#what you do with that dilemma is up to you

[moonstruckme]

I absolutely adore your roommate James series! It’s so tender and soft and sweet and it feels like the literary version of a hug 😭 you nail it every time!

Thank you sweetness!!! I am giving you a hug actually <3

cw: threatening with a weapon

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Things have come to a point where James needs to admit to himself that he likes you as more than a friend. 

The problem is, he likes you as a friend so much. He’s no stranger to the dilemma of risking a friendship for something more, but he’s not a teenager anymore and you’re not Lily. James knows he wouldn’t be able to play it off as a silly, harmless crush with you. And, really, he wouldn’t want to. You bully your way into his thoughts all day long. Your sweet voice, the way you talk with your eyes, tiny moments like the way your lips parted when he’d first slipped and called you sweetheart. You’d schooled your expression into teasing exasperation almost immediately, but there had been a softening in your eyes that made him impatient to do it again.

If he told you all that, James would probably come home to find all your things gone. You can barely handle it when he tells you you look nice. He doesn’t want to lose you. 

So, against his wishes and all his instincts and proclivities, he’s going to let it lie. James wants to be your friend more than he wants to discover what else you could be together. He can love you this way, too. 

That doesn’t do anything to deaden the thrill that goes up his spine when he picks up his phone and hears your voice on the other end, though.

“James?” 

“Y/n?” He checks the number on his phone. It’s not in his contacts. 

“Yeah. Um, are you—are you busy?” There’s a wobble in your voice. James’ heart drops straight down to his stomach. 

“I’m not,” he says, stopping short of the field where his teammates are gathering and turning back towards his car. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah.” It’s clearly not, but he was silly to ask. Of course you’d say that. “I just, if you’re free, I was wondering if you could maybe pick me up?” 

That wobble hasn’t gone from your voice. James’ heart trembles in solidarity. 

He gets back in his car, starting the ignition with perhaps a tad too much force. “I’m on my way,” he promises. “Where are you, what’s wrong?” 

“I’m outside the Waterstones on Manor Road, you know where that is?” 

“I know the one, yeah.” 

Your voice sounds held together by fragments. “I’m sorry, it’s far.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, then regrets it instantly. This is hardly the time for a good-natured scolding. He turns out of the parking lot. “I’m coming. What’s wrong?” 

“I’ve—I’ve had my phone and wallet taken. I don’t have my key to the apartment.” 

“Taken?” James’ head buzzes like a TV turned to the wrong channel. “By who?” 

“A man, I—I don’t know. Um, I’m borrowing this woman’s phone, and I think I should give it back.”

His lungs feel small, panic choking him. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Be safe, yeah?”  

“Yeah.” A breath crackles through the phone. James wonders if you’d been choking, too. “Thanks, James.” 

“Just be safe.” 

The sun has dipped below most buildings by the time he gets there. It makes it difficult to see you, but James’ eyes work like a compass, finding your shadowy form curled up on the curb. The bookstore looks to be closed or close to it, no patrons walking by you as you sit with your knees bent close to your chest. 

You see his car pull up, and he’s halfway to you before you’re even standing. Your arms come around James as readily as his around you, your face squished willingly into the fabric of his workout shirt. Your breath seems to stutter out of you. 

“It’s okay,” he says, grasping the back of your head. He’s not sure if he’s talking to you, or himself, or either of you. He’ll tell whoever will listen. “You’re okay, sweetheart, it’s alright.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak. “I don’t know why I’m crying now.” 

“You’re okay,” James says again, just for good measure. His lips find the top of your head. “What happened?” 

“I think I was mugged,” you laugh. It comes out warped, completely unlike the sound he’s spent months chasing after. “This guy showed me a knife, and told me to hand him my bag and phone, and I just gave them to him. It was right out in the open.” Another jagged, heart-aching laugh. “I feel so stupid.” 

“Why would someone else mugging you make you stupid?” James lets you go enough to give you a little space, but his arms stay around you, his hand rubbing firmly over your shoulder blade. “Did you call the police?” 

You gnaw on your lower lip. It already looks bitten to shreds. “No.” 

He nods, taking a breath. James isn’t typically the responsible one in his relationships. He’s not good at knowing what to do. It makes him think of being thirteen and seeing Sirius all bruised and broken, feeling his heart break and knowing that he had to fix things despite the both of them being too young to have any clue how to deal with something so huge. James is an adult now, but he still feels too young. 

“Do you want to go home?” he asks you. 

You bite down hard on your lip, but your eyes gloss anyway. “Yeah,” you say, voice breaking. 

James pulls you close and gives in to treating you the way he wants to, kisses pressed into your hairline and tender words pouring from his lips. He gets you into the car and takes you home. 

Throughout the rest of the evening, you’re at once more reticent and more talkative than you’ve ever been. You’ll stare into the distance for minutes at a time, but then you’ll speak up, seemingly randomly, about some small fact you’d forgotten or a thought that’s been pushing at your consciousness. You tell him that you don’t think you could describe the man well enough to the police. That you have no concept of how long you stood around before you thought to ask for someone else’s phone. That you sort of wish you’d refused to hand yours over, because really what was the worst that could have happened?

“Well, he could have stabbed you,” James says.

“Yeah, but how often is that really fatal? And he might not have. It’s embarrassing, all he had to do was show me the knife and I turned everything over. I probably would have been fine.” 

“I don’t think you’re automatically fine if you’re not dead, angel. You were still at risk of being stabbed.” 

“I’d still have my phone and everything, though.” 

“I think you’re worth a bit more than that stuff.” 

“Mm, agree to disagree.” 

James does things he doesn’t particularly want to do—phoning your bank, filing a police report online, texting your landlord about a new set of keys—and several things he really does want to do. Once you’ve changed into your cozy clothes he practically swaddles you in blankets, putting a hot chocolate in your hand and that show you’re always watching on the TV. He makes you dinner, teases you until he gets a real smile, puts your mum’s number in his phone and texts her to let her know you’re okay. James touches you amply, lips on your cheek and hand smoothing the hair from your face and one knee pressing into your leg through the blanket. 

And you let him. 

[tflaw]

𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐚 ♱ wriothesley

+ afab!reader. yandere!wrio. yandere themes. noncon. undertones of cannibalism ( sighs ). smut ( but like in a figurative way? idk how to explain it ). cunnilingus. fellatio. gool ol' creampie. guilt tripping. over usage of the word flesh ( aha ). 4.7k wc.

xoxo, hunter. also, special thanks to @/creativecupcake for helping me out! i appreciate it sm <3

You poor thing

Sweet, mourning lamb

There’s nothing you can do

It’s already been done

“Step onto the platform, please.”

Your stomach churns; what little you consumed that day threatens to spill from your mouth. There’s a continuous eddy in your mind, the headache affecting the strength of your bones. 

Would you ever be prepared to face this kind of dilemma?

You have been given no chance to contemplate before the security in charge pushes the small of your back. You stagger towards the middle of the platform that will bring you down several feet underwater. As it starts to descend, you inhale whatever amount of fresh air you can, dreading that it’d probably take time before you could see the outside again. 

It’s just for a few months. All you have to do is endure your sentence, and you’ll be free. 

The air slowly turns scant the deeper you descend, as though you’re being submerged even in the absence of water. It doesn’t help that all you’ve seen so far is an endless stretch of metal, closing in on you, augmenting your anxiety. After what seems like forever, the elevator halts, hinting at your arrival, and there you struggle not to marvel at the magnificent view of the water outside. 

However, the security standing by your side tugs at your arm. Another wave of nausea fills your throat with acid as the receptionist registers your information and recites the crime you’ve committed. Sealing your fate as a prisoner is a quick mugshot before you’re brought to the administrative area. 

Your wild eyes scan the area, noticing other newcomers lining up horizontally before a huge metallic door. They are stricken with the same anxiety as you, evident in how their throats are bobbing, their eyes burning holes in the ground.

“Stand up straight. The Duke is here,” the security announces as the gigantic door creaks open. 

“He’s here; we’re going to die,” the man beside you whispers in hysterics. 

His apprehension is a contagious disease, crawling to stick onto your skin, corrupting what little courage remains in your spine. 

Your breath becomes strained and like everybody else, you’ve done your best to make your presence smaller. What is it about the Duke that triggers this kind of paranoia?

“Ah, here are the flock of lambs,” a strong voice dripping in confidence pronounces, causing the rest of the prisoners to shrink in size, as though all they’ve wanted is to disappear. “Should I say ‘welcome’? Or you’d rather we skip the pleasantries and go straight to business?”

Looking at him now, you understand why the mere mention of his name evokes such palpable horror. He’s a man of tall stature and rough demeanor. His hair, unkempt yet strangely glossy, adds to the unnatural charm he possesses. It’s dark like a raven’s feathers, interspersed with strands of gray that somehow enhance his roguish appearance. 

He starts his scrutiny at the other end of the line, saving you for last. As he scans the prisoners, his mouth remains in a tight line, with an occasional cock of the brow or twitch of the lips. 

“And for the last one…” His tone tilts between authority and mischief, leaving no room for defiance. 

Your heart hammers against your ribs, but fear holds your gaze down. Mentally cursing yourself for potentially igniting the Duke’s ire, you flinch when his warm fingers swiftly lift your chin. 

You suck in a sharp breath, expecting to be greeted by annoyance. What’s painted on his face is an expression you cannot quite name. His pale gray eyes are blown wide, penetrating you straight to the soul. Lips slightly agape, he displays an image of someone utterly surprised. It hasn’t taken long for colors to flood his face again, delivered by his conscious recognition of the prisoners’ gawking stares. 

The Duke clears his throat, summoning back his menacing aura. He motions for the nearest securities, instructing that they discuss the rules and send the prisoners to their respective bunkers. 

However, he finds your eyes again just as you’re preparing to follow the throng. 

“You. Follow me,” declares the Duke. 

It couldn’t have been anyone else, even though you turn around to see if he’s speaking to someone other than you. Realizing the weight of the command, your heart lurches in your throat. How much anxiety can you handle for a day? And what could possibly compel him to seek a private audience with you?

Behind the gargantuan doors, you find yourself yet again inside an unsettling chamber. The aged yet robust metal dominates the space, boasting the formidable reputation of the Fortress of Meropide. Once or twice you have envisioned yourself barred in this place, courtesy of your way of living, but nothing can size up the fear of being here in flesh and bone. 

“I’m over here,” the Duke echoes from above.

Cut away from your reverie, you ascend the stairs upwards to the third level. The metal sculptures of three-headed wolves catch your eye, their craftsmanship a marvel, set amidst numerous bookshelves filled with various genres. In the center of the room sits a spacious table piled with papers, while another stands to your right, equally laden with documents.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” he begins, reclining the back of his lower body against the table, strong arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’d merely like to ask you a few questions.”

Through your parched throat, you respond, “Ask away, Your… Your Grace.”

To your surprise, the Duke’s shoulders shake as his mouth echoes a merry laughter. 

“C’mon! Loosen up. Don’t you remember who I am?” he asks in between full-throated chuckles. “Have I changed that drastically?” 

Don’t you remember who I am? 

Now that he’s mentioned it, there’s a wriggling part of your brain that finds him familiar. However, try as you might to fish for a particular memory involving him, you can only grasp at nothing. He remains just a figure you likely crossed paths with on a street somewhere.

“I… I can’t remember—”

He spreads his arms in glee, closing the distance between you without respect for personal space. Large hands capture your shoulders, then, shaking you with undeniable enthusiasm. 

“It’s me! Wriothesley! The boy from the orphanage. Remember?”

Memories flood your mind: blurred recollections of a boy with raven-like hair and pale gray eyes, scenes of a brawl in the yard where his fists repeatedly struck another orphan’s jaw. More images rush in: him behind bars, and you offering a piece of bread to his bloodied hands.

“Wrio? Is that really you?” you ask breathlessly. Your hands have found their way on his shoulders, too. 

“Yes, it’s me! It’s been a while, hasn’t it? How are you?” He looks like he’d seen a ghost, but there’s no trickle of terror in the planes of his face. Only wonderment and utter euphoria. Before you can respond, he raises a finger and dialed the nearest telephone, commanding whoever is at the end of the line to bring refreshments inside his office. 

He leads the both of you to the lone sofa before repeating his question. 

“Well I… I tried to get by after the adoption,” you tell him, pursing your lips at the memory. “It wasn’t so dreadful, being in that house, but I wouldn’t claim that it had been easy. How about you?” Your eyes wander at the expanse of the room. “You govern the Fortress now? What even happened to you?” 

Wriothesley’s lips stretch to a smile. “Yeah. Who would’ve thought that a rascal like me can do it, right?”

You playfully punch his shoulder. “You’ve always had that command in you, Wrio. Even when we were in the orphanage. You stood tall and lived by your principles. No wonder Papa and Mama liked you so much back then. Speaking of which, do you know where they are now?” 

After your adoption, you haven’t had the ability to contact the orphanage and ask about everyone’s well-being. Since you have been living by scraps, you’ve focused instead on surviving without any spare time to visit the orphanage. 

“Papa and Mama, huh?” An overcast went over his eyes. His words have a bite to them that you cannot decipher. When he looks back at you, there’s a cloud on his face as he mutters, “I killed them.”

The confession immediately turns your veins cold. He looks dead serious.

“What?” A nervous chuckle reverberates from you. “That’s a bad joke.”

His eyes are the most unsettling gray you have ever witnessed. 

“I know you haven’t had the best experience with your adoptive parents. None of the adopted children had. Papa and Mama took care of us, just so they could sell us. Do you know that some of the children even died after being adopted? I did the right thing killing those fuckers,” he confesses without a trace of remorse for the gravity of what he’s done.

This is too much to take in one sitting. Your head throbs again with a new intensity. Perhaps it’s the years that you’ve been gone that exacerbates his revelation. You vividly recall the day you parted ways with the orphanage owner, tears in their eyes as they reluctantly let you go to your new foster parents. It was a poignant farewell, etched as your last memory of them. Now you wonder, was it all a facade?

Before you can bombard him with a set of questions, the arrival of refreshments completely dismisses the whole tête-à-tête. The security who’s placed the glasses on the table bestows you a questioning look; one that you would’ve missed had you the heart meet Wriothesley’s gaze. Through his dubious disposition, you realize how bizarre the scene might have looked like for an outsider. 

Wriothesley overlooks the whole Fortress, and you are a prisoner meant to serve your time. Why are you drinking with the Duke?

Shame has found its way to settle in the pit of your stomach. You feel self-conscious about your appearance; a full day without bathing since your capture is not how you wished to present yourself to your old acquaintance. He’s climbed his way up as one of the authorities in Fontaine, while you remain at the bottom of the food chain. Things are not the same. 

“I should probably go to my bunker,” you voice after the security’s departure. “It doesn’t look good that you have a prisoner here.”

“Nonsense,” Wriothesley counters. “You’re not a stranger. And I don’t care whatever crime you’ve committed on the surface: you are my visitor here.”

You shake your head. Despite the multiple stealing you’ve done until now, you still harbor a sense of dignity. It’s just as they say: you do the crime, you do the time. 

“No, Wrio. I’m here as a prisoner. I’ll do whatever is required of me. It’s my punishment.” 

Wriothesley sighs in defeat; an action you haven’t expected to come easily from him. 

“Alright, then. You win.” He reaches for your hand and grasps. “You won’t deny me the occasional meals, though? You’re still my friend and it’s the least I could do for you.”

That marks the highlight of your first day inside the Fortress. 

Never in your wildest dreams could you have anticipated such a twist of fate, yet you can’t deny the comfort of seeing a familiar face in this bleak environment.

As the days of your imprisonment tick by, you’ve adapted to the routine within the prison walls. You’ve learned the importance of coupons and how to obtain them to survive. Unlike most inmates who are tasked with heavy labor, you find yourself often idle. This is not due to any sloth on your part, as you’re eager to earn your keep, but it would seem as though the rest of the administrators have no job to assign you. Which is peculiar in a sense that everybody has something on their hands. 

“How are you coping?” Wriothesley asks during lunch. It’s one of those days when he’d summon you to eat with him. 

You fork the food on your plate, too conscious to wolf them down. The cafeteria’s open layout exposes the generous hospitality being extended to you, making you acutely aware of the conspicuous display. Somehow, it gets to your skin, as though you have no more face to save. 

“Everybody’s nice,” you reveal. They really are; there’s no lie in the statement. Truth be told, the Fortress is like a community where you work and earn a living. However, by definition, it remains a huge cage for wrongdoers like you. “But I can’t wait to go out.”

The cafeteria holds its breath when Wrio’s utensils clatter against his plate. Eyes turn towards your table, speculation rife that an argument is brewing. You glance around nervously, aware of the attention drawn by his prolonged silence.

“A… are you alright?” you stammer. 

“Yeah,” he answers before lifting his head and displaying a smile that does not reach the eyes. “There was a weird taste in my mouth. What were you saying again?”

“Oh… forget it,” you answer, wanting to dismiss the whole conversation as quickly as possible. “It’s nothing important.”

“I thought so,” he whispers without erasing his uncanny smile. 

At first, you conjectured that the source of Wriothesley’s hospitality stemmed from his time at the orphanage, when he was punished for misconduct. Unaware of the rules as a newcomer, and traumatized by the sudden upheaval in his life, he was quick to lash at the other kids. There had been a time that he would’ve beaten another orphan to death had no one interfered. It was only by the grace of the owners that he wasn’t kicked out.

In contrast, you had strived to keep a low profile during your orphanage days, knowing that well-behaved children stood a better chance of adoption. Only once did you veer to the path of disobedience, and that had been the time when you stole bread for Wriothesley. 

That first and last encounter had been brief and quickly forgotten over time, only resurfacing now upon your unexpected reunion.

You wouldn’t have expected that such a simple act of charity would help you tremendously during your life’s biggest disaster.

From the bottom of your heart, you acknowledge that life in Meropide would have been harder without him. The depth of your gratitude for his companionship transcends words. And you swear by all the Archons, you appreciate all that he’s done for you. 

That’s why it doesn’t make you feel good— not at all — to betray such munificence with doubt and a feeling of disquiet. 

Have you gone paranoid? Can you trust your guts? Or are you simply unaccustomed to kindness?

But it’s not any of those things, is it? 

You wrestle with the idea that your paranoia might be justified. There’s validity in a way that your heart hasn’t been tranquil ever since the repudiation of your release. Such holdup hinges on your distant Aunt’s failure to communicate with the administrators of the prison. They refuse to issue your release without her signature. 

At first, you dismissed the dreadful news with masked disappointment. She lives miles away from the Fortress. A little patience is all you need. Yet, the absurdity gnaws at you—why should an orphaned adult still require the consent of a relative who never cared? 

For months you mingled with the rest of the prisoners without trouble. What harm could a few more days bring? And it would’ve been easy except for one thing. 

Together with the anticipation of freedom there springs Wriothesley’s unnatural behavior. Certainly, you have been accustomed to his magnanimous nature, but not to his seemingly obsessed disposition. 

For one, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. On the night before your release, you’ve woken up just to see him inside your bunker, sitting with arms hugging his knees at the edge of your bed, head tilted downward. The pounding of your heart drowned out all other sounds, making sleep elusive and confrontation daunting. Convinced he would offer an explanation in due time, you pretended that nothing happened the next day. 

How many times has he sat there, barging in your bunker unannounced while guarding your sleep? You shudder at the thought. But it’s time you put an end to your suspicions. It’s time that you go up there, in his office, and find the answers you seek. 

“I’m sorry, but as per the Duke’s order, no one is allowed inside until his return,” the security standing guard outside Wriothesley’s office announces. 

“I told you; I was ordered to clean his office,” you insist for what seems like the thousandth time. Of course, it’s a lie. However, you are not going to pass up the opportunity of sleuthing, especially with Wriothesley’s absence. 

“The answer is no. It’s a strict rule from the Duke himself,” he repeats. 

You swallow the bitter reality of what you’re about to do. You have never thought of weaponizing Wriothesley’s treatment of you, but he leaves you with no choice.

“So, if he comes back and finds his office in disarray, I only need to mention that a certain guard wouldn’t let me in, right?” At your words, the security blinks frantically. “Do you know how much Wrio favors me? Or do you need proof? But I’m telling you, right now: the proof wouldn’t be as pleasant for you.”

As you stand inside the room, your eyes sweep across its vast expanse, searching without a clear idea of what evidence you seek. Yet, an instinctive feeling drives you—the conviction that the reason behind the prolonged delay of your release lies hidden somewhere within these walls. Relying on your years of stealth and skill as a thief, your confidence grows in your ability to navigate this risky venture unscathed.

This is a bold move, facing potential consequences, and you know better than to underestimate Wriothesley.

To summon a leveled head, you breathe, in and out, while fishing for the lock pick tucked inside your back pocket. 

You waste no time climbing the stairs to his desk. All proceedings certainly go through him before anyone else. Perhaps you can find your release paper, already signed, among this endless heap of legal documents.

No, if he intends to keep it, he wouldn’t have it openly displayed. Though the reasons for Wriothesley’s denial of your freedom elude you, instinct alone guides your courage. Abandoning your sleuth, you move on to open the drawers instead. Beads of sweat dots your forehead, heart refusing to calm down as the lock pick you fashioned from a scrap metal jammed into the keyhole.

There’s nothing inside but another stack of paper containing the Fortress’ mundane transactions. The weight of uncertainty bears down upon you like a relentless specter, your eyes flickering towards the staircase with a mix of fear and urgency. Moored by the bookshelves, you grasp a volume, its hard cover yielding warmth against your palm. Pages are turned in rapid succession, driven by your inexorable desperation to find something.

It has to be here. It has to be. 

“Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?”

Quick! Where else would he keep it? Think, think, think! 

“Found what you’re looking for?”

Hearing his voice feels as though you’ve pummeled down from the steepest cliff; that your innards have been hammered to smithereens; that your heart has been taken right from your ribcage. Your veins turn to ice, knees threatening to buckle beneath you. 

“W… Wrio…” You frenziedly grapple for reasons; anything that’d validate your suspicious presence in his office. “I was… I was just tidying up the space.”

“For what?” His eyes roam around the room that looks rather polished before settling on the book you clutch in your hands. “I didn’t know you’re interested in gardening.”

Taking a gander at the book in your hands, you force a sheepish smile upon seeing its title. A Comprehensive Guide in Gardening Across Different Topographies in Fontaine.

“If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to borrow this book.” You steel your facade, refusing to give him an inch. It’s futile, knowing you’re crumbling inside, wishing to vanish into thin air to evade his palpable vexation.

“You see…” Wriothesley begins, licking the inside of his cheek. “As far as I can remember, I told the guards not to let anyone in.”

You open your mouth to speak, but the grievous solemnity of his demeanor stops your words.  

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I was just—”

“What are you doing here?”

He already knows the answer; you just have to say it. Like a feeble insect trapped in a spider’s web, you see no chances of escaping. The only thing you could do is to shackle your suspicions and hope that Wriothesley somehow disproves them. 

“I was wondering about my release. It has been days and I…”

“Grow suspicious of me?” he finishes. “Thinking that I have something to do with it?” 

Each step he takes brings your back closer to the bookshelves. Until he has you trapped with his overwhelming presence. He’s so close you can smell a whiff of his perfume; even that exudes his unquestionable authority. 

“I just want to know the truth,” is your helpless whisper. You feel like a little lamb caught between the sharp claws of the wolf. 

With one hand, he takes the book from your hands, eyes never leaving your face, as he places it back to where it belongs. 

“Oh, you’d never like it,” he divulges. 

Mustering up the courage to flee from his entrapment, the thorns in your throat intensified after putting all your might to push him away only to suffer in vain. 

“Please, Wrio, let me go,” you huff, fighting back tears. 

Your plea goes through deaf ears. Not even a sliver of interest or acknowledgment can be seen in the depths of his eyes. 

“Your Aunt and her whole family left Fontaine before she had to sign your papers. I had my men standing guard on her house just in case she comes back, but it’d seem she’s sold the whole lot to never come back,” he discloses. 

“What?” All the remaining hope stings you like betrayal. But of course, you should’ve expected less from a relative you’ve never even met before. 

Wriothesley relaxes, but his body remains as overpowering before you. 

“I know what it feels like to not have someone, that’s why I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says, each word threaded carefully as if he refuses to shatter the delicate thing in front of him any further. 

To think that you’ve doubted him despite his keen interest in your well-being is more than enough to cause you unutterable shame. 

“I’m sorry, Wrio. I… I didn’t know,” you admit shamefully. 

Hand on his hip, he sighs, “I just can’t understand. After everything I’ve done for you, this is what I get in return?”

Panic grips you in its cruel embrace. You shake your head, reaching for him. 

“It’s not my intention to hurt nor dismiss your kindness, I swear. I just… I’ll make it up to you.”

Wriothesley perks up at the statement. It’s eerily noticeable how his grim bearing changes to that of a curious one. “You’ll do anything, then?” 

What accursed territory have you placed yourself in?

“Anything.”

“Then, kneel,” he commands after a heartbeat. 

There are two directions where your obedience can possibly turn to, and yet both choices cause your stomach to double over. In spite of your fear, you’ve acknowledged with terror that the point of return has already been barred. Your knees buckle. 

Fat tears dot the corner of your eyes, like crystal jewels of insurmountable value, as he unravels himself, and you take him in your mouth. He moves at first with delicacy, as though he fears of shattering such bliss. The warm flesh of your mouth, velvet-soft around him. You’re raw from shame; he’s rawed out from pleasure. 

Diabolical desire urges that he push himself deeper, further, make you gag with guilt and watch your mouth reach him to the hilt. Like dust of stars, tears now cling to your lashes, as your lips harvest the seed of his gluttony. 

In rapid succession he buries himself down your throat, reaching places no one else has trespassed in. Your nails carve crescent moons on his pale skin, roguish marks to prove the existence of a fight, no matter how pathetic. 

He hungers, and hungers, and hungers. Until his bones ached from his greed, and pleasure carves the pinnacle of release. Beneath the ache in his incessant breath, he wells inside your mouth. When all sensibility has left, he taints your tongue with rife and thick globules, begging to be swallowed. 

Tenderly he holds you, like his touches can heal your rotten sinews. At the end of his fingertips, your skin burns and he sinks you deeper into his pit. This place drowns in sweltering heat, from the shame, from the pain, from the guilt. The planes of your back settle on the oak table, etching the tale of his devouring. He peels you open with every lick; a fruit he wouldn’t mind the consequences of eating.

What is this, you think, the betrayal of the body? You despair how you shiver from his tongue; how you reek of humiliation when his fingers push into your dripping flesh. Fog over your head, the clouds somber, the cruel zenith warm on your stomach, exploding in shades of red. Since when did pleasure and poison start tasting the same?

“On your stomach,” he whispers, eyes dilated with barbarism.

The hunger continues. Another triumph, another defeat. Fingernails raking the wood, another tale of wrath unheard, of innocence gone. He lodges between your legs, pushing himself through the fluttering folds, tarnishing the flesh. Your throat burns but you will not scream. 

He fucks you with absolute abandon. He fucks you with an appetite of a man deprived. 

Lips between your teeth, crimson trails down your chin. He wants to turn your insides into pulp; to rattle both your bones and knit them together. With increasing greed, his movement turns rabid. Your eyes glossy, your tears silent, as you swallow the vile reality of fulfilling his need. 

“I’m so close,” he grunts, the sound of his voice coming from deep within. 

Your silence is a rebellion against your traitorous body. Shrouded with mortification, you flare around his length, and he revels at the feeling. He concedes to the tight sensation, spilling every fiber of his being inside the warmth of your flesh. There’s too much of him inside you, that he leaks like liquid ivory from the wet and abused hole, trailing languorously between your shaking legs. 

You run to the abyss, to the sweet caress of sleep, hoping that once you wake up, you’re whole again. 

Wriothesley observed your countenance as you slept upon the couch, noting with curiosity the weariness etched upon your features even in repose. He gently draws the silk sheet to cover you fully, then rises from his seat. Proceeding to the telephone, he summons a meal, foreseeing your imminent awakening and the hunger it will bring.

Now, he proceeds to one of the bookshelves, retrieving a particular book. A Comprehensive Guide in Gardening Across Different Topographies in Fontaine. To think that you’ve been this close to knowing the truth. 

He opens the book, flipping through its final pages until he locates the concealed folded paper. Despite the creases marring its surface, the parchment appears new. Unfolding it has given him a sense of relief, like an anchor to his sanity. 

It reveals the deed to your Aunt’s estate, which he acquired shortly before your release. Now, the elderly woman resides a great distance away, forever barred from returning.

They would be foolish to return, especially with their lives at stake.

Wriothesley’s lips curl in a bitter twist. Believe him when he says he never intended for you to endure the same fate as he did. Yet, endure it you must, just as he once did, for he is not so benevolent as to set you free.

[aliypop]

Food Fight

Word count: 361

Prompt: Elvis is left to watch the twins when a food fight breaks out there's only one thing left to do.

Warning: None

Note: Sorry it's short, been going through a lot.

Taglist:

@darkmoviesquotespizza

@sissylittlefeather

@richardslady121

@thegettingbyp2

@presleyenterprise

@dkayfixates

@rjmartin11

@thetaoofzoe

@your-nanas-house

@zayurir

@60svintage

@sillybookmarks

@leapresley

@everythingelvispresley

@dreamondina94

@elvismylove04

@pocketfulofpresley

@elvispresley1956

@poeandmoonknightgirl

1962

"Alright, you two, here comes the airplane!"Elvis smiled as he swirled the spoons around like a plane. Cecelia was out running errands for her mother's studio, which left him in a dilemma, feeding time for the twins. Elaine and Jesse had been prone to be messy when it came to their mashed carrots and their soft peas, but this time would prove to be the worst. As the spoons landed for delivery on their tongues, Elvis couldn't help but smile at the twins as they gummed down their food and babbled to each other. Oh, how he wished he knew what they were saying. "Yummy hmm?" "Wabababa!" Elaine said as she giggled, her brown eyes sparkling as she made grabby hands at the spoon, "Patience little biscuit." Elvis cooed loading up the spoons again as Jesse was about to cry, "No don't do that." He sighed watching Jesse calm down, noticing the mess on his hands Elvis had gone to get a cloth as he hummed walking away the twins decided to have their fun, walking back to the high chairs Elvis came back to a mess of two babies covered in food, Jesse with peas and carrots and bananas in his hair and elaine who had it in her ears and down her clothes, "Didn't I just bathe you two…" He breathed hard picking them both up as he carried them upstairs to the bathtub. He first began to undress Elaine taking off her headband as her curly hair had baby crackers hidden in it, "Hey those were from snack time…" Elvis glanced at her as she smiled wide trying to put her foot in her mouth, meanwhile Jesse was worse when Elvis undressed him he felt something wet on his shirt as he grumbled, "Jesse… You didn't…" "Papawaabaabaa." "No Jesse this is an expensive shirt…" "Bababa bababa." "Guess I gotta take a bath too." The house was quiet when Cecelia returned, she didn't hear anything, not a cry or a shout, she raced upstairs opening the bedroom door as her eyes caught the sight of Elvis asleep with the twins on his chest.

[satureja13]

Tiny Can gathered the Boys for the first meeting to solve the case of Jack's death. They need to figure out who's going to log in first to not destroy valuable evidence and loose crucial hints. Possible starting points:

Investigating the crime scene. To do this, Jeb needs to log in for the first time since his NPC version seems to be Lou's friend and lives nearby (Saiwa and Ji Ho are too far away/have no access to the location where Jack got killed and Jack gets kicked out because he's dead.)

Ji Ho has to find out what Greg's crossroads wish has to do with Jack's murder as long as he's still in Saarburg with the Queen

They discussed this back and forth. Time only passes when one of them is logged in, but it will pass for all of them. So if Ji Ho logs in too late and his NPC version already left Saarburg, they'll maybe never find out what happened at the crossroads. And if they leave the crime scene unguarded, someone might find Jack's corpse and destroys possible evidence. A dilemma - and a race against time. Since Ji Ho is only a few steps away from the crossroads and Jeb is going to need some time to find his way around in the unknown game/world - and Jack's corpse - they came to the decision that Ji Ho will quickly log in and search for evidence in Saarburg.

Jack already stuffed his beloved whiteboard with all kind of (useless) information about what effects his death has on them.

Evidence 1: A clueless person Evidence 2: The good looking and beloved victim (and 'a friend') Evidence 3: How angry we are about his murder Evidence 4: How determined we are to find the murderer Evidence 5: How shocked we are about his murder Evidence 6: How confused we are about what had happened...

Saiwa: "Ehm - first, I don't know if I'm still 'a friend' of yours - and what kind of evidence is this supposed to be?" Jack: "What evidence this is supposed to be? The murderer is in one of these photos! It's Greg - obviously! The Queen and him are not together ingame. She surely does not want him after she'd seen me fighting and being all strong, handsome and cool. So he wanted me out of the way. I can think of no one else. Then he made a deal with a crossroads demon to get me out of the way. Case closed. Let's throw him into the dungeons of the Castle so he never sees the light of the fullmoon again." Saiwa: "Just because you hate Greg and you're jealous he's with Noxee and not you doesn't mean he's your murderer. I bet there are a lot more people who want you dead ;) " Jack: "Tch."

The 'detectives' ended the meeting for today. They'd already been down here for hours. Saiwa and Tiny Can went to the new room for the Therapy Game devices to set everything up for the next sessions and to make a few improvements. The corner store was just an interim solution.

Ji Ho and Kiyoshi planned the next sessions. They tried to remember every police series they'd ever watched (not many) to not make any mistakes. They still have no internet here in the Otherworld. Maybe Noxee can send them some books or an USB stick about proper police work, crime investigations and securing a crime scene and evidence...

And while the others are busy, Vlad and Jack sneaked out to prepare another surprise.

Poor Jeb needs some comfort food ^^' It's stressing him a lot that Jack got killed ingame. And imagining that it could have happened to Saiwa is killing Jeb. At least he has his appetite back since Saiwa is back home again.

Half an hour later, they called Saiwa and urged him upstairs to his room. Saiwa is always wary when Jack is involved: "What have you two been up to again?" Jack: "Just you wait and see, 'my friend' ;) "

Oh! They made him a balcony beach! Saiwa is speechless. Jack not: "Since you can't log in for a while to heal on your island, we thought we'd build you one here ^^' "

Saiwa was glad his tears are hidden behind the dark sunglasses: "I love you, 'my friend'. And you too, Vlad." Jack: "We know." Haha such expressions of affection embarass Vlad ^^' He's the tsundere kind of guy.

Jack: "We are going to solve the case in no time and you can go back to Flamingo Island and heal. You'll see. And until then you can heal here. We won't disturb you, promised."

And then they left Saiwa on his island. He really hopes they will solve this soon and that they can go back ingame - safely. Poor Jack and Ji Ho need their therapy the most. Jack had been so close being painless...

Saiwa is happy that they are back together again, even it had such a severe cause. Who knows how long they would have been hiding at the beach house. Delaying their return because they'd been afraid of the confrontation. They will solve this together and find back together again.

'One love (hear my plea) One heart (whoa) Let's join together and I'll feel alright One love (oh, Lord, have mercy) One heart I tell you, let's just salsabrate (let's join together) And I will feel alright (and I'll feel alright) Let's join together and I'll feel alright'

One Love - Bob Marley (TMI: After I posted 'Killing me softly' from the Fugees in one of the last posts, I researched a bit, as always, and did you know that Lauryn Hill, their singer, was together with Rohan Marley, Bob Marley's son? They have 5 children together.)

The Therapy Game Master Post with the sessions and places so far is -> here

From the Beginning  ~  Underwater Love ~  Latest Current Chapter: 'Who killed Jack?' from the beginning ▶️ here Last Chapter: 🕹️ 'The One' from the beginning ▶️ here 📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 17-22 ~ 23-28

[empressofthewind]

Hi! I've been rereading some of your meta posts and I really enjoy hearing your opinions. I don't know if you've talked about this before, but why do you think Near said "If you can't win the game, if you can't solve the puzzle, you are just a loser"? Does he really think L is a loser? (I don't remember if that line is in the manga, but it's in the anime). And thanks again for your awesome posts :)

Hi Ray!!! Thank you so much, I'm really glad you enjoy them 🥰💕 this line IS also in the manga, and I don't think I've talked about it before but it's definitely something I've thought about! If you take Volume 13 as canon, then there is technically an answer to this, which you can see on the top line here (I've also typed it out in the image description if the text is too small/grainy to read):

This WOULD imply that Near actually thinks L is a loser, so take that as you will lmao. Personally I'm inclined to disagree with this, for two reasons. Firstly, he doesn't seem to extend this way of thinking to Mello when he dies for the same case (or anyone else, for that matter). If he thought dying at Kira's hands made L a loser, then he should theoretically apply that same principle to everyone who died for the case. Secondly, he does seem to have some level of respect for L, although I waver on exactly how much that is - but if he really thought L was just a loser, I don't think he'd wear a mask of his face, keep L's puppet on his finger during his final speech and rule out a potential plan on the basis that "it would be an insult to L".

However, I've included this entire excerpt from his profile because I think there are some other lines here that actually give a few extra clues about what's going on with this line. It's notable to me that three of the four quotes on there have very similar phrasing; "you're nothing but a loser", "you just have to say sorry", "you are just a murderer". He has this way of talking about things that reads as almost a bit dismissive? I don't get the impression that he is actually as impassive as he comes across, especially because the way he talks about Mello is always SO passionate and emotive, but rather I think this is just his way of rationalising things. He breaks them up into smaller parts or metaphors in his head, which makes it easier for him to think about them logically. He weighs up the risks and benefits of everything he does, he's very particular about deciding whether something or someone is worth his time, and I get the impression that he has a fairly symbolic way of thinking which helps him work through real-world dilemmas and keeps him from becoming overwhelmed.

So with that in mind, my interpretation of this line is that he compares the Kira case to a game or a puzzle, and thus instead of having to grapple with L's death, he thinks of it like losing a game. It's similar to him making puppets to represent people in his real life, knocking over his dice tower while most of the SPK members are collapsing around him and tipping out his puzzle while he delivers the line in question. This is also reflected throughout the rest of the series in the way he talks about the Kira case. He very consistently refers to the investigation as a game and thinks of it in terms of winning or losing, which I think makes it easier for him to reconcile with the consequences. The moment he learns about L's death, he knows there's an incredibly high chance that he will have to take over the case himself, and at this point, he's 13 with presumably zero real-world detective experience; only whatever training Wammy's House put them through. So if the world's best detective - who's been in that line of work for 15 years and has solved every case he's ever taken on - just died trying to solve this one, it has very scary implications for Near and Mello. Thus, while I honestly don't think he was as cut up about L's death as Mello and Roger were, it certainly wasn't good news, and thinking of it this way makes it easier for him to process.

I hope this makes sense!! Thanks again for the compliments, these are always my favourite posts to make :-)

[nullbutler]

oh this person makes really cool black butler art I wonder if they have any more on their account *checks* oh no they had a moral dilemma

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

best BEAST!!

[mllenugget]

I have only one word and one word only : CRI CRI CRI CRI CRI CRI CRI CRI CRI

"I intended to skip Purgatory 2 to catch up faster on VODs since I was told they were unrelated lore-wise But my biggest mistake was to vibe check all the new players - I was not expecting to completely fall head over heels for Team Capybara, hot damn I love them all so much ????" - Me, February 2024

────────────────────────────────────────── Support all the admins that spoke out (& do your daily click) ──────────────────────────────────────────

I took @sunshinetomioka's werewolf Guill headcanon and ran with it btw, credit to it

[ineed-to-sleep]

ENDING SPOILERS FOR BG3 AHEAD

Hate that I found this scene kinda hot

[bibiana112]

One of my favorite character traits that Junpei has is how as much as he's protective and caring to his favorite people and impulsively jumps into danger to help others if he has an opportunity to without wanting anything in return and highly values the promises he makes he just seems to also always be more curious than he is sensible or empathetic, he gets so caught up on the horrors he sees but he has such a hard time looking away, he's right to analyze and be intrigued by the ninth man's remains but he stands around staring at it until he pukes, in the showers you can interact with the wall behind which lies "Snake's" corpse and he will pick up more details about it each time you click on it until he has to mentally rip himself away because it's not that he can't keep looking at it it's that he better look away and focus on getting out, and the way he talks to Clover about the body with every minutiae she wouldn't want to hear is like his brain connects faster to his mouth than it can connect to his sense of morality sometimes which I guess turned out to be a good thing in this one case or just good common sense in general like there's other minor things he blurts out at times, he's stated to not have tact be his strongest suit, he's insensitive on accident trying to fumble through interactions even if he's entirely confident on what he's saying he's soo sharp when he has a goal in mind but he's soo dense if he's trying to just exist my man is so traumatized and his brain always seems to default to taking the most of any given situation in as possible to desensitize himself instead of any other response and sometimes it pushes his mind to be so single mindedly entranced on not ending up that way too that he'll describe a mangled body in excruciating detail to a grieving relative even if that's his friend and even if he feels guilty about it immediately as soon as he catches up with what just left his mouth instead of staying in his thoughts

[bugmistake]

there's a darkwave/goth/post punk music night at a coffee shop i like next month..... i wanna go real bad but i always chicken out of going to goth events cuz im like . i feel like a DORK i feel like a POSER i feel like a CREEP im a WEIRDO waddahell am i doing here?????

[eternal-reverie]

got the posting anxiety bad tonight

[aria0fgold]

Thinkin bout my isat au now, I don't have much of an idea on it cuz tbf I barely changed anything other than well-- Odile is in pain now. Just thinking more bout scenarios that'd differ during the uhh... new loop+?????? How'd I even go about calling that new set of loops now?

Just that the most visible change would be on Odile who's now waaay more tired looking and a lil more slower than usual. So in a way her battle style becomes a lil bit like a glass cannon in that she hits HARD but takes time for her to get a hit in now. And as the loops go on, she becomes weaker on the defense department so she truly be a glass cannon. Odile also doesn't "level up" in this au too since she had already maxed her experience out, it's just that she's also slowly dying so to be fair-- Her exp is fine but her hp isn't and her lvl is being treated like a timer of her slowly approaching doom. So even if her levels lower, it won't really affect her experience and the spells she had already unlocked. To the Universe, she's still as experienced as a lvl 99 person, it's just that now she's becoming as fragile as someone lower leveled.

She retains her more powerful spells but using those spells would backfire on her and result in a recoil that ALSO hurts her, not as much as she damages the enemies, but a significant of her hp gets taken away still.

[quatregats]

I am kind of fascinated by the Hornblower-not-matching-his-setting, though. I think that's actually been one of the things that I've thought about the most, especially in books where it's been particularly egregious (Beat to Quarters/The Happy Return, Ship of the Line, etc.). Did Forester just happen to stumble upon a brilliant character and, not realizing what a brilliant character he was, just carry on unknowingly writing him into his Swashbuckling Adventure Stories? Did he know that Hornblower was so delightfully complex but didn't know what to do with him? Did he know what to do with him but couldn't? It's also interesting to think about in the context of canon—how much of the Hornblower we see is also distorted through the lens of being a Hero of Our Glorious British Empire? How much more cruel or ignorant does he become from other perspectives? Yes, he has moral dilemmas, but if we step outside of the moral dilemmas as the books present them, what other narratives might we see?

[yurinullification]

.

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

Gee that's a tough call. The family he's had for 12 years including the two kids he's been raising, or the strangers he's known for maybe a few weeks just using him as a bodyguard in fucking France where he has a bounty on his head