#input command [ asks ] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tsunaso · 2 months ago

Note

HEAR ME OUT

Aventurine and his partner have been together for a while when they somehow try working through Aventurine’s past trauma by showing him what a true master is like (reader)

Note - heavy bdsm, master/slave, anything else you’d like but I would prefer this being a healthier one so not non/con or forced

Thank you! 💖💖

“LET ME SHOW YOU WHO I AM”

pairing. Sub!Aventurine x Top!male reader

synopsis. In where Aventurine finally submits on his own terms, he learns what it means to be touched without being taken. — 4.3k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, master/slave kink, collaring kink, light bondage, fingering, blowjob, handjob, overstimulation, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, aftercare, safe word use, past trauma, discussions of past abuse, implied SA (not graphic), hurt/comfort

The room was quiet.

Not sterile. Not cold. It smelled faintly of lavender and wax polish—warm light spilling from a shaded lamp. The blinds were drawn. The door was locked.

Aventurine stood in the center of the room like a model in a glass case, posed. Perfect. Still. He had removed his gloves first. Then his rings. Then his coat. Every motion methodical. Almost clinical.

You’d seen him negotiate with CEOs more relaxed than this.

You sat on the edge of the couch, legs slightly parted, arms resting on your knees, watching him like he was something fragile. Not in the way that meant he’d break—but in the way that meant he already had, at some point, and learned to glue himself together into someone flawless.

And he was flawless. That was the problem.

"You're not breathing," you said quietly.

Aventurine blinked. Then inhaled like he forgot that he needed to. A short, clipped breath. He forced a smile. "I'm just… preparing."

"For what?"

He paused. "To give you what you want."

You let that sit. Let him feel it.

Then you stood—slow, controlled—and stepped into his space.

"Look at me."

He did. Carefully. He always looked carefully, like his gaze was a scalpel and he was afraid to cut too deep.

You reached out, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t lean into it. He didn’t flinch either. He simply absorbed the touch like it was something he had to endure—an input to be processed, not felt.

“I want you to listen,” you said. “And I want you to listen as Aventurine. Not as someone performing. Not as a client trying to impress me. As you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “…I’m listening.”

“I’m not asking you to submit because I want to dominate you.”

He stiffened.

“I’m asking you to submit because I want to keep you safe.”

A silence followed. Longer this time.

You let your hand fall from his jaw and gently, deliberately, took his hand in yours. You turned it palm-up—his fingers were smooth, trembling ever so slightly.

You pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“That’s the only reason,” you said. “Everything else—the commands, the structure, the rules… those are tools. Not punishments. Not games. They're ways to show you something you weren’t allowed to believe.”

He stared at you, eyes flickering. “Which is?”

“That being owned can feel like being protected.”

His lips parted—then closed again. He didn’t speak.

But he was still listening.

So you guided him to the couch. You sat down first, then tugged him forward by the hand until he was kneeling between your legs. Not to humble him—to center him.

"Now," you murmured, letting your fingers brush along his throat. “Let’s make something clear before we go further.”

Aventurine swallowed again. You felt it beneath your fingertips.

"You are mine only if you choose to be. And that choice doesn’t disappear just because you're in a collar or calling me Master."

His breath hitched. Slightly.

"You have a safeword. And you will use it."

You felt him tense—but it wasn’t fear. It was confusion.

“Why?” he asked softly. “Do you think I’ll regret it?”

“No,” you said. “I think someone else made you believe you weren’t allowed to.”

He froze.

And there it was.

That flicker. That twitch beneath the surface. You saw it behind his eyes—how he wanted to deflect, wanted to throw on that trademark smirk and laugh you off, pretend none of it reached him.

But it did.

Because the first time you called him "slave," he hadn’t flinched. But he hadn’t melted either. He had looked like someone waiting to be hurt. Obedient, yes—but not present.

You didn’t want that again.

“I don’t want obedience like that,” you whispered.

His lashes flicked up. His eyes were wet—but not crying.

You kissed the space between his brows. “I want your devotion. Your trust. Not your fear.”

He went still.

“…Then I don’t know how to be yours,” he said softly.

You tilted his chin up.

“That’s okay,” you said. “I’ll teach you.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

The collar was black. Supple leather, lined in deep velvet. Not flashy. Not harsh. Nothing sharp or ornamental. It wasn’t a trophy. It was a promise.

You fastened it slowly around Aventurine’s throat, adjusting the buckle until it sat snug against his skin, resting in the hollow between his collarbones. His breathing had grown shallower with every click, every brush of your fingers. But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t stop you.

And now—now he knelt.

He looked beautiful like that. Not just in the aesthetic sense, though he always had a way of appearing curated, even when undone. No—this was deeper. He looked like something offered.

The room was low-lit. Heavy drapes. No mirrors. No performance. Just you and him, framed in candlelight and silence. Your voice was the only thing allowed to break it.

“You’re trembling.”

His eyes flicked up, fast. Shame tightening his jaw before he could stop it.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you said gently. “And that’s okay.”

He exhaled like the air had been trapped in his chest for years.

You reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead, slow. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull back. Still learning. Still testing the depth of the space you’d carved open between you.

“I want to hear you say your safeword.”

“…Now?”

“Yes.”

His lips parted, then closed again. A flicker of pride, of resistance. Not defiance—just fear dressed in finery.

You tilted his chin up, thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw.

“Say it for me, Aventurine.”

“…Citrine.”

The word hung in the air. Soft. Almost delicate. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth.

“Good,” you murmured. “That word is power. Not weakness.”

You saw it flash in his eyes. That old wiring. That ache. The way he’d been taught that power only came through performance or control, through being sharper, cleverer, faster.

And now here you were, asking him to surrender.

You reached for his shirt. Silk, crisp, fitted. The kind of thing he wore like a second skin. You undid the buttons slowly, not ripping or demanding, but unwrapping him like something valuable. Something earned.

By the time you slid it off his shoulders, his breath had quickened again.

“Color?” you asked softly.

He blinked. “Huh?”

You smiled. “Give me your color.”

“…Green.”

Safe. Uncertain, but safe.

You trailed your fingers down his chest—bare, smooth, too still.

“I want to see you move when I touch you. Not freeze.”

He swallowed hard.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be mine.”

He shivered.

“…Yes, Master.”

There it was. That subtle quake beneath the surface. Not fear. Relief.

You reached for the tie you’d laid on the bed earlier—rich crimson silk, soft and long. A blindfold, if needed. A restraint, if wanted. But tonight, just a tether. You looped it gently around his wrists behind his back—not tight. Just a suggestion.

“Sit back on your heels.”

He obeyed.

You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the leash of your presence even without a word. Your gaze burned into him—watching the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers twitched behind him, even restrained.

Then you spoke. Low. Commanding. Steady.

“Say it.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Say… what?”

“Who you are.”

His throat bobbed.

You took a step forward, letting your fingers trail beneath the collar at his throat.

“Say it, Aventurine. Who do you belong to?”

“…You.”

“That’s not enough.”

He shuddered.

“I belong to you,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m your slave.”

The words cracked on the edge of something old—something raw.

And you knew. That this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But it was the first time he wasn’t punished for saying it wrong. The first time he wasn’t being used like a toy to be broken and left behind.

This was the first time he said it and wasn’t afraid.

You stepped around him slowly, trailing your hand across his bare shoulder as you did.

“You’re mine,” you said, voice smooth as heat. “Because you asked to be. Because I said yes. And now… I’m going to show you what that means.”

You stopped behind him, let your hand drop lower, brushing the curve of his spine.

“You’re going to listen.”

Your hand slid lower—over the waistband of his slacks, down to his thigh.

“You’re going to obey.”

You knelt beside him now, brushing your lips over his temple.

“And if I touch you and you shake, I’ll hold you.”

He let out a small sound—too raw to name. You felt his breath stutter. His entire body leaned just slightly into yours. Like the tension in his shoulders had finally started to give.

“Color?” you asked, voice warm.

“…Green,” he whispered.

You smiled.

“Good slave.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted. And for the first time since you’d collared him, Aventurine didn’t look composed.

He looked free.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You guided him onto the bed slowly. Not forced. Not posed. You didn’t bend him—you invited him. And he followed.

The sheets were dark—deep maroon silk, soft enough to slide against bare skin without a sound. The collar caught the light in a subtle gleam as Aventurine lowered himself down, legs folded beneath him, arms still behind his back. You sat in front of him, letting the room fall to quiet.

He was breathing a little too fast again.

You reached out, cupping his jaw in one hand. His lashes fluttered.

“Color?”

“…Green,” he whispered.

Your thumb stroked his cheek. “You’re doing beautifully, treasure.”

His breath hitched again, this time from something that almost sounded like relief.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Just once. And when you pulled away, you saw the dazed flicker in his eyes.

You didn’t ask for more yet. You just started touching him—slow strokes of your fingers over his chest, his arms, his thighs. Mapping. Worshipping. Letting him feel like something sacred.

“You’ve been holding yourself together for so long,” you murmured, tracing the hollow of his hipbone. “You don’t have to anymore.”

Aventurine’s body twitched under your touch, heat flashing across his face. He was already hard—aching against the front of his slacks, pulse pounding through him in quiet, desperate waves.

You kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I want to see what you look like when you come apart.”

He made a noise—small, breathy.

“I want to see how messy I can make you.”

Another whimper. This one sharper.

You undid the button on his slacks. Pulled the zipper down with slow, steady fingers.

"You’ve kept yourself so clean," you said. "So controlled."

You slid his pants down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, flushed red, already leaking.

"But this isn’t clean," you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “This is filthy. Needy. And it belongs to me.”

He shivered violently. You felt his knees twitch beneath him.

“You’re mine, Aventurine.”

He nodded. “Y-Yes, Master.”

You pumped him slowly—light pressure, thumb teasing over the slit. You kissed down his thigh as you worked, feeling the tension begin to fracture.

"That’s it," you whispered, lips brushing his inner thigh. “Breathe for me, pretty boy.”

He did. He tried. He was panting now, head tilted back, fingers clenched behind him like he didn’t know where else to hold the sensation.

“Such a good thing,” you crooned. “So obedient. So sweet. So ready to break.”

Your tongue flicked over the tip. He jerked—gasped.

"Color?" you murmured against him.

“…Green,” he rasped. “F-fuck—green—”

You hummed in approval, then dragged your tongue up his shaft, slow, tasting every drop he’d spilled.

"Look at you," you whispered, mouth just above his cock. "So wet already. You’d let me ruin you with just my tongue, wouldn’t you?"

He moaned—loud.

So you took him in. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to pull a shudder from his hips before you pulled off again.

“Not yet,” you murmured, hand stroking him again, firmer. “You don’t get to cum until you beg.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.

“And not like a businessman,” you whispered. “Not like a negotiator. Like a whimpering little thing.”

His cock twitched in your fist.

"Say it."

“I—”

"Say what you are.”

“…Your p-pet,” he gasped.

You squeezed.

"Not good enough."

“I’m your—your toy—your slut—”

"Good," you growled. "Getting closer."

You tugged his head back by the collar, made him look at you.

"You’re mine, aren’t you?"

“Yes—yes, I’m yours—please, Master—please let me cum—"

And then he choked on a sound. His whole body jerked.

And the word fell from his lips:

“Yellow.”

You froze.

Not in fear. Not in failure.

In readiness.

Your hand left his cock instantly. You released the collar. Your voice softened.

“Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “You did perfect. You’re safe.”

His breathing was erratic. His eyes were glossy. But he wasn’t panicked. Not quite. Just too much. Overwhelmed. Drenched in sensations he’d never let himself feel before.

“I didn’t want to stop,” he said, voice breaking. “It just—just hit too fast—”

You nodded. Kissed his temple. Held his jaw steady.

“You did everything right,” you whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

He shivered. A small sound leaked from his throat—frustration. Shame. Something old.

You held him.

“You said yellow,” you murmured. “Not red. That means we slow down. We breathe. We check in.”

You reached for the silk tie around his wrists, undoing it gently.

He was trembling now.

And when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” you cut him off immediately.

“Don’t apologize,” you said. “Not for taking care of yourself. Not with me.”

He went quiet. Eyes searching yours.

“…So we can still—?”

You smiled.

“We’re going to continue. If you want to. And this time?”

You leaned in, kissed him slow, deep, open-mouthed.

“I want you to give me your surrender.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

He was still shaking when you brought him back to the bed.

Not from fear. Not from regret. From how much it was.

He let you hold him without asking. Let you kiss the top of his head, run your fingers down the back of his neck, cradle him in your lap like something precious. And when your hand slid to his thigh again—he opened his legs without hesitation.

“I want you inside me,” he whispered. “Please.”

Your fingers traced the line of his inner thigh, featherlight. “You sure?”

His breath caught.

Then, “Yes, Master.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Then I’ll give you what no one else ever did.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering.

“What’s that?”

You kissed his throat, tongue dragging over the edge of the collar.

“Time.”

You laid him out like he was something sacred—chest to the sheets, legs parted, cheek resting against a silk pillow. He looked wrecked already. Hair wild, skin flushed, cock twitching against his stomach. He still had the collar on.

Your hand ran down his back slowly, fingers trailing the curve of his spine. You watched his hips twitch in anticipation.

And then you whispered, “I’m going to stretch you open now.”

Aventurine shuddered.

“Not like them,” you added, voice low and warm. “Not fast. Not hard. Not careless.”

You pressed a kiss to the small of his back.

“Like this.”

Your hand slid between his legs, parting them more. You took your time with the lube—warm, slick, worked between your fingers before you ever touched his hole. You let your thumb rest against the rim, not pushing, just being there.

“Breathe for me,” you whispered. “Color?”

“Green,” he rasped. “Fuck, I’m green—just—please.”

You slid one finger in. Slowly. No resistance. Just heat. Just a shaky, desperate moan beneath you.

“That’s it,” you murmured. “That’s my good boy.”

He gasped into the pillow, his whole body tensing—then softening.

"You're so tight," you praised. "So soft inside. You were made for this."

You curled your finger, watching the way he arched, hips twitching.

“M-Master—”

You hummed, kissing the dip of his back.

“I know. It’s good now, isn’t it?”

He nodded, whimpering.

You took your time. You didn’t rush the second finger. You didn’t stretch him to watch him squirm—you stretched him because you wanted him to be ready. You wanted to give his body the chance to welcome you.

Not endure you.

Aventurine was panting now. His cock leaked freely onto the sheets. Every twist of your fingers sent a sob through him.

“You’re doing so well,” you whispered. “Letting me open you. Letting me feel how warm you are inside. This hole is mine now, isn’t it?”

He moaned—wrecked, high, humiliated.

“Yes, Master—it’s yours—just yours—”

You slipped in a third finger, carefully, watching his back arch as he cried out.

But he didn’t say yellow.

He didn’t say stop.

He pushed back.

You grinned.

“Oh, you’re greedy now,” you murmured against his ear, one hand reaching around to grip his leaking cock. “You want it all, don’t you?”

He whimpered. Nodded. Twitched in your hand.

"Say it."

“P-please,” he sobbed. “Please fill me—break me—fuck me full—I want to be yours inside—please, I need your cock—”

You laughed—low, hot, proud.

“Oh, my sweet little slut.”

He gasped—choked on it.

You leaned down, kissed the back of his neck. Then whispered, “You like being called that now, don’t you?”

“…Y-yes—”

“You like being my toy. My slave. My obedient little hole.”

His whole body seized.

“F-fuck—!”

You pulled your fingers out—slow, careful, teasing.

He sobbed at the loss.

You lined yourself up, pressed the tip against his stretched, slick entrance.

He pushed back instantly.

"Greedy thing," you growled. "Beg for it."

“Please, Master—please—fuck me—ruin me—make me your cumdump—please—”

And you gave him exactly what he asked for.

You sank in.

All the way.

Slow. Measured. No brutality. No rush. You slid into him inch by inch, letting him feel it, letting him open around it, letting the stretch burn sweet and thick as your cock filled his aching hole.

Aventurine gasped—his voice a cracked moan as his body trembled beneath yours.

“Oh, f-fuck—” he choked out, knuckles white as they dug into the sheets.

You leaned down, one arm braced beside his head, the other gripping his hip tight, keeping him spread open as your cock bottomed out, balls resting snug against his skin.

“There it is,” you whispered into his ear. “Feel that? That’s me, inside you.”

He whimpered. You felt the clench around you—tight, slick, hungry.

“This is what you needed all along. Not a man who takes. A man who fucks you like he owns every inch.”

You pulled back—slowly—and thrust in again, long and deep, your cock dragging against the sweet spot that made his legs shake.

He moaned—loud, broken. His cock throbbed untouched against the sheets.

You kept the rhythm slow, heavy, grinding deep with every thrust, pushing the sound out of him with every roll of your hips.

“Y-you’re so deep,” he gasped. “I—I can feel you in my stomach—Master—please—”

You kissed his neck, teeth grazing the collar. “You’re taking it so well. My pretty little whore.”

He shuddered. “Yes—yes—call me that again—”

You thrust deep—he jerked, crying out.

“Say it.”

“I’m your whore,” he whimpered. “I’m your obedient whore—use me—please—just—”

He clenched around you, hole fluttering, walls pulsing like he was already about to cum.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back.

“Don’t cum,” you growled into his ear. “Not until you break for me.”

Aventurine whined, a high, needy sound, mouth open, drool slipping down his chin as you kept fucking into him—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Faster,” he sobbed. “P-please—Master—please fuck me harder—need it—need you to ruin me—”

You slammed in hard. He screamed.

“Oh, that’s it,” you growled. “You like it now, don’t you? You like being fucked stupid.”

“Y-yes—yes, I do—please—don’t stop—”

You pulled the leash tighter, using it to anchor him as you began thrusting fast, hard, pounding into his slick hole until the slap of skin-on-skin echoed with every deep, bruising thrust.

“You gonna cum like this?” you hissed. “Face in the sheets, used, leaking, begging?”

“Yes—yes—I’m your cumslut—I’m yours—only yours—”

His words collapsed into gasping cries, voice breaking every time your cock slammed into that same aching spot deep inside.

You reached under him, fisted his cock—already wet, throbbing, twitching.

“You want to cum, slut?”

He nodded frantically, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Then fucking ask.”

“Please—Master—please let me cum—let me make a mess for you—please—”

You grinned.

“Cum for me, slave.”

He screamed.

His body seized, hole clenching so tight around your cock it almost pushed you over the edge. His cum splattered across the sheets in thick, hot streaks, and he collapsed beneath you—shaking, moaning, drooling, trembling with every aftershock as you kept fucking him through it.

He was babbling now. You didn’t need to understand. It was all yours.

You growled low, thrusting one last time and spilling inside him, hot and thick, grinding deep as you filled him to the brim. He sobbed into the sheets—completely broken open, your cum leaking from his fluttering hole as he whispered, “Thank you, Master,” again and again.

You kissed his shoulder.

“You did so well for me,” you murmured. “So good. So obedient. So mine.”

He made a small sound—something close to a sob—but there was no fear in it.

Only peace.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You didn’t let go of him. Not once. Not when he came undone under you, not when his body collapsed into aftershocks, not when his sobs started—quiet and broken, into the silk sheets.

You stayed inside him, shallow and warm, one hand on his waist, the other splayed across his chest. His breath came in shivers. His body twitched with every small pulse of aftershock, still spread open, still marked by you.

And still, he whispered, “Thank you, Master.” Over and over again. Like a prayer. Like a child afraid of silence.

You kissed the back of his neck. Gently. “You don’t have to thank me for not hurting you.”

His fingers curled in the sheets. He didn’t answer right away.

You pulled out slowly. Your cum dripped down the inside of his thighs, hot and wet, and he didn’t move. He just exhaled—long, cracked, like the last of his performance was melting out of him.

You left only briefly. Warm towel. Cloth. Water. When you returned, he hadn’t shifted.

He was still kneeling.

Silent.

Shaking.

You moved behind him and eased him into your lap. Chest to back. He folded like he’d been waiting to. You wrapped your arms around him and held him there—wet, ruined, open—and he let you.

You cleaned him gently. Slow, soft, reverent. Not possessive now. Not hungry. Just present.

“I want to hear your color,” you whispered.

“…Green,” he breathed. “Just… slow.”

“Slow is good.”

Another breath. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to go back to my room.”

“You won’t.”

You tightened the towel around him, pressing your palm over his heart. The leather collar was still warm under your fingers.

“Does this still feel good?” you asked, thumb brushing it.

“…Yes.”

“Does it still feel like a leash?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You tilted his face toward you. His eyes were red, wet, shining.

He swallowed.

“I kept waiting for it.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For the part where you stopped asking,” he said. “Where you just… took.”

Your breath stilled.

He looked down, shame creeping like old blood into his voice. “They didn’t ask. Not after I was sold. The first ones just—”

You adjusted your hold—firmer now. Grounded.

“I know.”

“There was a man who called me by my serial number,” he said. “Said names were for people.”

You didn’t speak. You held him tighter.

“I used to think… if I offered it first, let people use me, I was in control. If I moaned loud enough or spread my legs fast enough, maybe they’d forget I didn’t want it.”

His voice cracked. His jaw clenched.

“But none of them ever stopped.”

You found his hand. Laced your fingers through his.

“…And you did.”

You didn’t say of course. You didn’t say I’m not like them.

You said: “You said yellow. So I slowed.”

And something inside him shattered.

He didn’t break pretty. He broke real. Face crumpling, shoulders shaking, tears falling hard against your skin as he buried his face in your chest and wept.

Not from shame.

From being seen.

You rocked him gently. Back and forth. Holding him through every sob, every tremor, every time he tried to apologize only to collapse again.

“I didn’t think I could ever be like this again,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

You closed your eyes. Kissed his hair.

“You’re not soft. You’re just safe.”

His breath hitched.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt wanted,” he said, voice thin, “without needing to win something first.”

“You didn’t win me,” you murmured. “You let me hold you.”

His lashes fluttered. His voice dropped to a whisper:

“…Was I good?”

You cupped his cheek, thumb wiping a tear from his flushed skin.

“You were perfect.”

He laughed. It broke halfway. “I look pathetic right now.”

“No,” you said, smiling. “You look mine.”

He flinched—just slightly—but he didn’t deny it.

You kissed his nose. Brushed his damp hair back.

“Can I ask you something?”

“…Anything.”

“What do you want me to call you now?”

You didn’t rush it.

“You can keep Aventurine. Or Slave. Or…” You paused. “Kakavasha.”

He blinked.

His breath caught in his chest.

“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” he whispered. “It feels like it belongs to someone else.”

You nodded. “It does.”

He looked at you, startled.

You smiled.

“But maybe… that someone still lives here.” You placed your hand gently over his heart.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat worked. His lashes fluttered.

You leaned close, nose to his cheek.

“Until you decide… I’ll call you what I see.”

He swallowed.

“And what’s that?” he whispered.

You kissed the edge of his collar.

“My beloved.”

1K notes · View notes

lucanderie · 7 days ago

Text

Still need to mull this over some more, but it's very intriguing how much player-defying Kris proves themselves physically capable of this chapter.

They maliciously comply with our exact wording when asked to turn a doorknob. They cover their mouth midway through a sentence. When asked to say Berdly's name, they repeat themselves loudly in shock. They do PLENTY of physical actions or gestures unprompted, such as kneeling down and touching Ralsei when only prompted to talk, pushing Susie out of harm's way for the second time, giving her their knife with a flourish, laughing or nodding to clarify a statement... as well as their unprompted hijinks at the church. They act by themselves both in the spur of the moment and premeditated, in both low-stakes interactions and highly emotional, instinctive reactions. It seems like they're capable of doing any emoting, physical gesturing, or creative prompt interpretations they so desire apart from a) speaking, b) when directly commanded to do something else and c) in many weird route sequences (will circle back to this). They know entire commands word for word before they execute them, and they are aware enough of the fact that we have goals and what those goals may be to actively conspire against us. Kris knows our "rules".

This is extremely interesting because we saw very little of this in the previous chapters- leading us to believe Kris had basically zero input on Dark-World happenings, and had less understanding of their own situation then say, Ralsei did. But here, Kris isn't just getting more clever about or more accustomed to defying us- they're proving progressively more capable of just doing things of their own volition that any possessed kid who was randomly dropped into this situation with no warning or context would not wait two days to try.

Combined with the fact that from the beginning, they defy us to limit what we see long before they defy what we actually force them to do, (even when they clearly don't like doing it!), and that there's precedent for a character's mindset determining the player's level of control with Susie, it's seeming more and more like Kris is purposefully limiting themselves in earlier chapters. They have a vested interest in "playing the part", coming across to either us or someone else like they have less agency than they do, and they get progressively more open about the amount of defiance that they are capable of.

This is just, a fascinating jump in Kris's amount of agency! At the very least, they may know a similar amount of meta-info to even Ralsei. It changes some of their earlier actions from purely-forced to compliant. And there's a lot of (non-evil, you guys) reasons they would do this- they're probably at least, (at this point), afraid of some kind of retribution from us or their co-conspirators. They want to stay ahead of us by hiding their agency, they may not be comfortable enough with themselves to show express in certain instances... And this changes their defiant actions from things that they are allowed to do into things they are willing to risk doing- saving Susie twice, not hurting Ralsei's feelings, comforting Noelle, slorking down those juice cups like they're NOTHING- all little risks they're willing to take.

This just leaves the weird route- which may either be a route where the player simply gains more control over Kris, or maybe the "proceed" commands could be more general and therefore more inclusive. Or Kris could be initially, willing to play along with freezing the Darkners in order to achieve their goal, to bide their time, and once they realize how fucked up we can get it's too late.

I don't know. I'm definitely missing things, but I just love how much more Kris we have and are eventually going to get.

#kris dreemurr #deltarune #deltarune spoilers #deltarune analysis #deltarune chapter 4 #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune theory #kris deltarune #deltarune soul #deltarune player #lucanderie

899 notes · View notes

cherryredstarz · 3 months ago

Text

LaDs Boys reacting to you asking them to take care of your Tamagotchi

Rafayel 🐠

Raf wouldn’t know what do do at first; just button mashing until he saw what each button did.

You were only going to be away on a mission for three days, and Rafayel had ONE job. ONE.

Don’t kill your duck. Whatever he did, don’t kill it.

He killed it on accident within the first 10 minutes.

He turned it into a bigback.

A BIGBACK.

The biggest back of them all.

Through all of his button mashing, he kept hitting the food button, and the poor ducky kept eating, and eating, and eating because it wasn’t programmed to do otherwise—to disobey its’ overlord’s command.

And the poor ducky died. Too much food—a killer tummy ache, and Rafayel was horrified. The Lemurian immediately googled a tutorial on how to get you a new pet, and after that, a second tutorial on how to keep it ALIVE.

He got you a fish and named it Sue. You were horrified and terribly distraught when you returned to find Sue and not your beloved duck. Rafayel apologized, and begrudgingly, you forgave him.

Nothing would prepare you, however, for how hard you would laugh when you discovered Rafayel had accidentally make Sue a bigback too.

Caleb and Zayne 🍎❄️

It’s a team effort.

You best bet these two would be working together—the two boys had witnessed enough of your meltdowns as children when any of your Tamagotchi pets died. They’d been firsthand victims to a multitude of tantrums.

Caleb was obsessively researching how Tamagotchi’s were programmed; Zayne was meticulously and methodically setting timers to feed the duck at precise times to keep its happiness levels at maximum capacity.

Your duck became the most pampered online ducky in the world, at least, for a few days.

Sylus 🐦‍⬛

Initially, the man is…curious, to say the least. A Tamagotchi? Wouldn’t you prefer a living, breathing, fluffy critter to take care of rather than a pixelated image of a cat or dog?

Nonetheless, he will certainly do his due diligence and take care of this digital pet, all for his beloved. Sylus asks Luke and Kieran for advice, and the twins practically gasp when Sylus admits to not knowing what a Tamagotchi is. After 20 minutes of being bullied by his henchmen, the twins excitedly explain how to work your tiny egg shaped device—what the buttons do and how to input various functions.

Sylus determinedly takes care of your digital pet, a cat named Tulip, even voluntarily screwing up his already whack sleep schedule to ensure your beloved pet’s survival. He even brings the dangly keychain with him to business meetings, feeding the needy beast while discussing protocore deals.

By the time you’ve returned from your mission, you arrive at Sylus’s manor to find a fluffy Maine Coon kitten with a pink collar waiting for you—Tulip on the collars name tag.

Safe to say, you were delight to have not one, but two Tulips in your life.

Xavier 👽

Xavier didn’t even know what a Tamagotchi pet was until you begged him to keep it alive while away on a mission with Tara.

He tried—chugging energy drinks every few hours to stay awake, just watching.

Staring.

Waiting.

He didn’t even know when it happened—but he registered his eyes were opening. He glanced to the tiny digital clock above his apartment’s stove—it was 4:30 AM.

Oh no.

He checks the little pink eggs screen, and his eyes widen at the dead pet.

Shit.

Xavier will search a tutorial on how to generate a new pet; he’ll go as far as recreating the exact same pet, down to the stupid way you spelled that poor creature’s name.

He smiled at his genius. You’d never know.

He’d crack though, as soon as you arrived home, confessing to his crime. You’d frown at first, but Xavier would pull out the puppy dog eyes, and you’d forgive him. After all, it was sweet the way he tried so hard to fix his mistake. And besides, Tamagotchi pets are hard enough to keep alive to begin with.

738 notes · View notes

tojigasm · 3 months ago

Text

﹒୨𝑒 ﾟ ˖ ⠀Etienne

ᥫ᭡... Kylo Ren x female!reader

⊹₊˚ꕤ˚₊⊹ Inspired by Adam Driver when he was asked how Kylo Ren would be like in a marriage: "gentle, understanding, and tall"

You and Kylo have an arrangement – an unusually intimate relationship of sorts.

A relationship that bears the weight of the relentless stress and all-consuming anxiety of life aboard Star Killer Base.

A bond that has evolved, transforming from monthly rendezvous to weekly encounters, now nearly daily confessions.

One that has shifted, over time, into a more casual and complex knowing of one another — What once was an escape from the unceasing abuse you endured at the hands of your bosses, and the immense stress Kylo was routinely under evolved into a transformed comfort in the complexity of your shared presence.

And over time, since you've settled into that knowing of Kylo, into who and what he is, you've found yourself craving something from him. Something incorrigible and filled with an uncouth carnality.

Beneath the foreign simulacrum of your entangled existence lies the undeniable truth that you both are bound by your ordained roles.

You remain a submissive entity in Kylo's life, surrendering to his dominance in ways that leave little room for his own influence.

He takes, and you give.

And it flows both ways—he often reminds you.

Reminding you when you're buried in assignments, lost in data transfers, and consumed by meetings, to the point where you forget to eat or rest.

At times, he steers you away amidst the labyrinth of the base, pressing a piece of bread or fruit into your hands before marching off to whatever he was called off to next.

Other times, through the modulated hiss of his mask, he commands in a whisper;

'Eat.'

It's not often that you find yourself buckling beneath the stress of working among the First Order. You pride yourself in being a dedicated worker – After all, that's how your relationship with Kylo had begun, with him pulling you away to promote you. To acknowledge your commitment to the cause.

The usual days are filled with meetings, assignments, data control and input, finalizing plans, etc. So much happens so fast throughout the day that it's rare you have a moment to think of anything but your next task.

But today is just... different.

Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. your vision blurred in your meeting earlier, and you nearly walked into the wrong room to input your data and almost tripped on your own feet while walking throughout the base.

Kylo had caught a glimpse of you from across the hall while speaking with one of the lieutenants.

from anyone else's perspective, it would've appeared as though he hadn't even noticed you there, but you knew he was staring at you by the small twitch of his head towards you.

You'd been avoiding him.

Being vulnerable was not something that came easy to you. Being able to strip yourself bare and present your very being to someone or something was intimidating.

With time, the entangled web of your convoluted relationship began to unfurl. You had imagined Kylo would be the one to unravel at your hand.

To roll over on his back in trust that you'd take the reigns; rose-petal lips pushed into a petulant pout, tears stringing thick lashes together along his honey-amber eyes.

The brutal weight of his position; as an Apprentice of the First Order, does not go unnoticed to you.

The very thought makes you raw with nausea.

When the end of the day crawls to an end, you find yorself stumbling into your quarters, peeling off your uniform before falling onto your bed with a shaky grunt.

You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes. the sobs rolling up the back of your throat.

Your Datapad pings

"Kylo Ren requests your presence in his quarters"

Pulling yourself up from your bed with a groan, you throw on a more casual uniform and your boots before leaving your room and making your way towards Kylo's.

The walk across base from your quarters to Kylo's is about ten minutes, and with each step, you can feel your resolve, begin to break, and anxiety filling out every corner of your mind.

You know what awaits you behind the door to his room, and it terrifies you so – the intimate truth that he'll make you submit to him and yourself brings tears to your waterline.

When the door begins to slide open with a gasping hiss, you consider tucking tail and running. He'd catch you.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In his room, you sit on his floor; his idea. The cool of the tile settles into your tight and hot skin, urging you to at least breathe properly while Kylo waits for you.

He's sat on his couch, watching you laid out on your back, your arm thrown over your eyes and bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you try to stifle the watery tone of your voice when he asks why you've come here.

And it's the truth. You had every ounce of control in the decision to visit him, as you've exercised throughout the past few weeks by choosing to ignore him.

You're not sure what you need. But you're completely sure you can't bring yourself to admit that fact.

Guilt gnaws at you as you curl up on the cold floor, your vulnerability laid bare. You choke on a wet sob, muffled by the skin of your forearm as you sink your teeth into yourself.

Kylo stands up from the couch to crouch beside your form, gently pulling your arm from over your eyes.

"I can't help unless you talk to me."

Kylo's voice pierces through the thick, hazy fog that envelops your mind. The ache in your head throbs against your skull.

You're just so —

"M'tired." Is all you can manage

You’re teetering on the edge, the weight of it all clawing at your insides, desperate to spill over and drown you. You want so badly to hurl it all at Kylo, to let him bear your burdens, to let him remind you in his brooding way that you’re not alone in this vast universe.

The urge shatter completely is a malignant beast, writhing and rooting itself in your lungs and gnawing its way up your throat, threatening to spill over in a vulgar torrent of sobs.

Kylo's voice cuts through the turmoil, distant, but you can feel him amidst the foggy cloud that's clogged your brain. Your ears suddenly feel stuffy, and you can't focus on the floor beneath you. His gloved hand wraps around your neck, anchoring you, dragging you back from the edge, his touch grounding you in the maelstrom.

You’re splintering, fragments of your mind breaking apart as you spiral into a maelstrom, unable to grasp at any semblance of calm.

"Settle," Kylo's voice slices through the madness, a stern anchor in your chaos.

A fleeting, grounding thought slips through: gratitude. Gratitude for his restraint, for not using the force to silence your brain, effectively 'shutting it off,' as you'd told him once.

He hadn't thought that was funny.

That was one of the first rules you set when this whole thing started—no forceful mind control. It felt too invasive, too overwhelming. But if ever the need arose, Kylo would know.

And he understood, like he always does.

Kylo's touch is steady, his fingers gentle yet grounding as they form a 'v' at the base of your neck. The way he squeezes and strokes, it’s a silent promise—a delicate balance between power and restraint, echoing the unspoken rules that warms beneath the surface of it all.

He soothes you, firm touch reminding you that he's here with you.

That he'll take care of you.

"What do you need?"

You've come to unravel Kylo. To know his existence and to understand that his offer stretches beyond the confines of what he can tangibly provide.

He's laid himself bare before you, stripped of all pretense, offering himself up in raw vulnerability, just as you've done for him countless times before.

There's an undeniable, visceral need between you – a deep-rooted wanting for Kylo to dismantle you, piece by piece. Meticulously reconstructing your shattered fragments into something whole once more.

In this raw, all-consuming bond, the edges of your souls bleed into each other, your desires twisted and inseparable, fueled by a primal, haunting need that neither of you can fully comprehend but both are helpless to resist. It's a dark baptism – a carnal need for Kylo to consume you.

To invade every corner of your mind and envelop your body with his own until you fuse together into one entity.

The pad of his thumb traces over your taut skin, and you instinctively press up against his hand with a sniffle, rising to settle back on your haunches.

Kylo's hold remains firm as he examines you, his gaze burning through every layer of your being, leaving you feeling exposed. A gentle hum simmers in your mind, and you feel yourself relax under him.

When you lean in, he meets you halfway, your teeth clashing and lips pressed against one another in a mess of desire and desperation.

His taste is a heady mix of vanilla and leather, intoxicating and overwhelming, as his strong nose brushes against your cheek.

His plush lips press against your swollen ones, and with a clumsy urgency, he pulls you into his lap, forcing you to straddle him. You're left breathless, inhaling through your nose as Kylo deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the arch of your mouth before he captures your bottom lip between his teeth, sending shivers down your spine.

You're starving for him, desperation woven through every nerve rubbed raw and exposed under the rough of his leather gloves, the thick fabric of his cowl grazing your sensitive skin.

He's hungry for you. You crave to be devoured by him — to be completely consumed by him.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

"Stop fighting me." Kylo speaks lowly, gloved hands gripping the plush of your thighs, holding you open as his cock rests against your soaked folds.

Kylo remains fully dressed, opposed to your naked form under him; your clammy skin steams against the thick fabric of his heavy robes.

The stark polarity is routine.

He's got you propped up on the leather cushion of his couch; kneeling on the floor with his hands holding you open by the underneath of your shaky thighs.

You just can't relax.

"Can feel you tensing up," He states gently, the gloved pad of his thumb circling your skin softly, "You need to relax."

It's so hard.

It is so hard to just let your mind relax and relinquish your beingness in every waking second

Kylo knows you. Knows that you're tangled up in your mind, drifting aimlessly. You trust him to pull you back, as he always does.

And you're trying so hard to relax but with your tight hole clenching around nothing and the fat tip of Kylo's cock resting between your folds, it's beginning to feel damn near impossible.

"Canto?" he asks, watching your eyes keenly.

It takes you a moment to register the safe word and its meaning before you're adamantly shaking your head, mustering up a deep sigh in an attempt to relax yourself.

"I'm okay," you nod, pushing yourself up to rest on your elbows to look where your bodies meet, "Just-"

Kylo pulls away from you, and for a moment, you panic at the thought that this has gotten to be too much for him.

your panic must be evident in your expression by the way Kylo's eyes widen some, slipping your legs over his shoulders.

"You have got to relax."

"M'trying." You mumble abshadly, lowering your eyes.

"No, you're not," Kylo leans further down.

You're too tired and frustrated to argue back.

Kylo strokes the underside of your knee, "I'm just gonna help you out a bit. Can I do that?"

You nod, letting yourself sink back into the cushions of the couch.

Kylo's tongue runs flat against the sopping folds of your pussy, dragging it up to peck your clit.

He's quiet as he does so; dark and thick hair tickles the insides of your thighs and you nearly cum at the existence of Kylo Ren, an apprentice of the First Order, on his knees eating you out.

You must've said that thought aloud somehow because he makes an amused hum as he slips his tongue past your folds.

Your nails dig into the leather of his couch, and you give a light and shaky moan.

Kylo's hands move from their place on your hips to pull your hands up to rest in his hair to which you immediately seek purchase.

His nose bumps against your clit and you gasp, pulling at his hair to drag him upwards.

Kylo follows your lead, meeting your lips in a lazy kiss. Your taste on his lips pulls a sob from your throat.

"You okay?" he asks, pressing his forehead to your own.

You nod and Kylo leans back to slip his cock up and down your folds again. Your cunt easily swallows his length as he sinks into you.

"There we go," Kylo praises, pressing your legs back to their original position, spread out, and pressed flush against your chest.

The angle and your relaxed cunt pairs perfectly as he strokes the insides of your walls with his girthy length.

A small furrow of his brow lets you know he's enjoying this just as much as you are. You've come to know his tells.

You can never understand how he composes himself so well while you remain a writhing mess beneath him no matter the routine.

And you're so full with him that your thighs shake as Kylo takes hold of one of them and pulls it up to rest over his shoulder.

You nearly cum when he meets your eyes, gaze unfaltering as he presses a gentle kiss to your ankle.

The rock of his thrusts is piquant; rendering your mind numb and your body humming in response to his every touch.

"O-oh, Kylo," you nearly fucking purr, digging your nails into the fabric of his sleeve. The reminder of the power imbalance in your ranks sends a shiver down your spine.

Kylo presses himself into you at your sobs, thick fabric rubbing coarsely against your bare chest; adding a new layer of deliciousness to how full you already feel.

"See?" Kylo hums, the weight of him makes you keen, "It's not so hard to ask for help, is it?"

You feel like crying – suspended in an overwhelming haze of exhaustion and submissiveness.

Kylo.

Kylo is the only thing you can focus on in the heat of it all.

The weight of him, the stretch of his cock, his robes, his soft hair, his voice, his hands, his touch, his-

"Just need someone to take care of you, huh, sweetheart."

you're fully sobbing, chest heaving under him as the stress washes off of you.

You can feel Kylo pull out of you before you're being picked up. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist as he settles onto the couch, holding you in his lap.

Kylo shushes you softly, his strong nose stroking your soft skin as he presses kisses to your jaw and chin.

you grind into his lap, through the whirlwind of your emotion, sitll seeking pleasure from him, the ache of it throbbing in your heat.

"Need you," you sniffle into a sloppy kiss.

Kylo shuffles beneath you, moving you so that your cunt lines up with the fat head of his cock.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth as he sinks you down on him with a stifled groan.

Frustrated, you go to move only for Kylo to stop you. Bringing his hands from your hips up to cup your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Just let me do it," He says softly, kissing the tip of your nose, "Let me in."

You're hesitant as you pulse around him before you give a soft nod, "Okay."

And in instant, you feel lightless; the weight of your stress and anxiety completely dissipates, absolved by the room and Kylo and the whole universe.

And in the same moment, he thrusts beneath you some, dropping a hand to your hip to help guide you.

You can't focus on anything but him as you rest your forehead against his.

"Let me take care of you."

His room feels and sounds comfortably quiet; the hum of the base disappears and there's nothing left but your gentle moans and Kylo's bated breath beneath you.

you can feel the force everywhere – inside of you, on you, with you. It's addicting and you grasp for Kylo in the fog of it.

"I know, I know."

your breath hitches, an inescapable sob falling from your swollen lips.

"You're so big," you say softly, almost a whisper of it on your lips.

Kylo hums, continuing your steady rock against him.

"R'you close?" You manage through a wine, wrapping a weak arm around his neck to hold you up.

Kylo nods against your forehead, "Yeah, sweetheart."

When you cum, the soft quiet of the room pulses around you – a warm hum that rides over your skin in waves.

Kylo's quick to follow when you whine and squeeze around his swollen length, pulling you down to him as he fills you.

You feel him press a kiss to your temple, smoothing your hair off of your sweaty forehead.

"Tell me what you need."

A deep sigh.

"Just you."

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo x reader #kylo ren fluff #kylo ren smut #ben solo #ben solo smut

407 notes · View notes

niccolites · 4 months ago

Text

febrile (or; input vs output)

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

or: Simon is a member of the Night City Police Department and you're a ripper doc. It is his job to catch criminals, but even he can admit, he's taken a different approach for you. CYBERPUNK!AU

TAGS: Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Size Kink, Unhealthy Relationships

read here on ao3

Simon’s got a bug in his system that is turning his vision white at the edges when he finally visits you.

Not that he has much of a morality regarding visiting ripperdocs. Sure, they’re criminals and as a member of the NCPD, it is his job to arrest and charge criminal activity, but that was a rigid rule set decades ago. These days, the split between the NCPD and a common gang is that the rules the gang lives by aren’t written into the law. But, allowances are allowed on both sides.

Simon has never cared much to think about it. He sees some other officers have that blank look in their eye after they finish a shift, others who seem to revel in being able to do whatever it is that they want. Simon just does as he’s told. If he’s told to save the woman who survived a cyberpsycho attack then she is tossed over a shoulder and brought to the ambulance. If otherwise, a nod is all he needs to know that there are no witnesses. Finger, gun, trigger. The explosion in the palm of his hand, kicked back and caught. Delivered.

Maybe it has left a screw loose in his head. Not his job to analyse that.

Flouting the law as and when it suits the law is a part of the job. Not one that Simon has much indulged in, he must admit. Any murder, extortion, crime that is involved in the ‘etcetera’ part of his work, has been asked of him. His fellow officers flout the law as and when it suits them. Illegal weapons, killing a perp who gets too mouthy, maybe getting a bit too handsy with a victim. Simon hasn’t been much interested in the ‘benefits’ he can reap with his badge.

However, after a job where the NCPD took down a group of scavengers, Simon’s vision starts getting spotty. He’d had to jack into one of the victims to see if they were still alive. Horrible static, bad channel. They hadn’t been. And seemingly willing to haunt him from the afterlife, leaving a pesky virus in his system.

There are NCPD designated docs that he could go and visit, but the idea of letting one of their starched, freshly pressed hands go worming around in his cyberware makes his skin crawl. Years before his official service, he’d had all his kit installed by a ripperdoc, and he hadn’t had an issue he couldn’t fix himself since.

He spends a few days just trying to deal with it, still able to hit his shots using the noise that all criminals insist on making. He can still mostly see, even a few days in. Maybe not make out features, but people are blurry and morphed shapes that approach him and he puts them down with the same accuracy as before.

It’s not long before his captain pulls him up, though. Forces him to admit the bug, and issues a new command. Sort it out.

Standing in the doorway of your clinic, hidden in his civvies, here he is. Sorting it out.

You’re in the middle of muddling around with some of your equipment, humming to yourself before you must catch sight of him. The blur of your figure jumps, as your face comes into profile. You must be intimidated by the sight of him, something that he registers with a cool type of pleasure. Even not in his uniform and clearly strapped with all of his weapons, he blocks the light coming in from your doorway. You must see the metal of his left arm, nothing human left there. The gas mask that covers half of his face, black and stark against the pale of his skin.

“Hello. How can I help?” you ask, shifting something up your forehead. It distorts ths shape of your head and he realises that they must be massive goggles. Ridiculous, he imagines you must look like the image of the crazy scientist from old stories; you probably have a lab coat on. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your reputation, known as one of the best ripperdocs in Watson, even if you are as cheap as they say.

Ripperdocs are the gray area in Night City. Criminals, yes, but the hassle of actually taking down ripperdocs is more than it’s worth. Not that Simon tends to give a fuck about the politics, or the give and take of crime vs law. He is a bullet, pointed in a direction and shot out.

“I got a bug in my system,” he says, taking another step into your clinic.

You nod, gesture for him to take a seat on your bench. Something out of a dentist’s nightmare, he imagines, but he takes a seat nonetheless. Despite lying down, everything in him is as tense as a straight line. Gaze landed and caught on you, lazy as he watches you drift around your clinic. His vision is filtering your clinic as starkly white, the outline of your light grey. You both may as well be in void, he can only see the outline of objects as they get close to him.

You swing your chair around and pick up a wire. “You cool if I take a look?” you offer, gesturing with the wire. His forearm is already tense with the instinct to catch your hand before you can plug that into the side of his neck. His metal gasmask covers the slot anyway.

A beat, in which you look back at him. He considers making it awkward, telling you no or something. Settles on nodding and watches the way you flounder for a moment when you realise you can’t reach the slot. You’re paused, flatering in the space between the two of you.

“Can you take off your mask?” you ask. Your voice is deliberately light, but he can hear the catch of annoyance underlying your tone. It makes him want to grin, wonders how you look right now, if you’re frowning at him or trying to hide it with a smile.

“No,” he tells you. A beat. You don’t move or attempt to say anything else. Stalemate, when he can’t see how you look. “There’s a catch on the side, you unlatch that to reach the slot.”

You don’t say anything else, and he’s irritated by that. Relying on noise when the other individual doesn’t want to make any noise just leaves him listeless. You reach up, click open a section of his mask and plug in. You turn away, pull what must be a tray towards yourself. You must have plugged him into your laptop, your figure hunched towards it.

You cluck your tongue, goggles shifting across your brow as you gaze at your screen. “This is a nasty one, how’d you catch this?” He decides that’s not relevant and watches you instead. You give him a quick glance, head tilting his way, but decide to shrug off his strange silence. “I’ll just be a moment while I clear it. Seems to have caught onto a lot of your neural sensors, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

His chest doesn’t puff out with pride, but it’s a close thing. You tinker away at it, finally clearing it from his system. The whites that had clouded his vision clears, and he can see you in high definition finally. Can see the pores next to your nose, the frizz around the strap of your goggles as it disappears into your hair. You’re giving him an evaluating look, your eyes intent even as the rest of your body is deliberately loose. You don’t seem to have much chrome on you, thin lines of metal around your eyes, and a scanner on your right palm. He doubts you have much more.

“There we are, good as new,” you tell him, leaning back in your chair with a pleased huff. You give him another long look, but this time he can see the widen and pinprick of your retina. He wonders how he comes up in the scan that you must’ve pulled up the second he was in your doorway. Cop, ex-army, de-commissioned, KIA but here, in the (mostly) flesh. You don’t give any of it away, just shut your laptop and unplug him.

You hadn’t asked for payment upfront, and he imagines just walking out. Wonders if you would scowl at him, if you would expect it, maybe scowl for once. Drop that calm look on your face in exchange for something a bit uglier.

There is a long beat that he draws out to see what you will do, but you only sit patiently. You turn back to your laptop, tapping away on something else now. It’s not fun if you’re not biting, he sends you what he decides must be your standard fee, watches you tilt your head to the side at the chime of money exchanged.

He doesn’t thank you, just gets up and leaves. You didn’t close the latch on the side of his mask, and he considers marching back and making you do it, but decides to save it for another day. He closes it himself for now, and fancies that he can feel the finger print that you left behind on it, evidence.

The first warrant he comes back with is legitimate. Cyberpyschos are going mental over the bridge, and they have a faint enough lead that shows some of the cyberware tracing back to yourself. He knocks on your door and watches your face when he presents it to you.

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

He imagines reaching over and holding his hand over the soft column of your throat. You’ve left it bare, you’d likely barely have any time to start flailing before he’d squeeze with intent and you’d drop, caught in the palm of his hand. If you can sense his thoughts, you don’t give it away, just watch him in return, blinking like a stray cat. Curious but wary.

“You know, Officer Riley, if you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to bring the official signed document,” you say, gesturing with the hologram that was on the chip he presented to you. It’s slightly flirty, but cautious, like you’re padding around an interrogation room, but you don’t know what he’s done yet.

He doesn’t say anything. You smile back, as if he had responded, and let it lie. Your eyes are sharp, he imagined he could hear the whir as you scanned each of his men as they came in, but your smile and limbs are loose, like you are unaware of everything. Your teeth are blunt, but he imagines the cut of one against the metal of his forearm.

They don’t find anything, and one of his men huffs, giving you a dirty look. You’re asked what you work as and your smile doesn’t slip. “I help those with addiction, this is a place for them to speak, to be treated,” you answer.

“Treated?” one of his men pushes, giving Simon a look. It’s a terrible lie, so bad that Simon reckons they’ll have a hard time proving it’s not true. This is a shitty area, there’s likely 3 gonks in the alleyway outside lying in the gutter, high. You’re also liked enough that they could grab a random off the street and they’d lie for you easily enough.

“Simple brain dances, meditations,” you explain, rolling your head back to give Simon another look. The smile is gone, eyes gone guileless. He squints at it, suspicious and the corner of your mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Honestly, officers, whatever it is that you’re looking for, I’m sure I would not be of any help.”

One of his men steps forward as if to grab you by the arm but Simon barks at him to step back. You haven’t looked away, but you look analysing again, like you had looked at the virus in his system. “We’re done here,” Simon announces and steps back before you can say anything else. Leaves you with your trashed clinic and his warrant on the chip he gave you.

Simon falls asleep later and dreams of you with a scalpel in your hands, and when you cut into him, there is no blood.

Simon sees you again, but this time you’re outside. It bristles him, seeing you standing on an open street. Your sides are bare and before he can think about it too much, he’s cut his eyes around every alleyway around you. Making sure that there is no one on the rooftops. Traffic roars past and he grits his teeth. There's been a spike in drive-by shootings, gangs nipping at each other’s heels in a show of territory.

He’s over to you before he can stop himself, a hulking mass at your back, shielding you from the view of the road. He would tell himself that he is doing his duty as an officer, but he has always been a self-interested man, and never cared much to lie to himself.

You startle as his shadow swallows you up, turning around to blink up at him. You squint at the sight of him. “Officer,” you greet. He grunts in response, which makes you almost roll your eyes.

You turn back to the stall you were standing at, humming over some mods for sale.

The man at the stall is terrified at the introduction of Simon, pale and nodding mindlessly as you start to barter. Simon imagines if he flashes his holster then you would even get the mod for free, a thought which amuses him. You'd likely get even more annoyed, which he does want to see.

As if you can sense his thoughts, you wrap up the exchange quickly and step away, Simon following at your back. “There something you want from me, officer?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder. He stares back at you, unyielding.

He’s unsettled suddenly, imagining how often you must be outside of your clinic. He hadn’t thought of it, had only imagined you were constrained in those four walls. The door had shut behind him and he had left you there, a still picture until he would return eventually. Waiting, like a good girl, sat by the door.

“You going home?” he asks you. Tells you.

You give him another look. He wants the crack of your skull in his palms, like the clean split of a watermelon. Wants to parse through your thoughts, wants to have them before they even fully form on your own.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” you reply. He grunts, follows you until you tilt towards the side streets that lead back to your clinic. Barely any safer, but at least it’s not the open street, and he has his orders to patrol here. He watches you as you disappear around a corner. His gums itch, his tongue flexes in his mouth. He is a wild dog held back with a tattered leash, but he respects it all the same, heads back to his post, but keeps his ear tilted in the direction you went in.

He comes back again, and the warrant isn’t even real. He stares you down, wants you to open it, wants the reaction to his baldfaced lie. You take the chip and step aside to let him in. There’s a cut across your brow, purple bruising around it and he can’t look away from it. White in his vision again, he’s starting to suspect you’ve put another virus in his system, infecting him. He blinks and it clears, but the distrust stays like a rotting in his core.

He wants to dig his teeth into the edge of the metal in your palms and peel it up, wants the imprint of his teeth somewhere on you that you couldn’t replace with technology. He thought about you while he fucked his fist in the shower, and you had been beneath him, teary-eyed as he broke you in on his cock. He wants to fuck you until you drop that questioning look in your eye and bare your throat for him again.

“Look at the warrant,” he tells you. You smile up at him, like he is someone charming. He’s not, and he wants the reaction that he has sought out of you.

“Won’t it just say what all of them say?” you point out, leaning back against your desk. “Something that may have something to do with me, and here you are.” He stays silent, stares you down. “Do you want me to be a criminal?”

“You are one,” Simon rebuttals. That’s why he’s here. You need to be, he needs to catch you. He dreamt of chasing you down a network, jumping between wires and static until he caught your hips in his hands and crushed them. His desire for you is entwined with the dichotomy of your identities. He isn’t much interested in forcing you to become a legal law-abiding citizen, as he is pushing the two of you further into the roles that you are in.

“You know what I mean,” you add, pushing off of your desk and stepping towards him. A step away and he reaches his metal hand out, clamps your jaw in his palm. You let him, like you always seem to do, and it’s like pure heroin, lights something up in him.

“Who did this?” he asks, your chin in his palm, his thumb on your eyebrow. Right on the cut. He thinks if it was him that put it there, he might dig in a little, but he wasn’t. It’s hidden from view like this, with the edge of your eyebrow, disappeared behind his ugly, metal thumb.

“Got jumped by some asshole who thought he was hot shit,” you say, easily. The way you say everything, no pit-stop between your brain and your mouth. He wants to dig his tongue into the back of your throat and catch the words there, drink them down.

“Who?” he asks. You shrug and he shakes your jaw like a bad dog. “Who?” he repeats, tone biting. There’s a twitch in your eye at being roughhoused but you don’t step back.

You give a name, raising an eyebrow at him. He vaguely recognises it, some asshole who’s been causing trouble in Watson. Some wannabe gangbanger. He butts his head against yours, too hard to be truly affectionate before he leaves. His gas mask bumps against your cheek, leaves a red mark on your jaw from where his metal fingers dug in.

He shoots the fucker who jumped you, and dumps his body in the river. He watches it float, knowing it’ll be found. When they see the NCPD bullet extracted from his brain, he’ll be dumped back out again. Simon thinks about allowances, thinks about ropes of wire and how they snap. Rubber ripped, coil exposed.

He comes to see you again, this time in the middle of the night, wanting to see what you look like when you’ve just woken up. He imagines you’ll be pliant, let him shift you around as he wishes, sleep in your eye and a dream still dragging on your limbs.

You open the door and rub your eyes. Your hair is a little ruffled from your bed, blinking up at him with thick-cottoned eyes. He smiles with teeth beneath his gas mask at how awareness flickers into your eyes before you force a yawn. You’re so quick, which is why it’s always so satisfying to catch you.

“Something I can help with, officer?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Let me in,” he tells you. Demands it of you. It would be so easy to force his way in, but he likes it when you do as he tells you to.

“You got a warrant for that?” you ask, scrubbing a hand over your jaw. Eye him like he’s your patient again, like you’re finding that virus in his system and cutting it out.

“No,” he replies. Watches your expression, the subtle tick of your brow at his bold-faced honesty.

He wonders if you’ll shut the door on him. Make him peel the metal back to get in anyway. He would, he’s saved up his allowances and he plans on cashing them out on you.

You give him another long look before you step to the side and let him in. The door slides shut with a wheeze and a soft thunk.

“Is there something that you would like to say, Officer Riley,” you say, as if it’s a question but your voice doesn’t lilt at the end. He wants to catalogue every one of your reactions and keep them to himself, squirrelled away, out of the sight of anyone else. That is something beyond liking you, beyond attraction. Simon feels possessive of everything about you, like he might cave someone’s skull in if they saw too much of you.

Simon’s never been too much of a talker, he steps forward and crowds you into the desk that has all of your equipment on it. You blink up at him, perfectly still in the way that prey animals are, when they know they’re caught. The rabbit-like flutter of your heart, caught in the palm of his hand as he cups your neck. Thumb against the soft give just beneath your chin. “Simon,” he tells you, although he knows you already must know. He never told you he was Officer Riley, knows that you must have pried your way into whatever confidential information that you could find on your scan of him.

“Well, that doesn’t feel appropriate, Officer Riley,” you point out. Your calm tone is undermined by the kick of your pulse. His fingers flex, held back with a trained restraint. He likes knowing you’re afraid of him, like that you talk back to him anyway. Like watching a kitten yowl at a beast. Cute.

“Simon,” he repeats, bending his head closer to you, A hunch in his shoulders, and his face still isn’t that close to yours.

A quiet beat. “Simon,” you repeat. Your voice is flat, as if you’re trying to take the enjoyment out of it for him. He huffs with something like amusement. He gets his rocks off here, having his way in your clinic, the feel of your skin against the scar tissue of his human hand. You could be scowling or smiling, and he’d like either once he’s got his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches his other hand up and undoes his gas mask, lets it drop off and sets it on the desk next to your hip. Hoists you up, catches the kick of your leg, steps into the cradle of your thighs. “There we go,” he tells you. Your eyes have taken in the exposed section of his face. Ripped skin, some replaced by chrome, most of it left to heal as is. He knows that he is an ugly sight, a hulking, horrible man, hunched over you. He doesn’t care much what you have to say about it.

He ducks his head and looks you in the eye, even playing ground. You glare back at him and he grins with teeth. He hopes that you bite him, seals his mouth over yours. Your tongue is wet and he tilts your head back, wanting to get into your throat. You bite his tongue and he groans, his other hand pushing your hips into his. He grinds into you, huffing into your mouth. He memorises each point of your teeth, sucks your tongue into his mouth and blinks at you with half-closed eyes.

He pulls back with a wet smack, which leaves your cheeks flushed. “Show me your tits,” he tells you, hands flat on your desk, framing your hips. You don’t move, glaring up at him again. He gives you a lazy look, like you’re boring him now. If anything, the hateful look in your eye has made him even harder, if it were possible. “Now.”

“Such a dick,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama shirt and slipping it off. There’s a fine tremble in your hands before you still them with a calming breath. He was right on his first impression of you - that you barely have any chrome on you. Your skin is soft looking, no harsh metal on your torso. Restricted to the framing of metal around your eyes, your right palm.

He smooths his metal hand up your side, watches gooseflesh and vellus hair raise in its wake. Cups one of your breasts in his cold metal palm. Almost coos at the sight of your nipple pebbling as his thumb swipes over it. Restrains himself at the last second, but gives into the urge to give you a mean pinch as retribution for your filthy mouth. You jump, a hitch in your breath. He smirks at you, hopes you can see the chip in his canine. “Behave,” he tells you, reaching for the waistband of your bottoms. Maybe once he’s drunk his fill, he can indulge the bite of your mouth, but his skin feels stretched thin over chrome and bone, and he wants what’s his and he wants it readily.

There’s a jump in your abdomen as his hand dwarves your hip, tugging your pyjama bottoms off and tosses them behind him. He spreads your thighs, peaks at the curls the cover your sex. All of the dolls in Night City are clean shaven. He likes this better, likes that you hadn’t been expecting him, and here he is anyway. He makes a mental reminder to bin all of your razors if he gets a chance.

He parts your sex with two fingers, huffing at the sight. So sweet, even with your strange looks and your filthy mouth. Sweet as sugar down here, your hole fluttering, your clit hidden under its hood like it’s shy. His hands are a cage around the span of your waist, squeezes in warning before he thuds to his knees and flattens his tongue against you. You whimper at the contact, manage to strangle the noise just barely. When he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, you yowl, thighs kicking out. He squeezes them in place over his shoulders, barely jostled.

He brings one hand down from your waist, lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting him to your clit. It’s out now, throbbing and awake. He spits on it, watches you flinch with it. Spittle drips down, sits on the slick that has gathered at your hole. He feeds you one finger, groans as he watches your flesh part for him, and feels how hot you are inside. You're tight, he can feel muscle clamp down around his index, clinging to him. “Need to relax, sweetheart, or my cock’s gonna break you,” he tells you. It almost feels like a struggle to even feed you one finger, something that leaves a strangled feeling in his chest.

“Do one,” you reply, eloquently. But you don’t kick him off you or anything, so he just gives you another look. He’s being too indulgent with you, he knows. But, it’s better to let a puppy misbehave so they know what’s not tolerated. Training for another day, he lowers his head and licks at the stretch of your pussy around his finger.

He slides his finger in and out of you, gives you another when your panting starts to hitch up, rubbing his thumb over your clit when you whine at the stretch. You start whining out swears, hips jolting forward and then back again as if you want to come, but don’t want him to give it to you.

His third finger is pushing it, he knows because you start clawing at his scalp, sharp little nails. He groans hot onto your clit, which has you shaking. You’re wet with sweat, he can see the shine of it on the curve of your belly, on the strip of skin between your tits.

He slows the pump of his fingers, idly toying your clit with his tongue. He debates if you should be allowed to come. He doesn’t want you knowing that he finds your pissy words amusing, doesn’t want to overly encourage it. However, you haven’t tried to run, or punch him or anything of that ilk. He knows that you can’t help the kick of your hind legs. He pinned you down with teeth at your throat, and he knows that you’re trying so hard to behave. Besides, sinking his cock into you is already going to be a struggle, nevermind if you aren’t loose and pliant for him.

He curls his fingers, sucks your clit, chasing your orgasm like it’s his last meal. A test in his restraint. He thinks that he wants this more than you do. Your lungs stutter, shaking as your hands cradle his head. You’re muttering to yourself, ‘please’ spilling out of you, again and again. Another mean suck and your shriek, back bowing and he feels the clench of your cunt around his fingers.

He fingers you through it, until you are almost sobbing, trying to crawl away from him, but held in place with his metal hand that has slipped to the small of your back. He gives your clit a kiss, mean and hard just to watch it throb before he gets up off his knees with a groan. He;s getting too old to be kneeling on tile like that. He’ll fuck you in a bed next time, if you’re good.

He slides his fingers out of you, unbuttons his trousers. You stare at him, vaguely out of it as you try to catch your breath. Awareness seems to slam back into you as he fishes his cock out. He’s big, he knows this, but the way your eyes widen like he’s pulled a gun on you has him chuckling to himself. “That’s not going to fit,” you tell him, tone dead.

“Enough flirting,” he tells you, catching your legs over his forearms and dragging you to the edge of your counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snark. He’s amused, watching the anger tugging at your scowl, naked beneath him, and your slick caught in the curls between your legs.

He gives the side of your thigh a firm smack, catching the jump of your body. “Watch that mouth, or I’ll put it to use,” he warns you. You glare up at him, but don’t say anything else. A shame, but he does have to have a firm hand with you.

He takes his cock and grinds it against you, parting your curls to get to the hot, wet flesh beneath. He catches the head of his cock against your clit, slicks himself up, knowing that he’ll need it if the greedy suck of your cunt around his fingers is any indication. He pulls back and lines himself up. He understands what you’re saying, the mushroom shaped head dwarves the small hole that flutters as he presses against it lightly. It’s hard to imagine fitting in there, even given that he has tried to prepare you.

You don’t seem to understand how bullheaded Simon is, though. He hasn’t chased anything that he hasn’t caught yet. A tense of his wide bicep and he starts to push into you, metal hand on the base of his cock, the other lightly rubbing your clit in circles to get you to give way.

There’s a moment where he thinks it might not happen, you’re starting to flush, face shining with sweat. Then there’s a shudder and your cunt parts, splits, sweet fruit halving and the head slips inside. You both groan, his head dropping onto your collar as he pushes further into you. You’re slick, he can feel your cunt sucking at him.

You start to whimper as he pushes further into you. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit, insistent even as if you try to cringe away from him. Shallowly thrusts, keeps pushing until you start to give way. You thump your fist against his chest, the impact bouncing off of chrome. He barely acknowledges it, and continues grinding into you.

He bottoms out, groans into your collarbone. “There we go, there we are, sweet girl,” he tells you. The muscles in your back loosen at the praise, feels tense flesh give out into his metal hand.

He pulls fully out and slams into you, and you whine, hands on his shoulders and clinging. “Simon -” you start, but he shifts both his hands onto the back of your knees and pushes them up to your shoulders. He can see the stretch of your cunt around him like this, the spread of your legs for the monstrous size of him. He feels dizzy with it, can’t stop himself from pulling almost all of the way out of you before slamming inside. His eyes almost roll back into his head, and you sob, nails digging into the flesh that he has on his back.

Your knees over his forearms, he braces his hands on your hips and he starts thrusting into you, pleasure zipping up his spine. Breathy sounds are punched out of you each time his thighs slap into yours. There’s a heat rising in him, catching and flaming.

He lifts his torso up, looks down on you. It’s like he thought, the prick of tears in the corner of your eyes, the swollen spread of your pussy around him. He drops one of your legs in favour of flattening his palm against your throat. Your pulse is fat in his palm. He catches it there, feels the ricochet into the meat of his hand.

You clench down on him and he groans, bares his teeth at you. “You like that, huh?” he asks you, flexing his fingers over the tendons of your neck. Your mouth is open, he can see the pink flash of it in your mouth. You try to shake your head but another hard thrust just sends it rocking back instead, another moan gritting through your teeth again.

He digs into you, flexes the metal in his legs to thrust into you hard and fast. Exertion is an old friend, and he takes it into his stride. He is only starting to pant a little, but you’re running hot and have been for a while.

Pleasure is molten hot at his pelvis, and each time his hips meet yours, cock kissing your cervix, his vision whites out at the sides. The virus that you must have planted in him is deteriorating in his system, leaving him almost mindless. He’s chasing you, still, even with you caught between his body and your desk. Breath like steam pouring out of his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue as he realises that you’re within reach.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. The vision of your head held up by his hand is enough to finish him off. He slams into you a few more times, groaning deep in his chest while you squeak, spills hotly in you, grinds to draw out the spark that glares in his vision until he stills.

A moment of quiet, air thick with sex and sweat. He drops his head against yours with a thunk as your skulls collide. Feels the buzz of your grunt in your throat with his hand still nestled there.

“You got a bed back there?” he asks, temple against yours.

“Not telling you,” you mutter, sounding wrung-out and gutted. He snorts, scoops you up in his arms, stepping back from your desk, holding you up. Still have a smart mouth. But, he has the patience to get that out of you. Not all of it though, but he won’t tell you that.

A week later, a missing report for a ripperdoc in Watson hits Simon’s desk. He shreds it, and it sounds like the chime of an allowance, cashed in.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #cod #call of duty x reader #call of duty #nic writes #cyberpunk au #cw dubcon #hes sooooo nasty i need him terribly #he's my pookie (exact thought that lands this reader in immediate trouble)#anyway i have tagged this as dubcon #but its more on the lighter side than my usual #at least i think so. will welcome thoughts on that lol

771 notes · View notes

81pastrys · 2 days ago

Text

Opposites Attract

Summary— Oscar isn’t the talkative type but he knows his way around gestures and actions. Until he finds out she doubts her worth as his partner.

Warnings— self-hatred..? ; self-doubting ; loving Oscar ; overthinking!reader ; sensitive!reader

A/N— here’s the mind-blowing Oscar fluff 🩷

Oscar One Shots

Request— hi can you make an oscar fic where reader and oscar had always had this dynamic between them where reader's more of the outgoing, yapping but sweet personality and oscar is more on the reserved quiet side, never talks more then 2 sentences, it had worked out that way and she never noticed his silence until one day one of her friends point it out, and she looks back and notices it and since then whenever they spent time together she notices it too, like it "seems" on the outside that oscar's not paying any attention like being on his phone, or being preoccupied with smth like driving, making sure her order's perfect, and reader misunderstands and wonders if she's being "too much" and gets sad about it, ps reader is a bit sensitive; TYSMMM I LOVE YOUR WORKS SO MUCHHH 💖💖💖

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

The man of only a few words was somehow dating the girl with all the words. How? Don’t ask them, it just worked out that way. She would talk and talk and talk, while Oscar would just sit, nod, listen in. Nothing ever really needed his input, she was just rambling most of the time. The dynamic duo, one talks while the other listens. Yeah they had their moments of sweet cuddles and PDA but nothing too out of the ordinary. Oscar was more present in the actions while she was more present in the talking. It just worked- clicked even.

“Why is Oscar so quiet all the time?” Her friend mentioned at lunch one day. “You’re always talking and if he does talk it’s like a sentence.” She gave her friend a confused smile.

“He just listens, I mean, I’m usually just talking about my day or things to do.” She shrugged it off. What she didn’t say was that it was getting in her head.

Why doesn’t he talk?

Is he uninterested?

“Just seems odd, you can talk for hours and he can barely speak a sentence.” Her friend should really catch the hint and shut her mouth. She diverts her friend’s attention to something else, to ease her mind of the overthinking.

After that she pays more attention. Oscar really doesn’t talk much. He does for medias but he’s being paid to do that and it’s all car and mechanics anyway, not conversation. Not to mention, when they’re together he’s mindlessly scrolling on his phone or looking towards their surroundings. Sometimes he catches her eye but not as often as she believes is right— like he isn’t even interested.

What she does notice is her favorite flowers perched in a beautifully blown, glass vase on her office desk, or her favorite meal prepped in the fridge for lunch. Oscar also makes a point on live television that he’s happily taken.

The confusion wracks her brain for weeks. No, he doesn’t engage much in conversation but he listens. How else would he know she liked peonies and blown glass from Italy specifically? No, he doesn’t seem all that attentive but she feels loved around him.

The idea that she’s just too much to handle runs across her mind. It sends her into a spiral and she ends up in the corner of their shared room crying in a ball. That’s how Oscar finds her. All she hears is a click of the door and a bit of rustling before the door creaks loudly and a sliver of light shines in. “My love, are you in here?” He asked, quiet, reserved. Uninterested.

His confusion is pushed aside, maybe he thought she went out for a walk. He walks into their bathroom, the light now showing her curled up form to him. She looks towards it and sees he was facing her from the doorway. He didn’t even go in the bathroom.

“Come here doll, tell me what’s wrong.” He said. Not a question or negotiation, no, a command. He walks closer and she uncurls from her ball to stand. Hesitantly she inches closer. “What’s got you so upset, hm?” Soft, caring, interested.

She sobs pathetically into his chest when they finally connect. Oscar just holds her. His hand rubbing soothingly over her back and the other massaging her scalp, something she said calms her down— months ago. That makes her sob harder, he remembered. He listened.

They swayed, rocked side to side. His head resting on top of hers, something else she had mentioned— however long ago— calms her. She took a shaky breath and backed away from his chest, which was now soaked from her tears.

He moved her hair sticking to her face to the side, behind her ears. “Am I too much?” She asked, small, shaky, uncertain. Oscar searched her face for any hints of the fact that she must be joking.

“What?” He asked, genuine confusion across his face. “Never. You are never too much baby, who said that?” He knew she could go down media rabbit holes of hatred and hated that people spoke badly about her— but that’s media for you.

“Me.” That hurt Oscar even more than if she got it from some stupid journalist. He took a deep breath and held her face in his hands, reassuring her needs.

“You will never be too much for me.” He said quiet, only for her to hear. “Why do you say that baby?” She pouted, not sadly, but happily. She wasn’t too much for him— she just got into her own head.

“I talk so much and I want expensive flowers and you never look like you’re listening and then you get me such beautiful things and I’m just not the kind of person you.. you should be with.” She rambled and Oscar listened to every word, decoded them even.

“You are the only person I want to be with.” He started off with, firm, reassuring, true. “I get you expensive flowers to make up for the time we lose apart, I listen when you talk because your voice is heavenly, and I get you beautiful things because you deserve them.” She hugged him again, this time tighter with more passion and a sense of feeling loved. “I love you, for you. Please don’t hate yourself for being you, and please don’t stop being you.”

A broken ‘okay’ came from her lips and Oscar soothed her. Letting her emotions take over and the tears flow. He wants her to know he cares and that it’s okay to need an emotional break from thinking.

“You should talk to me when you feel this way doll, I don’t like when you let yourself spiral.” He whispered. Before she could even think about apologizing, Oscar shushed her. “Don’t apologize my love, just let me hold you.” And so she did, she let him hold her until it all passed.

Now all the sweet gestures of flowers or gifts came with little notes.

‘I made your favorite for lunch, I love you doll.’ In her lunchboxes.

‘I missed you and these reminded me how lucky I am to have you’ with a sweet trinket or jewelry or candies.

‘These flowers are an apology for being gone so long for the triple header, I love and miss you.’

Not only did they never discuss it, but they both understood that it helped and reassured her mind. She was lucky to have him and he was so lucky to have her.

She thought it was all crashing down when he started slacking on the notes or gestures. They were in the Netherlands for the grand prix and he planned a flower field date. She loved it so much, but the nagging ‘he’s going to break up with me’ lingered in her head. Until she turned swiftly with a self-made bouquet and he was on one knee.

More boyfriend Oscar 🫶🏻

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @justaf1girl @pandabiiissh @itznotsophia @kallanfiona

321 notes · View notes

corroded-hellfire · 5 months ago

Note

I just need pre-relationship AYW!Eddie all pent up and feral for Reader. I need him whimpering when he touches himself after Reader leaves for the evening. I need him trying to picture anyone else besides his kids’ babysitter but he keeps picturing Reader.

Your wish is my command! 😘

Warnings: male masturbation, smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), older!eddie, babysitter!reader, the longing is real

Words: 2.4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Go to sleep now,” you grumble playfully, ruffling Luke’s curls as he smiles up at you from his bed.

“One more story?” Luke asks, though his voice betrays how sleepy he already is.

“Come on, buddy,” Eddie says from the doorway. “She’s been nice enough to stay for dinner and read you two bedtime stories already.”

A smile that steals Eddie’s breath grows on your lips as you turn to look at your boss.

“You make it sound like such a hardship,” you quip.

“I don’t think your union allows for overtime,” Eddie replies.

You let out a soft giggle and Eddie feels his insides begin to melt. It’s catastrophically unfair, the effect you have on him. Not in his whole life has Eddie met someone who so effortlessly turns him on and makes his heart race. As impossible as it is to ignore the feelings, Eddie tries not to linger on them for a few reasons. One, you’re a complete pipe dream. There is no way you, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, and hilarious you would ever see a man over a decade older than you in the same light that he sees you. Two, and which he admits is arguably the bigger reason, is that he’s married. Sure, it hasn’t been a real marriage in…God knows how long. But it’s still a legally binding marriage that he hasn’t even attempted to separate from. Not for lack of want, though. It’s hard to see a point when it would cause the breakup of his boys’ family, and for what? So Eddie could be all alone in some smaller unfamiliar home that he struggles to afford on his own while caring for his sons, only getting to see them half the time he does now? No. He basically is doing it all alone right now, with the lack of input from Brittany, but at least Luke and Ryan are in the home they know and the two combined household incomes can give them a pretty good life.

Unfortunately, all the logic in the world can’t cure Eddie’s addiction to you.

“Close your eyes, sleepyhead.” You stand up from the edge of the four-year-old’s bed and lean over to press a kiss to his forehead.

The way you bend down towards the boy gives Eddie a spectacular view of your ass. He’s forced to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to suppress the groan that so desperately wants to escape. As much as he internally chides himself, Eddie can’t tear his eyes away either. He gets so few chances to just look at you, that he can’t bring himself to cut this precious time short.

“Night night,” Luke says through a yawn.

“Night, pal,” Eddie says.

You boop your index finger against the little boy’s nose before standing up straight and heading in Eddie’s direction. The two of you exit into the hallway and Eddie closes the door almost all the way–leaving it open just a crack to allow some of the hallway light in.

The two of you are silent as you walk to the living room, both silently dreading that it’s time to part for the evening. You swipe your bag up from the couch and slip it onto your shoulder.

“I guess I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow,” you say, reluctantly taking steps toward the front door.

“Thanks for staying longer than you had to,” Eddie says, walking you to the door like always. He feels like he should add the words “for the boys” to the end of his sentence, but he can’t bring himself to. As much as the boys adore you, Eddie knows he is without a doubt the happiest one that you stayed for dinner and until bedtime.

“It was fun,” you tell him. “I always have fun here.”

“Always?” Eddie teases, raising his eyebrows. “Can I remind you that you said that the next time Luke has a meltdown?”

“Sure,” you reply with a chuckle.

The electricity in the air threatens to spark at any moment as Eddie reaches around you to open the front door.

“Drive careful, sweetheart,” he says.

“No,” you tease with a playful smirk. “I’m going to drive recklessly. Run all the red lights.”

“Don’t give me reason to worry,” Eddie mumbles, knocking his shoulder against yours.

“Aww,” you coo. “You worry about me?”

Heat rises to Eddie’s cheeks and he desperately wills it to move back down his body.

“Alright, smart ass.” Eddie wrinkles his nose up and pretends to shove you out the door.

With a laugh, you playfully stumble down the walkway a few steps, acting as if his push was that strong.

“Oh, fine!” you lament over-dramatically. “I’ll be a good girl! Bye, Eddie.”

A good girl. Suddenly, Eddie wishes that heat and blood would stay in his face instead of rushing to his groin like it currently is.

“Bye, sweetheart.”

The moment you’re safely in your car and Eddie hears the engine start, he closes the front door and groans in time with the locking mechanism clicking into place.

“This just feels cruel,” he mumbles to himself as he rests his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He lets himself stand there until he hears your car rumble down the road and off into the night.

It takes a Herculean effort to push himself up and head deeper into the house. Out of habit, Eddie glances at the clock on the wall to see if Brittany will be home soon or not. It’s useless though—there’s never a set time she comes home. Who knows where she is or what she’s doing? Or who she’s doing. The pseudo-schedule the household used to follow has fallen by the wayside, so Eddie mentally tells himself to ignore it altogether. Easier said than done, of course.

When Eddie steps into the hallway it’s silent. No sounds of Luke sneaking out of bed to play with his toys or Ryan fumbling for his flashlight to read beneath his covers. Heaving a sigh, Eddie decides he might as well take care of the situation in his pants.

Despite Brittany not being home, Eddie locks the bedroom door behind him. Luke has also started the bad habit of opening any and every door without knocking first. So, better to be safe than sorry.

“Okay, think of someone else,” Eddie says to himself as he rids himself of his clothes. “Anyone else. Not her.”

It shouldn’t be hard to think of another woman to get himself off. Hell, for the entirety of Eddie’s teenage years, he could’ve jacked it to almost any woman and it would be great. Now he can’t seem to get this one specific, unattainable woman out of his mind.

He shucks the last of his clothes off and lays down on his bed, wracking his brain for someone who can get the job done. Julia Roberts? Nah. Jennifer Aniston? No. Cindy Crawford? Nope. Nicole Kidman? Maybe….no. Aunt Viv from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air? The first, not the second one. Still no.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, letting his eyes fall closed as he wraps his hand around his semi-hard shaft. He licks over his lips and tries to let himself relax. The only way Eddie is going to be able to take care of this problem is to think about you and he knows it. He also knows he needs to hurry up if he wants to finish before Brittany comes home.

The mere thought of the woman who sleeps next to him at night has him softening slightly in his hand. A snort of laughter comes out, Eddie finding that humorous. Objectively, Brittany is beautiful, but knowing the rot and decay that lays just beneath the surface ruins any attractiveness Eddie could ever find in her anymore. Even though he already knows what will happen, Eddie immediately switches his thoughts over to you to see the effect. It’s instant. His cock comes to life at the very thought of your name.

No shit, Eddie thinks to himself as he opens his legs a little wider. Because she’s literally a fucking goddess. God, those eyes. Eddie’s hand grips himself a little tighter and moves down towards the base.

“Say you’re a good girl again, baby,” Eddie mumbles under his breath. Fuck, he can’t believe he was lucky enough to hear those words come from your lips. Jesus, he can hardly imagine being lucky enough to come home to you at the end of the day. Walking in the door after work and seeing you is already what he looks forward to all day, he can’t fathom how he would feel if you greeted him with a kiss and stayed there with him and the boys all night. And once the boys go to bed it’s time for some fun.

“Please.”

The word tumbles from Eddie’s lips but he’s not entirely sure what he’s asking for. You to be there with him? You to be by his side always? You to be here, naked, with your hand around him instead of his own?

Okay, Eddie thinks, shifting to make himself more comfortable. There we go, think about coming home to her.

He begins to slowly stroke his cock up and down.

Eddie imagines walking through the front door and kicking his boots off. Your voice hums sweetly from the kitchen and it brings a smile to his face.

“What smells so good, huh?” he asks as he strolls into the room.

The sight he’s greeted by is almost enough to bring him to his knees. You stand at the counter, facing him, an apron on and a bowl full of cake batter held in your hands.

“Welcome home,” you say.

Dark brown eyes follow your every move as you slowly dip your forefinger into the batter and pop it into your mouth. Eddie finds himself holding his breath as you slide your finger out from between your plush pink lips at a torturous pace.

As if the first time wasn’t enough, you dip your finger back in, but instead of putting it in your mouth this time, you point your finger up and stick your tongue out to lick every speck of vanilla batter off of it.

“Oh, fuck me,” Eddie moans.

With a soft laugh, you set the bowl down and look up at Eddie through your thick eyelashes.

“Funny. I was going to say that to you.”

A rough growl reverberates from Eddie’s chest as he moves forward to grab you by the hips. It’s only once he has his hands on you that he realizes not only are you wearing the apron—you’re wearing only the apron.

“God damn, baby,” he mutters. Calloused hands slide back just slightly and come into contact with your bare ass. He drops his head forward to rest against yours with a helpless whine.

You giggle, tilting your head up to brush your nose against his.

“I like the sounds you make,” you tell him, voice thick with lust.

Before he responds, Eddie presses a few gentle kisses along your bare shoulder and up the side of your throat.

“I want to hear your noises, too.”

“Hmm,” you hum. “I don’t think that’ll be very hard to manage.” You reach up with your left hand and tug on the tied apron string resting on the nape of your neck. The front of the apron falls down, leaving your entire torso exposed to Eddie.

A guttural groan meets your ears as strong hands grab you by the waist and help you up onto the counter. Immediately, you spread your legs and Eddie stands between them, the two of you fighting with the apron to get it all the way off you.

Eddie tosses it over his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling the two of your bodies as close as possible.

“Eddie,” you whine, reaching up to bury your fingers in his unruly curls.

“What baby?” His breath brushes against your lips, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Need you.” Using your grip on his hair, you pull Eddie’s face down to crash against yours.

Mouths meet, lips dancing, tongues exploring, and teeth clashing. Strong yet gentle fingertips dig into your skin, yearning to hold you as tight as humanly possible. Nothing is close enough.

Eddie pulls back just enough to playfully nip at your bottom lip.

“Being such a good girl for me,” he rasps.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you run your nose along the edge of Eddie’s jawline.

“Wanna be so good for you. Wanna feel you, Eddie. Pretty please?”

A smug smirk grows on Eddie’s face as he reaches between your two bodies to unzip his navy blue coveralls. You shove the material down his hips as Eddie whips his white undershirt off over his head.

“Ready for me, princess?”

Eddie lines himself up with your entrance, glancing up at your face as he waits for your approval.

“God, yes!” You nod emphatically, wiggling your hips in an attempt to get him inside of you faster.

Eddie grins at your eagerness, putting both of you out of your misery as he pushes inside.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Oh!” You whimper, clinging to Eddie’s shoulders.

The sweet little noises spilling from your lips only encourage Eddie. He pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back into your tight wet heat. It feels as close to euphoria as Eddie’s ever felt. He wants to spend forever between your legs, but it feels far too good to last long.

“Feels so good,” you whine.

“Yeah, baby?” Eddie asks. “Like when I…oh, fuck.”

Eddie doesn’t have time to imagine what he’d say next before hot cum starts to pour over his fist.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles as his orgasm works its way through his body. His hand keeps going, milking his cock for everything that it’s worth.

Once he’s well and truly spent, Eddie lets his boneless body sink into the mattress. His arm flings over the side of the bed and his fingertips brush against his t-shirt laying on the floor. Blindly, he picks it up and wipes his coated hand off before wiping the cum off his abdomen, legs, and anywhere else it went.

“Holy shit,” Eddie sighs. His head falls to the side and his eyes slip closed. A goofy smile comes to his face as his mind returns to you. “Fuck, I’m so gone for her.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #Eddie Munson fanfiction #Eddie Munson fan fic #eddie munson imagine #dad!eddie #AYW #AYWS #request

587 notes · View notes

fizziefactory · 1 year ago

Note

How did you think up each of your concept for your Robo Fizz OCs? Like go in-depth about the choices you made, why you chose their names and such. I want details.

Questions about the fizzies || Accpeting

Oh that's a juicy one… and lengthy too, let's see where we can start. This got so fucking long holy shit pick your fav section idk I'm so rambly-

The very first muse I made was Factory Fizzy, or FF-8842. I can say right away that their factory name, which is the only name they go by, doesn't actually mean anything! I just think it's cute, I really love the number 8. In hindsight, 42 I can make the argument being a subconscious nod to “A hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy”, a book series I loved when I was a teen. 42 is the meaning of life, and FF-8842 is struggling to find the meaning of their life.

But most of all, Four-Two, or Fou-Too, just sounds cute.

They were originally made for a comic that I wanted to draw for the song The Fine Print by The Stupendium, sometimes I just get brainworms when I fixate, and I end up drawing lengthy comics to songs I like. I needed a fizzy to work in the Fizzy Factory for the song, so I made a fizzy with a simple design, clothes with no dyes, “horns” without fabric on them, basically a fizzy that didn't need to catch anyone's eye, nor drain resources and money. This is also why while they're quite strong, they're only 4’1”.

Now I play a lot on the idea of a fizzy that was created with a strong sense of self, of sentience, as soon as they were created. Usually it takes my fizzies a few years to reach sentience, if they ever do… but FF-8842 is a “defect” always at the verge of being scrapped for being too much of a free-thinker. This definitely evolved from the original comic, where they clearly do not possess the same distant look in their eyes as the other fizzies.

The second fizzy I made was The Manager. His name was originally just Office Fizzy, which I later weaved into his backstory instead. I actually asked my friends how I should refer to him, and they liked the simplicity of The Manager, and I think while it might be a little bit of a mouthful, it's oozes just what kind of person he is.

He is the Manager. He makes sure this clock is turned up and ticking.

For the comic, he was originally more of a guide for new fizzies, and of course the one doing the singing/talking in the comic, and if you want a good idea of what his inspiration was, look no further than the song itself. It's all there. Eventually Manager evolved into something different. He became, well, less someone handling the papers in an office, and more of an actual… manager, of the factory.

The idea to make it all Entirely fizzy-made tickled me, and so I tweaked his story a little bit, having him climb from an “Office Fizzy”, to being where he is now, so successful he even managed to alter his own design, which no fizzy of his model has done before… he even owns his own fizzies. Has businesses outside the factory (not to Mammon's knowledge but yknow-) making big cash and giving into greed because of the influence from Mammon, by simply being made in his image, and giving into it. A success story for the ages. He is a control-freak at this point though, to make sure he doesn't lose it all.

I also gave him an Australian accent because he's spending way too much time around Mammon. That's just a fun fact ♡ Also all the green and gold in his clothes also point to how closely he works with Mammon.

Mortis had his name change many times. He went from simply Undertaker, and I considered Morty Briefly… but decided against it real quick. I went with Mort for a while… but I just loved the way Mortis sounded. I know it's wormed into my brain because of Faith (don't ask me about the plot of that game I don't Know) but Mortis just felt Right. Mortis is the Latin noun for Death.

Mortis also came from The Fine Print. There's a section of the song that goes like this;

“If you'd rather drop dead, that's fine

But you know that dropping down dead bears a fine

So you do your job and I'll do mine

I gotta meet a six-foot deep bottom line”

And I don't know, it just fired off my creative juices like… what if there was an undertaker fizzy? That'd be so cool… and so out there xhdbbd. I have always had a complicated relationship with death, so I enjoy writing morticians because of their various different ways to approach the subject. Mortis started off approaching it quite casually… It's hell after all, but the more I wrote him?

I got to put myself in his head and how he was thinking, his life-philosophy, how me having placed him in Wrath affected his outlook, and now he's become almost philosophical, now he's holding sermons in Satan's name and I believe he puts his own beliefs into them… and despite having such a sad job, and how he has to face such misery and grief every day… It's somehow helped him become the most at peace fizzy I've got. Because he understands life and death better than any other fizzy, while also getting to be on his own and expressing and exploring himself best a fizzy can.

He is heavily inspired by the Undertaker in The Backwater Gospel, who is quiet and non-threatening, but his mere presence is enough to send you into a panic.

Why is he here?

Who’s going to die?

He's also heavily inspired by the YouTube channel Little Bubby Child since he's from Wrath and all. I will meme on him til the day I die.

Mizzy got her name from Maid Fizzy, you smoosh the names together you get Mizzy. For a while I also had Dolly as a suggestion, but it didn't really stick with my followers. So it's kinda become a nickname certain fizzies who knew her before the memory-wipe call her, like Thizzy and The Manager.

Mizzy was always meant to be a companion bot, I wanted a fizzy that actually did what the commercial advertised the fizzies to do. I made her a maid because I wanted to play around with her owner being a weeb, and I simply wanted to dress her up in cute little outfits that I knew a guy with his own companion bot would want to see. In time the idea of her once having belonged to Burnie Burnz, Fizzarolli's stalker, wormed itself into my brain… and the misery tripled from there.

I think it was because I wrote out a scene with a friend where I played him briefly before he got eaten by a sandworm (shoutout Beetlejuice the OG), and I recalled his line regarding the fizzies not getting him off right. I wondered what kind of shit a disgusting guy like him would even do to a fizzy if he planned on murdering Fizzarolli, so I, unfortunately, made Mizzy his fizzybot. The only solution was the memory wipe… and that's why she's so head empty most of the time. Her programming is protecting her from remnants at all times.

I really wanted to show how messed up the companion bot situation is with Mizzy, which is why she's been used sparingly. I love a good healing story though, so I've tried to bring her in more where she gets to regain her power and independence and tweaked her current owner to be a little less awful to give her a break… but still awful nonetheless. She's always ripe for fizzy-adoption.

Ginger has changed so much from the original concept. At first she was named Fuzzy, for a fussy fizzy. Then later when I switched up his design, opting for the red design in the commercial I thought looked neat as hell, I decided to go with Ginger instead. It just sounded right, all things considered.

Ginger started out as Fuzzy, who was heavily inspired by Sun from FNAF to be perfectly honest. I have 3 Sun OCs very near and dear to my heart, and I love writing anxious nervous wrecks… so that's what I did for a while. Eventually I leaned into him snapping more and more, running out of patience like Brandon Roger's Mom character, and as I wrote them in IC group chats, I realised more and more that Fuzzy was actually rarely if ever anxious… they were mostly stressed and Irritated.

And I was never happy with the original design… it was cute but didn't spark joy, it felt hasty. I spotted the design in the commercial I liked the most, and I remade everything.

Now Ginger is Something Else Entirely.

She's tired, he's pissed, he's at his wits end, and they're Dangerous if you look at them wrong. They became a Mama Bear, while also something of a Big Sister character… grumpy and with a resting bitch face… but a heart of gold below the surface.

I wanted to explore the fizzy for the kids and teens, the meaningless chores that fizzies have to perform for demons like carrying bags and making dinner and other kinds of butler-stuff, and just how straining tiring and meaningless it all felt, all while Also being a companion for the adults.. Despite Mizzy, Ginger has turned into the fizzy that's the absolute most disappointed with their lot in life, and hates Fizzarolli just about as much as Pinwheel. This is also why they are siblings in the human AU, they've got much in common.

Thizzy is simple. Therapist+Fizzy=Thizzy. Briefly he was called Shrinky, but I left it instead as a nickname he got from Doc, which he absolutely despises, because I could Not take it seriously.

Thizzy was taken from the commercial, I interpreted his neutral face as one of absolute indifference, and I figured this is Hell and this is Mammon so… originally he was meant to not give a rat’s ass about anybody, especially not his patients. However while writing my muse page for this blog, I had him write out short “profiles” for the other fizzies… and I thought Hey… what if he checked up on the fizzies too?

Now he's part of a larger process that The Manager runs where he checks up on the fizzies on the regular to make sure they're doing fine physically but also mentally (at least well enough to perform their tasks), and in time I found that Thizzy actually did care…

He cared too much, which is why he tried to not care at all. Because the alternative was to let it all get to you… Despite not wanting to get involved, it's in his programming to do so, and he's got a good heart, albeit only metaphorically.

Now he's just so tired... and working in the Sloth Ring doesn't help this.

His relationship with Doc is the result of when he was still in his early years and just performed his tasks as he was programmed to do… and now he's stuck in this unhealthy toxic relationship where he has to make sure Doc is happy all the damn time. Luckily for him, he mostly is. At least as a robot-

Finally, Doc! Doc is easy enough, he's Doc because he's a doctor! I did consider Doccy but it reminded me of. Another word, so I backtracked bxhrhe. I worried it'd be too generic but… it just fits. He's Doc. Nothing else fits like Doc does ♡

I just stared at the screen when Doctor Fizzy came on. Those colours. That Forced Grin, those soft little cheeks… that blank fucking stare. This was an unhinged doctor-character and I needed him in my life. My cringe, emo, deviantart-browsing, gore-loving, Higurashi-watching, Hatoful Boyfriend-playing, problematic teenage-self... they needed this.

He hasn't actually changed much at all. He was always inspired by those crazy doctors you see in anime, games and horror movies. Their silly giggles and the over the top surgeries and bone saws and all that stuff.. he's my horror and gore-character, for when I want to write a bit of this and that, which I do find a lot of fun.

I don't know what really made him as flamboyant as he is… I think just the nature of him being a crazy doctor character while also being a sex bot… and when I discovered the Bubblegum Coquette aesthetic- and in time I developed his relationship with Thizzy. His clinginess opened up the idea of how he's probably not got a lot of connections because of how “intense” he is, and while he's not quite as sentient as the rest… he's getting there, every time he reflects on how lonely he is.

His only way to connect with others was by keeping body parts of whomever he operated on, that was All he was ever able to get his hands on fair and square(?).. and he started getting unhealthily attached to those parts. Now he actively seeks them out because it's the only form of love and attachment he understands so far, and if he gets attached to people to a strong degree, there's a chance it turns into love/obsession, which will push him further into sentience, and so on now we have a yandere too.

Cringe.

But at least I'm free.

He's the perfect example of when a robot is Not taught how humans and emotions actually work, and now he's already registered what he knows as truths and facts.

Imma not cover Imposter too much cus really I just got inspired by that That's not my neighbour-song before I even knew there was a game, and I wanted to make a strong fizzy for quite some time, that could work as Manager's bodyguard to make him pose more of a threat than he did on his own. I loved the black and white aesthetic because of absolute neutrality, and my fiance mentioned that it looked like a pierrot and I was like Hell yeah accidental pierrot let's go-

They obviously has a bit of Ennard from FNAF in them, or the Mimic or whatever that new enemy is called... I think it's a pretty natural robot-plot device at this point. It is a fun bot to play in group chats where I can pretend to be my other muses and wait and see how long it takes my fellow muns to realise there's a question mark at the end of the tupper bot's username. It communicates through motions and clicks, sign language, when it isn't disguised, and is very mischievous and a troublemaker.. I dunno, the inspiration is "gremlin".

#input command [ asks ]#instruction manual [ hcs ]#see my name on the list? [ imposter fizzy ]#sorry i wasn't listening [ therapist fizzy ]#like a cheshire cat i think that you are just a grin [ doctor fizzy ]#call me baby doll [ maid fizzy ]#have you seen my son [ caretaker fizzy ]#the last man standing in our sinister charade [ undertaker fizzy ]#you should've read the fine print my friend [ manager fizzy ]#we work to earn the right to work [ factory fizzy ]#long post #this took. years

6 notes · View notes

fightinggamegirlfriend · 7 months ago

Text

I wish whoever made Hayate’s Raijin’s combo throw string in DOA4 so fucking difficult a very step on a Lego for the rest of your life and I hope you NEVER touch fighting games EVER AGAIN.

#Something something I sure wish fighting games that have absurd combos had accessibility options #For people who can’t get precise timing done or better yet put an alternate directional inputs for the same move!!#It’s not that fucking hard!!!#shallow rambles #guys is it too much to ask to complete the command training mode JUST to unlock a character’s voice system narration?#shallow is yelling about game design again #yes it’s a game from the mid 2000s no it doesn’t excuse the lack of actual accessibility options #I’m going to keep yelling about this combo string until I get it and even then I WONT EVEN USE IT IN GAME.#genuinely which doa player who mains Hayate ACTUALLY use raijin in competitive play…

3 notes · View notes

naffeclipse · 10 months ago

Text

Brain Damage

Reader x Sebastian Solace

Commission Info

Thank you so much to @o-cinnamonstickz for requesting the hot fish we've both been obsessing over for a hot minute! After a blow to the head, the reader wakes up in none other than the merchant's arms, and he has a few things to check before he'll allow you to continue on. You know, just friendly fish shopkeeper things!

Content Warnings: Injuries. Violence. Mentions of gore.

———

Pain draws you out of the darkness you were so sweetly nestled in. A blunt ache furiously pulses in your right temple, demanding attention. A groan slips from you. You weakly writhe and arms tighten around you.

A thrum works in your ears, blending into a monotonous buzz before your consciousness begins to splice the noises. A thick stream of water falling in a dull roar. The constant echo of something just beyond the walls and doors, someone screaming or turrets firing. You never did like to focus on those.

A voice springs into your awareness. Lowered into a hiss, it slithers against the edges of your consciousness in a familiar timbre.

“Wake up.” Two firm hands shake your shoulders and you whine. “That’s it, come on. Wake up.”

“Leave me alone,” you mewl. You try to twist away and kick out your feet but a heaviness surrounds you. The sharp pressure points of claws dig into your flesh. You stop at once.

“Not a chance,” the voice chuckles.

The pain persists, and you’re forced to crack open your eyes. A light blue face blurs against the gray facility walls—the north side is ripped out completely. A burst pipe sends a waterfall down into the darkness. The ground is cool but you’re propped up on something solid but slick. One arm slips away from you. Three glowing eyes pierce through the haze of your vision.

Sebastian?

A few seconds trickle by as your vision focuses on the sharp-tooth grin looming over you. The fluorescent lights are pale, sterile, and cold. Sebastian’s angular fish lure is warm and yellow and soft, dangling above you as his eyes hungrily sweep over your person.

You didn’t think he ever left his safe room. Of course, he does, but you didn’t know he’d leave it for you.

You grunt as another wave of pain taps into your skull. The blunt ache chisels away at your concentration as if someone with a vendetta and a hammer decided to open up your head.

“Welcome back.” Sebastian pulls away slightly. He sweeps back his dark hair from his face, and his eyes squint slightly in concentration. In a harsher tone, he commands, “Hold still. Stop squirming.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, but your defiance echoes childishly. You wince and aggravate the pain in your skull.

Sebastian smirks. A smugness decorates his inhuman face as he leans closer. A spark of indignation burns through you but it dies as quickly as it flares.

Okay, fine. You stop trying to escape from your position, caught against his tail and where he hovers over you. His hands pin down your shoulders. Bulky sensations of packs are tucked behind your shoulders, propping you up in a manner of really, really awful pillows. Slowly, you huff, blowing a piece of hair out of your face.

“There, now is that so hard?” he purrs condescendingly, eyes impish and superior. “You should be a lot more grateful for help, friend.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to form daggers at the merchant who so decidedly has you in his grasp.

Through gritted teeth, you ask, “What are you doing here?”

His mouth quirks at one corner. You stare as he lifts a hand from your shoulder to brush your hair up your forehead, exposing the side of your face currently engulfed in pain. His large palm settles delicately above your head wound. Your flesh prickles at the slightest graze of his claws over your scalp, triggering a sensitive input of nerves down your neck that nearly causes you to squirm again.

“I was going to scavenge a few things off of your corpse. Lucky for you, you’re not dead.” His glowing eyes hold your gaze. “What happened? I found you unconscious on the floor.”

“Uh, yeah, that,” you draw out slowly.

Sebastian drums his other hand’s claws along your shoulder, his expression shifting into displeasure or suspicion. You’re not certain.

Your attention shifts. Memory ripples with waves of pain, but you drag a hand through your murky recollection.

You were walking through a dark room. There were two doors, each with glowing number signs. One held a slight static, but it was closer. You didn’t think anything of it—the facility is compromised in every way, so why not the screens as well? But that was your mistake.

“It was a fake door,” you sigh deeply. “I didn’t know Good People was behind it.”

Sebastian’s stare could pin you to the floor like a bug and write your classification as “stupid.” To your dismay, you can’t rebuttal him.

“You didn’t check to hear if there was growling or breathing?” His voice is so sharp and abysmal with judgment, you flinch. The thick, corded muscles of his tail tense around you.

“I… I…” you murmur, a heat filling your cheekbones, but you're stalling. Did you check?

It was a blur. You shoved the door open only to freeze at the sight of a red mass of viscera. It moved. A smiling white mask snapped in your direction and three large claws on the end of its three-fingered hand struck, knocking you off your feet and backwards. Your temple hit the ground with a solid whack that reverberated within you.

Darkness rushed into your vision. You remember the slam of the door, the inhuman growl, and then the slight smell of fish.

Sebastian’s hands flex along you. He lowers himself closer, face to face. You try to lean away but his thick serpentine body prevents you from regaining any more precious space.

“What do you remember?” His glowing gaze flashes from one eye to the other, peering into them so deeply, you fear what he’ll find. “Do you have trouble recalling anything else? Concentrate on me.”

“What? No,” you stubbornly shake your head but his palm grips your skull and holds you still. You only achieve a strain on your neck. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What’s my name?” he asks firmly. His anglerfish lure slips into view, dusting your face in its soft yellow glow. You squint against its proximity.

You growl under your breath. “Sebastian. Are you happy now?”

He nods. “Yes, that’s my name.” But there’s no joy spilling over his expression now that you’ve uttered what he wanted to hear.

Between the hand gripping your head and the one holding your shoulder, he has you secure like a mouse in the mouth of a cat. You curse as his third arm, slightly smaller than the other two, reaches for your face.

“Open your eyes wide.”

On a reflex of spite, you nearly close them, but the nature of his questions finally slots into place in your pain-riddled mind.

“Oh, please, I don’t have a concussion.” You would roll your eyes but you’re a bit preoccupied with how his hand cups the side of your face.

“You were bleeding and unconscious when I found you,” he retorts. Sebastian’s claws frame the socket of your eye, pressing into your skin to hold your eyelids up. “Open your eyes wide. Let me watch the dilation and then I can see if all of your complaining is due to true brain damage.”

A seething retort sits behind your teeth but your muscles draw taut under his cool skin and wicked talons only centimeters from your precious vision.

Willingly, you allow him to draw his anglerfish lure back and forth in front of you, into your view, and back out. In the time you’re trapped under his diagnostics, you study him in return. His eyes are wide and bright, unnatural for humans but they refract like fish caught in a flash of a camera in the abysmal depths of the sea. His teeth are razor-sharp. Frills stick out between the locks of his hair in place of ears. You feel the slight wiggle of his tail behind you, his flukes flipping in the slightest while in his concentration.

“At least your mind seems mostly intact,” he hums. His hand falls from your face and you blink at last. “So you just can’t remember because you weren’t thinking, were you?”

“Can it, tuna fish,” you huff. “I just want to sleep this off and be on my merry way.”

His tail coils slightly tight against your back. You glance down to his shiny scales intercut with belts and straps of pouches from where he stuffs the goods he pillages from around the facility.

“I’m afraid you can’t sleep. Not for the time being,” he muses as he draws his claws over your scalp to cradle the back of your head. “Unless you’d like to never wake up again.”

“And you’re going to keep me awake?” you breathe, exasperated. “I’m not bleeding anymore and—wait, how did you find me?”

Now you skew you with a look, your brow furrowing with a splash of hurt along your temple. Sebastian shifts in the slightest, caught off guard in a way you haven’t seen the saboteur before. His claws curl.

“Just a little tracking device. No big deal.”

Your eyes widen, furious beyond words. You lift your hands to shove him away from you, but he catches your wrists. You try to get to your feet but his strength easily overwhelms your own, and he firmly keeps you pressed against his tail.

“You put a tracking device on me! Of course, you did—I’m not even surprised!” you snarl. “Where is it?”

“Let’s not worry about that right now,” he grins.

You clench your fists. Your hands are so small, balled up above his three-fingered hand shackles. He reminds you how tiny you are underneath him.

The tracking device has to be on your air canisters. You would have felt it on your clothes.

“Why did you put a tracker on me?” you demand, almost thrashing while pain pulses in your temple. You feel rabid like you want to bite him. Could you? Probably, but you have a gut feeling he’d throw you over the ledge if you did.

His grin remains unchanging despite the slight twitch at the end of his tail. “Like I said, I was going to scavenge a few things off of your corpse.”

A bonfire ignites within you. You can hardly snap your teeth as heat fills your mouth.

“I’m going to smoke you and dip you in tartar sauce.” You test his grip but he holds firm, and you remain trapped. “Let me go!”

“If you want to take a nap and never wake up, be my guest,” he hisses, the sound curling in your eardrums and sending a shudder through your body. He presses closer, each sharp tooth in his maw on full display. “But if you don’t want to pay the ferryman, I suggest letting me help you, friend.”

You hold his unyielding gaze, licks of furious flames still eating away at your ribs. There’s logic in his argument. Though you’re not so sure why he’s offering to help you without a price tag attached. He’s helped you, yes, allowed you to buy some of his scavenged goods, and told you to be careful, but this seems to be more than a merchant’s role. Can you refuse his offer? You may very well be concussed. And if you die, do you want to spare a coin for the ferryman?

Slowly, you breathe out.

“Fine,” you jerk your chin at his hands still engulfing your arms. “Give me back my hands. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I thought so,” his smugness is not much better than a fire poker stirring up your rage. A chuckle rolls out of his mouth.

His large hands unfurl, releasing you, and you cross your arms over your chest with a scoff. You smell the slight scent of salt-like sweat and the musk of fish. You wonder how long his essence will stick to your skin. Sebastian settles back onto his tail, still close to hovering over you, but no longer bursting your bubble with his three hands.

You froth with rage. Sitting in the crook of his tail, propped up, almost child-like in your pouting, you search for barbs with which to spur Sebastian, and you do not come up empty-handed.

“I used most of the stuff I bought off of you,” you announce, baring your teeth in something that could be a smile were it not for the internal fire you’re still fueling. “You would have gone to a lot of trouble just for a broken flashlight and one flash beacon—oh, wait. I forgot. You love flash beacons, don’t you?”

His scowl could curdle your blood, but he shifts, jostling you slightly and causing the wound in your temple to pound. You lift a hand to it, cursing under your breath. Growling low under his breath, he leans forward and sweeps a few locks of your hair back to study where you hit your head against the floor. You hold still at his touch.

“At least I’m not the idiot who chose the door that had the Good People behind it.” He hisses quietly under his breath, mumbling something more; most likely more insults while he studies your wound. “Keep talking. We’re going to be here a while and I will keep you awake.”

Your arms slowly loosen from around you. Sebastian reclines, resting his face in his hand as he remains draped around you, a coil of safety against the dangers and unknowns of the facility.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you mutter, but give a nod of agreement.

#naff's writing commissions #sebastian solace x reader #come get your hot fish #he's obnoxious and smug hehe #naff writing

997 notes · View notes