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theartistknownaslymond · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 days 12 + 13

“Mayday, mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

Fracture | Dislocation | “Are you here to break me out?”

Technically, we’re getting down to the duel at Zuara. But that manifests differently in the AU. With more...torture, basically.

CW for ummm where to start. Imprisonment, solitary confinement, darkness, torture, beatings, SA, psychological fuckery, drugging, restraint, psychiatric malpractice, personal data and privacy breaches, oh yes, limb dislocation, childbirth mention, allusions to rape and SA...😬 oh and cave ins! Flooding. Violent use of stationery. Blood. Homophobic slurs. Threats of the care system and the use of lobotomy. Can I just say CW Graham Reid Malett? It would save time.

It’s also about 7,500 words, I know tumblr isn’t the ideal platform for reading, it will go on ao3 at the end of the month with everything else.

So anyway, repeat after me: Whump Room! Whump Room! Whump Room!

I’m going to go and do penance for this now k bye. So much love to all my gremlins who want to read this! <3

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Notes: Vadan is Jerott’s old sannyasin name, as Geetesh is GRM’s name. Baron Morgan is the Aga Morat. Khaireddin is Kailam/Cai. Kiaya Çalışkan is Kiaya Khatún. If anything else needs explaining do ask!

---

Francis wasn't certain how long he'd been in the tunnels below the ashram. His days began whenever he woke - or, more often, was woken - in darkness, and ended the same way. He had become Graham Reid Malett's latest living experiment, and as far as he knew, his life only mattered because it protected the lives of others.

Oonagh was alive, he had been told, though he hadn't seen her; her son - Francis' son - was alive. There was the boy Joleta had given birth to at an age it appalled Francis to even imagine; there was Philippa, supposing that her cover was safe as she worked with both children in the nursery; Archie and Salah, who would be looking for Francis, risking themselves the closer they came to discovering to the truth; Marthe, brought into all this against her will, seething at finding she couldn't just leave; and Onophrion, Gaultier, the boy Mikál who Philippa had formed a bond with...a whole community for Swami Geetesh to fuck with in the cause of keeping Francis compliant.

It had been made exquisitely clear to him that help was not coming. It would not be permitted to reach him, even if it were to be offered.

Since the first time he'd been brought rudely to consciousness, Swami Geetesh had let him believe that Jerott was already lost - an accident on the road as he had tried to escape and get help.

Francis couldn't say how many days ago it had been, but he recalled the sight of Geetesh's fascinated expression, lit in patterns of jagged contrast by the lone, caged bulb affixed to the wall. "He won't be bringing anyone back for you, my dear, do you understand that?"

It was impossible to process in the unreality of the world Francis had found himself in. It simply wasn't comprehensible that Jerott might not exist any longer - it seemed far more likely that Francis himself had ceased to be, and had found himself in some auto-purgatory, smothered by his own worst nightmares.

Before this, he had been helping Onophrion and another of the sannyasins clear brush in the woods; someone had offered him a sip of water from a flask and he'd grimaced at the bitter, metallic taste, supposing that the bottle was new and hadn't been cleaned well. He didn't remember losing consciousness, had merely woken to find himself pinned to a narrow bed with Geetesh sitting next to him. His hands had been cuffed to the steel frame and nausea had scoured his body from the tips of his toes to his scalp.

Geetesh had scowled at the sound of Francis retching. "Pull yourself together. The facilities in here are limited - if you ruin these clothes and this mattress I shan't be able to bring you replacements."

He'd had to force down another spasm of acidic rebellion as he contemplated spewing directly into that smug face, but logic clamped down on the temptation swiftly. He needed to know where he was, what was happening, what on earth Graham Reid Malett intended for him now.

That, of course, had all been information that Geetesh had delighted in spooling out over various indefinable moments of consciousness. When he visited, Francis always woke to find himself chained to the bed; when he left it was usually when Francis was on the brink of passing out for one reason or another, and in no fit state to fight Geetesh for the door key.

The room had a door at each end - they were sold, metal constructions. The floor was poured concrete and the walls and ceiling were bare rock. As well as the bed there was a stool and a heavy desk affixed to the floor, and a bare metal toilet bowl, like one would find in a prison, plumbed securely into the concrete. The light only came on when Geetesh arrived.

It emerged that Francis was being kept in this empty, soulless space in order to contribute to Geetesh's musical ambitions. Once Geetesh had explained his vision, he brought sound equipment down with him and set it up on the desk. The power source was outside the room, and a red extension cable trailed across the the desk from one of the doors, taking mixing decks, recording devices and other gadgets in its sockets. Sometimes it took Geetesh some time to set up the paraphernalia; sometimes all he did was press play on a battery powered cassette player and watch Francis' response. Once or twice he did not press play, but rather record, and those were the visits Francis resented most.

It turned out that Geetesh had been keeping archives of every one-to-one therapy or meditation session run out of the ashram, as well as recordings of the ambient trauma of collective samarpan sessions. He had some theories about human empathy, about the need some people felt to respond to the suffering shown by another.

"Listen to that," he might breathe, pausing the cassette after a pupil made a sound that weighed more than words - a sigh, a whimper, a groan of revelation. "What is it that makes us respond to music, Francis?

"The way the professional singer can channel feelings it isn't possible or desirable for us to express in our day to day lives. The kinds of feelings we may express instead in a closed therapy session. But it's always an act for the singer, isn't it, my lyrebird?

"You withold yourself, even when you are on stage. You perform. But what if your music was real? What if you let the audience have your real, authentic self? How much more cathartic might it be for all?"

When Geetesh depressed the button marked record, Francis knew it was time to be as silent as possible. Geetesh's approach varied - but never his goal of stripping Francis back to his 'authentic self'.

Sometimes he spoke to Francis like a psychiatrist might, leading him to the worst occasions in his life that Geetesh could summon: the year of slavery spent working for the New York mob, the disappearance of his young sister, the disaster in East Berlin, the night of misguided, narcotic-fuelled sex he'd shared with Geetesh's own sister. But, by and large, all these occasions that Geetesh knew about were a matter of public record already - and Francis had heard everything the world could throw at him regarding these moments. He didn't need Geetesh to tell him to regret his actions.

"And wouldn't you say that you enjoyed feeling important? Knowing that your music was worth killing over? You liked the idea of being a figurehead for freedom fighters...But a figurehead was all you were. Absolved of responsibility, merely a trinket for the serious men to display - free to deny it all...

"Of course, you let Eloise down. She trusted you, didn't she? She thought you could save her, offer her the life of luxury that would take her away from Gavin Crawford. But you're selfish, Francis. You didn't want to share. What if the world had loved her even more than you? You couldn't bear to let her in, so you drove her away. It's your fault she's never coming back.

"Those poor young things in Berlin - what a merry dance you led them on. Hope is the most dangerous weapon in a musician's arsenal, wouldn't you agree? To bring them the hope of acceptance - offering them the chance to be themselves even as you appeared in disguise - knowing that it would likely just get them killed...Was it worth it, for your career? How many times will you try the same trick - dying in order to boost your record sales?

"What you did to that girl is unconscionable. Unimaginable. She was nothing to you, was she? Just another little groupie you could teach a lesson to. Just a way of hurting me. But I bet you enjoyed it, didn't you, Francis? Having power over one so young. Testing the feeling of a nubile body beneath yours, showing her all the ways of the world she couldn't yet have experienced. You wanted to ruin her, and you got a thrill out of doing it."

These sessions left Francis calmly impassive. Geetesh was opening no new wounds, and when such accusations were thrown out only with the intention of getting a response from him, Francis was well-practised in acting indifferent. He already knew that the insinuations behind all Geetesh said could hurt him - but the pain was worst when Francis was the one carving blame into himself. And he had already hurt himself more deeply with those thoughts than Geetesh could possibly hope to do, lacking, as he was, the precise reasons why Francis already held himself fully accountable for the lives ruined and lost in the wake of their association with him.

So just as Francis declined to show any great emotion regarding his sordid past, Geetesh resolved to hide his own frustration at Francis' self-control.

This he managed some days better than others. Sometimes, the record button was pressed to catch the sounds of a clinical, thoughtfully-plotted beating - nothing serious enough to impede Francis' creative abilities, merely, as Geetesh called it, "A purgative. To help me to centre myself again. To remind me of the greater things that will be possible when you submit."

He would leave Francis with hidden bruises, scrupulous about wrapping his preferred implement in soft padding before the act. Afterwards, he might mix the new recording into a session taken from a group meditation and invite Francis to pick out his own grunts and cries among the screams of devotees letting loose.

Francis didn't know how many sessions of this he had endured when Geetesh decided to forcibly remind him of his obligations to those he loved.

He had already played dozens of tapes to Francis, narrating over other people's private confessions as though, by his intervention, he had collected the essence of each individual and contained it in a tidy arc: beginning, middle, end - and Geetesh's concluding moral. But on one occasion he woke Francis without preamble, leaving him in the darkness with only one track playing.

On it: a woman's voice - she had a Donegal accent - and the murmurs of a solicitous helper, someone with the disingenuous, soothing tones of a medical professional. Geetesh's own instructions, spoken too quietly to be heard precisely, and a bustle of activity and beeping monitors.

"You couldn't be there for the birth," Geetesh murmured from the darkness at the foot of Francis' bed. "So I thought I would preserve it for posterity."

Of course, this most precious of moments was accompanied by the pointed reminder that Geetesh expected some return for his generosity in sharing Kailam's first breaths - and that if Francis did not oblige him, he would make sure the relevant parties suffered.

It got him writing, at last. It forced him to compose, and it was, undeniably, inspirational.

Geetesh let Francis sit at the desk, uncuffed, and he lay on the bed, smiling, waiting for Francis to share what he had created.

Bitter, hopeless, and exasperated by the task, Francis finally exclaimed: "Don't you think the work might be more natural if I wrote about fatherhood from the perspective of one who is allowed to be a parent to their child?"

Geetesh stared at him dumbly for a moment, his brows raised and eyes wide. Then he rolled his head on the pillow and laughed uproariously at the ceiling. "You? Parent? I don't think so, little lyrebird. Besides, it's your pain that I want. That's what will sell best. The market for those sappy peans to parenthood is...limited."

Stupidly, after all the disdain and abuse that had fallen from his lips already, Francis found this got under his skin more than anything else had done His grip tightened on his pen, and he imagined driving it into Geetesh's eyeball.

No. Early on, Geetesh had told him that there was a pager hidden on site, rigged to sent an automatic message out if Geetesh did not override it within a number of hours. The message would ensure that Francis' family was scattered to the four winds: that Cai would vanish into the adoption system and Oonagh would be sectioned, and who knew what else would happen to the others. Any harm to Geetesh risked triggering this if Francis could not search thousands of acres of land and find the pager in time - or if he couldn't guarantee an escape for them all before then.

Francis had only one very dim hope regarding this. It hinged on circumstances that were, regrettably, beyond his control, but he had to believe that nature hated Graham Reid Malett as much as he did.

He had managed to escape the confines of his dingy cell just the once, when, having administered a beating, Geetesh had removed Francis' cuffs and wandered over to the desk to jot some things down in a soft-bound notepad. Francis' limbs had taken the brunt of it that day - his upper arms felt puffy and weak, his legs shook, and the soles of his feet were in agony. He lay curled on the concrete floor, his breath ragged and pained, and he noticed that one of the heavy metal doors hadn't been fully closed. There was a light seeping in that wasn't the same colour as the dim yellow of the bulb in the room - this light was cooler, perhaps more natural. Francis' hopes rose - maybe freedom was closer than he had thought.

He rolled over with a groan so that he was close to the door, and Geetesh turned to look at him.

"Good, lyrebird. That's material we can work with," he said smoothly.

Francis waited, prone against the cold, hard floor, until Geetesh had turned away again. Then, summoning the strength to stand - simply because he had to - Francis got up with the aid of the wall and the door jamb, grasped the edge of the heavy metal door with his fingertips and wrenched it open, and stumbled into fresher air.

He had found himself at the foot of a vertical shaft lined with metal rungs. It seemed to rise endlessly, to the source of the cool, white light he had detected. He grimaced at the distance, though he moved towards the rungs with the intention of climbing.

But the nerves in his fingers tingled from the blows that had been struck to his upper arms, and the pressure of one rung under the sole of his bare, whipped, foot was unbearable.

He had leaned his head against one of the cold metal bars and gasped back a sob of anguish, and then, even as Geetesh's steps casually approached from behind, he had noticed the water and minerals beading on the surface of the rock and he had recalled the maps he'd seen of the area.

Miles of unmapped tunnels and aquifers; cave systems that people disappeared into never to be seen again; unpredictable, changeable arroyos; old wells and sinkholes; a land that was as restless and vindictive under modern human occupation as an unbroken animal. When Francis had been removed to this cell, they had been approaching autumn and the rains. Was it too much to hope for, that this recently dug tunnel might not be able to withstand the forces of the seasons when they were unleashed?

Geetesh had wrapped his arms around Francis' biceps and torso and plucked him from the ladder like he was plucking a bug from a tree trunk. He had deposited Francis heavily on the bed, face first among sheets that already now smelled of Geetesh, and he had left immediately, taking his recording equipment and mixing deck with him, switching the light off and slamming the door.

But since then, Francis had thought often of the damp wall and what might be behind it. He didn't consider himself a man of faith, but he prayed to that wall and to the aquifer that lay behind it, and he willed it to break through and sweep both him and Geetesh away.

He tried not to let it work its way into the songs he wrote - this flood imagery and the potential of primordial power that lurked, always, in his subconscious. In this way, he found that he could write the miserable memoir Geetesh craved, while even so retaining his true feelings - his authentic self - from his tormentor.

It still wasn't easy to pluck what Geetesh desired from the knotted tangle of horrors that passed for emotions in that cell, and writing was a constantly draining task. Francis offered up his own self-loathing regarding the events Geetesh had questioned him about - he wrote confessions daily - or hourly - or at the very least every time consciousness arrived, wearing pink linens and a cruel smile on its face. But he did not preface them with forgive me, Father. He wrote for the impatient, seething morass that was the public court of opinion, knowing that no amount of sugar-coating with circumstance could absolve him.

The titles came and came, the confessions poured forth until there was almost an album's worth:

Galley Boy

The Sympathiser

Blood and Treason

The Tragic Moves

Strange Refuge

An Accident Happens

Distress is Not Released

The Lusty May

Flaming June

Pawn in Frankincense

Francis was at his lowest ebb. The tunnel he was in was deep enough below ground that he still had no inkling of the season. Wherever Geetesh arrived from, he never came direct from the outdoors, wet or bundled up against the cold. For all Francis knew they might have passed through winter and emerged again into spring.

But no - when Geetesh got close to him under the dim yellow bulb, Francis could see that his summer colour was absent. His skin was pale and his hair was a more muted gold. He smelled of wood smoke as much as patchouli, and the food he brought Francis was heartier, warming stuff.

He also seemed to sense that Francis' inspiration was beginning to wither, that his resources were running low, and that he could no longer push himself along only on the empty fumes of fear and stubbornness. He brought the tape player back in.

"I decided to share something special with you today, lyrebird," Geetesh told him. Settling at the foot of Francis' bed, cross-legged, his feet bare, he laid the tape player down between them like he was a teenager about to present a mixtape to their crush. "I'm sure you miss our foolhardy young friend almost as much as I do - and I thought you might like to hear his voice again."

Francis sat with his back to the headboard, frowning as he sought after Geetesh's meaning.

But then Geetesh pressed play, looked at Francis with mischief in his eyes and - to Francis' horror - pulled his linen top off. "It's one of my favourite sessions," he said by way of explanation. "I like to be comfortable when I listen to it. We made such a breakthrough! Ah, what might have been..."

He placed his large hands on his knees and drew an extravagantly deep breath that was designed to show off every muscle in his abdomen and chest - and the mastery which he had over them all. His wooden mala hung over his skin, and on it, the bearded face of Shree Rajneesh smirked at Francis on Geetesh's behalf.

Soon, two voices began to speak, and Francis closed his eyes when he recognised who Geetesh's patient - or pupil, or disciple, or whatever he called them - was in this session.

The accent was unmistakeable: Kelvingrove via Paris. Abrupt phrasing, heated and passionate one minute, stunned and defensive the next. A little younger, a little higher than it had been the last time Francis had spoken to him - cigarettes and booze had brought it down to something with rougher edges. But it was Jerott Blyth, and he was talking to Geetesh about a cassette he'd bought at a gas station.

The album he mentioned was Lymond's third, recorded with Will Scott, Christian Stewart and Turkey Mat. He seemed to have spent some time listening to it, to the point where Geetesh termed it an obsession and began to probe into how Jerott came to know the singer whose skill he praised so highly.

Francis, his eyes closed, remembered sleepless nights of innocent mischief in Carlisle. He remembered jamming at the youth hostel, swapping cassettes, raiding charity shop record bins, singing together, drinking together, singing together again and going back to the hostel to play guitar together again, and never wanting the month to end.

He still couldn't really fathom the thought that Jerott was truly gone - he had seemed indestructible, not least after surviving the fire and the cyanide and the delerium tremens. Not least in the wake of the betrayal he had felt when he'd discovered what Francis had done to keep them safe at Baron Morgan's Oasis, and the way he had pushed past that hurt in order to give the glorious, rousing, ecstatic performance he'd shared with Francis on their last night at the Oasis.

Francis had always supposed that Jerott, despite a propensity for finding trouble, would outlast him by a lifetime, would be the one to keep playing Francis' songs long after others forgot him. And now Francis found that the lack of him was an open wound that Geetesh had finally learned he could access.

On cue, Geetesh leaned forward and prodded Francis' leg. "Do you hear, my sweet? Did you know he thought that of you?"

The tape played, and Francis could not open his eyes as he heard the old conversation flow over him.

...

"Yet you say he's beautiful."

"Well, yes, but...so are...sunsets! I wouldn't have sex with a sunset."

"No. But a beautiful woman?"

"Yes. Obviously."

"Then why not a beautiful man?"

"Well it's. It's not right. It's perverted. Bhagwan says we need to be balanced. He says... that's unnatural, unbalanced. The people doing it have just got into bad habits."

Geetesh chuckles; indulgent.

"Is that what it was, when you came to me in Pune?"

"I... that was different." His throat sounds dry.

"Oh? You don't find me beautiful, Vadan?" Geetesh is smiling; it can be heard in his rich voice.

Jerott's laughter is nervous.

"No, I...that is...not...beautiful. Um. I just. I suppose I found myself thinking about it."

"It?"

"...Sex. I guess. With..."

"A man?"

"You."

Silence crackles on the tape before Jerott speaks again: "And I couldn't move beyond it, like Bhagwan instructs us to. So. I thought...um. Trying it would help me move beyond."

"Even though it's a perversion?"

"Well...I didn't think you would...judge me."

"I'm not judging you, Vadan. I would never, ever judge you - not least for such an...innocent curiosity."

"Yes - curiosity! That was all." He sounds so relieved.

"Yes. Now tell me, if this boy you knew came here, to the ashram. If you lived with him as you live with the others, and you felt that - curiosity - would you not act on it?"

"Um. I don't. I don't know..."

"Think about it, Vadan. How did he make you feel? What was it like being around him?"

"I don't...I only knew him for a few weeks, it's silly, really."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"You're minimising it. You're belittling your own feelings instead of acknowledging them, instead of seeing them clearly. They may make you uncomfortable, Vadan, but they are true, and real, and you. Did you love him?"

"Um. Maybe? I don't know. I never knew anyone like that before. Never...never felt like that before."

"You didn't have girlfriends?"

"Yeah, yeah of course. But I didn't love them. It was just...that was just fun, you know?"

"I understand, yes."

"But I wouldn't want to spoil it. We were friends. Maybe it couldn't have lasted if...if anything else had happened."

"At least, I think, you understand why I rejected you in Pune, then?"

Jerott sighs.

"It's the same?"

"Only you can say, naujavaa."

"I mean...maybe, when I left, maybe he could have persuaded me to stay."

"He didn't try?"

"No. Yes. But...not hard enough."

"You wanted to stay, then? Deep down, you wanted to be with him, to be in his band, to give up your fiancée and your father and follow this musician?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. It was different, when my dad was alive. When I thought I had a plan."

"I think, Vadan..." Geetesh's voice turns ever so soft, like a hand extended to a frightened animal. "I think you have been waiting for instructions ever since that time. You have been following the orders of those around you. The first decision you truly made for yourself was to come with me. Before then, you were shackled to this moment, to the hope that this boy would persuade you, would tell you what to do. You put that decision in his hands, and he didn't help you make the choice you wanted. So you absolved yourself of all choosing. Is that not so?"

Jerott draws a breath: sharp and sudden."Yes?"

"You were letting him rule you, letting the time he didn't try hard enough to persuade you to stay be the root from which all your problems stemmed."

"Yeah..."

"Good, Vadan, good! We have really made some progress today. Now your journey will involve moving past this boy, this love. He has hampered you for too long. We will go beyond him, you and I, and you will find that new loves appear."

...

Francis felt water on his cheeks. He'd cried at the sounds of Oonagh giving birth to Cai, but at nothing else that Geetesh had played. He hadn't expected to be confronted with anything that might make him feel in a way to rival that moment.

This, though, was a fist inside his chest all over again, a hand squeezing on his heart every time it tried to pump. It wasn't that he longed to be with the person he heard - not like he had needed, physically felt the compulsion to be at Oonagh's side when he had heard her animal roar and heard Cai cry out - but he found that a regret had been articulated by this recording that he hadn't been allowing himself to feel. He hadn't formed a callus over this injury, because he hadn't had the chance to build one up with preparatory, introspective self-flagellation.

He hadn't even thought that Jerott had wanted to be persuaded by him that night in Carlisle after the Solway Battle of the Bands. He had thought that arguing with Jerott about that would have been to show disrespect to his family and their priorities and customs. And he had never been at all certain of Jerott's feelings in those days - maybe Jerott hadn't been sure himself until he had gone to the ashram in Pune and discovered new depths to his being.

But really, Francis thought he was crying for what he knew Geetesh had done to the boy in the recording. For the knowledge that the replacement love offered by Geetesh had been poison from the start, and all his psychiatric language and half-truths only concealed the fact that he had been Jerott's new master and manipulator, the real chooser of his destiny. Francis was only swallowing down bile and tasting salt on his lips because of the knowledge of what Jerott had offered to Geetesh in Pune before Geetesh took it forcibly in the basement studio at St Mary's. Right under the bones of Francis' home, and he hadn't done a thing to stop it.

Jerott's words at the Oasis rang in Francis' memory: You fucking faggot!

Francis let out a sigh.

"Exquisite," Geetesh gloated. "I knew you would appreciate it."

"Fuck you..." Francis said wearily.

Geetesh's lips curled in a sneer. "How coarse. I expect more eloquence from you, pet. But I suppose, as you evidently care so much about our mutual second, you would like to hear about how I helped him to go beyond the base desires that were limiting him?"

Francis let his expression suffice as an answer. His body ached in ways that he could no longer enumerate or define; he couldn't say whether the sleep he was getting was too much or too little, but it wasn't at all restorative. Meal times were sporadic, and he couldn't remember the intervals between them because he was sure it changed each time. Sometimes he would wake to find Geetesh above him, his body pinning Francis to the mattress, his grip tight on Francis' jaw, and a razor in his free hand. Time couldn't even be measured by beard growth, although Francis found that he was getting confused about that process anyway - didn't it need light to grow? In short, he was in no position to stop Geetesh from monologuing about his achievements, but he doubted that this approach could wring much more material from him. He could only write with his 'authentic self' if he remembered what that was, after all.

Geetesh wasn't to be put off, though. He fingered the beads of his mala and gave a self-satisfied chuckle. "He thought I just needed to see your genius, little lyrebird."

Francis said nothing.

Geetesh took the cassette from the deck and put a blank in. He depressed the record button.

"That's why he invited me back. He thought he needed to save me, that if I could just see what he saw - how wonderful you are - we could all be one happy family."

Francis leaned his head against the stone above his headboard and closed his eyes again, envisaging a cleansing wave sweeping them both away, slamming their bodies against the uneven, jagged walls.

"As if I couldn't already see your genius. As if I wasn't already better equipped to understand you than he could ever be. As if we were his to share. He grew arrogant around you. You let him think he had more to offer than he did, and it was up to me to remind him of his place."

His breathing grew louder - Francis heard the excitement build in his voice as he recounted, blow by blow, what he had done.

He was recording himself - Francis didn't make a sound, just sat there with his eyes closed and his fists clenched in his lap, trying not to flinch at the picturesque account Geetesh delivered.

All too well, Francis remembered the state Jerott had been in afterwards. He had never needed to hear any of this to know enough about what had happened.

"So you see," Geetesh said lovingly. "It was what he had asked me for. How could he overcome his obsession if he never experienced what he desired? Unfortunately, our dear Vadan was never as receptive as he ought to have been. I don't think he understood the gift I gave him."

Despite the outward appearance of calm, Francis' pulse had spiked. He was trying not to think of anything at all, trying to empty his mind like he'd done whenever Baron Morgan had taken him back to his cabin and demanded payment for their stay. He'd endured that, he reminded himself. He could endure this. And Jerott wasn't alive anymore - Geetesh couldn't hurt him anymore. These were just words, aimed at lighting the fuse on Francis' imagination, and so Francis could fight them by keeping his mind blank.

"He showed me that he had never understood Bhagwan's teachings. He was supposed to take that experience, learn something about himself, and move on - but he only grew more obsessed with you, didn't he?"

Francis' thoughts of collapsing cave walls were coming into conflict with the maintenance of his own defenses. Too much was clamouring at the edges of his mind, too many recent traumas that he hadn't been able to deal with - displaced onto the hurt that had been done to another instead of the hurt done to him, these memories grew more powerful. He saw again and again that he should have tried harder, done more, stopped things from reaching this point.

He thought of Baron Morgan leering: "I seen how he looks at you."

Marthe, with a cynical curl of her lip, implying that Morgan's attentions might, in fact, have been just what Jerott needed. And later, thinking she was alone with Jerott in the pool: "It's because you can't have Francis Crawford that you want me."

Again, Jerott swinging a blow at Francis' face - one that had real, savage intent behind it: "You fucking faggot!"

Jerott later that night, after the triumph of the gig, after the escape, after the wild motorbike ride through the desert, his arms clasped round Francis' body as they rode into Salina, his cheek resting against Francis' back, his thighs behind Francis' thighs. Murmuring Arabic from a poem he'd recited to Francis back in Carlisle - lines he didn't realise Francis had looked up and memorised, as he memorised all poems he encountered.

«My drink and my ride are sweet

and my beloved takes care of me.»

Geetesh shifted his weight and Francis' eyes snapped open - a response born purely of self-preservation.

He had moved the tape recorder aside and leaned forwards to peer at Francis' expression. One of his hands was down the front of his trousers, moving slowly, thoughtfully over the erection that showed beneath the fine fabric.

Francis drew a sharp breath and wedged his body back against the headboard, his fingers knotting with disgust in the sheets to either side of his hips.

"Were you never tempted by him yourself, Francis? Or was he supposed to follow you forever, receiving nothing in return?"

Francis just shook his head and tried to keep his eyes on Geetesh's face. There was a furious trembling inside his chest, fighting to radiate out through his body - but he wouldn't give Geetesh the satisfaction of seeing him shudder. He wouldn't.

Geetesh smiled. "I did at least spoil him for you, then, didn't I? I am pleased. At least the experiment wasn't a total failure."

He moved forwards again, one hand on himself, the other dropping to Francis' knee. His expression was terrible, unblinking, full of a wondering fascination with Francis' own repulsion. "But I think you're subtle enough to understand me better, Francis. And I understand you."

Francis went to remove Geetesh's touch from his knee, but Geetesh was quick as a snake striking. He pinned Francis' wrist down, and the hand that had been busy inside his own trousers emerged and gripped Francis' jaw with bruising, searing strength. Francis smelled the hidden parts of Geetesh's body on his fingers, savoury and musky. He gagged even as Geetesh tilted his head back against the top of the headboard and shifted to straddle him.

"Don't fight it, sweeting. I will have you. Not like that farmer in the desert had you - oh yes, I know all about Mr Morgan and how you debased yourself for him - not like that Cypriot courtesan who thinks her influence extends further than it does. Not like Margaret Douglas and her...plain, old-fashioned wants. I will have the real Francis Crawford, however I find him."

Francis' mind scrabbled for purchase on the information concealed in Geetesh's words. Some of this...some of this he shouldn't have known about. Who could have told him about Baron Morgan and about Kiaya Çalışkan? It was hard to think, though, when he felt the hardness of Geetesh's groin jammed up against his stomach, when the skin on his wrist felt raw and burnt from Geetesh's twisting, tight hold.

"It's ok if you're afraid, gentle bird," Geetesh murmured above his lips. "Let yourself be afraid. I want to see it all."

Francis' body juddered involuntarily. His eyes were screwed up and his jaw was clenched as he felt his cheeks squeezed against his teeth by Geetesh's thumb and forefinger. It took him a moment to realise that the tremor hadn't just occurred within his own limbs. The wall had rumbled, hadn't it?

Geetesh looked around the room with a scowl and then leaned over Francis' face again. "You and I will make the earth move another time, lyrebird. For now, I hope you find that you have enough material to finish your magnum opus."

He got off, picked up the tape player and stopped the recording, gathered the other cassette, his notebook and his shirt, and left.

The light went out and Francis remained in darkness, gasping, gulping, begging for air to reach his lungs as the panic he hadn't shown earlier flooded into his nervous system. If the tunnels and the room had caved in then and there he wasn't sure he'd have known the difference. Only when it ended, and the fear was gone at last, would he know he was free. He wished it would happen, and then pulled himself up short - he needed Geetesh to die with him. He needed to stop that man from doing any more to anyone else.

His hands were shaking, and Francis splayed them against the sheets, steadying himself, trying to find stillness.

Beneath one finger, he felt something unexpected: hard and plastic. A pen? A pen.

His heart thundered hard enough that it seemed to bruise itself with the effort. Geetesh had left him a weapon. And next time, pager or not, Francis was going to use it. He didn't care what he had to do to rescue Oonagh and Cai and the others. He'd run himself straight to jail if he had to, but he realised now that no amount of waiting would present him with an opportunity to defeat Geetesh without ending him.

Francis grasped the weapon in his fist, breathing hard. In the darkness of the cell he prepared himself to become a killer.

---

It was impossible, as ever, to know how long the interval between Geetesh's visits was. During this stretch of darkness Francis felt the ground shiver on a number of occasions, and the air emerging from the vent in the door seemed cooler and fresher.

He supposed this was connected to Geetesh's manner: when he next appeared his mood was sour. He switched the light on and slammed the door. His hands were already shaking with fury as he struggled to insert the key in the lock.

Francis had formed his plan, but he wasn't certain how it would go over with Geetesh in this temper. He waited, standing between the bed and the desk, the pen concealed in one hand.

Geetesh visibly imposed calm on himself before turning to the room, arranging a grim smile onto his features. He looked Francis up and down and raised a brow.

"You may sit," he said impatiently.

Francis glanced between the stool and the bed, and Geetesh snorted.

"What? Would you like me to just get it over with, my sorry, hungering slut?" He crossed the room with his long stride and grabbed Francis' wrists.

He didn't seem to have noticed what Francis held in one hand, but Francis couldn't do anything with the pen anyway, not when he was held in this furious, agonising grip.

Geetesh gazed down at him, and Francis realised he hadn't come with a schedule, as he usually did. He was deciding what to do only now, and Francis' anticipation that he would pick up where he'd left off had been what prompted his current inclination.

"You think you can make yourself into whatever anyone wants, don't you? A Protean whore, always aiming to please. You've remodelled yourself so often you don't even know who you are or what you want anymore. Would you like me to remind you, Francis?"

Francis bit the inside of his lip to distract from the pain in his wrists. He stared up into the mad periwinkle blue of Graham Reid Malett's eyes and begged his terrified animal body to have patience with him.

"You don't need to pretend for me," Geetesh hissed. He flung Francis down onto the mattress, and Francis landed messily, his head colliding with the back wall. He felt the pen lying concealed beneath his palm still, but his ears rang from the blow and he felt a cool spot on his scalp, as though blood was beginning to seep from a wound. Geetesh pulled his top off once more and reached a hand into his trousers, jerking quick and rough to get himself hard. He stepped forwards, leaned one knee on the mattress, and reached for Francis' waistband.

He was within striking distance, and Francis raised the pen and brought it down as hard as he could on that sturdy, muscled thigh. Geetesh's flesh was hard, the pen was blunt, but fear gave Francis strength beyond hope, and the nib pierced skin and burrowed into Geetesh's leg.

He roared, his breath hot on Francis' face, and he plunged a fist into Francis' solar plexus.

Francis just gripped the pen tighter, tried to force it deeper into the thigh, tried to tear the wound wider, seeking the deep artery however he could.

Geetesh didn't seem concerned with removing the weapon from his body though: just with getting his revenge, just with having Francis how he'd resolved to have him. He grappled with Francis, their bloodied hands tussling until Geetesh held both of Francis' wrists again. He hauled Francis towards him, slipping back off the bed's edge to bring them both to their feet - another bellow of rage was the only sign he gave that the item of stationary embedded in his thigh was causing him any discomfort.

He spun Francis round like a ballerina pirouetting with her hands above her head and then jerked and twisted one of Francis' arms as he pulled it down.

There was a wet, snapping pop. White hot agony exploded in Francis' shoulder and he yelled as loud as Geetesh had done. He thought he might have blacked out for a moment, because suddenly he found himself face first on the bed, his arm still held behind him at an improbable angle - dislocated, for sure - and Geetesh's hand was fumbling inexactly at the fastenings of Francis' trousers. His breathing was ragged and he seemed to be struggling with his coordination.

The room juddered and rumbled, and Francis knew that finally he had done enough, and they were both going to be buried there by the flood that had to come.

"Do you...do you think you've won, lyrebird?" Geetesh's voice rasped in his ear. "Your recordings are safe. They'll be released, one day. Your brood mare won't last long once she's separated from the child for good. Maybe they'll lobotomise her, maybe it will be the only way to pacify her. That boy won't last a month with any foster family. He'll be driven from pillar to post, cast out wherever he goes, never able to understand why no one loved him enough to want him, to keep him."

Francis screwed his eyes shut and a gasping sob escaped his clenched teeth. He'd had no choice. In the end, he'd had no choice. Graham Reid Malett had to be stopped.

It sounded like there was a thunderstorm behind the door and the room went dark - the bulb had put up no resistance. The bed rattled and its legs thrummed against the floor, and the door creaked and juddered. Pressure built, and then a vast body of water slammed into the room, throwing the door off its hinges and blasting it into the desk.

Their bodies were gathered up in the maelstrom, and Francis was lost in the black swirling current, battered against ceiling and wall.

He wasn't conscious and couldn't know that the water had had enough force to drive through the door at the other end of the room as well. After a few seconds in which a raging torrent scoured the cell, the water levels dropped, releasing two bodies as they did: Geetesh landed face-first on the soaked bed again, his bodyweight pressing the pen deeper into his thigh as he bled out; and Francis' sprawled messily on the floor, filthied by mud and soil and stones that had been dragged along by the water.

When he came to, he was in a tunnel, lit by the light of an electric torch. There was a brown-skinned, bearded man leaning over him, a wild look in his eyes. Fucking hell, thought Francis. That can't be right.

He remembered Geetesh's final words, the threat to his family, and he screwed his eyes shut against the realisation that, dead or alive, he had given them up in order to stop Graham Reid Malett.

"O mill, o mill...what hast thou ground..." he murmured lyrics from the compositions Geetesh had wrung from him, and the man leaning over him touched his face tentatively.

"Francis?"

Francis blinked his eyes open. That definitely couldn't be right. He must have been dead after all. It seemed unfair to be dead and still hurt so much, though.

"Francis...I think...I think he's...gone," Jerott Blyth was staring at something beyond Francis' head and his voice was quiet and fearful, but it was his voice behind the scruffy black beard, and it was the voice of someone who seemed, despite all previous information, to be very much alive.

#whumptober2022 #whumptober #every day i write the book #band au: pawn in frankincense #character: graham reid malett #character: francis crawford #character: jerott blyth

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shoefullofpudding · 2 years

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It's time for another post about The Sadley Parable (The Stanley Parable but make it sad, though this has a sort of kind of happy ending)

Stanley decides to keep his feelings for the Narratora secret:

'Who would ever commit their life to you?' It was rhetorical question with one solid answer: no one. No one would ever want someone as boring, as stupid, or as worthless as Stanley. The Narrator made it clear time and time again that he saw Stanley as an idiot he was stuck with, who was only the protagonist for his story because there was no one else to take the job.

Stanley was only worthy of anything when he did as the Narrator said and served the story. He wasn't worthy in his own right as a person. His thoughts and wants and identity were annoyances at best and daring to take autonomy and control he didn't deserve at all at worst.

It was getting harder to remember this. Sometimes the Narrator could be kind and actually engage in conversation with Stanley. It made it seem like they were friends and Stanley desperately wanted a friend.

And something more. He couldn't deny any longer he had feelings for the Narrator. But he knew he had to keep that a secret.

Stanley made sure to never ask for anything, to never let on that he had wants or needs. No asking for rest, or to be able to eat and taste food he had mostly forgotten the taste of. He wasn't supposed to want things, not even the tiniest request. For admiting that would show that he didn't know his place.

And admitting that how he felt about the Narrator: well. That would be far worse than just admiting he disliked an ending or wanted a cup of coffee. It wouldn't just show he was too presumptuous, it would show he was an idiot who thought someone could actually love him. No, the Narrator barely tolerated him and sometimes acted as a friend. That was the best Stanley could hope for and he wasn't going to ruin it.

Imagine if the Narrator offered something simple to Stanley, like a cup of coffee or a candy bar. He'd be all in tears like he was just given solid gold and the Narrator would be all confused. "Stanley, it's just a cup of coffee."

Stanley would hold the cup tightly, like he's afraid it'll be taken away. But once it's finished, he won't ask for another one, no mater how obvious it was that he loved having it.

If the Narrator notices and starts offering it more times, Stanley will break down and start saying he doesn't deserve such wonderful gifts, which will confuse and concern the Narrator. He just thought Stanley was a simple man who didn't want anything but pushing buttons.

The Narrator has to slowly let Stanley see that it's okay to need and ask for things, but he knows that's it was his insistence that Stanley’s independence was the same as disobedience that caused this whole mess in the first place. So, he leaves the Parable and gives it to a new Narrator, one who won't mistreat Stanley.

Stanley heals, but he always misses the Narrator and never quite gets over no longer having him in his life. While Stanley blossoms as a person, he always has feelings for the Narrator and has a tiny hole in his heart where he once was.

They grow stronger and healthier apart from one another and if the fates are kind, the Narrator returns to the Parable years later as a friend but never takes on the mantle of Narrator and lets the new Narrator keep the duties. While he loved it, he knows he can't handle the job and would just hurt Stanley again.

So, he chooses a new name and spends eternity learning to be listened to without a captive audience, while Stanley learns that his voice matters.

#the stanley parable #tspud #tsp fic #tsp #fanfic #Sadley Parable

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adleryoung · 1 year

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"Um…" I floundered, taken aback by the old crone's outburst. "If respect is an issue, surely a display of magickal abilities will help you gain it. What makes you think everyone will immediately lose all respect for you if you walk into town looking younger? Wouldn't that impress them instead?"

"How will they even know it's me?" Mother Didelphis demanded. "They're more likely to assume it is some other opossum femme who has taken up my mantle. Obvious impostors are seldom respected!"

"That won't be a problem when you travel abroad among people who don't know you," I pointed out.

"Strangers!" she retorted. "How are they going to be impressed by me magically regaining my youth if they never knew me as an old crone? It will just be an implausible story that will undermine my credibility! Besides, I have gotten used to the many perks of being wizened and ancient! I am loath to give them up. I get senior discounts with most merchants. People let me cut in line. I get the best wagon parking spots. I can get away with yelling at random strangers. I can with absolute impunity tell youngsters that their taste in everything is terrible. And my personal favorite: I can make people wait behind me in long lines while I complain, or, even better, meticulously count out copper coins from my purse for a large purchase."

"Come now," I scoffed. "Doubling your life expectancy, regaining your strength and vitality, and not having to deal with the aches and pains of old age has to be worth giving at least some of that up."

"Not on your life!" she snapped. "I don't have to worry about aches and pains because I have a deep knowledge of medicinal herbs and plants. And I don't want to give up my membership in the E.U.G.H!"

"What is that?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"The Eire Union of Gruesome Hags, a highly prestigious organization! Being a crazy old hag is what I've built my entire identity around. I simply would not be able to function as anything else."

"Wait a minute," I said, as the vixen yawned and the mouse (bear?) examined her wrist. "Senior discounts and waiting in line? I thought you said you were a hermit from the wilderness."

"I still have to go into town sometimes," Mother Didelphis explained. "I need to keep myself supplied with plenty of ingredients. I make money by gathering and selling herbs, but you can't find flour, milk, sugar, and eggs in the forest. I also sell many of my baking experiments made in the outdoor brick oven next to my hut. I HAD it built; didn't build it myself. Paid for that with the herb money. I also take the opportunity, whenever I'm in town, to heckle that blasted pie harlot that ruined my life."

"Okay," I shrugged, resisting the urge to tell Didelphis that she ruined her own life. "How about this: I can make you physically younger so you'll regain your youthful strength and stamina. That way you can travel easily, BUT you'll still look like an old crone. A decrepit-looking femme that can do backflips and cartwheels is sure to catch people's attention; maybe even earn their respect! Does that sound any better?"

Before Mother Didelphis could answer, I suddenly heard Rebecca wailing "My Lord, you're losing them!" via Elfmind.

#furry #elf #story #plot #adventure #cartoon #tboay

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greypetrel · 7 days

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Face, wardrobe and change for Alyra, Raina and Aisling!

These were interesting, thank you for asking them! Went a little more narrative than descriptive with the face ones, LOL, I hope it gets the idea through.

Tis the prompt list

face: Describe your OC's face. What's their smile like? Are their orbs cerulean? What would someone notice first when looking at them?

Alyra: Her traits are minute and delicate, high cheekbones and small nose, evidenced just by her tattoos. It's just appearance. There's nothing delicate in her eyes or in the bend of her lips: everything says sharps angles and corners. She looks at you like she is expecting something from you. To do something, or to do better, correct your own mistakes: You're plenty capable to, she seems to be implying. No cerulean orbs, it's a warm shade of brown, and they're so intense you notice them even before you notice that her left side is heavily scarred. If you manage to see her smile, it's warmer than you may think. Raina: She could have been a lady, in another time, another place. She has strong features you will remember: handsome, in that way that isn't feminine, but neither fully boyish. Such an aquiline nose would look bad on other people: it fits her, gives her a cut, and reminds you, with the bright red her thin lips are painted into, that yes, her eyes are smiling, wrinkled subtly from too much laughing, that there's some danger under the laughter. Aisling: A homey face, pretty but not in a striking way. You wouldn't remember her passing by, save for the lasting impression of a bright, warm smile. If you look closer, it's all round lines, full cheeks you may wish to pinch or squish. Her upper lip is fuller than the lower. Her eyes are keen, tho, they're observing. She's homey and welcoming, sure, and she smiles a lot... But she is seeing more than she lets on, isn't she?

wardrobe: How big is your character's wardrobe? Do they wear things threadbare, or can they afford new clothes often? Are they any good at mending and repairing their own clothing?

Alyra: Big. Very big. She's vain and like fine things. She won't go crazy buying new things: she has a couple of seamstresses she trusts, all in Denerim's alienage, and she refuses to let anyone else dress her. They know her measurements and tastes, lots of blues and gold, loves furs and brocades and gold-thread. Eye-catching, but never gaudy and more on the austere side. She does care for fashion and trends, but cares more about not wasting resources or spend money for something she already has. She keeps wearing her clothes until either she finds a person that will in her place, or they get ruined, in that case they'll be scrapped and the cloth used for something else. She's decent at mending her own clothes, but couldn't make a garment from scratch. Raina: She doesn't care about clothes and has a minimal wardrobe of stuff she needs, and that she changes when the old garment is more holes than cloth. Her colour palette is strictly white, black and red. Even after she got rich, clothes are not something she'll ever like much to spend money for. She is good at mending her own clothes, and is a skilled knitter. Will eyeball your measurements and she'll be right. Aisling: Hates everything that doesn't allow her to move freely. Hates shoes with a passion, she feels trapped in them. Cares nothing for fashion: she wears stuff she likes. The main thing that makes her like a garment is colour: she would go around dressing like a rainbow if it was up to her, she won't wear black nor white. Flamboyant in colours, but very simple in cuts is what she prefers, doesn't like ruffles. She likes tailored garments and came to appreciate skirts when Josie got her dresses to wear. She'll go for comfort, tho: she wants to be able to move, most of anything. Likes a pretty dress if it's not too feminine but doesn't care enough for them to buy one new herself. If she has a new dress in Skyhold, it's because Josie insisted she needed a new one. Wears things threadbare, nobody will care in the stables anyway. Can mend VERY basic cuts, will need help for something serious.

change: Has your OC ever drastically changed their appearance? Significant haircuts, big tattoos, complete wardrobe swap, etc? Why? How do they feel about the change?

Alyra: She is showing signs of the Blight. Her skintone is getting more ashen and grey, she doesn't particularly like it. The scar on her face is something she likes: it's a constant reminder of why she is in her position. For her, and for others. The biggest change was post Blight: she grew her hair long and started to wear formal dresses instead of just utilitarian hunter clothes. She got herself named Chancellor and Arlessa, she must look the part. She quite likes it. Raina: Leandra forced her for years to look feminine. She hated it, but found the strenght to counter her and do what she liked only some months after Malcolm died. The situation was getting worse between them, without a mediator anymore. One day she got tired, she took a pair of scissors and chopped all her hair off. Given all her skirts either to Bethany or to the Chantry. Never looked back, she's finally feeling like herself. Aisling: She's not that comfortable with change in general, LOL. The most she did was cutting her hair to her shoulders before leaving for the Conclave, for practicality and as a sign of independence. The biggest change was in Haven: she felt so out of place, such a fish out of water with everyone calling her Herald, that she decided to look the most unassuming as possible. She started to wear her hair loose to partially cover the tattoo on her brow, got borrowed only the plainest clothes in 50 shades of beiges and browns. She didn't like them at all (and they were all the wrong size), but it was better than standing out even more because she looks like a mantis shrimp.

#character design ask #blorboposting #Josie: “Which colour would you like for your wardrobe?” Aisling: “Yes.”

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guadalupehesus · 1 month

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Dear Harry,

I am very concerned about the situation regarding Kate, and let me tell you what the royal family, especially William, should have told you. Apparently, this mission fell to me, because... I'm the only one who can call shit 'shit' while everyone else calls it bad-tasting brown mush for the sake of Protocol. I hope you're eating while reading my post, Harry.

There are rumors in the press that Meghan and her mother resort to black magic, namely, the cult of voodoo. Voodoo is the true reason for the backwardness of the African continent, for the Lord orders us to avoid this sin, because it steals the joys in life, health, happiness, and even life itself, which belongs to another person. The real reason for black magic is envy. Harry, if voodoo was the solution to problems, then why didn't Doria cast a spell on her daughter's moral behavior to protect her from, say, bunga-bunga? If all these rumors about voodoo are true, then, Harry, Kate's problem will not only be your wife's sin, but also your sin. Your fault! Despite prohibitions and warnings, it turns out that you brought witchcraft (called Meghan) to the royal family of Britain, knowing about roumors of black magic of your woman. I hope you won't fall asleep tonight from reading the letter.

Only a weak man is not able to admit his guilt. Therefore, I write at the risk of being branded a racist. For the sake of Meghan's whims, you sacrificed not only the peace of the British nation, but also your Brother's heart. Doesn’t remind you of anything, my Cain? If you don’t care about William, then why did you sacrifice the interests of the Motherland, which literally slavishly bowed to you to the ground, even if all you were capable of was drugs and sex when you were young?*

You wrote in your book that the war reminded you of shooting games.

Hmm... Have you noticed that in American war films, brutal war veterans remember the war in nightmares and then even drink themselves to death. This is how real Men react to murder. Believe me, the same thing happens to Russian soldiers.

Remember who you were in Britain. The guy with the balls, Harry. Next to Meghan you now look like a pathetic person who injects himself with female hormones, manipulating American slogans like “whites are all racists” or even better “give rights to Epstein’s friends in the White House.” The media say that Epstein's yacht was Astagfirallah three times. If BRF were really racist or sexist in the 21st century, then they wouldn't let your wife get within gunshot range!

Harry, your grandmother placed the tiara of great families on Meghan's head. What kind of racism are you two talking about? I wouldn’t even be surprised if these two women in your family ruined the life of Samantha out of envy. But it’s convenient for you to remain silent under your wife’s thumb. I know, Omid will speak for you.

Sincerely Yours,

Asel

*Sorry for my English🙏.

P.S. Your brother needs your courage. Fix everything you've messed up, Harry. Come on, remember how much fun you three had in your youth. You, Will and Kate... These were the simple joys of life.

P.P.S. But actually, these were the precious joys of life.

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christmasintheloonybin · 1 year

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never realized how poor I was growing up. below working class I was impoverished and shit. we got food stamps I got free lunch at school. I always thought like "well we aren't starving to death so I guess we've got it pretty good." but really what would have been more important than anything would be an example of HOW TO BE middle class. bourgeois you know. how to have taste how to be polite and play thr game and network and suck circumcised cock. because I never knew and this never came naturally, I realized this in Florida, I'm a hick for real. I mean I'm not retarded i think I'm smarter than most people, even bourgeois types I have a more correct way of mental being.

in America the class system is obviously more dynamic I mean there is more upward mobility which to me is the most disgusting thing ever but I won't get into that. versus England or something where even though today it's not set in stone there are all these informal barriers which keep class divisions THERE. example, Trump or someone, he's genuinely a proletarian millionaire. he's working class. but I think this is disgusting. it really has less to do with any kind of ambition or individual greatness as much as it has to do with luck and these naturally irrelevant features, the ability to suck cock.

so I do feel wronged by society I mean to say my individual greatness can never be realized because of these restraints. if I was more charismatic or something I think I would have an easier time. but I'm literally the ubermensch I follow my own path. and I think sheep and rats should bow down to me not joking. I mean I'm literally better than you. also my parents sort of ruined my prospects and the prospects of my children and their children by being fucking losers, they both came from bourgeois backgrounds and I could have been a suburbs kid, maybe my impotent hatred would not have become such a prominent part of my sense of self if this had been the way of things, and my worldview would probably be quite different, but at least I would be normal. actually, if i could give up all of this to be normal and never think about being abnormal I would, I mean if I could be going to the woman's march holding a black lives matter sign ukrainian flag and "in this house" poster in my front yard npr blasting in the car... if I could do this without ever thinking "maybe there's something else" I would. but I just don't see these things that way. and I could never stop being crazy. I mean i can't just stop.

all of this being said if all else fails hopefully I will inherit a significant amount of money when my grandparents die, although this has for the most part already been squandered by my retard parents and aunt. but if there's you know, half a million dollars in total. I'm becoming a landlord i don't give a fuck. I'll buy property and become a landlord. and you know I'll charge the fuck out of these shit properties and not maintain them at all. this is really the only future I can imagine where my children will be able to have any sort of chance. of course, do I want my kids to be normies? my hope is to instill in them at a young age the value of RIDING THE TIGER. having these extreme socially unacceptable views but going along with the machine, do not be well adjusted and always be ready to die for these things but there is no point in attacking the machine, you just have to wait for it to fall apart naturally. because by the time they're adults things should be winding down for civilization, or winding up. I mean really 2050 forwards is either going to be complete collapse or complete totalitarianism. there's really no other option just based on what WILL be happening with climate change etc.

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rizubaby · 3 years

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CLASS 1-A + ALTERNATE JOBS.

— summary; what their regular jobs would be and how they'd find the time to fuck you while at work.

— a/n; posted a bit later than planned, whoops. guys i love this concept so much you don't understand. most of these sounded so right in my head that i can't imagine them doing anything else other than this lmao.

— includes; i. midoriya, k. bakugou, s. todoroki, e. kirishima, t. iida, h. sero, d. kaminari, m. ojiro, r. sato, m. shoji.

— cw; 18+ MINORS DNI, aged up characters (21+), various positions, mentions of hickeys/marking, oral (f -> m + m -> f), slight exhibitionism, (semi-)public sex, slight size difference, mentions of breeding, a smidge of cum eating, lots of dirty talk lol, in like half of these they're all sweaty??? sweat kink?? don't @ me

i. midoriya — flower shop worker

i can totally picture this. izuku is such a sweet baby boy, he'd be perfect for taking care of all kinds of flora and knows how to make the most beautiful bouquets. knows a lot about the specific meanings of different kinds of flowers, too. just imagine him humming to himself while taking care of his flowers, sometimes even talking to them, with that gentle smile plastered on his face. my heart.

definitely makes a special bouquet for you every week 'n brings a few loose flowers home almost every single day, just to put them in your hair or place them around the house because he knows it brightens your day. the type of guy to leave rose petals leading up to the bedroom, just because he can (and he's sappy like that).

it's not a very well paid job by any means, but he keeps doing it because he loves to make people happy with his flowers. baby boy just wants to make people smile.

it's not very hard work either, so he often has some free time on his hands. so when you drop by the shop every now and then, he'll always find a reason to take you out back bend you over the flower arranging table to manhandle you to his heart's content. doesn't care if you walk out the shop with hickeys scattered all over your pretty skin, he just wants to make sure you know how much he loves you — and that others can see it too.

“fuck, bunny, you're so soft... you don't mind if i leave some marks, right? please let me, i'll make it up to you later, i promise. i'll make you an extra large bouquet, okay?”

k. bakugou — chef

sorry but this just sounded so right in my head i had to make it a thing lmao. gordon ramsay headass.

ok but, seriously. since he's very skilled when it comes to cooking, it just made sense that he'd be a professional chef at some point. probably has his own restaurant, too.

this man is busy in the kitchen 24/7, and the pros for you is that he lets you taste his food when you drop by before opening hours, or sometimes he'll bring some delicious leftovers. being a head chef can be stressful, so when you drop by the restaurant just before opening time, katsuki won't hesitate to bend you over the nearest counter and fuck your brains out — even if he has to order his staff out for a few minutes to be able to.

and on rare occasions, you pay him a visit when business is booming and the restaurant is packed full. you know how stressful and hectic work is for him on days like that, so you know just what he needs. texting him that you came through the back door and that you're waiting for him, he'll order his staff to take over for a few minutes and slips out to meet you in the back. this man will make you drop to your knees and facefuck you until your mascara runs down your cheeks, then forcefully push you against the door to the freezer and pound you until you're seeing stars. katsuki loves it when you let him ruin you to blow off some steam and clear his head. it's one of the many reasons he's so fucking in love with you.

“oh yeah, you like that, huh? you like choking on this big fat cock? let me hear those pretty moans when you choke on me baby, fuck– i'm gonna ruin you.”

s. todoroki — CEO

businessman shoto??? yes please.

instead of owning a succesful hero agency, enji todoroki used to be the head of a large business corporation for years, until shoto inevitably had to take over the position. he doesn't like his job — hell, he probably hates it — but considering how much he earns, he can't really complain. the only positive thing about it is that he can spoil the hell out of you, something he (surprisingly) loves doing.

it's become a regular thing for you to swing by the firm, usually bringing some of his favourite food for lunch. his personal secretary knows you very well by now, so you don't have to ask twice before you can enter his office.

more often than not, shoto's busy making phonecalls to clients and other high and mighty businessmen, a necessary task he clearly dislikes. so what better way to make it more worthwhile for him than to get down on your knees and give him some good ol' head? he secretly loves it when you do that, even if it's anything but convenient for him.

shoto's a pro when it comes to keeping his voice down or staying quiet, but that doesn't make it any less fun. just seeing him struggle to keep his attention on the phone call instead of on how deliciously you're sucking him off is enough to keep going.

the way he bites his lip as he slowly rakes his fingers through your hair, gently guiding your head up and down his pretty cock is truly a sight to behold. and when he finally gets off that phone call, you know damn well you're in for some punishment for trying to distract him. he loves it though, and so do you.

e. kirishima — firefighter

firefighter kirishima!!! i may or may not have read a fic about this some time ago and it stuck with me. can't imagine him doing anything else.

eiji is a big guy. he's hella strong, so he'd have no problem carrying multiple people out of a burning building and things like that. he's a great asset to have on the team, and his boss and coworkers are very happy to have him. and he's so cute too — just imagine his adorable face covered in soot and his hair messily tucked back in a ponytail after coming back from having casually saves like a dozen people. yeah.

eijirou loves it when you visit him from time to time at the department. if he isn't busy, he'll sneak out with you to the changing rooms for a quickie. you always have so much fun, giggling and kissing your way to a spot where you won't be bothered for a while. his kisses are always salty from the sweat, his hands are rough and calloused, he looks like a mess, but who cares.

DEMANDS to eat you out first before anything else. so eager to please, but he also does it for his own enjoyment. he gets so fucking hard from eating you out, he can't control himself after. it doesn't matter what position, he just wants to feel you clench around him as soon as possible. always always always finished inside, because he likes to eat you out some more after. literal king of pussy-eating.

“damn baby, you taste so fuckin' good... i wanna cum inside you, can i? please baby, i wan' it so bad, wanna feel you cream all over my cock when i fill you up, fuck–”

t. iida — librarian

tenya likes to read, so naturally he'd feel at home surrouded by books.

he absolutely adores it when his beautiful girlfriend comes to visit him during his shift, it just melts his heart right away. it shows him that you care a lot about him and his interests. luckily for him, he could turn his hobby into his job — and he takes his job very seriously.

tenya loves talking (or rather, whispering) to you about the most recent releases of books they just got in, or the books he's been reading himself lately. gives you lots of reccomendations for books he'd want you to read, and he knows just what genres you like.

that being said, the thrill of being caught fooling around really turns him on — and the fact that you have to be quiet only adds to that excitement. he'll take you to the far back of the library, hook his arms under your legs and lift you up, pushing your cute panties to the side to slip his cock inside your needy cunt. his soft groans in your ear makes your body feel like its on fire, and the way he's thrusting into you harder and harder makes you cover your mouth with your hand and desperately try to keep your voice down.

to try and keep his own groaning to a minimum, he'll bite down on your neck and shoulders, leaving bite marks and hickeys all over you in the process. not like he could care less though. he likes to hear how much you're struggling to take him, wanting to see how far he can take it until you start losing your mind.

“ssh, keep your voice down, princess. we don't want people to hear us now, do we? although it would be really hot if someone were to find us like this. you'd like that, don't you? you naughty girl.”

h. sero — bartender

mixing drinks, chatting with customers, listening to soothing jazz music — it all fits perfectly for a guy like hanta. with standing behind the bar, he's able to pick up on a lot of local gossip too, which he certainly doesn't mind. he's surprisingly skilled in the art of mixology, too. it's no surprise that you visit him so often at the bar. this guy can make the best cocktails, hands down.

that aside, he really enjoys it when you come to the bar and order a drink or two, just to watch him work. that way, he can keep stealing glances from you and admire you while he does his job.

whenever he's on break, he signals it to you so you can meet in the bathroom. he goes in first, so you can follow a few minutes later.

because there's usually some amount of alcohol involved, he likes to take it slow and take his time to feel you up. lazily rubbing your clit through your panties and nibbling at your ear while he whispers the filthiest things to you. the sex is slow, messy, sensual. desperate.

he's got you pushed up against the bathroom stall door, panties hurriedly pushed to the side so he can slip inside with ease. your kisses taste just like his cocktails, with a hint of sweetness from your cherry lipbalm. his heavy breathing against your skin gives you goosebumps, and his pace is agonisingly slow; so much so that you're quickly to the point of begging him to fuck you harder.

the closer he gets, the faster and more irregular his pace gets. he'll speed up quickly, the sudden change in pace making your head fall back. when he cums inside, he's got his face buried in your chest, leaving hickeys everywhere. luckily you always bring some makeup in your handbag to try and conceal those hickeys afterwards, so they're not too obvious.

“heh, sorry princess, i think i went a lil' overboard this time. i just couldn't resist you. make sure to leave a few minutes after me so people won't suspect us, m'kay? i'll pour ya 'nother drink on the house to make it up to ya.”

d. kaminari — club owner

at first i was thinking of something super cliché, but then i thought of this and (to me) it fits him perfectly.

denki's a fun and outgoing guy, and he seems to me like the type that loves to go out for a night on the town, so eventually he'd start his own club — the perfect place he'd want to go to every night. and it's quickly become one of the most popular clubs in the area.

he can always be found at his club, be it mingling with the customers, having a smoke, or having drinks at the bar. he even hires sero to be his bartender and jirou to play there with her band from time to time, since they're such good friends.

whenever you visit, you always know exactly where to find him. he likes it when you act like just a regular customer, as if you're meeting for the very first time. fantasies like that really turn him on. he always looks forward to when you visit him next.

some flirtatious chatting, maybe a little dancing and a few drinks later, he'll take your hand and lead you up the stairs to his private office. it has a large one-way mirrored glass window, so you're able to oversee the entire club from up there. once inside, he'll lift you up onto his desk, lustfully making out with you as his hands sneak their way up your thighs. loves to tease you until you're all flustered 'n needy for him.

he fucking loves it when you give him a strip tease, too. he'll sit down onto his chair and watch you undress yourself for him, admiring every inch of your body like the masterpiece that you are.

fucks you slow and hard against his window, pressing your body against the cold glass and making you look down at all the unknowing customers enjoying themselves down below as he bites at your neck.

“that's it baby, moan f'me, fuck... look at all those people, so oblivious to how hard i'm fucking you up here in my office. it's a shame they can't enjoy it with us. how about we give them a little show next time, hm?”

m. ojiro — martial arts teacher

i mean, of course. who better to teach martial arts than mr. tailman himself?

he primarily teaches younger age groups, because he's actually very good with kids. he has his own dojo where he teaches, and sometimes you drop by near the end of his classes just to watch him do his thing. he acts like he doesn't notice when you come in, but you both know he always does. (the tips of his ears turn bright red whenever he knows you're staring at him). some of the kids know you very well by now, and always greet you when they get ready to leave.

seeing how good he is with children — and how sexy he looks afterwards, all sweaty, hair messed up, his karetegi a bit loose — is enough to make you want him. and he knows this.

mashi makes sure to double check if everyone has left before he throws you onto the mat, kissing you passionately as his hands roam every inch of your body, helping you lift one leg up to spread your legs apart. you make it a game too, wrestling each other playfully, trying to get the other on their back. you both know he'll overpower you with ease, but he often holds back and lets you win, just to see you straddle him. before long, clothes are scattered all over the floor and all that's audible is your heavy breathing and the sounds of skin slapping against skin.

mashirao loves looking at your ass, so he makes you bend down and gently but firmly presses your face against the floor while he fucks you, arms tied behind your back with his black belt. he loves using it to tie you up, making you surrender to him and have his way with you all he wants.

“damn baby, look at you. so pretty, all for me to use. want me to breed that pretty pussy? yeah? ass up then.”

r. sato — baker

this one just makes sense. if two plus two equals four, then rikido sato is a baker lmao. or maybe more accurately, a pastry chef. this man can probably do it all so it doesn't even matter.

i just love the idea of rikido having his own lil' bakery, baking delicious goods all day so his shop (and by extention, he himself) smells like freshly baked bread all the time. it's no surprise you gained a few pounds by dating him, this guy will show his affection and love for you by feeding you his homemade pastries and other delicious confectionaries. you know where i'm going with this.

he finds it adorable that you're willing to help out with the bakery from time to time, and to show you his appreciation, he'll reward you in the best way possible; with some good dick. rikido is PACKED y'all, holy shit. absolutely huge. and because of that, he loves seeing you practically being split open on his massive cock. you'd be lying on the kitchen floor covered in flour 'n he's got your legs hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you in half 'n pounding into you like there's no tomorrow.

rikido is such a sweet lover too, it's insane. he's so caring and loving while he can also be rough with you. it's the best of both worlds. goes absolutely feral when he sees your eyes roll back and breathless moans fall from your lips as your body starts contorting from how deep he's going.

loves to cum all over you, but loves it most of all when you swallow his seed. he cums so much too, it's insane. it's messy, filthy, but he goes absolutely crazy over it. Can you blame him for wanting to decorate his favourite lil' cupcake though?

m. shoji — construction worker

let's be honest; with those arms and the strength he posesses, shoji would be perfect to work in construction. being able to lift up a lot of heavy stuff, while also being able to watch out so accidents don't happen. gosh, just imagine him in some heavy working boots 'n his bright yellow vest that's a little too small for a big guy like him, covered in sweat and dirt from all the hard work.

he doesn't really approve of you visiting him while he's working, since he wouldn't want anything to happen to you on accident (working at construction sites can be dangerous!). but even so, his heart beats a little faster every time you do. you just look so cute, strutting towards him with a lunchbox you made just for him.

it gets him pretty riled up, not gonna lie. he gets flustered pretty easily, and even just acts of kindness and love like these is enough for him to get hard. he'll be a little embarrassed to ask you outright, but you see right through him instantly, as if he's made out of glass. You know how he gets when he wants you.

it's up to you to take initiative — take his hand and lead him to a safe spot where you can't be seen so you can do your thing in peace. he'll be reluctant at first, but the second you two are alone, he pushes you up against the nearest piece of concrete and hungrily manhandles you, the loud noises of machines drowned out by the sound of your passionate kissing and deep breathing.

shoji is always careful with you, because he's aware of his strength and how big he is compared to you — but that doesn't stop you from trying to conquer him though. he's a service dom, so he'll do anything to please you. lays down on the ground and makes you sit on his face so he can eat you out first, then lets you ride him while he thrusts up into you. he's so big, making you whine as soon as he enters you, but he shushes you and gives you non-verbal affirmations for taking him so well.

doesn't mind it if you make a mess of him or his clothes, because he's already looking pretty rough from all the hard work anyway. he'll have plenty of time to shower with you once he gets home. after a round two, of course.

#mha smut #bnha smut #mha x reader #bnha x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #eijirou kirishima x reader #tenya iida x reader #hanta sero x reader #denki kaminari x reader #rikido sato x reader #mezo shoji x reader #—nsfw.#—hcs.#tw; exhibitionism #tw; size kink #tw; sweat

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lovelybucky1 · 3 years

Note

hey bestie it's pegmaster 👁️👁️ so i saw ur reblog of a ransom blurb and,,, listen. he needs to be put in his place, and who better for the job than you? he for sure thinks you're like everyone else he plays around with. someone who won't say no to him. he pushes and pushes and pushes, maybe subconsciously hoping for someone to finally push him back. enter, you. (elaborate on this however you like!! i got super carried away and wrote a whole ass blurb that ill just post seperately heehee)

pegmaster30 you never let me down

gif credit @barnesdjarin

warnings: sub!ransom, dom!reader, gn!reader, light pet play, nicknames (puppy), hair pulling, jealous ransom, mentions of anal/pegging, cock milking, chastity cage

you’re honestly surprised you didn’t notice how submissive ransom was at the beginning of your relationship

he would always act bratty, but you figured it was in a rich boy, i always get what i want handed to me on a silver platter type of way

he was so whiney, to the point where you’d sit on his dick just to shut him up

all the information was right there, you just didn’t see it. not until that nickname slipped from your lips during an argument

“come on, ransom, it’s just a weekend!”

“i don’t care! i dont want you to leave, you’re my girlfriend, not bucky’s!”

“what is your problem? you never get jealous like this. it’s like you need to follow me around like a lost puppy or something!”

ransom’s cheeks flush red at the nickname and his comeback died on the tip of his tongue. he first took interest in you because you could compete with him. when he’d yell, you’d yell back, and your arguments almost always ended in a draw. this was the first time he ever felt like giving in

“what did you call me?” he asks, voice trembling slightly

you put down your clothes that you were trying to pack in a bag and look at him head on with a confused look on your face. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“what did you call me?” he repeats, face growing redder

“puppy?”

as if ransom really was a puppy, he let out a quiet whimper. you raise your eyebrows and step forward, placing your hand on his sweater-covered shoulder and he looks everywhere but your eyes

you have a suspicion of what’s going on. you know how he gets when he tries to hide how flustered he is. he acts tough, but really, the slightest breeze could get him going

“what’s the matter, ran? you don’t like to be called puppy?”

he opens his mouth but no words come out, so you continue

“poor puppy, too dumb to even give me a simple answer,” you grin as you drag your fingers up the side of his neck, just under his ear

“don’t start something you won’t finish,” ransom says gruffly, which makes you laugh

“and if i don’t finish it, what will you do? yell at me some more? tell me i can’t go in the trip with my friends?”

you cup his cheek gently and he leans into your touch and for a moment, you almost go soft

“i’m sorry, i overreacted,” he says quietly

“i know, baby, it’s okay. it’s not your fault that you can’t control your feelings,” you say condescendingly and you can see the anger flare in ransom’s eyes again. “you are gonna have to make it up to me, though. i won’t let you disrespect me like that again.”

you walk behind him and pull out his chair from underneath his desk. you move it into the center of the room, then you point at the floor in front of your feet

“come here, pup.” ransom crosses the floor in a few long strides and stands before you. “take your shoes and pants off.”

he kicks his shined leather shoes off and quickly pushed his pants and underwear down to his ankles before kicking them in the direction of his shoes

you instruct him to sit backwards on the chair and you take a moment to admire his perfectly smooth ass peaking out from under the hem of his sweater

“y’know, maybe i’ll finally let you fuck me in the ass,” you say, making him perk up. “if you let me fuck yours first.”

you slap his ass and laugh at how it jiggles, then you grab his cock and pull it down between his legs so it hangs down. his tip drips precum that you long to taste, but you won’t indulge him in that

you stroke him downwards, and which each tug, his whines get higher pitched and he gets more desperate.

you’ve seen him needy before, but you’ve never seen him quite this pliant and easy during sex. you were expecting more of a fight or at least a little backtalk, but instead, you have a desperate little whore leaned against your chest

“you like this, puppy?” he nods quickly. “i bet. you’re just sitting there while i do all the work.”

he looks over his shoulder back at you, putting his teary eyes and splotchy red cheeks on full display. he’s always handsome, but he’s downright breathtaking like this

“you’re so pretty, honey. those big blue eyes were made for crying,” you say as you brush a tear from the corner of his eye

you reach around his large body and put your hand on his lower stomach, applying gentle pressure that makes him squirm. he covers your hand with his and looks up at your helplessly

“please let me cum, i’m so sorry.”

“you’re close already? i’ve barely done anything, pup, you can hold off for a little longer.”

he hangs his head in acceptance and you begin to stroke him again. you tighten your fist around him and stroke faster, knowing that he’ll try to keep himself from cumming because he doesn’t want to push you any farther than what he already has

he lets out soft ah’s as you jerk him off and his thighs bounce on either side of the chair as he tries to keep his composure. his hands grip tightly on the wood backing of the chair and if it wasn’t for his whorish moans, you’d be able to hear the wood splinter

“i’m gonna cum, oh fuck, please,” he begs with fresh tears on his cheeks

“fine,” you sigh, “i’ll give you ten more strokes, and if you don’t cum by then, you won’t get to.” you know it’s unfair, but ransom deserves a taste of his own medicine.

you press your lips to his ear and start counting. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight-

his orgasm built up enough and on the ninth stroke, he begins to cum, but the last wasn’t enough to ride him through it. he whines in pain and frustration, angry that you ruined his orgasm but too fucked-out to do anything about it

he bounces up and down on the chair, making it creak under his weight as he tries to fuck your hand, but you’re holding him tightly at the base. he no longer has to cum, but he is far from satisfied.

“fuck you,” he hisses, but the whine in his voice makes him less threatening

“i’ll finish you off when i get back, okay puppy?” you condescend as you pat his head.

“are you serious?!”

“raise your voice again and i’ll make it two weeks.”

his jaw clenches and he glares up at you, no longer the submissive pet he was just minutes ago

“you can’t stop me.”

“no,” you walk to your bedside table and retrieve a chastity cage from the drawer. you return to the chair and hold it inches away from ransom’s face, “but this can.”

“there’s no way in hell you’re putting that thing on me,” he says. he stands up from the chair and steps into your space, but it’s difficult to be intimidated when his cock his hanging out from underneath his sweater

you drag your finger along the underside of his dick, which is clearly sensitive based on the slight shiver he does when you reach the tip

“don’t you want to be a good boy, ran? it’s just a week, and i’ll even leave the key here if you need to take it off.”

he bites the inside of his cheek and sighs out of his nose. “fine, but don’t expect me to keep it on.”

you grin widely as you push up his sweater and lock the cage onto his soft dick. you don’t expect him to last long with the cage while you’re gone, but that will make the punishment more exciting when you get home.

“who’s my good boy?” you cup his cheek after you’re finished.

“i am.”

#ransom drysdale #ransom x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #sub!ransom #sub!ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale fanfic #ransom drysdale imagine #knives out #knives out fanfiction #knives out smut #ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom drysdale x f!reader #ransom drysdale x gn! reader #ransom drysdale x gender neutral reader

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buckyhoney-library · 3 years

Text

nsfw alphabet, b.b

A/N: so sorry it took so long! hope you enjoy! sebastians & nomad!steve should be out sometime this week(end)!

reblogs/likes/feedback are greatly appreciated & highly encouraged

However, do NOT repost/steal ANY of my fics on my blog!

Warnings: 18+, language, smutty thoughts, sorry for any missed typos!

chris evans nsfw alphabet

A = Aftercare (What are they like after sex)

bucky takes aftercare so seriously! he makes sure that you have everything that you need and you're taken care of first. showering you in praises, holding you close, getting you water or snacks- he is at your beck and call.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part on themselves and on their partner)

thighs. thighs. thighs. He loves laying between them with his head resting on your stomach. His fingers tracing patterns on your skin- peppering kisses on the inside. bucky's arms are hooked around them while he is giving you head, rubbing small circles on the outside.

bucky has grown to love his vibranium arm, because of how much you love it. he has changed arm usage from a weapon to a useful tool in every situation. being able to cool it and playing with temperatures, pinning you down- making sure you go nowhere- or even being able to cause it to vibrate.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum)

he loves to paint with his cum. as much as he LOVES to cum inside you and make you hold it- there is something so pretty with his cum plastered on your back or on your tummy. "you look so pretty with my cum on your thighs," bucky is especially fond of watching it drip down your breasts or leak down your thighs. bucky just stares in awe of how it glistens against your skin.

D = Dirty Secret (What do they secretly want)

he wants you to praise him. bucky lives off of praise and when you whimper how good he's making you feel or how he's such a good boy? it throws him over the edge, encouraging him to go faster and harder. he'll never ask for them, but when you start hyping him up, fuck he enters a state of nirvana.

E = Experience (Do they know what they are doing?)

1940's bucky as we all know was very experienced but after eighty years of nothing? he needs a little help regaining his confidence, but man will he practice and have no problems asking for help. he'd be a little embarrassed of cumming early or not being able to satisfy like he used too, but bucky watches porn and experiments like no tomorrow, catching up on all the new toys/techniques/positions etc.

F = Favorite Position (Self-explanatory)

bucky's favorite position would be cowgirl or where you're laying on your side, so he could hold you. cowgirl because he gets the perfect view of your body and everything about it.

with an honorable mention of missionary- but missionary with your legs in the air spread for all can see. if he's feeling a little spicy, he'll press on your lower abdomen, adding extra pressure.

G = Goofy (Are they serious during sex or goofy

BOTH. There is a time and a place for serious, rough, passionate sex (and boy does he enjoy that), but for the most part, Bucky wants you to feel good and he wants to learn- which means there will be some mishaps and failed moments, but he loves those moments just the same.

H = Hair (Are they well-groomed?)

he is well kept and clean. bucky isn't hairless, but he does make sure that everything is trimmed up and clean.

J = Jack Off (Do they masturbate?)

bucky only does when you're away or he's gone for a mission. when you're home, he has no problem telling you he's in the mood. when he does masturbate, it is to your pictures/videos you've sent or through facetime/phone calls. he doesn't watch porn unless that is the only option or he is looking for new things to try with you.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

oh boy does he have loads of kinks! bucky loves praise (receiving or giving)! during the more passionate and rough sessions, he is into degrading (but not too crazy) innocence kink. if you have met after his second sexual awakening? god, how he loves to ruin you. he loves the idea that he gets to teach you and that you're at his mercy. ice play/warming (idk what the word is) he loves when you call him sarg does this man have a filthy sarcastic mouth. dirty remarks of comments that leave his mouth- god, it's enough to you off in seconds.

L = Location (Favorite place to do it)

he is a traditional man at heart, so he loves the bedroom. bucky gets to be as loud as chooses and go as long as he wants without the fear of someone walking in or interrupting.

M = Motivation (What turns them on or gets them going?)

leggings. jeans. short shorts- anything that enhances your thighs or when you shoot back firey/witty comments matching his energy. The more traditional turn on's as well, suggestive comments, touching his chest letting it fall to his belt, lingering kisses on his lips and neck. "it's like you're begging me to fuck you silly,"

N = No (Something they will not do. Turnoffs.)

nothing with bodily fluids (other than saliva or cum) & i don't think he'd be fond of being too open in public- he's a private guy, but he doesn't mind the simple pda and light touches.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skills, etc.)

okay let me tell you- bucky loves getting head. your lips make him cum faster than anything else. "open wide, darling" he loves the ability to do it virtually anywhere (privately of course) and the quick clean up-but he mostly loves watching you take his length completely, hitting the back of your throat. "fuck, such a good girl taking all of me," hearing you moan into him and gag makes him go FERAL. bucky isn't a head pusher, but he does grip your hair.

bucky does love going down on you too. his cock throbs at the sight of your legs shaking and squirming. the sounds you make encourage him more, but he doesn't stop when you cum- he licks up every last drop of you. "im not stopping, so i'd stop moving if i were you," he'll occasionally pop his head up to make sure that he's doing everything right and you're enjoying yourself- the last thing he wants is for you to fake it (which only happened when he first re-entered the dating world)

P = Pace (Are they fast or rough? Or slow and sensual?)

there is a time and place for everything. bucky loves sensual sex because he feels the most connected to you and he has been without physical/emotional connection for so long that it's become a must. it is also where he feels the most control and the best, when he can be 100% vulnerable- something never thought he could do.

fast and rough is for those needy moments where he can't get his hands off of you- complete feral mode. when you've been teasing him relentlessly and he needs to remind you who's in charge. those nights are when the kinkiest of kinks come to play.

Q = Quickies (Their opinions on quickies rather than regular sex)

quickies are reserved for dinner parties, group outings, etc. where you look too good and he can't keep his hands off of you. "i wanna see if you taste as good as you look". quickies usually consist of fast rough sex that leaves bruises or marks. they also mainly consist of giving/receiving head.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

oh does he! he has almost ninety years of sex trends/toys/etc to catch up on. it will be the middle of the night and you'd be fast asleep only to be woken up by him shaking your arm and going "baby, we have to try this!"

bucky isn't a risk-taker in the sense of public and potentially getting caught, he is a risk-taker in the sense that he is willing to try anything once.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go? How long do they last?)

bub is a super-soldier. his stamina outlasts yours by HOURS. you'd be panting and lying sideways and bucky would be ready for the next round and you'd have to tap out. he would chuckle and hold you, teasing you about how you can't last. "can't handle this cock? i thought you said you could go all night?"

T = Toys (Do they own or use toys on themselves or partners?)

bucky has a whole drawer dedicated to the greatest quality toys. "only the best for you, dollface." he loves seeing how far he can push you with the vibrators. tying the vibrator to your clit and watching you be sent over the moon. bucky wouldn't be too crazy about using toys on himself, but he isn't opposed to being handcuffed (or pegged)

U = Unfair (How much do they like to tease?)

BIGGEST TEASE in the galaxy. Touching you, grazing your heat, kissing your neck, rubbing the inside of your thigh, (stuffing a vibrator inside you while you're on the phone), or whispering dirty things in your ear- but God forbid if you tease him back. there will be hell to pay if you try teasing him back. "you better rethink your next move, darling," "i think you forgot who's allowed to tease who."

V = Volume (How loud are they? What sounds do they make?)

bucky is pretty quiet, with the exceptions of grunts and whimpers. His mouth is filthy and he dirty talks like there is no tomorrow! he is also a cocky little shit and sarcastic- which doesn't stop in the bedroom. "your cunt feel so good around me," "open your eyes, i want you to watch as i ruin you" "look at you, you're soaked for me"

W = Wildcard (Random headcanon for your character)

cockwarming. babe lives for cockwarming. early morning lazy sex, but too lazy to pull out of you. you'd be laying on your side with your leg over his, with his cock buried inside of you. "no, honey, just stay" he would mumble with his head resting in the cook of your neck, placing small kisses on your neck, but falling back asleep.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

baby, that serum did wonders. bucky is packing that seven to eighter. his cock would poke through your tummy and he won't stop talking about it for weeks.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

HIGH. VERY HIGH. he is ready whenever and wherever the time calls.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly do they fall asleep afterward?)

bucky's stamina is so high that he probably is starving. he would perform aftercare for you, but once you'd have cared for- he is standing naked in the kitchen making a sandwich.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #sebastian stan #sebastian stan smut

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kiridarling · 3 years

Text

𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐒 𝐔𝐏!

shouto todoroki | f!reader, ceo heir!shouto, mirror sex, hair pulling, choking, inappropriate use of showerhead, alcohol. minors dni!

— 3k words

"You're so pretty when you make a mess, aren't you?"

Miss Y/N,

I couldn't help but notice the latest project my father assigned is extremely difficult. If I'm going to be completely honest, you'll work yourself to death at this rate, and your greys double by the day. Drinks on me at Club 777 at 7 pm. Sound like a deal?

— shouto todoroki

“A club.”

“Glad you could make it,” Shouto gives you a small smile; it’s anything but hostile. And yet, that’s all yours is as you assume the space to his right in the velvet crescent booth. “I hope it wasn’t too hard to find. Club 777 is pretty popular around he—what are you doing.”

As your fingers fly across the keyboard, you give him an indignant huff, the screen highlighting the underside of your face electric blue as you continue hacking away at your presentation. If you’re going to be forced to go out, you’re going to make the most of it—and that’s by getting the work that you would be getting done at home, at a club. And a rather loud one, at that.

"You're a workaholic," he observes with a sigh, and you flash him a fat sarcastic smile. Stupid fucking CEO heirs and their entitlement.

"Congrats, you've solved everything! Can I go home, now?"

"No," Shouto frowns before he rudely snaps your laptop shut and sets it to his right. Pushing a plate of clear-colored shots your way, your eyes bulge—there have got to be at least fifteen. "Drink up—it'll take the edge off."

You blink between your coworker and the shots. You trust Shouto and you've known each other for a while...somewhat. His father is your boss, and with Shouto as the next in line you’ve got no choice but to play nice. He’s as cocky as he is aloof, but you suppose he’s fine overall—and he's seen you break your back over this project for a solid month and a half. Positive you won't be able to keep your conscious from running laps over all the work you have to do otherwise, you snatch the first shot and chuck it down your gullet with worrying enthusiasm. Shouto lifts an eyebrow and you reach for another.

"Thirsty?" He chuckles, before grabbing a shot for himself. The second shot burns, but never as much as the first, and the back of your hand catches what doesn't make it into your mouth as you say:

"More than you could think."

"And then—and then I was like, um no sir, I think you got my change wrong by at least five bucks! He didn't believe me, like at all."

"Did he make a fuss of it?"

"Of course."

"That means he has a small dick," Shouto advises with the second to last shot in his hand, wrist-watch glinting in the club light. His face is a deeper red than his hair and you've never noticed how nice a suit fits him as if you don't see him in one every day. You giggle at that, too far gone yourself to be offended on the stranger's behalf. Shouto's jacket drapes over your shoulders like an oversized blanket even though you bickered about not being cold, with enough alcohol in your veins to warm a village.

"Probably," you rest your head against the crescent booth, dismissive at the softness from the red velvet that’s probably ruining your hair. "Either way, I pulled a Karen and called the manager on 'em.

Shouto nods, "As you should. Once I tricked my father into thinking he had a very unhappy customer by sending him a million emails from 'John Appleseed' and calling his personal secretary twice as much."

You cackle, throwing yourself across the table at the thought of your Boss’ face hot and red with anger (as it does.) Shouto's loved nothing more than to make his animosity against his father well-known—to you, at least—and to say bored Heir been getting creative the past few months is an understatement. "Oh fuck—when'd you stop calling?"

Shouto shrugs, muscles rolling underneath his white dress shirt, "Once I filled his voicemail box.”

He holds a smile, small and distant, as he watches you wheeze as if he just told the funniest story in the world. In your defense, Shouto's never really been a funny guy, but he does funny things. Like when he stares at you when he doesn’t think you notice, or when he gets so close your chests nearly touch, but doesn't notice it. Doesn't point it out, at least. You find your laugh dying along with the smile on his face, though, and when he says nothing afterward but stare.

"...Shouto?" You snap in his face to make sure he's still in there—but it's hard to tell, with his glazed eyes and scarily steady breathing. His arms find either side of you, and you're too tipsy to realize you've been caged against the booth until it's too late.

"Your eyes are quite mesmerizing, Miss Y/N," he marvels. You can smell the vodka on his breath, and positive that compliment would’ve set your face aflame if the alcohol hadn’t already, any hints of cherry obscured by the neon club lights.

"I—um, thank you," you giggle, and if you were sober, you'd shoot yourself in the foot for reacting like a school girl. But you suppose you can give yourself some leeway—this is Shouto Todoroki after all, and for some reason, he's complimenting you. "You...you aren't too bad yourself."

"You wouldn't mind if I got a little closer, would you?" Though Shouto holds a cheeky half-drunken smile on his own, knowing any closer will result in nothing but a kiss and perhaps a little more. His eyes flicker to your lips the same time yours flicker to his, and you and you catch a heat in his eyes you didn’t notice before.

"Not at all."

You blink and Shouto's lips are on yours. They’re soft, painfully so, and it's clear he knows what he's doing—with his hands dropping to your waist and tilting his head ever-so-slightly to the right. Nudging your lips open, his tongue easily finds it's way around, mapping the insides of your mouth and taking note of what makes you shiver the most.

Shouto tastes like vodka. It's a familiar taste, one that you associate with seven minutes in heaven and quick make-out sessions in high school—and yet this time it spurs your heart to beat faster, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him in even closer, as if it's possible.

When you pull away it’s clear neither of you really want to, but unfortunately you need to oxygen to live, chest heaving in unison as your eyes catch his own. Shouto's grip tightens around your waist as he licks over his already wet lips, glossed by what you assume is your spit.

“You’re one dangerous woman,” he rasps with swollen lips. You giggle, but you know he knows his words’ effect on you because goosebumps are impossible to hide.

“Thank you,” you respond, a bit awkwardly—because what else are you supposed to say?

"I'm positive it isn't the alcohol talking when I say I want to take you right here." Shouto growls as his eyes hold you in your seat. You shiver, the request sounding impossibly inviting, and your thighs discreetly rub together to take the edge off a bit.

"Bathroom," you breathe against his lips, this night turning for the most unexpected.

"Off, off, get all of this off," Shouto pants the moment you two step into a gender-neutral singles bathroom. You don't doubt they made it gender-neutral for this exact reason, but that thought leaves as quickly as it enters when Shouto pins you against the sink starts to pepper hot kisses down your neck. He scrambles to bunch your dress to your waist over taking it off completely and growls at the sight of your lower-half in absence of your usual attire.

"Do you know how long I've wanted you? Hmm?” He's breathless as he settles between your legs with a lick of his lips, pushing the excess of your dress into your hands. You really don't know how long he’s wanted you, but you find yourself biting your lip at the prospect anyway—that you've been driving your boss's son, your future boss, just as crazy as he's been driving you.

"Shouto—"

"Shhh," he interrupts, pulling your panties to the side. "Let me take care of you. You've been working hard these past few months, no?"

You guess so.

Either way, all clarity dies when Shouto licks a fat stripe up your slit, chuckling when you slide a tentative hand into his hair. Your grip tightens when his lips wrap around your clit and suck, slipping a finger between your folds to elicit a whimper or two. He bites his lip when you tug a little.

"Keep doing that and you just might ruin me," Shouto groans, before his mouth returns and he’s adding another finger. When the digits curl just right, your hips buck in faint frustration—they're moving too slow.

"Can you, um," you blush, eyes skittering to the bathroom walls instead. The club music permeates despite the fact that they look like they're made of solid brick, vibrating the floor and sink underneath you both. "Go faster?"

Shouto's eyes snap to yours. For a second you’re afraid he's going to say no, but he tosses your leg over his shoulder and adjusts your hips until they're at a perfect level, licking his lips and growling:

"My pleasure."

You're positive whoever loiters near the bathroom door hears your yelp as his mouth descends to devour your pussy, eating you so enthusiastically that you see you're slick smeared across his pink cheeks. Shouto pulls your hips deeper into his face with a defiant growl and you have to drop your forearms on the sink to keep yourself from falling to the hard ground, your grip around the porcelain ever-tightening.

"Feel good?" He rubs a heavy thumb over your clit in place of his mouth and stuffs you with a third finger. You nod with a broken moan as he pulls his digits out all the way out before burying them knuckle-deep again, grasp on the sink slipping. He flicks your clit, "Answer me."

"Y-Yeah," you nod again, near-hyperventilating. You’re sure Shouto’s getting a kick out of it—at least, if his chuckle has anything to say about it.

"Good girl," he coos, the circles on your clit slowly quickening, "You're so pretty when you make a mess, aren't you?"

You're nodding along with him, though you're not exactly sure why—but then his mouth returns and suddenly, why doesn't matter as much.

Shouto's more vocal than you expected, groaning into your sweetness as your thighs trembles next to his head. He holds you like you're precious, like you're actually something to him, but you're much too drunk to unpack all of that right now. Instead, you tug at his hair. It pulls a much louder moan from his gut and you find yourself enjoying the vibrations, yanking harder to hear him again.

"W-Wait, Shouto," you whimper out, painfully close as you pull at his hair but this time to pull him away from you, "I wanna—wanna cum on your cock...if that's okay."

Shouto blinks once, twice, and then you're staring at yourself in the mirror listening to him frantically undoing his belt, cursing when the metal slaps him across the palm. You giggle.

"Eager, are we?"

"You don't even know," he pants, and the tip of his cock kissing your entrance has you biting your lip. His eyes meet yours in the mirror and they melt when he fits the head of his cock inside, the grip he has on the porcelain sink turning white as he pushes further.

"You are—you are painfully tight, Miss Y/N," Shouto wheezes into your neck, teeth grit as his pelvis finally brushes against your ass. You resist the urge to wheeze with him, his cock filling you to the point where your lungs struggle to find room to breathe.

"I'll take that as a compliment," you joke, eyes fluttering shut. Shouto tuts, grabbing the underside of your face as he says:

"Eyes open, Miss Y/N. I want you to watch yourself fall apart as I fuck you."

Your eyes peel open, albeit reluctantly as you whine, not understanding why you need to watch your own face when you can enjoy the sight of him instead, "But Shouto, that's embarrassing..."

"Just trust me," he grunts, and his hips are snapping into yours, sending you jolting into the sink to the point where you have to brace a hand on the mirror to keep yourself from being squished flat against the porcelain. Shouto leans over, "You trust me, don't you?"

And well. When he puts it like that...

"Look at yourself, not at me," Shouto says, catching you redhanded. You whine when the hand holding your head moves to your neck and squeezes, cutting off your oxygen supply just enough for your eyelids to drop halfway. "See? See how good you look? So wrecked for me already and we've barely started."

"S-Shut up," you moan more than you say, finding yourself mesmerized in the way your lips part and by the redness of your cheeks. Shouto dips his head into your neck and sucks, prompting your free hand to find his multicolored hair again and pull. His reaction is almost automatic, the way the smooth rock of his hips changes into a quick snap in a heartbeat. It has you keening, his cock reaching places spots you weren't aware you had, and he crushes you against the sink to rub at your clit.

"Fuck, you're so gorgeous for me," he grunts, hips finding the energy to pick up the pace. You whimper and he's sucking a hickey into your neck, hot breaths punctuating along with his sharp thrusts. "Feel so good around my cock, like you were made for me—shit—"

This time you break the rules, eyes flickering to look Shouto in the mirror as you watch him come undone. His hips stutter as he muffles a broken moan in the back of your neck, body shuddering while he fills you up. His thrusts slowly dissolve into nothing and soon it's just your heavy breathing between brick walls, until Shouto pulls out with a hiss.

"You didn't cum."

"O-Oh, um," You blink at his unimpressed gaze through the mirror as if you got caught redhanded. "I...usually can't. Without a vibe.”

Shouto hums at that but says nothing. You watch something in his brain churn, eyes surveying the room before a lightbulb appears above his head and he's snapping his fingers.

"The shower."

"...What?"

"The. Shower." Shouto says, a little cheekier this time, as he guides you towards a simple shower hidden behind a curtain. Now, why there’s a shower in a club bathroom is beyond you.

"Well. This seems awfully convenient," you click. Shouto shrugs.

"Sun (the author) says it's to clean up the drunks who vomit all over themselves." He takes the only shower seat available, back pressing against the tile.” I think she just wants you to ride a showerhead ****if I'm being completely honest."

"Maybe she tried it for the first time recently or something,” you hum absentmindedly, but that thought flies out the window as Shouto grunts:

"Either way, it's irrelevant. Strip."

"I—completely?" You exclaim, covering your body despite the fact that it's already covered by your dress again. Shouto raises an eyebrow, settling both elbows on his knees once grabbing the showerhead from its bar.

"Unless you want your outfit to get soaking wet, yes. Completely."

Touché.

You're naked fairly quickly and Shouto lays you across the tile even quicker. You watch him test the different modes on his hand, before choosing the one with the most...gusto. You spread your thighs and fight the embarrassing blush dusting your cheeks from the exposing position.

"Ready?" You roll your eyes.

"I swear Shouto, if you do—o-oh."

He presses the rushing water to your clit, and you have to take a step back, fully unprepared for how nice the pressure would feel. Shouto chuckles at that, the soles of his loafers soaking in the lukewarm water with you as he sits with his legs spread, brazenly enjoying the view.

"Feels good?"

You nod, hips subtly grinding into the hot stream. Shouto bites his lips at the view and it turns you on that much more to know you can have such an effect, before his free hand drops to his palm himself through his dress pants.

"I get the perfect view, too," Shouto growls to himself, tilting his head ever-so-slightly as you release a broken moan, bare hips stuttering against the tile. "A perfect view of that pretty little pussy. Ah ah, keep those legs for me."

Your inner thighs quiver with an impending orgasm, the edge looking much closer than it did previously. The combination of Shouto's words, his sounds, and the steady beat of the water against your clit is enough to have anyone shaking, and the only complaint you have is that you wish he wasn't so fucking far.

"S-Shouto," you whimper, hands scrambling across the slippery tile. "I'm close."

"Yeah? Do it then, make me proud," Shouto growls with a feral smile, grip tightening around his cock—you nod, chest shuddering.

“Y-Yeah just adjust the—oh fuck, Shou, right there!”

Your thighs clench as you gasp and your fingernails dig into the grout between the tile as you orgasm, your moan nearly bordering on a scream. Shouto groans, grip tight on his cock through his damp suit pants, and you nearly giggle as your high ebbs.

“Have I ever told you how dangerous you are, Y/N?” Shouto says cheekily. You grin back, cocking your head to the right.

“Only a million times.”

“Well then I owe it to you again,” he says lowly, and you get the message you two aren’t done as he joins you on the wet floor to cradle your jaw.

“You’re one dangerous woman, Y/N.”

a/n: i fully expose myself in this, and you know what? i'm fine with that.

click to return to CLUB 777

#— 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐎 #CLUB 777 #The VIP Booths #todoroki smut #shouto smut #bnha smut #mha smut

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