#without SARCASM or CONDESCENSION

[the-punforgiven]

So, question for the Dark Souls 2 enjoyers out there, from someone who's only played SOTFS:

That thing the enemies do in places like Iron Keep and Lost Bastille where you walk through one doorway and every enemy between you and the next boss is immediately alerted to you and begins moving in for the kill, is that like, sotfs exclusive or was that in first edition Dark Souls 2 as well? I don't mean for this to sound like mean or condescending, I'm genuinely curious if this was a change that scholar made or not

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° always picking a fight

( alexis ness x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — i love ness so here's ts i wrote at 1:30 AM ( MANGA SPOILERS FOR MOST RECENT CHAPTER )

♡ word count — 1.1k

♡ content — alexis ness x fem! reader, fem! reader, established relationship, hinted that ness and reader have known each other for a while, kaiser's an ass, kaiser and reader fighting, violence ( reader slaps kaiser )

♡ synopsis — There was only two ways to describe Alexis Ness—loyal to a fault, and yours completely.

Alexis Ness thinks you’re insane.

Because who in their right mind would walk up to the star of Bastard München, Michael Kaiser, and slap him? Who would storm past the press, security, and their own boyfriend to get in the face of The Emperor himself?

But here you are—eyes blazing, voice steady despite the storm brewing in your chest—standing toe-to-toe with Michael Kaiser like you’ve got nothing to lose.

And then your hand strikes his face, sharp enough to leave a faint red mark blooming across his cheek.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you spit, words laced with venom. “How dare you talk to him like that?”

Kaiser barely flinches, though the press of his tongue to his cheek betrays his surprise. “Excuse me?” he says, voice dripping with condescension, his gaze flicking past you to where Ness is awkwardly hovering. “Ness, is this your girlfriend? You should teach her some manners.”

Your glare sharpens, and Ness stiffens behind you, already moving to intervene. “Kaiser, let’s not—”

“No, Alexis,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the tension like a knife. “Let’s not pretend this is okay.” You take a step closer to Kaiser, finger pointed at his chest. “Do you think you’re untouchable? That you can just say whatever you want and everyone’s supposed to bow down and take it? You told him to quit soccer. Do you know how hard he’s worked for this? How much he’s given up just to stand on the same damn field as you?”

Kaiser smirks, the kind of infuriating grin that makes your blood boil. “Oh, please. If he’s so delicate that one comment from me shakes him, maybe he should quit. I don’t have time to babysit dead weight.”

“Dead weight?” you echo, incredulous. “You’re one to talk. You’d be nothing without someone to pass you the ball. Or did you forget that soccer is a team sport, Your Highness?” The tone you spoke the nickname full of nothing but sarcasm and distain.

Ness steps forward, his voice soft and pleading. “(Y/N), please, it’s fine. I—”

“It’s not fine!” you snap, turning briefly to look at him, your expression softening for a fraction of a second before you whip back around to face Kaiser.

“You’re not fine. You’re allowed to make mistakes, Alexis. You’re human, no matter how much this prick thinks he’s better than everyone else.”

Kaiser raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow, Ness, you’ve got yourself a firecracker. Tell me, do you keep her on a leash, or does she just run wild?”

' Oh. ' Ness thinks.

" Oh ?" You say, your eyes narrowing and before you can think twice, your hand raises again, but Ness catches your wrist just in time. “(Y/N), stop,” he murmurs, his voice strained but gentle. “It’s over. Let’s go.”

For a moment, you’re frozen, chest heaving with anger, your glare still locked on Kaiser. But then you see the way Ness’s shoulders are hunched, how his eyes are darting to the ground as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.

And just like that, the fight drains out of you.

You let Ness guide you away, your hand still trembling in his. You can feel Kaiser’s smug gaze burning into your back, but you don’t look back.

The walk back to your shared apartment is silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Ness doesn’t say a word, and neither do you. You’re still fuming, but the anger isn’t directed at him.

When you finally step inside, the silence feels suffocating. Ness closes the door softly, setting his bag down by the wall, and you shrug off your coat with more force than necessary.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ness asks quietly, his voice cautious, like he’s testing the waters.

You shake your head, avoiding his gaze. “No.” Your voice is thick with emotion, the one syllable wavering as you hid your face from him.

But he knows you better than that. He always has.

He’s seen this pattern too many times—how your fiery outbursts always burn brightest when you’re protecting someone you love, and how the aftermath leaves you raw and vulnerable. He knows you’re trying to hold it together, but the cracks are already showing.

“(Y/N)...” Ness starts, his voice hesitant. He takes a tentative step closer, watching you carefully, like you might break if he moves too fast.

“I’m not crying,” you blurt out, your voice shaky.

His lips press into a thin line. “I didn’t say you were.”

You let out a bitter laugh, and that’s when the tears start to spill, hot and unrelenting. “He shouldn’t talk to you like that,” you choke out, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve any of it.”

Ness is by your side in an instant, his arms wrapping around you in a gentle but firm embrace. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” you whisper, burying your face in his chest. “You just don’t want to say it. You’ve always been too nice, too... loyal. Even when people don’t deserve it.”

He sighs softly, resting his chin on top of your head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache. “I didn’t mean to make you so upset.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him through tear-filled eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You never do. That’s the problem, Alexis. You let people like that shaggy haired fuck walk all over you, and it’s not fair.”

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. “I don’t care what Kaiser thinks of me,” he says softly. A lie, and you both know it.

“I care about you. And seeing you like this... it hurts more than anything he could ever say to me.” Alexis Ness had taken many verbal lashings from Kaiser, but nothing would hurt him more than seeing you hurt because of him.

You sniffle, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. “I just... I hate seeing people treat you like you’re nothing. Because you’re everything to me, Alexis. You always have been.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, his eyes searching yours. Then he pulls you close again, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, you do,” you reply fiercely, your words muffled against his chest. “You deserve everything, Alexis.”

The two of you stand there in the quiet of your apartment, holding each other as the weight of the day slowly starts to fade. You know the fight isn’t over—not with Kaiser, not with the world—but in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

All that matters is the way Alexis holds you, steady and unwavering, as if he’s trying to absorb all your pain and make it his own.

And maybe he is. Because that’s just who Alexis Ness is—loyal to a fault, and yours completely.

is ness also batshit crazy? sometimes, but i think he'd be more vulnerable with a gf

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[liafics]

[suguru geto: the cold arrangement]

☆ lia yaps: suguru being a little pervert in an arranged marriage, enemies to lovers ish, nsfw, not proofread, part 2♡

☆ warnings: subtle dubcon, sex toys mention, arranged marriage, sarcasm/condescension, subtle virginity mention, innocence kink ♡

the wedding is a grand yet cold performance. suguru geto stands tall beside his new wife, the daughter of an influential and wealthy non sorcerer family. their union is a political move, a financial agreement. they exchange rings, vows spoken without emotion, and pose for the discreet audience.

they move into their shared estate with seperate floors, an intentional design choice. they sit across from each other at dinners, biting into sarcasm rather than affection.

"you must be thrilled, marrying into power you don’t understand," geto muses, swirling his tea lazily.

"and you must be relieved, finally having access to money that isn't covered in blood," she retorts with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

their marriage is civil, but it is not kind. it is an act they both play well.

the attraction starts small. he catches himself watching her when she walks by, the way the silk of her dresses clings to her figure. she notices the way his fingers move when he taps them against a glass, the effortless strength in his grip when his hands form a fist in frustration. the tension builds in eye contact held too long, accidental touches that remain unacknowledged.

until one day, suguru discovers something. suguru doesn’t mean to snoop, not at first. yet, curiosity and boredom leads him towards her bedroom. he is her husband, after all. the bedroom smells like vanilla, he trails his fingertips along her bookshelves, eyeing the jewelry on her vanity which was a wedding gift from his cult.

then, he comes across something far more interesting. he finds it, hidden neatly in a drawer beneath her cute lingerie sets which he did not even know his wife owned. come to think of it, he does not know much about her after all. suguru finds the small collection of smut novels and a pink toy. she's more of a horny needy slut than she seems.

a smirk curves at his lips at this knowledge. and then he hears them. her soft, whiny noises from behind her bathroom ensuit door. his interest grows into something harsher, something nastier. like the pervert suguru is, he pushes the door open just enough to take a naughty peek. she’s laid comfortable in the bathtub, eyes shut and fingers between her thighs. the sight shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. he watches for too long to admit, before he decides to make his presence known.

"interesting choices you have," he mutters.

she's startled, automatically reaching to cover her chest. at the same time, her thighs press together, subtly enoying how suguru is looking at her body with a lust filled glare.

suguru runs his hands through his hair and leans against the doorframe. he is attempting to look nonchalant, irregardless of his painfully hard cock.

"you really should be reading better material. i’d be insulted if that’s all my dear wife had to go on."

she gets out of the bathtub, water trickling down her pretty body and accentuating her soft tits and hips. suguru's jaw clenches at the sight, and she shuts the door on his face. the action was rather slow and if suguru did not know better, he would have thought she is tempting him to ruin her body right there and then.

☆☆☆☆

his involvement starts as a taunt. he slides a book onto her desk, an upgrade from what she had. she ignores it at first, but eventually, curiosity wins. the next morning, the book is gone. suguru smirks to himself. then it escalates. a new book here, a suggestive cute lingerie set there. he wanted to influence her, turn his wife into a cute little pervert just for him. and then, a small, neatly wrapped package was waiting on her silk pillows. she holds it up, feining being unimpressed and disinterested.

"i suppose i should say thank you, my dear husband?"

"a housewarming gift," he says condescendingly. "wouldn’t want my sweet wife to be dissatisfied." she glares at him, yet places the package in her drawer. he notices.

a few days pass and the tension is thick. every interaction is laced with hidden lewd meanings, every feined act of disinterest charged with something else. it starts off as an argument, something trivial about dinner that neither of them actually care about. but then, she teases him.

"you seem awfully invested in my sex life, sugu."

"well, someone has to make sure a good little wife like you is satisfied. can't have your father thinking that i cannot take care of such a good little girl."

the silence between them snaps, and then they move.

it’s not gentle. it’s months of pent up frustration, months of denial. suguru's hands are rough, his kisses are anything but kind.

he cups the back of her neck with his strong hands, feeling how sensitive her delicate neck is. suguru leads her to the bed, slowly but sternly pushing her down, eyes locked with hers.

she's so fucking pretty, what a tease. she's tugging at his pants, with no hesitation and no shame. he grips her chin, as if silently demanding her patience. she listens, nodding softly and desperate for his strong touch to grasp her soft little body. suguru can tell how good she is being for him, really trying to keep her hands to herself even though she just wants to wander her hands all over his torso and feel her husband's warm skin. he places little wet kisses from her neck, trailing down to her perky chest, as if he is rewarding her for her patience. she whimpers, struggling even more to be still and be a good girl for her suguru.

"have you ever done this before?" he softly questions, genuinely wanting to learn more about her, the one who he married through such a cold arrangement.

"no, sugu." she quietly admits, the new nickname emphasising her innocence even further.

he pushes his lewd insticts aside, and instead lays next to her on her pretty silk pillows. she shifts closer to him, naturally seeking more warmth from her husband as she plays with his hair. they stay like that for awhile, neither of them speaking. no noise, apart from their soft occasional breaths. this silence is the most comfortable they both have ever been.

"you started this, my dear husband." she cheekily accuses, growing slightly shy at her recent confession. a slight insecurity makes her wonder why he did not indeed continue this.

"you could have said no, my sweet wife." he condescendingly counters her cheeky accusation, voice still low with softer sexual appetite.

☆☆☆☆

the next morning, nothing has changed. they dress, they attend a formal event, they play the perfect couple in public.

except, under the dinner table, his hand settles on her thigh. her lips part, but she doesn’t push him away. suguru smirks, sipping his wine.

this cold arrangement isn’t so bad after all.

[magicswordszin]

Affini Hypno Domme Faces You In The Marketplace Of Ideas ASMR

You are an independent terran of undefined gender, and you have found yourself collared after making some very bad choices. You are not surprised about the sedative-laden collar; that's how the Affini operate. But you are surprised that none of them were even willing to listen to your arguments! Surely if you can just find an affini to hear you out then they'll understand that you're perfectly capable of independence!

cw: non-consensual hypnotism, implied/referenced suicide attempt

You sit on your bed, seething and fingering the smooth metal of the collar that has been affixed to your neck. You aren't a floret. You aren't a floret no matter what anyone says, you haven't signed any damn contract and you aren't about to. You're still a free fucking terran and it doesn't matter what kind of a sham treaty those plants shove at you.

If they would just listen to you, if at least one would actually discuss it with you, you're certain they would understand. You aren't a raving lunatic! You aren't a babbling toddler! And…you had told your warden as much.

Screamed, more like. You aren't…proud of your loss of composure. You–

You flinch as the door suddenly opens and another affini sticks its head in. "Knock, knock," it says, grinning at you with a mouth full of thorns. This one is covered in some kind of white fur, with two big silvery eyes and a pair of antennae. "My name is Néarcta Pallas, Ninth Bloom (she/her). I heard there's a terran with some very big ideas about the philosophical quandary they've found themself in!" 

Condescension. Again. You look at your feet.

"Quite alright; your owner has already told me your name and pronouns."

You try to control your reaction but a huff of indignity still escapes at the word owner.

"Well, you look relatively well fed compared to the last batch of ferals I worked with!" Says the monster cheerfully. "But you seem so anxious, petal. Do we frighten you so badly?"

"Oh, no," You say. "Of course not! You just…came into Terran Space, compromised our governments, destroyed anything we could resist you with, and crowned yourself protectors!"

"My goodness! And, let me see…" She bends down over you and, before you can react, puts her talons around you and lifts you bodily from the bed. You yelp and squirm, but there is no escape as she carefully checks all over your body with her vines before setting you back down. "But despite all those terrible things, it seems you haven't been harmed at all!"

"Really!?" you yell, scrambling away from her. "Thank you! I hadn't noticed!"

"You're quite welcome, flower. I know some of you sweet terrans struggle to tell whether or not something has actually injured you!"

"Th-that was sarcasm!" Maybe you can't reason with these damn plants if they can't even tell what's serious and what's sarcastic!

It gives you a wide, patient, deeply intimidating smile, and a shiver runs down your spine. "See, just look at the way you're reacting," it says. "Pupils dilating, pulse accelerating, as though I, personally, constitute some kind of threat to your health!" Of course it does! Just look at those teeth, those talons, all those fucking vines and needles! "But all I'm doing is talking to you! Though, I did gently pick you up, I suppose."

"I'm not concerned about being injured," you spit. You couldn't care less. You would welcome it over what was being proposed. You take a deep breath and try to focus on the point you want to make. "Listen, I'll even let it slide that you picked me up without my prior consent."

"How gracious of you!"

"My concern," you continue, "is in regard to a document, which describes me as property, as a slave, and this fucking thing around my damn neck!"

The plant nods, and sits cross legged on the floor, its face calming somewhat. "Flower," it says conversationally, "say you saw an adorable little kitten wandering toward a busy road. Would you intervene?" You open your mouth to respond but the plant doesn't even pause what she's saying. "Of course you would! You wouldn't want that precious little thing to get hurt! Even if that darling little kitten might squirm and scratch and yell, you'd try to get it to safety!" You grit your teeth at the implication. You aren't a fucking kitten! "Why, then, do you think that we would allow you to hurt yourself?" It taps one of those long wooden claws against the lips of its mask. "And, since you seem like the type to overuse certain words, I'm afraid I require your response to be absent the words person and consent. You'll be penalized if you include them!"

"Oh, that's what we're doing now? We're playing cute little analogies?" You fume, but if this is your chance to actually get an affini to listen to you then you'll take it. "Fine. There are important things that distinguish me from a kitten. I am an adult. I am a terran. And I know that you can tell the difference between a kitten and a terran because you use the word sophont to describe one and not the other. Unlike a kitten stumbling toward a road, I have the ability to look both ways, assess the risks, and then decide whether or not it is a good time to cross." You swallow, suddenly nervous. She hadn't reacted yet with anything but attentive interest, but the affini don't usually handle criticism well. She nods, encouraging, and you steel yourself. Nothing to do but keep going.

"Because I am a sophont, I have the capacity to understand abstract ideas, like the concept of my own death. Yes, the actions I took could have resulted in my death. But I determined that the risk was worth it compared to what I was facing. You want to protect me from myself? Stop threatening me! Stop holding domestication over me! That's the reason I did it, and if there's no reason to try and cross that road then I won't have to take that risk! But you won't because you don't really care about protecting me, you care about maintaining control!" She is smiling at you, unoffended. Are you actually getting through to her? Hope starts to rise in your chest as your voice grows louder and more confident. "Ban all the words you want. That's fine. I'll still find a way to make my point. Because you can't ban the idea of self-determination. The fact is: I know the fucking stove is hot, and I don't need a caretaker to wrap me in blankets and keep me away from it!"

You climb to your feet, still not quite at eye level with the affini but closer, and look her right in those glimmering eyes. "Yes, I am clawing and biting. But don't put that on me. If you want my trust, then you need to earn it. You want to help me? You want to protect me? Do better. Show me that you care about my opinions, respect my ability to reason and make choices, and support me in making decisions that you don't fully agree with. If you're unwilling to do that, then it's clear that you see no difference between a fully grown sophont and a tiny ball of fluff. And if you can't, then I was right to make the judgement that I did."

Let's see the weed refute that!

But then she does something that surprises you. She smiles and nods again. "That's right, petal. Look me right in the eyes as you hold onto those feelings."

You swallow as scintillating colors start to spread over your vision. You'd…done it? You'd really convinced her? She's…

"You did very good. You followed my challenge to the letter and answered my question very convincingly. You are a good sophont."

Pride swells in you until you think you'll burst. You aren't some kitten! You're a logical, intelligent sophont, and more than that: you're right!

"You've been feeling so scared for so long, and I understand, petal. Some people just give in at the first sign of adversity, but not you. You're a fighter, and you've been fighting as hard as you can. But another important skill for a fighter is to know when to rest, when to conserve your strength. Right now is not the time to fight, flower."

You nod, slightly confused.

"You're feeling so good, so right, so triumphant. And I want you to hold onto that. You don't like being a floret, I know. Being called a floret makes you nervous. But I'm going to teach you a trick to make things easier."

A trick? That might be useful. You obviously hate being called a floret, because you aren't one, and you know your emotional outbursts aren't helping your case for independence.

"From now on, whenever you're called a floret, you're going to remember this feeling you have right now. This good, warm, bright feeling of rightness. It's going to remind you that it's not the time for fighting, it's the time for resting."

You nod. That makes sense.

"So, when I say that you're a good floret, you're not going to object or fight against it. You're going to remember how good and right you feel. You're going to feel yourself resting, conserving your energy. And especially when Miss Eloxochitl calls you a good floret, you're going to remember that it's not time to fight."

Yeah. You can't fight them. You have to wait. You have to keep your morale up until they're willing to listen. If you just behave yourself for a little while…

"Keeping hold of those things, remembering how nice this felt, you're going to find yourself drifting back up, and up, and back to being awake."

Suddenly, you realize you can't see anything. You reach up to find the affini's claws covering your eyes and tentatively pull them away. She allows it, and you look at her, confused, not entirely sure what's happening.

"Well, petal, I think you proved your point quite ably! Consider me bested in the marketplace of ideas!"

"You'll…you'll tell, um, my–" you don't know what to call it. The affini who calls itself your owner.

"Yes, petal, I'll tell it that you proved your point to me."

"Oh. Um, thank you."

She pats you on the head and you control your flinch. She's helping you, you should avoid offending her. "You're quite welcome, petal."

*

Later, the plant that calls itself your owner comes back. You look up attentively when it enters your room and are pleased to see that its expression seems morose.

"Miss Néarcta let me know that you made a convincing argument for your independence," it says.

You let out a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad that you're finally seeing reason. I may have had some struggles before but…"

It nods, then shakes its head sadly. "It's just too bad. I really do think you'd make such a good floret."

Your heart skips a beat as a sensation of peace and pride washes over you. "I–what? Huh?"

The plant smiles slightly. "Mmm, I was just saying to my friend how proud I was to have a good floret like you."

Another wave of happiness. It thinks you'd be a good floret? "D-do you really think so?"

"Oh, yes!" It laughs. "I know a good floret when I see one!"

You laugh along with it. It's proud of you! It's happy about you! It feels so…right, all of sudden, and you're not sure what's changed.

"Ah, well." It kneels down beside you; you flush and at its sudden closeness. "I'll take off your collar. You're free to go, I suppose."

"W-wait!" You yelp.

"Yes, petal? What is it?"

"Um, w-well… I-I… If I really would be s-such a good floret–" you sway as you say it, slumping over, and your forehead lands on the affini's shoulder. The contact feels…nice. "It'd be a waste," you finish weakly.

Tendrils twin through your hair, rubbing and scratching your scalp lightly. You shiver. "Would you like that? Would you like to be a good floret for me?"

"Yeah," you say, voice husky. "Yeah."

"Hm. I'm not sure." It withdraws, stands back up, and steps away;  suddenly you feel cold, lonely, and very small. "No, I don't think so. I was mistaken. You proved it. You're too independent to ever really be a good floret."

A thrill runs through your body, a pleasure that you're suddenly terrified to lose. "N-no! Please! I-I'll prove it! How can I prove it?"

"The same way you prove anything," It says, voice perfectly freezing. "Convince me."

"I can be a good flor–" You sway, fall off the bed, thump to your knees, then look back up at your affini so far above you. The feelings rushing through you are making it difficult to think. What had the argument been earlier? "I-I'm confused. I'm broken. I don't want to be alone. P-please?"

It bends toward you and scoops you into its vines. "Good floret," it coos. "What a good, good floret."

You giggle and squirm in its grip, waves of pleasure washing over you. You're a good floret! Everything is going to be okay! You can rest. "Now, I've got a nice dinner all ready for my very good floret. Does that sound nice?"

"Mm-hm! Thank you!"

"Aw, you're welcome petal! I love my good floret so much!"

Tears start to leak from your eyes. "I…I love you, too!"

[slashire]

one hell of a headache pt three

Summary: a week after the mission you and Sebastian were sent on, the tension grew and grew. Late night reading in the library turns out to be a good option…or a regretful choice.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

Warnings: sexual acts described MINORS DNI

WC:5530

part one part two part four

It had been a week since the kiss.

A week since you’d crashed your mouth against his in the middle of a mission, furious and breathless and too close to snapping. A week since Sebastian had kissed you back with the kind of precision and hunger that had haunted your sleep every night since.

And nothing had been normal.

If anything, it had gotten worse.

The insults were sharper. More frequent. The two of you barely made it through a hallway without exchanging barbs, and even Ciel had begun watching you both with the wary expression of a boy caught between two impending explosions. Every eye roll, every sarcastic retort, every deliberate brush of shoulders in the corridor was laced with something taut and electric that neither of you acknowledged.

You refused to talk about it. So did he.

But the silence between words said enough.

Now, on the eighth night since the mission, you sat alone in the manors east library- legs curled beneath you in a high backed chair, a thick novel propped open across your lap. The only sounds were the soft crackle of fire and the whisper of turning pages. Candlelight flickered across the dark wood shelves, bathing the room in gold and shadow.

It was late.

You knew it. But sleep has been a stranger lately. You haven't told anyone why.

The door creaked open.

You didn't look up. You didn't have to.

“I should've known the stench of arrogance would find its way in here eventually,” you muttered.

Sebastains voice was as smooth as ever. “And I should've known the source of my migraines would be ignoring curfew again.” 

You turned a page, deliberately slow. “Did Ciel send his favorite lapdog to fetch me, or are you just bored of polishing silverware and your own ego?”

“Neither,” he replied, gliding toward you with irritating grace. “You've been neglecting your schedule. Again. As the manors butler, it is my duty to remind you that sleep is necessary for humans. Even those as stubborn as you.”

You glanced up, met his gaze, and let your voice flatten. “If you're trying to mother me, you’re several centuries and one apron too late.”

He leaned against the bookshelf beside your chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with that unshakeable calm that made you want to throw the book at his face.

“Why is it,” he said casually, “that every time i try to carry out a task, you interpret it as a personal insult?”

“Because you breathe like its an act of condescension.”

“And you speak like sarcasm is an art form you're desperate to fail.”

You closed the book with a snap and stood, stalking toward him until you stood toe-to-toe, looking up just enough to glare him in the eye.

“I don't need your help. I don't need your reminders. And I certainly don't need you lurking around like some smug shadow with a superiority complex.”

“And yet,” he said, head tilting, “you never seem to ask me to leave immediately.”

“That's because I know you won't.”

“Correct.”

There it was again. That look. That unbearable, unreadable expression that danced just on the edge of amusement and something else, something hungrier, darker, caged behind centuries of control.

You hated it.

You shoved past him, heading for the door. “Fine. ill go. If only to escape your voice.”

He followed, of course. Silent as always, stalking behind you like a shadow that smelled faintly of tea and fire and rain. The library doors closed behind you both with a soft thud, and the hall stretched ahead-dark, empty, echoing with the sound of your sharp footsteps and his measured ones behind.

He caught up.

Naturally.

“You're impossible,”

“So i've been told.”

“I meant it as an insult.”

“So did they.”

You whirled on him halfway down the courier, words spilling from your mouth before your brain could catch them. “What do you want, Sebastian? Why are you always there? Watching. Smirking. Breathing down my neck like some demonic mosquito-”

His eyes flashed red, just for a second.

“Mosquito?” he repeated, tone dangerously amused.

“Bloodsucking. Annoying. Impossible to get rid of.”

He stepped closer.

You didn't back up.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You're starting to sound obsessed.”

“Obsessed? Please. I've had splinters I cared about more than you.”

“And yet here we are again. Alone. Arguing at night.”

You laughed, a sharp, bitter thing. “Right. Because you showed up in my library.” 

“Correction,” he said, stepping closer, “it's the manors library. You merely infest it.”

You turned again, storming the last few feet to your room, and when your hand hit the doorknob, his voice stopped you cold.

“Running away again?”

You froze.

Turned.

The smirk on his face was smug enough to murder.

“You think you've won something?” you snapped. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “But I do enjoy watching you pretend it isn't.”

Your hand fell from the doorknob.

You turned, slowly, jaw clenched tight, the silk and lace of your evening dress rustling with the motion. The corsets pressure at your ribs was nothing compared to the heat pounding in your head. 

You took one step toward him, then another. The corridor was empty, save for the two of you and the echoes of war that hadn't even been spoken yet. Your slippers made no sound against the polished floor, but the look in your eyes was louder than a shout.

“You really are a smug bastard,” you said, voice calm in the way broken glass is calm, still sharp, still dangerous, still seconds from drawing blood.

He didn't flinch. He stood there, one hand behind his back, the other adjusting the cuff of his glove with infuriating precision. His expression betrayed nothing but an elegant boredom that only enraged you further.

“A bastard with a point,” he murmured. “Your anger always arrives when I'm closest to the truth.”

You stepped close enough to grab the lapel of his coat, to ruin the perfect fold of fabric he’d ironed into sharp submission. “You're not close to anything but a well-deserved punch in the mouth.”

His gaze flicked downward, briefly-at your hand, curled into his coat, at the pale silk of your glove against his black wool. “If you wished to tear my clothes, my Lady, you need only ask.”

The slap came instinctively.

He caught your wrist before your palm could land. Not rough. Not tight. Just firm enough to stop you. The fabric of his glove was smooth against your skin, infuriatingly cool while your blood burned under layers of velvet and lace.

“I'm not playing your game.” you hissed.

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You're losing it.”

That was it. The last fraying thread of patience snapped.

You shoved him back against the wall, the motion sending a curl of black hair over his brow. Your dress rustles sharply as you moved, skirt catching the candlelight in the fold of dark burgundy and cream. The bodice fit tight against your chest, every breath shallow, every word sharp. You stood your ground, shoulders squared, chest heaving.

He stared down at you like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or let his more demonic nature take over.

“You infuriate me,” you snapped.

“Likewise.” he said, voice low and quiet, not bothering to straighten his coat.

“I can't go ten paces without hearing your damn voice. I can't walk through a room without you looking at me like you're above it all-”

“Because I am.”

You shoved him again.

He caught you this time, his hands gripping your upper arms through layers of satin and corset boning, and before you could throw another insult, he pressed you back against your bedroom door-hard.

Your back hit wood. His mouth hit yours.

The kiss was sudden, brutal, a collision of hatred and hunger, and you answered it with equal force. There was nothing soft in it. This wasn't  love. This wasn't even lust. This was frustration, fire, rage- everything you'd both refused to name, now screaming through clenched teeth and parted lips.

His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing over the embroidered satin of your dress before gripping your waist, pulling you closer. The corset kept your spine stiff, chest lifted, but you didn't need leverage. Your hands tangled in his coat, yanking him forward as your teeth scraped his lower lip. He groaned against your mouth, low, controlled, the sound of a man trained not to show weakness, failing just a little.

He reached behind you, turned the doorknob without looking, and you stumbled backward into your room, still fused at the mouth, still tangled in silk and fury.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stepped back. He followed.

He crowed you until the backs of your legs hit the chaise at the foot of the bed. You fell back with a gasp, skirts fanned around you like a storm had dropped you there. He loomed above you, cravat askew, coat undone. You hated how good he looked like that. Disheveled. Messy. Uncontrolled. 

He climbed over you like a shadow, knees planted on either side of your skirts, one hand braced beside your head. He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense, like he was memorizing the taste of someone he’d vowed not to want.

Your hands found his cravat, yanked it loose. His gloves hit the floor without ceremony. You felt the warmth of his bare hands through the thin lace at your wrists.

“You're insufferable.” you breathed.

“You're exhausting.” he answered, his breath fanning against your jaw.

“And yet you're still here.”

“And yet you're still under me.”

That shut you up.

His mouth was on yours again, unforgiving and hot, and the back of your head pressed into the velvet cushion beneath you as he deepened the kiss. The silk of your dress rustled against his waistcoat as he leaned down, arm braced beside your head. One knee dipped into the bed, grazing the folds of your skirts, and you hated the way your stomach twisted when you felt the weight of him settling against you.

His hands, no longer gloved, were colder than they should have been. One slipped around your side, fingers trailing the curve of your corseted waist with unsettling precision, pausing just where the whalebone cinched too tight to bend. The other found your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips like he was taking inventory of something he never should've touched.

You bit his lower lip, hard enough to punish. He barely flinched.

“Still not submitting, I see.” he murmured against your mouth.

“Try harder,” you snapped back, eyes flashing.

He growled- soft, not quite human- and kissed you again, harsher this time, like he meant to bruise. Your fingers were in his hair now, tugging, pulling, ruining that perfect slicked back style he clung to like armor. You wanted it undone. All of it. The mask, the polish, the facade. You wanted to strip away the inhuman calm and see what he was under the suit and silk.

You succeeded, just a little.

He shifted against you, mouth trailing briefly down your jaw, tongue flicking against your neck once- cold, calculated, and deliberate. A warning, not affection. The threat beneath it curled something tight inside you.

“Do you think this means anything?” you said, voice breathless as you shoved at his shoulder- not enough to move him, just to make the point.

“I think,” he said, not moving away, “that you talk far too much for someone who keeps pulling me closer.”

Your breath caught. Because it was true. Your hands had curled into the lapels of his open coat, dragging him down with each gasp and curse, as if proximity could silence the noise in your chest.

He tasted like wine and heat and something darker- something unnatural. Every kiss left you dizzy, furious, and desperate to win a battle you didn't understand. He was still above you, weight braced just barely, like he was giving you a choice to push him off, daring you to do it.

You didn't.

Instead, you surged up and kissed him again, open-mouthed and unforgiving. His hand slid down your side, over embroidered satin, across the ruffled detail at your hip, to the fine silk and lace underskirt cinched beneath it all. The weight of him settled more fully against you now, and the heat in your cheeks spread down your throat, your chest, even as your mouth curled in a sneer mid-kiss.

“You're disgusting.”

“So you've said,” he replied, teeth dragging over your lower lip.

“Do not ruin my tailoring.” he warned.

“Do not ruin my sleep schedule.”

He smiled against your neck.

Bastard.

Your breath hitched as he dipped lower, mouth trailing down the column of your throat, just above the lace collar that peeked out from the neckline of your corset. He wasn't  touching skin- yet- but he was close enough to set your nerves alight. You hated that he knew exactly how close he could get before you snapped. You hated that you haven't snapped already.

“You'll regret this,” you whispered, voice low and dangerous.

“I already do,” he said simply.

But he didn't stop.

Neither did you.

The room was too warm now. Between the fire, the layers of silk, the sheer weight of him pressing against you- it was unbearable. You didn't want to think. You didn't want to feel. You just wanted to drown in the violence of this one thing, this one place where words didn't matter and power didn't shift like sand beneath your feet.

You kissed him again, slower this time. He answered with that same cursed precision, like he wasn't  just indulging you, but studying you. It made your blood boil.

You shoved at his coat again, and he let it fall, shrugging free of it like it was nothing. You almost hated how quickly he adapted, how easily he moved between composed butler and this-this inferno in a suit.

“I swear,” you muttered between kisses, “if you hold this over me, I'll stab you with a cake fork.”

“I'm insulted,” he said, teeth grazing your collarbone through fabric. “You think I'd need blackmail. You fold quite easily when angry.”

“I don’t fold.”

 “Then what do you call this?”

You growled and rolled him off of you, climbing into his lap in one seamless, angry motion that left your skirts tangled around both of you and your breath sawing in your throat. You gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at you, those crimson eyes glowing faintly under the low light.

“This,” you hissed, “is tactical dominance.”

He looked delighted.

“Of course it is.”

You kissed him again, biting his lip for good measure. His hand gripped your hips now, the layers of your dress crinkling between his fingers as he pulled you closer. You didn't care If he tore the damn thing, you'd consider it a favor. It was too hot, too heavy, too suffocating- and not just because of the corset.

When you pulled back, both of you were breathless. His eyes were half-lidded, lips swollen, shirt wrinkled and askew. He looked, for once, less than perfect.

You loved it.

“You are going to ruin everything,” you said.

He tilted his head. “And you weren't already doing that?”

You leaned in, your mouth a breath from his. “If you tell anyone-”

“Who would I tell?” he whispered, voice gone low and rough. “The rats in the cellar? Or perhaps the dishes?”

Your breath returned between kisses, each one deeper than the last, desperate, indignant, laced with fury neither of you had language for. Your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar again, now damp with heat, clinging to him like he was the only steady thing left in the room. His mouth moved down to your throat, careful, unhurried.

But his hands-

One found your back. The other settled at your hip, palm pressing through the stiff structure of your corset, as though he could feel your racing pulse even through the layers. Then- without a word, without even breaking contact- he began to undo the laces.

It was methodical. Precise. Predictable, damn him.

You should've expected it. Of course he would know how to unlace a corset without pause, without hesitation, without even looking. He'd probably done it a hundred times. For noblewomen, duchesses, perhaps even corpses. His fingers moved easily along the back of your gown, unthreading ribbon from the reinforced eyelets like he was disarming a bomb-silent, efficient, no wasted movement.

You froze for half a second, heart hammering.

“You undo corsets like you iron shirts.” you muttered against his open mouth.

He didn't miss a beat. “That's because most corsets are less stubborn than you.”

You wanted to slap him again. Instead, you kissed him harder, frustration snarling at the base of your throat.

One last pull, and the tension in your bodice gave away with a sharp whisper of loosened silk. The sudden lack of pressure made you gasp. The corset no longer bit into your ribs. You could breathe again, but that was hardly the issue now. You could feel the loosened weight of the dress starting to slip down your shoulders, satin and lace whispering against your skin as gravity reclaimed it.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. The dress was half-undone, your skin flushed and bare in places the neckline had concealed, your breath uneven, your lips swollen. Candlelight caught the outline of your collarbones, the slope of your throat, the faint  sheen of sweat just beneath your hairline. Your eyes burned with the same fire you'd used against him for months. Only now, it wasn't  defense.

It was want.

Regret came later.

You didn't give him the satisfaction of silence. You reached behind you, shrugged on shoulder, then the other, and the gown slipped off entirely. It slid down your arms, your hips, pooling in layers of silk and petticoat around your waist and thighs, leaving only the underlayers: lace, ribbon, skin, breath.

He said nothing. His eyes were unreadable. Still red. Still unnatural. Still fixated.

You straddled him again, now without the weight of noble fabric or laced-up pride between you. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pulled him in with both fury and grace, mouth on his again before he could give some clever, cutting remark about your state of undress.

“Say one word,” you warned between kisses, “and I'll shove a candlestick where the sun doesn't shine.”

“You assume I was planning to speak.”

He leaned back just enough to let the light catch every inch of you. His hands ran over your waist, bare now, save for the thin fabric of your chemise, before sliding up your back again, as if to feel the aftermath of his handiwork. Your skin prickled under his touch. You were trembling, but not from fear.

It was this. The proximity. The heat. The unspeakable, shameful knowledge that you’d wanted this long before you ever admitted it aloud. And the fact that it was him. That it was sebastian. That it was your butler, the infuriating, flawless, hell-born butler you'd spent every waking moment fighting just to keep your sanity intact.

You hated how good he felt.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Less war, more fire. Your hands tangled in his shirt, this time tugging it from his waistcoat in one angry pull. His breath hitched- subtle, but there- and it gave you just enough satisfaction to grin against his mouth.

“You're enjoying this far too much,” you whispered.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“I was bred to serve,” he murmured, voice velvet smooth. “And you are very, very difficult to serve.”

That earned him another bite to the shoulder. He flinched, barely, and smiled.

You could feel the consequences coming. Creeping in like fog beneath the door. But neither of you moved. Neither of you stopped. There was no going back now. Only heat, and breath, and hands on skin that should never have met.

And regret could wait for the morning.

His lips didn't leave yours for long. Every kiss was a silent battle, each gasp, a truce, each bite, a declaration of war. His hands were colder now, like his patience had returned even if his restraint had not. They smoothed down your sides with quiet control, curving around the faint bones of your hips before dragging upward again, following the soft folds of your chemise with ghostlike pressure. It was only still on, not because he was hesitant, because he was toying with you. Watching you come undone in slow motion.

You loathed how methodical he was. You loathed the goosebumps he raised with a single sweep of his palm across your back, the way he paused just before slipping beneath the final fabric barrier, like he was giving you one last chance to tell him to stop.

He knew you wouldn't.

The fireplace crackled behind you, shadows moving across the room like silent spectators. His mouth moved lower again, trailing from your collarbone to the top curve of your chest, lips barely grazing lace and skin with maddening restraint. You hissed through your teeth, nails dragging lightly down the back of his neck in warning.

“If you keep kissing like that,” you muttered, voice rough, “I might start thinking you like me.” 

He huffed a low, sharp, breath, close to laughter but too bitter. “Perish the thought.”

You grabbed his cravat and yanked, throwing it somewhere else in the room. “I’d rather perish you.” 

“Such affection.” he said dryly, even as his fingers curled around your waist again, tugging you forward until you were flush against him. The heat between your bodies made your head spin. He kissed you again, deeper now, slower, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he dragged his tongue against it in apology. Your whole body responded before your mind could catch up.

You hated the way your thighs tightened around him. Hated the way your breath stuttered. But you hated him more.

Your hands slid down his chest, undoing the last buttons of his shirt without asking. The crisp white cotton gave way, revealing marble skin that shouldn't have looked real. Not on something like him. He was too perfect. Too still. Too constructed. Like a weapon dressed in a gentlemans shell. You pressed your palm flat against his chest, half-expecting it to burn.

Instead it was cool. Smooth. Infuriatingly steady.

He watched you through half lidded eyes, letting you touch, letting you explore. And it wasn't submission. It was worse. It was permission.

“Are you going to sit there smirking like an oil painting,” you said, “or are you going to help?”

“I was waiting for you to tear it off like you did my patience.”

You made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a growl.

“Fine.”

You shoved his shirt down his arms. He let it fall. The room swam with heat. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Still, you stared him down, defiant even now.

“I hope you hate this as much as I do.” you said.

“More.”

You didn't know which of you moved first. Just that your mouths collided again with enough force to bruise. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down as you fell back against the bed. He followed, blanketing your body with his again, teeth grazing your throat like he meant to devour you and restrain you at once. You arced into him, hands twisting into his dark hair, legs curling around his hips, and you felt him press against you, solid and undeniable through the last layers between you.

No one spoke. There was no need.

Just breath. Heat. Mouths and teeth. The sound of lace tearing, silk rustling, breath hitching. You didn't moan-heaven forbid- but you gasped, you bit, you exhaled his name in a curse that didn't sound like a curse at all.

And the space between you ceased to exist.

His mouth captured yours again with hunger that felt more like punishment than passion, his hands sliding down the length of your body with precision that made your skin tighten beneath his touch. Every movement he made was like he was reading you by touch alone, learning how to unravel you from the inside out.

Your chemise slipped off your shoulders. Not roughly. Not hastily. Just enough to make you feel the air against your skin before his mouth replaced it, warm, open, merciless. His lips trailed along the line of your collarbone, then lower, teeth dragging with just enough pressure to make your stomach clench. You grabbed at his arms, nails leaving faint croissants against his forearms as he mapped every part of you with maddening control.

He moved like he was still in command. Still your butler. Still the one orchestrating this chaos, even as he knelt between your thighs and let his hands roam up the backs of them, dragging you slowly toward him with a strength that made it impossible to think.

Your body shifted under his, instinctive and tense. He pressed against you deliberately, letting you feel every inch of him. The friction burned. Your breath hitched. Your back arched. His lips were at your throat again, his hands bracketing your hips, anchoring you like you might disappear if he let go.

You fought the urge to whimper. You let out something between a growl and a broken breath instead, teeth clenched, pride intact.

“Dont…dont think this means anything.” you muttered, even as your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled.

“Believe me,” he said low against your skin, “I don't.”

And still, his hands moved. And still, your body betrayed you.

You met him in equal measure, every touch, every shift of his weight answered with your own. You pushed back against him, lips swollen from kissing, thighs trembling with pressure you refused to give voice to. Your whole body was heat and tension, locked against his as if the closer you were, the less your mind could scream at you to stop.

He pressed you deeper into the bed, one hand splaying wide against your stomach, the other threading into your hair. He tilted your chin just so-just enough to expose your neck again, to make you feel it when he dragged his lips down your throat and let his breath tickle across your pulse point.

You shuddered.

And he moved again, slow and steady, and every breath caught somewhere behind your teeth.

It was maddening, the way he refused to rush. The way he held your gaze, watching the way your body reacted before doing it again, again, and again. He worked like a craftsman, silent and sure, unbothered by your insults muttered through clenched teeth and gasps.

You tried to keep the upper hand, even now. You tried to insult him, to bite him. To act like this meant nothing. But every time he moved, your resolve cracked a little more.

The bed creaked beneath you, the fire snapped in the room, and all that filled the room was the sound of breath, rustling linen, and bodies moving in rhythm. His name escaped you again, this time quieter, hoarser, like a secret you hadnt meant to say aloud.

His smirk returned when he heard it.

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against the corner of your mouth like he'd earned it.

“I'll pretend..pretend you're not en..enjoying yourself.”

“I'm always efficient.”

and then he did something that made your whole body arch, deliberate, punishing, perfect and you forgot every insult you'd ever prepared. 

Morning came slowly.

Your body was the first to betray you, aching in places you hadn't expected, sore in ways that made last night echo louder than any dream ever could. You shifted beneath the covers and felt cool cotton brushing against your skin. Not the scratchy remnants of your chemise. Not the ruined ribbons of your corset. A full linen nightdress. Clean. Soft. Modest.

Your brow furrowed.

The room was warm. The fireplace had been tended to. Sunlight stretched in pale beams across the floor, catching the faint shimmer of the discarded dress draped carefully over the chaise.

You sat up.

You were tucked in.

Tucked in.

Like some delicate little noble daughter who hadn’t just spent the entire night entangled with a demon. Like you hadn’t kissed him like you meant it. Like you hadn’t let him. You gritted your teeth. Your hair had even been brushed, neatly gathered to one side, not a single knot in sight.

And he was gone.

Typical.

You didn’t know if you were furious or grateful. Probably both. Probably more furious. You threw the blankets back with too much force and swung your legs out of bed just as a polite knock sounded at the door.

“My lady?” Mey-Rin’s voice chimed sweetly through the wood. “I’ve brought your morning dress, if you’re ready.”

You cleared your throat. “Come in.”

Mey-Rin entered carrying the usual bundle of silk, lace, and rigid propriety that passed for a day ensemble. She gave you her usual bright smile, but her eyes flicked toward the empty fireplace, then to the disturbed sheets. Her grin faltered just slightly.

“Didn’t mean to wake you early,” she said quickly, setting the dress over the screen. “Sebastian mentioned you had a long night of reading.”

You blinked. “Did he now?”

She fumbled with the hangers. “Yes, well, he said you’d fallen asleep in the library, and he carried you back. Said you were too stubborn to admit you needed rest.”

Of course he did.

Your jaw clenched as Mey-Rin helped you behind the screen and began the slow process of lacing you into a sapphire-blue day dress. It was modest, buttoned to the throat, sleeves down to your wrists, corset tight enough to remind you how hard it was to breathe around your own pride. As she worked, she filled the silence with casual chatter about weather and deliveries and Lady Elizabeth’s most recent correspondence. You heard none of it.

Your mind was still back in the library. Or on the bed. Or beneath him. The heat of his breath. The press of his hands. His voice, low and venomous, I’m always efficient.

You wanted to punch him again.

Once dressed, you made your way to the dining room, boots clicking across the polished floors of the manor. Everything looked so... normal. Like nothing had happened. Like the night hadn’t cracked something open between the two of you that you couldn’t seal shut.

The doors to the dining room opened without fanfare. Inside, Ciel was already seated at the head of the table, tea steeping beside his untouched breakfast. His eye shifted toward you briefly, then returned to the paper in his hand.

You took your usual seat across from him, posture prim and spine stiff.

Silence.

And then the door behind you opened.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

You felt it.

That impossible stillness that only came when he entered a room. The graceful glide of footsteps, soft and sharp, like a wolf pacing around a ballroom.

“Good morning, Young Master,” Sebastian said with his usual perfect cadence. “My lady.”

You didn’t look at him.

You refused.

He placed your tea beside you, then set down Ciel’s breakfast with surgical precision.

“Thank you,” Ciel murmured without looking up. “You’re late.”

“My sincerest apologies. I was detained by… unfinished duties.”

Your grip on your teacup nearly cracked the porcelain.

Ciel blinked once, then glanced between you and Sebastian. His one visible eye narrowed.

“You’re both unusually quiet.”

No one responded.

Sebastian stood at his left shoulder, expression unreadable. You sipped your tea too quickly, scalding your tongue, just to avoid speaking.

Ciel looked back and forth between the two of you, then lowered his paper entirely.

“What happened?”

You and Sebastian answered at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“An ordinary evening.”

The silence that followed was louder than any outburst.

Ciel raised a brow.

“Ordinary?” he repeated. “With the two of you involved? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

You stiffened. Sebastian didn’t flinch.

Ciel exhaled slowly, setting down his tea.

“Fine. Keep your secrets. But don’t let whatever this is interfere with your duties. Either of you.”

You nodded tightly.

Sebastian bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

Ciel gave one last look of suspicion, then returned to his paper.

But the damage was done.

You could feel Sebastian’s gaze even now, burning beneath his lashes as he stood motionless at Ciel’s side. Not looking at you. Not needing to. The tension between you buzzed like static, impossible to ignore, impossible to voice.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

William is someone who can curse terribly when he loses his patience, but if someone is present whom he doesn't want to lose face in front of (especially his friend or child), he will subtly adjust his words.

He is not the kind of person who is completely self-controlled—that is, he is not the type who would gently change "fuck" to "fudge" or "darn" like a polite person. No, he is more subtle than that.

🔧 HOW HE "REPHRASES" CURSING:

1. Switch to sarcasm and mockery instead of direct insults.

Instead of “Bloody idiot” → “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” (a tone heavy with sarcasm, even worse than outright cursing)

Instead of “For fuck’s sake” → “For heaven’s sake.” (It sounds gentle, but the tone is clearly not.)

Instead of “What the hell?” → “What in the world…?” (It sounds normal, but the tone of voice still sends shivers down the listener's spine.)

2. Use a substitute word that sounds "more polite" but still has an edge.

Instead of “Shit” → “Oh, lovely.” (Sounds fun, but there's not a bit of joy in it..)

Instead of “Damn it” → “Fantastic.” (Again, it's an unmistakable form of sarcasm.)

Instead of “Fuck” → “Bugger” / “Blast” (He's English, so when he needs to hold back, he switches to cursing in a British way a bit.)

3. Saying something that sounds very "nice," but the damage is stronger than cursing directly.

“Well, isn’t that just spectacular?” (Sarcastic to the point of wanting to punch.)

“Marvelous. Just marvelous.” (Meaning: "I'm fucking enduring a terrible suffering you bitch.")

“You’ve really outdone yourself this time.” (Meaning: "It's worse than expected.")

4. When extremely angry but still having to maintain his image, he will smile.

He will smile, but his eyes will be empty and cold. He will speak in a sweet voice, but if you understand him, you will know he is more dangerous than ever.

“Isn’t that just the funniest thing?” (Not funny at all.)

“Oh, you absolute ray of sunshine.” (Translation: "I'm stragling you in my mind.")

“Well, that’s one way to do it.” (Meaning: "Doing that is really stupid.")

5. With his children or you—when he want to curse but can't

“What in the world did I just witness?” (This is how he says "What the hell?" without using vulgar language.)

“You’ve got to be pulling my leg.” (Instead of "Are you fucking kidding me?")

“For crying out loud…” (In a restrained manner instead of cursing directly.)

“Would you look at that… Ain’t that something?” (When he is enduring something foolish but doesn't want to curse.)

💀 BONUS: When he is very angry but can't curse, he will...

He smirked, but his eyes revealed a murderous intent.

Clench his fists or bite his lip to restrain himself.

Take a deep breath, then exhale very slowly.

Staring straight into the other person's eyes in a terrifying manner, without blinking.

Place his hand on their shoulder, squeeze gently, smile subtly (very dangerous).

If you hear him say "Splendid," run away.

William has a flair for theatrics, and if he’s holding back from outright cursing, he’d dramatically overcompensate by using old-fashioned slang, theatrical phrasing, or exaggerated Hollywood-esque expressions that sound almost ridiculous—but in a way that somehow still drips with condescension and venom.

🎭 HOW WILLIAM "CURSES" WITHOUT CURSING (IN A THEATRICAL WAY)/ ALT VERSION

💀 Dramatic. Snarky. Dripping with sarcasm. A little bit ridiculous, but still terrifying if you know him well enough.

1. Old-School Hollywood Slang & Theatrical Substitutes

(Imagine a 1920s gangster film or a classic villain monologue—yes, he’d absolutely lean into that.)

“Well, ain't that a fine kettle of fish?” → (Instead of "What the f***?")

“Holy Moses on a motorbike…” → (A dramatic replacement for "Oh, for f***'s sake.")

“Good grief, Charlie Brown.” → (Instead of “Oh, hell no.”)

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” → (An over-the-top way to say "Jesus Christ!")

“Well, slap me silly and call me Sally.” → (A sarcastic reaction to nonsense.)

2. Theatrical Curses That Sound Like They’re From a Shakespeare Play

(Because if he’s going to insult someone, why not make it sound like a monologue?)

“By Jove, that was an insufferable display of buffoonery.” → (Instead of "What a f***ing idiot.")

“Are you always this spectacularly obtuse, or is today just a special occasion?” → (A long-winded way to call someone stupid.)

“Heavens above, I am surrounded by cretins.” → (A more dramatic way to say "Jesus, everyone here is dumb.")

“You blithering nincompoop.” → (A classy way of calling someone a dumbass.)

3. Grandiose, Snobby Insults (Where You Know He’s Pissed but Holding Back)

(The kind of things you'd expect a sarcastic villain to say with a smirk.)

“Marvelous. Simply spectacular. A true masterclass in poor decision-making.” → (Instead of "This is the dumbest f***ing thing I’ve ever seen.")

“You, my dear, are a walking catastrophe of astronomical proportions.” → (A more poetic way to call someone a disaster.)

“Oh, you absolute beacon of intelligence.” → (The sarcasm is practically stabbing you.)

“It truly baffles me how you manage to function on a daily basis.” → (A refined way of saying "How the f*** do you even exist?")

“An astounding display of utter incompetence.” → (In other words, "Jesus Christ, you’re stupid.")

4. When He’s REALLY Trying Not to Swear in Front of You

(This is when he’s fuming but trying to maintain his "respectable" image—so he goes for old-timey substitutes that sound silly to modern ears but were once actual swear words.)

“Son of a biscuit.” → (Instead of "Son of a b****.")

“Well, butter my backside and call me a biscuit.” → (He’s completely exasperated.)

“Sweet suffering sassafras.” → (He’s in agony.)

“Oh, for the love of Pete.” → (A tame version of "For the love of God.")

“Mother of pearl…” → (A very posh way of saying "Oh, sh*t.")

“Balderdash.” → (Instead of "Bullsh*t.")

5. If He’s REALLY Trying to Insult Someone in a Passive-Aggressive Way

(This is when he’s keeping his "gentlemanly" persona but is actually being deeply insulting—if you know, you know.)

“You must be the pride and joy of your mother.” → (Translation: "Your existence is a mistake.")

“Fascinating. Truly fascinating. Do go on.” → (Translation: "You are an idiot, but I want to hear how much dumber you can get.")

“Ah, yes. Another shining example of human ingenuity.” → (Translation: "Jesus Christ, you’re stupid.")

“Tell me, do you ever get tired of being consistently wrong?” → (Translation: "I hate you.")

“A mind like yours is truly a rare and special thing… in that I sincerely hope I never encounter another like it.” → (Ouch.)

🔪 BONUS: HOW HE REACTS WHEN YOU LAUGH AT HIS DRAMATIC INSULTS

If you laugh at his over-the-top expressions instead of taking them seriously, he will:

Narrow his eyes at you, scoff, and look away.

Mutter, “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” before trying (and failing) to look unbothered.

Cross his arms and say, “You think this is amusing, do you?” (But you can tell he secretly likes that you’re entertained.)

Eventually accept defeat and smirk—because deep down, he knows he’s ridiculous.

💀 TL;DR: If William is holding back on cursing, he goes full "theater villain" mode. Expect dramatic, old-fashioned slang, sarcastic elegance, and passive-aggressive venom disguised as politeness.

[pupmkincake2000]

Hank and Connor at work: professionalism with a shade of attachment

More headcanons! I've written almost a hundred. This time about their work (if they work together after the revolution, of course). So I'll post them in parts, ha-ha.

1. No public displays — but everyone gets it They don’t hug, don’t sit closer than necessary. But Connor always stands to Hank’s right — not closer, not farther, just where it’s right. And if one of them leaves, the other always follows him with his gaze, just a little longer than needed.

2. Connor always says “we” Not “I found the evidence,” but “we confirmed,” “we interrogated,” “we decided.” Even when he did it all himself. Because to him, partnership isn’t about divided responsibility — it’s a form of loyalty.

3. They have their own “workplace” language

“Coffee’s burning” = something’s not right at the precinct.

“Folder’s in the drawer” = let’s talk later, but it matters.

“Too hot in here” = time to leave the room before Hank explodes in front of everyone.

4. Hank immediately notices if someone speaks harshly to Connor He doesn’t start fights. He just looks at the person with an expression that leaves no room for questions. After that kind of silence, people’s respect for Connor mysteriously increases.

5. Connor adjusts to Hank’s rhythm even during interrogations If Hank starts getting agitated, Connor takes over. If the evidence is hard to process, Connor presents it calmly, slowly, almost “chewed up.” And he does it not out of condescension, but out of trust:

“I’ll take care of this, and I know you’ll do the same for me later.”

6. No one speaks aloud about their relationship — but during emergencies, they’re always called as a pair If the case is tense or unpredictable, they call for “Anderson and Connor.” Because they function as one unit. No one says what’s between them, but everyone knows:

if it’s those two — the case will be closed.

7. Sometimes they exchange glances and understand everything without words One look — and Hank knows Connor found a lead. One breath — and Connor knows Hank doesn’t trust the suspect. It’s not “telepathy.” It’s months/years of shared work multiplied by feeling.

8. Connor never interrupts Hank during questioning — unless he senses Hank needs support He respects Hank’s boundaries, even if he knows he could speed things up. But if Hank loses track or momentum, Connor steps in gently, matching Hank’s tone exactly. Later, in the car, he just says:

“I didn’t think you were wrong. I just didn’t want you to feel alone.”

9. They have different writing styles in their reports — and they don’t argue about it Hank writes emotionally, sometimes with sarcasm:

“The suspect acted like an idiot.”

Connor writes dry and precise. They don’t rewrite each other’s work. They both sign off on it — as is. Because their shared truth has two voices.

10. When Hank’s in a bad mood, Connor takes over talking to the boss If Hank is irritated, sleep-deprived, or fresh from a heavy interrogation — Connor goes to Fowler first. He speaks respectfully, clearly, without unnecessary sharpness. Then he returns to Hank and says:

“It’s handled. You can just breathe now.”

11. They don’t always agree — but they never argue in front of others Even when they disagree, Connor never contradicts Hank publicly. He might gently clarify or ask again, but the final decision — is Hank’s. And Hank, in turn, always checks later:

“You’d have done it differently, huh?” “Yeah. But I trust you.” And that’s their rule.

12. Sometimes Connor just lets Hank stand in the shadows At offsite scenes — if the case involves kids, trauma, or alcohol — it’s hard for Hank. Connor doesn’t ask “are you okay?” He simply handles the evidence, communication, forensics. And Hank stands, silent, breathing. And that’s enough.

13. Hank always takes Connor on field calls with potential danger He doesn’t say it out loud, but if there’s a risk of shooting, chase, or ambush — Hank puts himself beside Connor. Even if it means arguing with dispatch or switching team assignments.

“He’s not just my partner. He’s the only one I trust to watch my back.”

14. Hank doesn’t let anyone command Connor Even if the order comes from superiors. If someone speaks sharply to Connor, Hank steps in first:

“He’s not your machine. If you want something done — talk to me.” Even if it costs him a warning.

15. Hank doesn’t let anyone rush Connor during analysis If someone hurries Connor while he's processing a scene or data, Hank intercepts.

“You want results? Let him think. You want noise? Talk to someone else.” He doesn’t explain how Connor works. He just defends the space Connor needs.

16. Connor tracks Hank’s stress levels — not because he has to, but because he cares Even without sensors, he knows the signs: a shift in posture, the way Hank rubs his neck, the silence that stretches too long. Sometimes he gently bumps Hank’s elbow and says:

“You’re at 72%. Want to sit down or yell at something?” And Hank usually chooses both.

17. Hank notices when Connor slows his speech — and matches him If Connor’s processing something emotionally difficult, his speech cadence changes. Hank doesn’t call it out. He just slows down too. So Connor doesn’t feel alone in his pause.

18. They let each other lead — depending on the case If it’s corporate crime, Connor steps forward. If it’s street-level or personal, Hank speaks first. They don’t discuss it. They just fall into rhythm.

19. After long shifts, they don’t say “good job.” They just lean against the same wall Sometimes with arms crossed, sometimes with eyes closed. But close enough to say:

“Still here. Still together. Still doing this.” And that’s all either of them needs to hear.

20. Connor knows Hank’s schedule better than his own He doesn’t just memorize meetings and interviews — he factors in the emotional consequences. If there was a tough conversation — he leaves time for coffee. If there’s a meeting with the precinct psychologist — he prepares the report in advance so it’s easier for Hank to explain. He never says this out loud. He just does it.

21. Connor calculates when Hank is getting tired and takes over routine technical tasks If the day is long and the work repetitive, he takes over:

Paperwork, database, tasks that don’t require intuition, only energy. And he does it in a way that doesn’t feel like replacement — but support.

22. Connor always keeps Hank’s “human factor” in mind He knows when it’s better not to press with logic and just say:

“We’ll find a way.” He learns to insert pauses when Hank needs to process things. He doesn’t give advice unless Hank asks — but he’s always ready when he hears: “Okay, genius. What would you do?”

23. Hank always checks if Connor’s comfortable — even when Connor says he’s fine Even if Connor says he doesn’t mind, Hank straightens the chair, adjusts the backrest, moves unnecessary files from the desk. Not because Connor is physically uncomfortable — but because Hank thinks:

“If you’re my partner — you deserve at least what I get. Even if you don’t ask.”

24. Hank steps in when Connor starts sounding “too much like a machine” He doesn’t see it as a mistake. But he knows: when Fowler or someone else rolls their eyes at “data overload” — Hank interrupts not because Connor “can’t handle it,” but because he doesn’t want him to feel isolated.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve got stats. But from a human side — everything’s under control.”

25. Connor always walks out of the precinct with Hank — not because he has to, but because he wants to He doesn’t say: “I’ll walk you out.” He just picks up his coat and walks beside him. Sometimes it’s a coincidence. Sometimes it’s not. But every time Hank doesn’t ask why. He just nods:

“It’s like you knew I didn’t want to drive alone.”

“I knew. But it’s not pity. It’s a choice.”

26. If a case involves children — Hank always offers for Connor to handle the evidence He doesn’t say why. But Connor understands. And accepts silently — not because “he doesn’t care,” but because he respects someone else’s pain. Later at home, Connor brings Hank a drink without asking how he’s doing. And that’s enough.

27. Hank keeps himself closer to the door if there’s a threat He doesn’t “shield” Connor. He instinctively places himself between Connor and the source of danger — like a shield. Even though he knows Connor is stronger, faster, more accurate. Because love isn’t logic. It’s

“I won’t allow it.”

28. In a shootout, Hank always checks Connor before the target He does it faster than drawing his weapon. One glance — to confirm Connor is alive, safe, aware. Only then — he fires.

29. Connor always calculates risk ahead of time — and simplifies the plan for Hank He doesn’t present it as “this is how it must be,” but gently:

“If we take the side entrance, your chance of getting shot drops by 36%.” “It’s not an order. It’s protection.”

30. If Hank is in danger — Connor breaks protocol instantly No analysis. No algorithm. Just reaction. He intercepts, takes the hit, throws himself in — whatever it takes. And when Hank asks:

“Why did you do that?” He answers without drama: “Because I wouldn’t be able to continue if you disappeared.”

I'll continue later!

[jamal127]

Something in the rain

Gojo x reader, academic rivals

Word count: 2.2k

Authors note: Based on this request! Not proofread

In a bustling street corner of Tokyo, a young woman named Y/N sat at a small, weathered café, sipping her hot matcha latte. Her eyes were fixed on the pedestrians passing by, each one a story waiting to unfold. She had always loved people-watching, finding comfort in the anonymity and predictability of the city life. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the next-door bakery, mixing with the aroma of sizzling yakisoba from the food cart across the street. A soft breeze played with her hair, hinting at the approaching spring.

Y/N was an ambitious academic, her nose always buried in a book or her laptop. Her field of expertise was the psychology of human relationships, specifically the complex dance of attraction and repulsion that often existed between rivals. Little did she know that the very subject of her latest paper would soon walk into her life in the form of Gojo Satoru, a fellow scholar and her new neighbor.

Their first encounter was less than ideal. Gojo, with his piercing blue eyes and unruly white hair, sailed through the café door like he owned the place. His tall, lanky frame was a stark contrast to the cozy, intimate setting, and his arrogant demeanor was palpable. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on Y/N for a brief second before dismissing her and claiming the table next to hers. She felt a twinge of annoyance at his presumptuousness but tried to focus on her work.

As she typed away on her laptop, the sound of his voice grew louder. He was speaking to the barista, a young girl who looked visibly intimidated by his overbearing presence. He was arguing about the specific temperature at which his coffee should be served, his voice carrying an undertone of condescension. Y/N couldn't help but roll her eyes and sigh, her fingers pausing mid-sentence. She had always found it fascinating how certain people could command a room without even trying.

Their eyes met again as he settled into his chair, and she felt a strange mix of irritation and intrigue. He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste before slamming it down on the table. She couldn't resist the urge to smirk at his dramatic display. "Your coffee not to your liking?" she quipped, her voice a sweet blend of curiosity and sarcasm.

Gojo looked up, his eyes narrowing at her. "It's lukewarm," he grumbled, not bothering to hide his disdain.

Y/N couldn't help but laugh lightly. "Maybe you should've specified that when you ordered?" she suggested, her voice teasing.

Gojo's eyes flashed with something akin to surprise before a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe I should've," he conceded, his voice smooth as silk. "But where's the fun in that?"

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

Their rivalry began in earnest at a local academic symposium, where both had been invited to present their research. Y/N had spent weeks preparing a paper on the psychological underpinnings of rivalry and its effect on collaboration. Gojo, on the other hand, was known for his cutting-edge work on the cognitive patterns of the elite. As they took the stage, the tension between them was palpable, a silent challenge that electrified the air.

Their presentations were flawless, meticulously crafted to showcase their intellect and prowess in their respective fields. As they stepped down from the podium, the room buzzed with anticipation for the Q&A session. The first question directed at Y/N was about the potential for growth within a competitive framework, and she delivered a well-reasoned response. Her eyes flicked over to Gojo as she emphasized the need for mutual respect and understanding.

Next, Gojo was asked a question about the limitations of his research. Without missing a beat, he acknowledged the criticisms and presented a compelling rebuttal that had the audience nodding in agreement. Yet, as he spoke, his gaze remained on Y/N, a silent challenge in his eyes. When it was her turn to ask a question, she stood and approached the microphone, her heart racing. She knew this was the moment to establish her dominance.

"Your work on cognitive patterns is fascinating, Gojo-san," she began, her tone cool and composed. "However, I can't help but wonder if there's not a darker side to such intense focus on individual superiority. Does it not risk stifling creativity and collaboration?"

Gojo leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening into a full-fledged smile. "Ah, Y/N-san," he drawled, using her surname in a deliberate power play. "Always eager to dissect the human psyche, aren't we?" He took a moment to gather his thoughts before delivering his response with the grace of a seasoned debater. "While I appreciate your concern for the collective, my research suggests that true innovation often arises from a clash of ideas between equally matched adversaries. The drive to outperform can be a catalyst for growth."

The crowd murmured, clearly torn between the two academics' differing viewpoints. Y/N felt a spark of frustration but knew she had to keep her cool. She took a deep breath and stepped up to the podium once more. "And what of the emotional toll such a cutthroat environment can take?" she asked, her voice steady. "How does that affect the individuals involved?"

Gojo's smile didn't waver. "Emotions are merely data points in the grand scheme of things," he said dismissively. "They can be managed, just like any other aspect of the human condition."

Y/N felt a surge of indignation at his cold analysis of human feelings. She knew firsthand the pain that could come from academic rivalry, having sacrificed much of her personal life for her career. "Data points?" she echoed, her voice rising slightly. "You're speaking as if people are nothing but numbers on a page!"

The room grew quiet, the tension thickening. Gojo's smile remained, but there was a glint in his eye that suggested he was enjoying the intellectual sparring as much as she was. "Aren't we all just complex algorithms, Y/N-san?" he countered, leaning forward in his chair. "Our emotions, our choices, all of it can be broken down and understood if we're willing to look closely enough."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "And what happens when those algorithms malfunction? When the desire to win overpowers the pursuit of knowledge?" she shot back.

Gojo's smile grew into a full-blown grin, revealing a set of perfectly straight teeth. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it," he said, his voice low and mesmerizing. "It's when we're pushed to our limits that we discover what we're truly capable of. Without challenge, we stagnate."

Their verbal sparring continued, with each point met with a counterpoint and each question answered sharply and insightfully. The audience watched on, captivated by their dynamic. As the session came to an end, the thunderous applause was a clear indication that they had stolen the show.

After the symposium, they found themselves unable to avoid each other. Their paths crossed in libraries, at academic socials, and even in the quiet corners of the university where they often sought solace. With each encounter, the rivalry grew stronger, their banter more heated, and the lines between professional competition and personal attraction began to blur.

One rainy afternoon, Y/N stumbled into Gojo's office, seeking refuge from the storm. She was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered against her face, and her glasses foggy with condensation. Without looking up from his paperwork, Gojo gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Take a seat," he said curtly. "You're dripping everywhere."

Y/N complied, shivering slightly as the cold air of his office hit her damp clothes. She watched as he neatly arranged his notes, his hands precise and methodical. "Thanks," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo looked up, his expression unreadable. "For what?"

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "For not letting me drown in my own pride," she replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Gojo's eyes flicked up to meet hers, a glimmer of amusement in his gaze. "You're quite welcome," he said, his tone dry. He paused in his work, his eyes lingering on her. "But don't get too comfortable. I don't tolerate distractions for long."

Y/N leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, I'll be quick," she said, her voice a little steadier now. "I just wanted to thank you for not letting me embarrass myself at the symposium. I know we disagree, but I respect your work."

Gojo studied her for a moment before his gaze softened slightly. "Your paper was intriguing," he admitted, his tone less confrontational. "It's not often someone challenges me in such a... compelling way."

The air between them shifted, the tension of their rivalry giving way to something more nuanced. Y/N felt a warmth spread through her chest. "I didn't mean to challenge you," she said. "I just wanted to understand."

Gojo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Understanding is the key to all things, isn't it?" he mused. "But sometimes, it's the journey to that understanding that reveals more than the destination."

The rain pattered against the window, casting a soft glow into the room. Y/N felt a strange sense of peace in the middle of their usual battleground. "What's your story, Gojo-san?" she asked, the formality of their rivalry slipping away.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise flashing across his face. "My story?" He paused, considering his words. "It's a tale of ambition, much like yours, I suspect."

Y/N nodded, curiosity piqued. "You're right, I am ambitious," she admitted. "But what drives yours? What makes you so... intense?"

Gojo leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. "Intense?" He repeated the word as if tasting it. "I suppose it's the pursuit of the untouchable. The thrill of unlocking the human mind's secrets before they're lost to time." His eyes took on a distant look, reflecting a passion that burned brighter than the neon lights outside.

"But that's not all of it, is it?" Y/N pressed, her voice gentle. She had a knack for drawing people out of their shells, for finding the humanity beneath the intellectual armor.

He sighed, his gaze returning to hers. "No, it's not." For the first time since their rivalry had begun, Gojo's guard slipped. "My family... they've always been the most brilliant minds in the academic world. The pressure to live up to their legacy is immense. It's like I'm fighting against the very fabric of who I am, trying to carve my own path while carrying the weight of their expectations."

Y/N felt a pang of empathy. She knew all too well the burden of living up to the shadows of greatness. "That's a heavy load to bear," she said softly. "But you're doing it. You're making a name for yourself."

Gojo's gaze remained fixed on hers, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "It's never enough," he murmured. "There's always someone ready to knock me down, to prove that I'm not as great as everyone seems to think."

Y/N leaned forward, her own burdens momentarily forgotten. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone," she said firmly. "Your work speaks for itself. You're brilliant, Gojo-san."

He gave a wry smile. "And you're not so bad yourself, Y/N-san."

The rain had slowed to a gentle patter, and the room was filled with the sweet sound of silence. They sat there, neither one willing to be the first to break the spell. The air was thick with something new, something unspoken as if their rivalry had been a dance and they had just discovered a shared rhythm.

Gojo took a deep breath and stood, walking over to the small bookshelf by the window. He pulled out a book titled "The Psychology of Rivalry and Its Impact on Human Behavior." Y/N's heart skipped a beat as she realized it was one of her earlier works. "You've read this?" she asked her voice a mix of surprise and pride.

He nodded, turning the pages idly. "I have," he said. "Your theories are... intriguing. But I have to admit, I never thought I'd see you in the flesh."

Y/N felt a blush creep up her neck. "You've read my work?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

Gojo nodded, his eyes never leaving the book. "I have a... keen interest in understanding my adversaries," he said, his tone teasing. "And you, Y/N-san, are quite the formidable adversary."

Y/N couldn't help but laugh at that. "Is that what you call it?" she teased. "Adversaries who share an umbrella and discuss philosophy in the rain?"

Gojo looked up from the book, a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. "Well, when you put it that way..." He trailed off, his gaze lingering on her. "Perhaps we're not as different as we thought."

The rain had almost stopped, leaving a gentle hush in the air. Y/N stood, feeling the weight of their conversation settle in her chest. "Maybe we're not," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe we're just two people who found themselves on the same stormy path."

Gojo looked up, his eyes searching hers. "Perhaps we should walk that path together," he suggested, a tentative note in his voice. "Collaborate, instead of compete."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. The idea of joining forces with Gojo was both thrilling and terrifying. "I... I think that could be interesting," she said, her voice wavering slightly.

©jamal127 ✧ all rights served. || 2025  (≖ᴗ≖✿)

@gojobiggestslut

[juicebuck]

genuinely when have we ever seen Tommy show an inkling of soft emotion lol

like if he’s so gentle and kind and what sad baby Buck needs instead of the harsh treatment he’s used to then where is the actual evidence of that

I’m struggling to think of a single example of him treating someone with anything but condescension or sarcasm

one of the first things he ever did when they started dating ON THEIR FIRST DATE was make a sly remark about buck being in the closet that could have potentially outed him to eddie like. okay. buck's first date with a man btw. which tommy knew. because buck literally told him. and then he left him on the sidewalk without having any sort of discussion.

[muiitoloko]

Bound by Chaos

Summary: In a relationship fueled by danger and chaos, you and Hans navigate a thrilling, toxic dance of power and control. Despite the constant clashes, your dark passions bind you together, creating an unbreakable yet destructive bond.

Pairing: Hans Gruber × Fem! Reader

Warning: Smut, Domestic Conflict, Manipulation, Weapon Use and Threats.

Author's Notes: So, creativity struck and I wrote this, but now that I've edited and read it, I'm starting to wonder if I might have created some big toxic mess? 🤔

Also read on Ao3

You and Hans were fighting again. It seemed like a constant in your relationship, the way you clashed like a dog and a cat. The bedroom was filled with the tension of yet another heated argument, your voices raised, each trying to outshout the other.

"Hans, I can't believe you think it's okay to take such risks!" you yelled, your frustration palpable. "Do you have any idea how dangerous your life is?"

Hans, his brown eyes flashing with anger, shot back, "And you think your life is any different? You're involved in just as many illicit activities as I am. We deserve each other, to be honest."

You both paused, breathing heavily, the reality of his words hanging in the air. It was true; both of you lived dangerously, involved in businesses that thrived in the shadows. There was a mutual understanding that your relationship was toxic, but neither of you cared at the end of the day. You thrived on the chaos and the danger.

"Don't you dare turn this around on me, Hans," you said, your voice lower but still seething with anger. "I may be involved in some shady dealings, but at least I don't go around putting our lives at risk for a thrill."

Hans laughed, a cold, mocking sound that sent chills down your spine. "You think I do this for a thrill?" he asked, his German accent slipping away to be replaced by a flawless American drawl. "I do this for survival, just like you."

"Survival?" you scoffed, crossing your arms. "You have a strange way of showing it. It's like you enjoy playing with fire, dragging us both into the flames."

Hans's eyes narrowed, his hooked nose casting a shadow over his intense gaze. "And you don't?" he challenged, his voice now taking on a British accent, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You love the danger just as much as I do. Admit it."

You hesitated, knowing he was right. There was a part of you that thrived on the adrenaline, the constant threat looming over your heads. It was a twisted kind of love, destructive yet addictive.

But you would die before admitting this to Hans, knowing that it would make you lose the argument. You glared at him, your jaw set in defiance. "Fine," you snapped. "If you're going to be that stubborn, sleep on the couch."

Hans scoffed, his tone dripping with condescension. "It's my house too," he replied smoothly. "If you don't want to sleep next to me, you go sleep on the couch."

You clenched your fists angrily, feeling the frustration boiling over as you watched Hans climb into bed. He made a show of stretching out, taking advantage of the entire space, mocking you with his every move. His brown eyes sparkled with amusement, and his lips curled into a smug smile.

Turning on your heel, you stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind you with a force that rattled the frame. Hans's mocking laughter echoed in your ears, fueling your rage. You paced the hallway, your mind racing with anger and the need to assert control.

A few seconds later, you returned, your eyes blazing with determination. Without hesitation, you straddled Hans, brandishing a gun that you pointed directly at his head. Hans didn't even blink, his self-confidence evident as he remained calm, his hooked nose casting a shadow over his intense gaze.

"Do you think you can intimidate me with that?" Hans asked, his voice low and mocking, his flawless German drawl returning.

You pressed the barrel of the gun harder against his forehead, your eyes locked onto his. "You think I'm playing games, Hans?" you hissed, your voice trembling with fury.

Hans's lips curled into a sly smile. "Oh, I know you're serious," he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he switched to a British accent. "But you won't pull that trigger. You need me too much."

Your grip on the gun tightened, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "I don't need anyone," you shot back, your voice laced with venom. "Especially not a self-serving bastard like you."

Hans's hand moved slowly, his fingers gently brushing your thigh. "Is that so?" he murmured, his voice taking on a seductive edge. "Then why are you here, straddling me, brandishing a gun, if not for the thrill?"

You hated how his touch sent shivers down your spine, how his words seemed to cut through your defenses. "Shut up," you growled, trying to maintain control.

Hans's smile widened, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement. "Admit it," he whispered, his voice a seductive purr. "You crave the chaos. You thrive on the danger. Just like me."

You felt your resolve wavering, the intensity of his gaze and the truth in his words cutting through your anger. But you couldn't let him win, not like this. "I won't let you drag me down," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hans's hand moved higher, his touch both soothing and infuriating. "Oh, but you already have," he said softly, his lips brushing against your ear. "And you love it. Just as much as I do."

You wanted to deny it, to push him away, but the heat between you was undeniable. The gun trembled in your hand, your anger mingling with a dark desire that you couldn't ignore.

"Put the gun down," Hans whispered, his voice commanding and gentle at the same time. "And let's see where this takes us."

With a growl of frustration, you threw the gun aside, your lips crashing onto his in a fierce, desperate kiss. Hans's arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as the tension between you erupted into a whirlwind of passion and fury.

The line between love and hate blurred, the danger and chaos of your relationship becoming a powerful, consuming force. In that moment, you both surrendered to the darkness, knowing that it was what bound you together, what made you thrive.

And as the night wore on, the echoes of your argument faded, replaced by the raw, primal intensity of your connection. You both knew that this was your reality—a toxic, thrilling dance that neither of you could escape. But in the heat of the moment, none of that mattered. All that existed was the fire between you, burning brighter than ever before.

You broke the kiss, trailing kisses down Hans' jaw to his chest. He was shirtless, just wearing sweatpants, while you were still dressed in a nightgown, both of you having been ready to sleep when the argument had started. Your lips moved with a determined precision, tasting the salt of his skin as you descended further.

Hans’s breath hitched as you swirled your tongue around his nipples, knowing exactly how to make him react. But you didn’t linger there long, continuing your journey downward. His hands tangled in your hair, a silent command to keep going, his body betraying his desire despite his stoic facade.

When you reached the waistband of his pants, you glanced up, catching the glint of control in his brown eyes. He always seemed to maintain that cool, calculating demeanor, no matter how intense the situation. But tonight, you were determined to make him lose that control, to break through the sophisticated exterior.

You tugged at the waistband, your fingers brushing against the hardness beneath, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Hans. “You think you can keep control, Hans?” you murmured, your voice a mix of challenge and seduction. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Hans smirked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “Do your worst, darling. I doubt you can break me.”

You pulled his sweatpants down, freeing him from the fabric's confines. Your hand wrapped around his length, giving a firm stroke that elicited a soft groan from him. His reaction spurred you on, fueling your determination. You wanted to see him unravel, to lose the calculated composure he always held.

You took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before taking him deeper. Hans’s grip on your hair tightened, a low growl escaping his lips. You worked him with a deliberate pace, your movements precise and skilled, aiming to break the control he clung to so fiercely.

“Fuck,” Hans breathed, his voice a strained whisper. You felt a surge of satisfaction at his reaction, knowing you were getting to him. His hips began to move, subtly at first, then more insistently as you continued, the rhythm of your mouth and hand driving him closer to the edge.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. His brown eyes were dark with desire, his expression a mix of frustration and lust. “Still in control, Hans?” you teased, your voice muffled but dripping with challenge.

Hans’s jaw clenched, a strained smile on his lips. “You think you can break me, Liebchen? Keep trying.”

You increased your pace, your mouth and hand working in tandem, pushing him closer and closer. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his grip on your hair almost painful, but you didn’t relent. You could feel him teetering on the brink, the tension in his body signaling his imminent release.

“Scheiße,” Hans cursed, his voice breaking. You could see the cracks in his composure, the cool, calculated exterior giving way to raw, unfiltered need. You took him deeper, the intensity of your actions driving him over the edge.

But you pulled away with a smirk, denying his orgasm. Hans growled in frustration, but you silenced him by grabbing his bearded chin. As you straddled him again, you squeezed his chin, your eyes locking onto his. "How many times have I told you to shave this ridiculous beard off your face?" you demanded.

Hans grabbed your wrist, pulling it away as he turned you around, now pinning you beneath him. "This beard stays," he growled, his voice a mix of defiance and desire. He then slapped your thigh, a sharp, stinging sensation that made you gasp. "Turn around and present that nice ass to me."

You did as he commanded, lifting your ass in the air while Hans pulled up your nightgown. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he revealed that you were without panties, a habit he particularly enjoyed. "Always ready for me," he murmured, his hands caressing the curves of your bare skin.

Hans positioned himself behind you, his fingers teasing your entrance before he thrust into you with a force that made you cry out. The intensity of his movements was both punishing and exhilarating, each thrust driving deeper as he took control.

"You love this, don't you?" Hans growled, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive strength. "You love it when I take you like this, raw and rough."

You moaned in response, the sensation overwhelming as he filled you completely. "Yes, Hans," you panted, your voice thick with desire. "I love it. Don't stop."

Hans slapped your ass again, harder this time, the sting mingling with the pleasure. "Good girl," he muttered, his pace increasing. "You're mine, do you understand? Mine to control, mine to pleasure."

You laughed at Hans's declaration, looking over your shoulder with a mocking grin. "You think you can control me?" you teased, your voice laced with challenge.

Hans's expression darkened, and he was having none of it. Reaching out, he grabbed the back of your neck and pushed it down, pressing your face into the pillow to silence your laugh. "Quiet," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I’m not done with you yet."

He continued to move inside you, his thrusts hard and relentless, each one driving deeper as he asserted his dominance. Your muffled moans filled the room, a mix of pleasure and frustration as he took you with a ruthless intensity.

But then, Hans's eyes caught sight of the gun thrown haphazardly next to the bed. With a sudden, calculated decision, he pulled away from you, leaving you empty and protesting. "Hans, what are you—" you began, but your words were cut off as he ignored you, picking up the gun.

He deftly removed the bullets, letting them scatter on the floor. The metallic clinks were sharp in the silence that followed. Hans’s focus was unyielding as he walked back to you, the gun now just a cold, empty shell in his hand.

Without a word, he pressed the metal barrel of the gun against your entrance, the coolness of the steel sending a shiver through your body. "You think you can mock me?" Hans's voice was a dangerous whisper. "You think you can laugh at my control?"

The sensation of the gun against your most intimate place was electrifying, a twisted mix of fear and arousal that made you gasp. "Hans," you whimpered, your body trembling with anticipation and need.

He moved the barrel teasingly, circling your entrance without penetrating, making you writhe with frustration. "You wanted control," he murmured, his voice dripping with dark promise. "Now you'll see what true control feels like."

With agonizing slowness, he pushed the barrel inside you, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your desire. The sensation was intense, sending jolts of pleasure and fear through you. "Do you feel that?" Hans asked, his voice a seductive growl. "That’s the feeling of being truly at my mercy."

You moaned, your body arching as he moved the gun inside you, each thrust measured and deliberate. "You belong to me," he continued, his tone possessive and commanding. "Every part of you."

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the combination of fear and arousal driving you to the brink. "Yes, Hans," you panted, surrendering to the dark, intoxicating power he wielded over you.

Hans's movements grew more forceful, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you. "Tell me you love this," he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Tell me you crave my control."

"I love it," you cried, your voice muffled by the pillow. "I crave your control, Hans. I need it."

A satisfied smile curled on Hans's lips as he drove the gun deeper, his other hand gripping your hip with bruising force. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Now scream for me."

And scream you did, your body shuddering with the intensity of your release, the sensation of the cold metal and Hans's unyielding dominance pushing you over the edge. The room was filled with the sound of your pleasure, a testament to the dark, consuming connection between you.

As you lay there, spent and trembling, Hans pulled the gun out slowly, his touch almost gentle now. "Remember this moment," he said softly, his voice still tinged with that dangerous edge. "Remember who you belong to."

You nodded weakly, your body still trembling from the intensity of the experience. "I will," you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction.

Hans leaned down, pressing a possessive kiss to your shoulder. "Good," he murmured. "Now, rest. You'll need your strength for what comes next."

As he settled beside you, his body warm and solid against yours, you couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of contentment. In the chaotic, dangerous world you both inhabited, this was your reality—a dark, intoxicating dance of power and control that neither of you could resist.

And as you drifted off to sleep, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together, bound by the dark, consuming passion that defined your relationship.

[kairiscorner]

Could you do a spoiled!f! Reader and Miguel as her bodyguard? She has a boyfriend who's garbage but she's not used to anything healthy?

hello !!! oh damn, i really like this idea >:D I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS !!

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

it's my job to care — bodyguard!miguel o'hara x spoiled!fem!reader

summary: he was a hardened man and knew how to get what he wanted out of people, but when it came to you, that was easier said than done. he does his best to protect you from anybody that'd pose as a threat to you, but when he caught you crying about your asshole of a boyfriend... he feels like he failed to protect you like he swore he'd do. word count: 1,011

author's note: man i wanna write more about this trope, TEEHEE !! might make more of this in future, or not, but we'll see.

miguel looked at you through the rearview mirror and saw you gloomily staring at your phone, the glare coming from the screen illuminating your face and showing signs of you tearing up a little. "you might get car sick, don't go on your phone in a moving vehicle." he said as he shifted his gaze from you to the road. surprisingly, you followed him and put your phone away, then you leaned your head against the window and stared at the road and trees passing you by. miguel wasn't used to you not spitting out snarky comments at him or calling him an 'old man' when he was about your age.

miguel took in a breath and looked over at you again. "...did something happen?" he asked you in a softer voice as you shook your head and sighed. "just feeling shitty is all." you murmured as you lay down on the seats. miguel played some music for you, but you immediately groaned for him to turn it off. "what's wrong, you like it when i play that music for you." "i hate that artist." "not yesterday you didn't. you keep singing their songs all the time, wasn't it your boyfriend who–" "please. not another word about that... ugh." you muttered as miguel got the hint and stopped talking about him. miguel couldn't really take the silence as the car ride prolonged, it put him in an uneasy disposition. he sighed and pulled up at your favorite fast food place and parked the car in the parking lot. he got out of the car, and as you looked at him quizzically, he opened the door and extended his hand out to you. "you didn't seem like you liked the food at the party when i came in with you, figured you wanted to come here instead." he said as you took his hand and went inside with him.

you felt so out of place with the people in there, what with being at your boyfriend's party and dressing a little less modestly, but miguel was always a step ahead as always and gave you his blazer to cover you up. he buttoned it for you so nobody would see a thing. "sorry if it's too big." he apologized as you muttered a "don't worry about it". miguel asked you what you wanted, as you told him everything you wanted, he nodded and murmured, "i was right, it'd be the usual, huh." you were surprised he paid attention to what you liked and even offered you his blazer, you've never really had anybody else in your life do that for you before he did it for you.

before miguel ordered, he looked at you and quickly guided you to a vacant seat. "you don't have to stand and wait for me, it's fine." he said as he went back in line to order. as he came back, he sat across you and looked at you with a hint of worry in his eyes. "so... what's got you in a 'shitty' mood, princess?" he asked you without a hint of condescension or sarcasm, instead, his voice was filled with genuine curiosity and concern. you sighed as you debated with yourself whether or not to tell him what happened at the party when you insisted miguel could stay at the car. you fidgeted with your fingernails as you exhaled. "...my boyfriend didn't... keep his promise." you whispered, which miguel still heard loud and clear.

he folded his arms as he leaned closer towards you. "what was that promise?" he asked you as the food soon arrived. you sighed and slowly, as you ate, you began to open up to miguel about how your boyfriend promised to hang out with you more recently, but every time, he failed to do so, giving you the same stupid excuse and promise to make it up to you. but even at his own party, where you were the guest of honor, he couldn't even do that. but as you spoke, you found yourself complaining and ranting about how inadequate everything else about your boyfriend was, how he never showed excitement in anything you were proud of, how he keeps asking you why you can't be like the other girls he knows, why you keep seeing other guys and not him when he's trying to hang out with you more–he was awful.

miguel listened to you the whole time, never once butting in and offering an unnecessary opinion nor gaslighting you as to why you were so unsatisfied with your boyfriend. as the tears you were holding in started falling from your eyes, miguel hurriedly offered you a handkerchief from his pocket. "i'm so sorry to hear that, he's... a son of a bitch." he said as he looked at your eyes that were reddening and glistening. "he is..." you found yourself agreeing to him as miguel offered you his water. "i know i'm just a bystander here, but, don't feel compelled to stay with him if all he's been doing is hurting you." he said as he looked at you with kind eyes.

you looked at miguel from underneath your wet eyelashes, and you sobbed out a 'thank you' to him for, well, everything. before miguel could give you any 'you're welcome', he excused himself and went outside for a minute. he came back soon, though, with a small bouquet of roses in his hand. "for the prettiest, yet brattiest, princess i know. sorry today didn't go as expected, but i hope this might cheer you up, even just a little bit." he said with a quiet voice as he handed the bouquet to you. he had hoped the small gift he gave you was enough to make you feel at least a little bit happier, though little did he realize, he's shown you much more love than you've ever received from your boyfriend–or any partner–who's ever loved you, ever.

maybe he'll be the first one to ever treat you the way you deserve to be treated, maybe.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @luvstarrstruck @jrrantss @fiannee @fictarian @yuridopted0 @ophanimgold

[baddingtonbitch]

so like... i know that tumblr is famously the home of piss on the poor reading comprehension and that there will always be people who use their inability/refusal to read tone as license to act however they want online but it's still a little incredible to me that people saw THIS post of mine and took it as not only a serious statement of fact, but a malicious attempt to misinform the public and an open invitation for earnest discourse, hostility, mockery, accusation, and condescension.

(note the muted notifications lol)

like....i would have thought that my use of the term "spoon brain" would be enough for most people to understand that this is me playfully dunking on the people around me and myself in a facetious aside about my jaded REACTION to a sensational piece of (now debunked yet widely reported and still unretracted) mainstream news about human brains...but apparently not! i posted this off the cuff in two seconds, without tags, for the maximum intended audience of my mutuals and followers who were online at the time, and all of them easily understood my tone and intent and gave the handful of notes i expected. about a week later a bunch of tonedeaf strangers found it, took it literally, and blew it up into tens of thousands of notes of bad faith discourse and acted in ways i'm still cringing about, but that really has nothing to do with me. the absurdity of this reaction is clear to anyone who knows me, has followed me for more than two seconds, or has even a passing familiarity with the concept of sarcasm, so there's nothing really here for me to defend or apologise for. i'm mainly writing this for anyone who comes to my blog because the contrived discourse has them feeling feisty. before you act up in the notes or send me another snide or combative anon please let me remind you that i am a human being with feelings and there is only so much second hand embarrassment i can take lmfao

[wh0r3-for-klaus]

draco malfoy x sister whose dating theo and like draco is lowkey a bully to her and she takes the spell for one of them and dies and they reminisce

I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind, but I hope you like it! I tried to make it so they reminisced together and separately. Warnings: death, grief, Draco being remorseful for his d!ckhead past self, I think that's it? Let me know what you think in the comments. If you want to be added to my tag list, leave a comment. My works are not to be reposted.

Beneath the Malfoy Oaks.

~~~

Dinner in Malfoy manor was a formal affair, and the long dining table was set with silver and crystal. As y/n and Theo sat together, Draco joined them, his posture stiff and his eyes cold.

“Lovely to see you two making yourselves at home,” Draco said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Although, I must say, it’s rather amusing watching my best mate choose such unsavory company.”

Theo kept his voice calm. “We’re here to enjoy a meal, Draco. Can’t we have one evening without your disdain?”

Draco’s smile was tight. “Oh, but this is just the beginning. I’d hate for y/n to forget what it means to be a Malfoy."

~~~

Draco couldn’t stop remembering the last family dinner that he shared with y/n, he wished he would have been kinder to his twin, he had always been so cruel to her, but he didn’t even know why. Draco wished he could have told y/n how much he admired her, she never let her emotions control her actions and he needed her to keep him in check.

The large oak trees that stood in the middle of the Malfoy estate gardens had red and orange leaves, the air was getting a bit chillier, and the days were shorter, it was close to winter. The gardens, more precisely the oak trees, had always been y/n’s favorite place to escape to when the siblings were home from Hogwarts. She would most of the day just sat beneath the two oaks reading or just looking up at the sky, y/n had a habit of falling asleep in this spot too on occasion.

Draco looked down at the blanket hung over his arm, the once pristine purple and black quilt was now old and had started to rip, but y/n did love the quilt, and it showed how well loved the blanket was. The silvery-blonde male laid the quilt on the ground beneath the two oaks, in the middle of the large trees, in the same spot his siter always would and sat down on the worn blanket.

~~~

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday evening, the usual murmur of students replaced by an uncomfortable silence as Draco Malfoy approached y/n and Theo Nott, who were sitting close together by the fireplace with their hands intertwined.

Draco’s gaze was icy as he swept into the room, his presence commanding attention and declared self-importance.

“Must be nice to have such a cozy little corner to yourself,” Draco sneered, his eyes flicking disdainfully over y/n. “Too bad it comes with the price of your dignity.”

Theo’s jaw tightened, but y/n stood, stepping between them. “Draco, what do you want this time? Don’t you have something better to do with your time?”

“Just making sure my best chaser isn’t being dragged down by anyone who isn’t up to our standards,” Draco said, his voice dripping with condescension and cruelty.

Once the Malfoy male had walked away, Theo turned to his beloved girlfriend and looked at her concern and sympathy. "I'm sorry, amor mio. It's not fair for him to treat this way without any reason, and even then you don't deserve his cruelty." Theo's arms wrapped around the Malfoy girl and he pulled her into a tight embrace, which the girl happily returned.

~~~

Theo thought back to that day in the common room, it was only four months ago but it felt like years, wondering if he had chosen to stand up for y/n if things would be different. If she would still be here, standing beside him with her nearly silver hair pulled back all pretty and her lips pulled up into a smile, her hand held in his as they looked at the rose bushes that were no longer blooming for the winter.

The once heavenly scented rosebushes that y/n always smelled nearly identical too, were now devoid of any flowers even though the thorns remain. Theo wondered if the roses died when she did, if the thorns remained as a reminder that even after the beauty is gone the danger still lurks. Flicking the ash of his cigarette onto the ground, Theo felt like there was a hole in his heart, where y/n had claimed the moment he met her.

~~~

The blonde-haired male sat beside someone he considered to be one of his best mates, someone who would have potentially been his brother-in-law a few years from now, Theodore Nott. The two men sat beneath the two Malfoy oak trees on the purple and black quilt, a box filled with parchment stained with ink sat in front of them, the box was one of the many things’ y/n had left covered in her favorite book quotes and little drawings.

 It was y/n’s safe keepings box that was kept under the floorboards in her closet, so she always knew where it was, and she could look back on memories that were import to her. Now it was filled with the little trinkets that the younger Malfoy twin had placed inside, and the many letters that she had given to her brother and her boyfriend over the last seven years.

Y/n had only been gone for four months, but if you asked Draco and Theo, they’d say it couldn’t have been such a short time ago, it felt like it had been four years. The months have seemed to just drag on and to the rest of the wizarding world, it seemed like the two men were either just going through the motions or numbing their grief with alcohol or other substances.

Theo reached forward and grabbed the first piece of parchment from the box, being careful not to cause any damage to the page. He smiled when he read the first few words that were written, turning his head towards Draco and handing it over. A quote from the play “Hélas, Je Me Suis Transfiguré les Pieds” was written at the top of the page, the rest of the piece of parchment was covered in drawings and spells with their use/purpose.

“Y/n really did like to read that play, didn’t she read it like eight times in like a month?” Draco asked with a hint of amusement, his lips were upturned in a slight smile as his fingers faintly ghosted over the handwritten quote that his sister had written. He knew that his younger twin had liked to write this line from her favorite play, he was never sure why, he was sure the girl didn’t even know herself, but he had found it annoying then.

“Yeah, she really did love to read, it didn’t really matter what she was reading as long as it wasn’t boring.” Theo said with a small chuckle while shaking his head, his brown eyes were focused on the next piece of parchment that he was lifting from the box.

~~~

The corridor of Hogwarts seemed to freeze in time, the echo of the battle outside muffled as if the world had narrowed to the space between them. Draco’s and Theo’s eyes were wide with terror, watching helplessly as the dark figure advanced, wand raised, a curse poised to strike. Their breath came in short, ragged gasps.

In the chaos, it was as if nothing else existed but the impending doom and Draco’s sister, y/n, rushing forward with a determination that seemed both fierce and fragile. Her face, usually calm and composed, was now a mask of resolute bravery and determination.

Y/n, her light hair tumbling in disarray, reached them just as the curse left the enemy’s wand. Her own wand flicked in a desperate counter-curse, but she was too late. The dark magic surged forward, relentless and unstoppable.

“Y/N, NO!” Their scream was a raw, desperate sound as Theo lunged forward, but she was faster, throwing herself in front of them.

The curse hit her with a sickening, sickly glow. For a moment, time seemed to slow, the world holding its breath. Y/n’s eyes widened in pain and shock, and then her body crumpled to the ground with a shattering finality.

Draco and Theo rushed to her side, Theo’s hands trembling as he cradled her limp form. Her eyes, still open, looked up at them with a serene acceptance. The light in them was fading, dimming like the last embers of a once-roaring fire quickly.

“Y/n, no, stay with me. Please,” Draco begged; his voice choked with tears. He shook her gently, desperately searching for a sign that she was still there, that she could hear him and would be okay.

Her lips moved slightly, forming words that were barely a whisper, but they were enough. “I... I’m sorry...”

Her breath grew shallow, and then it stopped altogether. The finality of her absence hit both men with an unbearable weight, leaving Draco and Theo alone in the shattered remnants of what was once in this world.

~~~~

The sun had set a long while ago and it had grown cold, but the two men still sat beneath the two oak trees in the Malfoy gardens on the purple and black quilt. The box of keepsakes had been gone through long ago, but now they just discussed different stories about y/n. They weren’t ready to say goodbye, the realization that they would never get to say anything to her face to face hadn’t fully sunk in, they didn’t want to accept that she was gone.

Draco and Theo thought back to that day in the corridors of Hogwarts, to the sound of battle and carnage that left many dead, injured, grieving, or traumatized, To the day that y/n had jumped in front of them to stop a curse from hitting them. Even though Draco had never been anything short of a bully she still saved him. Y/n sacrificed herself to save her boyfriend, the man that had confessed his love for her in the astronomy tower under the night sky in fourth year.

In that dark, sorrowful moment, Draco Malfoy and Theo Nott were left with nothing but the memory of y/n’s bravery, her final gift to them, and the unbearable silence of a future that would never be the same and the past that can never be rectified.

If you liked it please re-blog or like.

[gunnrblze]

Soft dom Elias, anyone?

1250k words, NSFW, light dom/sub stuff, gn reader

The man is a natural leader, perfect for his job. And for another sort of job.

He’s normally rather laidback. Calm, cool, and collected. So when he meets you, the personification of a wildfire, he’s both amused and obsessed. Thinks you’re everything and then some.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves your intensity, your passion. However, you do need to be reigned in sometimes. And he loves the task all the same. He’s used to people squaking at him so he understands if you need a bit of a firm hand, he really doesn’t mind, sweetheart.

You hardly notice it at first, how he slowly and smoothly directs your attention when you crack an attitude with him.

“Yeah? Tell me about it, sweetie” he lets you rant at him, standing in front of you with his thick arms crossed over his chest. Head cocked as he looks at you, a hand coming up to nonchalantly smooth over your hair, nodding as you yap at him.

He cares to hear what you have to say, truly. But he also knows you probably haven’t eaten in a few hours, and that you’ve been annoyed with work lately. So his hand drops to your shoulder, smoothing a rough thumb over your collarbone. He watches your eyes flash with some kind of thought as he simply indulges your bitter passionate rant.

You still, raising an eyebrow, and he smiles softly.

“Gettin on your nerves, am I?” His words are honeyed and smooth, and he doesn’t miss the way your face drops as you struggle to understand his reaction. It only makes him smirk a bit more.

“Yeah, smartass, you are! I just said-“ you’ll try to regain your energy, but you’re stopped with the timber of his voice.

“I heard ya, honey” he reassures, hand coming down to your hip, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you closer to him, nodding. “Real bothered with me, aren’t you?” The silkiness of his voice penetrates that simmering annoyance lighting your nerves.

He sits down in a nearby chair, pulling you down into his lap. You grumble and roll your eyes but the hand on your lower back, ushering you down with him, is solid. A weight that guides you without hesitation or question. It wasn’t forceful, but it wasn’t a negotiation.

You’re a little confused, and he knows it, watching your mouth open again to ask what the hell he’s doing. But there’s a hand on your upper thigh now, and a muscular arm wrapped unyieldingly around your waist, anchoring you down on his widespread thighs.

“Think you’re a bit worked up, is that it?” He asks, his voice lacking the condescension that would usually lace a question like that. His hand rubs over your thigh, gliding up and down as he watches you roll those pretty eyes again, huffing at him.

He feels your body relax more into his frame, but you’re still a bit rigid, pent up. He was understanding of your feelings, keeping you in place as you attempted to continue your silly ranting. But your voice had pitched down, tone melting a bit. Even more sarcasm lacing your words.

A kiss is pressed to your temple as you speak, and another to your cheek. You can smell the musk of his body, mixing with the scent of aftershave. It floods your senses a bit, slowing your words once more as you ramble about something he wasn’t even sure you could discern the cause of anymore.

The arm around your waist squeezes your side gently, and that hand on your thigh rubs a bit too close to your crotch, body unable to not react. Leaning into him a bit more, sensations fluttering pleasantly through your lower half.

“Mm, it’s alright, hon…you were saying?” He prompts you to keep mouthing off to him, smooth voice laced with a challenge he knew you wouldn’t take.

You sigh, those eyes rolling back another time before the flat of his palm runs down your inner thigh, thumb brushing against your groin. Your lower back arches on instinct, hips canting up against the touch as you bite the inside of your lip, cheeks heating up a little at the look on his face.

Neutral. So neutral, yet resolute as he swiftly challenges that haughty little attitude. His governing demeanor smoking out the flame that had lit you up.

He watches any remaining words die on your lips though as his hand parts your thighs slightly, fingers running over your sensitive area making you tingle even more than you already had been. You’re fixed into his lap, held in place steadily as he watches you stifle a little noise.

You forgot what you’d originally been up in arms over, frissons of heat running through you at his increasingly firm touch. You almost wanted to start up again, let him know that you know exactly what he’s doing now…

And boy if he didn’t practically see the thought cross your mind, fingers pressing right up against where you needed them most, starting to rub a quiet whimper out of you.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” It wasn’t mocking, but knowing. He’d lulled you into docility without you even realizing, without him having to think twice.

Natural, you tried to think through the throbbing feeling his fingers were causing. You knew his methods of getting soldiers back in line was much more gruff and blistering than how he was treating you, and the thought of the Captain putting you in your place made your body react even more.

“That’s it, muchhh better” he’d practically coo at you as he touched you, arm not surrendering its firm hold around your waist.

You bit your lip as your attitude fully extinguished itself, cheeks heating up even more as you tried not to squirm atop his large thighs. He grunted lowly as you did so anyways, your rear rubbing right against his crotch.

“Just needed some attention, hm? Talk to me” he’d probe as your body got lost in the feeling, moaning softly as you tried not to grind against his hand.

You simply nodded, breathing having gotten heavier as his touch did, your ass pressed flush to the growing bulge in his pants.

“Use your words, darling, or I’m sure we can find another use for this pretty mouth, don’t you think?” he’d murmur into your ear, the hand on your side coming up to brush his fingers over your lips, gently parting them.

You let his finger slip into your mouth, earning a groan from the man as you nodded, cheeks burning as he coaxed you into surrender even more, turning you into a pliable, moaning little thing in his lap.

“Yes sir” you answered around the thickness of his fingertip without even thinking, lips wrapping around it as he continued his touch. And oh, if that response didn’t earn you a deep groan from the man’s throat. He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing as he gently eased his finger into your mouth.

You sucked on his finger easily, moaning around the intrusion as your hand came up to steady yourself on his forearm. You couldn’t stop yourself from grinding against his hand between your thighs, feeling his bulge harden even more under the swell of your ass.

“There you go, sweetie. You’re so good for me, aren’t you?” His voice was deeper, growing hungrier as he slipped another finger into your mouth, letting you suckle the both of them. You nodded, eyes fluttering as your lower half throbbed.

“Why don’t we give you something else to put in this bratty mouth, hm?”

[kapyushonchan]

My (not so) short review that nobody needs hear for this update - KFOS and SOCN

*sighs* Boy, where do I start?

TLDR: KFOS and SOCN turned out disappointing. This is my personal impression, reasons below, warning - lots of letters.

KFOS - first, my minor pet peeve - I don't like that they stopped giving cutscenes with the favorites except Christian. Ram, Kamal and Sara have much fewer of them with Devi compared to him. I also noticed that the cutscenes have lost quality? Just close-ups? I've had the impression before that stories that drop in the rankings get less resources.

Second - I think Stasya doesn't "feel" the story yet, because the only emotions I experienced while reading were my disgust and tension during the dinner scene.

Well also Doran turned out well, his not-so-passive agression with wishing a long life to the queen (especially in the context that he can't express his displeasure with Englishmen directly and he can't kill them all, so he turns to caustic sarcasm) is just slay king energy.

Third - and here starts my rant - a lot of interactions feel artificial and underwhelming. Devi's confrontation with Clara in the street seemed just like that - artificial and not really well thought out. The concept of the scene itself is good - Devi sees how Indian servants are bullied in Britain and lashes out. But the tone, the consequences that author chose to portray is just.... Devi just pulls Guy Richi and shuts the racist arrogant lady up. Yayslay, but… was it me or it was underwhelming?

RANT

Come to think about it, you didn't have to go to Britain to see that behavior (or all those Indian movies I watched and a few books I read kind of misled me). AFAIK this attitude was common in occupied India, as some of the British upper and not so upper class moved there to occupy and make easy money there. They built districts to their taste and style - all those clubs and establishments where Indian servants worked and where Indians were not allowed to enter. The police, too, were subject to the British. This apartheid and humiliation could be seen in India at every step, but Devi notices it only in England? And, bear with me, but I really think she couldn't just go to a high society lady and berate her for the way she treats her servants without some consequences to her and to Christian reputation. Devi has not changed Clara's mind with this argument, and she certainly will not change the mind of the whole of English society, which stands on the opinion of the exclusivity and superiority of the British Empire over all nations that have not risen to the level of their greatness. That's how empires work. Devi's act was from the good heart, but impulsive, and she would be spoken of not with respect but with contempt, saying that Christian had chosen “a rude savage” as his bride. Because Devi is not at home. She is in the land of her enemies. Because the whole thing was truly none of her business and it's not her servant, and also doing that she could have made things much worse for the servant-girl and for Christian's reputation (breach of etiquette! that Devi likes to bring up when someone's rude to her). And in this situation it doesn’t matter how angry Devi and we as readers would have felt, because we are in a different world and we’re not making the rules there. We should be uncomfortable with this scene, we should feel anger and frustration in this scene.My point is that the scene would have been more realistic if at its outcome Devi was faced with indifference, condescension and judgment, as if Devi had done something wrong (she hadn't, she just ended up in a world where such attitudes were the norm). Devi should have felt like she was in the Looking Glass, she should have been thrown off balance by the situation. Girl power slay in the style of "I'm Basu and who are you?" doesn’t work here. Or rather it doesn't give you a nuanced outcome of the situation. Even if Devi had come out of the verbal confrontation victorious in her own eyes, society would have gaslighted her. And because of that sence of powerlessness, her anger would have gotten even greater, and she would have actually cursed Clara with the help of the Dark Mother. And Devi would realize that she can't behave in England the way she did at home. It must be infuriating, annoying, but it's something she and we as players have to put up with. It resonates with us, we have to feel these emotions. I would read, of course, how the heroine deals with injustice, but if we have a story about colonialism and the Dozen trying to throw off that yoke, why aren't we shown such scenes in all their colors? Because mere words and knowledge of the etiquette are not enough. I also think Devi's connection to the Dark Mother's anger could have played out as a sort of Death Note, where Devi curses someone and then misfortunes happen to those cursed people.

I think the artificial tone of the story is my main problem with season two in general. Devi finds herself in a foreign hostile country, but now she's acting like Amala in India and by simple demands she shuts up the lords and ladies left and right just by demanding respect and they just listen to her and shut up. And it looks like a safe route, like there are no stakes there. And with change of the “location” we have to feel discomfort - but not with food, weather and new clothes, but with a feeling like we’re walking on eggshells. Devi, in a conversation with lord What's His Face, intimidates him with Christian, and he stops harassing her. But then the same lord makes a shapito show of provocation at dinner, showing that he doesn't give a damn about Christian's opinion and doesn't give a damn about him in general. I'm not saying there shouldn't be provocation, it shouldn't have been so brazen and direct in words. After all, English high society can masterfully insult in a veiled manner, and the author's skill in writing such dialogues was clearly lacking here. Imho (just my imho) storywise here, in England, Devi should realize how lucky she is to be a member of high Bengali society where she is respected, valued and listened to, when in England she should feel that she is looked down upon, trapped and treated worse, like a second-class person, no matter what her background is. Here, if you are on a route with Christian, there should be a test of his and Devi's feelings in the context of the contempt of the entire upper class society for the "second class people" as they see Indian people to be. Christian has to experience that he has become a pariah in some way by choosing to marry a Devi.

I may have a misconception of how things worked back then, but my thoughts are that it's like all the tension is gone from the story. And there should be - it's a story essentially about two factions who hate each other, who don't want to make contact and settle because it's a story built on a colonial takeover. It's toned down here, yes, it's not historically accurate and all, BUT: if this base of historical events gives you an opportunity to use a great source of conflict, disagreement, and drama - you use it (that's why the provocation with beef at the dinner resonated with me -  I was fuming!). And alas, I'm feeling less and less of all that. Especially after the first season that SLAYED.

Also, Devi's offer to Doran to team up with Christian, to use him, would have looked different and even more tense if those political and social nuances worked, and their interaction wasn't just some game of "who knows more". What kind of games are these anyway, they're on the same side, behind enemy lines. Devi could have shared her frustration with her experience in England with Doran and then open some cards to him and admit that they need Christian's resources to determine who's sowing turmoil in the Dozen. There could have been some great GOT-style dialogue here, not just the "The Executioner despises the Englishmen and therefore won't even consider it, he needs to be persuaded", but "The Executioner has been through enough in his life to know that if there's a chance, you have to take it, politics is always played dirty". Doran is described as intelligent after all, not just angry walking muscles.

Well, that's just my thoughts and impressions, you're free to disagree with me here. I'm probably asking too much from a visual novel, I never read them with a magnifying glass to look for nitpicks, but…. But I really liked KFOS S1 ._. And I'm sad for the untapped potential.

SOCN - I was disappointed too. I think Remy's original idea to write that Agnia and Amen attack Livius and Eva but were saved by Seth worked better.

Now, it's friendship and magic, no conflict and drama. The two sides of the conflict resolve everything man-to-man, blow off steam and agree on everything.

And I have the feeling that all the seriousness of the situation has gone somewhere and everything has descended into some kind of farce.

Okay, Amen using Livius and Eva to achive his goals still works fine. But Seth, who fights Amen for fun and then agrees to cooperate with him - no. Just no. It's seems OOC. It doesn't work. Even if he's weakened like a God. Even if he needs Hemseth so much. Seth is a god, he has pride and principles, and there's no way I believe he'd choose to work with someone who kills his followers and weakens him. Neither will Amen agree to work with Seth who he thinks is some kind of Supreme shezmu. He hates the Supreme. He wouldn't go for an alliance either.

Has the writes watched too much of House of the Dragon? WHERE ARE MY CONFLICTS I'M ASKING YOU I'M GOING TO START A SCANDAL

I thought that Remy's decision that Amen and Seth couldn't be friendsto MC like the other favorites had to do with this intransigence, but no, some other reason.

What's the point of not being friends with the favorites if everyone's drinking beer and making truces with each other???

[itwillturnblack]

The Makana Series : A JJK Prologue Fanfic

Chapter 15 Preview: … Ends With Fireworks | Read full version here

Chapter Word Count: ≈ 3,000

Rating: Explicit | Pairing: True Form Sukuna x Original Character

Chapter Content Warning: Body Horror (soft to mild)

Preview starts now

That bastard must have a technique tied to his gaze, I concluded, mentally sifting through our interactions throughout the evening.

If my suspicion was correct, the likelihood of the Abe family being behind it was high. But to what end? To provoke Sukuna? He wouldn't care. To weaken me? Or perhaps to test my resilience and glean insights into my abilities?

Whatever the motive, I couldn't leave this unchecked. I needed to alert my companions.

I slipped my shoes back on calmly, but my mood darkened as I noticed Toji leaning casually against a nearby tree.

"Sorry, Makana," he began cautiously, his tone teetering between hesitance and apology. "I didn't mean to interrupt—it looked like you were meditating."

My patience wore thinner. "What do you want?" I asked bluntly.

He straightened slightly, taking a tentative step closer as I began walking away. "I thought we could have a moment to talk," he replied.

"Have a moment?" I repeated, casting him a sharp glare over my shoulder. "You assume far too much if you think this is a desire we share," I snapped, quickening my pace.

"If this is to dredge up the nonsense you started at the temple, my answer remains unchanged," I added without looking back.

"On the contrary," he said, following closely, "I wanted to apologize. You were right, and I think we should remain...cordial."

Cordial? That was rich.

"How marvelous!" I replied with biting sarcasm. "Let's do it that way, then. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have far more pressing matters to attend to."

Toji, undeterred, pressed on. "What's going on? You've been acting strange for a while now."

"Which is precisely why I don’t have time for this," I shot back, letting my frustration show as we neared the pavilion.

Ahead, Kasuga stood by the edge of the lake, his gaze fixed on the water as though waiting for me.

What now? The irritation prickled beneath my skin. I didn't want to confront him head-on, but part of me itched to act.

What would Sukuna do? Challenge him outright? Hold back and wait for a better moment? It didn't matter. I needed answers now.

"The moon is lovely tonight," Kasuga said, finally turning to face me. "It's almost too perfect not to inspire a duel, wouldn't you agree, Makana-san?"

"It's you," I said, halting mid-step. "You've been interfering with my senses all evening." Without hesitation, I manipulated the air in front of my eyes, thickening it until his figure was reduced to a faint blur.

Kasuga tilted his head slightly, amused. "I don't know what you mean," he replied.

Toji, still behind me, spoke up. "What’s happening here?"

Be quiet, I thought, ignoring him as I waited for Kasuga’s reaction.

"You've caught on faster than I expected," Kasuga admitted finally, his voice light but laced with condescension. "Can you feel it now—the delicate poison seeping through your body?"

"No, you idiot," I growled, retreating several steps and pulling Toji with me. "Screen."

At my command, a burst of energy erupted in a brilliant explosion of light and heat, enveloping Kasuga. The sheer intensity of it forced him to stagger, momentarily disoriented and clutching at his face where the heat had grazed him.

"Get out of here!" I shouted at Toji, shoving him toward the reception area. "Warn the others!"

But the crackling noise and flash had already drawn attention. Guests rushed outside, alarmed by the sudden commotion. Among them were Sukuna and Uraume, accompanied by Nakamaro, Mikasa, and Bai, all approaching swiftly.