#that looks legitimately fucking delicious

[imwritesometimes]

I wish I could just get paid to make bundt cakes :/

[a-hazbin-reader]

it's valentines day tommorrow- what's alastor gonna do for reader?

I totally forgot about Valentine's Day-

Alastor X Reader Headcanons

✅️Romantic

❌️Platonic

TW: Alastor being a cannibal, Alastor scaring people off

Description: 👆⬆️

Alastor 100% forgets that it's Valentine's Day no matter how hard everyone tries to remind him

He can remember everything else important like birthdays, anniversaries, and other key events in your lives

But somehow, he manages to always forget Valentine's Day

He is so fucking smart but somehow so dumb at the same time, Rosie is the one who saves his ass every year

She literally plans it now, inviting him over the day before Valentine's Day

"So Alastor~ How are you going to spend Valentine's Day with Y/N tomorrow~?"

"How kind of you to ask-What was that now?"

"You forgot again. Didn't you."

Long awkward sip of tea

"You hopeless man, here's what you need to do..."

If it were anyone else then Alastor would be fucked but luckily he's tHe RaDiO dEmOn so he's able to scramble together something impressive

You'll never know he forgot

You wake up to your favorite flowers in your bed and all over the hotel, Niffty having a breakdown because she can't clean them up

Not Alastor standing in the kitchen with an apron on, cooking breakfast for the two of you

Kiss the cook? Don't mind if I do~

He won't accept any gifts from you until he's finished giving you the Valentine's Day you deserve

Mostly out of guilt over forgetting tho

After the most delicious breakfast you've had in awhile, he invites you out for a walk

He's shamelessly checking you out the entire morning, visibly approving of your outfit for the day

He takes you to one of the most beautiful and lush places in the pride ring that he can find, adoring the amazed look on your face

You almost feel like the two of you are a normal couple enjoying the day together, not two sinners in hell who are walking through faux earth scenery

If there's anybody else around then he scares them away so that you two can be alone and unbothered

Keeps an arm wrapped around you the entire walk, resting his head on yours because if he looks at you then he'll lose his mind

You just look so fucking cute rn

While it might just seem like a romantic walk, it's all a ruse to get you to a planetarium

Again, there's nobody there because Alastor wants privacy with his S/O

Because there's nobody there, Alastor took the liberty of decorating it in romantic lighting and getting more comfortable seating for the two of you

Seating might be the wrong word

The two of you end up snuggled together in a hammock, gazing up at stars that used to be familiar to you both

If you can name the stars and constellations then Alastor will happily listen while pulling you to his chest

Maybe you two feed each other snacks

"No, I'm not feeding you a finger, I love you, but I'm not touching that."

"You love me? How embarrassing that must be for you~"

"Still not feeding you that."

"Maybe I should eat you instead~"

KEEP IT PG YOU TWO

If you fall asleep then maybe he'll smooch your face a little bit until you wake back up

Maybe you're only pretending to be asleep

But the gifts don't stop there!

When you two leave, he takes you to the radio tower for a romantic dinner, and that shit is CANDLELIT

🕯 🍝 🕯

It is legitimately a lady and the tramp style dinner date with him doting on you the entire time

He's been a suave gentleman the entire day so far, doing everything he can to make you blush and swoon

But when you finally get the chance to give him your Valentine's Day gift, no matter what it is, he's genuinely flustered

Stares at it while blushing in silence for what feels like the longest time

"You got me this..? For me?"

"Who else would it be for?"

Not his tail wagging

Once he composes himself then he invites you to slow dance with him, holding you inappropriately close to him

Good thing you two are alone

Alastor is a fantastic dancer and a handsome man so that alone is enough to make you flustered

But slow dancing with him while he stares at you with that rare soft expression, with love in his eyes???

You're just a blushing puddle in his arms which is totally what he's going for, cooing at you sweetly

And he only makes it worse once he starts whispering sweet nothings in your ear throughout the entire dance, confessing everything he loves about you

Alastor legitimately has his breath taken away when he looks at your face afterward

You look so grateful for all that he's done for you today, but he still feels guilty for forgetting in the first place

When he thinks of your gift then he only feels worse, cupping your cheek gently

"Y/N...I have something to confess to you..."

"This is all last minute because you forgot about Valentine's Day?"

*shocked Pikachu face*

"...how did you know? Did Rosie tell you?"

"Alastor...darling...baby..."

Not your hand pulling on his cheek before giving it a few condescending pats

"You forget every year~"

Oh yeah

"But you always make it the perfect day~"

Brags about what you said to him the next day with Rosie, not at all noticing how done she looks with him

Hnnnng!! I love this man

[mysterycitrus]

the way you write the relationships the batfam have with each other is so delicious to me like AUGHH YOUR BRAIN!!! it’s so good. if you were willing, i'd love to hear more of your thoughts on the relationship cass and jason have / steph and jason (staring at you with my big wet eyes)

i havent read much from any of the characters and have seen large parts of fandom say that they would all get along/they’d be so close/besties, so the ideas i’ve read in your works (wolf king and persephone) are very interesting!!

to put it bluntly — i think they’d fucking hate him.

part of that is, weirdly, people tend to devalue tim’s relationships with steph and cass. like, steph and tim have never been normal about each other. cass and tim spent most of the nineties and early aughts jumping back and forth to each other’s comics. in what world would either of them be chill with the guy who hurt him (and damian) like that?

it also flattens cass’s ideology and steph’s history with bruce’s mission. cass has struggled with engaging with murderers because she’s sees them as herself, and their actions as her own actions. she is reflected in each of them, but she ultimately values life above all else which is why her personal connection to the bat is so interesting. she would not have sympathy or time for jason todd, someone who uses bruce’s mission to hurt others, to take lives, and attack the people she loves. like…. please be serious. she would not be hanging out w the person who was happy when bludhaven got nuked.

same deal with steph— something that really annoys me is when people act as though the “bad robin club” would be a bonding moment between steph and jason. not just because steph has a more developed comic run than jason has, with legitimate obstacles to her getting recognised as a hero, but also because again, this guy is doing the same shit as her dad. why would she like him after he went after tim multiple times? whenever someone draws this comparison i think of this page —

the fact that steph values bruce’s mission, his views on taking a life, despite being at such a profound low point is really important. i can’t believe she’d look at jason and think him admirable.

however!!!! that doesn’t mean their interactions (when reasonably in character imo) can’t be interesting!! having cass and jason interact in persephone was a lot of fun, because making him interact with someone other than bruce or dick puts him off balance. peoples fear of complex relationships with legitimate stakes makes me sad. neither cass or steph have that history with him before death, or that same image of him as a memorial, and it’s a fun thing to explore. specifically this passage from wolf-king —

like yeah!! neither of them would fuck with him!!! let him be the unpopular brother!!

[angelwithdemonictendencies]

when my hands were caked with dirt at the foot of the grave, you loved me still; ask atrocity of me and see how i tremble with willingness at the sound of your voice.

mt19 x reader: everyone loves to be taken care of.

(warnings: blasphemous filth, oral sex/fingering (m on f, another exception!), unprotected penetrative sex (m on f), kind of oral fixation (have you seen the state of that mouthguard), hair-pulling (bring back the curls), lots of praise and tension and all that nonsense, lots of talk about alcohol, also a lot of emotions! (be warned about those damn emotions! this one has a similar vibe to my qh43 og snakes one, i think), idk just please be warned, don’t read if you’re not 100% sure.)

(long a/n: my favorites - when i tell you i got carried away (again).  but how could i not, when mt19 could not even play in the final cup game because he broke the bone that protects his heart?  when poetry like that calls, you have to answer.  the playoffs inspired me, mt19 inspired me, enough that i created this fictionalized mt19 character that is basically a bunch of insecurities personified.  and the other character is just more of those in bartender form (i loved my bartending years! but they gave me a lot to think about!).  so, sorry.  this one’s a little sad, sometimes.  but you guys seem to like the sad shit, so i hope you like this.  apologies if i get caught up in the theatrics, at times.  we haven’t done a takeaway in a while, so here’s one - you deserve to be chosen and loved and taken care of because you’re you, not just because you’re around.  on a less serious note, can you tell how infatuated i am with mt19′s tooth gap?  yeah, i know, i made it too obvious, i need to relax.  i got a couple okays on the princess name, so if you don’t like it, you should have said something.  am34 is up next, i’m thinking some classic older brother’s best friend, we’ll see if the muses are kind to me.  please let me know what you think, i think i’ve made it obvious that your interaction means everything.  also you guys literally should have seen me trying to figure out the physics of fucking against a barstool, it was legitimately ridiculous.  gif is not mine.  sending so so so much love to you and your snakes.  go canucks.  see you soon.  be your own first choice.

meeting new people simply came with the job of bartending.  new faces filtered in and out of your bar like wisps of fragrant smoke, most of the time too fleeting to truly remember, never mind get to know.

however, the first day he entered your bar, a peculiar feeling hovered around you: the feeling that you already knew him, deeply and personally.

of course, you recognized him and his small group of teammates from the games that constantly played on the screens above the bar, but this was different. you couldn’t quite place the reason behind the feeling, not yet.

he didn’t approach the counter right away, but it was a saturday night, a busy one, so you were constantly being pulled from one patron to another, barely noticing the passage of time as your hands seemed to never stop moving.

but at some point, there he was, sitting at one of your stools, looking at you like he had all the time in the world, a confident, just bordering on arrogant smirk slanting across his face.  you didn’t have the presence of mind or time to appreciate the rest of him, not right now.

but you were paid to treat all customers the same.  and at the end of the day, that’s what he was, at least then.  just another customer on a busy, hectic night.

“what can i get you?” you asked as you mixed a drink for the party at the other end of the counter.  your voice was steady, knowing, friendly, but only just.  

his smirk deepened as he leaned forward.  “all business for the princess, hm?”

your brow furrowed in confusion before you realized where the name had come from.  you absentmindedly adjusted the plastic tiara a birthday party had given you earlier that night - the group of girls around your age had gushed about how delicious their drinks were, how you had made their night, how you just had to have it, how it would look so pretty with your hair.

they were sweet, and they tipped well, so you didn’t push the birthday girl’s hands away when she slid the crown from her head and onto yours, even smiling a bit at the gesture.  it was hard not to smile at women being girls again, and you loved the opportunity to be apart of it.

“princess is my side hustle,” you said to him now, keeping your tone even as you poured the colorful drink you were mixing into two glasses. 

he made a face that you couldn’t decipher before leaning on one of his hands.  “well, listen,” he started, to which you raised a brow.  you didn’t like being told to listen - you just did, it was something you were good at, and being told to made you not want to anymore.  he nodded to the group he came in with.  “my friends over there bet that i couldn’t get your number.  want to help me prove them wrong?”

you turned to drop off the drinks before running his words over in your mind.  you were hit on all the time, another part of the job.  people were attracted to being taken care of, and it was your job to take care of them, which always led to some misunderstandings, some one-sided crushes, some regulars that tipped much more than they needed to.

but something in your stomach dropped at his wording.  you didn’t like it, not at all.

“did they?” you asked, actually focusing on his face for the first time that night as you ran a rag over the counter.  his eyes were blue, so, so, blue, and almost comically confident, unwavering.  as was his smirk, his full lips so perfectly placed and practiced, not quite like a natural habit but more like a learned one.  

and then there was the brutal cut of his jawline, only made more prominent by his scruff of facial hair.  the way his hair curled over the tops of his ears, a youthful but not juvenile look.  his long lashes, elegant nose, flushed complexion, it was a little too perfect, at least for you, right now.

all of his features together appeared more like a masquerade ball mask, not a real, genuine face.  it was off-putting, this actor in front of you, the one you had seen on television so many times.

he hummed in affirmation, smirked deeper. 

you sighed.  “that’s too bad,” you said, to which he gave you what looked like his first genuine expression of the night - one of confusion.  “i only give my number to people who ask for it because they want it.”

you had long ago learned your lesson about being the person someone spent time with in order to please someone else.  it never ended well.

his brow furrowed in further disbelief, complete lack of understanding, maybe a bit of shock, but you only tossed the rag aside and grabbed a glass.  “now, how about a drink?”

he didn’t respond for a second, searching your face for something, maybe an explanation, less probably a spark of remorse.  you let him.  you weren’t going to budge on this, not tonight, not for him.

he shook out of it, literally, a small shake of his head before the mask was back on, in full strength.  “yeah, sure.  just an ipa, whatever you’ve got.”  he addressed you by the name on your name tag, an act you normally hated, but didn’t mind so much now, in his deep tone.

you gave a small grin as you filled a tall glass.  “thank god,” you started.  “after the million mixed drinks i’ve had, you might just be my favorite customer.”  you set the glass down on a paper napkin in front of him, only meaning to meet his eyes for a second.

once you did, though, you did a double take, now trapped in his gaze, completely transfixed on the pure hope you found there, so devastatingly poorly hidden.  this, this was genuine, no mask to be found.  the innocent hope lit up his eyes, his face from within, exposing an almost childlike expression that had you so deeply intrigued.

“yeah?” he asked, his voice no longer oozing with arrogance but instead with something you knew well.  unbridled wanting.  hope, hope, hope.  he might as well have the word please scrawled all over his face in thick marker.

you felt your lips curl up at this new discovery, this crack in his exterior that gave you a sense of deja vu.  “yeah, matthew,” you said, a little slowly, letting the rest of the bar melt away for a second.

this moment felt hot, sticky, like you were both suspended in amber, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.  

but moments don’t last forever, and suddenly one of his friends was slapping him on the shoulder, saying something loudly about taking too long.  you weren’t really listening as you watched his face again harden into that confident expression.

he ordered a round for his friends, and the moment was gone, lost in the neon light, and you were soon pulled again to another patron, the chaotic rhythm of saturday night overtaking you again.

you didn’t see him for the rest of night, caught up in your work.  towards the end of your shift, though, you happened to look up, towards the door, urged by some magnetic force, and found his gaze awaiting yours right before he walked out of the door.

a real face, a real look, unveiled and vulnerable, swimming with heat and hope and a million other dangerous things.  an expression so true that you had to look away from it’s veracity, complete candor.  when you looked up again, he was gone, and you assumed that would be the last time you saw him.  

so, a couple nights later, deep into your shift, you almost dropped the glass in your hand when you turned and found him sitting on that same stool at your counter, looking up at you expectantly with those storybook eyes.  

“matthew,” you said, softly in greeting, almost a question, confused at his presence, especially on a weeknight, without his teammates.  alone, seemingly.

“princess,” he responded, an imperfect smirk playing across his mouth, revealing more teeth than he had the previous night - enough that you could see the gap between his two front, a little detail so beautiful you might have sighed. 

“no crown tonight,” you responded, half smiling.  

“it was never the crown,” he said, to which you gave a slight shake of your head.  it didn’t hide your shy delight.

“where are your friends?” you prompted, slightly suspicious.  

something that looked like hurt flashed ever so briefly across his eyes.  “they’ll be here, princess, don’t worry.”

you shrugged.  “wasn’t worried.  just wondering why you’re here alone.”

your last word seemed to strip him entirely, lay him bare in front of you, completely vulnerable.  you regretted it immediately, felt almost mean.

“but i guess you’re not alone, right?  you’re here with me?”  you gave him a smile, tried to will one out of him, too, half-succeeded.  “ipa?” you asked, eager to bring this interaction back within the boundaries you were familiar with, ones you could control.

“whatever you’ll give me,” was his odd reply, one that had you scrunch up your face instead of reaching for a glass.  “ipa works.”

your voice was laced with confusion.  “i know it works.  what do you want, though?”

again there was that child-like look in his eyes, veiled by a thin film of doubt, uncertainty.

and somehow you thought you knew what might have been holding him back.  you shifted forward, leaned on your elbows, closer than you had been to him before.  “what if i promise you’ll still be my favorite, hm?  will you tell me then?”

you watched his gaze dip down to your mouth as you spoke, linger there before meeting your eyes again.  not like you minded, much as you wanted.  a spark of warning fired in your stomach.  don’t get too close, it mumbled, you can’t fill anyone’s void.

unfortunately, it was hard to deny the utter satisfaction you felt when he looked at you like this - like you had wiped away all the bad things in the world.

but then hands landed on his shoulders, loud greetings between friends exchanged, ripping you both out of the moment.

“now i know why chucky wanted to come back here,” one of them said eventually, looking at you with a gleam in his eye you didn’t quite like.  “i remember you, beautiful.”

“shame,” you said, “i don’t remember you.”

he put a hand over his heart like he’d been hurt, but his smirk was brutally arrogant, almost animalistic.  “how about we make sure you don’t forget my name again, yeah?”

you rolled your eyes.  “matthew, come get your dog,” you said as you grabbed a couple more glasses and began to pour the same drinks they had ordered the other night.

“you want me to start barking?  ‘cause i will,” the persistent teammate pushed before turning to his side.  “but it seems like you’re the one she’s got on a leash, matthew.”

you watched his face carefully as you slid the drinks their way, interested to see what would win out - the desire to maintain his mask around his friends or whatever was building between you two.

you bit your lip as you watched the internal struggle play out across his face, shooting a pleading look your way for a millisecond.

you decided to throw him a bone, put his friends in their place.  “i meant to tell you.  i put your game on yesterday,” you said to him.  

“did you?” he asked, so blissfully hopeful.

“yeah,” you said, leaning forward again, letting yourself get a truly greedy look at him.  “but i like you better in person.”

you reveled in how desperately pleased he looked by your admission.  

“we were playing too, you know,” someone said, half laughing.

“were you?” you asked, a theatrically confused expression on your face.  you shrugged.  “don’t think i saw you.  maybe i was distracted.”

one of his friends laughed.  “don’t feed him, beautiful, he’ll just keep coming back.”

but you didn’t even look at whoever said the comment, instead completely locked in on matthew, and he on you.  

“god, i hope so,” you said, barely more than a whisper, only meant for him.

just something you said, a true thing, and yet he did.  every couple of days you would look up and there he would be, on that stool at your counter, looking up at you.  sometimes his friends would come, and sometimes they wouldn’t, and on nights he was playing you would always put the game on the television where you could best see it, so you could best see him.

and despite everything he did, everything he said to you, which screamed longing and interest and want, you were surprised every time he came back.  surprised that his interest in you didn’t wear off after the first couple indulgences, like it seemed to with everyone else.

but, then again, matthew struck you as the kind of person who could make a home out of anything, anyone - like the kids who would cry if someone tried to come into their treehouse, as if the magic of the place was defined by it being all for them.  

sometimes this job made you feel like a building with a revolving door, so many faces fading immediately as they came into your life.  it felt so good to have whatever this was, this constant, even if that warning voice tried to convince you it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t last.

one night, when you put his away game on, he was picking fights, antagonizing the other team, all the while chewing on that abused mouthguard, which never failed to catch your attention, send a little shiver down your spine, make you wonder what those teeth would feel like on your bottom lip, your fingers, your neck.

this night, though, the officials had had enough, and handed him a game misconduct.  he skated off the ice, into the tunnel, chants and boos echoing through the arena so loudly that even the television cameras caught their strength.  

still, when the camera focused in on matthew’s face, there was nothing but that cocky, knowing smirk, that one that he had showed you the first day.  that fake one.  you narrowed your eyes at the tv, felt your stomach turn at the fact that he could be two people at once.  how could you ever trust him that way?  how could you ever believe that he really, truly, wanted you?  that warning voice compressed into a lump that settled in your stomach.

the lump was still there that next night, and so was he, there in his usual spot, right before you were about to close.  “missed you, princess,” he said, those blue eyes so full of meaning.  

and you hated how those words meant so much to you.  “yeah?” you asked, wiping down the counter.  “what’d you miss?”

you expected the answer that so many people in your life had given you before: how they liked how you made them feel, how you paid attention to them.  nothing about you, rather something that said more about them.  

so you were stunned when his gaze dropped to you lips and stayed there.  “think i started to dream about your smile,” he said, and you may have sighed, just a little, as you felt your cheeks flush.

“did you watch me?” he asked, that spark of hope lighting up his face in a silent plea.  

you nodded slowly, remembering the game.  “wish you had stayed on the ice longer.”

he shrugged, the motion emphasizing the muscles in his shoulders and neck.  you pretended not to notice.

“why do you smile when they hate you?” you asked, your head tilted in genuine curiosity, recalling his face as he made his way down the tunnel.  

there was that mask again.  “i love it.”

“you don’t,” you said, shaking your head slightly, watched him swallow.

“what?” he asked.  you could have imagined the smallest shake in his voice.

“you don’t.  you do that other smile you do.”  you didn’t tell him your theory, that you knew if a crowd booed loud enough, maybe he could close his eyes and pretend they were cheering, instead.  pretend it was love.

he made a sound that was half-laugh, half-scoff.  “what other smile?”

you bit your lip, unsure how to explain it.  you reached your hands forward, paused for a moment as his eyes widened, so flooded with want.  that beautiful second of expectation before a first touch, the first of what you inherently knew would be many.

“like-” you put your hands on his face, ever so lightly, moved his lips until that cocky smirk was opposite you.  “like this.”

“like this, princess?” he asked through your fingers, his breath on your palms, and heat thrummed in your stomach.  

you nodded slowly, reluctant to take your hands off of him.  “and my favorite one is like this,” you said, moving his lips again until you were satisfied with the replica smile you had created, toothy and wide and beautiful - until you realized he was smiling at you like that anyways, without any manipulation.

you grinned back at him, melted at the simmering heat and longing in his eyes.  before you could question it, you let yourself tap one finger to his front teeth, feeling the gap there, that imperfect feature you had most loved when you first saw it, felt your throat tighten at the way he was looked at you, the way he let his mouth just barely close around your finger.

a feather light motion that made your next breath come out shaky before drawing yourself away.  you hadn’t realized just how close you had drifted towards him, even with the counter between you.

you glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised to see it much later than you expected.  “i need to close,” you said, clearing your throat.  “i need to count the register.”

“okay.”  he looked dazed.  maybe in a cartoon there would have been pink mist or little hearts floating around his head.  

you tried to collect yourself, ignore the phantom of his lips around your finger, a ghost of a kiss, a promise, a plea.

you gave a shake of your head.  “i need to sit there.  the register unlocks from that side, in front of your chair.”

your stomach dropped at the sudden darkness his eyes took on, so much so that you knew you would give in to whatever he said next.  

instead of getting up, he pushed his hips up and back, spread his legs apart, settling deeper into the seat.  “seat’s open, princess,” he said, and the confidence in his voice, all over his face, it wasn’t fake, it wasn’t a mask.

it was real, genuine, set ablaze by your touch.

you looked around.  you were closed, everyone was gone on this monday night, except the owner, a lady older than sin who was mopping in the corner, and who was known for minding her own business.

there was nobody to judge you there, nobody to punish you for giving into this, exactly what you wanted.

time felt like jelly as you made your way around the counter, paused for a beat in front of him before he helped you up onto his lap by your waist, faced you towards the register drawer, let his arms rest around your middle.

“this okay?” he asked softly, his breathy rasp warm on your neck.

you breathed out a yes, slightly overwhelmed by all of this touch at once.  his chest behind you, radiating heat, his thighs firm below you, thick arms around you.  here he was, everywhere, all at the same time, and after only interacting with a counter between you, this felt almost absurdly perfect, forbidden.

so perfect that it took every semblance of your concentration to unlock the register drawer, to push the rise and fall of his chest to the back of your mind, to ignore how your own body seemed to melt into his, relax completely, an utterly miraculous contrast to the stiff, constantly active way you usually were at work.

“still okay?” he asked as he rested his head on your shoulder.  you could feel his facial hair through your thin shirt, smell his cologne, knew you would smell like it, too.  his thighs flexed underneath you, and you could have moaned.  you were having trouble focusing on counting, never mind answering his question.  

he rumbled with a laugh you felt more than heard.  “princess?”

“still okay,” you managed, “but you have to be still.  i need to count.”  

you felt him nod and smile into your shoulder as you got to counting, the rhythm of the bills eventually lining up with the rhythm of his breathing against your back, so peaceful and right that maybe, eventually, you both would have fallen asleep like this.  

“finished,” you whispered when you were done, organizing everything back where it needed to go, soaking up the last few moments of his touch for that night.  

“already?” he asked, although it had probably been half an hour.  

you hummed, pushed yourself up and off of him, even as his hands continued to reach for you, his gaze hungry.  

so hungry it scared you.  you still didn’t quite know if he just wanted someone, or if he wanted you, if he would have acted this way for anyone who asked the right questions, gave him the attention he craved, saw through his mask.  

hungry, hungry, hungry, and what scared you most was that you knew that you weren’t hungry for just anyone.  only for him.  and that question of reciprocation, it was like injecting ice into your blood.

“it’s late,” you said.  “you have to go.”

if he was hurt, he didn’t show it, seemingly completely fine with taking things however slowly you wanted to.  “okay,” he said.  “may i have your number, please?”  there was your favorite smile.

you smiled, despite yourself.  “why?”

maybe it was the late hour that caused him to misspeak when he said, “because i want you.”  he quickly realized his mistake and flushed, only just.  “it!” he corrected, looking like a kid with chocolate he wasn’t supposed to eat schmeared all over his face.  “i meant i want it.”

you fluttered at his mix-up, delighted that maybe he meant what he said.  enough that this time, you didn’t deny his request.

it was a while before you saw him again in person, as he had back to back games and then several away contests before coming home again.  but, like always, you put him on the screen by the bar, feeling yourself warm every time the camera caught his face.

one night, a late night, a couple hours after one of his games had ended, you looked up and you saw him at the doorway.

a bad feeling immediately bloomed inside you.

it had been a tough loss, close until the end, and one of his stupid penalties had forced a power play goal in overtime for the opponent.  worse, this result had been crucial for their playoff bid.  it wasn’t looking good. 

you had not expected to see him tonight - he usually didn’t come by on game nights, only on nights off.  and he didn’t look right as he stood under the neon signs at the door, he looked off.  he looked drunk.

his speech was slow and slurred, making you cringe.  after a couple of years at this job, oh, how you hated drunk people.  oh, how you never wanted to see him like this, so at the mercy of something as truly stupid as alcohol.

and even more so, how you hated to see him drink himself stupid, how you wanted to make everything all better.  you signaled for the bar-back to cover for a moment.

you walked around the counter and approached him.  “matthew,” you began, “what’s going on?”  you tentatively touched his forearm before grabbing one of his hands, wrapping it in both of yours, bitterly aware that he was not present as you were.

“oh, princess,” he said, stumbling just a bit into your grip as you pulled him outside.  he mumbled something you couldn’t hear before laughing, but the laugh was cruel, devastated.

when you were outside, the only audience was the small group of smokers that always hung around the front of the bar.  you took his face in your hands.  “tell me what happened.”

“what happened?” he said slowly.  “what happened?” he repeated, maybe asking himself.  “ruined it, always ruin it, ruin everything.”  his voice came out like a haunted childlike sing-song.  it made your heart shatter.

you looked in his eyes, still holding his face.  “you do not ruin everything, okay?  you just need to go home and sleep this off.”

“princess, princess, always tryna’ make me feel better,” he slurred, letting the whole weight of his head rest in your hands, your fingertips touching the wisps that curled around his ears.  he stumbled forward into you.  “need to kiss you, yeah?  make me feel better.”

you dropped your hands from his cheeks as if you had been scalded.  if your heart wasn’t broken before, it was now, as you pushed his chest away while he leaned forward.  you felt tears begin to prickle on your waterline.  

of course, he wanted you now, when he was begging to be taken care of, when he was outwardly desperate to be reassured, when his vision was probably so impaired that he couldn’t really even see your face.  

of course he wanted you now, when you could have been anyone.

“one of our cabs will take you home,” you said, trying to hide the wobble in your voice as you waved one over, barely able to look at him.  

he pouted.  “what?” he said, teasing, but there was a bite to his tone.  “don’t like me like this?  not your favorite anymore?”

you didn’t have the energy to scoff.  “don’t be mean.  sober up.  goodnight.”  you opened the car door for him, forced him down into the seat.

“don’t you want to kiss me?” he pressed, looked up at you, like he had before so many times from his barstool.  like he had so many times, when it had been different.

oh, how they love to be taken care of.  and look at you, taking care of them.  desperate, foolish girl.

and even now, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie, to say no.  “ask me when you’re not out of your mind.”  you shut the car door and turned away, wiped your eyes with your sleeves quickly and methodically before taking a breath and getting back to the bar, to your job.

but you were a shell of yourself for the rest of the night, his words repeating over and over again in your mind.  make me feel better.

so you blocked his number that you had just added, sighed of relief when one of your colleagues mentioned his team was headed away for a long stretch on the road.  a week and a half without him.  surely, completely isolated from him, you could forget about what happened.

and you half-believed that, until you came into work that next day and realized you would not be completely isolated from him at all.

right next to his stool there sat a bouquet of flowers and a red jersey, folded up.  you already knew what name was on the back.  you stood still at the entrance, reluctant to approach the offering.

“left it earlier,” the owner called from across the room, sweeping.  “i told ‘m to fuck off, but he wouldn’t.”

“thanks anyways,” you said.  

“i asked him why not,” she continued, the barest hint of a smile on her thin lips.  

you furrowed your brow, confused. 

“asked why he wouldn’t fuck off,” she said, “took him a second.”

you breathed out a laugh.  

“said you didn’t know how much he cared, yet.  and he needed you to know.”

you swallowed.  “that’s nice of him,” you said, running the words over in your mind.

“not everyone deserves your second chances,” she said.  “but i don’t let just anyone in our bar before we open.”

the words settled between you like diamond dust.  the owner finished sweeping and left.

you approached the gift, found a note sitting on top of it in terrible handwriting.

i’m sorry, it read, i’m back next thursday.  i’ll ask you then.  you wondered briefly what he was going to ask you before you recalled what he had said to you that night when you put him in a car.  your inability to fully turn him away.

you took a shaky breath as you read the last line of the note.

even if i’m not your favorite, you’re still mine.

your stomach fluttered, surprising you.  so simple, and yet those words meant everything to you.  that even when he got nothing from you, he wanted you still.

you hoped and hoped and hoped he meant it, and you believed it enough that you put the flowers in a vase and wore the jersey for each of his game days.

thursday came faster than you thought it would, probably because of how nervous you were.  in this time apart, anything could be true.  he could mean what he said, he could want you and only you, you could be counting down the minutes until finally kissing him, touching him how you so desired.

deep down, you were so deeply afraid that when he showed up, if he even showed up, that dreamy facade would be broken, and instead all of your greatest worries and insecurities would be realized.  

throughout your whole thursday night shift, you were jittery, versions of how tonight could play out flashing through your mind.  

the entire night flew by, until eventually it was time to close, and you tried to ignore your heart sinking.  maybe this version of tonight, the one with you alone, maybe this one was for the best.

you counted the register, began to mop, waved goodnight to the owner as she left for the night and reminded you to lock up.  

you did your final wipe-down of the counter, feeling the devastation begin to finally set in.  you scrunched up your face, told yourself you wouldn’t cry on your bar top.

“princess.”

you looked up, and there he was, draped in neon light, and for a second it looked like sunlight streaming in through church stained-glass windows.

the sentiment didn’t seem altogether different.  how many prayers had been answered at this bar?  how many homemade temples had been elicited?  how many haphazard gods?

“didn’t think you were coming,” you said as he made his way over to you, sat down on his stool, exactly the same dynamic as that first day, but there was no one else.  only you and him.

“it’s my fault you ever had a doubt,” he said, looking up at you with those blue, blue eyes, an ocean of apology.

you nodded, tossed the rag aside, rested your forearms on the counter and looked at him, eye to eye, and waited for him to say something.

“i’m sorry,” he said simply, and there was no mask to be found, only genuine regret.  “i’m sorry i showed up here the way i did, i’m sorry i embarrassed you at work, i’m sorry i made you feel like just another person.”

you felt your heart stitching itself back together, however painful the process.  he gently took your hands in his, warm and rough and firm.  “you’re not just another person, okay, princess?”  his voice was rough. 

your exhale was choppy, so forced you had to close your eyes for a second.  how long had you waited to hear somebody say that to you?

“you didn’t embarrass me,” you whispered.  “i could never be ashamed of you.”

he gave the smallest laugh, shook his head.  “even now, that’s what you focus on.  how i’m feeling.”

“only because i care about how you’re feeling,” you said, almost defensive.

“you gonna let me care about how you’re feeling?” he asked, his thumbs tracing circles on your palms.  

you stayed quiet, bit your lip, searched his eyes for an trace of doubt, falseness, didn’t find any.  only a slowly simmering flame, drowning in want.

“you’re too far away,” you whispered.

“i’ve always resented this counter,” he said with a hint of a smile. 

you gave a small smile back as you walked around the bar top, finally stood in front of him, exhaled before sitting down on top of him, your legs straddling his hips, your faces only a breath apart.  you clasped your arms around his neck, leaned forward into his chest as his hands settled on your hips.

“ask me,” you all but begged.

his voice was a low rasp, his gaze syrupy with lust.  “don’t you want to kiss me?”

you nodded, and he smiled, and then you were leaning forward, finally capturing his lips in a kiss that felt like neon light and television static and a million pleases, all finally answered with of course, anything for you.

you let yourself melt into his chest, tangled a hand in his curls, felt his grip tighten on the flesh at your hips.

he smiled into your mouth when you ran your tongue along the gap between his front teeth, groaned when you began to move your hips back and forth across his lap.  

you tugged at the curls at the nape of his neck as you felt him grow harder beneath you, to which he bit down ever so lightly on your bottom lip, the feeling even better than what you had imagined all those times you had watched him gnaw on his mouthguard.

he used his grip to set your hips into a rhythm as you ground down on his lap.

“want to taste you so bad, princess,” he breathed into your mouth.  “let me take care of you, yeah?  just want to make you feel good.”

you nodded feverishly, tugged at your clothes as he lifted you off of his lap and rested you back onto the counter.

laid bare for him, you become aware of how wet you already were, perhaps the result of all the waiting, the questioning, the wanting that had existed between you both since the beginning.

he groaned at the sight of you.  “fuck,” he rasped, “so wet already, hm?”  he ran a finger through your folds, brought it to his mouth and sucked.  “who’s this for, princess?”

“for you,” you whimpered, so eager for him to touch you how you wanted.  “for you, matthew.”

“all for me.”  you could hear the satisfaction in his voice before he leaned forward and began to tease you with his tongue, forced a choked moan from your throat.  

one of your hands braced the counter for stability while the other shot forward of its own volition, grasping a handful of his curls, making him grunt.  the noise vibrated through you.

“fuck,” you bit out, overwhelmed.  he pressed his tongue flat against your clit, making your hips push up into him and your grip on his hair tighten.  “fuck, you’re good at that.”

you felt his smile as he pushed two fingers inside of you, began to move them in and out slowly while continuing to tongue your clit.

you moaned loudly as your eyes rolled back, the combination of sensations making it hard to control your breathing, stop your back from arching up off the counter.  

he brought his other hand to your stomach and pressed down, cementing your hips down into the bar top, intensifying every shock of pleasure, immediately bringing you impossibly close.  “fuck, i can’t,” you whimpered, your hand grasping for sheets that weren’t there.  “can’t, shit, so close-”

he lifted his head up, thumbed your clit while curling his fingers slightly inside of you.  “gonna cum for me?” he cooed.

you nodded, eyes scrunched shut.

“cum, then, princess,” he pressed.  “make a mess for me, hm?”

that building wave finally crashed over you, and you gave him exactly what he wanted, reveled in the fact that you could.  

you caught your breath, let out a weak exhale, opened your eyes when you felt him press a light kiss against your hip, on the side of your ribs, up to your collarbone, finally on your lips.

pressed against you, you could feel every inch of him, so hard, immediately making you hungry for him again.  “more,” you pleaded simply.

“yeah?” he rasped against your lips.  “want more of me?”

you palmed his cock in reply, making him hiss, helped him move his clothes aside.  “need to feel you inside me.”

he shifted you off of the counter and against his stool, which you immediately bent over and rested your forearms on.

he groaned, pumped his cock once, twice.  “tell me this is okay, princess.”

you nodded.  “please fuck me, matthew.”

he did as told, pushing inside you entirely, barely giving you any time to adjust before he set a brutal pace, practically splitting you in half.

“holy fuck,” he choked out as you stretched around him.  “shit, you’re so perfect for me.  bein’ so good, princess, stretching for me so well.”

you moaned as you began to adjust to his size, every part of you still so sensitive from your last orgasm.

he built up his rhythm, forceful and deep but never so much that it hurt, only a pleasant pressure that began to build inside of you.

“so deep,” you whined, your voice muffled by your own arm, “fuck, feels so good.”

he grunted in time with a slow thrust in response, making your eyes squeeze shut at the sensation.

“want to see you,” he rasped, hooking one hand around your thigh and flipping you around before pushing back into you, so that now your back was against the stool, your front facing him, one knee bent.  he groaned when your eyes met.  “fuck, like that.”

you reached one arm up to his shoulder for support, rested the other one back against the stool.  your thighs began to shake from the stimulation, making you clench down on him harder, urging another deep moan from him.  

time disappeared as the rhythm of you both continued, so lost in the feeling of him and his noises, so perfect and better than anything you had imagined.

at one point, he brought one of his hands to your clit, began to tease you again with his thumb, while the other hand braced the back of your neck.

“hm, look, princess,” he said, his voice rough with wear, as he forced your gaze down to where your bodies met.  “watch me fuck you, yeah?”

you whimpered at his crudeness, couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sight in front of you, his cock thrusting into you, his hands willing you to the edge again.

he let out a choked laugh.  “oh, you like that, hm?  feel you close.”

“fuck, i’m so close, matthew,” you whimpered, feeling your legs give out.

“‘s okay, princess, ‘m there too,” he mumbled, his motions becoming less controlled.  “cum with me, yeah?  want to feel you cream on my cock.”

you did as he asked, spurred on by his words, the overstimulation.  you felt him reach his high with a groan, warm inside of you, his body collapsing against yours.

you held each other close for several long moments, the only noise between you satisfied breaths and shallow heartbeats.  the air was warm, so peaceful, and you bit back a smile at how this bar was now forever changed - this peace would never leave.

you felt his facial hair scratch gently against your shoulder as his head rested there, so content to simply have you close.  

it could have been a lifetime.  it was probably a minute or two.

he was the first to speak.  “so,” he said, drowsy and sweet, “you guys still open?  how’re my chances of getting a captain and coke?”

you smiled.  how far you had come from the man with the mask asking for anything, maybe an ipa.

if please had been written all over him before, x’s and o’s were now, in pastel pink.

“anything for my favorite,” you said, and he kissed just under your ear.

fin.

[itsfuntobeavampiree]

Slashers eating you out

Female reader

Contains: Vincent sinclair, Jason voorhees, Michael myers

To those two people I will do your submissions I promise I'm just writing so much rn and I just keep on forgetting to finish them <3

Warnings: cunniligus, squirt, Michael being an oldie and forgets woman aren't objects.

Where do I start!?!? This man is an angel truly, I mean you knew he was good with his hands but his tongue? He's more than talented at using that.

He'd lay pillows down for you so your comfortable while he's going at it. Princess treatment all the way.

KNOWS WHERE IT IS🗣

He loves to hear your pleads and whimpers while he sucks at your clit. Makes him cream his pants

When you insist to help him out aswell he shakes his head and shoves you back down. This is YOUR night, your pleasure is the only thing he cares about

You squirt girl? Dw he catching that shit in his mouth and staring right at ya with his gorgeous eye.

Would knead your thighs as he covers his face with your pussy. He lovesss the way you taste baby

He doesn't care whether it's shaved or not down their. He just loves himself a pussy. Don't be insecure my 70s Bush gang!

And by the end of the night he's cleaning you up, hydrating you and making sure your nice and cozy.

Hey...wondering if he's up for it tomorrow aswell.

Bit nervous about it,like 'w-where...where my tongue go' he's a lil confused but if you guide him he'll sure get it. He's a quick learner after all.

He...he doesn't know where it is, he'll be rubbing the inside of your thigh😭 poor baby. He'd never seen a vagina before so could you really blame him?

He doesn't care about it being shaved or not. Whatever your vagina looks like is normal to him

After he gets a hang of it he never wants to stop, your moans are music to his ears. Whenever he has free time I can guarantee you that he's latched to your cunt for hours on end.

He was taking back when you had a squirting orgasm, you hid your face in your hands out of embarrassment but he licked the juices that had splattered on your thighs and if he's honest with you....he'd love if you did that again baby.

Sit.on.his.face. SIT ON IT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! If you nervously hover over his face to scared to actually put your weight on him he'd pull you down himself and hold you there.

He'd generally BEG to eat you out every night. Your just so delicious to him.

After he finishes he'll try and wipe you with a cloth and just cuddle up. Even if you do need to pee.

Unfortunately you are gonna have to beg this man and he'll still say no after the hundredth time.

He's that type that thinks it's 'gay' to eat a woman out. He thinks you gotta be a right old sissy to be wanting to do that but he won't hesitate to choke you down on his dick tho.

When you've managed to convince him he's gonna think it's gonna be the worst think ever cos he's getting no pleasure! But after feeling you squirm and whimper out his name he's pinning you down whenever there's a chance and just starts eating away.

Do not tease him about how he'd make sure your comfortable and everything because he will reck you. Legitimately.

When you first had a female ejaculation he'd growl and wipe it away but he's secretly enjoying it. Might just 'accidentally' open his mouth while you squirt and taste your juices.

Ofc he knows where it is! But just incase...show him.

Sorry but he's also gonna need some sort of relief so uh...open wide!

Probably would enjoy the 69 position, he gets off aswell and also gets to taste all your juices!

He might prefer if your shaved cos I doubt he enjoys finding a pube in his mouth but now he nows how it feels when you suck off his untamed fucking beast.

*throws a towel and proceeds to walk away*

He's not an aftercare kinda guy but if you're truly sore and achy he'll clean you up, throw some pants at you and let's you lie in bed.

[centaurisolarflare]

König Headcannons

Someone tell me what absolute crack they’re sprinkling these masked Call of Duty men with. I’ve got major König brainrot and this got wildly out of hand, like a five-page word doc out of hand – I had to just stop because it got so long. Might do an NSFW one, lmk if you’d want that. I love you all dearly, enjoy!

- He’s really good at Tetris. Don’t ask me how or why I arrived at this conclusion, I myself have no idea. Dude just likes Tetris. It’s fast paced and demands his attention so he can usually sit still if he’s focused on the game.

- Compulsively chews the skin off his lips and the inside of his cheeks. Can’t help it. Used to bite his nails but that faded throughout his military involvement as he wears gloves pretty much all the time.

- This man has a list of things about you memorized. He covets each piece of information. He knows not only your favorite kind of tea but exactly how you like it prepared. Knows every single favorite you’ve ever mentioned – foods, flowers, books, movies, weather, what songs or types of music you’ll listen to depending on your mood, the colors you like and the colors you think you look best wearing, if you prefer gold or silver jewelry, etc. etc.

         -- Started keeping this list long before he ever actually really spoke to you with things he overheard you say. He was so worried he’d slip up and you’d think he was creepy.

- Fucking loves giving you things. Like I said, he has all your favorites memorized, so it’s easy for him to grab things when he sees them. MFer would give you a rock if it made you happy, he just loves seeing your face light up.

         -- Toward the beginning of you two, when he knew he liked you but was still too anxious and shy to really interact with you, it was so much easier for him to pack all his sentiment and feelings into the things he gave you. He could push them into your hands with maybe a word or two — sometimes literally just saying “here” or “for you”, though often it was without saying anything at all — and hope you got the intended messages of “I thought of you; this suits you; I want you to enjoy this; I care about you”.

         -- He heard you mention some obscure recently published book you wanted to read one time and he immediately began looking for it. When he found it, he bought it with an intensity that scared the bookshop owner; he nearly slammed it on the counter and shoved a handful of money at them, he was just so damn excited to be able to give it to you. And yet, he still carried it around in one of the bigger pockets on his gear for days because he was nervous to actually give it to you in person

         -- Gives you food all the time. Just appears next to you holding out something or another and vanishes before you’re even done saying thank you. You could be stationed anywhere and somehow this man has found? made? acquired? something delicious and he will be giving it to you.

- On that topic, he’s a really good cook. Like legitimately everything he even attempts to make comes out amazing. He loves when you hang out with him in the kitchen while he cooks.

         -- The first time you offered to help he was so startled he nearly dropped a knife. He comes to loves how seamlessly you two work together and move around each other in the kitchen.

         -- He gets to listen to you talk but the tasks at hand give him something to focus on and do, which makes the heat of your attention and his supplying the other half of the conversation easier to bear.

         -- Plays quiet music as he cooks, asks you for songs to put on and loves hearing you sing along as you work

         -- He loves when you hop up on the counter, you look so cute swinging your legs and watching what he’s doing.

         -- Will absolutely do the nonna thing where he swats at your hand if you try to steal something before the dish is ready but he also does the nonna thing where he’ll chop extra veggies so you can eat a few, or he’ll give you a handful of chocolate chips before using the bag. Basically, snacking is fine as long as it’s König approved snacking.

                   ---- One time, when he walked back into the kitchen to see you sneaking bites out of the pot on the stove, he reflexively swatted your backside with the dishtowel he’d had over his shoulder. He turned bright fucking red when you whipped around, shock written all over your face and the wooden spoon still in your hand. Immediately began stumbling over his words trying desperately to explain himself, god he was so fucking stupid and he felt like a chasm was opening up in his chest, until you broke out in a grin and started laughing so hard you got tears in your eyes. He was still mumbling apologies as he went to add spices to the pot, still bright red because you were leaning against his side trying to catch your breath.

         -- Loves sharing the things you make together, loves sitting down and having meals with you

         -- I also think he has a sweet tooth and he’d love it if you liked to bake

         -- While we’re talking about food, I think he really enjoys clementines for some reason. The fruit looks extra small in his hands as he takes the rind off, he’ll always pull it apart and offer you half

- Loves snow. Like kid-rushing-to-the-window loves snow. Stands outside with his head tilted back watching it fall.

- Rarely gets cold, he’s like a walking furnace.

- Trust issues af. Distanced himself from you, especially when he found himself liking you.

- Dude is big. Really big. He’s aware of that. But he never really thought about certain applications of his size; like how your hand fits in his, how your eyes shine when you look up at him, how his fingers fit around your waist/throat/wrists/thighs, how you look wearing his clothes, etc.

- You’re his first kiss and he is nearly shaking out of his own skin when it happened, but he makes up for the nerves and inexperience with hesitant enthusiasm and pure adoration.

- His phone screen is cracked. Badly.

- Good with animals, the type of person to be going about his day with a cat perching itself on his shoulder. Oddly loves waterfowl – birds like ducks and geese and swan.

- Good with kids in a quiet way. He’s a little awkward with them, they’re so unpredictable and don’t really have filters so they’re a little terrifying, but they adore him. He listens and nods as they babble, lets them hang off his arms, and gives as many piggyback rides as he’s asked for.

         -- Would love it if you were good with kids. If you were playful and indulged their imaginations, yet you took them seriously when they had questions and concerns. It’s a bittersweet thing to see you being so attentive and caring because he would have done anything for someone so kind when he was younger.

- Loves when you sit close to him and press your thigh against his, or when you stand and lean against him

- Either cannot make eye contact or stares. If you’re doing something that requires your visual attention but still talking to him, like driving, he’d be staring directly at you the whole time; until you glace at him in the passenger seat and suddenly he’s looking at anything else

         -- When he gets flustered, he tends to look upwards and trys to even out his breathing

- Speaking of driving, he absolutely says “horses” or “cows” when you pass a field of animals. Totally monotone and watches them as you pass by.

- Took him a while to get accustomed to casual touches from you, even longer for more intimate touches, but once he’s comfortable he cannot get enough. Touchstarved.

- Opens every single door for you

- Talks too fast and gets flustered when he trips over his words, which doesn’t help him speak any slower. He has poor volume regulation and either talks either way too quiet – and mumbles when he does – or way too loudly.

- He doesn’t usually stutter but it happens a lot around you. He wants so badly to talk to you but you’re so kind and pretty and his thoughts are going a million miles an hour in about four different directions, and he just ends up so nervous. He tries to say two things at once and stutters through his sentence, he tries to say one thing but abandons it half way through to say something else, repeats certain words, and of course stutters on certain letters.

         -- He’d be so so grateful if you didn’t laugh or mock him. He’s used to people finding ways to get out of talking to him, inventing reasons to cut conversations short, for a whole host of reasons – his accent, how intimidating he looks, the way he talks, the tripping up on words – and he remembers when he was younger and either no one wanted to speak to him or he’d get bullied for speaking at all.

         -- He loves that you’re patient and let him work through his sentences – and he will, because he really does want to talk to you if he could just sort his brain out.

         -- The effort you put into making him comfortable, making him feel at ease talking to you, knocks the air out of his lungs. The attention sometimes makes his anxiety flare up, but he can’t help but love your dedication to talking with him.

- On kind of the same topic, he will make noises or hand gestures to communicate. Sometimes only responds with a “hmm” or “mmhm” but he is paying rapt attention and wants you to keep talking, he just can’t make his own words work right then.  

- If you are outwardly confident, maybe even a little cocky, he eats that shit up. Winking while telling him you’ve got it, grinning after an impressive display of competence.

         -- If you speak up for him or defend him, he’ll lose his mind

- He loves playing with your hands. He’ll do it absentmindedly – rubbing circles on the back of your palm, toying with your fingers, tracing over the ridge of your knuckles – and always blushes when he realizes, no matter how many times you tell him it’s alright.

         -- If he gets more comfortable and in a relationship with you, he’ll lace your fingers together and pull your hand to his mouth so he can kiss the back of it.

         -- Also, if you put your hand on his face and hold his cheek he’ll grab your wrist – fingers wrapping all the way around it and then some – press your hand more firmly against his face, and turn his head to kiss your palm.

- Never feels like he’s allowed to touch you and will kind of linger around you until you initiate something or ask him what he needs (embarrassed as hell when you make him tell you exactly what he needs in a more NSFW context, but he loves it). Will always always always ask before touching you if he’s the one initiating. Once you do give him permission, he’s on you like a shot.

         -- Clingy as fuck. Always wants to be near you. If he can’t be next to you he’ll keep his eyes on you, you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ll look at him to find he’s already watching you.

         -- Uses his strength to his advantage when he wraps his arms around you and won’t let you get out of bed in the morning.

         -- Loves when you hug him so tight he thinks maybe you’ll crack his ribs, it feels so safe and he’ll rest his head on top of yours. I also think he’d be the type to hug so than his arms are under yours; yes, he knows it makes the whole thing less convenient because he has to lean down more, but he wants to be able to draw you in against his chest as securely as he can.

- He has stretchmarks on his arms/back/thighs from growing so much so fast. He’s really self-conscious about them.

         -- I also think as a result of growing so fast there was a period of time when he was young where he’d faint in the mornings. There’s a type of syncope that can occur during the years growth spurts happen, especially when a child grows a lot, caused by a lack of blood (oxygen) to the brain; it’ll happen especially after getting up from sleep, due to slow blood circulation, and in the shower, due to the warm temperature and humidity. He’d just space out, get black spots or narrowing vison, and pass out. Wake up quickly, maybe with a little vertigo, and be fine.

- Remembers and treasures every single complement and nice thing you’ve said to or about him. Complements and praise make him a mess.

- Can weave flower crowns.

- If you wear makeup, he loves watching you put it on. Maybe one day you’ll doll him up with it and tell him how pretty he is.

- Not fond of needles, doesn’t have any tattoos or piercings.

- Not super comfortable with PDA.

- In private, he loves kissing your forehead and the top of your head. When he’s more comfortable with you he’ll stoop over to kiss to the back of your neck, gently brushing your hair out of the way to press his lips right above the last knob of your spine.

         -- Loves kissing you when he’s sitting down and you’re straddling his lap, his thighs splayed out and you raised up on your knees to accommodate for his height, one hand on your waist and one up grasping at the back of your neck, and you kiss him filthy and tell him how good he is. He’s inexperienced so he gets overwhelmed quickly, resting his forehead on your shoulder and panting while he tries to focus on anything other than how badly he wants to pull your hips down and rut against you. He’s definitely cummed in his pants befo- *I am forcibly removed from the stage*

- Babyboy gets flustered and embarrassed so easily, has a blush than spreads down to his chest.

- Loves having inside jokes with you. Loves the side glances you shoot him, your suppressed smile, the little nudge you give him with your shoulder or elbow

         -- Loves that you two talk enough to have these jokes and references, and that you remember them. It reassures him that you enjoy talking to him.

         -- He especially, maybe selfishly, loves when someone asks about the glances and the snickering and you tell them that it’s an inside joke, that you refuse to offer any further explanation, that you want these little jokes to be yours and his alone.

- Loves when you play with his hair, lets out very contented hums when you scratch your nails over his scalp.

- Gives you massages. He’s really good at it, big hands, okay, and he’s so warm. Especially likes relieving your shoulders, back, and hands but will give diligent attention to any of your sore muscles.

- Doesn’t wear any jewelry but is absolutely the type to wear a little woven threads or beaded bracelet forever just because you gave it to him

- Because of how tall he is, he’s used to being cramped up when he sleeps so he sort of always curls up as much as he can when he sleeps, even if he has room to stretch out.

         -- If you’re near him while he’s asleep there’s a good chance he’ll wrap himself around you.

- He has so many little fun facts on an absurdly large number of topics and could ramble for hours about the subjects that particularly interest him.

         -- If you mention something you’re interested in he will do extensive research to learn about it. He wants to show you he cares and he also wants to be informed so he doesn’t make himself look like an idiot in front of you.

- Loves teaching you things, he feels more sure of himself when he’s instructing you through something he’s knowledge about.

         -- Loves being taught as well, he’s very good at following directions and always wants to impress you.

- Never forgets birthdays, anniversaries, or any other important dates. This man will remember your pets birthdays. 

[hoedamn-eron]

duke leto - breeding

You're newly married to the Duke of Caladan, and you must create an heir.

Warnings: 18+, minors, DNI. Arranged marriage (and because of that, he's a bit cold at the beginning). Breeding kink. Age gap, but it's legal. Small, teeny tiny, praise kink. Also, teeny tiny Dom!Leto. Word count: 1,243 F!Reader, no use of Y/N.

This was originally a part of my Kinktober list but now it's just a stand alone.

Your marriage to Duke Leto Atreides had been a political one, of course.

After all, you were sixteen years his junior, and his heart already belonged to Lady Jessica, the mother of his son, Paul. If he’d had a choice, he would have married Lady Jessica, but that would get no gain. The only reason the two of you were wed was to unite your Houses, that trading between your planets would be easier and beneficial if there was an insider on Caladan.

You had taken it all in your stride. You had little say in how your future panned out, but you had heard many great things about Leto Atreides and how honourable he was. He was a just man, and a kind man, and you were sure that he would treat you with respect. You met the day before your wedding, had dinner together, where you’d made idle chat about your lives before you had met. Then you went your separate ways and didn’t see each other until you were to be wed.

You had had a grand party, where you barely got a word in to your new husband as you both were surrounded by congratulations from many guests and family members, even that night when he had taken you to bed, he had said few words, the implication of your futures weighing heavy on him. You had the feeling he would have opted to not take you to your bedchambers if he had the choice, but no marriage was law until consummated. However, he had treated you well, as it was your first time, and he even helped clean up afterwards, but he left shortly after midnight to spend the rest of the night with Lady Jessica.

You hadn’t minded, really, that he had a concubine; she was there long before you were. You weren’t unfamiliar with rich and powerful men having wives and concubines. Like you said, Duke Leto treated you well, but you knew he would never love you like he loves her, but you weren’t there for love, you were there for duty.

Like right now, as he has you in your bedchambers, your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks into you slowly.

He only ever visits your bedchambers twice a week, otherwise he’s with Lady Jessica. You and he both know that you must create a ‘legitimate’ heir, if not to rule Caladan, then to strengthen the relationship between Caladan and your home planet. You weren’t opposed to becoming a mother, and you cherished the nights you spent with Leto as you tried for a child.

Especially when he makes you feel so good.

“That’s it,” he mutters against your neck, as he grinds deliciously into you.

You gasp, your eyes closing as your head is thrown back against your pillow. “Please…faster…”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he doesn’t change his pace. He moves with you, his hard cock thrusting in and out of you, leaning on his left forearm above your head, his right hand trailing along your waist leaving a path of fire in its wake. Something’s different. It shouldn’t feel like this, he belongs to another. He shouldn’t be saying these things to you, about how good you’re making him feel, how good you’re taking him. How you’re always so willing to help him with making an heir.

He pauses as you involuntarily let out a loud, deep moan, and clench around him. You’d both never explicitly said the obvious; that the only reason you go to bed together is to make an heir, it was just always known. But now, as he pants into your sweat sheened neck, telling you about how he’s going to stuff you and make you a mother, you’re practically dripping on the sheets…and he can feel it.

Leto lifts himself to look down at you, but you can’t meet his eye. You can already feel your cheeks warming, and you’re mortified. He keeps looking at you as he slowly starts thrusting again, and you close your eyes as the pleasure builds back up again. You can’t look at him, not now. But he has other ideas.

Your eyes snap open as you feel him hold your jaw firmly, forcing you to look at him. He’s so intense, you feel the urge to look away from him.

“No,” he demands, and your eyes immediately look back him. “You look at me. Keep looking at me.”

You let out a whimper as his hips speed up. “Y-yes, your Grace.”

“You’re doing so well,” he mutters, and gives out his own groan as you squeeze around him again. “So, so well sweetheart.”

You let out a noise that was between a whine and a sob. He’d never been so…affectionate before. Your orgasm was brewing, and he seemed nowhere near ready to finish. Your hips rocked with his as you felt every delicious caress his cock offered you. “Don’t stop. Please.” You were pretty sure you were clawing your nails in his back but you were so out of it, you couldn’t tell.

“I would never,” Leto said, looking in your eyes, and you believed him. “I’m going to keep going until you are filled with me. We’re not stopping until you are with child. My child.”

“Fuck!” you cried as your climax hits you hard. You still beneath him, your eyes closing as your mouth hangs open, the intense pleasure becomes all-encompassing, radiating outwards from your core. It's as if a floodgate of sensations opens, and a rush of euphoria spreads through your body. It's a release of tension, a peak of pleasure that can feel like a sweet explosion of sensation.

You’re positive you black out, as you come to your orgasm subsides, a sense of deep relaxation and contentment overtakes you, but Leto has released your jaw and is buried in your neck again, groaning your name as his hips slam into you with such force, you were certain he would leave bruises. You thread your fingers through his salt and pepper curls, and you give a whimpered, “Leto…”

He lets out a loud, guttural moan before his hips still in you, then give a few small, precise thrusts as he cums deep into you. He soon goes limp on top of you, his forearm holding him up as not to crush you. You pant as you look at the ceiling above you, the sudden feeling of panic in your chest overtaking. That was incredibly inappropriate. You used less-than-ladylike language, you’d called him by his name. You’d marked his back. You were sure Lady Jessica would have your head –

You both let out a groan as he pulls out of you, and you feel your combined fluids drip out of you. You’re about to apologise to him but you let out a loud gasp as Leto grabs the back of your thighs and practically folds you in half before pushing his fingers into your wet and sensitive pussy. You’re gasping and you’re about to question him but the words fall flat on your tongue, seeing how strongly he’s staring at you.

“Do not move,” he demands of you.

You nod your head at him. “Yes, your Grace.”

He gives you a small grin, his fingers moving just that much deeper into you, causing a small moan to escape your lips. “I think, now, you can call me Leto. We are married, after all.”

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 21, Unacceptable - Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, violence, mentions of sexual situations.

Word Count: 1.3k

Previously On...: Oh, look-- you didn't sleep with Steve, after all! THANK FUCKING GOD. So what if Bucky thinks that you did? lololololol

A/N: NGL, this part was delicious to write. Pocket setting of explosions, baby.

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

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You stepped into the conference room, still wearing Steve’s shirt, though you’d paired it with a pair of leggings and a belt, and your go-bag slung over your shoulder. You figured if Bucky thought the two of you had slept together, you may as well feed into the notion. Good. Let him have a taste of his own fucking medicine. You smiled when you saw Sam had beat you there and was already sitting at the conference table, chatting with Steve.

You sat down next to Sam. “Morning, boys,” you said, voice more cheerful than you felt after your confrontation with Bucky earlier. “Are we ready to rock and roll?”

“Damn, Baby Girl!” Sam grinned back at you as he took in your altered appearance. After you finished packing, you’d met with a hair stylist and had her dye your hair from its normal hue to a more stripper-appropriate bubble bath pink, and had her put in extensions so your hair came down to your ass in long, loose curls. 

Steve just smiled at your transformation and slid you a manilla folder. You opened it up to find a fake ID, documentation, and a brief dossier with your cover history.

“I hope you don’t mind, Pocket,” Steve began, “but I discussed it with Tony and we decided it would be best if you resumed your old dancer alias. That way, if anyone has any questions about your background, there’s a legitimate history for them to follow up on.” You nodded that was smart. “Cherry Pie’s back in action, then?” you grinned.

Steve smiled. “Looks like. Tony also wanted to apologize for not being here to say goodbye; there was some need for Iron Man’s services in Belize early this morning.” You nodded, sad that you had to miss out on saying goodbye to him, and to thank him for the party, especially when you didn’t know how long it would be before you saw him again. “He also said to tell you he’s arranged to have all your presents moved up to your new room for when you get back but, if you want them at any point while you’re in Atlantic City, to just let him know and he’ll…” Steve paused to check to check a piece of paper that apparently had Tony’s instructions on them, “‘fly them down myself because if she thinks I’m going to let her stay undercover with that birdbrain–’” 

“Hurtful!” interjected Sam.

“‘--with that birdbrain and not come down and personally check to make sure she’s still alive, she’s gonna have to think again.’” Steve finished. 

You laughed. “Yeah, alright. Tell him I said thanks,” you said.

Before anything more could be said, your attention was caught by a ruckus outside the conference room. You could hear the sound of doors being slammed open and someone stomping their way down the hall toward you, and an angry voice bellowing out “ROGERS!”

“Oh shit, Cap,” Sam grinned, “What’d you do?”

Bucky came barreling through the double doors of the conference room, sending them both flying into the adjacent walls with a thud. His gaze bore into Steve as he stalked toward him.

“IF YOU THINK, FOR ONE GODDAMNED SECOND, THAT YOU CAN FUCK MY GIRL AND GET AWAY WITH IT–”

He paused when his gaze took in you and Sam. “Oh… I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t realize–”

“He thinks we had sex, Steve,” you said, crossing your arms, “and for some reason he feels he has the right to be upset about it.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Can’t seem to get it through his thick skull that I’m no longer ‘his girl.’”

Bucky did a double take. “Pocket?!” he stuttered, flabbergasted at the sight of you. “What– what the fuck did you do to your hair?” You rolled your eyes and turned away.

“Bucky,” Steve took a step toward his friend. “We’re in the middle of a pre-mission briefing. What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asked.

 Bucky looked from you to Steve, and back again. “I want to hear you admit it, you fucking punk,” he said, pushing Steve with both hands in the chest. Steve stumbled backward.

“Yo, man,” Sam said, standing up, “what the actual fuck?”

“He slept with Pocket,” Bucky said, his voice beginning to rise. “He slept with my girl and I want to hear him fucking admit it to my face.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to look between you and Steve. “Whoa, Baby Girl. That true?”

You sighed. “No, Samuel. It’s not true.” You cast an angry glance at Bucky. “First, I’m not Bucky’s anything. He made damned sure of that all on his own.” At Sam’s confused expression, you added “Just ask him about what he and Carthage got up to in Russia together.” Sam’s eyes widened and he gave Bucky a disapproving look. “Second, I got high last night, danced with Steve, we went back to my room, we talked, and we fell asleep.”

“You gonna stand there and lie to my fucking face, Pocket?” Bucky yelled. “You answered the door in nothing but his fucking shirt!”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not sure what part of ‘you have no right to be angry about it even if I did’ you don’t understand, and second, I was still wearing a skirt under that shirt, asshole, so, technically, fully dressed. Steve slept in his undershirt, and I just threw the button-up on because my shirt got all tangled up in the night. Nothing happened.”

“Well,” Steve interjected, “I wouldn’t say nothing ha–”

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” you uttered, just as Bucky threw himself at his friend with an angry roar. Sam jumped in to break the two men up, but he was no match for two super soldiers. The two men tousled on the ground, and you could just make out a portion of the insults and accusations they were throwing at one another. 

“If you laid one finger on her–”

“--can’t believe you cheated–”

Having had quite enough of their testosterone display, you grabbed the pitcher of ice water that was sitting on the conference table and, walking over to where Steve currently had Bucky pinned to the floor, dumped its entire contents over both their heads.

“Are you both quite finished?” you asked, annoyed as fuck as the two men spluttered and worked to extricate themselves from one another. “You’re acting pathetic, and Sam and I have places to be.”

Steve reached a hand down to help Bucky get up. “We didn’t sleep together, Buck,” Steve said. “We just… made out a little.”

Bucky looked like he was about to launch himself at Steve again before Steve added “But we knew it was wrong and a mistake and we stopped almost immediately. That’s it, I swear. I would never do that to you, man. You gotta know that. You’re my best friend. To the end of the line, remember?”

Bucky pushed his wet hair back, away from his face. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, punk.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

You rolled your eyes. Reaching across the conference table, you grabbed the files that held the paperwork for you and Sam and handed them to him. “And with that touching display of toxic masculinity,” you said, furious that the two men had been fighting over who got to have access to your body like you were some sort of toy, “Sam and I have a mission to get to.” Slinging your duffle bag over your shoulder, you motioned for Sam to follow you back out the conference room doors.

Just as you reached them, you turned back around. “Oh, and Steve?” you added, knowing you were about to throw a match onto a recently diffused powder keg, but not caring the least little bit about the oncoming explosion. Both Bucky and Steve turned to look at you. “Don’t forget to tell Barnes about having your hand on my cunt.” With that, you walked out, Sam cackling behind you and the sounds of Bucky screaming at Steve echoing in your wake.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[vvatchword]

In Defense of BioShock Infinite

Although I had preordered BioShock Infinite with all its bells and whistles, I did not actually play it until January 2023. And lordy, I had me another Experience with a capital E. How the hell a bunch of urban Yanks could capture my experience as a queer democratic-socialist atheist struggling with her roots as a rural evangelical-cum-fascist is kinda magical, honestly. As to the game itself, it didn’t hurt how good it looked—the kickass skyhook gun battles—that novel setting—the complex characters—that delicious historical setting—that bloodthirsty critique of America—and to top it all off, they had pulled yet another Cassandra. Hell, speaking of which—not only was the game fun, it was fucking smart. It was intelligent, memorable, and meaningful in a way I hadn’t experienced in video games for years.

Now, back in 2013, when I had realized that I would be spoiled for Infinite, I left the BioShock fandom. After completing the game, I headed to Tumblr to re-engage, wagging my whole body like an excitable golden retriever, only to discover that BioShock Infinite was remarkably absent, and when mentioned, brutally derided. 

“I hate BioShock Infinite and all my friends do, too,” someone said in the tags under a post. 

I was utterly befuddled and deeply sad. I wanted to talk about BioShock Infinite! I wanted to dig into it, uncover unexpected ideas, learn new things, talk shit, make new friends—the full fandom experience. And instead I kept stumbling into hateful diatribes and super-charged disgust.

Obviously, I first looked at myself and my own judgment. Had I missed some obvious problem or misread some theme or dialogue? This wouldn’t be the first time I’d snapped down on a hook. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

There are two parts of BioShock Infinite that are unquestionably terrible: the fridging of Daisy Fitzroy and the false equivalence of violence between haves and have-nots (lol what are the have-nots supposed to do, ask nicely?). Additionally, one could look at the use of real Native American tragedies as tasteless. Personally, I do not—in the same way that I don’t find it tasteless that real war victims were used as inspiration for Splicer deformities. This is what really happened; this is commentary on events that really happened to real people. 

At this point, I’m sure I don’t have to explain why two of these themes are Unequivocally Bad. 

Anyway, I thought that perhaps these were the reasons BSI had been condemned to Super Hell.

I was wrong.

How Criitcsim Werk

This wasn’t the fandom I’d made friends in over 2010. Hell, this wasn’t the fandom of 2013. This was a fandom made up of Babies. They were making their first coltish stumblings into media criticism and with it, dredging up the same brain-dead bullshit from Tumblr circa 2008.

Suddenly I was brought face to face with people who seemed to think that if a character couldn’t be likable or good that the story itself couldn’t be likable or good; that one bad element means the story is unsalvageable (lol u pussies); the implication that one is bad for liking it; the destructive juvenile insistence that media accurately measures its fans’ moral qualities en masse like an astrological sign. This goes far beyond simple like or dislike and plunges head-first into Puritanism: praying loudly on street-corners instead of quietly in a dark corner where God might hear you.

At one point I had a kid go off about how they wouldn’t take time to understand Booker DeWitt’s perspective because he had (fictionally) taken part in a genocide. (That same person said the Native American element had been employed for shock value, a thought that sometimes keeps me up at night, because it is legitimately one of the dumbest criticisms the game has ever received.) At another point I saw someone acting personally offended that (fictional person) Dr. Suchong’s (fictional) data was being stolen (in a fiction) by a (fictional) racist who would (fictionally) take credit for (fictional person) Suchong’s (fictional) inventions “while calling him slurs”. Sure, a better question would have been, “Why would the creative team opt to do this” rather than assume intentional racism from a Jewish creative director with an in-office multi-ethnic team in the year of our lord 2013, but why not handwave the choice with prurient moral dismay so your audience won’t beat you to death with bats? 

It was as though fans were treating these completely fictional characters as real people whose personal gods had opted to torment them, and that their tormentors merited the kind of censure that psychopaths should receive. As I hope all of you understand, this is fucking madness.

More than once I saw people posting about hating the studio or the creative director in ways that seemed intense, unreasoning, and excessive—notably an “I Hate [Irrational Games creative director] Ken Levine” stamp (rofl the more things change amirite). People get so performatively moralistic about it that I started wondering if I missed something big along the way. Was there some secret Voxophone I missed swearing fealty to baby Hitler or some shit?

Double Standards

At the same time, I was utterly confused. BioShocks 1 and 2 both featured some absolutely ghastly bullshit based on real-life horrors and a thick mix of complicated human beings—many of them victims who have become monsters. The fact they are grounded in historical tragedies is a huge part of their appeal. Hell, I don’t think those games would have had half their meaning without World Wars I and II and the threat of a third.

A gay man who feels so cursed by his orientation that he is incapable of intimacy and systematically destroys his ex-lovers—including the man he loves the most. A Korean who survived Japanese occupation and a Jewish Holocaust survivor repeat the violence and traumas exacted upon them and their people, subjecting a new generation to agonies unthinkable. Chasing the shadows of Bolsheviks, a Russian citizen becomes the brutal tyrant that he loathed. A rich lawyer with an easygoing drawl designs a concentration camp and systematically harvests hundreds, if not thousands of political prisoners, selling them out to medical testing for a quick buck.

But a Native man who destroys his own people and class to ensure his own survival and social acceptability is too far? This character is where people drew the line, so much so that the entire game is disavowed? Hell, if you’re just talking about Booker (rather than Comstock), he doesn’t have anywhere near the largest bodycount. If we were to judge on the metric of human misery alone, Booker wouldn’t even hit the top ten. 

Keep in mind that the most-discussed BioShock game on Tumblr is BioShock 2, and that one of the biggest fandom favorites is Augustus Sinclair—the easy-talkin’ Georgia lawyer who sells your character into horrors past all human comprehension, as he sold hundreds before and after you. Sinclair is a motherfucker so vile that BioShock 2 gives you no choice but to murder him. But Sinclair is also pleasant; good-looking to some; spends the whole game making sweet love to your ear; is one of the only true positive experiences you experience in a horror story. Unlike DeWitt, a man who is brutal and awful from step one, Sinclair is smooth and sweet. Unlike DeWitt, Sinclair’s victims are faceless, completely fictional, and carry no political or social baggage.

People fuckin’ ship this guy with Subject Delta, his explicit victim. He’s usually described as a squishy cinnamon roll. In most fanfiction, he often gets to escape to the surface and fuck Delta while helping raise Eleanor as Dad 2. It is rare that I find fanfiction that acknowledges his monsterhood in all its glory. In fact, I can only think of two.

Literacy Comes in Levels

My problem with the over-the-top hatred of BioShock Infinite is along the same lines as my confusion at Twilight and Harry Potter hate: there is so much worse out there (how much do the haters actually engage with media if they think this is that bad—yes, even considering the shitty creators themselves!), the hatred far outweighs the sin committed (in BioShock’s case, the truly bad bits are not central enough to derail the larger narrative), people don’t seem to hate it so much as they want to be seen hating it, fans want to enforce an unspoken rule hating it (bitches this is poison. Stop this), and there’s something about the hate that stinks of poor reading comprehension.

A great metric for general literacy is the newspaper. In journalism, you’re writing for the lowest-common denominator, which for years here in the USA has been about a fifth-grade reading level (about 10-11 years old, for my non-American readers). The AP posted an article a couple years back about how the general reading comprehension of Americans needs to be dropped to a third-grade one (8-9 years), and baby, I’m here to say it’s true. 

Most of the problem is that the American education system is shitty as fuck. The rest of it is from an extremely American disdain of intellectualism and the arts. People are not taught how to interpret art or literature—a difficult and subtle skill which involves accepting such truths as “multiple contradictory readings can exist and yet be simultaneously correct”, “the author can be a complete tool and still be right about things”, “the author can be a great person and still write horrifyingly incorrect bullshit”, and “worthwhile works can be ridiculously long and it really is your fault for not having an attention span”. 

Media criticism must be learned through trial, error, asking questions, confidently swaggering into a public space to announce your brilliant insight only to have your ass handed to you (usually by your older self ten years later), being willing to admit you swaggered confidently into a public space to state bullshit and then amending your bullshit only to produce more bullshit, and otherwise making a complete and utter cock of yourself. We are taught to fear and flee pain and failure, despite the fact this is how we learn and improve. Because we judge our value by whether or not we are “smart,” we are afraid of displaying that we don’t know something or might be mistaken–better not to try at all than to reveal ourselves to be fools. And yet the best way to learn is to crash up against someone else and be proven wrong!

American parents are terrified of hurting their children to the point that they spare them cognitive dissonance of any kind, disavowing difficult art—without any appreciation for the fact that art is how we provide safe spaces to explore key human experiences, better preparing us to face those difficult subjects when there are real-world consequences (sex, gender and social expression, grief, violence, predation, illness, interacting with people of different ideologies, whatever new issue is pissing off some smooth-brained old motherfucker somewhere). 

If parents and teachers aren’t teaching us how to interpret art, we’re probably never going to develop the skill at all, or crash unsubtly into it in a piecemeal fashion (hello it me). Another unfortunate side effect is that these readers tend to be blitheringly superficial: they are literally intellectually incapable of reading deeper than the uppermost layer of a text. The curtains are always blue.

And let’s not forget the role moral performatism plays in media criticism, which although faaar from new, has reached hilarious levels in the age of social media. What’s important isn’t understanding something, it’s finding something to symbolically burn at the stake so everyone knows God loves us: please keep loving me, please don’t hurt me, please don’t throw me on the fire—for performatism is not for outsiders. We long for human connection so fucking much that it’s more important to destroy what might point out our fallibilities than it is to let ourselves stand in the furnace and burn out the dross.

What do you think the point of BioShock Infinite was?

Emotional Machines

Let’s face it. Human beings give a lot more credence to how something makes them feel than they do its complex invisible reality. We are not logical creatures; we are emotional ones. Our logic is too new a biological mechanism to override something as powerfully stupid as our primal lizard brains.

Knowing this, let’s take BioShock’s most popular characters. The first two are Subject Delta and Jack Wynand, the protagonists of BioShocks 2 and 1, respectively; and why not? They’re the characters we play. In the first two BioShocks, whether or not you kill Little Sisters determines the ending you receive. In other words, Delta and Jack can only be as “wicked” as the players are. 

How do people want to see themselves? As good. What do people want to see around themselves? Good. (What is “good”? Uh, well,,,,,,) What do they want? Simple moral questions with simple moral answers. And in the first two BioShocks, what is moral is obvious: don’t kill little girls. It’s actually kind of insulting once you say it out loud.

In-fandom, Jack and Subject Delta are almost never painted as murderers or monsters, but as victims and heroes; I saw someone musing about putting Subject Delta on a “gentle giants” poll and I nearly choked on my own tongue. I only saw that musing because someone put Subject Delta and Jack in a “Best Fathers” poll. Nobody in-fandom really considers the “evil” or “complicated” endings as canon choices, despite those versions being fully understandable alternate readings, with a story that doesn’t make sense without them. (I don’t believe Burial at Sea is necessarily canon; in fact, I would bet good money that it is a huge middle finger lol, mostly because a number of brain-dead motherfuckers won’t take unhappiness for an answer.)

Most fandom art and writing is gentle, sweet, good: the symbolic healing of the damaged, the salvation of innocents, the turning of new leaves. These things are not just saccharine sweet—they tend to be unrealistically sweet. Now, far be it from me to demand these works cease. There’s a reason they exist. People write them because they need hope and happiness; I have enjoyed them greatly myself and intend to enjoy them in the future. But if y’all get to have your dessert, I demand the right to have my dinner.

The Colours Out of Earth

Let there be media where the opposite can also be true: where everything is unbelievably complicated and unforgivably fucked-up. Let there be characters who slide slurs into their speech without thinking. Let there be characters who destroy themselves in a thousand different ways, not all of them obvious, some of them horrifying. Let there be well-meaning people struggling with all their mights to do what is right only to destroy everyone around them and then completely miss the fact it’s all their faults. Let there be wickedness painted as goodness, superficial appearances accepted over essential and inherent values, denial of change and transformation, failure to accept that what is old must die and what is new must live, human stupidity and short-sightedness and cruelty in all their flavors. Let’s smash it all together and see how it plays out. 

Oh, badly? No shit! But “badly” isn’t the point. How does it play out?

Let there be a world of gradients—a place I can float from color to color, hue to hue, value to value, while attempting to figure out where, why, how, and by whom they transform—to taste concepts in a hundred different ways, test their textures by a hundred different mediums, insert them into a hundred different contexts. I need to understand why I feel the way I do; I need to understand morality in all its hideous, fragmentary glory. For I have been sold to a ideology of blacks and whites, and let me tell you: it prepares you for nothing, and it will always destroy what is most precious about human life.

I can no longer believe in a world where what is lost always returns, because that world does not exist. I have a reflexive need to come to terms with Finality: what I have lost, what I have destroyed, what will never return, what will never be better. I have a reflexive need to understand Transformation: what I am now, what is as of the present, what has risen shambling from the ashes, what turns to gaze upon me in the darkness. I need to understand what is wretched about me as much as I need to heal myself. How can I heal if I can’t understand how I have hurt and been hurt? 

I need to shine a light in the dark. Not to remodel it, not to destroy it—because I also can’t believe in a world where the wicked is destroyed forever—but to behold it, to learn from it, to view my own impact upon it, to accept how it has become a part of me, to learn how to do my best (because that’s all one can do). I must learn to love people more than causes, I must learn to love people rather than the act of winning, I must learn to love people rather than battle. I need to stand in that endless black with the lamp off and my eyes closed, letting the agony roll over me, burning with a fire that throws no light, rolling back and forth from an intense self-loathing to a fury at a society that destroys what is most valuable because it didn’t make them feel the way they wanted.

The Unforgivable

I believe that there are only two differences between Booker DeWitt and his equally cursed cohorts.

In the Hall of Whores: The Unmarked Slate

First, unlike the previous two games, where you enter the world as a tabula rasa and might roleplay as what you perceive as a good person, you are explicitly put into the shoes of a monster, and nothing you do can save you.

With other shitty BioShock characters, you are passively watching other people, and you are able to hold yourself apart. Sure, everyone else is crazy as fuck from using biological Kryptonite, but you’re too smart to end up a crazy fucking asshole like them! Sure, you are now technically a mass murderer, but those fuckers deserved it, damn it! 

“Look at this crazy bastard!” you say, rolling your eyes at the Steinmans and Cohens and Ryans and Fontaines. “It sure is a great thing I’m not a crazy bastard!”

You are able to escape acknowledging that you, too, in certain circumstances, might be the crazy bastard. You are being challenged to stand in the body of a person who has committed unforgivable sins. Imagine if you yourself committed those sins. Imagine what sins you have already committed. Imagine what brutalities you cannot take back. Imagine what horrors you have wreaked just by breathing.

“Ahhhh!” said players, probably. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to be good?”

Because that’s what the game was designed to do. Because “good” is a fucking cop-out and if it’s how you live with yourself wait until you find out you’ve been doing horrifying bullshit all your life without question. You can be evil by association through no fault of your own.

Original Sin

Second, the plight of Native Americans is a sin that non-Natives will always carry, and the socially conscious are aware of this even if they don’t know how to put it into words. The state of affairs being what it is, it is unlikely that First Peoples will ever be treated humanely, much less have their land returned. They must struggle for scraps of what is rightfully theirs while we lounge on their corpses. We cannot help but benefit from their destruction; we are made unwitting partners with our forebears; we steal the fruits of their lands and make mockeries of their faiths and identities. We have destroyed part of what made this world fascinating and unique and most of it can never be returned. Even if everything were to be made right tomorrow, their genocide is a sin that we will carry until we die, because the only reason we could be here at all is because they were killed. 

The obvious solution stands before us, but the powers that be are so much greater than we that we are effectively powerless, and achieving anything less than total restoration smacks of anticlimax. 

This is unbearable.

How can one think of oneself as a good person if one sees the good that must be done, but cannot achieve it? If one’s actions are meaningless? Goodness without action is pretension.

We are all Booker DeWitt. We have all set fire to the tipi. We swept the ashes away, we ignored the sizes of the bones, we built a CVS on their graves, and then we made statues and holidays commemorating Native Americans like the world’s cheapest “Thinking of You” card. We have de-fanged them, transformed them into cardboard cutouts, and set them up as cute little side characters in our sweeping American dream.

Booker is not a man. Booker is America and Americans—and America and Americans are monstrous: one part hypocrisy, two parts incessant violence, three parts constant peacocking, and four parts dumb as a stump.

The Monsters We Make

Outside of the message about “choice,” an enormous part of BioShock’s thematic ensemble is the creation of monsters. How are monsters created? Who or what is responsible for creating them? What do the monsters think made them the ways they are? Can a monster be saved? How? Is it enough to acknowledge you did wrong and want to be a better person?

Maybe most people are aware on some instinctive level of what facing one’s own monsterhood means. No one wants it. It’s not fun. It hurts. It’s embarrassing. It’s destructive. It’s admitting you don’t have it all together and might never, ever—that despite your best actions, you can have it horribly wrong at any point. In an age where we demand moral perfection, it demands vulnerability: you must admit that sometimes you’re the racist, the transphobe, the sexist, the nationalist, the classist, the homophobe, the violent, the wrong, the dumbfuck. 

Human beings are not built to be moral; human beings are built to survive. We so rapidly learn how to deal with our contexts at such young ages that we don’t have the time or capabilities to question why those contexts are the ways they are or why it is demanded we perform the ways we do.

In a very real way, BioShock Infinite demands vulnerability of us. It demands you look in the mirror and see what is monstrous in you—how you have been created—manufactured—a tool, a machine, a trained animal. It asks you to recognize that you can be a monster simply by association. And if we can’t look into the mirror and truly acknowledge that monsterhood, we run very real risks of becoming or enabling those monsters in one way or another.

Worst of all: perhaps monsterhood isn’t optional. Perhaps the monster was inside of us from the very beginning. It’s not a matter of if you become a monster, but when, under what circumstances, by whose hand. What is more, believing the “right” moral stances will not save you. Monsterhood can afflict anyone, in any ideology, any political stance, in any social movement, in any faith. The only element that can save you is to truly love other people, and even then, you can fail, for there can be states where there is no winner and ways to misread how best to treat another person.

Environment and Society: Context Will Not Be Denied

BioShock 1’s original ending is Jack-as-monster, regardless of how many children he saves, regardless of your feelings as player. He passes through the gauntlet of Rapture, but he has supped of its poison. And he wasn’t poisoned when he entered Rapture the second time—he was poisoned the minute he was conceived. He was born of it. He had no hope of ever escaping it—he never could have—he’d never had a choice to begin with.

No matter what choices you make in BioShock Infinite, Elizabeth will always kill you. Why? Because she has seen every world—every context—every limitation—every boon. And there is no way to stop what has been; there is no way to undo what has been done. The minute you have committed to a decision, you have split the universe; there is no telling what kind of person it will make you. In fact, there’s no telling which of your decisions will matter at all. Only Elizabeth can see because she is the unlimited future: your offspring stands before you, judge and jury, and you will have no choice but to accept her verdict, for despite your name, you are incapable of controlling how you are interpreted. 

Elizabeth sits across from you in the boat and stares without blinking. She sees a million million similar Bookers. Some are a little bit taller, some a little bit shorter, some a little heavier or lighter. Some more-resemble one grandparent or another. They have different colored ties. This one blinks when rain hits him in the eyeball. That one took a brutal beating back on the airship and one eye is swollen shut. That one can’t stop shaking; this one is unable to speak at all; one hasn’t yet lost hope, although even he doesn’t realize it.

They all lowered the torch to the tipi.

The baptism determined Comstock; what determined Booker?

Why Booker Is

In BioShock 1, characters are often stand-ins for larger concepts. Thus Ryan stands in as Ayn Rand’s Objectivist Ubermensch; Bill McDonagh as Andrew Ryan’s conscience; Diane McClintock as the citizenry of Rapture; Captain Sullivan as law and order; Frank Fontaine as the truest expression of Objectivism in its distilled form.

Who is Booker? Most importantly: why is he?

Booker is a fictional character with a brutal background based on historical events, alternative and true. Booker might be Lakota; Booker might have undergone forced Anglicization; Booker might have been ripped from his parents; Booker is a product of violence, perhaps literally. Booker is American exceptionalism distilled. Booker is the past in constant judgment of itself, unable to live with itself and unable to die. Booker destroys what is best in him and around him in exchange for belonging. Booker has sold the future to absolve his sins. Booker has sold his daughter because he is a fictional character in a work of fiction who needs to be propelled.

Booker is a shell, a sluice, an environment. Booker is the broken shape you are meant to fill, horrified. His internal shape should torture you as it has tortured him: the messy slaggy soul of a shitty tin soldier.

Does Booker take the baptism and become Comstock? If so, it might be his second one. His last name literally means “the white.” His first name can mean “author.” It is most likely his second name: an attempt to rewrite himself. And when he was unable to rewrite himself the first time, when the cognitive dissonance boiled at the edges of his skull, he found there was only one way to cleanse himself the second: to remake the world entirely. To force transformation on everyone else. To take vengeance on a world that could never love him, never want him—to create a world that has no choice but to love him. If he can’t change the world’s mind, he’ll change the world.

Note what he opts to do: to take the fight to the environment–to the unyielding universe.

Context Is Everything

It is no mistake that BioShock Infinite occurs in 1912: the sinking of the Titanic is often credited with ending an unfettered optimism, a period when the Western world believed technology had brought the human race into a golden age. With World War I—which would follow a mere two years later—came modern warfare and all the horrors thereof, not the least of which was the realization that humans had created a kind of war that could destroy the entire world. World War I also seeded the rise of the United States: much of the wealth of warring Europe—itself fat on the blood of subjugated peoples and stolen lands—would rattle into America’s coffers.

It is also no mistake that BioShock 1 directly follows World War II. With WWII came a heightened terror—that this war is not the last war, that there will never be an end to war, that war will go on expanding and expanding until it has consumed us all. World War III would not be denied: prettily packaged in the ideals of its children, it simply followed the utopians down to their underwater tombs. According to BioShock 1’s original ending, World War III is not a matter of if—it’s a matter of when.

But even more important than the history in the BioShock games are their settings. Mute leviathans, Rapture and Columbia determine all of your behaviors: from where you can exist in space to all of your desires and goals to how you choose to present yourself to how you opt to behave. Isolated in extremism—whether that extremism is the crushing depths of the ocean or the unbearable lightness of the air—most of their power is that they simply cannot be escaped. You can’t outrun them. They are everywhere. They are everything.

Like Lovecraft before it, BioShock acknowledges the greatest horror of all: you cannot escape your context. Your context does not only involve your immediate surroundings. It is also historical; contains zeitgeists from various cultures and subcultures; is filled with pressures both personal and impersonal, human and nonhuman. Many of these forces can hurt you. Many more can destroy you. What you do to survive depends very much on where, when, and with whom you must live.

Human beings are not built to be moral.

The Death of the Future

In the film Operation, Burma!, a soldier asks Errol Flynn: “Who were you before the war?”

“An architect,” says Flynn.

Who were you? Because that “you” doesn’t matter now. That “you” is irrelevant. So you’re an architect. What the war does to you; what these deaths mean to you; your past, your education, your loves and desires and forward motivation, the you that could have been outside war, the you that slogs alone into the brutal future—all completely irrelevant. Your forebears don’t care so long as you can bleed. 

Children are the manufactured tools of their creators—helpless before the enormous strength of their elders and the zeitgeists that enclose them, poisoned by their parents’ insecurities and flaws, utilized like weapons regardless of the cost—often with great love.

Consider something more than the traumatized culture: consider the society filled with traumatized children; consider the traumatized society. Consider channeling children through that trauma over and over and over again, if you can. Poisoned—poisoned—poisoned—all of us poisoned. Poisoned by those who loved us most. Poisoned by the people we trusted. Poisoned by the people who meant to make a better world.

I believe it is notable that creative director Ken Levine is Jewish; I have read from multiple accounts that the European Jewish diaspora was uniquely traumatized from the Holocaust and passed that trauma down upon their own families. I sometimes wonder if he saw that firsthand.

The fathers eat sour grapes; their children’s teeth are set on edge.

Choice: Player Expectations and Entitlement

For players who experienced BioShocks 1 and 2 with their multiple endings (Good, Bad, and “ok bye then I guess” respectively), it must have been jarring to suddenly reckon with being a monster. How often I see players grousing that nothing they do will change their wicked pasts! These players completely miss that the only meaningful choice had already been made, that it had nothing to do with the player at all, and even if they had been there, DeWitt was still unforgivable. The only way to go on was to bow out and allow the future to redefine herself.

Nobody was ready for that shit. 

Like it or not, BioShock 1 had set a precedent. Not everyone’s going to read up on creator intentions. If any keyword came blaring through the noise, it would have been “choice.” Most players only recognize choice by the ability to make it, not the absence of it, and most of them weren’t equipped to recognize that its lack was the point. The meaningless choices were commentary, and they were as much about the player as they were about DeWitt himself. Not every choice will be meaningful, will it? And there will be choices you make that will be momentous, but they will seem very small when you make them.

Because most players had experienced what they thought was a basic moralistic tale in the first two games, and would see Infinite not as reflection upon America’s destructive personality, its obsession with a meaningless Good/Bad duocracy, and the infinite, cyclical nature of violence, they saw Booker’s death as corrupted artsy claptrap.

“I did the good schuut,” they say. “I want the good schuut end. Where happy end??? Where treat :(”

Bitch the future is here. 

Time to die.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Generally I despise essays that end with, “But the real fault lay with the clueless motherfuckers who played the game!” Often, if enough people complain, there’s something to it; the message has been obscured somehow. Details or explanations weren’t clear or intuitive enough, some mechanism isn’t working somewhere, some character needs to talk more or less, some setting needs to be transformed. O artist: stop whining and get cracking. If everywhere you go smells like shit, it’s time to look under your shoe. 

But sometimes it’s true that a piece of media is on a level folks aren’t equipped for. Think of every literature and art class you’ve ever had, if you’ve been fortunate enough to have one. There’s always someone scoffing in a back row, like here are all these jokers making more of something than they should. Similarly, some of you have been arguing with me this entire time, saying: “I just wanted a video game. I just wanted to shoot something and feel better and instead I get this bullshit ending that makes no sense.”

First of all, smart bullshit (and even fucked-up attempts at smart bullshit! Hi BioShock 2) gets to exist on this Earth along with Gmod and Roblox or Schuut Big Tits 84 (there are 84 tits and you must shoot them all. They explode into smaller tits) or whatever-the-fuck-else you think is a worthwhile gaming experience. Second of all, miserable bullshit also gets to exist, and what did you fucking expect if you played through either BioShocks 1 or 2? When you hear a football player quavering out in the darkness for his mom to pick him up, how’d that make you feel? What did you think was going to happen to Jack after pounding back the entire Plasmid library, the cancer cocktail that explicitly destroys the fuck out of its users? Third of all, if you missed the smart bullshit going on in BioShock 1 and didn’t think BioShock Infinite might be larger in scope in more ways than one, that’s on you. Fourthly, if you were simply satisfied with saving like, 15 kids from a violently-perishing city of thousands and call it good, I mean… is that really where your thoughts end? Are you really that fucking small?

It’s Not You, It’s Me

You ever meet those motherfuckers who talk shit about Shakespeare or modern art? And you’re just left there staring with dead eyes at this poseur who mistakes playing devil’s advocate for intelligence, cheek resting on your fist, thinking about the fanfic you’re writing, wondering who it’s for, remembering that all your smut-writing friends get ten times the viewers, and considering throwing yourself in front of a bus.

Yeah, there’s a personal element to this: the fact that BioShock Infinite is the kind of art I like and long for and want to make myself, the fact that the game was successful and yet the studio was closed, the way its DLC was so rushed that the story plopped out like half-baked mystery meat—realizing that the same forced rush was at 2K’s behest for BioShock 2, as well, and wondering how good art can ever be made in this unforgiving capitalist hellscape. The game was weirdly niche and I’m not 100% sure I’ll ever experience anything quite like it again. And with the whiners in this fandom, the loud ones controlling the narrative, some fresh brain-dead exec in some brain-dead publisher might be like: “We must keep it safer and simpler for these fuckin babby adult!”

Nah bitch nah. Naaaah. Cry some more while I enjoy me my fucking dinner. I’ll eat it while making loud smacking noises and keeping unbroken eye contact. Come here. Let’s look at each other. It’ll be like Lady and the Tramp but we want to punch each other. What truer form of love can there be here in the modern world?

I keep having to remind myself that this response isn’t new. I keep having to remind myself of my place. I keep having to remind myself why I write, why I read, why I like to experience art to begin with. It’s not for the reasons other people do it. Oh, I want the same emotional release as everyone else, I want the same rollicking plots, I adore the same tropes. I seek out everything and anything for a good time; I’ll read Moby Dick today and a smutty 5,000-word abortion with the world’s most suspect grammar tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if it’s low- or high-brow; there are all kinds of ways to have fun and there are all kinds of ways to engage with art, and lord knows I’ve done my share of smooth-brain criticism. The problem is that I’ve always wandered off by myself, sunk into an all-consuming reverie, on tracks that no one else ever seems to be on, and then looked up to talk excitedly about something only to realize I’m alone. And whose fault is that?

By the same token, maybe I haven’t talked enough. Maybe I spend too much time with my mouth shut. Maybe I haven’t stood up enough for things that are worth our time, worth talking up, worth setting on pedestals.

I tell you, BioShock Infinite will stand the test of time. It’s too good for this. It’s too good for you, warts and all. Some of you will grow to understand that; some of you won’t; many of you will shrug and go on with your lives (and this is fine; it is only a video game). But I’ve truly not seen anything like it. I can’t believe a mainstream video game was allowed to be so fucking brutal about the American juggernaut, and what’s more, that it sold like hotcakes. Plus, I can’t think of any works in recent memory that have struck me so close to my own heart. No creative work has made me start beating a monster’s face into a washbasin for ten hours only to lift her by the scalp and see my own eyes looking back.

Look into those eyes. See your own stupid impulses pouring out. Your own stupid excuses, your violences, your sins—your claws, your teeth, your costumes, your hilarious attempts at interpretive dance. The beast doth protest too much.

O, monster—behold thyself—and tremble.

[bite-sized-devil]

The first time Beel is inside you...

He's amazed. How could one, tiny little human like yourself, take all of him? And so well? It's dizzying how tight you are, but nothing compares to the heaven that is you in your entirety.

He was never sure any human could take him, and then you came along. Beel knows he's big... And you completely rocked his world the first time you let him take you. Slowly, inch by inch... He couldn't have asked for it to go any better. You took all of him, and fuck, you looked so good beneath him like that, all scrunched up beneath him in a mating press.

His hunger doesn't seem as ravenous with you like this because now, this is all he can dream of. You were far more satisfying than any meal when he's balls deep inside you. His under now only focused on completely consuming you with rapturous joy.

And when you came apart on his huge cock? Well... Let's just say that made him even hungrier for more of you.

Oh? You want him to fill you up?

He's done for. Gone. Deceased. Obliterated.

You? Want his cum? Inside you?

He had to make sure he heard that right because he would love nothing more than to stuff you full. He's got so many rounds to go, he hopes you're okay with that. He hopes you're okay with leaking his cum for the next week from how much he's about to spill round for round, all night long.

Though, he wouldn't mind eating some of it out of you, too. Do you think he forgot about really tasting you? Hah, think again. That demon will be between your legs quite a few times that night because there's just nothing as delicious as you or your essence mixed with his. His little master is just so mouth-watering, he hopes you won't mind if he just stays there for an hour or three.

And when you two are done, he'll hold you until you fall asleep, and then quietly get up to grab a snack before returning to catch some Z's with you for just a bit longer.

After all, you need your rest. Because he is the Avatar of Gluttony, and he'll be ready for more soon enough.

-👑😈

👑😈 Anon, holy smokes you need to get out of my brain hey!

I was legitimately daydreaming thinking about how BIG Beel is and how shocked he would be at me MC taking him completely.

Fuck and then the cum eating, seriously again GET OUT OF MY BRAIN.

Are you secretly my smut twin? What is happening. How do you know what I like? Are you a god? What is it? I love you!

I've re-read this like 10x and I'm still hot for it. I need (to fuck) some air. A cold shower. Some spaghetti (unrelated I'm just really fanging for some)

[laurfilijames]

Fallout

Part 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Pairing: Jay Mills x female reader

Words: 7.6k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+ ONLY. Swearing. Anger issues. Nudity. Masturbation (male). Dry(?) humping. Dom/sub dynamics. Unprotected intercourse. Anal play. Anal sex. Spit as lube. Degradation. Watersports/golden shower.

Summary: Jay continues to battle his feelings as your stay drags out, doing everything in his power to prove to you and himself that there is nothing between you, only to have his methods intensify everything.

A/N: Right. This one is full of delicious filth and I'm taking advantage of the fact that this story doesn't get many eyes to write some fairly kinky stuff, but it also includes a lot of development between the two of them so I think it's a well-balanced chapter! I really had a great time writing this part and continue to be so excited and in love with this story, so please enjoy and let me know what you think!

There is also no moodboard for this chapter because all it consists of is smut so...yeah. But there's a treat below the cut 😉

---

Adrenaline pulsed through Jay's veins furiously, similar to how it did when he was about to step into the ring, and in the short distance it took to get to his room that felt like an eternity, a play-by-play of what you two had just done in the kitchen flashed through his mind; the vivid imagery causing his hands to shake and the sweat he had worked up to drip down his back. He knew calm wouldn't come easily to him after that, and after slamming the door behind him, he leaned against it and breathed out as slow an exhale as he could and ran his good hand over his hair, half of him tempted to go do it all again while the other half urged him to try to sleep.

He was exhausted - both mentally and physically - and with the morning quickly approaching and his mind and body buzzing, he knew it would be impossible to let any of it go enough for him to fall asleep. He was an early-riser anyway, used to waking up before the sun to go for his five mile run before he trained, and even in the absence of any legitimate daylight due to the storm, his body was so regimented that it couldn't be tricked into believing otherwise.

With a sigh, Jay sat on the edge of his bed and looked out the window, seeing the snow continue to accumulate heavily, letting him know he wouldn't be getting you out of here any time soon. He swung his legs onto the mattress and laid down, staring up at the ceiling before closing his eyes, only to open them again after a minute and sit back up, his restlessness increasing with each passing second.

Getting down on the floor, Jay supported himself on his toes and right hand with his injured one secured behind his lower back and began repetition after repetition of push-ups in a desperation to move his body enough to quiet his mind. He should've known better than to think it would work, only imagining your body wedged between his and the carpet as he continued to lower himself down and back up again, and he finally stopped when his right arm gave out and forced him to sit back on his knees with a frustrated growl.

"Fuck!"

He wiped the beads of sweat that hung on his nose and chin with his hand, able to smell your scent clinging to his skin as he did which only made him feel more unhinged and anxious to have more of you.

Bringing himself quickly to his feet, he shoved his right hand down his pants to roughly adjust himself in hopes his rejuvenated erection would go away, but even the brief contact of his own hand on it brought back the memory of your touch, and he knew it wouldn't go left ignored.

With another curse under his breath, he tore his track pants down to his knees and took hold of his hard cock as he stepped out of the legs that were pooled around his ankles, gripping himself hard enough to begin to satisfy some of his needs.

Remnants of you remained on his shaft and in his pubes, the sight of it making him throb even more and forcing him to work harder, his teeth clenching together furiously as he gave in to every thought of you. He hated how much he wanted you, how much you had gotten under his skin and broke him down enough to succumb to what he had tried to prevent and knew he would go after again, and the way you seemed to enjoy his vile treatment of you wasn't helping either.

Remembering the looks that crossed your face and the way your lips curled into a smile when he called you names and held your throat had him reeling all over again, and he wondered if you were thinking about him again, too.

Accepting that he was far past the point of stopping what he had started and without wasting time in fussing over the best way to get the job done, Jay brought his palm up to his mouth and spit into it twice, providing enough lubrication to do what he needed to.

He felt desperate, needing to relieve this want that seemed to keep growing, hoping that as he emptied his load he would also be getting rid of these unnecessary feelings toward you along with it. He massaged his wet palm over his head and down his shaft, coating himself thoroughly, praying that the next person's spit all over him would be yours. The thought of kissing your parted lips that spilled moans of pleasure provided by him was getting him close, and now the imagery of them sealed in an 'o' around his cock had him bucking into his hand wildly, his thumb rubbing over his leaking head just like yours had not long ago.

His hand moved faster as his thoughts continued to encourage him, the sound of his name falling off your tongue something he knew he wanted to hear again, the feel of your body accepting his so well something he wanted to push the limits on; the possibility of fucking you slowly and lovingly a prohibited act he had instated himself that he so badly wanted to break the rules of.

He opened his hand and spit into it again, needing a little more lubrication to keep up with his movements, and tucking his bottom lip between his teeth to stifle his groans, he jerked himself with a steady force, imagining your hot mouth wrapped around his dick, bobbing up and down on his length and looking up at him innocently as you gagged on him.

Having already seen you enjoy his taste from the sample he had given you made him want to make you swallow all of it, pumping his cum down your throat regardless if you could manage it all, the vision of you taking every last drop of him as he spurted into your mouth with drool leaking from your lips and tears running down your cheeks sending him over the edge, a slew of broken curses tearing past his gritted teeth as he finished in his hand.

You would be fooling yourself if you thought sleep was likely to grace you now after all that had happened, every fibre of you super-charged and making you feel as if you had just run a marathon, the effects of Jay and his wonderfully brutal treatment of you lingering on your skin like electricity.

Needing to busy yourself to distract from all the persistent thoughts running through your mind, you rummaged through the cupboards and fridge to scrounge up what could be made into a half-decent breakfast, settling on made-from-scratch blueberry pancakes and bacon.

It was difficult to tell if you were even hungry, the feeling in your stomach one that mimicked it, but you knew was likely caused by an enduring sort of anxiousness and a very different type of hunger, and your lack of sleep made you want to sate it even more. Assuming Jay would be hungry when he reappeared from sleeping or whatever else he was doing in his room, you kept on with your task, idly flipping each pancake in the frying pan like you were on autopilot.

Without even having to look, you knew Jay had entered the kitchen, your body responding to his presence with the hair on the back of your neck standing on end and an ache increasing between your legs, and you glimpsed over your shoulder at him, a smile tugging at your lips.

He walked up behind you, making a point to cage your body in as he reached around you for a piece of bacon, his eye contact holding you in place while holding evidence of so much going through his mind. He was still half-naked, his track pants hanging loosely on his hips as he walked over to the island, showcasing his body that was sculpted like a work of art. Having to tear your eyes away from his torso, you swallowed thickly and tried to set your focus back on making breakfast, smiling to yourself that you weren't one to judge given you were still only clad in his hoodie, shimmying your bare legs together to provide enough friction between them to remind you of the slight soreness caused by him earlier.

The day crept on into the afternoon without missing a beat in the slightly awkward tension that hung in the air between you, both of you remaining quiet until you couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"This storm isn't letting up, is it?" It was less a question, and more an ice-breaker, hoping to gain some conversation if only on account of the weather, but all you got in response was a raise of his eyebrows and a slow nod, and you bit the nail on your thumb out of frustration and unease. His standoffish approach toward you had you wondering if he actually held ill-will for you or if it was a game to work you up, like the more he kept you at an arms-length, the more you wanted to throw yourself at him, and he fucking knew it.

You raked your fingers along your scalp, feeling ready to tear the strands out of your head, and being more than exhausted with the situation and simply beyond tired, you stood and paced the room before heading into the kitchen.

It didn't feel like you - opening cupboards and shutting them with more force than you ever would normally - your impatience getting the better of you, your ironic and frantic search for the box of tea bags you had seen earlier that you needed to drink to help calm you sending you into a craze.

"What the fuck are you looking for?"

His voice barely registered through the ringing in your ears, and it wasn't until he was behind you repeating himself in a louder, more demanding tone that you turned to face him.

You went to move past him, wanting to open the cupboard door behind him in the last effort of your search, only to have your wrist grabbed to stop you before you even had the chance to reach for the handle.

"Stop," he ordered, calmly, the switch in demeanor between you fuelling your anger more.

You tried to tear your wrist from him, realizing it was his bad hand that was gripping you, making you stop your resistance before you caused anymore damage to him.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he asked, his brows knitting together as he searched your face with more concern than you expected.

"You're my fucking problem," you hissed, shoving his bare chest with your hand after he released it, watching how the shape of it reddened his pale chest ever so slightly. The way he made you feel was infuriating, and when he dared to smirk at your reasoning behind your behaviour, it only fueled it.

You heard him chuckle slightly as you finally made your way around him, focused on your goal of locating the tea, your heart hammering in your chest when he muttered, "You're unbelievable."

"I am?" you spat, finding a bravery you didn't know you had. "You're the one who's unbelievable, acting like a broody asshole who refuses help because he's been burned by shitty people."

Jay closed the distance between you, his plump lips turning into a snarl, and you held your breath in your lungs as you waited for his reaction.

"You've got me all figured out, eh?" He shifted on his feet, hovering over you enough to make you cast your eyes downward, only to land on the prominent bulge in his sweatpants. "Little miss nurse coming in to fix me, to play therapist as well as the healer," he held your chin in his fingers using his injured hand, and the smell of the ointment you had applied earlier was like a slap in the face.

He leaned closer to you, his breath hot on your cheek, "Don't fucking forget why you're here, or the reason you're still here, because you would've been gone a long time ago."

Releasing your face, he rubbed his good hand over his hair back and forth roughly, trying to regain composure after he let his own anger build, and with a long inhale that made his chest rise fully, he stared at you with a look that made your knees go weak.

Holding his eye contact for a moment, you swallowed and blinked, turning away from the game-like challenge you silently agreed to play with him and returned to your mission of making tea, your hand shaking as you reached for the box and pulled it off the shelf, praying he wasn't watching you closely enough to notice.

Pouring boiling water into the teapot, your mind filed through all the different emotions Jay had made you feel in the short span of knowing him, and as you watched the clear water turn muddy as the teabags became saturated in it, you thought how he did the exact same to your mind. No one had ever had such an affect on you, making you want to act on such primal needs, your composure and usual well-thought out way of going about things destroyed with something as simple as a look. Having been given a taste of him made you crave more, and you felt crazed in chasing the high of seeing what else you could get, and in turn you wanted to give him everything.

The hours ticked on into the night, the storm having settled enough that only a few flakes were falling from the sky at a time, but so much had accumulated that you knew the roads wouldn't be cleared for days still. A silence that was loaded with lingering looks continued on as the normal atmosphere, growing your frustration as well as Jay's.

You had fixed dinner while he showered, and as you sat eating, you silently assessed the condition of his wound as he rested his hand on the table beside his plate.

"How's it feeling?" you asked quietly.

Following your gaze, he turned his hand over and sighed, "Okay, I guess."

Placing your fork down on your plate, you stood and took a step over to where he sat on his stool, sliding his plate out of the way in order to bring his left hand close to you.

You found it funny how he never watched whatever you did to his hand, his eyes only ever glued to your face or somewhere on your body, making you swell with a poised confidence, his silent attention and appreciation of your beauty somehow louder than words.

Daring to push the boundaries, you slowly moved your right leg so it straddled his, holding your breath as you watched him do the same before his broad chest finally let it go and his throat moved as he swallowed thickly.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his tone somewhat unimpressed to match his expression, his eyebrows raising on his forehead.

"Dressing your hand…" you spoke as innocently as possible, leaning over to grab the disinfectant solution and tube of ointment sitting on the opposite side of the island.

He shook his head but didn't pull his hand away from you, sighing as you began carefully cleaning his slowly healing injury.

"It's looking a bit better," you whispered, scarcely focusing on your task and not how close your bare sex was to touching his thigh.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You looked up at him through your lashes, seeing a mix of smugness and unbearable lust on his face, and you wondered if whatever he was thinking was what you were too. It felt like he was almost daring you to act on the intense hunger he brought out in you, watching you with a cockiness you knew was partially a disguise in the name of self-preservation, and even if it resulted in something loveless and brutal like earlier, you wanted to find out.

As if it was the most natural thing to do, you sat yourself onto his thigh and continued to work, doing your best to ignore the hiss and heavy exhale that escaped his lips, feeling the muscles of his leg tense and flex against you.

Closing your eyes briefly, you adjusted yourself enough to make friction, moaning quietly at the contact before forcing your fingers to move again.

After a few seconds, Jay glided his free hand up your naked thigh, reaching underneath his hoodie to hold onto your hip and press you down on him even more.

You let your fingers linger on his hand even though you had finished applying the ointment, your eyelids falling closed as you allowed him to move your body in back in forth motions, controlling the pace and pressure, relishing in the sound of his breathing and how it felt to be grinding on him like this.

"That feels good, doesn't it?" he muttered, his voice so deep it made his words almost sound like a growl.

You nodded and breathed a 'yes', continuing to rock yourself on his thigh, knowing you were smearing your slick and staining his gray pants with it but not caring.

"That's because you're nothing but a whore," he said slowly, like he enjoyed saying every word.

Basking in his degradation, you arched forward, angling yourself so your clit received more stimulation, and boldly, you trailed your hand up his arm, dancing your fingertips over his Mohawk tattoo and then onto his chest, feeling his pec tremor to your touch.

"You're looking to get fucked again, aren't you?"

A shiver ran down your spine in the hopes he would take you roughly and with heartless care again, and you pulled your lip between your teeth to stop your smile from spreading as you humped his leg with more enthusiasm.

"I asked you a fucking question," he spat, ceasing your movements with his hand while his bad one reached up to grip your chin.

You let your smile creep across your face when you opened your eyes to look at him, seeing a liveliness in his blue ones as he stared at you vehemently. They dropped down to your lips, and like he was in a brief trance of feeling something softer and more caring toward you, his thumb grazed over your bottom one, smoothing across and pulling on it enough to part it.

"What was it you said about it only happening once, Jay?" you asked, the humour clear in your voice that you knew would snap him out of whatever he was experiencing.

His face contorted, making your stomach flip with nerves, the lines around his eyes deepening while the ones around his mouth set taught as he clenched his teeth together hard.

"Shut the fuck up!" he barked. You jumped slightly even though you had been expecting that reaction, and you bit your lip again to disguise another smile rather than recoiling, shifting on his leg slightly to show him you liked everything he was doing.

In an attempt to bottle his growing rage, Jay stood abruptly, pushing you off of him carelessly, and paced the space between the kitchen island where you stood watching him and the sofa.

He was hard as a rock, his erection furiously straining against his track pants, the sight of him in such a state making your mouth water and causing even more arousal to rush between your legs.

"You're allowed to just fuck me, Jay," you began, your voice shaking slightly from the overwhelming lust and excitement coursing through you. "I'm not going anywhere any time soon and-"

He cut you off by stepping toward you, bracing his arms on either side of you to pin you against the countertop as you leaned back against it. The automatic act of breathing stopped altogether for you as he hovered in front of your face, his eyes searching all over your features for a decision as to what his next move was going to be, and for a second you could have sworn he was going to kiss you.

You knew he wouldn't though, so instead you ployed in order to get some of what you wanted, even if it couldn't be his lips on yours.

“Do what you want with me, Jay,” you whispered, your voice so heavy with lust that the sound of it instantly increased your arousal. It was bold to even continue saying his name, testing your luck and seeing how many times he would let you get away with it after his initial warning, your defiance making you feel powerful.

“Get this fucking thing off,” he ordered, grabbing at the edge of his hoodie that covered your upper half. Eagerly, you assisted him, whisking it over your head until you stood exposed before him, waiting for him to do as he pleased.

The emotion brewing in his eyes told you he wanted to kiss every single inch of you, that he wanted to taste and learn each part of you until he made you sing from every kind of pleasure he could provide, but you watched as he buried that once again and replaced it with a beautiful sort of rage you continued to seek.

Pressing his hand to your lower back, he pushed you forward in the direction of the sofa, his forceful guidance making your breathing quicken.

Your palms met the back of the couch harder than you thought, the power he had over you so definite and indisputable that you let out an involuntary gasp as you gripped the edge of the supple leather.

You glanced behind you to see Jay peeling his pants down his legs, his hard cock springing free, his jaw set tight as he stared you down while his intense breathing wracked through his chest in sharp waves.

Hinging at your hips and spreading your legs invitingly, you felt your slick string across where your slit parted, and you hoped Jay could see it glistening in the glowing light of the room.

"Fuck…" he muttered to himself, clearly noticing how ready you were for him, his subtle praising making you swell with satisfaction.

Jay lined up behind you, his groin resting flush to your ass, and you watched as he took hold of his cock and guided it inside you, his face contorting with pleasure that he kept trying to hate.

You wanted to watch him fuck you, but the sensation of having him seated deeply inside you already had your eyelids fluttering shut, and when he dragged himself back out and pushed inside you fully again, you faced forward as his first couple of blows made you hit the back of the couch.

"Oh my god!" you cried, trying your best to stick your ass out more to meet his hips each time they plowed forward, the simple task proving difficult as your body simply wanted to be still and obediently accept everything he gave you.

It was all too much, every brutal thrust tipping you closer to the edge, the head of his cock slamming perfectly into that sweet spot that made broken whines and incoherent accolades strung together with curses fall from your mouth.

Jay tried so hard to focus on carelessly fucking you, hoping that if he managed to wreck you one more time, it would maybe satisfy you enough until you could leave, but the more he drove his cock in and out of you and watched your creamy slick spill out and coat it, the more he knew he wouldn't have had enough either.

It took everything in him not to smooth his hands over the gentle curves of your hips and up the dip of your back, choosing to grip tighter on your ass and spread your cheeks apart roughly instead, his eyes closing so he wouldn't be tempted to slow his pace and prolong this selfish indulgence.

He should've known better than for that to work, your sultry voice repeating his name as he built you up to near your climax forcing his eyes open again to torture him with the sight of your beautiful body rocking in front of him, and he clenched his teeth together tightly in order to not lean down and press his lips on your back and neck.

"Jay…" you mewled, "I'm so close."

Nearly losing it there over the way you looked over your shoulder at him, he proceeded to hammer into you, feeling you tighten around his girth, your eyes clouded with lust that made you look even more beautiful and innocent as you took him so well.

Determined to ruin you, he kept up his tempo, administering back blows so hard the couch began to move despite usually being secure on the plush carpet beneath it, and he became even more mesmerized by you.

Your eyes closed, gently squeezing so the corners of them wrinkled, your mouth parted and smearing across the leather in a swaying motion due to his thrusts, your body taking his harsh movements and converting them to ones that were flowing, calm and languid, and his heart clenched in his chest as the sound of you whimpering and pleading for him to give you more echoed in his ears.

"You better...fucking come…you fucking slut!" he growled, his false impatience covering up his pure enjoyment as he became desperate to feel you fall apart around him.

His cruel words encouraged you and made you flourish, and when he saw you let your arm fall between your legs to rub your clit, Jay spit onto your ass and spread it around your puckered hole with his thumb, lubricating it enough to press it inside right as you let go.

Your whole body tensed and shuddered, pausing your own movements as you let his carry you through such a blinding high, soaking him and squeezing him and nearly making him come undone at the same time.

As soon as your loud cries had quieted, he pulled out of you and pressed the tip of his cock into your ass, only achieving a couple of inches before he exploded, and removing himself from you again, he watched his hot, milky spend leak out of you while the rest shot out onto your cheeks and wet cunt.

Jay's breaths wracked his entire body, working hard to calm himself from the fury of emotions that battled in him, feeling a cold trail of sweat run down his back while he admired your dewy skin and how good it looked being covered in his cum again.

Your head hung between your arms that still held onto the back of the couch, your forehead leaning against it, until eventually you stood upright, turning to look at him while you took a deep breath and tried to get a read on him.

He wasn't giving anything up, though, having given away too much already, and he turned and stepped away, bracing his arms against the island with his jaw set tensely again.

Not entirely sure what to do or say now, you at least knew you needed to shower, and slowly, keeping your eyes on him until you no longer could, you tread on light feet to the bathroom.

You could feel his stare as soon as you had stopped looking at him, and pausing a moment in the doorway, you glanced behind you to meet his gaze before walking inside and flicking on the light, leaving the door open in what you prayed he knew was an invitation.

You turned on the taps and adjusted them before leaving the water to heat up, checking out the mess Jay had made of you in the mirror as you waited, the evidence left behind making the after effects of it all seem blissfully more intense.

Testing the water with your hand, you stepped in under the stream, holding your breath as you let it rain down on your face for as long as you could before exhaling slowly.

It was only a couple of minutes before Jay joined you, his large frame making the already cramped shower feel even smaller, and wanting him to be near you as much as he could be, you stayed close to the stream so he would need to stand up against you to get under it.

He said nothing, just stared at you as he dipped his head beneath the falling water to soak his hair, his eyes closing and letting you admire how much longer his eyelashes seemed when they were wet as they laid against his cheeks.

It seemed so normal, showering together, both of you lathering and rinsing shampoo out of your hair in turn, enjoying the comfortable silence and how relaxing it was.

You had finished washing the soap off of you but lingered as long as you could, not wanting to end this subtly intimate moment with Jay while accidentally brushing up against him whenever you moved, your slippery skin grazing and gliding along his implicitly.

Jay could feel it building up again inside of him, the strong desire to feel himself encased by you becoming terrifyingly undeniable, and the way you kept dangling yourself in front of him like bait was testing him like few things had before. As much as he tried, he couldn't stop himself from letting his hands skim your body with any opportunity that presented itself, the warmth and softness of this whole act contrasting heavily with the silent rage growing within him.

It made him angry to see himself slipping away so easily, like his heart didn't care to let itself fall into your hands without fear, his body acting on its own to get as much of you as it could whether or not his mind agreed. He knew he was being an asshole, but in feeling it was his last defense in protecting himself from getting hurt, he pressed on with it.

You were about to step out, your body scrubbed clean of him, but he grabbed your arm to stop you, pulling you in so you stood with your back against the wall.

"Come back here," he demanded gently, his tone disguising the more intense emotions brewing beneath the surface.

The amusement he felt at seeing the confused look on your face briefly took over everything else he was feeling, and before he let any affection he held toward you stop him, he braced his arms on either side of your face and moved his close enough he could have kissed you.

He watched as your eyes flickered from his eyes down to his lips and you held the breath you had sucked in, waiting, only he wasn't going to give you what you wanted no matter how heavenly you looked.

Jay smirked and chuckled darkly, his next move one he had decided on from the moment he saw you rinsing any remaining evidence of him down the drain, and a fresh wave of needing to keep and claim you stirred in him at the thought of it.

It felt cruel and animalistic, but the desire to have you as his was too overwhelming to deny, and still on the path of repressing all the tender ways he thought about you, he carried out his barbaric display of affection.

Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed as he began to release, pissing freely on you, opening them again to see his stream coat your legs and waist in a defiling and reckless act of devotion.

Watching it was almost half as satisfying as watching the expression on your face change, your naivety in thinking he was going to be caring twisting into shock as you registered that something warmer than the water started to trickle down your body and onto your feet.

He moaned and exhaled while your mouth hung open and you glanced down to confirm what was clear you couldn't believe was happening actually was, and although you seemed disgusted and angry, pushing on his chest to move him away from you, Jay could see a glimmer in your eyes that told him you were turned on by it.

Not budging from your poor attempt at making him, Jay watched as you accepted what had happened, remaining in place and not trying to get away from him again, your chest heaving as you let out a deep breath.

Feeling high off the adrenaline this sparked in him, he smirked at you and then spit at your feet before backing away enough to admire how your body responded by your nipples hardening and your breathing quickening, your pulse noticeably thrumming in the side of your neck.

“What are you doing, marking your territory?” you asked in a challenging tone, although your voice shook slightly.

"It's what you deserve…stupid bitch that you are."

You swallowed thickly, goosebumps erupting on your wet, pissed-on skin, his foul and shaming words making your pussy clench and ache for him again.

Somehow in your shock and stupor, you found your voice, "Do you really think that about me? Or are you just-"

"Don't fucking tell me what I think!" he roared, the noise echoing off the shower walls.

You shimmied your legs slightly, your body instinctively reacting to his harshness by pushing your arousal to the forefront, and you swallowed the lump in your throat while you blinked, the eye contact he was holding making you want to falter.

You cursed all the ways your body gave you away, letting him know that everything he was doing was making you fall deeper into something he refused to give you, his next words a spiteful way to keep you holding on by a thread.

"And don't pretend like you don't love being treated like a fucking whore."

Closing your eyes slowly, you basked in his false hate, melting to the way this degradation added to the control he was claiming over you.

It was hard to recognize yourself with how submissive you found you wanted to be, the desire to obey him until he revealed the loving side you knew was there making you willing to take anything from him, but mustering clarity to briefly ignore the drug-like effect he had on you, you took a deep breath and spoke with as much surety as possible.

"And what if I do? Would you do the opposite and show me some kind of care and affection? Kiss me, even?"

He scowled. "Don't play games."

"I’m not."

You looked at him as honestly as you could, hoping your sincerity would shine through and he would believe that as much as you were admittingly throwing yourself at him, you wouldn't toy with his heart or burn him like he had been before.

His cheeks flinched as he clenched his teeth together tightly, clearly trying to figure out how he felt, but he remained in place and even returned his hands to rest on the shower tiles on either side of you, leaning slightly closer.

You could feel your chest tighten and your heart skip a beat when he rested his forehead against yours, your eyes closing when you felt his fingertips trail down your arm slowly until he reached your hand, lacing them together.

"I'll be yours, Jay," you whispered, giving him the confirmation needed to relax and trust, his breath fanning over your lips as he sighed out.

His forehead rubbed against yours as he shook his head slightly while he breathed deeply again, a low grumble resounding through him as he started to grind his hips against yours, his hand squeezing yours tightly in the grip of his fingers.

You moaned whenever the head of his cock nudged your over-sensitive clit, your body jolting in response but welcoming it all the same, adjusting your legs so he rested in your folds where you slid along his length in a languid tempo.

His nose grazed over the tip of yours and over to your cheek, the contact feeling as meaningful as a kiss would, sharing the same breath as you slowly began to work each other up.

While still holding your hand, Jay took his injured one and slid it under your thigh, lifting your leg to hook it around his waist, giving him access to probe inside you just enough to tease you.

Your available hand smoothed up his back, feeling his muscles contract with each movement, your nails digging into the thick flesh on his shoulders each time he threatened to enter you fully.

Peeling his face away from yours, he held you in place with a sobering gaze, his eye contact weighted with so much emotion, and slowly drove inside you inch by inch.

Resting his nose on your cheek, he began to thrust, his pace purposeful and sensual, each drag out and back in carefully calculated to slowly pick you apart.

As good as it felt, you still cursed him for torturing you, his mouth continuously hovering close to yours but never landing on you, making you pray to a god you didn't believe in that he finally would. You held your breath any time his lips ghosted over your skin, his nose grazing on your cheek and neck like he was hovering over all the places he wanted to impress his kiss on, close enough you swear you could feel it.

Slow, rolling motions continued to carry you through to your nearing high, building you up gradually and seemingly lovingly, his intensity equalling that of the other times he had fucked you, only this time more fervid and compassionate.

Water ran off his full lips and onto yours as his mouth hung open in front of you, his breaths growing more laboured as he expelled his energy into the arduous pace, knowing that fighting the temptation to kiss you was adding to his efforts.

Your offer to be his repeated in his mind the whole time, seeming to ground him rather than make him run from it, and he fucked you like you already were, every caress on your body and drag inside your tight walls another claim over you.

The way your fingers ran along the nape of his neck and raked up through his hair had him basking in your silent praise, feeling you clench and squeeze him with every deep push in an act of worship and appreciation of him.

He built you up slowly, bringing you to the brink and letting you linger there, coaxing you closer to the edge but only giving you enough to make you seek your release by moving with him harder.

"Jay, please…" you whined, gripping onto him in a plea for mercy, your head falling back to be supported by the wall, allowing him a view of your face as pleasure took over your features.

He intensified his thrusts, plowing into you even slower, but with more force, feeling you tense as your orgasm began to tear through you, and he angled himself so the coarse hairs on his groin rubbed against your clit to help prolong it.

He would've come with you if he wasn't so enthralled in watching you, constantly amazed by how stunning you were when being torn apart by him, the way your entire body responded to him making him quickly become addicted to it.

Releasing your hand, he brought his up to your face, his thumb gently smoothing over your bottom lip as he began to lean in toward you while continuing the slow grinding of his hips on yours, the pull he felt to kiss you becoming too much to deny any longer.

As if the universe was torturing him, the water began to feel cold, the hot water having run out in the extended amount of time you had been in there, waking him up slightly from the haze he seemed to be under.

You fluttered around him, the aftershocks of your climax rippling out in waves, prompting him to increase his pace to a far more aggressive one, the escalation of your cries spurring him on.

"You…are…fucking…mine!" he hissed through gritted teeth, the sound of your wet bodies slapping together mixing in with his panting breaths and your desperate whimpering.

He rammed into you furiously, and you held onto him frantically as you let him use you to finish, his usual unpredictable actions leaving you unsure how he was planning to, every nerve in you feeling alive and electrified from his possessive words.

His mouth fell against your shoulder, his spit smearing on your skin as he pounded you relentlessly, and feeling him surge inside of you as he began to cum, another orgasm of your own ripped through you violently.

Before you even had the chance to come down from your high, Jay was pulling out of you, the sensation of him slipping from your tingling walls with his thick, hot cum spilling from you making you whine, the unsurprising act of him abandoning you stinging more than it previously had.

Without looking at you, he ran his hand over his face and exited the shower, letting the door slam shut behind him to make you jump, leaving you standing wet and cold as you watched him grab a towel and storm out of the bathroom.

Jay couldn't hate himself more if he tried.

Leaving pools of water in his path as he stalked down the hallway to his bedroom, he urged himself to turn around and go back, the guilt he felt at leaving you like that when he knew he cared so much about you making him realize how cowardly and pathetic he was.

He slammed the door so hard it shook the walls and cursed loudly, pacing while he tried to calm his breathing, the temptation he felt to punch the wall or tear apart the room increasing with each passing second.

He didn't realize he had been clenching his fists so tightly until the sharp pain in his left one seemed to register in his brain, looking down to see a deep red beginning to spill from the gash even through the darkness of his room. Exhaling a shaky breath, Jay sat on his bed and pressed the towel still wrapped around his waist onto the cut, trying to stop his racing thoughts and ache in his heart as much as the bleeding.

Jay knew if you left that he would be able to clear his head and move on, focusing on healing and resuming his training so he could fight again, but at the same time he prayed for the sky to open up again to prevent you from leaving.

He was stupid for treating you how he had, the point he was trying to make by acting this way completely useless, comparing what he felt for you to that bullshit with Liza like comparing night and day.

Before he could manage to fuck up anything else, Jay stood and crossed the space between his bed and the door in a fury, rushing into the hallway with only one thing on his mind.

You shut off the taps, blinking furiously to rid the tears mixing with drops of water that ran down your face, the most defeated and helpless feeling coursing through you.

It was clear that Jay would never accept that you had feelings for him or learn to trust you, his hurt too powerful that it blocked out anything good that he felt he didn't deserve.

Grabbing a towel from the stack of them on a rack beside the shower, you wrapped it around yourself in search of some sort of comfort and took a deep breath, needing to get control of your emotions and this situation.

It was temporary, you reminded yourself. The storm that was the reason for you being stuck here was settling, and the wound on Jay's hand that brought you here in the first place was healing, so you would be going home as soon as the roads reopened.

The thought of returning to work was welcoming, looking forward to the distraction it would provide as you let time fade everything you were feeling, and you knew after being closed because of the storm that the clinic would be busier than ever. Maybe you would even reach out to Deb tomorrow to see if she would be willing to come pick you up from here, not wanting to ask Jay for more than he's already given you and wanting to spare you both from the awkward and most likely silent ride back to where your car was left stranded.

You walked out of the bathroom and tread quietly down the hallway, pausing when you passed Jay's room. You had heard the door slam, so it didn't come as a surprise to see it still closed, but part of you had hoped it was open again, acting as a symbol of amendment or olive branch. Hesitating for only a moment while you debated knocking, you thought better of it and forced yourself away, going to the room you were staying in and shutting the door behind you. A sad smile crept on your lips as the significance of closing the door was like closing the door on whatever this was, and you prayed for strength to carry you through the rest of your time here.

Even with convincing yourself of the finality of it, you couldn't seem to drown the persistent swell of your heart whenever you thought of him, and as much as you told yourself that you were okay with this being nothing more than sex, you knew there was so much more to it.

"Fuck…" you muttered, not thinking twice before turning the doorknob and pulling open the door, your heart leaping into your throat the moment you looked out down the hallway.

---

Taglist:

@sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90 @paintlavillered @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @ourlonelymountain @itspdameronthings @theesirenteller

I went ahead and tagged everyone I have written down for my Charlie/Will Miller taglist so my apologies if you're not interested in being tagged in this and I will happily add or remove anyone as they wish!

[rughydrangea]

Sejak 8

This show has officially hit "I'm just screaming the whole episode" status. Would I have loved for their first make-out session to be before he knows she's a woman? I mean, sure, but the way this scene shook out was basically perfect, as the waves of understanding wash across JJS's face and Hee Soo fully gives in to the part of her heart she's been trying to deny for three years. It's just so deliciously complex and contradictory, for both of them, their desire and love for each other woven through all those layers of deception and betrayal and scheming.

On the subject of betrayal, though... Like many people on this website, I agree that Yi In plans to make his nephew his heir and is working to discover who killed his brother. It's become increasingly obvious, but I kind of clocked it from the time jump, when it's established that in spite of a decently well-populated inner court, the man doesn't have a single child. If he had been sincere in stealing the throne for himself, surely his first priority would be to have his own son, which could then leave him free to dispose of his nephew, who living is always going to be a threat to his rule.

Now, I have nothing against the nephew. It's just that, as I have established, I think usurpation is quite sexy (unless a man is trying to usurp a woman, which is why Stephen of Blois can get fucked), and I would have loved for Yi In to be a true usurper. Monarchy is all bullshit anyway, right? To me, usurpation is like an acknowledgement that it's bullshit: if the occupant of the throne is solely determined through mistakes of nature, why shouldn't humans be able to seize destiny in their hands and take what they want? If the only qualification is being born to a certain parent at the right time, then why not just change that rule to suit your own intention? Especially when nature more often than not gets it wrong: it's hard to respect the legitimacy of Grand Prince Munseong, given that he is the heir of a man who clearly never should have been king.

But no, clearly we have to have Yi In be a noble leading man, so even if he does some bad things, it's in service of a worthy and legitimate goal. I don't hate it, I just liked it more for that one enchanted episode where it seemed like he might go full anti-hero. As it is, I guess I'll have to settle for him being a super-complicated and conflicted man played by an incredible actor, poor me!

(It's true that it hasn't been established for sure that Yi In took the throne for noble reasons, but to me that does very much look like where it's going.)

[fireemblems24]

Scarlet Blaze Ch 11

Sorry this is taking forever, but here's ch 11.

MAIN STORY

Oh, shit, do we have to fight Gilbert next? AND ANNETTE? This suuukkkkks. It especially sucks since you know they didn't have a choice but to risk their lives just defending themselves.

Annette is so precious. Fuck. I don't want to fight her.

Gilbert being a good daddy though 😭😭😭😭

At least CF was entertaining. SB is a giant snoozefest where I have to kill all my favorites.

Man, they all sound like psychopaths. They're all super excited to go kill people who are just defending themselves. Even Dorothea's only worried about marriage.

MAP/SIDE STUFF

Shez just said that everyone who gets killed in the war "is standing in our way." Imagine comparing self-defense to "getting in our way." Yikes for that characterization compared to how concerned GW!Shez is about Claude's aggressive decisions.

Lamo, Mercedes is like wtf am I doing here fighting the Kingdom and Annie? 

Aww, Marianne (and Dorothea) are like the only two who realize they're fighting other people and not just being all murder happy like the rest. 

Dimitri just got put on par with Holst and Caspars dad by Balthis, kind of, unofficially best Kingdom warrior? 

We're addressing the Ferdinand and Hubert subplot again. Which is good. It's by far the most interesting part of SB. Though, it's just a repeat of what we've seen from it before.

Ok, they're adding some different stuff which is interesting. Bringing up that even if Fredie's dad tried to retire and stay out of Edelgard's way, that he would still have to die because of what he symbolizes. Hubert and Ferdinand disagree on whether people like Mr. Aegir can get a second chance (as in, can you when you've become a symbol).

This is especially interesting to me in regards to what happens to Rhea, Dimitri, and Claude if they surrender to Edelgard and become her puppets. Basically, Hubert is saying that, no matter what, they'd have to die because anyone who would rebel would use (fill in here) as a symbol of their resistance. Claude may be the sole exception here because he can scoot off to Almyra, but it's very obvious that Rhea and Dimitri (and their staunch allies) are fighting for their lives, because even if we're generous and say Edelgard would spare them and give them life worth living (i.e. not locked up), Hubert would most certainly have them assassinated.

Which also brings up another point. People always talk about how it's wrong/bad for Dimitri to try and spare Edelgard at the end of AM because what kind of life would she live? But always praise Edelgard for trying to spare Rhea towards the end of CF but no one - not a single soul - asks what kind of life would Rhea live? I gotta make my own post about that.

SB is really gonna be - kill yo dad, the route. Ironic since I played this the day after Father's Day.

I have to fight Sylvain 😭

SHEZ & MANUELA A SUPPORT

Manuela is flirting with Shez lol. He said he liked her voice and she pushed him with like "is that all" until he talked about her looks lamo

Aww, Shez actually likes her hungover side. Saying he likes warrior her, singer her, healer her, and drunk her. That's kinda cute, actually

Shez said that he can't keep his eyes off her. Laying it on a bit thick. And said she's more attractive now than she was younger haha.

Yeah, Shez, I have no idea how she was supposed to see that in any other way lol.

HUBERT & LYSITHEA B SUPPORT

Hubert finds Lysithea studying at night and teases her about ghosts. She runs away.

The Imperial Army is a bunch of children who don't want to eat their veggies. This is 100% cannon. Hubert orders guards to sneak them into soups for the soldiers actually get their veggies. I cannot. (though, imagine the privilege, Faerghus could never)

Lysithea freaks out because she ate veggies.

Veggies are legitimately delicious though. I don't know what the Imperial Army's problem is.

EDELGARD & MONICA A SUPPORT

Guys, I'm so excited. A Monica support. I wonder what she'll talk about.

Monica counts how many times Edelgard worried about her and invited her to tea. I just . . . no.

This support was pure cringe.

I love how "Kingdom bad" because they're willing to die to defend their homes, family, friends, and everything and anything else they've loved from invaders, but Monica is to be admired because she's oh so loyal to Edelgard that even in when Edelgard leaves her for dead, it's a happy moment for Monica because it helps Edelgard's cause. Like . . . double standard much?

PETRA & CONSTANCE C SUPPORT

Constance is something else. She confronts Petra because Petra's dad invaded and it led to the demise of Constance's everything.

I enjoy supports that address conflict, but girl, that was not Petra's fault. Don't take it out on her.

Oh, good, she's not. She recognizes that Petra's people suffered, and that neither of them were involved, so there's no bad blood.

Then she hahahas and leaves. Lamo, this made me love Constance.

Petra doesn't get a chance to say she agrees and seeks out Constance, but finds her in the sunlight, and needlessly to say, is very confused.

MAIN BATTLE

Hubert and Edelgard just said submit or die.

Wow, Linhardt is like I wish the nobles would think about all the people who they're forcing to fight. The lack of self-awareness is astounding.

Ferdinand can join the "lack of self-awareness club" for acting like it's the Kingdom causing the violence.

Baron Dominic opened the gate, risking his defenses to rescue soldiers. Hubert judged him. But we're supposedly the good guys. I swear the writing goes out of it's way to make the Kingdom look good.

Fuck. I have to fight Gustave :( He dead :( Poor Annette.

FUCK. Now I have to fight Annette.

Fuck this route. Ingrid, Rodrigue, Gustave, and now Annette - all dead.

Even Baron Dominic's death is making me sad. None of the Empire generals get this kind of humanization when they die lol.

Edelgard and Hubert sound insane. Edelgard's acting like their deaths were inevitable because of their lineage (when they would've been just fine if not for her actions), and Hubert's like he's happy to die so it doesn't matter. What a bunch of looney tunes.

Edelgard just said whoever wins gets to decide what's right. I mean, victors do write the history but yikes at the implications.

So deep - "we're up against the world itself." Sounds like a teenage edge-lord wrote this lamo.

We got crusher. Joy. Did they pry it out of Annette's dead hands?

Oh, joy, more backtracking. Revolts in the Empire. I thought we were out of the backtracking era and into kill every Blue Lion era.

xxxx

[markantonys]

hi there! i'm wondering, what is your take on perrin and dain bornhald? i know those two have like five-ish minutes of screentime all season with about 30 seconds of that in the finale, but i can't get them out of my head. they have such an interesting dynamic and now that it's more complex than in the books (perrin did actually kill dain's father and dain sees it) i'm fascinated to see them reunite.

(also i know you probably don't take requests but it would be fun to see a gifset of them too. for...reasons.)

my take is that it is TASTY!!!! it is DELICIOUS!!! when dain's casting was announced i was like "i bet simple-minded cretins will ship him with perrin now that they are BOTH hot boys in the show, but you won't catch ME shipping anybody with whitecloaks, let ALONE poor perrin!" and now joke's on me, i'm a simple-minded cretin and i am shipping them HARD! but mostly in an "i love mess" type of way rather than an "i legitimately think they should and want them to get together" type of way. although i would not be opposed to a post-last-battle scenario of dain saying "fuck the whitecloaks" and leaving to become perrin's househusband in the two rivers! okay, faile probably wouldn't be into polyamory, but there WAS also that time in TSR when she was like "perrin why don't you go into rand's bedroom alone in the middle of the night and i'll see you in the morning and you can tell me all about it ;)" so maybe she would be down as long as the other person isn't berelain jfkgh

anyway! there were Vibes in their like 4 scenes. mostly on dain's end, just going around calling perrin by a cute nickname okay sir you want to fuck him we get it. dain is gay and homophobic and has a giant crush on perrin that he doesn't know how to deal with, and perrin is oblivious that any of this is happening. and then they had a brief Battle Couple moment in ep8 and i was like

(genuinely i'm pretty sure i did clap my hand to my forehead because i could FEEL myself succumbing fully to the ship in that moment haha it was a powerful moment!)

and THEN!!!! perrin violently (and SO justifiably, not that dain knows or would believe it) murders dain's dad right in front of him!! and dain fucking loses it!! has to be dragged away while screaming for perrin's blood!! TASTY!! DELICIOUS!!!! move over rand/gawyn, we've got a new "you killed my parent and i will not rest until i run you through with my sword in every sense of the phrase because i also want to fuck you so bad it makes me look stupid" ship in town. and i can't WAIT to see what goes down between them in season 3!

and finally, you're in luck because i already was leaning towards making a gifset of them haha it was floating kinda far down on the to-gif list 2x08 gave me but now that you've gotten me thinking about their dynamic again it's bumped up towards the top, so i might possibly do it tomorrow!

[mrstsung]

DEADASS old man shang tsung should be loved more

Like mk legends shang tsung specifically is absolutely delicious.

(Minus some things like not really showing his treachery to shao kahn. Like it's playing a bit too safe in the cunning department. And honestly makes it look like he's a sinp for shao kahn when he fucking wasn't and hated his guts and would happily stab shao in the back 1000 times over if you ask him and given him the opportunity to. And not to mention it's so convenient around plot. And i hate that. Because honestly holy shit this shang had potential. He had the presence,the aura,but never really shown to fight. And it sucks. Because shang is supposed to be a beast in kombat. He was a fucking boss after all. Like gdi nrs. Why you gotta fumble this guy so hard?! Like the writing is right there!)

Anyways. Old man shang. Let's get back to that.

The reason why i feel old man shang or at least how shang tsung IS SUPPOSED TO BE.

This mofo is cursed. To age. Less he takes the lifeforce/souls of others Because he decided to say "fuck you elder gods! Imma take your ritual healing dark magics and apply it to kombat. Imma take this shit and make it my own!" DEADASS a Dracula energy/soul vampire. Like this man despite everything,still could whoop your ass because he is fucking 500yrs old! From old dynasty china. In earthrealm. Yeah.

This man used to be a warrior from earthrealm,got into beef with raiden,and said fuck you im switching sides as soon as he caught whiff of an opportunity to(at least in his mind at the time) be treated "better" (which he really wasn't as better off,maybe even worse,but he had some power and some better standing tho at a cost)

Like you could take shang tsung in many ways. But all in all he doesn't need to be twirly mustache to be evil. Nor does he need to be good or "SOME GODS PLAYTHING!" to be righteous or do honorable things.

Legitimately mofo shang tsung as an old man should be written as a person who comes off as uncannily and eerily calm,a air of danger but you can't really run away nor want to. You're too damn curious even tho you're screaming inside to run. He needs that true fucking snake vibe.

Very few people have written and portrayed this successfully. And tagawa pioneered that well vibe for villains imho. (Tho the man was unfortunately typecasted by Hollywood this man by god set the bar high. He did it so damn well. He put his whole heart into this. And honestly out of all his roles,this was the most notorious of his roles. Tho i hope this man gets more leisure roles and happier roles in the future. And eventually has a safe,and peaceful retirement. He deserves it. Fr. Thank you Mr. Tagawa seriously. <3 )

Artt butler did a fantastic job with shang tsung,tho given a better script it would be better.

Same with alan lee. I feel his would have made me like it more if fans and story weren't shit.

But all in all shang tsung being rejuvenated and young is nice. And should be shown especially since he is cursed. But his default,unpopular opinion here but. His old man form should be his default look. If not old man old man,then a but of salt n pepper at bare minimum.

Honestly,shang i prefer at his old man look because thats what i well grew up on. And that's kinda how i see him. 🤷‍♀️ *shrug*

Like guy is a flashier more fancy pai mei from Tarantino's kill bill to me. Maybe slightly bit more nicer and considerate but not by much. Lol.

I could go on and on about old man shang tsung specifically. But I'll leave this at.

Honestly we just need to bring him back. We need to bring back shang tsung with that vibe. We need to not make him conveniently made for plot. No give me the shang tsung that i fucking knew.

That bastard needs to make a comeback. And mk11 can't be the only game that he does it in.

And mk legends can't be the only media outside the games that does it either.

Anyways,old man shang. I love this foxy grandpa.

[vapolis]

Just popping in to say I am really enjoying the rewrite do far! I enjoyed the original too, but it seems you have a clearer focus this time around.

Some things I’ve really enjoyed:

-The “you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid” energy between merc and Jax. Can tell that he’s attracted to the merc, whether he wants to be or not. I had difficulty seeing that in the original demo.

-The absolute devotion the merc can have for Orla. “Why, yes, I am Orla’s dog. Woof woof.” I can smell the angst, it’s going to be delicious.

-The ability to actually be someone that scares people. Sure, the merc can fuck up and be a funky little guy, but they can also stab the shit out of someone without much as a blink if you want them to (and I do).

-Stabbing that guy in the hand.

-“I know I just brought this sword back to you, but can I have it?” I also like that the merc is bothered by heights despite being mostly unflappable.

-Royal being a gem as always; I’m looking forward to more time with them.

-Also quite intrigued by what direction the merc and D’s relationship might take this time around. I’m honestly still suspicious of them, but time will tell.

-Ultimately chose the fighting vice for my merc, because of the idea that Colt doesn’t know what else to do with their pent up energy, and fighting (and killing) is the one thing they’re truly good at and therefore makes sense to them…That just feels right. All merc’s get therapy when?

Anyway, I hope you’re proud of how the rewrite is coming along. I’m personally having a great time!

thank you! I do feel like the entire story is more clear now in terms of how I established the world and the characters in it.

the merc too is more the way I imagined them to be and giving them a legitimate fear like heights that could lead to some exciting twists down the line def made them appear more.. human?

they have and had plently of faults but before it kind of seemed like they were a fuck up that doesn't fear anything and that got real old for me anyway.

I also agree w jax's potential feelings and all the different dynamics between orla, jax, d and royal (to an extent) being clearer now than before. I could go sooo in depth about how in the old demo I kind of sucked at introducing the player to the world while still making it seem like the merc is established and known. that is something I really want to focus on this time around.

hope you'll continue to enjoy the game as I go on to write it and very fun that you chose the fighting vice! it's very different to the others but yes, it's the one thing the merc is really good at and it's hard not getting addicted to that.