#short enough to stand on tabletop

[dearsnow]

OUT OF TIME (2)

- you’re smacked in the face with a hint of the past and a group of aviators that can’t seem to leave you alone. (bradley “rooster” bradshaw x fem!reader, part of the series “out of touch”)

OUT OF TOUCH: It’s been twenty years since you last saw Bradley Bradshaw, and, suddenly, you realize he’s finally grown up.

word count: 2,002

a/n - i’m on my phoenix wlw bullshit btw, i love her sm 🫶 enjoy this slightly longer chapter, and heed my warnings: something big is coming soon

When they step through the doorway of the quaint cafe, the entire dagger squad sighs. The smell of coffee and baked goods is almost sweet enough to touch, with slightly floral notes from the abundance of small plants and tabletop flowers. The floor beneath them is wood-paneled, with green accents hidden throughout the building. In Rooster’s opinion, it’s straight out of a storybook. And, evidently, so are you.

He would be lying if he said you weren’t anything short of completely gorgeous. The sunlight from your many windows filters over your face and through the gaps between your fingers, casting you in a golden San Diego glow. Your smile reaches your eyes and, though he would love to see you in any outfit, the apron is really working for you. You seem nice— and man, do the daggers really take advantage of “nice”. 

Hangman, from behind him, whispers, “Holy shit.”

You’re standing behind the cash register, thumbing through a decoration catalog when the rowdy group appears in front of you. You direct your warm smile to the daggers as you put the catalog down, and suddenly, Rooster vaguely recognizes you.

Bradley wracks his brain, trying desperately to remember who you are.

You don’t seem like anyone he met at college or recently, and definitely not on base, so you must’ve been from his childhood. The girl who slapped him during his senior year? No, you couldn’t be her. The girl who worked at the corner shop by his house, the girl he made out with in his mom’s car, the girl who found out she was a lesbian after dating him, none of them looked like you. But god, do you look good.

Then it hits him. You. The girl who bought his mom flowers. Who baked him cookies. Who tearfully admitted that you didn’t think he liked you as much as he liked himself, and who he agreed with. You’re here, and he sorely regrets breaking your heart twenty years ago. The worst (or perhaps best) part is that you don’t even seem to recognize him. He’s a little afraid of what would happen if you did.

“Welcome in!” You call, and he can see his friends swooning. He himself feels a little weak in the knees. 

Hangman, ever the flirt, takes his opportunity. “Hey, darlin’. I’m Jake. Come here often?”

Rooster can feel his eyes rolling themselves. It’s like he’s been conditioned to groan at Hangman’s attempts. They’re never good, if he’s being honest. “Gorgeous” this and “darlin’” that. Despite his reservations, though, it usually works. That or his sharp jawline, toned abs, and movie star scruff.

“If you mean here, as in where I work, then yes.” You quip. Jake reaches to shake your hand, and you comply, looking at him like a motorist looks at a poor piece of roadkill; just a little pitying. Rooster has never been more impressed by a woman before.

“Fanboy here has been raving about your croissants, gorgeous.” There it is. Rooster knows Jake’s lines like the back of his hand. “I bet you make the best ones in the city. I wouldn’t mind getting a sample myself.” He drawls. He pulls out his wallet like it’s on fire and quickly drops some cash in your tip jar before offering the rest directly to you.

You hand him a wrapped croissant before gesturing to Fanboy. “Fanboy? Is that a call sign?”

He takes a step forward, a sparkle in his eye. “Yes ma’am.” His cheeks are dusted with a light red, and not even the soft lighting of the cafe can hide it.

Phoenix is standing near the back with Bob, arms crossed, taking in the scene in front of her. Rooster moves to join her as Fanboy takes pride in letting you know everyone’s call sign. “Not joining in on the action?” Rooster says, nudging her with his elbow.

Phoenix shrugs. “She’s a looker for sure, but all I can see is that photo of her and her boyfriend on the wall behind her. I’ll quit while I’m ahead.” She grins. Rooster laughs, and for a split second, your eyes shift to him. They widen a bit, then before he can even process it, you’re helping Payback pick out a cupcake. Damn, your eyes are beautiful.

When he and Phoenix eventually peel the others off of your cafe’s very nice wooden floors, Bradley can’t stop the flutter in his chest.

Bradley comes back the next day. He just can’t help himself. The night of the initial visit, he tossed and turned in his bed, desperately trying not to think of you and how he royally fucked up. He needs closure. He needs to stand in front of you, face-to-face, and confess that he regrets ever hurting you. He knows he’s out of time, and he’s been out of time for years, but he feels that if he can’t speak to you, he might explode. That is, if you even remember who he is.

That’s why he finds himself staring at your pastry shelf as you list off your favorites. “…sometimes the cherry tarts are good, but I mostly like the raspberry scones. They’re way too underrated.” You hover above the glass display, pointing to each one.

“Then I’ll have one raspberry scone, please.” He smiles. As you wrap his choice for him, he hesitates. “Do… do you remember me?”

“From yesterday? I find your group a bit hard to forget, Rooster.” You say. You’re purposely avoiding his question, something that you yourself can see very clearly. You hope it isn’t obvious to him.

Of course you remember him. You remember the smell clinging to his jacket and his stupidly loud boombox. You also remember his gangly limbs and prominent awkwardness. And, as much as you try to forget, you remember how in love you were.

Whenever you saw him, your heart would swell. He was just so good. Everything about him just seemed like a teenage dream.

His hair was scruffy, like he hadn’t learned to take care of it yet. He was tall still, as he always had been. And he was kind.

He offered to walk you to school every morning after your mom told his mom that the dog two houses down from yours would chase you, and you were head over heels. Every word he spoke seemed to draw you closer. During those walks, the world itself seemed to rest in your open palms.

“Hey, wait- don’t go too far, I can’t see you!”

“You’re real smart, did you know that? You’re not like a lot of the other girls.”

“That’s so cool. You should come over and show me sometime.”

You had gotten so caught up in him that you completely forgot he wasn’t the type to settle down, even in high school.

“I just don’t know.” He said, on your second-to-last date. “I like that you’re into me, but I’m young, y’know? I mean, we’re not even legal adults yet. I don’t want to tie myself down too soon. It’s not you, it’s me.” 

You nodded along, but your heart was breaking with every word that came out of his mouth. You wanted him so badly it made your throat ache. You had written poems about this guy, and he was feeding you cliche break up lines to get away from you. “I get it.” You murmured. You did, in some sense. High school relationships aren’t built to last. At the time, you wished they were. “You just want ‘casual’. And I know I’m not casual.”

This conversation kicked you right in the insecurities. For a long, long time, you believed you weren’t loveable because of it. You were too much, loved too much, gave too much. You felt too much. You scared everyone away with your tears and worries, latching on so tightly anyone in your grip felt like they were suffocating. It closed you off for a good, long while. In truth, Derick was the only reason you ever came out of that self-loathing way of thinking.

Bradley smiled like he didn’t just kick you in the feelings. “Right. Thanks for understanding,” and he spoke your name without a hint of longing. “You’ll find a nice guy someday. I just don’t think it’ll ever be me.”

Then, things exploded when you caught him flirting with Rebecca right before your last date, and you never looked back.

You hand him the scone with a tight smile. 

“No,” he says, “do you remember me from high school? Bradley Bradshaw, at your service.” 

You pause, as if you’re just taking him in for the first time. He supposes that he does look really different, with the mustache and hair and filled-out body. He wouldn’t blame you if you just didn’t want to recognize him, though.

“Oh.” Is all you say. An awkward pause fills the air, stifling the rest of the words in your throat. If you’re being honest, you would’ve rather he just stayed away instead of infiltrating one of the places you feel safest. You suppose you can’t actually be that mad at him, though, considering it’s been two decades since he hurt you. Bradley quickly fills the silence.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I was a dick back then. I regret it deeply, if that’s any consolation.” 

You hand him his scone. “You were a dick. But I lived.” Your tone still has a touch of humor. Bradley can feel his heart doing loop-de-loops. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this, not now, not when you have a boyfriend and have so clearly moved on from him, but the feelings that drew him to you in the first place are sprinting back at full force.

He did like you. He liked your jokes, how you always put your full effort in, and your kindness, even when he didn’t deserve it. He just wasn’t ready for anything so undoubtedly good at the time. He needed to get smacked in the face with the lessons that life taught him. If he hadn’t gotten those lessons, if he had taken your hand and your offer of a real relationship, he would be happier. But you wouldn’t be. That’s what he had learned after all these years, and now, he’s desperate to prove that life changed him. You were never too much for him, he just wasn’t enough for you.

“Yeah, clearly. I’m happy you’re doing well now.” He gestures to the scone as a show of proof, quirking his eyebrow. You smile.

“I’m happy you seem to be doing well too. Come back anytime, Bradley.”

Seeing him still hurts. You don’t have the right to be sad, you think, but finding out that you moved miles and miles away just to end up in front of him makes you feel like your life has been one big unhappy circle. Despite everything, you’re glad he’s made a life for himself. He definitely seems more mature now, which the San Diego ladies must love.

He pays you, then slides a twenty and a piece of paper in your tip jar with sparkling eyes. He licks his lips quickly, like his mouth has suddenly gone dry. His stance is just a little less confident than it was a few seconds ago. “I put my number in there. Call me if you need a friend, yeah? No funny business, but it’s tough being in a new place, so I’ll be here if you feel up for it.”

Looking around at your sparsely furnished and no-employee cafe, you don’t wonder how he knew you just moved here. You just thank him with a tight smile and pretend not to notice how nice he looks from the back.

You unfold the piece of paper, fully intending to throw it away, before sighing and tucking it into your apron pocket. You doubt you’ll ever need a friend in Bradley Bradshaw, but things tend to change in the blink of an eye.

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Taglist: @m1dnightsnackz @itsarabellebabes @shanimallina87 @sadgirlgiselle

[live-laugh-legolas]

Hi it’s me again 💀 anyway my request—

The fellowship reacting to reader dancing and singing on a table then asking them to join them up there?

So fun! Idk if I need to put a warning but I imagined these being in a pub so alcohol is mentioned (please drink responsibly)

Tabletop Dancing

Aragorn:

-He watches with a smile behind his cup of ale

-Kinda like the smile he gives when he sees Merry and Pippin high as hell in Isengard

-He is very amused and loves watching you have fun

-But he was not expecting to be asked to join

-I don’t think he is much of a dancer and although he does sing, he doesn’t necessarily do it in a pub sort of fashion

-He won’t get up on the table with you

-But he will hold your hand and walk around the table with you

-Another reason he won’t get on the tables is because he is too tall

-I’m pretty sure he is canonically 6’6

-His head would bust a hole through the ceiling and scare the living shit out of the people in the room above

Legolas:

-He’s a little shocked at first

-Elves party different from other races; and this seems a bit… uncivilized

-But he is nothing if not open to learning new cultures and traditions

-He finds it very fun to engage in; much to his surprise

-I think movie Legolas may not want to get on the tables; but if we are going by the books then he absolutely will jump up and will walk around on the backs of chairs because he’s a show off

-He does fancy twirls with you

-He possibly accidentally throws you off the table doing this

Gimli:

-Ok; he is fully accepting of this and has no hesitation to join

-Dwarves love a good party, and especially this dwarf

-Even more so if he’s had a bit to drink

-Maybe don’t pull him up on the tables though

-Dwarves may be short, but they are solid and should not jump on tables if you want to have a table afterwards

-He will sing his heart out with you

-He is so loud it drowns you out but that’s alright

Boromir:

-He is clapping and singing along the whole time

-Like Aragorn he also is a bit too tall for table dancing

-However he is not deterred once he’s drunk enough

-He’s definitely a light weight though so it’s doesn’t take long for him to get up there and belting his heart out with you

-He steals the show if we are honest

-He will fall off the table

-Every time

Frodo:

-We know this Hobbit will get up on a table to perform

-He’s not shy to having a good time

-He is happy to be pulled up onto the tables with you to dance

-He definitely kicks a few cups over because he’s a little clumsy

-But no one can even be mad at him because he is so cute

-Seriously that smile is even worse than puppy eyes

Sam:

-Probably the hardest to convince to join you

-He’s just not one to enjoy being the center of attention

-But he loves watching you having a great time

-He will need to be a few drinks in to join

-He is more worried about you falling off the table

-He will kind of dance around the table but really he’s just there in case you trip

-He will be singing whatever song you were singing the next day

-It is stuck in his head and he’s much more open to singing when not in a crowd

Merry:

-It all depends on his mood

-He doesn’t want to say no to you and he does enjoy a good table tap dance

-However he also likes just observing the joyful scene

-He will sing duets with you

-He is less involved as Pippin though, and instead favors hyping you up over putting on his own show

-He joins in with cheers to call and response type songs

Pippin:

-You don’t even have to ask

-He’s already up there with you

-Every table is this a stage for this hobbit

-You two are absolute menaces but the life of the party so it evens out

-Full choreography

-You always get a standing ovation

-This is like a weekly thing for you two at least

-You guys have loyal fans

Gandalf:

-This old wizard loves a good jig

-At first I was thinking he would never get up on the tables

-But then I realized he absolutely would if he was drunk enough

-Idk why but I have decided he knows how to break dance but will complain about how sore he is the next day

-He will deny ever dancing on the tables or belting out songs

-He’s too old and dignified for that…

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————

I hope this is a good enough response. I realize this isn’t really their reaction to the reader as much as just how they join in lol.

[perpetuallyconfused10]

Drive Me Home (2/2)

Part 1 Content Warnings: Creep at the Bar™, Soft Hotch WC: 2.5K

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。 “Come on. Just one more!” Emily begs you, her voice loud over the constant chatter. She reaches over the unsettlingly sticky tabletop to grab your forearm, then, sensing your vacancy, searches for another target. “Garcia? JJ?”

Two margaritas and four vodka shots is all it takes to unravel whatever illusion of dignity you’ve managed to scrounge together since joining the BAU. Two margaritas and four shots has you giggling at anything said, funny or not, and struggling to keep your eyes open. Now, if Emily has her way — and you’ve come to learn that she often does when the team unwinds at the bar — a tequila shot is in the cards for you too.

“I’m out.” JJ says with a shake of her head, “Any more and I won’t be alive to see tomorrow morning, let alone Monday.” 

“That’s the whole point,” says a now-pouting Emily as she spins in her seat to hound Garcia into agreeing to another round. The first to Morgan’s at the bar making friends, as he puts it. Watching him with a smile pulling at his lips is Reid, who nurses a soda and regales the rest of you every so often with numerical predictions of his chances for success.

Your head is spinning, and it’s got everything to do with the alcohol flooding your veins, not the unfortunate reality of your boss sitting at the head of the table, with those two top buttons open, exposing just a glimpse of his throat. He’s been checking his watch as often as is socially acceptable. Somewhere deep in the haze of your mind, you suspect Rossi, who's long gone, bullied him into coming. Now he nods along with Reid’s tangents, inserts a comment or two whenever the younger profiler takes a breath.

Emily calls your name once more, pinning her hopes onto you. It’s a rookie mistake you make when you nod, having not processed her question properly. By the time you realize what you’ve agreed to, it’s too late to back out. Suppressing a groan, you grab your card and slide out of the booth. You try not to think about squeezing past Hotch as you do it, try ignoring the warmth that spreads into you when your forearm brushes his shoulder. 

You fail. Sweet as ever, Garcia offers to join you, but you shake her offer off with a smile, standing on only-slightly-unsteady legs and making the short walk to the bar.  

As you slot yourself into the crowd waiting for their drinks, you debate whether Emily will notice you taking a water shot instead of the tequila you’ll buy for her and Garcia. You’re about to take the risk and order one when an unfamiliar hand settles itself on your lower back. Brow furrowing, you whirl around, hoping to see Prentiss or Morgan behind you. 

Those hopes are dashed pretty quickly. A stranger presses in close to your side. His fingers curl around your waist in a manner so confident it’d make you laugh, were you sober enough to react with more certainty. Instead, you shiver. And of course he takes that to be a sign, his grin cheshire-cat-wide. 

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” you take a moment to respond as you cover his hand with your own, moving it away from you. 

He’s tall, blonde, what many people would deem attractive. But his smile is too quick to appear and just lopsided enough to look practiced. “Not yet,” he says. “What are you drinking?”

“Nothing more now. Just water.”

Your tone is clipped, impersonal, and you hope he gets the message. 

If he does, he chooses to ignore it and steps even closer, reaching the same hand across your body and resting it against the bar, boxing you in against it. The proximity has your stomach sinking. 

Stephen — really, you’ve no idea what his name is, but he looks like a Stephen, and the type to spell it with a ‘ph’ over a ‘v’, just for the status of the extra letter — raises an eyebrow at you. “Just water? Come on, honey. What do you want? It’s on me.”

The pet name sounds wrong on his lips. You’re an FBI agent. You’ve dealt with the sickest people humanity has to offer, seen more in your short time with the team than most people see in their lives. You’re an excellent shot, giving even Morgan a run for his money. You should be more than capable of dealing with a freak who gets a little too close at the bar, for fuck’s sake. 

But you’re tired and a little dizzy, and the scent of his cologne makes your head spin in the wrong kind of way. Emily wouldn’t hesitate to shove him hard, and JJ wouldn’t get herself into this situation in the first place. You’re not Emily or JJ though. You’re just you. 

“Thank you, but I’m really not—” 

The bartender cuts you off to ask for your order, and you try to forget Stephen’s eyes on you as you rattle it off, opting for an extra glass of water just to spite him. 

He isn’t pleased, though his face says otherwise. “You don’t really want that. No strings, I promise. Just let me buy you a drink. Just one.”

You’ve had enough. “I’m not interested.” 

Now the smile drops from his face, leaving it a blank mockery of neutrality that makes you sure ‘no strings’ is an empty promise. He leans in even closer, and you suppress a wince at the sensation of his breath against your skin. “You know, you don’t have to play hard to get.” Stephen’s tone is rougher now, all of its artificial sweetness abandoned. He looks you up and down, eyes the neckline of your shirt with a frown. “It’s obvious what you’re looking for.”

Your throat constricts. The air is hot. Too hot. It’s all you can do to keep your hand steady as you pay for your drinks. “I told you, I’m not looking for anything. Or anyone.”

When the bartender slides your drinks across the bar, you rush to grab them, nearly spilling them in your haste to leave. You’re not that lucky. Stephen’s arm is still in your way. You don’t like how your breathing speeds up, chest heaving just a little despite your attempts to remain unfazed, but it’s all too much. 

Stephen opens his mouth to retort again. 

He doesn’t get far. 

“Move.”

 A new hand settles itself on your back, and its fingers curve ever so slightly around your hip. If you wanted to back away, there’d be more than enough room. But you don’t. 

Turning slightly in Hotch’s hold, you’re not surprised to see him issuing Stephen with the full force of his glare. The creep’s hand retreats, though he stays put otherwise.

“Here, sweetheart,” Hotch takes the tray from you, not even bothering to look at your ‘admirer’ again. His focus is on you, now, and his eyes are soft, one corner of his mouth curving up. “Thought you could use a hand. I think Prentiss might kill you if you drop another of her drinks.”

You manage to pull yourself together enough to roll your eyes. Of course he picks now to bring that up. “That was one time, Aaron. I don’t think she even remembers it.”

Now Stephen turns and walks to the other end of the bar, and you feel your shoulders loosen at the distance. 

Hotch notices, because of course he does. Instead of walking you back to your booth, he stays put and searches your face. “You okay?”

You nod. “Fine. I don’t know why I didn’t…”

Trailing off, you scan the bar. Garcia is laughing at something Prentiss says (some kind of story, based on the gestures she’s making). Reid watches them with fondness in his features, Morgan back and sitting by his side.

“You shouldn’t have had to do anything,” Hotch says quietly. His arm rests by his side now. “I think I’m going to head back. You want to go home?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna call a cab.”

He tilts his head, echoing your words from months ago with just a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Everyone and their mother is calling a cab. I’m driving you.”

“Hotch…” you sigh. You can’t trust yourself, now, not to say the wrong thing, not to comment on the something that’s changed between the two of you since you gave him a ride home, not to wonder if he’s noticed it too. 

“Let me do this for you. Please.”

His insistence is too gentle to argue with. 

“Okay.”

Hotch takes the tray of drinks, leading you back towards the rest of the team. 

“You’re an angel, honey,” Garcia tells you. She squeezes your hand in thanks as Hotch sets down the shots and hands you your water. If anyone noticed anything wrong, they don’t mention it, and you’re grateful for that small mercy.

“I think we’re going to head out now,” says Hotch. His hand hovers just above your back, almost touching you, as he goes on to explain that you aren’t feeling well and shouldn’t chance a cab.

You’re not too drunk to miss the communal grin passing through the group like the flu, so you file it away for later and hug the rest of the team one by one, giving Reid a tired smile and a wave goodbye. 

Hotch leads you out of the bar and out into the cold in search of his car. You feel yourself take a real breath for the first time in a while. 

“Are you alright?”

“Fine. Thank you,” you say, and mean it. The chill in the air helps to clear your head some. At the very least, you don’t feel nearly as drunk as you did inside. 

Hotch hums, unlocking the car. Climbing into the passenger seat, you can’t help but laugh.

“What?”

You look over at him, groan quietly. “You’re a liar, Aaron Hotchner. Your car is so much cleaner than mine.”

It really is. You glance over the interior in search of a coffee stain or a loose wrapper, but come up empty handed. 

“Guilty,” he shrugs. “And it’ll stay that way, if you behave.”

You’re pretty sure your brain short circuits when he puts his hand on the back of your headrest to reverse out of the parking spot. It takes you longer to respond than usual to his gentle taunting. When you do, it’s a little half-hearted. Maybe you aren’t as sober as you thought. 

“Please, Hotch. I’m not about to throw up in your car. I’m not that far gone.” 

“No. You’re not,” he pauses, opening the window anyway. “We’re back to ‘Hotch’, now? What happened to Aaron?”

You give him the most innocent look you can manage and plug your address into his satnav. “You’re right there.”

You’re pretty sure the look he gives you now is reserved for murderers. And clearly, on some occasions, you. 

Eventually, he relents. “You called me ‘Aaron’, earlier.”

“You called me ‘sweetheart’,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. Resting your chin on your hand, you turn your head to look out of the window. You don’t want to see the smug expression you’ve come to recognise over the past few weeks, reserved almost exclusively for you. You know he wears it now. 

“Did I?”

You don’t answer. Your fingers move to cover your lips, as if that’ll stop you from making more of an idiot of yourself than you already have. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register his sigh. “Look in the side pocket,” he says, his voice quiet.

“What?”

“In the compartment in the door. Take a look.” 

You follow his instructions, finding a few CDs tucked away there. You’re about to tease Hotch for his taste in kids’ audiobooks when you spot it, and feel your breath hitch. 

“Hotch…” You say, turning over the copy of Carole King’s Tapestry in your hands. It’s still wrapped in plastic, still new. Taking the disc out of its case, you look to him for permission before sliding it into the player. “When did you…?”

“Indiana. I saw it a few weeks ago, and it made me think.”

You press play, and I Feel The Earth Move floods the car. “You really didn’t have to—”

“—I wanted to,” he frowns as he says it, determination etched into his face. “I don’t have much of a collection, but it’ll get there.”

A comfortable layer of quiet settles between you as you watch the world move outside, late-night stragglers heading from offices with briefcases in hand, or stumbling out of nearby bars, arm-in-arm and laughing. It’s been a long while since you took that first journey alone with Hotch, since your determination not to think about him in any non-professional way wavered and cracked. Now, weeks later, you take turns to bring each other coffee in the morning. You ask him about Jack and revel in how content he is to talk about his son. You look at him and wonder if this slow, tentative thing you’ve built, this easy friendship, is all you’ll ever share.

If it is, you can’t bring yourself to be upset. But you glance at him now, his hair falling over his forehead, and think to yourself that it might not be.

Three songs or so later, Hotch turns into your street. You point out your apartment and wait for him to turn the engine off, but he doesn’t.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say, simply to have something to say that isn’t an admittal of something you really shouldn’t be confessing to. 

He hesitates. The car stays running. “You’ve got nothing to thank me for.”

You nod towards the CD player, pressing pause. Silence. “Thank you for this, then.”

“It was your idea,” Hotch says, “You’re a lot more thoughtful than you give yourself credit for.”

It’s sweet. Too sweet. 

You laugh at him. “God, you sound like a fortune cookie.”

“I’d make an excellent fortune teller.” 

There’s that tone again. It’s flat, but with something exasperated lingering beneath it, something fond.

“Go on, then. What’s in my future?”

He sighs. “A nasty hangover. And a text or two hundred from Garcia, complaining about hers.”

You snort in acknowledgement. “And what do you see in yours?”

Now he turns the engine off, leaning back against the headrest and turns to study you. His eyes trace from yours down to the curve of your lips, and to where your hands lay intertwined in your lap. For a long moment, he says nothing. Your breath is starting to turn the windscreen foggy. Then, with a gentle grip, he takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kisses the tender skin on the inside of your wrist. 

“If you’ll have me? Another very uncomfortable conversation with Strauss.”

Your soft, tired smile is answer enough. He leads you to your front door, kisses your forehead, and sees you inside. When that conversation is over, he promises, he’ll be driving you home much more often. 

It isn’t very long before he makes good on it, and Reid is a little richer.

[munsonluhvr]

HOW TO FAKE IT (PART 4)

this is the very last installment for this series. thank you all for reading and interacting with the series - I apologize for taking so long to write the last part but I am eternally grateful for your patience and kindness. I decided to make it short and sweet and only focus on the tension between the two characters.

taglist: @siriuslysmoking @frostandflamesfanfic @johnricharddeacy @yearningforsappho @marrowfrog00 @season4steve @mrssoapmactavish @definitelynotherr @micheledawn1975 @the-fairy-anon @alltoomay @plk-18 @siriuslysmoking

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

The next morning, Steve woke up with a raging headache. He couldn’t even begin to think about what he was going to do as he sat up slowly from his bed, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes. Instantly, he thought of you and the warmth he felt next to you as he woke up in your shared bed at the cabin over the weekend. He was almost surprised when he realized his body ached for yours next to him – nothing surprised him anymore. 

After a minute, he rolled out of bed, swinging his legs to the side of his bed. He sighs, standing up, making his way towards the bathroom to brush his teeth and begin his day. Steve stares at himself, analyzing the way his bags have grown underneath his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks. For numerous hours, Steve stirred in his bed, staring at the ceiling aimlessly. The moonlight danced across the darkness, illuminating corners of his room. Flashes of his friendship with you over the years flashed in his mind, vivid memories of you laughing, the sun against the softness of your skin; all this time, Steve had been suppressing intense feelings for you. 

On the other side of town, you were just as restless, and you’ve made that oh so obvious. 

“Y/n?” Your mother says, her eyebrows creasing with worry. She watches closely as you lean across the tabletop against your elbow, your hand cradling your face, as you stir your cereal in endless circles, staring off into the distance. Your mind is clearly elsewhere. “Are you all right?” 

You hum, shaking your head back into focus. “I am,” you say simply, not knowing how else to respond without giving away your worries. 

She nods once, then turns to wash the dishes. You sigh softly to yourself, rubbing your temples with your fingertips, though the effort does not alleviate the tension in your mind. 

Last night, you smiled your way into sleep, replaying the moment you and Steve’s lips brushed against each other’s. The tension was thick in the room, electric shocks invisible in the air but sharp enough for you to feel. You smack your lips together softly, remembering that when Steve leaned near, your heart pumped so hard that you began to taste metallic on your tongue. 

It was worrisome, though exactly what you want, for Steve to reciprocate his feelings for you. What would happen to your friendship? You shake your head once more, knowing that it was simply a mistake and that you and Steve would return to normal shortly – it would all end fine. 

You continue on your day, choosing to spend some time outside. You lounge in a chair that’s placed on your porch at the front of your house, letting your bare legs and toes soaked up the sunshine before it dips behind the clouds. Though you live on a quiet street, the few cars that pass by you bring you a little amusement, keeping you entertained as you sit outside – that is, until Steve arrives. 

You see his car pull up, turning into your driveway smoothly. It’s his sunglasses you notice first, the big, dark frames taking up most of his face. Steve steps out of his car, wearing his pressed khaki  pants and buttoned-up polo. “I texted you,” he said, excusing his abrupt arrival. 

You shrug, lifting to show your empty hands. “I don’t have my phone, I left it inside.” 

Steve nods, walking across your lawn to take a seat beside you. He pulls his sunglasses off, showing his brown eyes that dart over to you as he sits himself down. “Can we talk?” Steve asks, leaning back in the chair. 

Your heart begins to beat fast; the metallic flavor begin to bud in your mouth again. “Of course. What is-” you begin to say but Steve interrupts you. 

“-I love you, y/n. I’m embarrassed to say that it took us pretending to date for me to realize that, and I, of course, wish that I could have figured it out before it came to us fake dating and the whole cabin weekend.” Steve rambles, his eyes moving from you to off in the distance. 

Your mouth slacks open slightly, his confession catching you off-guard. You thought that surely last night was just a mistake and that you would find a new normal after the weekend at the cabin and a near-kiss. You slump against your chair, following his line of sight. You inhale and then exhale, hoping the nerves dissipate. “Steve, I-“ 

“Let me finish, I have to get this off my chest” Steve says, turning back to you. “I care about you, far more than just being friends, and I sat awake all night last night thinking about you, and us, and our friendship; I-I know that being more than friends would put our friendship at risk, but I don’t think I can continue on being friends with you, knowing that my feelings for you are so deep.” 

Steve takes a break, pausing only for a second before he begins speaking again. Before he can speak, you interrupt him. “Steve, I love you too,” you say, your heart continuing to thump aggressively against your chest. Nearly instantly, you feel a weight lift off your shoulders. 

“You do?” Steve says, his eyebrows furrowed together. 

You can’t help but laugh and shake your head. “Yes, Steve.” 

Before either of you can say anything else, Steve leans towards you, closing the distance between you. Gently, his lips collide with yours and you taste his lips that rest against yours. You hum softly, leaning into Steve’s mouth. His fingers intertwine with locks of your hair, inching you closer to him. Your own hand reaches out, cradling Steve face. You lose track of time, the sound of the cars passing by are drowned out Steve’s lips wiping away all your senses. 

Gently, Steve pulls away from you, his lips now hovering over yours. He had a curious smile on his face, his brown eyes sparkling against the afternoon sun. “You know you're mine now, right?" Steve says confidently, his smile beginning to grow. "Do you think people will believe we’re dating this time around?” 

[moons-dunes]

Patience

For Kinktober - Prompt: Tabletop

18+ Only MDNI

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader

Summary: Steven teaches you a lesson in patience

A/N: This one is quite short. I’ve been having some issues in my personal life and it’s drained my creative energy a fair bit. Hopefully I’ll be back on my feet soon.

WC: ~1k

This work contains: dom Steven my beloved, Cockwarming, mild brief nipple play, rough PiV, sex on Steven’s desk, short and sweet. Please let me know if I missed anything.

“She was quite interesting really, Hatshepsut. Real shame that so many of her statues and paintings were destroyed after her death.”

Steven’s voice was right next to your ear, but your mind was somewhere else entirely.

You were honestly impressed with how casually he was speaking, especially since his cock was buried so deep in your dripping pussy. He might as well have been talking about the weather with how calm and collected he was.

You, on the other hand, were a hot mess. Quite literally. Sweaty and panting.

You should have known better than to bug Steven while he was wrapped up in a book, but you were feeling impatient. You were craving him.

It had started with you just sitting on his lap while he was at his desk, but after awhile he got tired of your incessant squirming and subtle grinding against him.

“You’re going to sit here like a good girl until I’ve finished what I’m doing, yeah?” He had warned as he pushed you up against the desk just to yank your pants and underwear off, removing his own as well before sitting you down on his half-hard cock.

He had the back of your knees hooked over his, leaving your legs dangling out to the sides. One of his arms was wrapped around your middle, holding you tight.

You couldn’t get any friction no matter how much you wanted to.

“Are you listening, darling?” His breath was hot against your ear as he spoke, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “You seemed pretty enthusiastic earlier.”

“Steven… please,” you whined as you let your head fall against his shoulder, breathing hard.

“Do I look like I’m done, my love?” He questioned quietly but firmly, bringing his hand up from his book to pet your hair. “Enough whining. Be patient.”

He shifted his hips ever so slightly, making you tense against him as you tried to choke back another high pitched whine.

You were so sensitive, each little shift of his hips and twitch of his cock was the sweetest kind of torture.

As sweet as Steven was, he could also be absolutely ruthless sometimes.

He went back to turning the pages of his book, pushing his glasses up occasionally while you held back little whines.

It seemed like forever until he placed his bookmark between the pages, putting his book on a nearby chair as he decided to take pity on you.

“Was that so difficult?” He teased as his hands travelled under your pajama shirt, grabbing your tits to massage them. You let out a shaky moan as his fingers pinched your nipples, pulling on them a bit. “Does my good girl want her reward?”

You nodded frantically, crying out as his hips moved again. You couldn’t hold back your whimpering groans any longer as you felt his cock throbbing inside of you.

You sounded so pathetic.

He lifted you off of him to stand up and lay you down on the desk, leaving your soaked hole clenching around nothing. He quickly filled you again as he settled between your legs, resting your calves on his hips.

Steven wasted no time before he started pounding into you, each thrust punching a jerky moan out of you as you finally got the friction you desperately needed.

The sound of the legs of the desk scraping against the floor filled the living room, barely outweighing the sound of skin slapping against skin and your wet pussy.

“Better now, love?” He asked through his moans, smiling down at you. “See what happens when you have a bit of patience?”

“Thank you, thank you,” you rasped, surprised you could even form words.

His hands grabbed your legs, placing your ankles on his shoulders rather than on his hips. The new angle had him hitting that magical spot in you over and over.

“S-Steven!” You stuttered out through a broken whine, your hands scrambling against his shoulders and gripping his shirt tightly.

Your mind was buzzing, head spinning as Steven fucked your sensitive hole.

His chest was pressed against yours, pinning you underneath him. His lips found your neck, sucking marks into your tender skin as his hips slapped against your ass.

“Still so tight for me,” he muttered in your ear, burying his face in your hair with a satisfied moan.

He pushed you further up so he could climb on top of you, letting your legs fall across the edges of the desk as his thrusts grew faster.

Your pussy clenched down hard around him as you came with a shuddering shout, your fingers digging into his clothed shoulders desperately.

“That’s it, love,” he praised you sweetly, his hips stuttering and his thrusts growing shallow as he reached his orgasm. “Such a good girl.”

He kept thrusting hard, both of you moaning against each other.

The legs of the desk kept creaking loud, but it quickly became background noise as Steven fucked both of you through your highs.

Through the haze of your climax you heard a loud crack, then suddenly both you and Steven were on the floor with a crash before you could react.

You both yelped as you hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of you.

“Sorry, love!” Steven apologized profusely, pulling out of you and pulling you into his arms protectively as he knelt on the floor.

He cradled your head against him, immediately making sure you weren’t hurt. Thankfully you were both okay.

“Bloody cheap furniture,” he grumbled when he saw the broken leg of the desk, now bent underneath the rest of it. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, looking back and laughing when you realized what had happened as your mind cleared. Steven started laughing with you, relieved when he heard your tired giggles.

“Well then,” you chuckled, looking back at him and away from the busted desk. “I guess we won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

[theamityelf]

Instead of the beach, they meet at the hotel, to avoid losing their kouhais in the ocean or sand. It wouldn't hurt to have lunch, anyway.

"A four-inch-tall Olympic swimmer gorging herself on a quarter of a donut," Teruteru marvels. He's at a table with Akane, Sonia, and Mahiru– and of course, all of the miniature Ultimates they're caring for.

Akane lowers her head to hear her kouhai's chittering voice, then lifts it again to say, "She wants you to stop starin'. Where's yours, anyway? You lose him?"

"Oh, he hid under my hat while I was cooking; he didn't like the smoke. I think he fell asleep up there."

"Aren'tcha worried he'll run out of air or somethin'?"

Teruteru lifts his hat to take a slumbering Yasuhiro and place him on the tabletop. The movement appears to startle him awake. (And who can blame him.)

"Hifumi," Mahiru chides, picking up her kouhai and turning him around. "She said to stop staring!"

At another table, Hajime sits with Nagito, Kazuichi, and Nekomaru.

"Aww. Are you making friends?" Nagito says.

His little brown-haired kouhai, Makoto, has been especially social with the others. Based on the tentatively positive reaction of Kazuichi's sheepish kouhai, Makoto seems to be a nice guy. He even pries a bit of conversation out of Kyoko, who Hajime has observed to be pretty unforthcoming.

"This is weird, right?" Hajime says, pulling Nagito's gaze away from fondly watching the tiny Ultimates interact. "I feel like we've moved past how weird this is pretty quickly."

"Check this out," Kazuichi says, taking out a little gadget he's been working on. "This motor is going to power the door to Chihiro's terrarium."

"Her terrarium is going to have an electric door?"

"Amazing!" Nagito says. "It's going to be so cool to see what everyone comes up with."

"This is weird," Hajime murmurs again.

Chiaki sits with Peko, Hiyoko, and Ibuki.

"What do you mean you don't want candy?" Hiyoko protests.

Tiny Sakura points to the chicken on Peko's plate.

"Hey, I'm in charge! I set the menu around here."

Sakura walks closer and says something that Hiyoko bends down to hear.

"Ugh! Fine." Hiyoko gets up to grab Sakura some real food.

"We have a runaway!" Ibuki warns, pointing at Celeste, who is strolling away while Chiaki is focused on a game she's playing.

"Hey hey," Chiaki says mildly, picking Celeste up and holding her close to her ear. "Where are you going?" A short pause, listening. "Oh. You don't like watching me game? That might be a problem for our co-op compatibility..."

"There. Happy?" Hiyoko demands, sitting back down with a new plate.

Sakura says something back.

"You're welcome." Hiyoko is trying to pout, but she's blushing a lot.

"Byakuya" sits with Gundham and Mikan, and Fuyuhiko stands off to the side.

Gundham has been having a harder time managing his kouhai than most, since there aren't a lot of spots on his person that he can safely keep a small person that aren't already inhabited by hamsters. He's been settling for letting her stand on the palm of his hand at all times, though a brief moment where he had to set her on his shoulder so he could bring his food to the table with both hands resulted in her sneezing from the hamster hair, and that was a weird couple of minutes before she sneezed again and seemed to calm down.

(They're all given information on their kouhais, so Gundham actually knows what happened there, but he doesn't explain it to anyone else.)

Now, Toko is chittering at Imposter's kouhai, and it does not seem to be a nice conversation. Mikan's kouhai intervenes, and he speaks loudly enough that most of his chitters are decipherable without bending down; he says something about "inappropriate language".

"He's standing up for his friend," Mikan says, smiling delightedly. "I'm so proud. Is this what it's like...?"

"What what's like?" Fuyuhiko asks, from his corner.

Before she can answer, their pleasant lunch is interrupted by a sudden appearance from Usami. She tells them again that their job is to have fun and make friends on this school trip and help their kouhais do the same, and-

Ding dong, bing bong.

Usami looks immediately panicked, as an unfamiliar sound fills the room.

(Mini THH AU Masterlist)

[leslutdepointedulac]

Surrender

MicroMay ~ Week 3: Surrender

“Please could you come in here for a moment, Lestat?” Louis stands by a table in the front parlour, the surface littered with various bits of paper. A couple of sheets are in his hand, as he looks through them with a frown on his face. 

There’s no sign of Lestat, so Louis calls him again. He knows he’s at home, he heard him come back from his hunt about an hour ago. Louis had come into the parlour in the hopes of finding him there, to discuss replacing the servants. They do this every few years to avoid suspicion. When Louis entered the parlour, he didn’t find Lestat, but instead found this ever-growing pile of papers on one of the side-tables. The matter of the servants has been temporarily banished from Louis’ mind; this is something he wants to address sooner rather than later. 

Just as Louis’ about to call for him a third time, Lestat enters the room. “I heard you the first time, there’s no need to shout.” He stops a couple of metres away from him. 

“Yet you didn’t think to respond sooner.” Louis lifts his eyes and sees him in what appears to be new clothes. “What’s this?” He stares pointedly at the clothing. 

Lestat preens from the attention. “It’s nice, non? This shade of red is rather dazzling.” 

“This is exactly what I mean to discuss.” Louis’ tone is disapproving. He holds up the papers. “I take it you know what these are.” 

A shrug. “Receipts. I was going to move them if that’s the problem.” 

Louis lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “The problem is that there’s so many of them. You can’t keep spending money like this. What you’re wearing now, it’s new, but you only came home with new clothing last week.” 

“I like to stay on track with the times.” 

“This has to stop, Lestat. It’s out of control.” 

Lestat narrows his eyes at Louis. “We’re not short of money. It’s really not an issue.”

An exasperated noise escapes Louis. “It’s not about the money, it’s about you not knowing when to stop. You don’t need everything all at once.” He picks up another sheet. “And this. Another doll for Claudia.”

“She likes them.” Lestat starts sounding defensive. 

“She’s grown out of them. She doesn’t want them anymore, haven’t you noticed?” 

Hurt flashes across Lestat’s face but he quickly recovers. “If she wants me to stop then she can tell me herself.” 

Louis flings the papers down with a sigh. Lestat wouldn’t stop, he’s only saying that to placate him. He’s clinging onto her childhood, though he won’t admit it. Louis glances back at Lestat, studying him. “Can you lessen your shopping trips, please? It’s gotten ridiculous and soon enough we’ll be drowning in your purchases.” 

He moves to leave, wanting to end the conversation there but Lestat blocks his path. “Tell me you don’t like it when I show up in something new.”

“That’s not the point.” Louis tries to go around him but he’s stopped when Lestat blocks him again, this time, stepping forward as well. Louis’ forced back slightly. “Don’t do this.” He says in a tired voice. 

Lestat simply smiles at him. “Admit you like seeing me in new clothes.” He forces him back another step. “I know you do, Louis. I can see it in your eyes, the desire you feel for me.” 

“Stop it.” Louis tries to come across as forceful, but his tone is quiet and breathy. He’s backed up again and bumps into the table behind him, a sheet of paper falls onto the floor. He puts a hand on the tabletop to steady himself; his other hand comes up between them, resting on Lestat’s chest as if to push him back, though he doesn’t attempt to move him. 

Warm breath hits his face as Lestat leans in, hovering his lips over Louis’. “Admit it, and you can go.” He says in a low voice. He’s met with a mildly defiant gaze, though it’s largely overtaken by the previously stated desire. “Say it.” His voice comes out in a whisper this time. 

Louis tenses as Lestat’s hands are placed on either side of his neck, high enough so that both of his thumbs are able to caress his face. “Leave me alone.” Louis’ tone matches Lestat’s in a whisper, no heart in it whatsoever. The hand meant to support him on the table slips a bit on the paper, making him lean slightly further back. Lestat follows him, still teasing his lips over Louis’. 

“Say it.” 

“No.” 

Their gazes remain locked, watching each other intently. Louis’ eyes flicker between Lestat’s, trying to anticipate his next move. His heart rate quickens, his breathing becomes heavy and catches in his throat. Louis’ eyelids flutter shut as Lestat finally presses their lips together, a content sigh leaving him as he does. 

Lestat moves his body closer, so he’s got Louis pressed right up against the table behind him. He runs a hand down the length of his body and brings it round to rest on his back, holding him up just as Louis’ supporting arm gives out from underneath him. 

The motion causes Louis to produce a small gasp, making his lips part. Lestat takes the opportunity and slips his tongue into his mouth. Their mouths move in tandem, their tongues scraping against each other’s fangs and drawing small droplets of blood. Their sighs and groans are only intensified by the blood. The taste of their blood mingling together makes Louis moan into Lestat’s mouth. 

He’s drawn closer by the hand on his back but he gently pushes at his shoulder. Lestat only relents when Louis’ pushing becomes more adamant. “What is it?” He pants against his lips. He allows him to straighten up but keeps his hands on him. 

Louis opens his mouth then stops, shaking his head. Lestat rolls his eyes and presses their mouths together again. He’s won this time. 

[The Desire You Feel A03]

@vcmicroficmay

[localguarddog]

Tools of the trade Enver Gortash x Reader CW: injury, molten metal poured into open wounds, physical abuse, domestic abuse, emotional abuse, a fic with gortash, ifykyk

You should be used to this by now. You should be used to the quickly shifting moods this man goes through. The easy smile that hides so much angry at simple tiny things you were never aware of until he got his gilded claws around you.

Yet, here you are, in his workshop, in such a horrible and tense silence. It was a usual day off for him. No more meetings, no more paperwork, undisturbed by all but his closet advisors and most trusted guards. Just him, his thoughts, his tools, and his so called fiance, you.

He had you join him in the workshop early on in your.....arrangement with him. A way to open up to you, he said. If only you know that he was opening up a gods damned mimic to you.

At first, he was focused on training you to be the proper little assistant. Making you learn tool names and basic mechanical processes and terms. It was mind numbing. Until he took one of those tools and twisted it inside your gut for not remembering it's name.

Then it became your only reprieve from his cruelty in your everyday lives. You learned his craft with a fervor, quickly being able to figure out the tools he'll need before he even asks for them. You learned early on that offering solutions or advice would quickly get you tied to his work table and tinkered with.

So here you are, again, sitting there, body rigid as a wood board, because you opened your big fat fucking mouth because you were relaxed for a moment of time while he was working on a particularly difficult little powering device.

Your little comment made his fingers tense and then the loud bzzzzzzt that followed told you that you made him short circuit the thing. You had fucked up his work. The silence and stillness seemed to stretch on for hours, years, millennia.

It shattered so quickly with your brief moment of hope when the soft tink of metal tools against the metal tabletop broke said silence. He was slow and deliberate in his movements. Pushing the device forward, away from him, so he wouldn't tear it in two as his anger began to boil over inside of him.

He gave you a glance, those dark eyes of his felt like obsidian stabbing through your very soul. His fingers tapped the tabletop, never breaking eye contact. The soft drumming of his fingertips is even more terrifying than when it's the tapping of those obnoxious golden claws of his.

No, no, you don't get him in his public persona for this fuck up. You get the man who built himself from the ground up with his bare fucking hands. Calloused from constant work, sweating from the heat of the shop thanks to the magic buzzing in it and the forge that's always kept hot. The man who has enough dexterity to craft magically enchanted jewelry, and the strength to hammer fucking iron into submission. In his simple, yet still finely made, black pants and shirt, a dragon leather apron filled with his tools wrapped around his large frame.

He smirks, standing up quietly, going over to the forge. Oh gods, no. Not the forge. No. He's been heating metal to pour into molds for a new and improved fucked up collar just for you. The silence makes you want to tear your skin off, but you can't. One wrong move and you're be the next batch of kindling in that little hellfire that he uses for his personal work.

He fans the heat of the forge, looking into the crucible that has the prepared gold. Gortash steps away, looking over at you, before he goes to a shelf, grabbing a chisel and small mallet. No, fuck, no no no no.

You can't move, fear has you stuck in your seat. He goes back over, sitting back on the stool next to yours, his body turned towards you. He sets the tools on the tabletop, grabbing you by your knee and dragging you closer, your leg now caged by his own.

He cuts away the fabric of your pants with ease, the small dagger tucked back away into his boot as he looks over the clean expanse of flesh he exposed. On your upper thigh, closer to the inner side of it. He rubs his thumb along the flesh, a bit of grime from his tinkering smearing across it.

Fuck. You aren't going to be able to walk after this. You already know it. Soon enough, he has the chisel tip pressed into thigh, the mallet, completely unneeded with how strong he is, but used purely for his fucking enjoyment, aimed at the handle of the chisel.

Finally, he speaks, eloquent as ever. "I have been wanting to try this for a while, pet. And then you go and give me the perfect opportunity. Maybe this time, you won't let yourself speak when I'm working, hm?" He doesn't give you a chance to answer before the mallet slams down, the chisel piercing deep into your flesh. You tense up, a horrible hiss leaving your mouth as you grip the edge of the table.

He doesn't stop, continuing to carve into you as if you were stone, chiseling away in what feels like nonsensical patterns to you, just to torment you. Every downward swing you swear you can feel your very bones flinching away from him. You squeezed your eyes shut at one point, tears threatening to overflow. You didn't want to let them, didn't want him to win even more so than he already has.

Soon enough, through your muffled whimpers and choked back sobs, the chisel is pulled away, the carved out flesh removed and tossed into the bin. He stands, slipping away from you. You can't stop yourself from hunching forwards, gasping as you stare at the blood soaked floor, your leg throbbing with pain as his footsteps thrum in your head.

Your moment of reprieve is cut short as he yanks your head back, looking down at you as if you were a worm in front of a dragon. "Best hold still, or the gold won't settle correctly. You don't want to mess up my work twice, do you?"

Yet again, no chance to respond, as suddenly searing hot lava is poured into the new gashes on your thigh. You scream. You scream and scream and scream until your throat feels raw. It hurts so much. You thrash your upper body, not daring to move your legs even if you want to fling the molten metal off of you as quickly as possible.

He lets go after the metal has begun to rapidly cool into your open wounds, going to prepare more for his little project as you cry and heave, barely able to move your leg without the metal settling into the new space your squirming makes.

When you look down at your new engraving, you barely hold back a weak laugh.

There, inlaid in rapidly cooling white gold, is an intricate and large heart.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hello! Do you have any fairytale/disney-esque ttrpgs you could recommend?

Theme: Fairytale Games

Hello there friend! I sure do! We've got a really nice selection here to look at - and don't forget to check out the previously recommended!

I’ll Be Taking That, by porchlightdusk.

You are a goblin, and you are what you hold close: discarded trinkets, unloved baubles, desperate comrades. These precious bits of flotsam give you courage enough to rummage through the treacherous alleys and howling wastes of this world. Venture out from whatever miserable hovel you sprouted and seek the shiny things of the world, oh little chaos beast!

I'll Be Taking That is a tabletop roleplaying game in which a narrator and several players tell the stories of rambunctious goblins in a harsh world. Play is rooted in narrative choices and collective, chaotic joy, supported mechanically by a lightweight inventory-as-skills action resolution system and overflowing random generation tables. IBTT is built on Caltrop Core by Titanomachy RPG and draws heavily on the philosophies of Powered by the Apocalypse systems, among others.

This is a game that situates you into the fiction very well in just the first few pages. Chaotic nonsense is definitely encouraged in this game, and I can feel the undercurrent of mischief sprinkled throughout the book. Trinkets are a core tenet of this game - you will accumulate them as you adventure, and risk breaking them on your worst failures. Your attachment to these trinkets will also rise and fade. If you want a game that lets you embrace your inner gremlin, you might want to check out this game, although be aware - it’s still in development!

Witchblood: Pulp Fantasy Fairy Tales, by Rose on Mars.

The Woods… …are dark and deep, but they are not lovely. Inch by inch, they close in on the villages of humanity. And in those encroaching wilds dwell the witches. Ancient, primeval, creatures from before the First Eve and still potent today.

In this world, where life is brutish and short, you stand tall. You are a witch's grandchild, or a disinherited noble, or a scion of the good folk. You are part of humanity, but also apart from it, by your own choice or otherwise. You are caught between the expectations of your birth and your own needs and desires. Run from your past, or chase it. Love freely, or not at all. Stand between the hearth and the wilds. They may not call you a hero, but your name will live on ever after.

Witchblood is a roleplaying game about who you were, who you are, and who you will become. Take on the role of a self-determined, tough-as-you-want pulp fantasy protagonist wandering a world of bloody -- but not always grim -- fairy tales. Wield the powers of birthright and destiny. Explore the darks of the forest and brace yourself against the bite of the wind. Do what’s right, or just what’s right for now.

These are the woods through which Little Red voyaged through; this is a fantasy world that might remind you of The Black Cauldron, or the brambles summoned by the witch in Sleeping Beauty. Character creation involves choosing options that look like classes, as well as pairing together identity tags that can be rated from 0-5, as well as pairing opposing Qualities, also rated from 0-5. You will roll d10s according to your Identities and Qualities.

This is a game where combat and conflict are expected, and stories can be expected to turn darker before becoming lighter. If you like traditional fantasy alongside fairytales of witches and darkness and danger, Witchblood might be for you.

Nexalis, by Cezar Capacle.

We invite you to step aboard your enchanted vessel and set sail on the ethereal ocean known as the Nectar. Nexalis calls you on an awe-inspiring journey across a universe filled with countless uncharted islands, each teeming with unique cultures, mysteries, and magical phenomena.

Nexalis is an otherworldly realm where islands drift amidst an endless cosmic ocean of magical plasma, the Nectar. The Nectar, pulsing with vibrant, ever-shifting colors, mirrors the celestial patterns that guide adventurers on their thrilling journeys. At the heart of this sea lies the Celestial Nexus, an entrancing vortex of astral energy that births islands and renews the world in a constant cycle of creation.

As you journey through the Starbound Isles and the shimmering Nectar ocean, you will encounter vibrant cultures, awe-inspiring landscapes, ancient relics, and enigmatic secrets. Guided by celestial constellations, you will brave untold challenges, learn valuable lessons, and forge lasting bonds with the people and places you encounter.

Nexalis is a bright fantasy game, a genre that focuses on themes of wonder, exploration, and camaraderie. It showcases a vibrant and diverse setting, filled with colorful landscapes and imaginative creatures. Stories in Nexalis tend to be character-driven, often revolving around personal growth, discovery, and the building of relationships.

If you liked movies such as Treasure Planet or Atlantis, this might be the game for you. The magic of this place feels ancient and yet unlike traditional fantasy. The gameplay is guided, meaning that you’ll cycle between two different modes, depending on whether you are in a high energy scene or moments of reflection and role-play.

On the Way to Chrysopoeia, by NessunDove.

On the Way to Chrysopoeia is an epistolary roleplaying game written by Morgane Reynier and illustrated by Marion Bulot. Together with a partner you will be writing a four-handed adventure, first by inventing its two protagonists and then by leading them on a legendary journey. It’s a different way to make up a story in your head: you’ll be reinventing objects and places you see every day, turning them into crucial ingredients for a Great Work of alchemy. 

Reality itself and your daily life will bleed into your characters’ fictional journey. What if your favorite museum was the headquarters for a league of mad scientists? What if the path you’re strolling along lead to an unknown city…? The journey is narrated through the exchange of letters between two characters: the Master and the Disciple. They walk the way of the Athanor— the alchemical Crucible, the pot where explorers melt their research and experiences. Each one is the keeper and judge of their partner’s progress. 

This is a great option if you don’t have a large play group but you have someone with whom you’d like to play with who lives in a different time zone. One of you plays a Master, the other a Disciple. The Disciple is on a quest. The Master is stuck at home, due to age or infirmity. The goal: to find Chrysopoeia, a mythic city full of hope and magic - although the specifics are up to you. This is a largely interpretive game, so if you like writing and world building, this is a game for you.

The creator of this game has also created a game called Chrysopoeia & All Around for group play at a table, borrowing from Lasers & Feelings!

Stormwild Islands, by Gizogin.

Welcome to [Stormwild Islands], a tabletop role-playing game. Set in the Stormwild Islands, a cluster of islands in the middle of a perpetual, continent-sized storm, this game explores the aftermath of a generations-long war and the magical damage done to the world as a result.

In terms of genre, [Stormwild Islands] fits most closely with “gaslamp fantasy”, an early industrial setting with a great deal of magic. Spellcasters are commonplace, and they work alongside new innovations like steam engines to create a world that changes very quickly. Golems - humanoid constructs with minds and wills of their own - have been instrumental in bringing about this new wave of industry, but their use in the war and their newfound push for independence might be even more significant. Alongside all of this is a world of spirits, otherworldly creatures who think and act according to completely different rules, and mixing spirits with humans or golems tends to cause all kinds of clashes.

This is a game for the folks who like moving little guys around on a map, especially if you’re familiar with games like D&D or Lancer and you don’t want to stray too far from the familiar. The cycle of play will fluctuate between combat and narrative moments, so expect your characters to be all about fighting their way towards victory. If you like combat and kicking butt, this looks like the game for you.

The player’s guide as linked above is free to download, but if you want the Gamemaster’s Guide, you’ll have to buy it.

The Fae Team, by Almost Bedtime Theatre.

Two years ago, a crack squad of the Sun Guard’s Human Intervention Division was sent to prison by the Faerie Court for a crime they didn’t commit. These woodland creatures promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Faerie Realm underground. 

Today, still wanted by the Sun Guard, they survive as freelancers. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire… The Fae Team.

The Fae Team is a role-playing game inspired by The A-Team television show, but puts the players in the roles of skunks, weasels, frogs, etc. and gives them magical powers before sending them through a gargoyle-generated portal into the human world to solve problems. As one does.

The rules of this game depend on a two-stat dichotomy, similar to Lasers and Feelings. You choose a number between 2 to 5, with a higher number indicating that you are good at calm and precise actions, while a low number means you are better at wild and physical actions. There’s also plenty of bits and pieces to make your character unique, such as your faerie gift, and the item that your characters carry around.

A session of this game can be fairly episodic, with an NPC contacting the group for help and giving them a mission that requires entering the human world. While the mission (and its complications) are expected to be generated by the Story Guide, the players are encouraged to describe the world around them and create elements that they get excited about. If you want a game that is lighthearted and magical, check out The Fae Team!

Sunderwald, by Long Tail Games.

In the center of the kingdom of Realm, there exists a dark and unsettling forest. It is known as the Sunderwald. 

This is a game about how the woods change us, and how we change the woods. It features a complete, stand-alone game with character creation, enemies, advancement, the whole deal. It is also a legacy tabletop roleplaying game. During play, you will physically and permanently modify this book. Do not be afraid. Scar. The. Book. 

The fact that this book is meant to be manipulated and modified makes it feel somewhat akin to a wizard’s grimoire, or a magical artifact. This is a book that asks you to make your own pieces of the world, and might also feel like a kind of achievement system by doing specific things with the game.

While most tasks appear to be resolved with a d6, playing the game involves so much more than rolling dice. Your characters have descriptive skills, might take upon themselves physical and mental scars and consequences, and will grapple with their inventory, wound threshold, background and magic. If you like unfolding a mystery together, if you like manipulating physical objects, and if you like fairy stories or tales like Alice in Wonderland, you might like this game.

Games I’ve Recommended in the Past

Hearts & Ravens, by Martian Machinery.

We’re All Mad Here, by Shanna Germain.

Wanderhome, by Possum Creek Games

Jack Kills Giants, by Andrew White.

[stevethehairington]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @stevecarrington!!!!! I HOPE TODAY IS UNBELIEVEABLE!! i'm so glad this fandom has brought us together, you're such a wonderful friend and im very lucky to know you!! i know how much you love steddie AND ted lasso so i whipped up a little steddie lasso for you, i hope you enjoy 💕💕

⚽️✨️⚽️✨️⚽️✨️⚽️✨️⚽️✨️⚽️✨️⚽️

Eddie is not quite sure how he got here.

One day he was sprawling across his ornately carved DM throne, gleefully ruining the lives of those brave enough to sit at his table and dip their toes into his particular brand of tabletop roleplay chaos, and the next he was packing up his life and getting on a bus heading west, back to god damn Hawkins, Indiana — the hometown he swore he'd never come back to all to coach soccer.

Yeah. That's right. Soccer.

The thing is — he's never been a sportsball kind of guy. Not baseball, not basketball, not football. Certainly not soccer. Outside of ogling the players for their tight little shorts and their calf-hugging socks, of course. The only reason he knows even the slightest brush of the basics — and even then, it's a strech to say he knows it — is because Wayne is a sportsball guy.

But apparently that incredibly bare quasi-knowledge of it was good enough for Chrissy — Eddie's best friend extraordinaire and prominent figure in the sports world (truth be told, Eddie really couldn't tell you what her actual position was — all he knew was that she did everything and was everywhere. Seriously, it was insane how many connections she had in the world of professional organized sports.) — because when she heard the words "looking for strong leadership" and "to build comraderie" and especially "with a creative, outside of the box approach" when the league announced that they were looking for a new head coach, she had immediately submitted Eddie's name. Without even consulting him on it. Without even telling him in the first place.

It was a true testament to just how desperate the club was that they had actually chosen him.

Getting that call had boggled his damn mind.

Still does, if he's being honest.

And now here he is, fresh off the bus and standing in front of Nancy goddamn Wheeler — the tiny, but incredibly intimidating owner of the whole goddamn team.

"Eddie, welcome," Nancy says, flashing him a perfectly pleasant smile that still somehow makes him feel like prey. "It's great to meet you."

She holds out her hand, and Eddie quickly wipes his palm against his jeans before accepting it. Her handshake is firm — she's not fucking around.

"It's lovely to meet you too, ma'am," Eddie replies, with his politest midwestern manners.

Nancy's lips press together, turning down at the corners, and for a brief moment Eddie thinks he's somehow managed to fuck this up already. Could you get fired for sweaty hands? Was that legal?

But then a small laugh slips from those lips and Nancy says, "Just Nancy. Ma'am makes me feel like I'm seventy-five and belong in the bingo hall."

Eddie can't help the bleat of laughter that bubbles out, probably a little too enthusiastic. "Hey, the bingo hall's a riot," he says.

That gets Nancy to chuckle again before she clears her throat and smooths down the lapels of her blazer. "Well, thank you so much for taking on this position, we're really grateful to have you here, and we look forward to seeing what you can do for us," she says, and she sounds genuine about it, which puts Eddie a little more at ease. Nancy barrels on, "I'm sure Chrissy had briefed you about speaking with the press?" She asks, but she doesn't give him a chance to answer. "You'll just be sitting down with some journalists and answering any questions they may have — and I'm sure they'll have plenty."

Eddie lets out another nervous titter. Yeah, he's sure too. "Sure," he says. "Um, and that's... tomorrow? Later this week?"

Nancy makes a face, a sort of half grimace, half sympathetic thing.

Eddie's stomach turns.

"Actually," Nancy starts, eyes flickering towards the door behind Eddie, "it's right now."

Shit.

"Did— did Chrissy not let you know that?" She asks, chewing on her lip.

"No, no!" Eddie is quick to reply. "She did, I'm sure she did, I just— probably wasn't listening. It's kind of been a... crazy fucking day—" his eyes go wide, "— I mean—"

Nancy laughs. "You can say that a-fucking-gain," she agrees, and Eddie's shoulders relax from where they'd tensed up to his ears.

"Well, I'm sorry to just throw you to the wolves like this, but we can't really call it off now," Nancy continues, giving him an apologetic look.

Eddie glances towards the door too and nods. Rolls back his shoulders and straightens his spine. Let's himself slip into his DM persona — the guy that can handle every punch that's thrown his way, no problem.

"No, it's fine. I got this," he says, nodding again.

Nancy smiles and leads him towards the door. "Whenever you're ready," she tells him.

Eddie takes a deep breath, steels himself, and turns the handle.

Immediately he is bombarded by flashing cameras and an increase in volume as dozens of eyes all pinprick right onto him.

He's got this. They're just people. He's good with people.

Eddie climbs the two steps leading up to the staging area and swaggers to his place behind the desk, dropping himself into the seat. He reaches out to tap the microphone, which emits a sharp whine that shuts the crowd up.

He stifles his grin and leans into the mic, "Let's start this thing, shall we?" He pauses, scans the audience, quirks a brow. "Questions?"

Almost every single hand shoots straight up.

Yep. Should've seen that coming.

"Okay, okay, you know what? Let's just—" he motions for everyone to put their hands down, "— yeah, there we go. Great. Thanks. Right. I'm sure a lot of you have some of the same questions, so why don't I start by clearing a few things up first."

He wriggles in his seat, getting comfortable. "Yes, the rumors are true. No, I have not coached soccer before. Haven't coached anything before, actually. Hell, I'm probably the least qualified guy they could have hired for the spot," he laughs, and a murmur goes through the crowd. "I don't really know the first thing about soccer, but what I do know is that this team, the Hawkins Demodogs FC, these ferocious warriors of sport— they're going to get out on that field and they're— they're gonna put all of their intelligence and wisdom and strength into it," he says firmly, falling back on his trusty DnD knowledge. Game of sports can't be that different from a campaign, right? "They're gonna put their constitution to good use and fall back on their dexterity and they're going to defeat their enemies — I'll make sure of it."

Glasses guy in the second rows eyebrows lift, almost like he recognizes the terminology.

"Now," Eddie says, clapping his hands together. "I'll take one question from the masses. Make it a good one."

The hands shoot back up again, but the only one Eddie notices is the one belonging to glasses guy. It raises it a beat after the rest, lifts his hand into the air relaxed, easy, like he doesn't actually care.

It intrigues Eddie. He intrigues Eddie.

"You, in the second row," Eddie says, pointing right at the man.

A slow smile spreads across his face as he rises to his feet, clicks his pen, pushes up his glasses again.

"I like your glasses," Eddie comments, unable to help himself.

The guy's smile twists at the corners. "Thank you," he says, and his voice is smooth, rich, like honey. Eddie kind of wants to bathe in it.

His stomach swoops. "And you are?"

"Steve Harrington, the Indypendent," he says.

Eddie leans forward on his elbows, lets his smile turn a little flirty. "What's your question, Steve Harrington from the Indypendent?" He asks, stretching out Steve's name, loving the way it tastes in his mouth.

"Yeah, I've just got one question for you," he says. He fixes a narrowed, nettled look on Eddie, cocks a hip, and says, in a perfectly, deliciously, bitchy tone, "is this a fucking joke?"

Oh, he's going to be a fun one.

[thelonelyshore-if]

Do you have recs for similar horror/spooky vibes as your IF? I just played Scarlett Hollow after reading of one of your posts, and obviously your IF is incredible, so I'm hungry for anything else you'd recommend. Books, movies, short stories, anything.

Ooooh I'm very excited and intimidated by this ask haha. Every time I'm asked for things I like I forget every piece of media I've ever consumed.

First off, thank you for the compliment; you're super sweet. And I hope you enjoyed Scarlet Hollow! It's one of my favorite games of all time <3

I'm gonna throw my recs under a cut because. Well. It Got Long.

For these recommendations, I'm going with a mix of similar vibes (small town/atmospheric/mystery) and also just stories that are really influential to me!!

Video Games: Oxenfree (amazing atmosphere, really fun mystery, strong character relationships), Control (stunning visuals, really cool creatures/lore, the way it plays with reality is just......), Slay the Princess (very much so a different type of horror, but by the same studio that made Scarlet Hollow and has incredible vibes). Honorable mentions to Silent Hill & Alan Wake; both are series I haven't personally played that I know have very similar vibes to my game!!

Other IFs: The Fog Knows Your Name (can't recommend this one enough, amazing vibes and a great mystery, genuinely one of my favorite IFs), The Passenger (eldritch horror, fun to play someone that isn't entirely human), and as for WIPs, Such Happy Campers (I'm so hooked on the mystery and the characters, plus great atmosphere).

TV Shows: Midnight Mass (small town horror, incredible plot and visuals, a HUGE inspiration for TLS) and also Haunting of Hill House (genuinely breathtaking, an amazing cast, a great mystery & sense of creeping dread), Over the Garden Wall (the atmosphere and emotional core of the story are incredible), The Twilight Zone (instrumental for my development as a horror fan, especially surrealist horror), Gravity Falls (more light-hearted than everything else, but still small town horror). Honorable mention for Twin Peaks, which I haven't seen (yet) but also to my knowledge has very similar vibes!

Movies: The Thing (isolated horror, incredible atmosphere, fantastic body horror), Coraline (unreality, things being not quite right), and It Follows (not actually my favorite movie lol, but I love the sense of being out of time it conjures). Most of my favorite horror movies aren't actually all that similar to my own project, but the first two Scream movies, Alien, and Nope are some of my favorites <3

Books: I've forgotten every single book I've ever read, but I'm a life-long Stephen King fan. The Mist, Under the Dome, and Salem's Lot all inspired Lonely Shore one way or another. Also a big fan of Misery, Needful Things, 11/22/63, and The Stand. My all-time favorite short story is The Lottery by Shirley Jackson, which also includes a town where something is very wrong.

Other: Originally TLS was a Monster of the Week campaign I ran; which is one of my favorite ttrpgs. So if you're into tabletop and/or horror, I highly recommend checking it out!!

[tortoisebore]

please please can we get a post of remus calling sirius baby for the first time bc im obsessed and want to know every detail about sirius’ outfit and how it went down

YES YES YES 👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹

Remus was too drunk for this. Well—maybe drunk was the wrong word. His blood alcohol level was probably still somewhere in the realm of tipsy, but his brain was sluggish. Slow-moving. A disastrous combination of desire and want and pure, unadulterated filth. His limbs felt heavy and too-long as he stood slouched against the wall, gripping an empty glass hard enough to be absently worried it would shatter in his hand. Watching.  Lily had described the place as a bar but it felt more like a club, all low, colorful lights and blaring music, an open space in the middle of the room and tall tables lining the walls. It was loud, Remus was just on the drunk side of tipsy, and Sirius was a fucking dream. 

All things considered, Remus had done a really great job of being normal up until an hour or so ago. He hadn’t lost his shit when Sirius appeared at his door in a giant gray coat with his hair up, tied messily off his neck, fully flaunting the faint bruise Remus had left below his ear two days before. That damn glitter was on his eyes again, catching the light and working in tandem with the faint smudgy black lining his lashes to make his eyes look less gray and more glowing, molten silver. Remus had nearly fallen to his knees, had nearly said 'fuck it' and yanked Sirius inside instead of following through with the going out plan, but he’d been very regular about it—just choked out a simple little ‘you look nice,’ swallowing hard when Sirius smiled sweetly and took his hand as they traipsed down the stairs and out of the building. 

Then they’d arrived at the bar, and Sirius had slipped his coat off, and Remus’ poor, piece of shit brain had immediately broken. 

So now here he was, fighting for his life standing around a table in the corner, unable to wrench his eyes away from the three-inch strip of bare skin on Sirius’ stomach while he waited for drinks at the bar. He was wearing a short, black tee shirt with an open back over some see-through, lacy thing that hugged his waist, showing off the tail end of the dagger tattoo on his stomach and the beginnings of the vines on his hips before they disappeared beneath straight-legged black pants that fit so perfectly Remus could have cried. He was leaned up against the bar artfully, tapping the toe of his platform boot against the floor, chatting idly with Marlene while they waited for the bartender. 

Remus thought he might be drooling.

Sirius had been flitting between the bar and the dance floor and their table in the corner all night, leaving Remus with a never-ending supply of drinks and all these evil, lingering touches, whispers near his ear disguised as kisses on his cheek that twisted his gut and made his fingers itch to touch and grab and hold. This thing between them was still new, only a couple weeks old, and Remus was really really trying to reign himself in, but god, he wanted to touch. Wanted to bite and lick and taste, felt drunk on desire more than liquor by the time Sirius came back with two more neon-colored drinks in sweaty glasses. 

“Yours,” he chirped over the music, finally, finally sliding in close and depositing Remus’ drink on the sticky tabletop. Remus eyed him as he sipped at his straw, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. It was blatantly obvious that Sirius knew exactly what he was doing, and that it was working. Remus glanced around, watched Marlene saunter off to join Dorcas across the room, and slipped a hand around Sirius’ waist, backing himself into the wall and pulling Sirius with him.

“You look…” he started, shamelessly trailing his eyes down and then back up Sirius’ frame, shaking his head with a sigh when every word he could think of fell short of the actual ethereal being currently pressed up against him. 

“I look what?” Sirius prodded, sliding his drink onto the table without looking, snaking his arms up Remus’ chest and around his shoulders, a smug, sly sort of smile tugging at his stained, cherry-red lips. 

Remus was too fucking drunk for this.

He managed to get a hand to Sirius’ jaw, tipping his head back just enough to brush their lips together, reveling in the hitched breath it pulled from his throat. 

“You look fucking perfect,” he muttered, letting Sirius lean in only to pull back. Remus’ vision was swirling, heart thundering in his chest when Sirius gave a quiet little whine of complaint, dragging blunt nails across the back of his neck. Remus gave in, let him press a too-short, too-soft kiss to his lips before tilting Sirius’ head to the side, mouthing down his jaw to get at that faint little bruise beneath his ear and nipping at it softly, eyes fluttering closed at the taste of his skin, speaking before he could think. “You’re killing me over here, baby.”

Fuck—his stomach dropped instantly. He’d never said that before, never used any kind of pet name for Sirius at all, and it felt foreign in his mouth, foreign to his ears, settled badly in his stomach when Sirius let out a sharp exhale and reeled back. Remus was prepared to pretend it had never happened, maybe blame it on those neon colored drinks that kept appearing in his hands—but the words died on his tongue. 

Sirius’ eyes were wide, flicking back and forth fast between his own, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Remus waited, watched Sirius look down at his lips and then back up, and barely heard him breathe, “Say it again,” over the music.

He hesitated, studied Sirius’ face carefully to make sure he wasn’t reading it all wrong, and teased, “You’re killing me over here?”

Sirius shook his head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The other thing.”

“What?” Remus asked, dragging a thumb down his jaw, the desire to sink through the floor disappearing into thin air as he watched Sirius’ pupils dilate, felt his fingers trip up to tug at his hair. “Baby?”

Sirius nodded, pulling him in close and speaking low. “Yeah,” he smiled, “that one.”

Remus kissed him, had to, pulled him in with two hands on the side of his neck and bit at his lower lip, tasted artificial cherry and vodka and felt his stomach drop when Sirius gave a sweet little whine, pulling back just enough to speak.

“Again,” he whispered, melting further into Remus’ chest, looking up at him with that smug little grin that made his heart stutter. 

“Baby,” Remus repeated, kissing him again, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, brain working overdrive, whirring loud in his ears. “My perfect, pretty baby.”

Sirius let loose a string of colorful curses that made Remus laugh before he was pulled in again. Sirius was seemingly entirely finished with teasing—kissed him hard and bit at his lip and slid his hands heavily back down his chest. He pulled away after several long moments, a deep flush staining his cheeks, and gave Remus a look.

“Don’t drink anymore,” he ordered, a secret sort of smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Remus’ skin tingled, heat racing down his spine.

“No?” he smirked, instantly grabbing for Sirius’ hand to keep him close when he stepped back. 

“No.” He reached across the table and grabbed an abandoned water on the other side—James’, most likely—sipping at it instead of the bright red drink he’d just brought over. "We should go to yours after this."

Remus was very, very on board with that.

The Outfit™️

[writeforfandoms]

Welcome to New York 7

Find the series masterlist

You finally see more of Miguel than his ire, and you like what you see.

Warnings: Pain, migraine, eye strain, poor reader does not have a fun time at the beginning, Miguel is still stubborn, but so is reader, Lyla is an instigator.

Word count: 1.8k

Eventual Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

Another week had passed, and your cuts were mostly healed up. Thank goodness. The itching had driven you crazy for a day or two. You’d brought in cookies once more, and so far your secret as the baker was still safe. You were sure Miguel knew, and obviously Jess knew, but nobody else had approached you about it.

Which was just fine with you. 

You ended up in the caf, slumped at a table with nothing but tea in front of you, headache pounding behind your eyes. Your stomach threatened to rebel at the very thought of food, everything was too bright, and if you weren’t in the middle of Spider Society HQ you’d be tempted to curl up under the table and die. 

A gentle rap to the tabletop made you lift your head just enough to see who had disturbed you. Your heart still lurched into overtime on seeing Miguel, mask gone, crouched down to be almost on a level with you. 

“You look like shit,” he said, voice quiet. 

“Thanks,” you rasped with as much sarcasm as you could muster. If Miguel was here, he probably needed something, so you braced yourself. “What do you need?” 

He blinked, just once. His brow furrowed, gaze sweeping over you again. “You need to go to medical.”

You huffed and put your head down again, forehead pillowed on your arms. “No I don’t,” you muttered, obstinate. “Just need a bit of rest.” 

“Then rest at home.” Miguel shifted closer to you, eyes narrowing further. “Do not fall asleep on the table.”

You huffed. Who knew he was so bossy? (And definitely less scary when he was fussing, as opposed to holding your weight near the edge of a building.) 

Miguel huffed right back at you. “Go home,” he repeated firmly, standing back to his impressive height. 

“Sure thing, bossman,” you mumbled into the cushion of your arms. You were tired and hurting and about 80% certain if you tried to get up you’d go right back down. 

You didn’t hear him retreat and didn’t see him, but you knew you were alone again. You breathed out slowly, trying to muster the energy necessary to get up and go. He was right - you’d be useless the rest of the day if this headache persisted. The glowing screens were probably the worst possible thing to look at while your eyes hurt like this. 

It took a few more minutes to get up, and you swayed, just a little. But nobody gave you a second look as you left the caf, cool tea still sitting on the table. You even made it to the elevator to get back to the main portion of the building, one hand half-covering your eyes to help lessen the glare. 

The pain wasn’t debilitating yet, you could make it. 

You did fumble to a halt on the bottom floor, though. You really didn’t want to walk, and you hadn’t had the foresight to call a cab. Fuck. Resigned to endure a little longer, you leaned back against a wall to summon a cab, fingers nearly slipping on your pad. 

“Hey! Didn’t you see the signs?” a nasally voice demanded, loud and only growing louder as the person approached. “No loitering!” 

You blinked, squinting a little. You couldn’t see much beyond dark blue business attire, and didn’t even try to look this asshole in the face. Even lifting your hand to look that much had hurt, needles driving straight through your eyes into your brain. “Waiting for a cab,” you answered, short and soft. You didn’t think you could raise your voice more than that, honestly. 

“Are you drunk?” the person demanded, stopping in front of you, openly disapproving. “Or hungover?”

You didn’t answer, hoping if you ignored him, he’d go away. Of course you weren’t that lucky. 

“Which office do you work in?” they demanded, stepping closer to you. The smell of their cologne was nauseating, too strong and artificial. You honestly thought you’d throw up for a moment, eyes watering with the combination of everything. 

The person backed off a step as an unlikely savior stepped between you. You blinked when the light around you dimmed, blocked by someone’s frame. Miguel’s, you realized after a moment of silent shock. He’d dressed down into street clothes, though that didn’t soften the breadth of his shoulders or his height, not at all. 

He didn’t even have to say a word to have the other person scurrying away, and you slumped in relief against the wall. 

“I told you to go home.” Miguel turned to look down at you. 

You made a vague motion at the cab you could just barely see outside. “I was waiting,” you rasped. You even sounded awful now. 

Miguel didn’t say a word, but he did wrap an arm around you, helping you out to the cab. You needed it when the sunlight made pain lance through your skull, nearly enough to make your knees buckle. 

But you were shocked when Miguel dropped into the seat next to you. 

“What–?” you started, hand lowering from your eyes. 

“Just making sure you get home.” His hand fastened around your wrist, gentle but implacable, as he pushed your hand back over your eyes. 

You didn’t try to question him again, just breathing past the agony in your head. You’d be home soon and you could bury yourself in blankets until things felt less awful. 

Miguel didn’t just see you off at your building, though. He kept his arm around you into the elevator, and then to your door. He didn’t say a single thing, just supported as much of your weight as you needed. 

Finally, though, you were in your apartment. You made it to the couch and collapsed face-down with a muffled whine of pain. Still too bright. But you didn’t have the energy to move. But too bright. 

Until the brightness dimmed. You didn’t even question it, just went as boneless as possible and pulled a pillow over your head, half-tempted to try smothering yourself. 

The door clicked as it closed, the lock engaging after a moment. You didn’t pay attention to anything else, busy breathing through the pain, until you finally fell asleep. 

There was a message on your pad in the morning informing you to take the day and recover. You thought about arguing or going in anyway… but honestly, you were still exhausted. 

You ended up sleeping half the day away. 

You felt up to working the following day, though, and intentionally didn’t check your messages before you headed to HQ. 

“Well, you look better,” Lyla said, popping up once you were in the elevator. 

“Definitely feeling better,” you agreed, smiling. “Did I miss anything exciting?”

“Weeeeeell.” Lyla smirked, floating along next to your shoulder as you walked to the elevator to take you down to your work area. “Miguel threatened to throw Peter B. out a window.” 

“Wow, Peter must have really annoyed him.” Your eyebrows shot up your forehead and you side-eyed the AI. “Then again, I’m pretty sure Miguel threatens him on like a weekly basis.”

Lyla shrugged, still with that mischievous smirk. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” 

You snorted and pulled your sweater on as the chilly air of the computer room made you shiver. “Right, where did I leave off?”

Lyla obligingly pulled up the files, and you took a moment to just look. There was still so much work to do.

“Do we know why the multiverse has turned into swiss cheese?” you grumbled an hour later, busy sorting files into the appropriate folders.

“Not exactly,” Lyla hedged. “Miguel has a theory, but…” 

You blew out a breath. “But it is just a theory,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “Right. Okay. Continued damage control it is.” 

But the mention of Miguel doing damage control made you think of two days prior, when he’d not only ordered you to go home but escorted you home himself. You honestly never would have expected it of him. Hell, you’d been convinced he still disliked you. 

Until he’d taken care of you. In a slightly weird way, but still. He’d even pulled your curtains closed to help block out the light. 

A simple thank you for his help didn’t seem like enough.

“Hey, Lyla?” You waited until the AI hummed to continue. “What’s Miguel’s favorite type of cookie?” 

Lyla blipped out to appear right in front of you, leaning forward, an impish smile stretching her lips. “Miguel’s? Why, you thinking of making him cookies?”

You warmed at the clear implication in her tone and huffed. “I want to thank him for helping me, the other day,” you admitted, waving a hand at her. “But he won’t just accept a thank you.”

Her expression softened and she backed off a bit. “Well, you’re not wrong,” she chirped. “I don’t think he has a favorite cookie. But…”

“But?” You leaned forward a little, eyebrows raised, well aware that she was dangling a carrot in front of you. 

“He likes empanadas. Loves ‘em, really. I’ve seen him devour six.” 

You blinked, leaning back again. Empanadas. You’d never made those before. Maybe that could be a weekend project. 

“Thanks, Lyla.”

“Have fun!” She vanished with one last wink, leaving you to your work. 

You made a batch of chocolate chip cookies that night, leaving the best of the cookies on Miguel’s floating platform. The rest got left in the caf again. 

The weekend adventure was making empanadas. You tried three different recipes - two savory and one sweet. Did you go overboard? Maybe a little. But it turned out to be kinda fun, and your first attempts at closing the things was… less than pretty. (Those you ate, unwilling to give those to anyone else.) 

You left early on Monday morning specifically so you could drop the empanadas in Miguel’s office.

And then you booked it back down to your work space and turned on music, pretending not to hear Lyla’s attempts to tease you. 

But the best moment of all was at lunch. You had decided to try to power through the day, having hit a good rhythm with your work and your music. You bopped your head side to side a little as you tagged videos for ease of reference. 

When you finally resurfaced, mid-afternoon, starving and tired and probably a bit dehydrated, you didn’t have to go far to find food. 

A big reusable water bottle (with a sticker from your favorite show, you noted with surprise) and food. Left specifically for you. 

“Lyla?” You blinked at both the water bottle and the food. The bottle was nice, heavy duty. That would definitely become a favorite. “Did a certain grumpy spider leave this?” 

“No idea what you mean,” Lyla answered playfully. “Haven’t got a clue.” She winked, though. 

You just smiled. Well. Miguel really wasn’t so bad. Maybe you could even be friends with him.

[eiightysixbaby]

you can run but only so far

jonathan byers x reader

1.6k

18+ only — brief descriptions of piv sex, angst

just something short based on tis the damn season by tswift. jonathan is so evermore coded to me i couldn’t get it out of my head. barely proofread sorry in advance lol

The week between Christmas and New Year’s is always weird. So much preparation and anticipation for the first holiday, only for it to be ripped away like wrapping paper in the blink of an eye. There’s still lingering remnants of the presents and the baked goods and the decorations, but they leave you feeling sour.

Being back in your hometown means sleeping in a bed that no longer feels like your own, staying in a house that feels more like a hotel than your childhood home. You have the streets mapped out in your head, yet you don’t frequent them anymore. You feel like a stranger in a place you once fully belonged, like you’re just something that stands out rather than fits in. Thankfully, there were still a few people left who could make this place feel like home.

Your bare body is pressed into the seat in the back of Jonathan’s car where it’s parked in the empty lot of the high school; the only place you could get some privacy. Your eyes glance out the window over his shoulder to see precipitation that isn’t quite rain but isn’t quite snow, either. The slushy, sloppy mixture hurtles to the ground, soaking the greyed landscape. The man’s eager mouth swallows your sighs, fingers sinking in to the meat of your hips.

“Feel so good, babe,” he praises, his nose smushed into your cheek. The pet name makes your heart flutter, though it’s fleeting.

Something in you aches. You’re sure he feels it, too.

Jonathan had been the hardest person to leave behind when you left your hometown. You’d ended what could’ve been the greatest relationship of your life, to chase your own dreams in a place that wasn’t Hawkins. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to cozy up to him while you were home, but he made it impossible to stay away.

The holidays made you want to be in love, made you crave a companion, and maybe all the mistletoe and holly blurred the edges of your logic and his.

Because you’d been seeing each other for the last few days, kissing and holding hands like all was normal. Like you weren’t going to leave again, like he wasn’t going to watch you go. As your time in this town grew closer to an end for the season, a bittersweet concoction of emotions flooded you.

“Hey…” he murmurs softly, catching your chin with his index finger. “You okay?” His movements have paused, his chest and yours rising and falling in gentle unison.

You nod, brushing away the cloudy thoughts. “Yeah. I’m great,” you say, pressing a kiss to the very corner of his mouth.

He smiles in response, and your heart skips a beat. If only it could be like this forever.

The next evening, as the sun sinks low on the horizon and a cold, desolate darkness engulfs the town, your hand is clutched tightly in Jonathan’s as he pulls you into Benny’s diner. The smell of fried food and chocolate malts kisses the tip of your nose as you both sink into a quiet booth in the very corner of the space.

He drums his fingers on the greasy tabletop, probably keeping tune with the song playing over the stereo. You’d know for sure if you could pay enough attention to listen to it. Your focus is on the way the crappy lighting floods his features, the ways in which his face has matured since you’d seen him last. It makes you sad to think that you would’ve been watching him change every day had you never left.

But you had to leave. And you’ll have to leave, again, tomorrow.

He orders a coffee, because of course he does. Practically running on it like he always has. His perpetually sleepy eyes crease as he smiles across the table at you, knowing you’re internally teasing him for getting caffeine so late in the day. It’s funny, how you don’t forget his little quirks. Tiny facts about him that haven’t been relevant to you in some time, but that still linger tucked away in the filing cabinet of your brain. You want to write all of it down, so they never slip away from you.

You wonder if he remembers the same sorts of little things about you. When your burgers are served, and he requests honey mustard on the side for your fries, it’s clear that he does. He hates honey mustard, but you don’t.

You shrug your big, soft, plaid coat off, the heat in the diner working overtime tonight to keep you warm. Taking a bite into the burger, it tastes like high school and adolescence and late nights and stupid choices. The flavor is nostalgic, bringing back a slew of memories. You wipe away a stray blob of ketchup that lingers beneath your lip with your thumb, painting your white napkin red with it.

“I wish you could stay,” Jonathan blurts, looking remorseful almost as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“Jonathan…” you sigh, setting your food back on your plate.

“We’ve had such a good time this week, doesn’t it feel right like this? Just hear me out,” he urges.

“Jon, please,” you try again, fiercely trying to ward off any tears that spring into your eyes. “You know I have to go.”

You have your reasons for leaving. He has his reasons for staying. This just can’t work.

He goes silent, sipping from the steaming mug in his hands. There’s a chip in the table that becomes increasingly interesting to you, your eyes downcast at it as your finger slides over the jagged edge.

“I know,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, but it doesn’t feel okay. You aren’t mad at him for what he said, but it just leaves a lump in your throat.

The rest of your meal is eaten mostly in silence, darkness having completely taken over outside. It snows just a little bit, tiny flakes that you’d miss if it weren’t for the halo around the street light letting them show.

“You wanna come back to my place? My mom and Will are gone,” he offers, leaving extra cash on the table for a tip and standing.

You nod, half here, half somewhere else. The weight of your departure tomorrow makes your shoulders sag, but you put on a brave face so as not to ruin the last of the time you have with him. He knows your smile is fake, of course he does. Reading you like an open book, devouring every single word. Your novel is one he reads over and over again, hoping each time that the ending will be different.

He knows it won’t be. Not this time. But he can allow himself to keep pretending, for tonight at least.

He keeps one hand locked in yours as he drives the near empty streets back to his home, his thumb rubbing over your fingers. His tires slosh through the muddy mess that’s formed in potholes, splattering the lingering remnants of snow from the Christmas storm.

The world looks so lifeless, so dull. The pretty piles of white fluff half-melted, the trees bare. It makes you depressed. Jonathan keeps a spark of happiness ignited inside of you, but even that will soon be blown out.

The Byers home is decorated with big, colorful lights. A tree with lots of tinsel sits in the corner of the living room. There’s Christmas themed crafts that must have been made by the boys as children, Joyce was ever the sentimental mother. It’s cozy, and it’s warm, and it feels safe. Jonathan is kissing you the second you’ve hung your coat up, his hands cradling the back of your head, fingers entwined in your hair. He smells like coffee and the musky scent of his cologne, the same one he’s worn for years.

You’re walking him backwards, maneuvering yourselves carefully into his bedroom before pushing him down onto his bed. He’s undoing his belt with haste, your turtleneck sweater is being pulled over your head. Garments are tossed to the floor until both of you are bare, and as you go to straddle him he’s meeting you halfway, partially sitting up to kiss you. His hands roam your body as you slip him inside of you, wasting no time.

Despite your hurry to start, the sex isn’t rushed at all. His hands guide your movements, letting you slowly move up and down on his cock. Even though you’re alone, his moans still come out hushed, as do yours. It’s quiet, still, saccharine.

You let him finish inside of you, after you came first of course, his chest rising and falling with his staggered breaths. It’s an act so intimate, reserved for someone special.

He is special.

He pulls you onto his chest once you’re finished, rubbing your back with soothing hands. Covering your body with a blanket, he kisses your head. You try to fight sleep for as long as you can, because once you go to sleep the sooner you’ll wake up. With tomorrow morning’s light comes your cue to leave.

It comes regardless, your eyes blinking into the pale light of his room. His body is comforting beside you, the blanket rising and falling with his quiet breathing. You realize that his bed feels warmer than any you’d slept in before, certainly warmer than yours where you sleep alone. It messes with your head, lulling you into a false sense of stability. You can’t linger, can’t stay.

Quietly, so as not to disturb him, you slip on your clothes from the night before. You sit back down on the mattress, pressing a kiss to his head. Your hand gently brushes hair from his eyes, resting on his cheek for a moment before you finally pull it away.

Your own heart shatters for him, all over again as you don your coat once more and step out into the cold weather. It’s not a far walk for you, you’d rather be alone than have him drive you. Than have to say goodbye.

He knew this was coming all along, as did you. You could never stay. And so once again, you leave. The smell of your perfume lingers on his pillow, and it’s all he has left of you when he wakes.

[blogquantumreality]

As I was traversing New York back to Frey's place, I noticed an interesting NPC interaction with Frey, and it made me want to come up with a short fic. This is the result!

Frey couldn't help but notice the brown-haired woman in the grey turtleneck and winter parka staring at her as she walked by.

Even though it was a freezing cold day and she wanted to get home, she decided to turn around and see if, just out of morbid curiosity, the woman would talk to her or if she was just staring because, well, black street girl.

Then again, maybe the allegedly ubiquitous "Christmas spirit" might make the interaction go more smoothly. It had gotten her a serious reprieve from Judge Bird.

"So, uh, hey." The words didn't exactly roll smoothly off Frey's tongue.

The other woman frowned. She didn't back away, though, which was something. "Hi," she said. Frey took a moment to eye her jawline, and noted with appreciation the complicated braided ponytail she could partly see at the back of her head. And she had hazel eyes, if Frey judged correctly.

Frey looked up and saw that she was standing in front of a record store. "Any good records in there?" As pick-up lines go, that sucked.

That forced a chuckle from the other woman. "Not really. My grandpa still has one of those old record players and I was hoping to get him a Frank Sinatra album. Cheapest one is, like, thirty bucks, though. Gotta pay the 'vintage premium' according to the guy at the counter. So much for having a sale on!"

"I usually just watch music videos on YouTube with my phone when I can get Wi-Fi," Frey replied. With an effort at a change of subject, she asked, "Waiting for someone?"

She winced internally and mentally set a new low bar for how bad her pick-up lines could get.

Luckily, the other woman didn't seem fazed and just shrugged. "Wanted to stand outside for a bit. The surge pricing's insane right now so I'll wait till things calm down a bit."

"You're braver than me. I wanna get home and warm up as soon as I can!"

"So... I'm the only reason you're delaying your return, hmm?"

Frey could feel the heat rising just a bit in her face, and if that wasn't enough, the other woman fucking winked at her.

"Busted," Frey muttered. "But I did see you staring at me, so I kinda, well..."

"You usually go around picking up strange women on the street, then?" She grinned. "I'm Amelia." She stuck out her hand and said, "You're...?"

Frey hurriedly extended her hand. "Frey." As she clasped Amelia's hand, she couldn't help but feel a slight shiver up her spine at the warmth of her smooth hand.

Amelia released her hand and let hers drop to her side. "Frey. I like that. Unusual name. So what do you like doing in your spare time?"

Be a street kid and steal shit for a living so I can save up enough and get the hell out of this damn city.

"Well, I've got a cat, so between her, games on my phone, and walking everywhere I go that's kinda what I do when I'm not, um... freelancing."

Amelia gasped. "A cat?! Please tell me you have a picture!"

Frey held her phone out to Amelia. "That's Homer on my lock screen."

"She's adorable. So fluffy!" Amelia smiled widely at Frey. "I like you more and more, Frey."

Flipping it back around, because she really didn't want to accidentally let slip she just got out of court, she said, "So, Amelia. What do you do in your spare time, besides browse record stores?"

Amelia chuckled. "I'm kind of a bit of a nerd, honestly. I play some tabletop games - D&D, that kind of stuff."

Vaguely remembering a club she'd been in back in high school, Frey nodded. "Uh, which rules are you using?"

"We were using fourth, but when the new ones came out we tried out the Lost Mine of Phandelver and it was pretty cool, so we switched."

Frey frowned. "We...?"

Amelia waved that off. "Oh, just me and a couple of friends from college; I'm majoring in business, so doing this stuff is a good way to blow off steam."

Frey smiled. "Must be nice, being in college."

"It's not for everyone," mused Amelia. "My brother's actually going into trades because everybody and their dog needs a plumber, but me, I wanna be owning the plumbing repair shop." She reached out and touched Frey's arm briefly. "So what kinda freelancing do you do?"

Think, think, think!

"Uh, just kinda... a bit of everything. I know a little bit about cars, so my last job was helping fix a guy's ignition," Frey babbled.

And if by 'fixing the ignition', I mean attempting to hot-wire the car, that's technically sorta true. I just didn't do it with the owner's permission.

Amelia lifted her eyebrows in surprise. "Interesting. More variety than my life, anyway."

The wind shifted and a sudden chill went through Frey. "Shit, it's getting colder. I really gotta--my cat." She gestured vaguely in the direction she'd been walking.

"Oh, yeah! Sorry about that." Amelia dug in her pockets and then coming up empty, said, "Uh, you mind giving me your phone for a second?"

Reluctantly, Frey handed it over. Without that phone, she was completely adrift; she bit her lip as Amelia tapped away in the Contacts section.

Relief flooded her as Amelia handed it back and winked again. "My number's in there. Give me a call sometime and I'll buy you a coffee."

Frey lifted her eyebrow. "Are you asking me out already?"

Amelia's face went red and she ducked her head for a moment before looking Frey in the eye. "What can I say? You're growing on me. And you are pretty cute."

It was now Frey's turn to blush, and she mumbled, "Guess you're pretty good-looking too."

"Seeya, Frey...?"

"Holland." She looked at her phone. "Amelia ... Evans, I take it?"

She nodded. "That's me. See you around."

Frey sketched a short 'goodbye' wave and said, "Guess maybe I will."

Amelia waved back. "Hopefully soon!"

Frey turned and began walking down the street, but a smile kept tugging at her face. Maybe this Christmas - and my birthday - won't suck for once.

[stierhai]

Thoughts on: The One Within the Villainess

Manga: The One Within the Villainess

Amount read: Up to chapter 12

Impression: Middling positive.

On genre:

I'm not an Isekai person. I don't find wish fulfillment to be compelling in media. I don't care about game mechanics. I don't like characters going into the narrative with all the answers already and just needing to wait to put them into effect. Isekai may run the gamut of tones, with there being as much seinen edgelord bullshit as there is cute reincarnator sidesteps the plot of the in-fiction original work, so I won't say there's never conflict in isekai but... none of that does anything for me. With rare exceptions, the conflict almost always feels extremely shallow to me even when the stakes are high.

This is because they don't typically feel like they're about the characters, so much as they feel like lore infodumps and following a road map. Then top that off with a main character that has either a narratively convenient power that typically is powerful enough to overcome all conflict by default whilst requiring a lot of info-dumping— or the power is skipped in favor of short-cutting straight to the power being a lore and plot dump... they feel less like stories in and of themselves and more like reading a tabletop corebook. Lore is, in my mind, meant to be the stage upon which we tell stories, not the story itself— and I just don't think the stage can stand all its own and pretend to be a competent story.

And that is even assuming the stage was competent to begin with. A lot of Isekai also are very tropey and reference not just the broad strokes of other fantasy settings writ large but other isekai.

And there is no place this is more exemplary than the Villainess subgenre of isekai works.

They've all got this same basic framework: girl dies somehow and wakes up in an otome game she either played or knew about in her old life! However, she isn't the protagonist of the otome game, she's the villainess: an odious character who existed just to obstruct the heroine's chosen route in the game!

But here's the thing. I play otome games. I'm maybe not an expert, but I do have a casual acquaintanceship with the genre. The villainess rival plot that's endemic to this whole-ass genre? It stems from one of the earliest otome games ever, Angelique. However: it's not a trope that actually stuck around in otome games. To the point that Angelique's own sequels and spin-offs also didn't have the villainess rival. Similarly, the idea of the grindy items or whatever-- most modern otome games are not "dating sims", they're visual novels. You can think of them as choose your own adventure books, way more than a grindy dating sim where you have to raise stats, repeatedly talk to the dating options in certain areas on certain days, or give them items. The last set of actual popular otome games that had those elements is probably the [Heart/Spade/Diamond/etc] no Kuni no Alice series, I'm pretty sure? Someone can correct me if I'm wrong. But either way, I can say pretty confidently that Persona 5 is more of a dating sim than most otome games.

The fact is, these manga and light novels are all cribbing notes off each other, not otome games. So I have a grudge against them for that, first and foremost. It's like, okay you're talking shit about the problems and how terrible it is for the villainess to have to suffer just because she also liked the guy and her life is ALSO BAD and it's like. This is just not a thing. These works exist as critiques of a phenomenon that just isn't widespread and barely exists at all. You are all still just mad at Angelique-- or rather, because they don't know their "source material" at all, they're just empty shells of someone else's subversion of an extremely old game. And the subversion of ACTUALLY THE VILLAINESS IS FINE is also eroded even further by the fact a lot of them just decide to have the plot be actually the heroine is the real bad guy. Look at that hussy, chatting up these dudes above her station and stealing someone else's fiance. The issue isn't that the original plot of the game set up these girls as having their own happiness achievable only as mutually exclusive, implying women are all enemies competing for men, the real issue with the initial story is... genki girl bad, elegant girl good. I'm hating on a few specific manga here, but I'm sure there's more than that out there that have pulled that particular twist.

They have nothing to say. But when the framework of the story is we're going to fix the shit that went wrong in the original... it reads like they're trying to be commentary on the original genre. Which just falls so, so flat. Thanks for the commentary on a thing that isn't even a problem with the genre and also your commentary sucked.

So, enough generalities. Onto The One Within the Villainess.

The Plot:

The basic rundown: The villainess, Remilia, was replaced out as a child by Emi, a Japanese girl who was familar with the game Remilia is from. Emi did all the usual villainess isekai protagonist things-- rescued the male love interests from problems in their lives and came to occupy the same space as the protagnist did within the original game's story. Remilia, from within Emi, watched this and was satisfied because she had lived a loveless life with terrible parents but with Emi's memories of her own family in Japan and the second-hand experience of Emi's new life, she was able to finally experience happiness and became protective of Emi.

However, a fellow isekai'd girl has taken over the role of the game's protagonist. Pissed off that the villainess has changed the plot, she plots Remilia/Emi's downfall. Emi suffers the same fate as the villainess in the game, and retreats within herself. Remilia, back in control of her own body, swears vengeance and to make herself happy to fulfill Emi's wishes for her. To these ends, she does some bog-standard villainess things. She takes control of the land she's exiled to, begins doing damage control to her reputation, saves some poor people who were neglected by fate in the "original" timeline, teams up with a demon lord, and kills god.

I won't say the plot is anything special. A lot of the plot points I have read beat for beat in other manga. It also has the issue of not being very familiar with otome games— aside from my usual otome games almost never have a villainess issue, the whole subplot about the shop shows that the writer is thinking of the mechanics of a mobile game. And granted, I've never played a mobile game otoge, maybe they really are like that. But with the genre as a whole taking cues from a very old otome game, it is weird to see the very modern cash shop mechanics thrown in there. It feels like indiscriminate cribbing off the notes of other isekai that just accidentally took something from the wrong source material-- that any one isekai is as good as any other to crib from, overlooking the thing that's supposed to make the subgenre distinct. Which makes sense-- if you don't play otoge, you wouldn't know what the mechanics were like so you probably wouldn't see an issue with a cash shop existing as a plot point and as a major part of a subplot.

Thus far, this review has mostly been negative. But that's because I've focused on what it has in common with most other villainess isekai— a genre I started with saying I don't like. So, next: what sets it apart and what it does well within its trappings.

The Art:

The art fucks /pos.

Manga is a visual medium, and having good art isn't a must persay, but it does a lot to influence audience perception of characters, setting a mood, and just the overall enjoyment of a series. Characters in this manga make great fucking faces. The otoge heroine just runs around making the shittiest faces, the clearest faux-cutesy but complete scumbag expressions ever. They're great. Emi and Remilia technically have the same face but they're very well distinguished by light shines and make-up, sure, but also the kind of expressions they make— Remilia playing at Emi is also distinguishable from what we saw of Emi. Things are telegraphed really well-- you can see the people around Emi being affected by the heroine because they also begin making shitty smug faces (though not to the same degree).

Also, about selling a mood: killing God isn't an exceptional plot point in a JP fantasy series. It's every JRPG I played growing up, it's my beloved Angel Sanctuary, etc. So how do you sell the audience on the gravity of killing this God that was only recently introduced? Radical art style shift from villainess isekai to surreal high contrast Madoka witch labyrinth was the answer this manga landed upon and damn if I can't say it doesn't work. That sequence was great. Excellent choice by the artist.

The character designs are also pretty good. Remilia and Pino Blanchet definitely pass for the villainess and heroine isekai tropes. The demon shopkeep also looks like a minor NPC that for some reason has been taken out of a minor role and been given a more major one, whilst also making sense with the larger world set-up as we get that. The demon king looks like a boy you might romance on an otome route. The gods have weird inhuman forms. The dwarf girls both look like dwarves, in a western fantasy sense whilst still fitting into an otome game! I'm not sure any of them really stand out to me as like damn good job, but I think as a whole they do help get across the setting-- both as a fantasy in its own right outside the "game's plot", and as an isekai into an "otome game".

Emi and Remilia:

Okay. Listen. Listen. I grew up in YGO fandom, alright? Bodyshare romance is peak. And I've got a thing for unrequited love, tragic loves, dead girl haunts the narrative she can no longer directly touch but everyone around her is still impacted by the hole she left. And, to clarify, that isn't what this manga is— I do not think this was written with the intention of being read as hot girl doppleganger ghost romance— but it's got the vibes. That even if that is not the intended reading of the text, it has an appeal that people into that could appreciate.

So, Emi is not textually dead, aside from the whole reincarnation thing. But she is functionally a ghost in the story. After she fell into despair, she retreated within herself and Remilia retook control. In-character, Remilia believes that Emi is as she was— alive, and now merely watching from behind the scenes. With this belief, she seeks to make Emi's ideal world so she can emerge and live happily again, just as she did before. There is no sign of Emi stirring, but Remilia is motivated by her memories and ideals, by what she gave her and honoring her memory. The Remilia the audience knows is a person changed, but not by someone who is in the story any longer. In this way, Emi "reads" as a ghost, haunting the narrative through her effect on Remilia. Dead girlfriend vibes, is what I'm saying.

There's also something to be said for the dynamic necessitated by the bodyshare where despite being deeply invested in the other's happiness, they do and do not have any personal relationship at all. They both know intimately and have never met the other person— we see Emi playing Remilia's game and crying over her; we see Remilia watching Emi living her life on a flat-screen television window in their mindscape. Without direct interaction, they nontheless are invested in each other, their highs and lows, their success and happiness. They're the other's biggest fan, but not in the sense that we usually think of in the modern era when someone says Parasocial. They are aware of each other, and both is individually important to the other. Whilst the situation is fantastical, it comes out feeling like an early internet friendship with both girls lurking on the other's blog, more than it feels like the relationship between stan and oshi.

On Female Characters:

So, this manga is guilty of the whole villainess isekai trend of actually the game heroine is the bad one! twist.

I forgive it.

The most important relationship in the manga, the fulcrum upon which the whole manga's storyline sits, is the one between Emi and Remilia. They're both full characters in their own rights, even though Emi exists only in flashback. Meanwhile, of the major side characters the ratio of male to female characters actually favors women. There's two men, whilst all the other major side-characters with personalities are women. So, Pino being shitty is just like, oh okay she's just a shitty person, not that this author has kind of an unfortunate attitude about women. Also, Pino's character flaws of being incredibly selfish and focused on romantic feelings without caring about the target of her affections as a person-- it rather neatly echoes the evil god featured in the manga as well. The two of them echo each other, so considering we see the exact same flaws in evil incel god and the main female antagonist... Yeah, I don't see the way Pino is written as a problem here.

The Demon King:

So, speaking of side-characters. The Demon King Angel is supposed to have been a secret route from within the game. And while I think this manga gets a lot of shit wrong about otome games I will say this for it: Angel absolutely feels like a true/secret route character. Gorgeous character design, genuinely tragic backstory with a good reason for him to have been an absolute bastard within the story. . . nailed it. Good job. A++. More than anyone else here, I actually buy him as an otoge character.

It's a little bit unfortunate for him that Remilia is only interested in Emi and making Emi's ideals a reality! That just makes him feel like he's properly executed even moreso though, and really drives home that this manga is about the relationship between Emi and Remilia more than any thing else though.

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