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wordsinhaled · 2 months

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Restaurant owner/chef Charles / Food critic Edwin AU!!!

So, I just thought of this AU and I am so jazzed about it that I need to drop this idea somewhere so it can become a 100k fic I can devour in one sitting asdfhfhfhf

In an ideal world I’d want to offer the floor to someone Desi to run with this idea, or to collab with me on it because I want to do Charles' food and culture and relationship with his mum justice. I’ve only been adjacent to the restaurant business (my family ran a small café for a bit and I worked there, and I have a family member who did culinary school, so).

I just know that this idea has Arrived in my brain and I can’t just let it sit in there unattended, asdjfjfjf

I'm tagging @nix-nihili and @queen-of-hobgobblers 'cause I feel like this will be up your street???

Okay - so Charles and his mum own a small Indian restaurant. It’s a family business and his parents ran it together ("together") before. Charles’ father was incredibly controlling about the menu, their community partners and suppliers, as well as pretty much every other aspect of the business (and their lives, behind the scenes). Now Charles’ father is out of the picture—I'm undecided how this happens, but I just think Charles deserves to live an unfettered life without Mr. Rowland hurting him anymore, tbh.

He gets to rediscover the joy of cooking together with his mum, cooking as freely as he wants and not being held back by his dad's expectations, refreshing the restaurant's menu to feature more authentic versions of the dishes, making connections with new suppliers, redoing the accounting to pay everybody a living wage... Just generally, like, revamping the entire restaurant to be a more joyful place to be that celebrates delicious food and companionship as a form of connection and sharing. Edwin is a food critic who goes to the grand reopening of the restaurant. Edwin likes to write about and document food. He enjoys experiencing a restaurant and its food possibly even more than the tasting of it. He presents like the uptight, exacting sort of food critic restaurants are intimidated by, with his many layers and his bow tie and his posture and his perfect hair, his little notebook and his vintage pocket pen. But inside he just wants to be able to feel some sort of a connection: with the chef through the food (What is the dish trying to tell him?); with the other person at the table—if there is another person, which is so rare.

Family mealtimes for Edwin growing up were distant affairs, overly formal and stilted and coded, minefields for being scrutinized and speaking and acting in only the most acceptable ways; not places to be honest or genuine or to let one's guard down. Certainly not occasions to experience genuine enjoyment. He wants to believe that food, which is so vital to life, and the preparing and the sharing of it, can be different. Positive. Joyous.

Charles gives Edwin a tour of the restaurant when he arrives. Charles is not like a lot of other restaurant owners Edwin has met. He introduces Edwin to his mum and the way he looks at her makes a pang go through Edwin's chest because clearly, they love each other so much, and Edwin may have never had that but just looking at it heals something in him. He's not getting invested, though. (Right?)

Charles' enthusiasm is like, off the charts. He's practically vibrating, to the point where excitement tips over into anxiety, clearly trying to keep it toned down and failing. And Charles is like, "I'm sorry. Just a bit nervous, yeah? I really care about this place. I need it to—I mean. I really want it to do well."

Edwin's heart goes out to him. "Do not worry," he says, softly. "I am not here to hurt you." He doesn't know why he says it but all the tension goes out of Charles, the slightly frantic look goes out of his eyes, and he gives Edwin the brightest smile he thinks he's ever seen. It's a gorgeous smile. Relieved, and carefree, and warm like sunshine.

"D'you want to try some food?" He says it almost conspiratorially, as though this is not Edwin's primary and entire purpose in being here.

Edwin looks around the quiet, empty restaurant. It's cozy and warm with mid-afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows at the front. Even without any patrons, without the din or bustle of a full dining room, it seems to beckon to foster shared happiness within it. "I was under the impression that I would be partaking of your dinner service this evening," he says delicately, trying to hide that he might actually want nothing better than to never leave here at all, let alone try some food.

"Well, yeah," Charles says, "'course you are. But this is different, innit? Not for the article. Come on, let me cook for you. You look like..." He stops. Perhaps considering if he's about to say too much. His eyes are bright and thoughtful and fixed on Edwin so intently that Edwin doesn't breathe for a moment. "You look like no one's cooked for you in ages." It comes out soft, but firm; as though he knows what he's talking about. Edwin feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

"No one has ever cooked for me," says Edwin matter-of-factly.

He has no idea what it is about Charles that makes him admit something so honest—although it is not entirely accurate. His family had had a personal chef. Technically speaking, all of Edwin's meals had been cooked for him, until much to his parents' chagrin he went off to a student flat, and culinary school, and began to cook them for himself. But he suspects that no one has ever cooked for him, the way Charles Rowland is offering to now. Properly. Like it means something. Like he is trying to say something through it; unspoken words that Edwin has always wanted to hear.

Let me know you. Let me connect with you. Let me take care of you.

Charles' eyes widen. Clearly, he is trying to process Edwin's bleak admission. "Right," he says, after a beat, as his posture gains something determined; his grin bright and charming. "That settles it, then. I know exactly what I'm going to make you."

And before Edwin can say anything else, he's taking Edwin's hand in his and tugging him towards the kitchen.

#dbda #dead boy detective agency #dead boy detectives #payneland #cw food #cw eating mention #I AM SO NORMAL AND FINE

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cambion-companion · 1 year

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Baldur's Gate 3 Characters with Virgin Reader

18+ only obviously. Dirty headcanons under the cut. (these are all the "good" endings btw

Halsin would honestly be a little in awed shock when you tell him. He'd treat you tenderly, go slowly and save the more rough lovemaking once you're accustomed to his...girth.

There is a lot of emotional connection that goes into the intimate act and knowing its his partner's first time would mean a great deal to him, he takes the perceived responsibility seriously.

Yall would have to go slow though, to accomodate the guy's size. Has strength as his dump stat yet is built like a brick house.

He's all for the game of seduction, especially if he is still unsure of where he stands with you and your party.

When discovering you're a virgin he acts the part, flirting and using honeyed words to manipulate your heart.

However as the two of you grow closer his feelings also change and he feels anxious about knowing he has your utter consent before taking things further.

He knows what it feels like to be used and wants to avoid causing you the same hurt and feelings of doubt, because against all odds he has begun to care for you.

So much foreplay...SO much foreplay. And you can be in whatever position you want, it's all about your comfort when the time comes to be intimate.

yeah she'd tease you at first, all in good fun, but still she has to get those sharp words in somewhere.

Soon enough the teasing gives way to concerned questions, not probing too deep into your feelings, but enough to give her hints as to how comfortable you feel with her.

We all know Shadowheart is a slow burn romance, so expect a long buildup while your relationship blossoms.

Lots of sweet kisses and witty flirtations, respecting each other's space until the time feels right to take it to the next level.

perhaps it's after one of your many swimming lessons where you Shadowheart takes the reins and becomes the teacher of a different kind of lesson.

She'd be asking questions throughout, listening to your responses and making sure everything is perfect and you're not feeling rushed.

Oh she would be so sweet. You know how Karlach is usually quite boisterous and tends toward the goofy side.

She'd sober up right quick when you discuss something so personal with her and she'd be quite pleased you decided to share this with her.

She promises to take it easy on you, at least at first wink wink, and she has the idea to allow you full control to explore her body as much as you wish.

Feel her heart, or at least where her heart used to be, it blazes hotter under your touch.

She might pop the occasional sweet joke, but her eyes and her care is on you the whole time.

She will ask if now is okay, and make sure to gain your express verbal permission before touching your body herself.

She is gentle at first, as promised, but it becomes hard for her to contain her enthusiasm as your coupling progresses. Remind her if you deem it necessary.

Gale, he'd be surprised but I think pleased.

He would want you to feel comfortable with him, and thus would info dump about his Tressym and the many books he's read about magic and the weave.

It's all about words of affirmation and quality time with Gale, he wants to show you and tell you how much you truly mean to him and reaffirm it is you, not Mystra, with whom is explosive heart now lies.

When the night comes, because he does prefer the romance of a star filled sky, he would ask you if you wish to become one with him.

Maybe astral sex is too soon for the first night, but you can certainly accept when he no doubt extends that offer.

I think it's pretty much canon that she beats the shit out of you when yall have intimate time...that wouldn't change on account of your virginity.

You'd tell her you're a virgin and she might not even know what that means, I wouldn't be surprised. Either that or she truly does not understand why you think it's important to mention.

She would encourage you to take initiative and assume a more dominant role, prodding you (probably with a stick) if you got too shy.

Later on, in her storyline when she becomes more of an individual unto herself, she will understand the softer aspects of lovemaking.

Then she will be more willing to empathize with the feelings that must come with a first-time coupling, and act a little slower accordingly.

Still prepare yourself for the occasional impatient "tchuk".

are you kidding, he'd be the ultimate gentleman.

He'd definitely get you a picnic and take you somewhere that smells better than the party camp and that stew Gale attempted to make for supper.

I feel like he'd be more forward than Gale or Karlach, wanting to feel some semblance of peace that your body and your affection could offer.

He'd for sure be drawn to your inexperience, feeling a sense of protectiveness overcome him. (yes yes I understand this post is full of innuendo)

Might wax poetic about his many adventures but pull him in for another kiss and he'll quickly forget his train of thought.

yes, I made him wait in line, little shit

This cambion knows how to fuck, sit down and block me if you vehemently disagree.

He finds out you're a virgin, and interested in him? Game over.

He plays the long game in all his dealings, and won't be bothered if you choose to play hard to get....in fact he prefers it. Cat and mouse etc.

He's not gentle, nope, but when you're finally in his claws you hardly want him to be.

Doesn't have the bonus of Incubus spittle acting as an aphrodisiac but has had many bedmates and centuries to study how best to use another's body to pleasure his own.

Oh and bring you pleasure of course.

Go play DOS2

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buckysdollbarnes · 1 month

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you are in love series - part one

one look, dark room

PAIRING: tfawts!bucky x grad student!reader

Summary: Moving to NYC to go to grad school, your friend's dad has a connection with the owner of a rental building in Brooklyn where you can live on your own, for cheaper than you could get anywhere else. On a student's budget, you strive to still make your place your own by thrifting as much decor as possible. Meeting your quiet and somewhat secretive neighbor, James, you gain some free labor to help you move the random stuff you buy, and with that he may be growing to love parts of the modern world he has been missing. With you in a big, new city feeling alone for the first time and Bucky wanting to make a connection with someone other than Sam and his therapist, maybe online marketplaces and a turntable will bring you both what you need most.

warnings: mild language

word count: 4.7k

a/n: this is my first time EVER writing fiction, usually I only ever write academic papers so this is fun. :) I read over and revised this chapter so many times, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed and I'm excited to start on the next chapter.

a/n: also!! sorry for it being so long genuinely just so much had to happen in this chapter for it to be set up the way I wanted, which I think I did well enough. lmk what you think <3

Why did I think carrying this by myself was a good idea? It might be cute and a great deal, but I don’t think I'll be able to feel my arms tomorrow. I might need to hit the gym again before I find more bargains like this. Hell, maybe I'll even invest in a neck towel, because this heat is unbearable. I’ve been searching for some larger pieces to fill my apartment, and this vintage bar cart should fit perfectly. Just five more blocks to go.

Moving here alone has certainly come with its challenges: being on my own in such a big city, dealing with a lot of stress, and managing on a tight budget. But I’m determined to make it work though and prove everyone wrong. Growing up, you see so many romcoms where the heroine leaves everything behind to chase her dreams in NYC, landing a job at a magazine or fashion house, living in a gorgeous high-rise, and meeting the perfect guy. It’s a beautiful fantasy really, but the reality is much tougher. New York isn’t a movie set; it’s a real city with real people, and you have to work just as hard, if not harder, to be here. I know that, but it feels like a majority of my people back home DON’T know that I know that.

I came here for school. In about two months, I’ll be starting my Master’s program at NYU. I don’t think I’ve ever been as proud as when I received my acceptance email. I worked my ass off in undergrad to earn strong recommendations and good academic standing, and seeing it all come together was a huge relief—until the reality of the cost hit me.

Luckily, a friend's dad has a connection with a landlord in Brooklyn and got me a good deal on a place of my own. It’s incredible not to have a roommate in this market, especially in a place where your bed doesn’t touch your stove, though it can be a bit lonely.

Finally, reaching the stoop, out of breath, you set the cart down on the pavement. Wiping your brow, you notice the street is unusually quiet for this time of day. The city never truly sleeps, but the residential streets seem to take occasional naps. A little breath of air somewhere where it feels like oxygen is running out sometimes. Light filters through the trees, momentarily blinding you, and you turn back toward the building.

“How on earth am I going to get this up to my floor?”

Carrying it down the street was one thing, but hauling it up the stairs is a whole different challenge. Plus, who knows when the building's maintenance has last been here, the steps might not hold up under the cart’s weight. They usually feel like they could give away holding one person.

Deciding that falling to your death and being crushed isn’t really how you want to go, you open the double doors and drag the cart into the lobby, using the wheels on one side. Passing the main desk where the worker, who looks completely uninterested, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, you make your way to the end of the hall and start pulling the cart backwards up the incline of the stairwell.

“Nah, I can’t,” you say aloud, after struggling up two floors, letting the cart rest on the landing. There’s still three more floors to go, but your body is clearly telling you the cart belongs right here. Maybe the universe wants it to stay here—who knows, maybe the entire second floor needs a communal bar more than you do.

“Excuse me,” a quiet but rough male voice comes from behind me. You turn around to see him—a guy you’ve seen around your floor a few times, though you’ve never talked. One of the neighbors. You quickly realize you’re blocking the entire staircase.

“Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’ll move this um — just give me a second.”

You shove the cart closer to the wall to make some space for him to pass, but he stays put, his gloved hands in his pockets. He’s definitely handsome—tall and solid, but not intimidating. His furrowed brow and tight-lipped expression don’t exactly scream “welcome,” but he’s still got a certain charm.

He shifts a bit, clearly wanting to say something but hesitating. Feeling a bit awkward under his gaze, you decide to try talking to him again.

“You can just squeeze by if you want. It’s just really heavy, so I’m taking a quick break before I try lifting it up again.”

After a moment, he seems to make up his mind and asks, “Do you need help?”

Looking back at him, you consider saying no. You pride yourself on being independent and capable, and part of you wants to insist you can handle it. But then you think about the struggle of getting the cart up the last two flights of stairs—only this time, it's three—and decide against it.

“You wouldn’t mind? You’re headed down, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

He gives a little smirk that makes you feel a bit dizzy.

“Well, I’m already here so.”

You nod slowly, a small smile appearing on your face.

“Sure, you can take this end, and I’ll get this o—” you start to say, but before you can finish, he’s already in front of you, lifting the cart with ease and starting up the stairs without breaking a sweat.

“Hey! Be careful, uh—,” you pause, realizing you don’t know his name.

He picks up on your hesitation and hesitates himself, considering whether to give his name. He’s wary of how others might perceive him, potentially recognizing his name from past news broadcasts or papers, still dealing with the shadows of his past despite his efforts to make amends. Not wanting to be dishonest, he chooses the safe option.

“James.”

“Be careful, James. I don’t want you tripping and falling on my account.”

“Won’t happen, doll.”

“What-,” you start, caught off guard by the pet name, “what if it does?”

“It won’t, see?” With the last few steps, you and James arrive at your floor. “Already here.”

He must have seen you around before too, to know where you live.

He gives you a quick look and then carries the cart to your door.

“This is yours, right?” He turns and looks at you expectantly. You rush over, fumbling for your keys to unlock the door. If he’s willing to move it all the way, who are you to turn him down?

You lead James into your apartment, wondering if it looks anything like his. The layout can’t be that different; it’s not exactly a luxury building.

He strolls further into the room.

“You can set it right here,” you say quickly. “Thank you for bringing it up for me. I was honestly thinking about giving up when you showed up.”

Setting the cart where you indicated, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and gives you a look that feels intense.

“It’s no problem.”

His gaze wanders around your apartment, taking in the mix of vintage furniture and eclectic decor. On a student’s budget, you’ve filled your space with secondhand finds. It’s more affordable and personal that way. The place might not be filled with new things, but it’s entirely curated by you. Finding beauty in the mix of old and new is something you do well, and now, thanks to James, you have one more piece to add.

James’s eyes land on your turntable setup. He seems intrigued by your collection of records but doesn’t say anything, turning his attention back to you.

“I have to go.”

Your eyebrows lift at his abruptness. Sensing your surprise, he quickly adds, “I’ve got an appointment.”

You nod vigorously, urging him to go and thanking him again for his kindness. Feeling a bit sad that this chance encounter with your new neighbor is ending so quickly, you call out as he heads for the door.

“I’ll see you around then? Since you live here too.”

He turns on his heel, giving you one last smirk.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.”

As he heads down the stairs, you shut your door and lock it behind you. Wandering over to where James’s gaze lingered, you pull an album from the shelf, lift the acrylic cover on your turntable, and set the record down. You close the cover, push play, and let the needle softly drop onto the vinyl. As the music starts, your mind drifts back to James.

Embarrassingly, you find yourself hoping this isn’t a one-time encounter. You don’t know much about him beyond his name, but there’s something about him that makes you want to see him again.

“Two hundred bucks for this is crazy,” you mutter to yourself, staring in disbelief at the sofa you’re eyeing on Facebook Marketplace.

“People are practically giving this stuff away.”

Not wanting to miss out on such a good deal, you message the seller to check if it’s still available.

Since you got the bar cart about a week and a half ago, you haven’t picked up anything else. With the July heat blasting, just thinking about moving a sofa in this weather makes you want to rip off your skin to cool down.

You can’t help but think of James, who you’ve seen briefly in the hallway since your last encounter. He just nodded as he passed by, and that was it.

Your phone dings, snapping you out of your thoughts. The seller confirms the sofa is still available and offers to deliver it since they have a truck.

Excited, you reply with a yes, and they let you know they’ll head your way soon.

You get up to rearrange your furniture, making space for the new sofa. You don’t have much to move since you’ve been slowly collecting things. As you shift the pieces around, your turntable stops, signaling it’s time to flip the record. After you do, you take a moment to picture how the sofa will fit in the space.

Then it hits you—moving a sofa is way heavier than the bar cart. If you struggled with that, how on earth will you manage this?

“Independent woman, my ass.”

With the delivery imminent, you decide on the only solution you can think of. Without hesitation, you head to the apartment across the hall and knock softly on the door. You wait, hoping James will answer. After a moment of shuffling and then silence, you start to wonder if you should just try something else.

Just then, the door cracks open, revealing half of James’s face. He looks curious but not annoyed—no one usually visits him.

“Hey! James! Great to see you again! I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if you could help me out a bit? I just bought a sofa from this marketplace deal, and the seller’s coming to drop it off right now. He said he’d deliver it, but didn’t offer to help get it up to my apartment. I realized a sofa is way heavier than a bar cart, and you saw me struggle with that, so I was kinda sorta hoping you could help me bring it up here?”

After your rambling, you offer him a hopeful smile, waiting for his response.

A few moments of silence later, that smirk you’ve been missing appears on his face. Opening the door wider, he comments with a grin.

“You bought another thing you knew you couldn’t get up the stairs?”

“I honestly didn’t think it through. The deal was too good to pass up. I’m really sorry for bothering you. I can try to find someone else if you’re busy.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, doll.”

The smile that blooms on your face is unavoidable.

As the delivery guy drives away, James shows you where to grab the sofa and effortlessly lifts the other end. He encourages you to take the lead, making sure the weight is on him as you both navigate the stairs. With minimal effort, you get the sofa up to your place.

After some awkward maneuvering, you finally get the sofa into your apartment through the thin door and set it down. You put your hands on your hips and exhale deeply, only to find James already looking at you with that same intense gaze from before. It makes you a little nervous.

You can’t help but feel grateful—there’s no way you would have managed this on your own.

“I could have handled the bar cart,” you say, nodding toward the cart now adorned with bottles in the corner, “but this? No chance. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “I wasn’t busy.”

As you look at him, you start to feel like you know him from somewhere beyond being just a neighbor. Maybe you’ve seen him around the city before you moved?

Brushing off the thought, you offer, “You’ve helped me out twice now, and it doesn’t feel right not to return the favor. If your whole evening consists of not being busy, why not stay for dinner? I promise I’ll cook something totally good and not poisonous.”

James looks surprised by your offer but quickly hides it.

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t owe me anything,” he says, not wanting you to feel obligated or uncomfortable. He worries that his presence might not be enjoyable.

He wishes he could be as charming as he was back in the 40s. Being friendly used to come easily, and if he were still the same person he was at 26, he wouldn’t have left so quickly after helping you on the stairs the first time. He wouldn’t have had a therapists appointment to go to and he wouldn’t have a hidden arm made of metal. He’d have asked you to dinner or for you to let him take you dancing instead in return for his brawn. Now, he struggles to make new connections beyond a few familiar faces, like Sam, and asking someone for a dance feels out of reach.

“No, no! Stay, I insist! It gets kind of lonely around here, doesn’t it? Why not have a friend dinner?” you press, hoping he’ll take you up on the offer.

Seeing your sincerity, though still feeling a bit miffed, he finally agrees.

“Yeah, sure. I can stay.”

James settles onto the sofa while you work in the kitchen. You’ve decided on making some stuffed ravioli and garlic bread—easy, delicious, hard to mess up.

Before getting into cooking, you switch out the record, letting new music drift softly through the space. Unbeknownst to you, James watches closely, paying attention to how you handle the records and the turntable. The care you take when putting a record back in its slip, taking a new one out of its dust cover, and gently putting it on.

Seeing you focused on cooking, James gets up and strolls over to your setup. He runs his fingers lightly across the spines of the record sleeves, feeling a surprising sense of comfort. He hadn’t realized people still used record players so often.

The setup looks quite familiar to him, with many aspects reminiscent of the record players he used back in his earlier days. In his life before this one.

As you finish preparing the pasta and pull the bread from the oven, you call out, “Hey, food’s ready!”

You glance back to see James hovering by the turntable. He quickly moves to the table and sits down.

Over dinner, the conversation flows comfortably. James seems to be relaxing a bit, his initial reserve fading. He’s still somewhat guarded, but what he does share is genuinely interesting. You sense that opening up is challenging for him, so you respect his pace and take whatever he is willing to give. Laughing with each other a few times and getting through some odd topics, he mentions that he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in quite a while and thanks you with a smile.

After a pleasant dinner, you decide to bring up something you’d been curious about.

“You like records?”

Caught off guard by the question, James tries to answer without revealing too much about himself. It feels strange to be here, knowing you don’t really know who he is, but he worries that being too open might scare you away. He decides to keep his secrets for now, selfishly hoping to get to know you better before revealing more.

“Yeah, I used to have quite a few records as a kid. My ma would play them too, especially when she was cooking, just like you. I didn’t realize they were still so popular.”

Excited by this glimpse into his past, you push further.

“Oh, there’s definitely a huge market for vinyl. Lots of people who think it makes them superior, but also a lot who just love the physical aspect of it.”

“So which one are you?” he asks.

You laugh and reply, “Maybe a bit of both.”

You glance up at him from beneath your lashes, catching his rare smile.

“But really, I just like having it. There’s something different about the listening experience. It requires more effort than just hitting play on a playlist. It’s about choosing a full album and actually sitting down to listen. That feels more intentional to me, and that’s why I do it.”

James seems to ponder your answer, his expression softer than before. He then turns his gaze back to the turntable.

“So, since you mentioned you had records as a kid, do you not have any now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Haven’t had any for a long time. Talking about it makes me miss them. Everything these days feels so complicated. I like simple things like that.”

Watching him as he looks away, you hesitate but notice the nostalgic shine in his eyes. You sense he might appreciate physical music even more than you do.

“If you ever get any and don’t have a place to play them, you’re welcome to use mine.”

He turns to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, I know it’s not the most convenient offer, but it’s there. One record lover to another,” you add with a smile.

He returns your smile, saying, “Okay… thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, Doll.”

That night, Bucky lies on his makeshift bed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the events of the day. You knocking on his door for help with the couch, inviting him over for dinner, and all the easygoing conversation you shared. It was such a stark contrast to his usual rigidity. He'd let his guard down just a little—letting himself smile or flirt ever so slightly.

He wishes he were better at this. It used to come so naturally. Hell, before he left for war, he’d gone dancing with both his own date and Steve’s at the same time. Now, he finds himself listening to you talk while struggling to share anything of his own.

He doesn’t want to pass up your invitation, especially since you’re inviting him into your space again. Clearly, his reserve hasn’t put you off too much.

“What would I even bring?” he wonders aloud.

All he’s ever listened to is 40’s music and big band. He doubts that’s readily available these days.

Rolling onto his side, he grabs the cell phone Steve had insisted he get before he went back in time to live his real life, without Bucky.

“You can do anything on here, Buck!”

Scrolling through the three contacts he has, he taps on the name of the guy who’s been trying to reach him for weeks.

“So, is there a valid reason why you haven’t picked up my damn calls?” Sam’s voice comes through.

“Sam, hi.”

“Did you finally learn how to click the screen? Is that why I’m hearing from you now, old man?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t like the thing. Too confusing,” Bucky says, grimacing as he fiddles with the phone.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on, man? You doing alright?”

“I’m fine. I just have a question and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t harass me about it.”

“Is it about wizards?”

“What?”

“Wizards. Is the question about wizards?”

“No, what the hell. Look, I had dinner with one of my neighbors tonight—”

“Was it a girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes, it matters. And from that response, I KNOW it was a girl, so—”

“It doesn’t matter. She has a record player, which I didn’t know people still used, and she offered to let me use it, but I don’t have anything to play on it.”

“I’m not getting the problem.”

“I only like the stuff from the 40’s and—”

“Did you listen to that Marvin Gaye playlist I sent you?”

“Not interested.”

“C’mon, man, it’s good stuff. Give it a listen.”

“Not feeling it.”

“Alright, your loss, I guess. Still not seeing the problem though.”

“What do I bring? I can’t just bring around the stuff I know because where would I even get it?”

“Whoa, man, what do you mean, where would you get it? Just go to a record store and hit up the vintage section or something.”

Bucky pauses, mulling over Sam’s words.

“They have that?”

“Duh. You know, you could answer these questions a lot easier if you just looked them up on your phone—”

“Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

Lying back down, Bucky decides that the next time he’s out to see his therapist, he’ll first stop by a record store to find something to bring over to your place.

Your easygoing presence was so comforting, and he found himself longing for it as he drifted off to sleep. He’d see you again soon enough.

Later in the week, as you wind down from a busy day, you focus on making your space as calming as possible.

You light some candles and turn on an orange floor lamp, the soft glow wrapping around you and setting the perfect mood to sink into your sofa with the book you’ve been neglecting.

You’ve just started settling into your reading when you’re jolted out of your half-nap by the sound of someone knocking on your door.

You get up and peer through the peephole, and there’s your dinner guest from earlier in the week.

Opening the door with a smile, you greet him.

“Hey James, unexpected visit! What’s up?”

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he speaks. You glance down and realize your outfit—shorts that really lived up to their name and a tank top—might not be the most guest-appropriate.

Brushing off your embarrassment, you look back up at him.

“I’ve got something I’d like to play, if that’s alright?”

Bucky’s mind races. Standing at your door, he worries maybe you only offered your place to be nice, and now he’s making a fool of himself. Of course, you didn’t want him there—he could barely talk.

Just as he’s about to get lost in his own head, your bright smile pulls him out of it.

“Oh my gosh, please, come in. What do you have?”

His doubt fades away as he sees your genuine excitement.

“Brought some Sinatra. Not sure if you’re into that, but I used to like his stuff when I was younger.”

You spin around abruptly, staring at him in disbelief.

“There’s no way you think I don’t know who Frank Sinatra is…”

Bucky stumbles over his words.

“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly new stuff so—”

“You think I wouldn’t know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’? ‘Singin’ in the Rain’? ‘New York, New York’? I mean, I even moved to New York—I had to get the romanticism from somewhere.”

“What are those?”

You pause, confused.

“Like, the most iconic Frank Sinatra songs. You are talking about Frank Sinatra, right? Not some other Sinatra I’ve never heard of?”

“No, you’re right, it’s Frank.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I guess I don’t know those ones.” He admits.

“So, what era are we talking about?” You ask, reaching for the record.

As you grasp the sleeve, you notice a glint of light catching James’s bare hand. Realizing he’s not wearing gloves, confusion sets in before it clicks. You HAD seen James before.

Looking up at him, he seems frozen, obviously panicking. He planned to tell you eventually, but not like this. Not when you weren’t close enough yet.

He thought there is no way you are going to want anything to do with him now.

You thought there is no way was there's an actual Avenger in your apartment right now.

You’re frozen, just like him, but more in shock rather than fear.

“Do you… usually go by James?” you ask cautiously.

Hesitating, he shakes his head.

“What do you usually go by then?”

Bucky feels anxiety creeping up his back. You’re both still holding the record, and he can’t tell if you’re scared or just surprised.

“Bucky.”

You stay silent for a moment while Bucky’s nerves are on edge.

“So… metal hand…”

Clenching his jaw, he replies, “Arm.”

“You’re that Bucky.”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, you start again.

“You’re an Avenger and you didn’t tell me?”

Bucky hesitates, his discomfort visible. “I’m— I’m not an Avenger.”

“What do you mean? You’re totally an Avenger! Why wouldn’t you tell me? How did I not recognize you before?” you ask, laughing in disbelief.

Bucky’s taken aback. You really thought he was an Avenger? You’re not scared of him at all, which surprises him. You must not know much about his past if you’re still standing this close.

“No wonder you don’t know ‘New York, New York,’” you say, almost to yourself. “It’s from after your time! This is crazy, I—”

You’re interrupted by his response.

“Are you not scared?”

“Of course not.”

Bucky closes in on himself, panic evident. “If you really knew me, you’d want nothing to do with me. I’ve—”

“I might not know the version of you you’re talking about, but I’ve met James, who helped me not once, but twice carry stuff he definitely didn’t have to up the stairs, stayed for dinner, has been very polite to me, and has given me zero reasons to be scared of him.”

He looks at you, his piercing blue eyes revealing an internal struggle. That one look holds more weight than his words. You can see the battle within him, torn between his past and the present moment.

“Listen,” you say, finally letting go of the record, “if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to. But I’m not scared of you, and I actually like your company. So, regardless of whether you’re James, Bucky, or whoever, you’re still welcome here.”

You pause, adding, “And we can still play this if you’d like.”

Bucky struggles with his inner turmoil. The idea that you know who he is but still want him around is foreign to him. He doesn’t feel worthy of the kindness you’re offering, but it’s been so long since he’s received such warmth that it’s almost impossible to turn it down.

He’s not comfortable with his identity or his past, but in this moment, he wants to push it aside. If you don’t care, maybe he can allow himself not to care, even if just for a bit. Maybe he can prove something to himself, or even his therapist.

Handing you the record, he relaxes his face slightly. You’ve always thought him handsome, but in the dim light of the dark room, he looks almost ethereal.

You’re hoping he believes you because your excitement for his company tonight feels more significant than it probably should, but you’re okay with that.

“I’m Bucky.”

You smile warmly at this change. “Alright, Bucky. What do you want to do?”

He gazes at you deeply, his look sending a shiver down your spine and warming your chest. “Play it.”

a/n: well, hope this was alright. as I mentioned before, ive never wrote fiction before, but ive definitely read enough to get the gist.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #james bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes x reader series #marvel fanfiction #Bucky Barnes slow burn

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tomriddleslove · 7 months

Text

Pick up the phone.

✩Tom Riddle x F! Reader

Summary: The one where your classmate can’t take a hint and Tom doesn’t like people trying to take what’s his. Alternatively : Tom is over possessive and he can’t bear the thought of someone wanting you.

A/N: Despite my Mattheo and Theo fics doing the best i absolutely love writing for tom and this imagine had me going FERAL. I usually don’t like writing non timeline accurate fics but this worked best with tom so pls ignore the fact that they probably wouldn’t have phones during this time. As always, reblogs and replies absolutely make my day so please let me know what you think!!!

Warnings: Slight dark/controlling Tom, unhealthy relationship. Slight NSFW at the end

Songs: House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls - the weeknd

Pick up the phone - Travis Scott and Young Thug

You just about manage to dash into class, trying to calm down your laboured breathing as you slide into your seat, thankful that Professor Slughorn was busy writing something up on the board.

You pant lightly, unpacking your stuff onto your desk. Your desk mate, a boy by the name of Jamie Grimshaw, grins. He was a rather unaware boy, never seeming to catch onto your half-assed laughs and awkward smiles that suggested the last thing you wanted to be doing was entertaining his poor jokes and conversation. He nudges you with a small grin, almost teasing, and you let out a small awkward laugh, grimacing as you look away.

You look up as you place your bag to the side, your gaze immediately locking onto Tom’s. He’s gazing at you, or rather, your desk mate, with a look of such distaste you have to be sure he’s not actually trying to cast some sort of non-verbal spell. You shoot a warning glare at him and his gaze softens ever so slightly as he looks at you.

Keyword - slightly. Because Tom Riddle was certainly not soft. Even for you, the one who had somehow defied every single rule and wall that Tom had so carefully constructed with such reckless abandon, forcing your way into his life, his heart.

You look away as Professor Slughorn begins droning on to the class, and begin attentively scratching down notes, so absorbed in your work that you don't notice the way your desk mate steals glances at you.

Tom watches from afar, itching with the urge to reach out and wrap his hands around the boy's throat and strangle him till the life seeped out of his undeserving eyes that dared to look at you. He hated the idea of someone else seeing you, and wanting you, to the point where he was sure he’d only be satisfied if he could lock you away and keep you somewhere where only he could see you.

It wasn’t that he was scared you’d leave him, no no. Tom was certain that you couldn’t. His love for you (if you could class it as that) lingered in the spaces between your heartbeat, intertwining so seamlessly with your essence that to let go of him would be to unravel the very fabric of who you've become.

So no, he didn’t feel such a strong desire to keep you hidden because he was scared you'd leave him, but rather because he hated the idea of anyone laying their eyes on you. No one would ever be deserving enough of doing so, and the idea that some people (namely Jamie Grimshaw) had the audacity not just to look at you but to let their lustful gaze linger down to your thighs made him furious, ready to gouge their eyes out.

Stuck in his own mind, Tom snaps out of it when his gaze flickers over to you. He sees you working with diligence, and the suffocating feeling of anger subsides for a second. Your hard work, your drive, it was part of what made Tom fall for you. That, amongst many other things. Surprisingly, he found himself largely drawn to the way you got along with everyone (to an extent). Seemingly demure, you were polite and gentle. Something that would be of great benefit to him as well, for who better than to gain the trust of people than the girl beloved by all?

Then again, with everything that has its benefits, it also has its drawbacks. And that was what he was witnessing now, seeing you go along with Jamie’s flirting in an attempt to be polite. You tried to see the best in everyone and consistently denied the fact that Jamie was flirting with you, insisting that Tom was being irrational and overprotective whenever he’d approach you about it.

The second the lesson is over Tom is swiftly up and out of his seat, looming over your desk as you pack up. You look up at him and smile softly, a sweet gaze that disarms him ever so slightly.

“So, I was wondering whether you’d be free to-” Jamie starts.

Tom’s jaw clenches. How dare he? Such an insolent fool, thinking he had the right to speak to you.

Before you can even speak, Tom’s hand comes down to grab your arm and pull you slightly towards him, speaking up.

“No, she cannot. She will be busy tonight. And the night after that.” Tom says, a venom belying his tone as he drags you away.

He ignores your protests as you walk through the common room and up to his room, his grip on your arm tightening ever so slightly.

“Tom!” You protest, wrenching your arm out of his grip as he closes the door to his room, tossing his bag down as he turns to you.

"Tom, what was that back there?" you demand, your voice a mix of frustration and confusion.

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he towers over you.

"I can't stand seeing him look at you like that," he says, his voice low and intense.

You take a step back. "Look at me like what?" you ask, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Like he wants you," Tom replies, his eyes burning into yours. "Like he thinks he has the right to even think about you in that way."

You feel a shiver run down your spine at the intensity of his gaze. "Tom, he's just being friendly," you try to reason, but even to your own ears, your words sound feeble.

Tom's expression darkens, and you realize you've struck a nerve. "Friendly?" he scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain. "There's nothing friendly about the way he looks at you. He wants something from you, something I won't allow him to have."

Tom steps even closer, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the fire in his eyes. "I'm not irrational," he murmurs, his voice softening ever so slightly. "I just can't bear the thought of anyone else having you. You're mine, and I won't let anyone forget that."

Your frustration subsides, and you let out a small sigh, leaning into his touch.

“No one else can have me, Tom. I'm yours.” You murmur, and a small smile tugs at his lips. He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss. His hands tilt your head back slightly, deepening the kiss as you sigh into his mouth, melting at his touch. He pulls away, and you look up at him, a fire ignited within you even after the briefest of touch. His thumb caresses your cheek lovingly before he pulls away, gazing at you with a mix of possessiveness and adoration.

“Good. Let’s do some work now” He mutters, eyes roaming over your face.

It was only the next day when Tom had thought the whole thing was over and done with, and you wouldn't have to deal with it again. He walks into the common room, expecting to find you sitting by the fireplace, reading a book.

You were there, but not alone. Jamie sat by you, his arm draped behind you on the sofa as he chatted to you, clearly making you uncomfortable.

“Jamie, can I help you with something?" you ask, trying to sound polite but firm.

Jamie's smile widens, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Actually, I was hoping we could grab a butterbeer sometime?" he says, his voice low.

You laugh nervously.

“Maybe in a few days? I have to do some work right now and it’s-” You say, and Tom is furious, moving over to you.

"Jamie," he says, his voice tight with restrained anger, "I think it's best if you leave her alone. She's not interested."

Jamie's smile falters, but he quickly recovers, his tone mocking. "Oh, I'm sure she can speak for herself, Tom," he retorts, his eyes flickering with challenge.

Before Tom can respond, you intervene, feeling the tension between them escalating dangerously. "Tom, it's fine," you say, trying to diffuse the situation. "Jamie was just leaving."

Tom's jaw clenches, but he nods curtly, his gaze never leaving Jamie's. "See that you do," he says, his voice low and threatening.

With one last defiant look at Tom, Jamie gathers his things and makes a hasty exit, leaving you alone with Tom in the common room.

You shoot Tom a pointed look, silently demanding an explanation for his behaviour, but he merely gestures for you to follow him. Reluctantly, you fall into step behind him as he leads you up to his room, his pace brisk and determined.

Once inside, Tom slams the door shut behind you, his frustration boiling over.

Like a scene from a movie, this conversation is all too familiar, and all the more agitating.

"What were you thinking?" he demands, his voice laced with anger. "Talking to him like that, letting him get too close."

You bristle at his accusatory tone, your temper flaring up. "Excuse me? He just wanted to go out! Why must you assume everyone has bad intentions?” You scoff, and Tom feels his restraint slipping as he lets go of your arms, sighing angrily as his tongue prods at the inside of his cheek.

“Honestly, I have to wonder whether you think sometimes. Do you not see the way he looks at you? The way he stares at your legs when you're in class? Do you know the disgusting things that go through his mind?” Tom says, harshly. You see his anger rising and begin to panic, not wanting it to spiral out of control.

“Tom, I promise you it wasn’t anything. He really just wanted a drink.” You reason, trying to diffuse the tension as you look up at him, placing a hand on his forearm. He looks down at you, anger still evident in his eyes.

Your phone pings, breaking the momentary silence. Your eyes flicker down to it, briefly glancing at the message on the screen. You curse internally, stomach dropping at who had messaged you. It was practically the worst time for them to have messaged. You slip the phone into your pocket, praying Tom won’t probe further.

“Look, Tom. He doesn’t-” You start, but your phone pings again, cutting you off, This time Tom most certainly notices, his eyes also flickering down to your pocket.

“Who’s messaging you?” He asks, as though he can sense your unease. You brush it off, just shaking your head.

“Oh, no one. Just Hannah asking for the homework.” You say, and Tom stares down at you, his gaze scrutinising for a second before he hums, taking a step back. You're partially grateful because if you can get away with this you can avoid the confrontation about Jamie as well. He turns to walk over to his desk and you turn around, going to get your books to join him. Just as you’re doing so, the sound of your ringtone fills the otherwise silent room.

Shit.

You hastily reach for your phone, fumbling with it as you decline the call, cursing. You slowly turn around and Tom is glaring at you, dread settling in the pit of your stomach.

“Seems like the work must be quite urgent if she has to call you as well. Why don't you pick up the phone?” Tom utters, voice strained as he looks over at you.

You laugh nervously, shaking your head as your phone begins ringing again. Jamie’s relentlessness was really beginning to annoy you, and you weren’t sure how on earth you'd explain this to Tom. The fact that Jamie was calling you would be enough to anger Tom, let alone the fact that you lied to him about it.

“Oh no, that’s just Hannah. Bit of a teacher's pet, she panics if she dares to miss a day of school because she was in the infirmary.” You say with a nervous chuckle, trying to lighten the atmosphere slightly as you pray he stops calling you.

A chilling smirk tugs at Tom’s lips, a low laugh escaping his lips, a smile gracing his face. You let out the breath you were holding, thankful that he (by some miracle) bought into it as you also laughed, trying to move on from the topic as soon as possible.

“Pick up the damn phone,” he says suddenly, his voice eerily calm yet laced with a dangerous undercurrent.

The dread in your stomach multiplies tenfold, your smile fading as you take a step back.

“Tom-” You start, but he takes a step closer, hand finding its place on your jaw as he speaks again.

“Pick. up. the. Phone” He says, each word punctuated with a chilling intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His grip on your jaw tightens slightly, his eyes boring into yours with an unnerving ferocity.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for your phone, your fingers trembling with apprehension. With a shaky breath, you answer the call, putting it on speaker.

"Hello?" you say, your voice barely above a whisper, anticipation gnawing at your nerves.

On the other end of the line, Jamie's voice comes through, smooth and confident. "Hey," he says, his tone casual. "Just wanted to see if you're free tonight. Thought we could grab that butterbeer we talked about."

Your pulse quickens, panic rising within you as you glance up at Tom, who is watching you intently, his expression unreadable.

“Oh, uhm-” You begin, a squeak escaping your lips as you feel Tom’s lips on your neck. Your eyes widen as you look down at him, dumbfounded.

“Carry on. Go ahead and speak to him.” He mutters against your neck, pressing kisses along the side.

“I- I uhm. I w-was… fuck” You stammer, a breath gasp escaping your lips as you desperately try and stifle any noises that threaten to escape your lips as Tom nips at the delicate skin on your neck, soothing it with his tongue.

He continues to pepper your neck with kisses, relishing in the way your body shivers under his touch.

His voice, husky and filled with dark amusement, interrupts your stammering. "Oh, what a shame. Seems like you're a little preoccupied at the moment," he taunts, his lips trailing lower to the sensitive skin of your collarbone.

He bites down gently, eliciting a gasp from you as you struggle to maintain your composure.

Tom's fingers creep up your waist, slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse. His touch is possessive, his grip firm as he pulls you closer.

Your voice trembles as you try to regain control of the situation. "I-I'm sorry, Jamie, I can't... tonight," you manage to say, your words punctuated by a soft moan as Tom's lips find your earlobe, nipping at it playfully.

Tom chuckles darkly, his breath tickling your ear. "Tell him you're busy, darling," he whispers, his voice dripping with both amusement and dominance. His hand slides higher, squeezing your breast through the fabric of your bra, causing you to gasp and arch into his touch.

"J-Jamie, I... I can't. I-I have commitments after s-school," You stammer, your voice strained with a mix of pleasure and frustration. Tom's touch is maddeningly intoxicating, clouding your mind and making it difficult to focus on anything else.

There's a brief pause on the other end of the line, and Jamie's voice sounds disappointed. "Alright, no problem. Maybe another time then," he says, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance. You let out a small whimper as he hangs up, tossing your phone to the side as a string of curses escapes your lips.

Tom, satisfied with his disruption, pulls back. His eyes glance over the myriad of purple bruises scattered all over your neck and chest.

“Good. I’ll make sure my name is the only one you’ll ever remember.” He utters.

Before you can respond, Tom pulls you into a searing kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that matches your own.

He manoeuvres you to the bed, not once breaking the kiss as your legs hit the edge, and you fall backwards onto the soft mattress. He lowers himself down over you, kissing you with fevour as he mutters.

“Mine, all mine.”

@mildlyuninformative @chgrch @gillyweeds @anti-hero03 @schaebickel @lillywildly @batmandabest @always-reading

#slytherin #slytherin boys #tom riddle #harry potter #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #theodore nott #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle fic

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mochirimochi · 11 months

Text

Somewhere Safe

William Afton X Reader

I wanna smash the pervy dilf in the rabbit suit ok?

-This is now officially part 1 in a series!-

p1 ● p2 ● p3 ● p4

-----

You just need somewhere safe to hide from your abusive ex. Unfortunately for you, you're about to stumble into the arms of something much, much worse.

18+ Minors DNI.

~3700 words, no use of y/n

-----

cws: abusive relationships, degradation kink, breath play if you squint, smut, rough sex, EXTREMELY dubious concent, a sprinkle of spanking

You can also read on ao3 if you prefer: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51567985

-----

Your arms shake as you push up the rusted steel door that separates the pizzeria from the outside world. Every clatter and rumble of the metal makes you flinch and sweep your eyes over the abandoned side lot. There shouldn’t be anyone out and about to catch you at this time of night, right? Regardless, your heart pounds as you force the heavy door up, inch by agonizing inch. As soon as you’ve made enough space for your body you toss your bag under and swiftly crouch to follow it.

Breaking and entering is far from your typical Monday night activity, but circumstances have left you with little choice in the matter. You need somewhere you won’t be found, somewhere no one will think to look for you. A dilapidated former birthday attraction certainly fits the bill, you don’t think you’ve ever mentioned the place to your ex before and if you have he probably won’t remember anyways.

You give the door a tug to close it behind you, flinching as it slams back down into the concrete, and pick your way through the broken glass of the entryway. The smell of mildew is heavy in the air, clawing at your lungs and making your eyes water. This place used to be so vibrant and full of joy once upon a time. You’ve attended many a birthday in the restaurant that stretches out in front of you, even had a few of your own. This place had always been a favorite of the local parents due to its… generous wine portions and the ability to outsource their children's supervision. As a result it had been a kids paradise, the ability to run wild while mom and dad got lost in the sauce on a Saturday afternoon? Few things could rival that sense of freedom for a kid. Ironic as it was considering what had come later, it had always been a place where you felt safe and happy. Maybe that was why you’d chosen the pizzeria when you needed to hide from your abusive boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend now you suppose. It wasn’t like you had any plans to go back to the man after tonight.

You give yourself a shake, attempting to bring yourself back to the moment at hand. This isn’t exactly the time to be spacing out after all, you’re technically committing a crime. Actually, there isn’t anything “technical” about it, you’re definitely breaking multiple laws right now. You shoulder your backpack and cast a glance toward the stage, it’s concealed behind a dusty red curtain but you can practically picture the animatronics behind it ready to jolt into song and dance just like they did years ago. You wonder if the owner removed them when he shut the place down. If you pull back the curtain will you find the shabby remains of your childhood heroes? You shiver, maybe it’s best not to find out.

If you remember correctly, the staff always entered and exited through a door next to the prize counter, maybe you’ll find a staff room with a couch through there. It seems like as promising an idea as any so you flick on your flashlight and make your way past the dining area and through the arcade. Sure enough, you’re greeted with a “staff only” sign and an unlocked door to boot.

The hallway beyond is dark, lacking any of the color of the show floor. Interestingly, flickering yellow bulbs hang from the ceiling sporadically. The emergency power must still be on in this part of the building, you reason as you cautiously move through the hallway. You round a corner and let out a yelp as you collide with something huge, brown, and strangely soft. The impact knocks you off balance and you land rather gracelessly on your ass. It takes a moment for your brain to comprehend what you’re looking at as your gaze travels upwards over pudgy brown legs and a round plush stomach.

“Fredbear?!” The exclamation comes out before you really have a chance to think. “How in the world did you get all the way over here?” Your heart, which has been about ready to leap out of your chest, slows as you take in the animatronic. It’s in surprisingly good shape considering the state of the rest of this place. You push yourself to your feet and take a few steps back. “I can’t believe they actually left you guys here, you’d think they’d have moved you. Poor guy, all this time stuck in this dingy old hallway.”

It’s strange when you really think about it, who would leave him just standing in the bowels of the restaurant? It seems like an awfully strange place to just leave your star animatronic, rushed closure or not. After a moment, a distant memory of the animatronics being wired to wander through the pizzeria comes back to you, in fact now that you think about it you can remember getting a big warm hug or two from the Freddy animatronic. That would explain it, maybe his circuits got damaged over time and had triggered that unique function.

“Sorry to bug you big guy, I promise I’m not here to cause trouble. I just… needed somewhere safe.” Not for the first time that night you feel tears well in your eyes. “Nope, I am not going to cry over this. Not happening, you didn’t see me cry as a kid and you’re not gonna see it now.” You blink the tears away and the absurdity of your situation finally hits you. Not only are you hiding from your psycho ex and breaking the law for the first time in your life, but you’re also talking to a decrepit old robot like it can actually understand you. You heave a shaking sigh to ground yourself and pull your shoulders back. This might be your lowest moment but you refuse to let yourself wallow in it. With a determined huff you give Fredbear an affectionate pat on the arm before moving further into the building.

Before long you stumble across the staffroom, a long cluttered room with an extended plexi-glass window looking out into the hallway. Maybe at another time the window would serve to make the room feel brighter and bigger but now the dust covered plastic is shot through with a spider's web of cracks that barely allow you to see into the room. The door is unlocked though, and after a few quick shoves the warped wood releases its hold on the frame to allow you entry. Luckily, the room seems fairly well preserved and you spot a few dusty but intact couches pushed up against the wall. Jackpot. The exhaustion you’ve barely been keeping at bay all night hits you like a freight train and you lurch across the room to the couches. You collapse onto the nearest one, sending a fine cloud of dust into the air. You can’t bring yourself to care as you curled into a tight ball, finally letting sleep take you.

–

William watches the security cameras with curiosity as you wind your way through the building. Normally the animatronics would have taken care of any intruders well before they got to this point. This is new, novel even. He leans forward at his desk, squinting at the video feed in an attempt to get a better view. His jaw almost drops when you collapse onto the couch and fall still. Even through the grainy monitor he can tell that you’ve fallen asleep. What in the world is your deal? Who in their right mind would break into an abandoned establishment of dubious repute only to take a nap? He clasps his hands in thought as he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest. This calls for a more… hands on investigation.

–

A tickling in your nose rouses you from your slumber and you begin to sneeze yourself awake with surprising force. You check your watch, barely 4 in the morning. You’ve only slept for an hour at most and exhaustion threatens to pull you back into sleep. It might too, if not for the insistent vibration of your phone in your pocket. You flip the cursed thing open without hitting the button to answer, bracing yourself for what you know you’ll see.

Unsurprisingly, you’ve got 53 unread texts, 20 missed calls and 16 voicemails. You don’t need to check the contact info to know who they’re from. Against your better judgment you navigate to your sms messages and begin to read through the backlog when your phone finally stops buzzing. Some of the texts are pleading, others threatening. A few texts claim to “love you so much” and be “so fucking sorry”, while others rail at you “you fucking bitch” and “how dare you fucking run off like that?”. The messages paint a grim but unsurprising picture, a picture that’s unfortunately all too familiar. You raise your hand to the tender bruising that you know must be beginning to come to the surface on your neck before you navigate to your most recent voicemail. You flick on the speaker before staring into the green light of the screen.

“Where the fuck are you, you fucking bitch?” You flinch as an angry voice fills the room. “You think you can fucking run away from me? You think you can fucking end shit? You’ve got another thing coming to you, used up fucking slut. The next time I lay eyes on you you’re fucking dead, you hear me? Run the fuck away from me again and see what happens. I’ll-” You don’t give the voicemail a chance to run its course. With a raw, frustrated scream you launch the phone across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying clatter. The battery and casing skitter across the floor and the voicemail cuts out abruptly. Not satisfied with just cutting the bastard off you stomp across the room, still screaming, and smash your foot into the body of the phone. It gives with a satisfying crunch and you roar as you kick it for good measure, sending the now useless device across the room once again. All the fear and rage of the last few hours overcomes you and you let yourself scream until you run out of breath.

Suddenly a flash of something yellow through the hallway window catches your eye. You push your hair out of your face as you try to catch your breath, attempting to squint through the aged plexi-glass. A hulking, inhuman figure stands on the other side of the window, seeming to peer back at you. For a moment neither of you move, it seems to be taking you in as much as you’re taking it in. The strange standoff breaks when the figure, still indistinct through the dust and cracks in the glass, starts to move slowly and methodically towards the staffroom door.

Finally your brain springs into action. Shit. Whatever that is, it’s not good. You sweep your eyes frantically around the room, weighing your options. Any windows to the outside are boarded up, and the only door in or out is the one the massive yellow figure is making its way towards. The only viable option seems to be to take the defensive. There’s a tiny kitchenette against the wall, and you rush towards it in desperation. Frantically, you yank open the drawers in search of anything you might use to protect yourself. The best you can come up with is a wooden spoon. In another situation that might be laughable, but you can’t take a moment to consider how absurd you look brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. The rattle of the doorknob tells you that you’re out of time.

Whatever you had expected to be on the other side of that door it certainly wasn’t a massive yellow rabbit suit. It’s huge, so large that it has to duck to get its ears under the door frame. As it tilts its head to take you in, your blood runs cold. You hold your ground as the thing stalks closer, its movements slow and deliberate as it moves towards you.

In a moment of desperation you launch yourself forward, attempting to dodge around the looming figure and make a dash for freedom. You don’t have a chance. A pair of strong arms wrap roughly around your waist, jerking you back with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. Your makeshift weapon clatters to the floor. A dark chuckle rumbles from the depths of the suit as a hand drags its way from your waist and up your chest to grab your chin.

“What. Have. We. Here?” The voice that comes from the suit is deep, taunting, and undoubtedly mascuine. He punctuates the last word with a rough but controlled yank, pulling your chin up and your head back into his chest. You whimper as it strains your already aching neck. With your head tipped back you can see the yellow rabbit head looming above you and it tilts to the side again as if in curiosity. “I asked you a question.”

“I-I-...” You can barely get your mouth to move and you lick your lips in a desperate attempt to draw words from them. Your obvious fear draws a satisfied hum from the depths of the suit and the hand on your waist tightens noticeably. The hand on your jaw however, disappears. You pull in a shaky gasp and buck your head forward in an attempt to build up enough momentum to break free. The vice-like grip on your waist is unaffected and your captor grunts in amusement.

A rustling above your head draws your attention and you look up to realize that the hand that had just been holding your jaw captive is running along the neck of the suit. With a single, deft movement the head of the suit comes off and your captors face is revealed. There’s an almost rugged handsomeness to his mature features, graying stubble covering his cheeks and eyes that in another life may have looked almost kind. The expression he’s peering down at you with now is anything but kind or gentle though. There’s a hunger there, and a barely suppressed rage. He places the head on a nearby table and returns his hand to your jaw. With agonizing languidness he leans forward and presses his lips to your ear.

“Who gave you permission to sleep in my restaurant?”

You gasp as his stubble rasps against your jaw and his hot breath ghosts across your face.

“I’m sorry. I just needed a place to stay. I’ll leave right now. I’ll-”

He cuts you off. “A place to stay, huh?” His lips are still brushing against your ear and despite yourself you feel a chill run down your spine that has nothing to do with fear. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with that absolute delight of a man on the other side of the phone, would it?”

“He’ll kill me.” As soon as the words come out of your mouth you know they’re true. Honestly, you’re lucky to have survived him this long.

“Oh, little mouse, what makes you think I won’t?” The grip on your jaw releases for a moment and you hear something fall to the floor. When it returns it’s a very warm, very human hand that takes its place. His other hand briefly lets go to do the same and you can feel his nails digging into your flesh as he presses you against him.

“Please.” It’s barely more than a whimper as the hand at your jaw dips to circle your neck. “I just needed somewhere safe.”

“And you chose here? Bad luck.” He presses his nose to your jaw and draws in a deep, ragged breath. “But you know, we might be able to work something out.” The hand at your waist begins to travel, burrowing its way under the hem of your shirt before splaying wide across your stomach. His long fingers barely brush the underside of your bra but you feel the heat of them as if there’s no fabric to separate you. “I’d hate to see a pretty thing like you put out in the cold.”

“Anything.”

–

William can barely contain himself. The feeling of your trembling body in his arms is oh so delicious and your intoxicating scent floods his nose, every breath sending a thrill through him. You’re so soft, so malleable, so utterly breakable. It’s brilliant.

Using one hand to keep you pinned against him he uses the other to work his way out of the suit with practiced skill. Initially he’d just wanted to watch you, figure out the enigma that was your survival after breaking into his restaurant. Normally people don’t last for more than a few minutes. But you’d dithered around, chatted up his ace in the hole, and then taken a nap? He couldn’t contain his curiosity.

The phone call had derailed his plan and given him an idea. Sure, he had planned on killing you once he’d solved your mystery but maybe there were other things you could be useful for. There was something captivating about you, and the perfect leverage had just fallen straight into his lap.

He makes quick work of the suit, and soon he’s reveling in the feeling of your body against his.

“Anything?” He asks, stroking his thumb gently over your jugular before giving your throat a controlled squeeze. Your startled gasp is almost enough to send him reeling. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, little mouse.”

–

This is wrong. Everything about this situation is wrong.

And yet, your body seems to have some of its wires crossed because it is not getting the message. The only thing you should be feeling right now is fear, and sure, there’s a very healthy dose of that tying your guts in knots but beyond that there’s an underlying current of heat. None of what’s happening should be causing your core to tighten, and the goose bumps forming on your neck should be from terror.

But they’re not.

His hand drifts up even further, pushing your bra up and out of the way to capture the smooth skin of your breast in his hand. You can’t help it, you roll your hips back into his, pushing against the hardness that’s growing there at an almost alarming pace. He growls behind you, pulling you even closer to grind against your ass.

“So that’s how it is?” His voice in your ear is even deeper now, heavy with lust as he gives your breast a hard squeeze. Even you’re surprised when you let out a wanton moan. “Imagine such a dirty fucking slut falling right into my lap.” His words have you clenching around nothing and you don’t even have the presence of mind to feel conflicted about your body's reaction. He releases your breast and his hand burns a trail down to the top of your jeans, he flicks the button open with ease and slowly undoes your zipper. Then he stops, his hand ghosts over the crotch of your jeans before it stills. You let out a needy whimper that you barely recognize as your voice.

“Beg for it, little mouse.”

You groan, canting your hips forward in a desperate search for pressure. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, fuck me.”

His control seems to snap and he spins you around before shoving you across the room and face down into the couch, barely giving you time to yelp in surprise. He pulls your hips into the air before yanking down your jeans and panties in one harsh motion. The animalistic groan that escapes him at the sight of your dripping pussy sends a shock of arousal through you. He grabs a globe of your ass in each hand, digging his fingers in so hard that you gasp. His nails bite in deep enough that you’re sure they’ll draw blood.

“God, look at you.” He grunts, releasing your ass and stepping back as if to admire the view. You hear the clinking of his belt buckle and wiggle in anticipation. “What a fucking freak you are, so fucking wet and ready for a strange man in an abandoned building.” He lifts his hand and lands a stinging blow on your ass. You flinch and yelp at the unexpected pain and he does it again on the other cheek. “Dirty slut.” The sting brings tears to your eyes, but it also causes your arousal to coil even tighter in your abdomen.

Suddenly and without warning he grabs your hips and slams into you, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion. You scream as he stretches you, your channel burning around his thick cock. “Take it.” He grunts, slamming into you. All you can do is whimper in response as he sets a punishing pace, thrusting into you again and again. The burn eventually melts into a building and rising heat that threatens to sweep you away.

Your scalp stings as he tangles his fist in your hair and yanks your head back, changing the angle so that he drives impossibly deeper into you with every stroke. Any train of thought you may have been able to carry is lost as he bombards you with pleasure. Your eyes roll back as your hands desperately grip the couch cushions. A few more thrusts and you’re coming undone, screaming out your release. He follows close behind you, letting go of your hair to grab your hips again. His fingers bite into you as he pulls you back against him, trapping you to him as he fills you.

“Fuck.” He grunts, his voice raw and his hands trembling at your hips. You both still for a moment and your brain finally starts to realize what you’ve just done. But in the throbbing, warm throes of your afterglow you can’t seem to bring yourself to care how truly fucked up this situation is. When he finally releases his vice-like grip on your hips you groan at the loss of contact.

The chuckle that he gives is warmer than any of the others so far, and he gives your ass a final squeeze that you could almost consider affectionate before he steps away.

“Yes, I think we’ve come to a satisfying agreement.”

-----

I don't know what came over me last night, but this was the result. I've never written smut before, but I sure have read a lot so hopefully it's enjoyable.

#william afton is a pervy old man and that's how i like him #look im not here for the serial killer to be nice to me #william afton x reader #william afton x you #william afton smut #fnaf smut #fnaf #fnaf movie #five nights at freddy's #springtrap #william afton #matthew lillard #fanfic #fnaf fanfic #mochi writes

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astralaffairs · 1 year

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hi!! before i go i jus wanna say, I love your work 🙏🏽 and I finally watch hamilton last night so I might write for it as well 😋😋 but i have a drabble idea.

anyways— thomas having a dance/ball for a campaign during the election and he meets aaron’s little sister, mc, who snuck in. and he can’t help but take interests in her.

“Now, what’s a lady like you doin’ getting a drink just for yourself? Nobody’s offered to do that for you yet?”

Y/N froze as her fingers met the stem of the champagne flute. She had promised herself she would stay to the outskirts of the ball, and her only goal for the night had been to avoid courting attention. However, the packed room was warm, and it was only more so at its perimeter under the lights, and the crisp bubbly had looked oh-so-inviting.

She turned with a polite smile as she picked up the glass, but her eyes widened when she saw the man behind her with his gleaming smile and his velvet suit. She recognized him instantly; after all, she’d seen him before, and he’d even been in her home, but they’d never formally met. He raised an eyebrow when her smile faltered. “I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t had a chance to speak to much of anyone just yet.”

“Then I’m gonna have to count myself lucky to have found you when I did. Thomas Jefferson.” He offered her a hand as he introduced himself, and when she took it, he dipped down to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. Her eyes went even wider.

She cleared her throat as he drew himself back up to his full height, still holding her by the fingertips, and it took a moment for it to occur to her to withdraw her hand. “You’re the host of this ball, then, if I’m not mistaken. Thank you for opening your home to us like this.”

“Believe me, sugar, the pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “Who’re you here with? Feel like I’ve seen you around, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Oh, um, my family’s here somewhere. I came on my own, though, and I was planning to meet them here.”

“Your family?” He pursed his lips. “You’re not a Schuyler, are you?”

“No, no, certainly not,” she replied before hastily adding, “although the Schuylers are lovely people, of course. To be a part of their family would make one lucky.”

“So you know the Schuylers, then?” he mused, and she nodded. His growing smile was making her mouth go dry. “I know where I recognize you from; you’re a Burr, aren’t you? Aaron’s sister?”

“I am, yes.” Her smile was tense, laced with unease. His grin was bright as he plucked a drink for himself off of the table behind them.

“So why haven’t I seen you at one of these before? Your family trying to keep you locked away from all the politics?” he asked, and as her eyebrows fell, he could see the look in her eyes sour.

“They’ve decided I can’t be trusted at this kind of event,” she said bitterly, and he quirked a brow. “Aaron claims he’s afraid I’ll say the wrong thing and jeopardize his career, but really, I think he just can’t deal with the idea of splitting people’s attention between us.”

“But you finally proved yourself trustworthy?” he asked mildly, taking a sip of his drink, and she shrugged uncomfortably.

“I suppose so.”

“Then where’s your dear brother now, hm? Why aren’t you here with the rest of your family?” He watched her expectantly, and when she didn’t answer right away, his grin broadened. “They don’t even know you’re here, do they?”

“No, and you’re not going to be the one to tell them,” she said sharply, pointing her champagne flute at him. He raised his eyebrows, amused by the fervor in her tone. “I had to walk miles alone in the dark to get here; I am not being thrown out as soon as I arrive.”

“Well, sweetheart, if you’re not with them, then really, I should be sendin’ you on your way.” Despite the threat, his voice was breezy, and she frowned.

“And what do you have to gain from kicking me out?”

“The respect and appreciation of your family,” he suggested blithely. “The knowledge that I’m not leavin’ a young lady to walk home alone ‘n vulnerable at the end of the night. ‘S just the right thing to do, really.”

She eyed his small smile for a moment before slowly asking, “But despite that, you’d rather I stay, wouldn’t you?” He shrugged unabashedly. “You’re quite shameless, aren’t you, Mr. Jefferson?”

“Only on a good day.” He winked as he took a sip of his drink. “After all, you went through all that effort to get here. There’s gotta be a good reason for it, huh?”

“Of course. I’m here to expand my mind just like everyone else," she said, and he raised an eyebrow.

“And not for the charming future president we’ve got roaming the ball?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware there was one. Let me know if you see him?”

His full laugh proved him undeterred, and Y/N’s self-satisfied smile was reluctant. "'M glad to see you inherited more of the family wit than your brother seemed to."

"Please, don't tell him that. A lady needs to keep some things a secret."

"It'll stay between us, then," Thomas said, "but I don't think I ever got your name."

"Why, so you know whose presence to report to my brother?"

"So I know who to ask after the next time I see him." His response was quick, and it had Y/N on her heels. Her eyes were wide, eyebrows raised, but when she opened her mouth to answer—

"Y/N." Both she and Thomas turned on their heels at the loud voice to find her brother striding across the room toward them, and her groan was unchecked. The fury in Aaron's voice was barely contained. "What in the world do you think you're possibly doing here, sneaking out after dark? How did you even get here?"

"I brought myself, since nobody else was willing to take me," she bit back, and Thomas raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of his drink.

"That wasn't your decision to make," Aaron snapped. "We are a family, and you have to respect that—"

"Respect what? That you have total control over my life in the name of family values? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?" she asked. "I respect that you have a career and a reputation to maintain, but I am a person, and—"

"And nothing, Y/N. Put the drink down, and leave Mr. Jefferson at peace," he demanded, and Y/N narrowed her eyes, her jaw set. Aaron turned to Thomas, and much of the fire in his voice had subsided when he said, "I'm sorry for her intrusion, Thomas. We didn't know she had followed us here, and we'll send her home at once."

"Now, Aaron, what makes you think she's uninvited company?" Thomas asked, and both Y/N's and Aaron's brows were raised. "Y/N's my guest here this evening; 's the opposite of an intrusion."

He frowned, glancing between Thomas and Y/N. "You mean you're responsible for her presence here tonight?"

"Well, I invited her, so I suppose you could say that," he said casually, and if he winked when he caught Y/N's eye, Aaron didn't think anything of it. Aaron's lips were pursed and his shoulders tense as he glanced between them.

"Why didn't you tell me Thomas had invited you?" he asked Y/N, and she shrugged.

"I didn't think you'd want to hear it, and I didn't want you trying to prevent me from coming."

"If I'd known he asked you to come—"

"So, what, my personhood is dependent on his permission now?"

"Your presence here is, at least."

"As a Burr, I would've been welcome either way."

"Not unattended, however."

"I can attend to myself just fine."

"You know that isn't what I mean when—"

"Aaron, was there somethin' else you needed?" Thomas cut him off, and Aaron's gaze was affronted when it snapped to him. However, he held his tongue. "I was just about to ask Y/N to dance, assuming that's her decision to make 'n all."

Y/N had to bite back her smile at his words, and although Aaron seemed to recognize the challenge in them as his jaw ticked, he said, "Of course. I'm sorry to have interrupted."

"Don't sweat it. Your concern for your sister is awful sweet, even if it isn't needed here," Thomas responded, his smile warm.

"'Concern' isn't how I'd describe it," Y/N muttered bitterly, and Thomas nudged her with his elbow. She frowned.

"Carry on 'n enjoy the rest of the ball, though, and please send my best to your wife," he said. Aaron could only offer a tense smile in response.

“You as well. I suppose I should go find Theodosia.” He looked down skeptically at Y/N. “How are you planning to get home?”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I…” She hadn’t thought that far, so her gaze was hopeful when it snapped to Thomas, who held her with a hand at the small of her back.

“I’ll arrange for a carriage to take her home,” he promised. “Don’t you worry, Burr. She’s in safe hands.”

“Right,” he said hesitantly, looking Thomas over. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t do anything stupid, Jefferson.”

“‘S like you don’t even know who you’re talkin’ to,” Thomas said incredulously, and Aaron scoffed.

“I’m sure.” He barely spared them both another glance before departing unceremoniously, shaking his head all the while, and Thomas chuckled. Y/N turned back toward him.

“You’re a regular local hero,” she said sardonically, but the smile in her eyes betrayed her bored tone. Thomas grinned.

“I do try, sweetheart,” he said lightly, “maybe even in a way that deserves a ‘thank you’?”

“Thank you.” Her voice was sincere. “Really. I owe you.”

“Well, if you mean that,” he said, and his eyes were shining as he looked down at her, “I wouldn’t mind making good on that dance I mentioned. Unless you’re in a real rush to get back to your dear old brother.”

He offered her his arm with an eyebrow raised, and she left her empty glass on the table behind them when she took it, drawing a wide grin from him. “How could I say no to our charming host?"

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yumeka-sxf · 5 months

Text

I try to stay away from negative topics, but after hearing talk on social media yesterday and seeing this post from @such-a-downer, I just had to give my two cents about the complaints regarding yesterday's chapter being "another short mission" and that Endo is somehow being "lazy" or whatever.

I honestly don't understand this mentality of criticizing manga-ka, or any artists really, because they aren't delivering by whatever standards you personally think are appropriate. To me, it just seems like entitlement because Endo has no obligation to cater to any specific fan's wants. This is his story to tell the way he wants, and his characters to develop at the pace he deems fit. This isn't a business contract where we're paying him to deliver content we want every two weeks without fail. If I'm consuming the fruits of someone's creative labor for free, I certainly feel no right to complain if sometimes their content isn't what I wanted or expected. I'm fine with that because 1) I know it's what they (the creator) wanted/needed at the time, and 2) even if a particular chapter wasn't my cup of tea, I know other fellow fans out there somewhere are enjoying the heck out of it, and that's cool!

We also have to remember that SxF is basically a one-man show. If Endo is busy or sick or whatever, it's not like he can have someone fill in for him to write and draw the series. That's what a hiatus is for, that's what making a short chapter instead of a longer one is for...that's how artists should be treated so they don't get burned out and stressed. Plus, art shouldn't be rushed. Any artist knows that there are times when you have trouble coming up with ideas and maybe need a little extra time to develop a more complex section of the story. To immediately jump to conclusions that he's lazy or doesn't know what he's doing is ridiculous. Maybe he didn't feel good for a few days, maybe he's been busy with other SxF events, maybe he just needed more time to get a particular future arc developed, or maybe he just has basic IRL obligations to take care of like we all do...you don't know what's going on in his life, so don't make assumptions.

Another thing to keep in mind is that it's literally impossible to please every fan. One of the comments I read for example, someone was ready to drop the series because we haven't seen much of Yor in "a while." All I could think of was "didn't she just have a pretty big role only four chapters ago when they went to the ski resort?" Plus she was the star of chapter 91, which was less than ten chapters ago. So according to this person's standards, four chapters without seeing a particular character is "too long"? What if it was only three chapters, would that be acceptable? It's not right to push our own personal standards of a series' pacing as the "correct" way: some people want to see more of character X while someone else wants to see more of subplot Y, so should both complain that the manga-ka isn't doing right whenever they focus on something else? I'm not saying you shouldn't make criticisms of a manga-ka's work, but the criticisms should come from within the narrative itself, not superficial things like chapters focusing on subplots/characters you don't want to see or not having enough "plot-advancing" content when it's not a plot-focused series.

People who have read SxF up to this point should know the general flow of the chapters: mostly slice-of-life episodic, with more plot-heavy, intense arcs once in a while, like the cruise arc and bus arc. It's an ensemble series that spends most of its chapters focused on at least one of the Forgers, but occasionally other characters here and there. That's how the series has been for years and will likely continue to be. So if you keep complaining because you only like the dramatic story arcs and not the "nothing happens" episodic chapters, then maybe the series just isn't for you. It's totally fine if that's the case, but don't act like Endo is doing something wrong because he's not providing the particular thing you want in his story.

To summarize, Endo has no obligation to cater to particular fans' standards, just as we have no obligation to keep reading his work if we don't like it. But being a fan to me means respecting the creator's pace and vision even if it's not always what I personally want. I can find something to enjoy in every chapter because I'm a fan of SxF, not a fan of one particular aspect of it. But I also will not complain every time my tastes aren't being catered to and will simply occupy myself with other things while I wait. What's the big hurry, after all? I'm in no rush for SxF to wrap up its plot and I'm glad Endo isn't rushing either.

And that's all I'm gonna say about this topic, lol. On a happier note, I'm going to finally see Code White on Thursday! 😁 More to come later~

#spy x family #sxf #spy family #spyxfamily #sxf manga #sxf manga spoilers #sxf spoilers

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thesightstoshowyou · 5 months

Text

Take Your Pick

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: Role play with the Ghoul is always an adventure.

Warnings: Claustrophobia, CNC, gun play, hair pulling, threats, brief blood mention, fuckin’ in a coffin, creampie, there’s some aftercare this time

(Thank you @slasher-smasher for planting the coffin idea into my brain)

A heavy thud startles you awake. You move to bolt upright, but abruptly halt a centimeter before colliding with smooth wood. A flat barrier sits just above you.

The lid.

The coffin lid.

Sleep-addled senses whir to life as memory returns. The cramped, trapped, feeling returns tenfold, suffocating you on all sides. Your heart rate spikes, a frightened staccato. You want to thrash and break out of your skin—air, you can’t breathe…!

Nails bite into your palms to ground yourself and you force your lungs to fill with calm. Breathe. Breathe like you did last night before you’d dozed off.

Your palms come to rest against the lid as you reorient yourself with your surroundings. The scents of damp wood and your own panicked sweat fill the narrow space. Sunlight peeks through the cracks where the lid doesn’t sit flush with the rest of the coffin. It had been dark when he’d tossed you in here and nailed it shut.

He’d left you here all night, then.

THUD

Muscles seize, the urge to shriek almost too great to resist. Someone—and you have a very good idea who—shoves a wedge, no, a crowbar between the lid and the body of your wooden prison. There’s a loud crack, the snap of wood, the groaning of nails as the top is wrenched away.

You throw an arm over your face when blazing light momentarily blinds you. A rattling crash somewhere to your left tells you the coffin lid has been tossed aside, forgotten.

A deep, rasping inhale heralds that familiar drawl. “Well, good mornin’, sunshine.”

Sight be damned. Squinting, you scramble for the side of the coffin, ready to heave yourself up and out, but cold metal against your temple freezes you in your tracks. “Woah, slow down, darlin’. It’s too early yet t’be gettin’ yourself in a tizzy.”

Gritting your teeth and willing your eyes to adjust, you sit back and blink. Eventually, you’re able to peer up into the scarred face of the Ghoul. He grins crookedly when you meet his gaze and playfully taps the side of your head with the gun barrel.

“Sleep well?” he asks while casually hooking a thumb in his belt.

“Like a baby.” You can’t help the impertinent reply, but you know the second it leaves your mouth it will have consequences. The Ghoul chortles and slides the muzzle directly in front of your nose. Your breath shakes as you stare directly down the dark barrel.

“Well, startin’ off the day with sass is certainly a choice. But I know that mouth a’ yours is good for more than just back talk, thanks t’that…rousin’ demonstration last night.” Cool metal presses to your trembling lips. The scents of iron and gunpowder burn your nose. “So go on now, sweetheart. Let’s see how shiny ya’ can make it.”

You swallow thickly and turn your pleading gaze up at the Ghoul. Who knows what horrible substances could be splattered all over its surface. Just the thought has bile stinging your throat.

He lifts a brow expectantly. “I don’t got all day, honey.” He’s not going to budge and you’re definitely not in a position to bargain. Fuck. Hopelessly, you choke down your nausea and look back to the muzzle hovering in front of your face. Your breath fogs up gleaming metal when you lean forward to timidly drag your tongue along the barrel.

Acrid, caustic tang hits the back of your throat. You cough, eyes watering, but you diligently make another pass, the flat of your tongue laving across nickel and leaving streaks of saliva in its wake. Drool spills down your chin when you wrap your lips around the muzzle.

Glancing up through your lashes shows you the Ghoul is intently focused on your every move. His jaw clenches and his chest rises and falls a little quicker than before. His knuckles blanche with how tightly he grips his belt.

After what seems like an eternity, the gun is yanked away from your mouth when the Ghoul lifts it skyward for inspection. Little droplets of spit trickle down the barrel as he turns it this way and that. He hums in satisfaction before holstering the weapon.

“Good girl.” His deep voice is husky, rougher than usual. You squeal when a hand darts out to seize your hair. He closes the distance between you to shove your face against the growing bulge his pants. Indignantly, you gasp and try to twist away only to have your cheek smashed more insistently against the Ghoul. This close, smell of ozone that seems to follow him everywhere overwhelms your senses.

“Looks like we got another problem to sort out,” he comments, using the hand in your hair to give your head a teasing wiggle. He takes a small step back so he can bend down low and bring his face inches from yours. You grunt and squirm in his grasp when his other hand flies up to grip your jaw tight.

“Since you did such an outstandin’ job cleanin’ my gun, I’ll let you pick which hole I use. Sound like a fair trade, sweetheart?”

“Fuck…off!” you grit out. Your hands wrap around his wrist to claw at his skin, but it could be made of steel for all the good it does. A pained cry rips from your throat when the Ghoul twists his fingers tighter in your hair. Panting, you still to keep your locks from being torn out.

“If I have t’choose, it’ll be your ass, and I don’t see any lube ‘round here. Do you?” The thought fills your veins with ice. Quickly, you shake your head as well as you can with how firmly he holds you. “Then what’ll it be, sugar? Tick tock.”

Your eyes close despairingly. Aching discomfort pulses in your jaw from the fingers that dig into your skin. Bitterly, you swallow your pride.

“My…my….” You groan as your cheeks burn. The Ghoul watches you stammer over your words, a smug smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Finally, you spit out a grumbled, “My…cunt.”

“Good choice, baby. My favorite.” Lightening fast, The Ghoul hops over the edge of the coffin to shoves you face-first into smooth pine. A strong hand splays out on the side of your head to keep you pinned while the other works your pants off your hips.

You yelp and writhe when scarred fingers dip into your folds. Mortification constricts your chest and sets your face ablaze when the slick squelch reaches your ears. A low chuckle sounds behind you, followed by a purred, “Well shit, sweetheart, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say ya’ like this.”

The chilly metal of his belt buckle brushes your rear as the Ghoul rips his zipper open. Hot, thick flesh slides along your dripping slit to tease your entrance. A little whimper leaves your lips when his nails rake across the meat of your hip to leave fiery stripes in their wake.

Agonizingly slow, the Ghoul feeds his cock into your twitching cunt. Slippery muscles part and stretch around his girth until your mouth falls open and your eyes momentarily unfocus. He’s so deep when his hips finally meet your ass you’re afraid you might break.

He voices his appreciation with a rumbling groan and a murmured, “You’re grippin’ me pretty tight there, darlin’.” Any response you might have had morphs into a strangled shout when he rears back and slams his hips forward.

Hastily, he curls over your back to clap a hand over your mouth. Against your ear, he mutters, “I don’t need us gettin’ interrupted before I’ve had my fill. Keep your screamin’ to yourself or I’ll have to dirty my gun again.”

Though, he doesn’t make it easy.

Your teeth are stained with blood from bottom lip as you fight the wanton moans and heady cries that sit on your tongue, begging to be freed. Each fervent thrust rattles the rickety coffin and your very bones. Evidence of your desire leaks freely down your thighs. You can feel it soaking into his pants, can hear it in the way the fabric slaps wetly against your hamstrings.

“I think that lil’ pussy was made just for me.” You can’t stop the whine his growled words bring forth. It’s not fair how good he feels; all those ridges and dips twisted around his cock hit every single spot so perfectly you swear it’s going to make you see god.

You do, in a way. Your vision whites out in blinding rapture as waves of molten ecstasy roil in your belly. Distantly, you’re aware of a strained curse from somewhere behind you. The cock buried deep in your guts twitches and spills liquid heat that fills and overflows to join the rest of the mess trickling down your legs.

Limbs shake. Breath returns in heaving gasps. You unstick your nails from the bottom of the coffin and shiver, little aftershocks of pleasure tingling under your skin.

“Jeeesus,” Cooper sighs as he bows over you to rest his forehead between your shoulder blades. A tremulous laugh is the only response you can manage. He sucks down a few more steadying breaths, then, “You’re fucked in the head, sweetheart. Ya’ know that?”

You snort. “I didn’t hear you complaining, Coop.” A wry chuckle greets your words.

“Touché,” Cooper drawls as he sits back. You hiss when he slips from your cunt. He makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat as he admires the deluge that follows. Quickly, he rights his clothes and helps you with your own before pulling you into his lap and slumping back against the side of the coffin. He slings an arm along the edge while the other wraps possessively around your waist.

“You gave a very convincing performance, Mr. Howard,” you comment coyly as you tug the brim of his hat further down.

Yellowed teeth peek out between a crooked smirk when Cooper grips your chin and rumbles, “Ya’ lookin’ for an encore, sugar?”

You bark out a laugh and shake your head. “I’m gonna need at least twenty minutes to recover after that.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Best I can do is ten. Then, you’re mine.”

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #fallout #fallout show #fallout 2024 #thesightstoshowyou #but first let’s get you some radaway asap

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betweenbreaths · 5 months

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doctor's orders (WIP)

Fandom: Love and Deepspace

Characters: Zayne x Reader

Summary: Zayne is surprisingly obedient as a patient when it’s your turn to play doctor.

Rating: E (M for this snippet though)

A/N: Posting this WIP first because I think it'll take me a while to write the full thing. :")

++++++

He’s terribly late.

It’s almost midnight now, almost 12 hours past the time he was supposed to have you over at his place for lunch and a home movie date. He had already prepared everything perfectly, from the food, to the table setting, to the extra blankets on the couch (only because you liked to snuggle). And then you had arrived right on time, and everything was going perfectly.

That is, until his work phone rang and he received an alert that one of his patients had to undergo surgery immediately.

You hadn’t looked fazed when he filled you in on the situation; after all, it was hardly the first time he had been whisked away from a date for unexpected work emergencies. You had told him before that you didn’t mind; saving lives came first and you’d have done the same if you were notified of wanderers in the area.

So he’d left promptly, promising to be back as soon as he could.

And now, twelve hours later, he has finally returned to the front door of his apartment, with a bouquet of flowers he’d picked up along the way as an apology. Zayne had texted you earlier to ask if you had already left, and you’d said that you would stay and wait for him, and that there was no hurry.

He sees your shoes still neatly placed outside, and yet another pang of guilt hits him. He just hopes you’re not too upset. He’ll have to make it up to you somehow.

As Zayne opens the door and steps in, he calls your name.

Silence. No response.

That… must be a bad sign. Either that, or you fell asleep somewhere. Certainly not in the living room, because there’s no trace of you other than the crumpled blankets and the remote control tossed to the corner of the couch.

He shrugs off his coat, leaving it on one of the chairs by the dining table and peers around, wondering where you’d gone. Instinctively he heads straight towards his bedroom — you might be taking a nap there.

He knocks lightly on the closed door before opening it carefully, slowly, in case he wakes you. Then he hears you call his name. The tone in your voice isn’t one of anger or disappointment.

In fact, it’s the opposite. You sound… mischievous, playful. Even a little naughty.

Almost like you’d planned something completely unexpected for him, and you’d been waiting for him to come in, like a predator waiting for prey to fall into its trap.

And when he steps in, Zayne all but forgets to breathe.

++++++

Leaving you alone in his apartment for twelve hours had left you with plenty of time to devise a surprise for your boyfriend. Your spark of inspiration came when you decided you’d do the poor man a favour and sort out his laundry for him since he can’t even afford the time to eat the lunch he’d so painstakingly prepared for that afternoon.

And when you came across the freshly washed spare doctor’s coat in the pile of clean clothes, you were immediately drawn to it like a moth to a flame. You ran your fingers over the thick, wrinkled fabric, a smile playing on your lips when you think about how far he’s come in his career.

And when you put it on, the scent of detergent and warmth enveloping you, an idea so brilliant, so devious, popped into your head.

After all, you’d already come over to his home already prepared with a new set of black lacy lingerie for him to tear off of you, and this coat would go perfectly with it.

The look on Zayne’s face when he steps into his bedroom and his eyes fall on you is absolutely delightful. You see a myriad of emotions flicker in his eyes: confusion, surprise, bewilderment…

And then his gaze becomes hungry. Sinful. Heat pools in your centre as his gaze falls on your body, examining every single inch of you. You can already tell from his dilated pupils that in his mind, he’s ravaging you, kissing you senseless and tasting every drop of you, and god you can already anticipate how rough he’s going to be with you when you let him have his way.

But first, you’re going to have some fun with this.

Zayne approaches the bed, each footstep almost echoing in your ears and mirroring your accelerating heartbeat and you prop yourself up on your elbows, clicking your tongue and shaking your head at the man.

“You’re late for your appointment, Zayne. I’m almost off my shift now.”

“I apologise. I was held up at work because of an emergency.”

“I wish you would prioritise your health the way you do with your work.”

Your lips curl into a knowing smile, and so does his, although his smile looks a little more defeated.

“Using my words against me now?”

“Maybe. But I don’t have time for small talk. I’m supposed to have a date with my boyfriend and he’s waiting for me at home, so let’s make this quick.”

Zayne cocks an eyebrow but says nothing as you sit up and tap the empty spot next to you on the bed.

“Lie down. We need to do a routine examination.”

Surprisingly, Zayne does as he’s told without protest. You feel the bed dip with his weight when he sits down, and you swallow nervously when he stares at you up close, eyes darting down towards your lips and raking down your figure. His gaze is smouldering and you feel your cheeks warm as the corner of his lips turn up.

“Like what you see?” you can’t resist the urge to ask.

“It would be more appropriate to ask your boyfriend that, Doctor.”

Right, right.

You clear your throat, trying to get back into the roleplay. With Zayne now lying comfortably on the bed, you scooch over, placing your hand over his chest.

“Checking for my pulse? Where’s your stethoscope?”

You roll your eyes at him. “I don’t need one to know that your heart is racing right now. Do you feel uncomfortable? Any chest pains?”

“Yes, it does hurt a little.”

“Where?” You experimentally press on his left pec. “Here?” You shift your hand downward slightly. “Or here?”

“No.” Zayne grabs your wrist then, and without warning, pulls you down with a hard tug. You lose your balance, falling straight towards him and you barely manage to stop yourself from giving him a headbutt when your left hand plants itself into the mattress right by his face.

In this position, you’re now mere inches away from his lips, and his piercing gaze doesn’t leave your eyes as he re-positions your right hand on his chest.

“Here.” You feel his strong heartbeat beneath your fingers, and the warmth of his breath fanning across your face. Just a little closer and you’ll be able to taste his lips and lose yourself in his passionate, fiery kisses.

He’s clearly thinking the same thing as you, eyes falling to your parted lips. He sucks in a sharp breath when your tongue wets your lips — a habit of yours when you’re nervous. And then you feel his free hand come up to rest on the nape of your neck to pull you in, closer and closer to him.

It’d be so tempting to just give up now, to let him have his way with you and to get that quality time and intimacy you’ve been craving all day now. In fact, you’ve been waiting a whole week for this, because lately Zayne has been too busy and today was the only day you could squeeze in a precious date with him.

But that’s also the reason why you want to enjoy this to the fullest. After all, it’s not often that Zayne is so indulgent with you in bed.

At the last second, you regain your senses and place your right hand over his mouth, putting an unceremonious halt to his attempt to kiss you. His lips graze the surface of your palm and that’s enough to make goosebumps rise on your arms.

“If your chest hurts, let’s take a closer look, shall we? I’ll need you to take your shirt off.”

#love and deepspace #zayne #lnds #lds #lnds zayne #zayne x reader #my writing #love and deepspace zayne

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1moreff-creator · 15 days

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Extra DRDT CH2 Episode 12 Thoughts

Heya! After making my last post where I just live-blogged my immediate reaction to the episode, I had a few more thoughts that I figured I should write down somewhere. They’re all too small for their own posts, but I still think they’re worth sharing.

Spoilers for CH2 EP12

CW: Murder, hanging, suicide.

The Water Thing

This episode brought up two interesting points which had rarely, if ever, been discussed within the fandom: Arei’s body swinging, and her body temperature and its connection to water. And while I’m relatively sure I saw one or two people mention the swinging at some point, the temperature issue is certainly a new one.

The swinging was explained in the trial: Arei’s body was hung shortly before it was found. But J says something interesting; the corpse should have been warm, unless it was drenched in water and dried. Paraphrasing a bit, but you get the point.

However, I actually don’t think this is a big deal, just adds a slight addendum to previous murder theories. We know the killer dumped the fish in the playground to confuse time of death, so I believe the killer likely splashed Arei with the water to cool her down. This is assuming they even thought about the body temperature, but I don’t think this is a large assumption to make.

I have seen people claim that Arei’s hair looks somewhat wet in the BDA, which… maybe? Anyways, this idea would explain that as well.

This might even give us Possible Explanation Number I Lost Count for the damn missing glove. Maybe it got particularly wet and the culprit worried it wouldn’t dry quickly enough? If people discovered a dripping wet bowling glove, the whole “using fish to confuse the time of death” thing would kinda go straight out the window. I have no idea if that makes any amount of sense, I don’t see why the glove would dry any slower than the rest of her clothes, but oh well.

Arturo’s Talent, and his Recap Foil: Levi

(Here’s the link to the original Recap Foil Theory post by gleamingtempest, in case you don’t know what I’m talking about).

Kinda forgot this was a thing when first watching the episode, but now looking back on it, there’s some neat foiling going on. Levi and Arturo’s backstory already were somewhat opposites in some aspects: Arturo got away from home himself while Levi was disowned, though Levi seems to hold a higher degree of respect for his family in comparison to Arturo. Levi is (now confirmed!) a murderer with no remorse, while Arturo accidentally caused Felicity’s death to some extent and clearly feels guilty about it. Etcetera.

Well, we can add a new detail to this foil! Arturo’s been training his talent since he was twelve, while Levi has admitted since introduction that he’s “a novice to fashion.” Neat detail, and certainly adds to this theory.

Terumin VS Xanvid

Thanks to Haru for pointing this out, but Teruko’s “I’ll fix my mistake” echoes Min’s “I’ll fix your mistake” from her Argument Armament. As I mentioned in the linked post, it’s cool that Teruko is taking a sort of Min-like attitude to her mistakes while calling Xander out, while David is taking Xander’s side in the same trial he calls Min pathetic. Foils and all that.

(Doomed Yuri V Doomed Yaoi, fight!)

This makes me hopeful that Min will still have some importance later. But I’m probably just coping.

What Was David Cooking?

I am kinda sick of talking about this man, frankly. I blame the almost three hour video I made on his MV. But oh well, he’ll stop being center focus soon enough. For now, His Deal is still one of the most central aspects of the episodes, so discuss him I will.

There are two big points of contention with what he said this trial. First, what does he remember about Xander? Second, what was he actually trying to do by pretending to be Arei’s murderer?

The first is pretty simple to assume, I think. David remembers whatever Xander did to become the Ultimate Rebel, and respects him as a result. Especially since Xander’s numeral I in LGI, the Footnote 14 code solved by y-prime, is “I have always looked up to you.”

I don’t think David has Hope’s Peak memories, despite his weird wording with “even if you all lost a year of memories.” He specifically says he and Xander had never met in his Prologue introduction, before they had any real reason to believe they’d lost memories. The LGI video also doesn’t add anything, because… well, it’s not a Milgram MV. It doesn’t come from his memories, it exists purely in meta. This is evident from the comments referencing Byakuya, Nagito and Kokichi, characters these people should have no knowledge of as Veronika claims not to remember anything like the DRDT killing game happening before; certain references to conversations and details David shouldn’t be aware of (mainly in numeral placement), etc.

(While I was writing that, the dev seemingly clarified that David does not have Hope’s Peak memories, then deleted the tweet, so. Just in case, there’s the full reasoning)

The second one is trickier. David is following Xander’s ideals, but that’s all we know. We don’t have a concrete idea of what Xander’s ideals really were, and it’s even harder to know what David thinks Xander’s ideals were.

David: I’m sure he had a good reason. I believe that he did. Xander is not the kind of person to do anything for frivolous purposes.

He believes Xander had a good reason for trying to kill Teruko, he says he’s sure of it, but he never implies to know exactly what the reason was. And if he doesn’t know the exact reason, he can’t for sure say what ideal Xander was upholding by doing what he did.

But, he knows what Xander was trying to do; kill everyone. Because if it was just Teruko, he wouldn’t have tried to mislead people with the CD thing. Although, Xander was following that one note that said to “kill Teruko Tawaki,” so it could potentially be targeted.

So, taking credit for Arei’s murder to try and kill everyone is because Xander tried to do something similar. But the deeper reason he gave, about the nature of the killing game, is it true?

(Apologies in advance for the particularly horrible collage. I am without a reliable computer atm)

David [Annoyed]: Ugh, fucking fine. You want an answer so badly? Any answer?

[Face covered] …

I…

[Sweating] Ah… We’re… in a television show, after all. That’s… what MonoTV said, right?

“Entertainment” is an ongoing show.

If Min successfully got away with the very first murder and escaped while we all died, isn’t that way less interesting for a TV show?

What’s the point of roping 14 other people into one murder, only to kill them all off immediately?

The killer is supposed to fail and get executed. We’re all supposed to catch the killer, again and again, and participate in trial after trail. You’re *supposed* to try to survive.

All of you, who are trying to slice these class trials to continue living on are playing straight into MonoTV’s hands.

[Confident] As if I’ll accept that.

I don’t care how low I’ll sink, or how despicable I’ll have to become. I’ll do anything to carry on Xander’s ideals by ending this killing game, even if it means that I have to dirty my hands.

Oh, this man is lying out his ass.

This is not an answer you hesitate over if it’s true. The words David is saying are neutral; the show is meant for entertainment, and it’s not entertaining if people die early. There’s no controversy there, no reason to be nervous. Especially since Eden’s already come to the same conclusion.

Veronika: You know, Eden once thought of an interesting plan to end the killing game. Based on everything we know, it could theoretically work.

[…]

To make a television show so boring they have no choice but to shut it down.

All we have to do is nothing.

You’re not supposed to be sweating when you’re effectively repeating something Eden said, even if under a different context.

First, David says he’ll give “any answer”, already making anything he says shady. Then, he seems to deliberate on what to say, which is already suspicious.

The most notable thing is that when he starts talking about the TV show, and what it means for it to be entertaining, he still hesitates. If his plan really was to make the TV show boring, once he decides to spill the beans, there’s nothing to hesitate about.

He only regains his confidence at the end, ironically when he’s saying the actually insane stuff. He finally finds the character he was trying to play and actually says something true; he wants to uphold Xander’s ideals and end the killing game. But I really don’t think it’s because he wants to make it boring.

In other words, he’s not lying about wanting to follow Xander and end the killing game, but his explanation about the entertainment has nothing to do with that. It’s way too simple of an explanation for the amount he hesitates. At least, that’s what I think, I may be wrong.

That brings us to the question; if he didn’t take the blame to make the game boring, why did he do it?

Well, currently and without too much confidence, I believe it has to do with Xander’s secondary goal; killing Teruko Tawaki.

One of the most well-accepted theories in the community is that David’s secret, “everything in your life is worth killing over [and] the killing game is all your fault,” isn’t Xander’s, but Teruko’s.

(In fact, side theory: I’m betting (on little evidence) that by the end of the trial, it will be David with his fanboy knowledge to point out that the “survivor’s guilt” secret that Min “received” was actually Xander’s, and reveal by process of elimination (since it’s likely going to be revealed in the trial that Hu has Veronika’s secret and Veronika has Hu’s, assuming those theories are true) that Min has the poison secret. It’s a bit of a wild prediction, but I think it’s a reasonable possibility to how the series would go about confirming the secrets of the dead)

That, combined with the fact that Xander followed a note that told him to kill Teruko, would certainly be enough for David to decide that Teruko’s gotta die. And killing everyone in the class trial is probably the best way to ensure that happens, since David probably doesn’t hunk attacking her directly is a good idea. If Xander, physically the strongest student in the cast, couldn’t get past Teruko’s luck, what the hell is David supposed to do? Especially now that she carries a knife, though I’m not sure David knows that.

It’s not even that out of nowhere; in the LGI video, Teruko’s numeral XIII appears next to a quote regarding the child of Omelas among other things. Very long story (skip to 1:22:22 in this video for the full explanation), but the child of Omelas is someone who must suffer so everyone else can live in a perfect world. It’s possible David thinks of Teruko, for one reason or another, as the Omelas child; she’s gotta die so everyone can be happy. She is someone “deeply unloved” after all.

Now, is this a stretch? Certainly. But I don’t think David’s telling the truth about his motivations, and I think this is one of the more likely options as to what exactly he was cooking here. I’m sure there’s better explanations out there, I just haven’t seen them :v

David VS Whit

I kinda skipped over the “Red Herring pun to David Freakout” line at first, but I think it’s pretty interesting that David gets so mad at Whit’s behavior. They are Recap Foils, so it makes sense they’d have strong emotions towards each other.

In particular, I’d like to point out how David gets mad at Whit for something similar to what he does as a motivational speaker.

I mentioned it in the previously mentioned section of my LGI analysis, but I believe part of the reason David hates Teruko is that he sees himself in her (pessimistic, thinks the world won’t change, etc), and this would be the other side of that. David constantly says things he doesn’t believe to make people happy, and he considers that to be pretty stupid, so it makes sense for him to get frustrated when seeing Whit doing something similar, trying to raise spirits by telling jokes. Looking at Whit is sorta like looking in a mirror, and David hates that. The mirror in LGI is labeled “reflection is due” for a reason.

I’m not fully sure this works 100%, but I think it’s at least worth considering.

Updates on Eden!Culprit Levi!Accomplice

In case you’re new here, here’s a link to my post detailing the Eden!Culprit Levi!Accomplice theory, which I came up with alongside some other theorists, and is what I currently believe the murder to be. My thoughts on possible character motivation and the such have shifted a bit since then, but the important part is the physical evidence. In particular, the combination of Lockdown Logic to determine Eden most likely took the tape from the gym and the Fish Timeline to determine someone else must have helped her get the fish, combined with the overly complicated murder method which I describe in detail, leads me to believe Eden is the blackened, and Levi helped her kill Arei.

I’m not going to talk about other theories, I’ll let the dedicated theorists perfect them with the new evidence in their own time. But, how does this theory change?

On the surface, uh, not much. We haven’t talked method much, after all.

(Side note, I know some people are bothered by how long that’s taking, and while I kinda get it, I’m not bothered by it. We’re in no rush; I prefer it if all the character conflict is addressed at some point, even if it delays talking about the actual method. Better than it going unaddressed, after all)

The only change is adding that they splashed Arei with water to hide her body temperature, but as discussed, that’s a minor change.

The big wrench thrown into this theory is the end, because… I’ll be honest, dear audience, I have no clue what Levi’s cooking here. Like, at all. Zero read on why he’s revealing his secret. I could try to speculate, but I can’t find any fully satisfactory answer even outside the Levi!Accomplice theory. Nothing makes sense to me, so I’ll just wait for the next episode before trying to read into it.

There is one unrelated thing I want to bring up, though, and it’s related to Levi’s possible motivation. I know this is one of the biggest sticking points in the theory (obviously), so I’d like to talk about it.

As a refresher: although alternate ideas have been offered, my current guess is that it has to do with his desire to be a good person, and the fact he considers Eden a good person. Cue the whole “A Good Person” hidden title behind “All That Glitters.”

Levi: Perhaps I messed up yesterday. But I want to move on. I want to keep trying to become ‘a good person,’ like you, Eden.

The idea goes like this. Levi thinks Eden is good, and so he wants to do good by her. Based on the secret quote in the code of his character page, we can tell he prefers to speak through actions. He’s a bold action man, and that can cause him to come off as heartless.

Levi: I always believed that a person is defined by their actions alone. But maybe that’s just a poor excuse for my heartlessness.

My personal theory (again, other Levi motives are possible) assumes that Levi believes someone will win the killing game eventually (and this is an assumption, I won’t deny it), and if only one persona can escape, he’d rather it be Eden than anyone else. Again, “good person.” Levi will die, sure, but unless he becomes a blackened himself, he’s going to die regardless whenever someone gets away with murder.

Now, this isn’t anything drastically different than what I said in the theory post, so why am I bringing it up?

Well, the thing is… Doing something horrible, throwing away your own life and those of most of your peers, all for the sake of the one you’ve deemed to be “a good person”…

Now where have I heard that before?

David: But doing “good” things requires sacrifice. Sometimes that sacrifice is being seen as a good person.

Even if doing something makes you hated, if that action is for a greater good, then it’s an action you have to take.

Xander is a good person. He’s the only good person I’ve ever known. I swear, I’ll follow in his footsteps and—

Huh. Funny how that works.

My point is that not only is “doing good by the only good person here” now a pre-established line of reasoning these characters can have, Levi doing such a thing for Eden would be a very interesting parallel to what David tried to do for Xander.

This isn’t evidence, to be clear. Just because one guy does it, doesn’t mean a completely unrelated dude is gonna do it too. But I’m calling it now as a potentially interesting parallel to explore, either in canon if I’m right or, like, an AU if I’m wrong :v

That said, I will point out that Hu’s capital G Girlboss Moment is directly after this, the one where she chews David out for deciding what’s best for all of them without consultation. And a little bit afterwards, Levi starts acting weird, apologizing for being useless, revealing his secret, etc. These two things could be connected, if Levi is, like, having second thoughts after that.

I could see a world where Levi’s trying to bring the conversation towards the right answer without fully committing to it, only for something or someone to somehow convince him back to accomplice-hood middway through it. I find that immensely unlikely, to be clear, but again, I genuinely have no idea what Levi’s trying to do right now, so.

All in all, a pretty neutral episode for this theory. Next one could completely break it, though, so I’m excited. I might have to come up with new theories! >:D

God I missed DRDT. And the only drawback of coming back is re-opening LGI trauma :D /silly

Anyways, thanks for reading! See you on the flipside!

#drdt #danganronpa despair time #drdt theory #levi fontana #drdt spoilers #david chiem

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hikarry · 9 months

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Aziraphale and Crowley plan a vacation free of miracles, just for the heck of it. Just to do it the way humans do. Maybe it's fun! Maybe they will have a grand old time! Who knows?

It all starts with packing.

Aziraphale is the very first to regret this idea as soon as he opens his bag on top of the bed, ready to pack. They can only take so many bags because they are going on the Bentley, and no miracles means no calling books through space with a single snap of his fingers. So...one bag is not enough, surely.

"Oh, but it is, angel. Max one bag for clothes and one bag for books, nothing more."

"But Crowley, that's absurd! We'll be in Scotland for 2 weeks! Am I supposed to take, what? 5 books? And how am I supposed to choose?"

"This 'no miracles' trip was your idea. Now deal with it."

Aziraphale deals with it, but not without a lot of complaining and making a list of pros and cons of taking every single one of his favorite books. He ends up with a bag full of them and a couple more in the clothes bag.

This is to say that Crowley doesn't have an easier time. No miracles means no miracling his own clothes, so he's got to actually pack something. And he likes most of his clothes. And you never know what type of events will be around. A restaurant? A play? He needs outfits. Good outfits. And a toothbrush. And shampoo and conditioner, cause he refuses to use the ones from the hotel. And hair gel! Cause no miracles also means no miracling his hair into being in shape...doing his hair every morning will be an absolute pain in the arse, but he can endure it. Yet, when he goes to close his bag...it's too full. Taking two bags of clothes would be ridiculous, so he lays his hand on the bag and pushes down, trying to run the zipper. Nothing happens. He sighs and sits on the bag, pulling the zipper once again, and it runs for a couple of millimeters.

"Angel, give me a hand, will you?"

"With what, dear?"

"I'll sit on the bag and also push it down with my hands and you will try to close the zipper." He opens his legs so Aziraphale can access the bag's zipper and he jumps once on his bag, pushing down with his hands.

Aziraphale almost breaks the bloody zipper, but it does indeed close.

With the bags in the Bentley and both seated on their usual positions, Crowley lays his hands on the steering wheel, but doesnt start the car just yet, instead looking ahead.

"Everything alright?"

"...does 'no miracles' mean I can't keep the tank of the Bentley full?"

"I suppose."

"Aziraphale, I haven't gone to a gas station since I got the bloody James Bond stickers!"

"And when was that?"

"Many, many decades ago."

"Oh well, I'm sure getting fuel in a car isn't that difficult. It mustn't have changed since back then."

"Are you sure we can't make an exception?"

"Quite."

"...is this because of the books?"

"Mmh."

Crowley groans and goes to start the car, but he stops short of the ignition.

"Are you...keeping the Bentley whole with miracles? Is that the new problem, my dear?"

"No." He looks up at the angel. "I have to buy a phone charger."

"Whatever for?"

"Because I keep my phone charged with miracles, angel! And I have absolutely zero idea where the original charger is! I never used it! With a bit of luck its still somewhere in Mayfair."

"Oh well, we will stop at a phone shop then. Easy fix."

The demon takes a deep breath, and off they go, on their road trip to Scotland at very not legal speeds - not for lack of complaining on the angel's side, mind you.

When they get to Edinburgh, they quickly find their hotel and go up to their room. Both take showers and, hell, it's still mid afternoon, so they go for a stroll around.

At about dinner time, Crowley quickly googles restaurants nearby and finds one named "Angels with Bagpipes". As soon as he sees it, he stops scrolling. It's somewhat modern and certainly different from the Ritz, but, Satan, look at that name! They just couldn't not go.

"You're joking, certainly." Aziraphale looks over his shoulder. "Look at that other one! Rhubarb. It looks so much more-"

"Posh?"

The angel eyes him side ways.

"I was going to say classy. Romantic."

Crowley snorts.

"Oh this is a romantic vacation, is it?"

"No!" He slaps his arm. "I mean-! Yes! Just-" He runs a hand down his face while Crowley keeps laughing. "Oh, hush. I'm just saying that one looks way more up our alley. That one is too modern."

"I'm down with modern. Big fan of modern, me."

"Oh, believe me, my dear, I'm extremely aware, but-"

"And! For a restaurant as posh as that I bet we need reservations. And you know what we don't have?" Crowley wiggles his fingers. "Reservations. Or miracles to get said reservations."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, trying to suppress an exasperated sigh. Crowley was ridiculous. How in all the heavens did he put up with him through all these years will forever be a mystery.

"Alright. Let's go to the other one."

Crowley smiles, victorious, and offers him his arm, which Aziraphale promptly takes.

"An angel and a demon walk into a restaurant named 'Angels with Bagpipes'-"

"Crowley!"

And off they go, down the streets of Edinburgh. They have dinner and Aziraphale only complains until the food is served. Afterwards he appears quite content to stuff his face with appetizers and whatnot all while under the watchful eye of Crowley that keeps sipping his wine silently, one elbow on the table, while under said table his leg pushes against Aziraphale's.

"Do behave yourself, will you?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, angel." He uses his foot to slightly slide up Aziraphale's leg.

"We are in public."

"Your point?"

Aziraphale closes his legs, trapping Crowley's foot in between them.

"That's my point."

Crowley pouts, pulling his leg away.

"Boring, you are."

The meal proceeds with little to no incidents. Just the usual: Aziraphale utterly enjoying his food and Crowley watching him as he is enraptured by the flavors and its, honest to Satan, impossible to look away. Not to mention the satisfied wiggles. And the moans. It can pass 6000 more years, but Crowley will never ever get used to those.

"Angel."

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you have money?" Aziraphale suddenly drops his fork and looks up at Crowley, mouth hanging open. "Thought so."

"Heavens, what are we going to do? We can surely miracle it, right? This is an emergency."

"Nop. You didn't let me miracle the fuel so no miracling the money either."

"You paid for the fuel."

"My last pounds, yes."

The angel's eyes widen quite comically.

"You must be joking."

"No. No joke. Last bills in my wallet." He sloshes the wine inside his glass, leaning closer towards Aziraphale. "And I bet this is all quite the price too. What do we do, Aziraphale? Leave by the back like criminals?"

"There's no back and we are not criminals! We need to miracle the money!"

"That's against the rules." He points at the angel, raising an eyebrow over his sunglasses. "Your rules, might I add."

"No-! Crowley!" He also leans closer to the demon and whispers. "We need to do it. We are not criminals."

"I'm a demon. I guess I can be considered a criminal at some extent."

"You're being ridiculous."

"I'm playing by the rules."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you still love me."

Aziraphale sighs and closes his eyes, trying to think about a solution, when he hears footsteps approaching.

"Have you finished your dessert, sirs?" The waiter asks, stopping right in front of the table.

"We have." Crowley is quick to answer, and Aziraphale kicks him under the table. He was not done yet, and he needed more time to think about a solution!

"Are you ready to pay?"

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, very serious, and Aziraphale can feel the sweat accumulating on his hands. Oh lord, they had no money. And they just ate a 3 course meal. I mean, Aziraphale ate. Crowley mostly dabbled on the soup and spent the rest of the meal drinking. Drinking quite old and expensive red wine, at that.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, then at the waiter - who is smiling very politely at them - and then back at the demon. Crowley raises his eyebrow again while Aziraphale starts to shake. He was about to pop when Crowley snorts and reaches for his wallet, pulling a black card and handing it to the waiter, who accepts it and walks away. Aziraphale gasps.

"You had money!"

"Technically no. I had a card."

"A card with money!"

"I never said I didn't have a card. I said I didn't have bills. Physical money. I did use my last bills at the station."

Aziraphale kicks him under the table again, and Crowley can't hold it anymore and starts laughing as controlled as he can.

"Oh, I hate you, you fiend!"

"You've been telling yourself that for 6000 years and you're yet to believe it." The waiter returns with the card and leaves just as fast. "Shall we go back?"

"Yes. But I won't forgive you for this."

"Ah, yes. You. The one that throws 'I forgive yous' through the wind."

"Crowley!"

"Joking. I'm joking." He gets up and Aziraphale follows him. When they get through the door, Crowley offers him his arm once again and leans in closer. A whisper just Aziraphale could hear. "I have my methods to make you forgive me. Just let us get to the hotel, angel."

Alas, the day was not ready to give them a break. On their way to the hotel, it suddenly started raining heavily, soaking both of them to the bone.

"I don't believe this!"

"A little miracle would come in handy right about now, eh?" Aziraphale sighs and snaps his fingers, summoning a tartan umbrella to his hand, which he promptly opens, covering both of them. "Angel!"

"Hush. We can start over tomorrow. Now, let's go." He grabs Crowley by the arm and starts pulling him.

"What's the rush? It's not like we can get sick."

"Someone promised me something when we got to our hotel room." The angel looks over his shoulder to the demon for a second, still walking up the street.

Crowley smiles.

"And you just have to run to find out whatever it is."

"Color me curious."

They did get to the hotel quite fast, and the first thing they did was peel away from their drenched clothes and jump in the shower. Whatever happened in there is between the angel, the demon, and the white tiles on the wall.

#once again supposed to be a small lil thing but got out of my hand #crowley just had to tease Aziraphale he wasnt having it any other way #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #anthony j crowley #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction

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catboydogma · 2 months

Text

'til our hell is a good life

codywan week 2024 sol master list (solsterlist)

codywan week 2024 day 1 prompts, sol edition: no/different order 66, lightsaber/lightsaber training

notes: title from our hell by emily haines & the soft skeleton. i've been having a comically disastrous week/month (it's only the 4th? jesus christ) but god willing i will post for all 7 prompts (+ bonus anniversary prompt?). im not gonna lie i had to pop out the soju to finish this beast and i think that did set the tone for the rest of the week's writing. BETTER LATE THAN NEVER AMIRITE FELLAS

wc: 3,099

cross-posted to ao3

Obi-Wan supposed it might have all started because someone gave Cody a lightsaber. No, it had not been Obi-Wan, and even if it might have been, he knew to always cover his own ass. Qui-Gon had been an excellent teacher, for the most part, and there was one thing he had drilled into Obi-Wan above (almost) all else: never drop plausible deniability.

No, he’d no idea where the lightsaber had come from. No, Cody could keep it now. He wasn’t going to take the damn thing away from Cody when the good Commander had, evidently, come across it fair and square. Obi-Wan knew his Commander; it wasn’t like there was some fresh-faced thirteen year old Padawan wandering around somewhere sans ‘saber. If he had to take a stab at the quandary, he supposed it probably would have happened the time Cody’d dogpiled Grievous with the rest of his Command Corps. No, not that time. The time after that one, perhaps.

Regardless, there came a time when Cody’s tac belt had two lightsaber clips, not just one for when Obi-Wan strategically left his lightsaber in a secure place for safekeeping. The two of them never discussed the fact that Cody was likely Force sensitive. It didn’t seem something Cody was at all interested in; given the givens, Obi-Wan was predisposed to let him take the lead on the topic. Or not, as it happened.

But Obi-Wan couldn’t let that stop him in the face of something so egregious as this, even if Cody seemed determined to duck out of the conversation at every turn.

“I am not a Jedi, sir,” Cody told him for the fifth time that day. “I fail to see what tactical advantage there would be in meditating with a weapon.”

“It isn’t entirely a tactical advantage, per se,” Obi-Wan demurred. “But it can be. It’s difficult to articulate.” Especially when most resources for teaching lightsaber forms and meditations were meant for Initiates first starting out, or struggling Padawans; not outsiders to the Order, and certainly not ones that hadn’t grown up in the Temple. If they’d had the time—if not for this bloody war—Obi-Wan might have taken Cody to Jedha for insight. “Would you learn to fight with a particular blaster even when you haven’t familiarized yourself with its base components, or haven’t learnt how to disassemble and repair it?”

Cody frowned. It was a minute thing, barely a twitch of the corner of his mouth and a slight tilt of his head.

Aha. Obi-Wan pressed his advantage, absently touching Cody’s elbow to direct him around a group of techs as they walked through the halls of the Negotiator. “It’s the same for a lightsaber. The kyber—or heart of the lightsaber—is not just a power source; a strong connection between oneself and one’s kyber is paramount to maintaining a good working relationship with the lightsaber itself. And a good working relationship leads to better results in a fight; not just anyone can pick up any old lightsaber and start swinging it around and expect good results, you know. That’s why the black market money is mainly to be made in the raw kyber itself, not in the weapons.” Obi-Wan made eyebrows at Cody over this, who simply glared at him. Ah, well. A man had to find his fun somehow.

“You have me there, sir,” Cody sighed. He was graceful in his concession, at least. Unlike some others Obi-Wan could name upon learning that, yes, meditation with a new lightsaber was practically required…

“We can clear up an evening for it,” Obi-Wan said, magnanimous even in victory. As ever. “And perhaps I can show you what I mean, rather than trying to talk in circles around it.”

“But you do so love talking in circles around things, sir,” Cody said, dry as anything. Obi-Wan mimed shocked outrage at him, and they passed the next few hours in good humor.

“This can be done anywhere, really, but for your first time I thought to make it somewhat more formal,” Obi-Wan told Cody. He’d somewhere unearthed a spare meditation mat to set in between the cramped space between his ‘fresher and desk. Incense in a lump-shaped holder wafted smoke into the air; one of his last good joss sticks. But this was a special occasion. “Many Jedi like to do it in the salles, and many Consulars perfect it in the field.” There had been the especially memorable time during Obi-Wan’s own Padawanship in that nest of gilloms…

Cody inspected his new outfitting and seemed satisfied, though it was hard to tell. He sat on the mat with no complaints and suffered through Obi-Wan running a hand across his shoulders, then nudging Cody’s legs with his own into something more closely approximating a meditative pose.

“The floating is optional, then,” Cody remarked.

“Well, yes. It’s up to personal preference,” Obi-Wan told him, resolutely not letting his flush creep above the collar of his tunics. It was Obi-Wan’s personal preference, really, and usually something more commonly found in the creche than not. “You can hold your lightsaber, or set it in front of you, or in your lap. Many Jedi like to hold themselves in the Force with the lightsaber, hence why this is often accompanied by one’s lightsaber floating in front of oneself. For today, do whatever feels right to you.”

Cody nodded, then opted to hold his lightsaber loosely in his lap. After a moment of consideration, he mirrored Obi-Wan’s own pose: one hand folded atop the other in his lap, thumbs pressed to each other, lightsaber cradled in his palms and just under the arch of his thumbs.

Obi-Wan guided Cody through the preliminary steps of a light meditation, discarding many of the more Force-oriented aspects and focusing on the connecting to one’s lightsaber, on opening oneself up and letting the kyber reach out in turn. When he felt Cody slip deeper, into a state simultaneously more introspective and more concentrated on his lightsaber, Obi-Wan turned his own attention to his kyber.

The heart of a lightsaber could be a curious thing. This wasn’t all completely altruistic; Obi-Wan had left out the bit about also needing to meditate with his ‘saber, because then Cody might have given him one of those looks. But it was good to refamiliarize himself with his kyber, in a ritual both utterly familiar and yet somehow foreign. He just hadn’t done it in so long, or at least not as thoroughly as he might have liked. They had changed, the both of them. The war, Anakin’s Knighting, Obi-Wan’s own views of the galaxy at large and perspective of self… such was the nature of having a malleable brain and being subject to the rigors of time.

Some interminable time later, the soft beeping of a timer brought Obi-Wan up out of the depths of his meditation. He cracked his eyes open and took a moment to settle himself back down onto his mat, still feeling like a great river was still carving its way through his skull in vast, sweeping currents.

“Don’t give me that face,” was the first thing Cody said when he finally deigned to open his eyes.

Obi-Wan, caught mid-insufferable-smirk, quickly arranged his face into something with less smug. “I shall endeavor to do nothing of the sort. So?”

“I see what you mean,” Cody grudgingly allowed. He looked like he was still chewing something over, so Obi-Wan let him stew in silence while he packed up the remains of the incense and their mats. They shared a quiet dinner over formwork together, as well as a quick update sent to Mace when they dropped out of hyperspace to shift to another lane.

They continued to meditate together. Over time, not always with their lightsabers; Obi-Wan didn’t say anything about it, because a Commander Cody was—at times, very rarely—a creature easily spooked, and Obi-Wan had to be careful in his approach to certain things. But it was—good. To have someone else to share time and space together like this. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until it became a regularity in their schedules; oh, he meditated plenty with Ahsoka, when the 501st and 212th was berthed together or they were sharing missions, and sporadically with Anakin in these same instances, but it… was somewhat another thing, to come to look forward to meditation with another.

Now it wasn’t just Obi-Wan—by himself, in his silent quarters—but it was Cody-and-Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan was also realizing how much he had missed teaching. It wasn’t the same flavor of interaction as between a Master and Padawan, but Obi-Wan enjoyed that Cody was an excellent listener and genuinely enjoyed hearing Obi-Wan ramble on about whatever topic of the day it was. Or topic of the hour, as it sometimes happened. Not only that, but he was the most delightfully clever conversationalist—something that Obi-Wan had always known, at heart, yes, but was coming to explore more and more, as of late.

And then there was the other side of Cody’s learning how to wield a lightsaber.

“You’ve been holding out on me, darling.” Obi-Wan reset and swiped his hair out of his eyes with his shoulder, sweaty fringe just flopping right back over his brow. Of course. He needed a trim was what he needed, but first… he had this to sort.

“I bet you say that to all the men who try that shoulder lock on you.” Cody snorted and readjusted his grip with a quick twirl of his lightsaber. Obi-Wan felt something molten and shivery slide through him, because he had taught Cody that. He manfully ignored the quiet whisper in the back of his head that Cody’s fighting style, after this, would have the hallmark of Obi-Wan’s hands all over him.

The good Commander took Obi-Wan’s split second of distraction as his cue. Bastard. He’d probably been doing it on purpose. Obi-Wan very carefully ignored the frisson of feeling that thought gave him, focused on defense, and then, when Cody had settled into a rhythm, pressing the attack.

“Only you, my Commander,” Obi-Wan said warmly. He ducked under Cody’s guard when his step faltered at that little exchange and the quick twist of the wrist Obi-Wan gave his ‘saber, but didn’t quite press his advantage. This match wasn’t about beating Cody into the ground, though Obi-Wan had no doubt that his Commander would give him a run for his money even if that were the case; no, this was about teaching Cody, and drilling the muscle memory into him.

Cody had taken to lightsaber fighting like a quacta to slime. They’d rotated through each form, but Cody had returned to the first they had drilled for a strong foundation, and Obi-Wan had to say that it quite suited him. This variant of Shii-Cho focused more on lethality than disarming, something which might have given pause to the Jedi Obi-Wan of five years ago had been—but Obi-Wan of now couldn’t argue with results, if those results were what kept Ghost Company alive and well and the Sith from overtaking them. His Commander fought with a combination of focus and brutality, utterly utilitarian but almost elegant in its most efficient economy of motion. Obi-Wan found himself almost comparing Cody’s style to that of a Nabooan ballet dancer’s, famed for their relentless discipline and endurance.

The bout ended when Cody broke through Obi-Wan’s guard with a clever bit of bladework and bashed the crown of his head into Obi-Wan’s face, narrowly missing breaking his teeth in.

Obi-Wan laughed through the blinding pain—literally, his vision was still sprinkled with bright lights and strange afterimages—and said, lying on the floor, “I was right.”

Cody narrowed his eyes at Obi-Wan, lightsaber—now off—imperiously leveled at Obi-Wan’s chest.

“You have gotten better, now that you’ve been meditating with it.”

So, yes. It might have started when Cody found that lightsaber—and held onto it—and learnt to wield it properly. Obi-Wan had a suspicion—well, he had a number of suspicions. This primary suspicion, however, was how it ended.

It was supposed to be a routine inspection; rote, trivial, something necessary but not a thing anyone truly looked forward to. But a gaggle—or perhaps drove—of senators had decided to invite themselves along, some kind of publicity stunt, Obi-Wan didn’t know. Usually Adi handled these sorts of things, or else one of the other PR- or legal-inclined Masters. Thus, of course, Chancellor Palpatine had to say some words at the landing pad—some inane drivel about whatever the hell sentiment Palpatine was using to drive through his bill of the week. Obi-Wan tried not to grimace too obviously at the thinly-veiled warmongering the Chancellor was using to drum up support and inclined his head toward his Commander, about to comment on the daring sartorial choices of one bold politician, when Cody tilted his head towards Obi-Wan and nearly knocked him on the temple.

“I didn’t know the Chancellor used to be a Jedi,” Cody said.

Obi-Wan’s comment died halfway up his throat. He blinked at Palpatine, then at Cody. “Pardon?”

Cody shifted infinitesimally backwards on his heels, allowing Obi-Wan a better view of where Palpatine stood on the other side of Cody, with Anakin flanking the Chancellor’s left.

“He’s got a lightsaber in one of those concealed carry holsters at his back,” Cody told him, eyes still forward, settled in a textbook-perfect parade rest. “I was.” His eyes shifted to Obi-Wan and then back forward in a rare—and unsettling—display of trepidation. “Doing a bit of meditation. As it were. Haven’t had the chance to get the ‘saber out in too long with all these… press tours. So I felt it. First.”

Obi-Wan gaped, forgetting all about the attendant senators and cam droids and the battalion of clone troopers at his back. There were… well, very few reasons he could think of to explain why Senator Palpatine, of all people, had a lightsaber. In a concealed carry holster meant to hide it away even from the eyes of Jedi, of all things. Because—“He most certainly is not, and never has been, a member of the Order,” Obi-Wan said. In fact, he had never been a part of any Force sensitive sect. In fact, Obi-Wan had it on good authority and as a matter of public record that the Chancellor was as Force sensitive as a brick.

Allegedly.

Well. This would either be very, very funny, or disastrous for all of them. Obi-Wan held out a hand and yanked, not letting himself think of any other outcome. A cylinder of cool metal slapped into his hand, stinging his palm and sending an unpleasant shock down his arm. If not for his long history of battling Sith, Obi-Wan might have dropped it on the spot for how it reeked of the Dark, now out from Palpatine’s immediate sphere of control.

Mas Amedda’s blathering stuttered to a halt. Obi-Wan stared at the hilt in his hand, then at Cody’s expression slack with surprise. He thought he knew what the color of the blade would be even before his thumb hit the switch; it was almost like a dream, or a barely-remembered dreg of an old nightmare.

A venomous scarlet light sprang forth.

“Well,” Obi-Wan said after a moment. “I suppose now you can say that Sith lords are our specialty.”

Palpatine shrieked something hysterical and reached out, fingers curling into hooked claws and expression contorting from that of a kindly grandfather into a spitting tyrant. Obi-Wan braced himself for something—he didn’t even know what—and—

Brilliant green light split the morning. Cody caught Palpatine’s chain of Dark lightning on his blade and bared his teeth in a fierce challenge. The stark shock on Palpatine’s face was almost enough to make Obi-Wan laugh. Instead—he leapt forward with his own lightsaber raised in a cross with Palpatine’s—cutting off whatever poison Palpatine had been about to spit at his Commander.

In the end, it came down to the timely and swift intervention of the Coruscant Guard. Anakin had been too busy torn between shouting at Obi-Wan that there must be some mistake, and being goaded by Palpatine into drawing on Cody. Palpatine kept trying to say something to Cody, or else to the nearest officer—Gregor, taking potshots at the Chancellor or else keeping the other senators away from harm—but every time, Obi-Wan or Cody drove him back to the edge of the landing pad and parried another round of lightning or dodged Force shoves.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Fox said to Cody, after, as the scene was taped off and various senators’ statements were taken. He’d shot Palpatine just under the heart, giving Cody the chance to take Palpatine’s head off. Obi-Wan would have been shiningly proud, except he was currently trying to keep his ribs from puncturing his lungs and steering Anakin away from going into histrionics.

“Er, Cody,” Obi-Wan said, tugging on the sleeve of Cody’s blood- and char-spattered greys. There was something very pressing he had to do, right before Mace got here, and his ribs were as supported as they were going to get until a medic got to see to him.

Cody turned, resplendent in his sweaty flush and still breathing hard. Fighting with him in a duel like that had been exhilarating; just as on the battlefield, they worked together like a well-oiled machine, and if not for the circumstances of it all, Obi-Wan would have been enjoying himself immensely.

“I’m tendering my resignation as an officer, effective immediately,” Obi-Wan told him, watching the way the Coruscant sun limned Cody’s tight curls from behind and gilded the edge of his cheek. With that out of the way, he fisted a hand in the front of Cody’s stiff uniform and pulled him down to kiss him soundly on the mouth. Quite a few troopers whooped at the sight; that was likely Gregor who was wolf whistling in a truly obnoxious manner.

“You had to do this in the most dramatic way possible,” Cody said, but he sounded fond, despite it all. He pulled back, cast a critical look at the way Obi-Wan was holding his ribs, then ducked back down for another—more chaste—kiss. “As long as you’ll take me with you when you go, my General.”

From just beside Obi-Wan, Anakin let out a sound previously only heard from gravely ill massiffs and tipped right over his breaking point.

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daddy-deathslinger · 7 months

Note

I have returned

If it's cool, could I get something for the knight, maybe a little Slow burn-y? I'm not sure what the term for it would be but something where he keeps trying to deny his growing affection for his future s/o, but it's getting increasingly harder for him. And his faithful 3 notice and start to make comments about how hes being sweet on them (at least sweet for him) and..he does eventually admit to himself he does have feelings for them. SNENWKKW SOMETHING CUTE

Haha

I'm so normal about him

👹

Hey there, loyal Knight admirer! Here's yer written thingy, hope ya like! ❤️👹

“I’m your man” - The Knight/Tarhos Kovács x GN!Reader

“This is the fifth time you’ve given them hatch, Tarhos!”

“Yeah, just admit that you’re-”

“Silence!” Tarhos bellowed, and his faithful three were quiet at last.

Finally, sweet silence. Tarhos grunted and turned around to walk away to his thinking corner of the Borgo. Unbeknownst to him, his faithful three snickered a bit behind his back. Tarhos was not a merciful man, far from it, but even he knew when to appreciate a good opponent. And you certainly were a worthy opponent. During trials, he always noticed how you showed true companionship to your allies by saving them, taking hits for them and even dying for them. You fought back bravely against all killers, not making the trial easy for anyone who tried to hurt you or your allies. Tarhos appreciated that. Appreciated it, that’s all! He had no idea where his faithful three had gotten the stupid idea from, the idea that he somehow favoured you. He didn’t, how could he favour a survivor? His loyalty was with the killers.

The next trial commenced, and Tarhos was as ready as ever. The Entity had granted him good fortune in this trial, he had many abilities that would come in handy. He felt good about this. And yet, the survivors seemed to be on their best game as well. They worked together, and that was always a nail in the coffin for killers. And then there was you. You seemed to shine even brighter than usual, never shivering in front of Tarhos or showing the slightest amount of fear in the face of death. He hooked you once, and you barely screamed as the meat hook pierced through your flesh. Tarhos almost forgot to leave the hook you hung on, he wanted to see what you were going to do next. But he left, obviously, to go hunt for other survivors. He noticed that during the whole trial, his attention seemed to be somewhere else. It was annoying, even infuriating, to notice he fell for silly tricks by the survivors and lost many chases due to his wandering mind. He just couldn’t stop thinking about you. Gods, this torment! The trial was at its end, the exit gates were opened and the other survivors had escaped already. You remained, though, and Tarhos could not for the love of the Gods find you. He searched, sent out his faithful three but they all came back empty handed.

“A skillful one”, Alejandro said, but quickly got quiet as Tarhos stared at him.

Where were you? Tarhos ventured alone into the mist, searching. Suddenly, a sound. Someone greeted him? He looked around, and there you were. Standing next to a finished generator, eyes on him. Why had you made your appearance known to him? He was going to sacrifice you now. Or was he? Tarhos stood in front of you, staring you down. Then, he saw you place your medkit on the ground in front of you. An offering. For mercy? No, you let out your arms to your side, baring your unguarded body to him. You wanted to be sacrificed. Tarhos was confused, but also very impressed. You had evaded him, and here you were, offering yourself up to the Entity. Tarhos knew better than to take the offering, he knew how hard you had fought the whole trial. No one deserved the escape more than you. So, without a thought, he dropped his sword to the ground, taking a step back from you.

“Go”, he said.

You looked him dead in the eye. Tarhos was wondering what was going on behind those eyes as you seemed to think hard. The silence was deafening, only the ticking of the Entity playing in Tarhos head. Time was running out. Then, you slowly turned around and walked towards the exit gate. Tarhos was proud, you took your victory like a true champion. As he watched you walk out those gates, a strange feeling took a hold of his insides. A pressing feeling, right where his heart was. He tried shaking it off, but seeing you disappear into the mist, he knew he was lost. Not lost to the cruel torment in this place, not even lost to the Entity. He was lost to you. Your eyes, your courage, your confident walk. Tarhos let out a heaving sigh as his faithful three approached him.

“Well…?” Durkos said.

Tarhos gave them a look of annoyance, but eventually nodded. He was in love, and there was nothing that could be done about it. He was yours, and he prayed to the Gods that you were his.

#dead by daylight #dbd #dbd x reader #tarhos kovacs x reader #tarhos kovács #dbd the knight #the knight x reader #dbd fanfic

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digital-domain · 10 months

Text

Demon’s Lair

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Chapter: 1/?

Synopsis: You don’t know how you got here, and you don’t know who he is. A demon, perhaps. One who makes no secret of how much he would enjoy killing you. If you keep him entertained, he’ll hold off… we’ll see how long that lasts.

Content Tags: noncon/dubcon (fuck-or-die), kidnapping, death threats, True Form Sukuna (with two cocks because I Like It), one part with a kinda predator/prey dynamic, face slapping, face fucking, blood, tears, forced masturbation, fingering, bondage

Note: I am aware that I am not the first person to have had this general idea. I am also aware that I always want more of it, and I would imagine that I am not alone. So if you are depraved like me - enjoy!

Your eyes flutter open. The last you remembered, you were on a deserted trail, perhaps half a mile from your home. It was far too late, you were alone, it was so dark that you could barely see the path you were walking - but you’d been okay. At least, you were going be okay. You had food in your hands, a straight path ahead of you, the promise of sleep awaiting you.

But your hands are empty now, and the trail is gone. In its place is a cavern. Dark rock walls looming over you, stones scattered across the hard ground, water dripping somewhere in the distance, and a strange red glow permeating the entire massive space. Your clothing - simple trousers and a tunic - is torn in several places, your carefully braided hair hanging loose about your face.

A hazy voice from your childhood rises to the top of your mind. “ Don’t play outside too late, or a demon will come take you away!” The phrase had been enough to send you running inside when you were a child, but it’s been years since you stopped taking it seriously. Not that you didn’t believe in demons - you just figured it wasn’t so easy to catch one’s attention. But…something unnatural has certainly happened here. There’s a darkness haunting this space, sending a shiver down your spine.

As your vision clears, you see the full picture. It’s not just stones littering the floor. Stones aren’t bleached white. Stones don’t make you shudder when you gaze upon them. And they’re not shaped like that.

The ringing in your ears begins to fade. It’s not just dripping water, either. There’s a whole river flowing, somewhere, and the cave walls themselves seem to be echoing the heartbeat pounding through your veins. Under that - an echoing set of footsteps. And they’re coming closer.

You need to move - but you don’t. You can’t. You stay on the ground, half-sitting, hot blood rushing to your face, until the footsteps come to a stop behind you.

When you finally gain the will to move, it’s too late. A sharp-nailed hand closes over the back of your neck and yanks you to your feet. You can’t see its owner, and when you attempt to turn your head, it - he? - presses its fingers to your cheek, holding you in place. When you try to speak - all that comes out is a confused whimper.

He laughs. “You’re unlucky.” His voice seems to bubble up from all around you, unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet space. “I got bored. And you got caught. It could have been anyone…” You feel another set of fingernails - too many of them - trickle over your thigh, sliding over a tear in the fabric that once covered you, digging sharply into the bare skin beneath. “But I can’t say I’m disappointed by what I dragged in.” He sighs. “Although I do wish you would say something. It’s no fun when you’re silent.” His grip tightens, nails pressing threateningly into your neck. “Speak.”

You say the only thing that comes to your mind. “Where… where am I?” Instinctively, you jerk forward, as if you’re trying to run away, but he easily yanks you backwards, pulling you into him, his body a hard wall against your back.

“Somewhere that no one leaves - without my permission, that is. And I seldom give it.”

“Who are you?” Your quick burst of motion has spurred you into action - you writhe and twist beneath his hand, pry at his fingers. He snakes his other arm around your waist, pinning you against him.

“That’s more like it.” He sounds amused. Terrifyingly casual. “It’s no fun if you don’t fight, either.”

He’s strong - as hard as you try, you can’t shift his grip an inch, and your attempts only make him laugh. You can feel panic welling up inside you, and you double your efforts, but it seems to make no difference. “Let me go.”

He clicks his tongue, leans over your shoulder. “I don’t think so. You’re far too entertaining.”

“Let me go.”

“Shh. I don’t like having to repeat myself.” He uncurls his arm from around your waist, and somehow - too fast for you to comprehend - grabs both your wrists in one hand, holding them high over your head. “You’re so weak. You’ve never had to fight for your life, have you?”

You try to wrench your arms away, tugging with all the strength you have, but it’s no use. His hold on you is unnaturally tight, his grip vise like on your wrists.

“No need to answer. I can feel the blood rushing under your skin. This is new to you…not as if it would make a difference either way.” Once again, you feel the impossible phantom sensation of more fingers brushing over your thigh. It doesn’t make sense - you hear another whimper escape your lips, and he releases your neck to muffle the sound, slapping his palm over your mouth. You try to scream, and throw your entire body forward, feet scrabbling against the rocky ground, but you go nowhere.

“I like that you’re trying. As pathetic as your attempts may be.”

You shake your head violently, and in response, he digs his nails into your cheek.

“It’s entertaining, if nothing else. And I’m not unreasonable.” All at once, he releases you and shoves you forward. You fall hard to the ground, face nearly shattering on the rocky surface. But you catch yourself - barely - absorbing the impact with your hands and knees, your entire body shaking from the shock. “I’ll give you a chance to escape.” He kneels down at your side, and strokes a gentle hand through your hair. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

You look up, catching a glimpse of his face before he presses yours into the ground. It’s a shocking sight, so much so that you assume it’s a trick of the light. The intricate set of dark markings scattered across his skin could be easily explained. Same with the strange placard covering part of the right side of his face - it must be a mask of some sort, though you can’t see how it’s fastened. But his eyes are another matter. You swear you saw a second pair staring back at you, tucked beneath the first. And his real eyes…even those were terrifying. They were too bright, too intense, narrowed by the ferocious smile painted across his face.

The air is squeezed from your lungs as he shoves you onto your stomach, scraping your cheek against the ground. He presses down hard, barely giving you the space to breathe, let alone move.

“When I release you, you’ll have ten seconds to move freely,” he declares. “I’ll even close my eyes.”

Ten seconds isn’t much time - you need a plan. But you’re dazed, disoriented, confused…even before he moves, you know you don’t have a chance.

“Not yet…” He taps his fingers sharply against your waist. “Not yet…” He grabs the back of your dress and rises to his feet, hauling you up with him. “ Now.”

You manage not to fall as he lets go, and stumble forward in the direction you’re facing.

“ Nine, eight…”

You’re sprinting as fast as you can, but the ground is uneven, and littered with things you don’t care to look at.

“Seven, six…”

Your eyes dart wildly around the massive space. There’s no way out. Not one that you can see, anyways. And there’s no time to think. You just need to keep moving. Keep running, and hide when you run out of time.

“Five, four, three…”

Keep running. A dark, narrow stream of water appears in front of you, and you leap over it. The far bank is slick, and when you land, you stumble. There’s a crunch beneath your feet.

“Two.”

You don’t stop to look. There’s nothing big around you - there’s nowhere to hide.

“ One.”

Just keep moving. You’ve made space. Eventually, there will be an escape. There has to be. This can’t go on forever.

“Time’s up.”

His voice…it’s close. Far too close to account for the seconds you spent running away. He’s somewhere to your left. You turn - and from your right, a hand lashes out, ensnaring you and sending you tumbling to the ground once more. This time, it’s his foot that pins you in place, pressing down on your spine as you wriggle helplessly beneath.

“That was disappointing,” he sighs. “You’re making this far too easy for me.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“It’s incredible how fragile your kind is. If I’m not careful, I might actually break you.” He digs his heel into you, cackling as you cry out in pain. “Unfortunately, I don’t like being careful. It’s another one of those things that bores me.” He brings his foot up, and slides it under your stomach, effortlessly kicking you onto your back.

Your eyes have been squeezed tight - when you open them, his face is hovering over you. Both pairs of eyes stare malevolently into your own.

“I see that you’re done fighting. Probably a wise choice.” His voice is calm, and he’s smiling. It sends a shudder through your body. “But if you’ve given that up, you only have one option left.” His grin broadens, and he straightens up, standing tall, looming over you. “Get yourself up on your knees. I don’t like you lying down in my presence.”

Without a thought, you comply, rolling over and pushing yourself onto your knees, your head bowed. Your mind is numb, but you still know that obeying is your only choice.

“Good.” He pauses, takes a step back. “Now, I’ll be clear about my intentions.” He sweeps his foot across the ground, kicking a stray rock aside. It bounces through the cavern, every impact echoing across the walls. “Right now, nothing would bring me more pleasure than killing you.”

Your entire body stiffens. Your vision is hazy, scattered with black patches. And you can’t run. You already tried to run - and it only got you here.

“I’ve been thinking about all the ways I could do it,” he continues. “If I were feeling charitable, I would strangle you. But I’m not. I want to see blood. There are a lot of ways I could satisfy that desire - and some take longer than others.”

You’re fighting your body, trying not to keel over, tears suddenly obscuring your vision. When your captor notices, his laughter ricochets through the cave, vibrating across every inch of your skin. You have to look up. You have to see his face. Maybe you’ll see some reason for hope if you do. You raise your head - but you find yourself unable to look into his eyes. Instead, you find your gaze trailing up the length of his form, taking in small details, finding a strange calm in fixating upon them. He’s wearing a simple pair of sandals. A robe flows over them. The fabric is white with black designs, There’s a tie at the waist. Wide, flowing sleeves.

And that’s as far as you get. Once your gaze reaches the end of those sleeves, your small moment of tranquility is shattered, because out from under them protrude not one, but two sets of arms.

He talks like a man, but he isn’t. Everything you’ve witnessed - the eyes, the arms - it’s all impossible. But it’s real. You have to trust yourself. You know what you’ve seen. “What are you?”

He - it? - revels in your realization, a grin spreading over his face. “That’s a better question than your last two. But I’m not interested in answering it.” There’s a pause - he calmly tilts his head, thinking something through. “You’re so much fun… I don’t think I want to kill you quickly. I’ll enjoy it much more if I draw it out.” He sighs blissfully - almost theatrically. “It could last hours if I do it right. I’ll get to hear you beg for death long before you go limp in my hands.”

Your body jolts of its own accord, a last-ditch effort at escape, but you can’t find the control to bring yourself to your feet. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.

“Oh, go on,” he sighs. “Beg for your life. But try to make it interesting. You all say the exact same thing, and it’s beginning to wear on me.”

“I…” Your mind is blank with terror, the few words you can summon rushing out of your mouth. “I don’t know what’s happening.” Your tears flow down your face, build up in your throat, choke your words. “I don’t want to die. I want to go home. Please let me go home.” You tense at the swish of his robes - he’s stepping closer, cutting your time short.

“Boring.” He brings up his left hand (one of them) and strikes the side of your face. When you cry out, he repeats the action on the other side. Then, he takes your jaw in his hand, forcing you to look up at him, and brushes away a stray tear as it slides down your cheek. “Try again,” he commands. “I won’t give you a third chance.”

At the last possible moment, a strangely clear thought enters your head. There is no happy ending here. You can’t escape. All you can do is try to save yourself - by any means necessary. So, finally, you allow yourself to meet his gaze, resisting the urge to look away as he bares his teeth. “Do what you want with me. I’ll entertain you in any way you please.” He raises an eyebrow - you’ve managed to say something that interests him. But he wants more. “Let me…” You pause, and force yourself to breathe. In, out. It’s too late to do anything but this. You cannot go back. You have to finish. “Let me prove that I’m more valuable to you alive.”

A rumble of laughter echoes through the cavern, seemingly emerging from the walls themselves. “Fascinating.” He lashes out with one of his hands and wraps it tightly around your neck. “No one’s ever said that before.” You gasp for air, and he slaps another hand over your mouth. “You’re weak…but you have some resolve. I like that.”

You breathe shallowly through your nose, already light-headed, your pulse thudding against his palm.

“I think…” He pauses, staring you down. You don’t look away. “I think I’ll keep you.” The relief in your eyes must be obvious - and it doesn’t last long. “For as long as you can handle it.” Another hand springs out, twists its long fingers through your hair. “For as long as you’re alive…you’re mine. The moment you forget that - the moment you fail, or disobey - that’s when your life will end. Understood?”

You have no choice - you nod as best you can, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as he yanks at your hair.

“Good.” His voice softens, lowers to barely more than a whisper. “We’ll start with something simple.” He sounds almost kind, but you know it’s just part of the game. The fist still grasping at your throat is enough to remind you of that. “Undo the knot at my waist.”

Your hands shake as you bring them up, and you find yourself focusing on small details once again. The cuff of your sleeve is torn, and there’s a smudge of something dark on your left hand - residue from your fall. The knot you’ve been tasked with untying is simple. A single pull at one end unravels it. The fabric is smooth, soft, and there are layers to the robe. The last is made of fine silk, its shine reflecting the dark red glow of the cavern around you. It’s held in place by a silk band, tied with the same simple knot as the first…

When your eyes catch on the space below the knot, you feel a deep pit open up in your stomach. The silhouette before you - it’s wrong. Warped. Exaggerated beyond the point of making any sense at all.

“Haven’t you heard?” drawls the voice above you. “It’s not dignified to stare.” He presses his palm to the back of your neck, urging you closer. “Fortunately, I have no interest in preserving your dignity.”

This is not a man. You’ve seen how this looks on men. The shape he carves in front of you…it’s nothing you’ve ever seen before.

He inhales deeply, and brings up a third hand to trace the line of your jaw. “Go on. I know you’re curious.”

The words sting, because he’s right. You want him to disappear and never return, but for as long as he’s standing over you, you’re going to want to know. It makes you loathe yourself. Makes you want to bury your head in the dust beneath you.

“Don’t make me impatient.” He brings you closer by your hair, and the silk of his robe brushes the tip of your nose. “I have enough in store for you as it is.”

Your fingers flutter over the final knot, missing the end twice before you manage to grasp it. The fabric parts, and you see exactly what your imagination conjured, what you didn’t dare believe before witnessing it yourself. Two thick, vein-laden cocks, one directly above the other, half-hard and already bigger than any man’s should be. Each has two black bands under the tip, reminiscent of the markings on his face - you glance up, and see that his chest is littered with them too.

There’s a part of you that wants to look away. You hate the part of you that doesn’t, that keeps you staring.

He smirks, and plunges your face into him, dragging your cheek down one shaft, up the other. “Choose.” There’s a terrible hunger in his voice, and you can feel him stiffen against your face. “You weren’t made to take both... soon, you will, but today…” He exhales sharply, and runs a finger over your lips. “You get to pick your favorite.”

If he were to pry open your mouth and force himself inside, this wouldn’t be so humiliating. Instead, he drops his hands from your neck and your hair, and waits for you to move, both sets of eyes narrowed in silent mockery. Slowly, you expose your tongue, and - eyes screwed shut - brush it over the lower tip. You feel his hand pass above you, and the second presence seems to disappear. There’s no sigh, no shudder as your tongue drags up his length, no hand on the back of your head as you close your lips around him.

A subtle thrust - with his size, it’s enough to make you sputter. “Why are your eyes closed?” he muses. “Scared of what you’ve seen? Or scared that you’ll enjoy it?”

Your eyes snap open before you can help it, defiance glowing inside them for just a moment.

“Oh, don’t be offended. I don’t care either way. And if you’re struggling, I’m glad to help you along.”

You try to shake your head - too late. He knots his hand through your hair once again, gradually pushing you down until it’s too much and you can’t stop yourself from gagging, choking. You’re nowhere near the base, but it doesn’t matter. He’s too big for you, and he knows it, but he holds you where you are, unmoved as you instinctively try to pull back. You feel like you can’t breath - if it wasn’t suicide, you’d use your teeth to escape -

He pulls you up. You take a breath, and immediately have it pressed from your lungs as he tugs you forward again. Again, again - each time he seems to test you more, force more into your throat, and the more you struggle, the more violent it turns. A pair of fingernails slices your cheek, slashes through the tunic clinging raggedly to your shoulder, scratches at the skin beneath.

You can hear his heavy breaths, although you wonder whether he even needs to breathe, or only does it for effect. You need to breathe - there’s an odd taste in your mouth beneath the feel of his skin, the metallic tang of pushing yourself too far, but he gives you no time to ponder it.

He lets go of your hair. “Keep going. Prove yourself.”

You ignore the blood dripping down your cheek, ignore the pounding in your temples, and do as he says. No hesitation - you force yourself down again and again, as if you still have his hand at the back of your head, choking yourself on his cock.

“ That’s right.”

You’re crying - truly, fully crying - but you don’t stop to wipe the tears away, even when you feel them building up in your nose. Stopping is not an option. Failing…you can’t even think about what would happen then.

Two heavy hands fall upon your shoulders, knuckles tightening - you hold yourself still while he tenses, his cock wedged deep in your throat, stilling your breath completely. His grip is tight, controlled, until he’s emptied himself inside you, until you’ve swallowed every drop.

He recovers all too quickly, stepping back and hauling you to your feet.

“You have promise.” Without warning, he plunges his hand down your trousers, inside your undergarments, carefully stroking the pads of his fingers over the slit of your cunt. His eyes widen, and his lips curl. “And you’re wet …why is that?”

Your mouth opens and closes wordlessly. It doesn’t make sense to you, either.

“Embarrassed? Perhaps you should be. I was under the impression that this was a last resort for you. Not something you’d been craving…” He tugs at your trousers and the waistband beneath, leaving you bare to the knees, and drops you to the ground, presses you onto your back. “Touch yourself.”

“Now?” You hate how pathetic you sound, hate the way it amuses him.

“Yes.” He grabs your wrist, guides it between your legs. “Get yourself worked up for me. Looking at the state of you, I doubt it will take long.”

You’ve never done this with someone watching you. Your fingers are clumsy, slowly tracing over your body, your mind struggling to fall into the right place. When he clasps one hand over your eyes and another over your mouth, it gets easier - although you know better than to ever admit it.

“Look at you. Any sensible human would find this impossible. But you…you’re actually enjoying yourself right now.” You pause, and he slaps a third hand over your own. “Don’t stop. I want to see what this does to you.” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, slides the hand to your inner thigh. “You’re terrified - those pretty tear-stains on your face are good enough proof of that. But there’s something in you that’s conflicted…” He replaces your slowly-moving hand with his own, pinching your clit between his fingers. “I don’t mind. It means I get to push you harder before you break.”

You squirm uncontrollably. This is pleasure and pain in equal measures, and the fact that you don’t really want it to stop sends a fresh wave of shame rolling over you. You try to ignore it. You know you have no choice. It was this, or a much more permanent fate. If you manage to enjoy a small part of it, that’s not such a bad thing…

“I think that’s enough.” He stops, and your whimpers are muffled as he flips you onto your stomach and presses your face to the ground. “Maybe I’ll let you try again later. For now…” He pulls your hands behind your back, brings your feet up to meet them, secures yours ankles to your wrists with the discarded ties from his robes. “You’re going to be unsupervised for a while. I don’t want you getting into any trouble while I’m gone.”

You’re not sure where he goes - you can’t bring yourself to lift your face until long after his footsteps have faded away. When you do, you topple onto your side, and stare cross-eyed at the blurred walls around you. You wonder if he only left to savor the feeling of cutting your pleasure short, or to give you time to imagine what he might do to you upon his return. It’s effective. You know that this was only your first test, and with nothing to distract you, you can’t help but picture what might come next.

Only a few paces from you, there’s a chilling sight - a human skull lying crooked on the ground, a jagged hole visible on its brow. When you see it, you’re newly aware of the cuts on your cheek, the sting of blood drying on your skin. He was holding back. Being gentle, by his own standards.

You’ll give everything you have to keep him that way.

#sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #dead dove do not eat

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