with a chuckle, fingers combing through that pretty brunette hair, “I’m Steve. You can call me Steve.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve.” You grinned, a toothy smile that made Steve’s heart thump in his chest. A smile he would be thinking about for days to come.

“Well, I better get going. Minds of the youth to shape and all that but I’ll see you around, yeah?” Steve said, grabbing his coffee cup as he gestured to the door that led to the school halls. 

“Sure,” you nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, grabbing your own warm flask. You couldn’t help but let your tummy go all fuzzy at Steve’s kindness, a smile creeping its way onto your lips.

“Have a good first day, newbie.” Steve joked with a wink before he called out to his friend as he walked out the door, “Buckley! Are you coming or what?”

~

“You’re crushing on the new art teacher, aren’t you?” Robin blurted out.

Steve cursed his best friend under his breath, thanking whatever God was up there that school was yet to start and the hallways were empty. 

“I’m in my late twenties Robin, I don’t get crushes.” Steve waved her off, “I mean, sure, she’s pretty cute but besides, we’ve only exchanged two sentences.”

“Oh, come on, Harrington!” Robin chortled, hand on her stomach as she bellowed in the hallway, “That has never stopped you before.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Steve hushed the girl with a roll of his eyes, “anyway, why didn’t you say hi to her? Not very nice of you, Buckley.” 

Steve desperately tried to get the attention off of himself, his free hand perched on his hip as he brought his mug of coffee to his lips. His eyes narrowed at Robin over the rim. Like always though, it never worked. His friend far too persistent for his liking.

“Because, dingus,” her tone exasperated now, “I met her at orientation. You know, the thing you didn’t bother showing up for?”

They arrived at the door to Steve’s classroom which was one block over from Robin’s. He groaned audibly at Robin’s comment, “Come on, Robs! I told you I had a migraine,” he muttered as he fished his keys from his pocket, “you know, years of head trauma takes a toll on the ol’ noggin.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she began to turn on her heel to make her way to her own classroom, “it was your loss anyway, Stevie,” Robin teased, a playful undertone to her voice, “‘cause she looked way cuter the other day.”

Steve scoffed at the younger girl, simply not giving her a response, before he closed his classroom door behind him. He slumped in his desk chair as he wondered to himself how he was going to get through the day without his thoughts trailing to you and your smile.

~

You’d never been so glad to hear the bell ring in your life. You enjoyed your first day, sure, but it was a little overwhelming to say the least. A lot of new faces and names to learn and remember, a thick new syllabus you had to preach to these kids.

A sigh of relief fell from your lips as you gathered your things and locked your classroom door behind you. As you made your way towards the teachers parking lot, you dug through your purse for your car keys as you fell face first into someone’s firm body.

It was like a scene out of a movie. The papers and books that were clutched in your arms went flying across the hallway, your purse and the contents of it spilled all over the floor. A total cliche. 

A string of curses tumbled from your lips as you apologised over and over to whoever it was you bumped into. You both knelt to the ground to gather your things when you finally looked into the eyes of who it was.

A pretty set of brown eyes were staring back at you with a coy smile on the lips of their owner. You could only laugh back at him.

Of course it was Steve. 

“I’m sorry,” you giggled, scooping up the stray papers, “I’m a total klutz.”

“Don’t sweat it,” he reassured you, handing you back what he had gathered of yours, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Right.” You nodded.

You stood back up, papers and car keys safely in hand now. Steve placed his hand on your shoulder, giving you a light squeeze, “You good?”

Plunging the butterflies in your stomach back down to their depths, you squeaked out a reply, “Yeah, yes. Thank you for not getting mad at me.” 

“You kidding?” Steve asked all shocked, tone light and playful, “Can’t get mad at the new girl on her first day. That wouldn’t be very ‘nice and welcoming co-worker’ of me, would it?”

You giggled as you nodded, eyes darting to the floor, unable to meet Steve’s inviting gaze. You gestured to the nearby door with your car keys in hand, “Well, I better get going.”

“Oh! Right, yeah, of course—“ Steve stuttered, waving you off as you made your way to the door, “Hey! A bunch of us get together at a bar downtown after the first Friday of the semester if you wanna join us?”

“Oh, um,” you pondered, “I guess that could be fun.”

“Great,” Steve spoke, “I’ll get you the address. See you tomorrow?”

You nodded as you felt a blush creep on your cheeks. It wasn’t a date. It was not a date, you knew that, but you couldn’t help but wonder what Mr. Harrington would look like in casual clothes.

“You betcha.”