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the-saltiest-saltine · 3 months

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Reservations and Repose

(Yan!Chrollo x Fem Reader)

@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe

Word count: ~7.3k

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You’re naïve enough to believe Chrollo’s asleep. He loves that about you.

Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.

Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me 😥

Chrollo is very disappointed in you.

You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didn’t reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, you’ll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.

Is that to say he was under the impression that you’d completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. There’s fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, you’d most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. That’s not necessary, though. It’ll never be.

Like many things, it wasn’t linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?

Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. It’s been a significant amount of time since he was last this naïve. If he wasn’t so disgruntled by your transgression, he’d most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he can’t, for the time being, because you’re trying to do something very rash.

As unfortunate as it is, you’re trying to leave him.

It’s audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.

It’s irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?

It doesn’t particularly make sense, though. He’s checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. He’s even checked the jewellery collection - maybe you’d snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe.

You’ve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, he’d be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, he’d be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest.

He can’t say he didn’t expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at once…Perhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.

Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.

You’d let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before he’d walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You don’t fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although you’d definitely soured up by the end.

The…fantasies he’d had of domesticity…they were just that, weren’t they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions you’ve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, they’ve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasn’t part of the fantasy.

You’ve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.

Tonight’s stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldn’t tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasn’t at least tried. Including this.

So, if there’s no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what could’ve possibly cued him into your motives?

It’s something tenuous, something that could’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. It’s something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And it’s one that’s made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.

Oh, you sweet thing.

Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. That’ll come later.

You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, he’d fill it with tales from his busy day - but you’ve been so good lately, that he’s begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what you’ve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But that’s only if you’ve been good, or at least if he’s under the impression that you’ve been good. As it turns out, you haven’t been good, you aren’t being compliant, and now he simply waits.

You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell you’re watching him in your periphery. It’s so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (there’s no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what you’re about to do?

Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly can’t help himself.

“Are you not hungry, my love? You’ve barely touched your food.”

Barely is an understatement. You haven’t touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that he’s observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesn’t take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.

There’s almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But it’s contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.

He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.

“No,” you reply, “not particularly.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesn’t matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.

The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. That’s not fake.

So you’re eating it too? It’s certainly a bold move, but one he wouldn’t dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.

He hasn’t caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe you’ve mastered the art so quickly that even he can’t notice?

No, not likely. Not in just a few months. That’d be impossible.

Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when you’re properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.

“Tell me, darling, what did you get up to today?”

Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time he’s asked the question, plain and unindulgent. It’s boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. He’s tempted to pry into how you decided on tonight’s dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation you’ll never attempt to put yourself in again.

If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?

You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split second’s confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that won’t knock you out. A cute thought.

The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?

He likes to think he’ll know the answer soon.

Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he can’t quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today.

Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like there’s the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldn’t things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three o’clock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.

Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.

Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. It’s almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how it’s suspicious really. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt a tiredness such as this.

There’s an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that he’ll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.

He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.

____________

Now he’s lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesn’t matter whether his facade convinces you or not, he’ll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds aren’t fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until you’d given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that he’d impishly gone along with.

Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. It’s unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.

Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.

The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?

You’re not, he discerns.

Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. It’s a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes you’ve brought a pair of running shoes - you’re on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.

So you’ve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.

In fact there seems to be no malice in the way you’re stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, there’s an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.

It’s a gesture he’ll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows he’s deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, he’ll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how you’ll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldn’t be more wrong.

Next is a movement he didn’t expect in the slightest.

You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought you’d be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldn’t get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever you’re waiting for had occurred.

The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.

There’s the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.

You’re…showering before you leave?

You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, he’d most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps that’s part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you don’t smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps?

No, that would never work, and he’s certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.

So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. He’s truly chosen well.

And then there’s something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.

You’re humming.

It’s relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly.

You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.

It’s something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. He’d hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.

Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, it’s sweet. It’s these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. They’re full of innocence and hope - just like you.

These qualities make you think you’ll leave him.

Upon remembering this, he’s tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonight’s events. But he doesn’t. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesn’t want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.

Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. They’re all short-lived in comparison to the cold life he’s had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. He’s scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully they’re scratched even deeper into his psyche.

You’d been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasn’t supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that you’d forget by morning but he wouldn’t…

He’d returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. He’d flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-com’s name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and you’d huffed the sweetest of sighs…

That’s the kind of moment this is.

There’s no thought of what he’ll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, it’s warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.

In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. He’s across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune… shit, he can’t let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.

Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. There’s a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesn’t expect.

You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.

A moment of nothing. You’re frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.

You lean over.

And then there’s a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo.

Had it been a split second later, he would’ve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But it’s not a split second later, it’s now, and now you’re kissing him. There’s no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know he’s awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.

The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire that’s spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesn’t occur even half as much.

You pull away, like you’re hesitant about what you’ve done, like you’re waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonight’s inconveniences. But that doesn’t make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.

After receiving apparent confirmation that you’re not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldn’t strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.

The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.

There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.

It’s your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.

Zero.

Then-

One, two, three.

Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Don’t shudder.

Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that you’re barely breathing.

The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.

What was that?

You’re not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close.

Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?

You’d always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept.

It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didn’t have to deal with that tonight, and now you’ve fallen asleep in record time. He can’t say it was just from the pills.

Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesn’t seem likely that you’d ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.

He’d spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.

And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.

You’re serene as ever, a sight to behold.

He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost can’t feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as you’ve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as “condescending” and “grating”) to slip past his lips.

It reminds him of you when you’re awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as he’d spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and you’d fall asleep.

Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly you’d switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. He’d pray you love him.

He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.

Well, he’d never deny his own indulgence.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.

The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. There’s a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.

He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.

It’s then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldn’t help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesn’t know. He swallows. That’s better.

And now for the main event.

He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?

If you were to know what he’s doing, would you hate him more?

He pulls away.

The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.

Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naïve, hopeful.

Well, he’s a man now. And far less innocent.

He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.

Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present he’s ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.

For a moment, he tries to fight against it.

Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what he’s planning?

It’s neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.

His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.

He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning.

Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if he’s to stop his movements, he’ll need a different kind of stimulation.

He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.

Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.

His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.

And now your legs are bare. How alluring.

He doesn’t take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesn’t need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, he’d be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.

Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. It’d be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric can’t hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darkness…

God, you’re so fuckable.

There’s a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. You’re something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, that’s certainly a hypothesis I’ll have to test.

With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, it’s decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isn’t your most prominent trait, doesn’t mean that you aren’t absolutely exceptional at it.

Temptation isn’t something he’s inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.

Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, he’d vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.

Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are you’re being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesn’t matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. They’re obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.

He can’t help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then it’ll snap. He’ll snap.

Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but he’s sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time you’ll be awake. Yes, you’ll be awake and whining and he’ll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and you’ll want him as much as he wants you-

He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.

Time’s running out.

The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. There’s a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. He’s really going to do this. It’s really going to happen, and it’ll be amazing.

There. Done. Everything’s ready.

Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.

Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible.

Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind that’s awake, but can’t do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?

He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within.

What does your pussy look like?

He won’t use En, that’s just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.

He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, they’re already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he can’t even begin to picture what they’d look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how you’d tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he can’t pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.

And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak you’d give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.

The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, they’re speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.

Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in.

It’s the second time he’s properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, they’re all working together to make his head swim in bliss. You’re working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. You’re his.

The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.

How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just can’t take any more?

How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When he’d plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?

You’re flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?

The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.

If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?

Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.

Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once he’s sure the moment’s over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.

Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. It’s beautiful, the unruly mess he’s made - no, the mess you’ve made of him.

You’re a real beauty, you know that?

The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. It’s sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but it’s probably for the best to ensure he doesn’t get any ideas for a second round tonight.

For future nights, though? The chest he’s covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.

He’ll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon.

Next time, he’ll taste you. The time after that, you’ll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.

He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, you’ll be awake.

#chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo lucifer #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere hxh #hxh #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #tw yandere

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ghostaholics · 1 year

Text

wait but the angst of a soulmate au with price and not knowing he’s your soulmate: you’ve felt phantom pain for every single injury he’s ever gotten during his military career – like this man has gotten beaten, bloodied, bruised, tortured, stabbed, shot, and jumped out of an exploding helicopter on multiple occasions so he’s experienced his fair share of bodily trauma; and after it started happening frequently, you recorded each one down in a journal that you carry everywhere with you (time/location/duration) because it can hit you literally whenever, wherever on your body, for however long, and you've sworn to yourself that if you ever meet your soulmate that they've got so much to answer for

but you’re living a normal civilian life so he’s been spared the anxiety of worrying about how his soulmate’s doing, because for all intents and purposes, he’s not sure if he even has one, never met you but can at least gather that if you do, you’ve been existing somewhere safe, far away from the stuff he gets himself into

but then he does encounter you and it's in the worst way possible during the attack on London in Piccadilly Circus; Price feels the muffled pain of a shotgun to the shoulder and Jesus fucking Christ, he knows you're here in the thick of the pandemonium, never felt the crushing fear of his soulmate being in trouble before until now and it’s a startling revelation – he’s probably put you through absolute hell with all of his near-death experiences and whatnot (why does he feel so monumentally devastated?)

he has a job to do, the utilitarian in him says to save as many people as he can but his eyes are still sifting through the chaos and the mayhem, past crumbling buildings and wailing ambulances, for somebody who's got a GSW weeping blood, and he doesn't let it show on his face but there's this awful, sickening lurch in his stomach as he wades through victims, both injured and casualties alike, because shite, there's a good possibility that you haven't made it out alive and he can usually keep it together pretty well, but now he's approaching a state of total collapse for this person he's never even met, this person without a name or a face, this person he didn't even know he was tethered to until just moments earlier

and he comes to find you somewhere in the wreckage, after he's gunned down all the terrorists, finally makes it to you and discovers that you had been trying to save some little kid caught in the crossfire and took a bullet to show for it – a chink in his armor, because the two of you haven't even exchanged words but that act of valor already says a lot about you

when his eyes finally meet yours, he can see the realization dawning over you, this devastated expression that's making pain shoot through his chest that hurts more than anything he's ever suffered through with the dealing blow being you reaching out to him with a trembling hand

he doesn't know what the etiquette is for meeting your soulmate for the first time, but he sure as hell doesn't give a damn

so he cradles your face, tells you that you're safe, can't believe that you're real and you're in front of him, and his heart is an open fucking chasm because his initial thought it that this absolutely can't happen and if anybody knows what you are to him, they'll use you as leverage; cue protective price and forbidden relationship where they deny themselves each other

Price is certifiably fucked in this scenario

bonus scene is you showing him the journal where you've written down your notes and he's extremely impressed by how well you've recorded it all but something in him is utterly shattered as it shows how much longer you've been in this than him, been aware of his presence, and even though he's the one who's gotten all these injuries and had a past colored in blood, he wouldn't wish that affliction on anyone else – it kills him to know you've been sharing that burden and pain with him

so he fills out the journal as best he can because you deserve answers and despite not being able to remember everything, he does jot down a majority of the injuries and how he got them, respectfully asks for permission before showing you his scars while elaborating on some of the stories because some of them are in obvious places, but he has a lot on his chest and back that are hidden underneath his shirt and you also ask if you can touch them (you're not sure if it's appropriate, because he still is technically a stranger even though fate wills it that you're supposed to be together) before you're tracing the raised skin with the tips of your fingertips and he gently grabs your wrist to stop you because it gets to be too much after a while – and as you've both agreed, this thing between the two of you won't work with the danger of his job

imagine waiting you're entire life for your soulmate and being told you can't be with him; it's almost worse than not having one

and now that you've met him and you're trying to stay away, you're actively fighting against destiny, which the universe does not approve of and is also making sure that it hurts

but the worst part is that when he gives you your journal back, you see that he made a new entry for you and here's the info (it's the exact moment he met you)

Time: October 25, 2019; London Location: heart Duration: indefinitely

#for all of our sakes you guys don’t want a full version #but send in stuff so i can elaborate #aha👀#captain john price #john price #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #captain john price x you

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cryptidghostgirl · 2 months

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I would literally pay you to write a sequel to Humanity’s Most Favored Fantasy where the reader ends up in heaven but goes back cuz she needs everyone to know she's OK and alastor confesses cuz he won't miss the chance twice

A/N It was supposed to be a one off but I can totally make this happen bc I do feel like she would be redeemed. Sorry for so many posts today, I am really trying to get through these requests before the week of midterms I am going to deal with next week followed by a family vacation.

Humanity's Most Favored Fantasy pt. 2 (Alastor x Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Part One: Humanity's Most Favored Fantasy (Alastor x Reader)

Warnings: I don't think there are any but please correct me if I am wrong. A tiny little baby bit of angst?? Idk, man.

Word Count: 1,783

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Alastor Master List

Click here and leave a comment if you want to be added to any taglists or send me an ask about it.

"You have to send me back."

Sera watched Heaven's two newest angels with careful consideration. They were each the first of their kind as far as either she or Emily knew, sinners having been redeemed.

"You have to at least let me talk to them!" Y/n pleaded, "Please, Charlie needs to know it worked. This... this place, that hotel, it's her dream. She's been dreaming for this all her life, working for it, giving it everything she has her whole life! She needs to know, she deserves to know."

"I mean, Sera, what harm could it do?" Emily tentatively asked her companion.

Y/n turned, looking back at Sir Pentious for help. Both had died in the battle for the hotel, only to be reborn as angels. They each had sacrificed themselves to Adam and his wrath for the sake of their friends, their newly found family.

The journey to Heaven had changed them. Sir Pentious was decked out in all white and gold, little hearts hidden everywhere over his body because it was his confession to Cheri that had been the final straw, that absolute show of humility in the face of sudden violent fear. Y/n on the other hand had found her angle form very similar to the statues she'd poured over as a human. A chiton hung lightly from her shoulders, her hair pulled up in an imperial Roman style and laurels winding their way around her head and through her hair. She looked positively monumental.

"Please." Y/n turned back to Sera, noting Pentious' hesitation, "You... you have to. Aren't we supposed to be all about fairness? About kindness? About caring for others?"

"She's got a point." Emily hummed, "I think we should give them a portal, at least so they can talk to their friends."

It was now Sir Pentious stepped forward, shaking slightly as he still tried to take in his new surroundings. Unlike Y/n who had disregarded them entirely in favor of the fight she was now picking with the seraphim, Pentious was overwhelmed and confused, completely loosing himself to the situation.

"Um... please, my ladies." he tentatively began before Y/n desperately cut him off.

"We wont ask for anything! Ever again! Right Pen?"

Sir Pentious nodded eagerly, his hands clasped before his chest. Emily turned to Sera, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Come on, Sera! Please!"

Sera sighed. This whole occasion was completely unheard of, totally uncharted territory.

"I suppose."

She would need to talk to God, need to get some form of guidance. For now, allowing the redeemed sinners to speak to their friends didn't seem to be too much of a risk. Emily clapped her hands in excitement, Y/n could have cried.

"Thank you."

Reluctantly, Sera nodded her head in welcome and with a flick of her wrist, a spinning disc of gold appeared in the air.

"Here are the rules." she carefully began, "One, you are not to speak to them where Emily and I cannot see both you and them through the portal. Two, there is a time limit. You get five minutes. Thre-"

"Oh come on, Sera!" Emily cut in, "Isn't that enough? This is their family, they might never get to see them again."

Sera let out another world weary sigh. She didn't have the energy to fight with Emily, it was all too much.

"Fine, fine." she waved the younger seraphim off, "Are you two ready?"

Y/n and Pentious met one another's gaze.

"Yes." Sir Pentious answered for them, "I believe so."

With a snap of Sera's fingers, the center of the glowing disc spread open like the aperture of a camera. The sight that met their eyes caused Y/n to gasp, her hands flying to her mouth.

The hotel looked completely different. Everything was nicer, shinier, bigger than either former sinner had ever seen it.

"The fuck is that?" they heard Cherri ask in her thick, Australian drawl.

"It's us!" Sir Pentious happily replied and in a flash, every member of the hotel was gathered on the other side of the portal.

"Charlie!" Y/n exclaimed, tears running down her cheeks, "Angie! Husker!"

"Y/n? Pen?" Charlie asked, her eyes wide.

"You did it!" Y/n happily replied.

"Where are you guys?" Nifty asked, looking in awe at Y/n and Pentious' stark white surroundings.

"We're in Heaven." Sir Pentious proudly replied.

"Say hi Sera, Emily!"

Emily ducked into view of the others, waving excitedly while Sera stayed put.

"Or... not Sera, I guess." Y/n mumbled, a bit disappointed.

Charlie turned to Vaggie, grabbing her girlfriend by the shoulders and shaking her intensly.

"Vaggie!" she screamed in excitment.

"You did it! I'm so proud of you." Vaggie smiled up at her girlfriend, caressing her cheek gently with one of her hands.

"We did it." Charlie corrected, turning back to Y/n and Sir Pentious, "Oh my gosh, you guys! I'm so..."

Charlie sniffled and Y/n laughed, her eyes soft with care.

"We love you too Charlie. We..."

She turned to Sera, catching the look the seraphim shot her that alerted them to their dwindling time.

"We don't have much time." Sir Pentious finished for Y/n, "We just wanted to let you all know. We had to let you all know. Cheri, my dear?"

Cheri's cheeks flushed pink as Angle elbowed her playfully.

"Uh, yeah?"

Pentious smiled.

"I hope to see you soon."

"Sure. Whatever." Cheri looked away and Husk laughed.

"We hope to see all of you soon." Y/n added and then her face fell.

She hadn't meant to sour the mood with the impossibility of her words. Vaggie put a comforting arm around Charlie and Y/n could have sworn she saw one of Alastor's ears twitch from where he stood at the back of the group.

Alastor had been the only one to say nothing to the pair so far. The portal was growing smaller and the only thing on Y/n's mind was letting everyone at the hotel who she knew she might never get the chance to see again know how grateful she was to have had the opportunity to know them.

Brow furrowed, eyes lightly panicked, she turned to Charlie.

"Charlie, I love you." she announced, tears beginning to pool in her eyes, "I am so grateful for you, for everything you've done. You're an incredible person and I... I'm going to miss you so much. Same with you Vaggie. You are the brightest pair of people of any sort I have ever met."

That was the last straw for Charlie. The demon Princess began to bawl and with Angel and Cheri's help, Vaggie lead her out of sight of the portal. Next, Y/n fixed her gaze on Husk.

"Husker, I don't know if... if you or Nifty even want... it doesn't matter." she took a deep breath, "You are both such incredible people, thank you for being my friends."

Husk smiled sadly at her as Nifty latched onto his leg, hugging it tightly as tears began to fall. Lastly, Y/n turned to look at Alastor.

Out of everyone at the hotel, she knew Alastor the least. They never spoke much and when they were in the same room together, he always seemed to be as far away from her as he could get. It was complicated and confusing, but Y/n still knew none of this would have been possible without his help. She took a deep breath.

"Alastor?"

His ears picked up at the sound of her voice saying his name. Warily, he turned to face her.

Ever since the portal had appeared, his brain had been a rushing mess of thought, his heart a caged bird, trapped in the confines of his chest. He had thought he had lost any hope, any chance. Things had suddenly become much more complicated.

"I know we were never close." Y/n began and his breath caught in his throat, "I just... none of this would have been possible without you. I know you have no interest in redemption and... I wish I had gotten to know you better. You're... even though I don't really know you all to well, I want you to know that I love you all the same."

It was the first time, the very first time, those words had ever been directed from her to him. It felt better than Alastor ever could have imagined.

"I love you too."

The words had left his mouth before he'd really been able to think them through. His cheeks flushed pink at the realization of what he had said, Y/n's eyes widened, her lips slightly parted.

It was strange. Maybe it was because he always avoided her, maybe it was because she thought he hated her. Maybe it was a billion different reasons why she had never considered the idea before but none of those things mattered because she heard his words now, considered them now. Y/n realized that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to love him back. Not platonically because maybe, just maybe, in this moment, all she wanted to do was reach through the portal and kiss him.

Those were thoughts to deal with later. She would have time later, she didn't now. The portal's closure became faster and Y/n sent a panicked look towards Sera and Emily. They were, however, unyielding in her silent plea and so she turned back to the quickly shrinking image of Alastor, Husk, and Nifty.

"I..." her voice trembled, "Fuck! Alastor, there's no time. I... fuck!"

There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions left unasked. Alastor, to her surprise, broke through her stressed mutterings, fueled by a sudden, wild courage. It was that human part of him, that one remaining spark of light.

"It's alright." he took a step closer, "You don't have to answer I just... I needed you to know. When Adam... when you died, the... nothing mattered anymore. I never thought I'd get the chance to say it, to tell you the truth. I had to, I had... I'm sorry."

"No! Alastor!" She yelled fiercely back at him, her eyes wild and determined as he loved them best, "Never apologize for loving someone. Never apologize for caring. I..."

The portal was almost shut now.

"Come find me!"

In a burst of golden light like phoenix fire, the portal vanished. Y/n was breathless, she turned to Pentious who was smiling brightly.

"He loves me."

He nodded and she giggled giddily.

"He loves me!"

As reality set in, the joy slipped from her face.

"And I'll probably never see him again."

----

Tags:

@willowshadenox @i-love-jafar @elfyeet @reader3 @lazygirlfanfic0-0@kahlan170@wendyphan01203-blog

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allur1ngs · 4 months

Note

funny thought i had: Tatter deciding to get back at Lusher because she probably caused some sort of trouble like she always does by pranking her using Sowoen, telling Sowoen to pretend to want to talk to Lusher about something and tell her (all through an ear piece like in the spy movies) that she did “it” (ofc sowoen is clueless to what any of this means bc she’s our babie and the girls have done a good job at protecting her ears) and “it was so fun” and a bunch of other crazy things that just makes lusher go:

Because who an earth dared to ruin bebe’s baby in such a way and when did she have time to do all of this???

Except this whole prank snowballs bc lusher has such a big mouth and is freaking out to everyone making absolute chaos follow 😭😭😭

NO because as bebe's second in command, lusher takes her job of taking care of soweon SOO seriously--and tatter betraying her evil twin is a monumental occasion✊

so the second she hears sowoen say on the earpiece while they're out on a mission that, "lusher-unnie, i forgot to tell you, but i did it last night for the first time! it was so good--"

lusher's mouth drops on the spot, her eyes practically bulging out of her head. she swears a bead of sweat falls down her forehead, and her vision starts to blur. "s-soweon...what did you do?"

"oh c'mon lusher-unnie, you know what!"

for the rest of the day she's like a zombie, half conscious and half gone, her mind somehow racing but at the same time so slow she can barely think.

and all of a sudden it's like she snaps out of it, hyper aware of her surroundings and what soweon has said to her hours ago.

she goes absolutely INSANE.

she bangs on bada's bedroom door, hyperventilating and muttering like a madwoman.

"what is your problem?" bada open the door, her expression filled with annoyance--she's wearing a nice and formal outfit, indicating she's probably about to go somewhere.

"you don't understand--" lusher heaves, her eyes the size of saucers. "soweon and someone else--they--they--"

"lusher, are you alright?" you step next to your wife's side, a worried look on your face.

"unnie!!" lusher cries, grabbing your hands and practically shaking the living daylights out of you. "soweon had--she had--"

bada seperates lusher from you, disapproving of the harsh way she's handling you. "spit it out already, will you?"

"SOWEON HAD SEX!" lusher screams frantically.

you and bada freeze in your spots, eyes going wide out of shock.

"what--"

"what did you just say?" hyo, who'd been standing outside of the room bedroom finally buts into the conversation.

"we need to pull all our resources, find the man--woman--or whoever did this to our sweet soweon!" lusher begs. "WE NEED TO KILL THEM--"

"what's going on over here?" the other bebe girls, having followed the screaming walk over to the large group forming--

all except for one girl.

tatter peeks around the corner, her hand over her mouth to cover her her laughter.

tatter wins this round...

also i've now made a new tag for all mafia content that isn't bada x reader focused/gives insight to the plotline or story!!😚 i'll be tagging it for now on so you can click on it to find mafia related content!!

#౨ৎ melody's mafia au #౨ৎ melody's newsletter #౨ৎ cutie aeri

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starcrossedreaders · 1 year

Text

Monumental Bliss

Authors Note: Here’s a little Leon drabble that was inspired by a writing prompt that I found on tik tok so credit to sarahjedi on tik tok!

Warnings: Nothing! Very fluffy Sunday morning with Re2Leon gnxreader

The quiet tapping of the rain on the window brought monumental peace to you and your boyfriend’s shared apartment. The dewy morning inspired for Leon and you to have a lazy Sunday in bed. It was a rare occasion were Leon didn’t have work so of course you guys cherished it as much as you could.

You were currently laying back on Leon’s chest while reading the new book Leon had recently gotten you. Leon would place a kiss on the crown of your head every so often while mumbling sweet nothings into your hair. His left hand laid on your thigh rubbing small shapes, while his right hand laid on your soft tummy. He couldn’t believe how sharp of a turn his life took when you entered it.

The police academy had taken up every aspect of his life so the thought of having a significant other never crossed his mind, until you had stumbled into his life on a Sunday morning just like this. Leon had been shopping in a local bookstore in search of his next thriller when you had accidently bumped into him. Being too engrossed by the contemporary romance novel in your hand you hadn't noticed absolutely gorgeous man trying to look at books.

Ever since then, you guys had kept it a tradition to read together every Sunday, weather it be 5 minutes before bed, or 2 hours in a coffee shop Leon and you would always make a point to read in each others presences.

This Sunday was no different, the romance novel in your hand was finally getting to the best part, the enemies are finally turning into lovers. You tried really hard to not squeal as your stomach turned all giddy.

You fingered the corner of the page as you were getting ready to turn it. When you finally turned the page of your book Leon whispered into your ear, “Wait,”

You halted your action and turned back to the pervious page. You scanned the page wondering if Leon saw a stain or something. You look over your shoulder to study your boyfriend.

You were met with his tongue sticking out slightly, brows furrowed and his eyes scanning the page. A few heartbeats later his eyes trailed up to yours. His baby blue iris bore into your eyes. A shy smile spread onto his face while his cheeks dusted pink.

He chuckled a little as he scratched the back of his neck, “Sorry love, I’m a slow reader.”

You let out an airy laugh before you kissed his warm cheek, “It’s okay love.”

#leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy drabble #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #re2 leon #re2 x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil #fluff #drabbles

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petrichor-idyllic · 1 year

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hey!! i love ur work. could u do hcs for the boys fighting for the readers attention?? 🫶🫶

Of course I can.

Pronouns weren't specified so gender-neutral reader.

GIVE ME ATTENTION

MASTERLIST | MULTI-CHARACTER MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. Gender-neutral! Reader x Glader boys.

You're the most popular Glader around, and it seems like all the boys have a thing for you, so, how would they get your attention?

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, dumb teenage boys, possessiveness and other slightly problematic themes (I don't condone but it's fiction).

THOMAS

Considering that Thomas moves at a million miles an hour and has Teresa (*cough* and Newt *cough*) as potential love interest(s), I don't think Thomas would actually fight for anyone's attention.

I know, I know, that defeats the point of the prompt.

But, if anything, especially in the books, Thomas is kind of actively trying to avoid attention.

And failing monumentally.

So, I think if he'd want your attention, he'd seek it out in private.

He wouldn't be the type to chase you around the Glade, pining for your attention.

He'd wait until there'd be a moment alone.

Maybe when you're enjoying your own company, chilling after a long day's work, Thomas would approach you.

And he'd get your attention that way.

In an intimate, one-on-one way.

Just simple conversation getting to know one another and some light, and kinda awkward flirting.

Which I guess is a good (and healthy) way to get someone's attention.

Good job, Thomas.

NEWT

Maybe it's because there isn't much romance in the series, but I can't see Newt fighting for attention in the traditional sense either.

He's the second in command and has enough on his plate.

I can, however, see him going out of his way to offer you more guidance.

Or he'd act nicer to you and let you get away with more stuff.

He'd probably give you gifts and convince Frypan to give you more food.

He'd basically use his influence over the Glade to give you an easier time.

It'd be subtle.

And you might not even realise he'd been doing it until you'd ask Minho or somebody and it'd get spilled.

That's probably when you'd develop an actual relationship.

MINHO

Now, unlike the previous boys, Minho absolutely would be the stereotype of dumb, slightly overly-cocky teenage boy trying to get his crushes attention.

He'd flex around you.

He'd crack more jokes than usual around you.

He'd also try and act cooler around you at the same time.

You'd "bump" into him at random occasions.

He'd tease and poke fun at the other Gladers to make himself seem better.

Though that being said, he would not be good at flirting.

It'd be the kind of cheesy flirting that would leave you rolling your eyes and having to stop yourself from laughing.

Though, if you'd ever flirt back, he'd lose his cool and be turned into a stuttering, flustered mess.

Not such a cool guy after all, huh?

GALLY

Gally would be a problem.

More of a problem than usual.

He'd get in fights and insult people in front of you to try and make himself seem seem tougher and more "manly".

Not attractive and definitely not healthy.

You'd often grace his presence and then someone else would end up bruised and bloody.

Alby hates you.

Even though you've done nothing wrong.

He'd also try extra hard at work around you.

Lifting heavier things, barking more orders and pushing himself to his building limits.

"Oh no, it's too hot doing all this manual labour- better take my shirt off" typa energy.

Definitely more of a physical attention seeker.

Though, I think that'd probably scare you off more than anything.

Or maybe not.

I don't know what you're into.

FRYPAN

You'd be well-fed, to say the least.

Fry would get your attention in a similar way to Newt.

By providing you with food and anything you need.

Though, he'd be more open and complimentary.

Despite popular belief, he'd probably be the best out of the boys when it'd come to flirting and making you notice him.

He's not shy, but he's not an idiot who succumbs to his emotions and starts acting really different because he has a crush.

He'd ask you what you'd want to eat.

You'd accidentally end up picking the meals for the Glade everyday.

People would start asking you to get Fry to make their favourite foods.

Like Gally, he'd put far more effort into his work.

But in a healthier way with less violence.

Definitely a sweetheart, and no threat.

Thank God.

ALBY

He simply would not.

Not even Movie! Alby.

Sorry.

Ahhh I'm back.

This definitely isn't my best work but I'm also working on part 2 for "on my own"- which is a lot of hard work because I have to actually follow the plot lmao.

Anyway, I hope you liked these dumb lil headcanons :))

#🌿 petri writes #🌿 petri writes tmr #🍃 petri tmr #tmr fanfiction #tmr minho #tmr imagines #newt the maze runner #the maze runner #thomas the maze runner #tmr gally #alby maze runner

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random-brushstrokes · 1 year

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Edmund Blair Leighton - Till Death Do Us Part (1878)

This delightful oil on canvas was composed by the great Regency painter Edmund Blair Leighton. Like many of Leighton’s genre scenes, Till Death Us Do Part is a humorous portrayal of male-female interaction. Walking down the aisle of their wedding ceremony, a beautiful young woman in a period dress links arms with her new husband, a gentleman several years her senior. The artist exhibited this work at the Royal Academy in 1879, and when he first sent it to the Academy, he gave it the incisively sarcastic title “L.S.D.,” standing for the Latin phrase “librae, solidi, denarii.” The phrase translates to “pounds, shillings, pence,” suggesting the woman is marrying for money rather than affection.

Elaborately detailed, the monumental canvas is filled with wedding guests who whisper and flash disapproving looks, wearing comical expressions ranging from worry to dazed confusion. The bride casts her eyes downward as the “well-wishers” look on, avoiding the gaze of a particular young man to her right. Was this forlorn fellow her true love? The scene does imply that it was they who were once to be married. The old groom (humorously painted as a self-portrait of the artist) stares ahead, his face blank, oblivious to their connection. Although no one looks happy on this occasion, Leighton is able to infuse the work with the rich narrative detail and his trademark sense of humor that make his canvases an absolute pleasure to view. (source)

#Edmund Blair Leighton #british art #genre painting #1870s

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xdreamer45x · 21 days

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Today marks a monumental occasion, which is none other than Nomi's 10th birthday! (aka the anniversary of when I made my first ever post with her on tumblr X3) I can't believe I've had this lovely lady for a decade now! I've been through so much with her, so she deserves celebrating UvU

Normally I'd try to draw something for the occasion hence why I missed doing something for her 9th birthday cuz life was being mean lol XDD, but since this is a milestone birthday, I decided to do something extra special this year :3 Introducing my custom Nomi Barbie doll! :D It took me a long time to find someone who was able to make her, but I couldn't be happier with the final product ^v^ She's an absolutely gorgeous doll and I love dressing her up in all sorts of different outfits and posing her for pictures ^3^

I currently don't have an outfit that can pass for her og look (the ninja suit), but I do have the next best thing, which is her mom outfit I use for original stuff and my Gravity Falls crossover XP As for the sign, the background is representative of two of the most important aspects of her character; her origins from Randy Cunningham: 9th Grade Ninja, and her time as my custom character in Dragon Ball Xenoverse and Xenoverse 2 (as well as Dragon Ball: The Breakers now lol XD) I also wanted to toss in a lil Bill Cipher as a nod to my crossover au that really helped shape Nomi into what she is now, but I could not for the life of me find a good transparent image of him that I liked XDD

It's been a fun ride with this gal over the past decade; here's to many more years of joy with Nomi! :D

#rc9gn #human!nomicon #nomicon #xdreamer45x #photos

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synamartia · 3 days

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❖ This is where I will be posting all of my ideas that will eventually be written. If one idea sparks something in your brains, I will be more than happy to hear it! If you would like to take one of my ideas and write your own version of it, please message me first and tag me in your finished product so that I may read it~!

❖ Your Star [ NSFW / Fluff ] WIP [ Inspired by The Big Bang Theory S5xE24, the scene regarding Bernadette's necklace. ] Your 50th anniversary with Alastor was approaching, and you were beginning to feel anxious about such a monumental occasion and the pressure to make it special. Alastor - ever the detail oriented demon that he is - took note of your behavior during the month leading up to your anniversary, and decided to help you relieve the tension. Besides, there was absolutely no way that you would ever be able to top the gift he had waiting for you once he succeeded in calming your racing mind. "Truly, there is no reason to fret over something as small as this," he whispered as he came up behind you, his hands coming to rest gently on your shoulders. You tensed the moment you felt his digits on your skin, quickly pulling away and taking a few steps forward. Despite his urging you to calm down and not be so anxious, you continued to go over each idea in your mind, wondering if maybe you could enlist the help of a certain Princess of Hell. The only problem would be making sure that she kept her mouth shut until it was time to exchange gifts. Charlie never was the best at keeping secrets - especially when it came to things such as this - and you were a bit terrified of her intrinsic motivation to drag Alastor further from his shell. "If it makes you feel any better, I've yet to acquire your gift as well. We are in the same boat, my dear."

❖ Mercy [ NSFW / Slight Dead-Dove ] WIP / Potential series When an ill-advised attempt at recovering a lost treasure for the newly spawned Radio Demon goes expectedly awry, you're left speechless as you witness the events that earned Alastor his famous moniker. Speechless, and soaked... "I told you, my dear..." Alastor whispered as he reached down to pull you to your feet, blood smeared across his cheeks and soaking his white button-up. You could hear the echoing of screams both in the distance and through the speakers of the old radio he had gifted you - one in particular screaming louder than the rest pleading for mercy. Taking your dainty hand in his, Alastor held you against his blood soaked chest, his smile softening as he stared down at you. "You are my only treasure now. I'll eviscerate every damned soul in this god-forsaken hellscape to keep you safe."

❖ Naughty, Naughty [ NSFW / Heavy Dacryphilia ] WIP As one of the few souls within Hell that actually sought redemption, you participated in every exercise and group activity that crossed Charlie's mind. But when one of these exercises leads to Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Creepy being covered from antler to hoof in what was meant to be a red velvet macaron batter, Alastor decides a more hands on approach might be a better redemption method. "Does your jaw hurt?" He asked, his tone mocking as he ground his teeth together, muscles straining as he fought to hold that maniacal grin of his. Your jaw ached as you bent down further, your tongue rolling out to lick another drop of the red velvet batter from his clothed thigh - wishing that it was something else more... provocative. Looking up through tear soaked lashes at the deer demon that this had all been for in the first place, you couldn't stop the needy whine that escaped your throat as you watched him undo the first few buttons of his now ruined dress shirt. "Too bad! You're going to use that pretty mouth of yours to clean up every single drop of the mess you made!"

#syn's ideas #to be written #synamartia

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supervillain-smut · 1 month

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Hi babydoll, my good bitch! How do you feel about heat cycles with the na'vi? Specially Quaritch?

-☠️

OOOOH BOY! Okay, SO! How I imagine Na'vi heat cycles would be about the same as a period, but both male and female Na'vi go through it; happens once a month, there are weird-ass cravings, if you're with someone your cycles can line up, and it's super uncomfortable to go through alone, BUT, they can temporarily fix it by sleeping with their S/O or otherwise relieving themselves.

It'll come back after about 6 hours after release, so it may end up making both parties a little sleep-deprived. It makes every sense more intense; partners can smell each other more, their taste is heightened, their hearing is better, and every touch feels too hot. Both parties are also fertile during this period, so if kids aren't an option, partners may seem distant for a week as they avoid each other to prevent activities.

Outside of heat, they are infertile and sex is just a fun activity between two partners. This is to ensure children are around the same age to partake in any monumental occasions in a Na'vi's life, such as connecting with the spirit tree, in water tribes' case, the Tulkun returning, etc, as well as being mobile in earlier stages of Na'vi history before they established camps and roamed.

Now, turning to Miles Quaritch in particular. If you thought he was grumpy before, HA! It's managed to get worse tenfold. His ears are almost always pinned back, he's snapping at anyone that isn't his S/O, and his crew avoids him as they go through their own due to the close quarters and relationships as somehow he manages to be the most aggressive out of them.

He's irritated at the rations, all the bright lights around the base, and the smells, everyone is too close to him all of the time. He steadily can't focus on his mission, and his urge to seek you out becomes stronger and stronger. God forbid the day he caves the RDA gets in his way. There will be hell to pay, someone will absolutely get hurt, and he will be muzzled, restrained, and possibly contained until it's over.

If he is allowed and undisturbed to seek you out, he's rough. His hips piston into you while holding your tail over his shoulder, you will have bite marks all over you, and his grip is strong and possessive; you're not going anywhere until both of you are thoroughly satisfied. And then you'll do it all again. He's also extremely vocal, and his teammates and anyone else nearby will know exactly what you're doing.

The scientists know better than to ask him of all people to... study this behavior between Na'vi couples. However, they can tell him a key piece is missing when he complains about not ever fully calming down. 'You said it would be gone for 6 hours!' IF he performs Tsaheylu with you, connecting your queues, signifying your bond. It's all mumbo-jumbo crap to him, until he finally tries it. He never goes back.

"But what about a human S/O?" I hear you ask... That is such a bad idea. You will not survive. Everything is far too big, far too rough, and you can't connect with him, therefore making him even more determined and frustrated.

#nsft #na'vi #skull anon #regulars #miles quaritch #recom quaritch #colonel quaritch #colonel miles quaritch

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zahri-melitor · 2 months

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In terms of the narrative way that Jason and Damian's deaths are addressed, I feel that an overlooked part in the narrative is that not only did the underlying assumption of the permanency of death change between 1988 stories and 2013 stories, but a lot of modern readers don't realise that Damian's death contains a specifically compressed process of grieving, while Bruce's reaction to Jason's is spread out over many different stories and titles over decades.

But today I want to talk about Bruce fighting Granny Goodness and Darkseid himself to get Damian back...and the contrast with Underworld Unleashed, Neron and Jason.

Because one of the quietest yet most monumental parts of Underworld Unleashed, to me, was Neron trying to tempt Bruce with resurrecting Jason, and Bruce turning Neron down.

And one one hand, you would say "of course Batman would turn down Neron, he doesn't make deals with the devil." Yet UU is an odd event in that multiple heroes DO make deals with Neron, in ways that will reverbate for a while, as well as a whole pack of villains (including some villains who refuse to make deals with Neron, actually). It's not an event where everyone on one side of the ledger is good and everyone on the other side of the ledger is bad. And yet Bruce makes two firm choices during this event. He chooses to let go of the possibility of seeing Jason resurrected. And he refuses to kill anyone in Arkham Asylum, even though he's promised that doing so would save everyone else in the Asylum from certain death.

It's very much a Bruce here, by Underworld Unleashed, who has reached acceptance in the five stages of grief. He doesn't bargain to get his son back, he accepts that the result of a deal with Neron would be worse than living with the pain he is already in.

And that contrast, with Batman & Robin 2011, where Bruce goes to 5 members of his family for support as he fights his way through the five stages of grief for Damian...only to emerge determined to allow Damian a peaceful resting place (and then shortly after start fighting to rescue Damian's body, after Ra's decides to run off and do wacky Ra's stuff)... it's interesting.

I see people complaining about those five issues, on occasion, but they were not only a very studied manner to have Bruce confront his grief, but the path through them was also an inversion of Bruce's passage through it after Jason. For Jason, it started with taking his rage out on Dick and finished with Tim pulling him into acceptance and moving forward. With Damian, it started with Tim confronting Bruce that he had to deal and finished with Dick helping Bruce reach the conclusion there was nothing he could have done that would have changed events.

And in a way, that inversion also existed between how Bruce dealt with Jason and Damian's deaths.

In Jason's, he accepted the finality of events, and that even if he stormed hell to bring Jason back, he couldn't be certain he would regain his son.

In Damian's, he knew that resurrections happened. He knew the pain of that hole left by a dead son. And he stormed Apokolips to rescue Damian (first his corpse then his living child).

While I don't find Robin Rises a particularly satisfying story to read, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that Tomasi was specifically setting up parallels with previous stages of Bruce's grief over Jason.

And I wonder, if the events and stories had happened in the opposite order, whether Bruce would have had the strength to turn Neron down during Underworld Unleashed.

#dc meta

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strobbylemonade · 4 months

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Hermitcraft Season 9 Retrospective

Across 3 versions and nearing the span of 2 years, HC9 has been an absolutely delightful and awe-filled experience. A summary and retrospective of Hermitcraft Season 9, and a personal introspection of how this season has affected me over the years. Words: 1099 Read Length: 5mins 30secs

Like many, Mumbo was my introduction into Hermitcraft - I started watching a bit way through "Sixfinity" and the absolute scale of the projects then blew me away. I honestly didn't think they could pull it off better, just so many fantastic builds over such a long time that it would take a monumental effort to beat it.

Boy was I wrong.

I watched Mumbo bumble through the start of the series, with him, Scar and Grian blasting their way through the diamond war and move out of the rampaged starting area - I began watching Scar as Scarland unfolded in all of its monumental glory, but I really only preferred watching Mumbo.

And then he went on break.

Previously I thought it was insane that some people watched so many members - how do you have so much time on your hands? But when every single member of the server spends so much time and breathes so much life into their builds, their projects, and their community, you can't help but stop and stare (Decked Out aside - Scarland and Pearl's gorgeous alien base are the two most astonishing builds I've seen in my life).

Not only did Mumbo taking a break encourage me to watch other hermits, but there was also a melting pot of individual projects and community events: The King and its following war (where I started watching the Soup Group more often, and my now-favourite hermit, Pearl), the Rift, Stat Poker, TCG, the Prank Wars (again), Decked Out, and lately the Hermitcraft Grand Prix. The community events went above and beyond in entertainment and creativity, and also displayed the fantastic organisational skills (especially Rendog and Grian) needed to create collaborations of such scale.

Again I must sing Decked Out 2's praises - it may as well be one of the most impressive feats built mostly by one person in survival Minecraft. I've watched so many of Tango's streams - through him, I've both seen a different side of the hermits I'm familiar with (congratulations to Pearl for beating decked out), and saw the best side of hermits I don't watch often (Hypno is such a fantastic and intelligent runner). And our other highly detailed all-season-project card-deck-based not-so-mini-minigame this season - VintageBeef's TCG - was also turned into a real card game! Both bringing hermits together hermits to play the game, and commissioning so many fantastic and dedicated Hermitcraft fan-artists to draw art for the IRL cards, Hermitcraft TCG was no doubt a hallmark of the community, both with the hermits and fans.

And to the "hermit-adjacent" series, honourable mentions go out to: 1. The thrilling and murderous Life Series (which had THREE seasons during S9!) 2. The fantastic Imp & Skizz podcast (Impulse is now a part of my "hermit-rotation", and fingers crossed for Skizz in S10!) 3. The Hermitcraft Recap which I've sat down and watched during my breaks at uni every Monday (both catching me up with the members I don't watch and also saving my sanity)

One thing I would like to talk about is TinFoilChef, who passed away last year. I honestly didn't believe it happened. I very rarely watched him on occasion, and he never really appeared in the people who I watched's videos - a true hermit in every aspect of the word. I've seen the neatly lined mines in the previous seasons, spreading out like tendrils just underneath the surface of the beautiful builds - a functional, cacophonous, and sprawling web of mines dug out by hand, invisible above ground but ever-present.

Season 10 will be the first season without him.

It's been a while since he passed. He reminded me a bit of my father, and him just being gone hit close to home. I just assumed he'd be on Hermitcraft forever, somehow. I do thank you, TFC, for your laughter and your boisterous presence. You'll be sorely missed, and Hermitcraft will always carry a piece of you with it.

This season alone has spanned many of my personal milestones - it started in my final year of high school, some of the emotionally roughest times in my life, and has stayed with me through the first year of university. It's seen me graduate, get a job, file my taxes for the first time, go to my first anime convention, make a Twitter and Tumblr account, make friends, lose friends, and comforted me throughout. There's something special about coming back after a rough day, falling apart at the seams, and being able to put on some smooth music as the most gorgeous monument you've seen gets constructed in front of your very eyes. There's something comforting about knowing that no matter how many firsts or lasts I'm going through, and how scary it is, I can always turn on a video by someone I love watching and turn my brain off for a second. Having this exciting (thanks Decked Out) yet confidently unending (thanks, Decked Out) was some stability I really needed in my life. Having Hermitcraft - the server, the game, the community - to always come back to, and spinning stories out of funny little block people during times when everything felt so serious and talking to friends was overwhelming, made my life that much better.

Overall, like Season 9, this retrospective is nearing an end. I've definitely missed some things, the biggest of which is Xisuma's Vanilla Tweaks and otherwise commitment to the server, but otherwise here's a quick recap of my personal highlights of the season:

Here's the hermits I started watching this season: Pearl, Bdubs, Tango, Gem, Impulse, Grian, Scar, Zedaph, and a handful of Doc, X, Cleo, and Ren. 14/26 - that's over half the members! For someone who's only been watching one hermit for 4 years beforehand, that's a feat for me.

And here's my favourite moments and events: • The entire run of Decked out • The entire run of TCG • Doc's Perimeter • The entire server covering Doc's Perimeter • Any moment where the hermits have just come together and hung out (Waiting in minigame lobbies in particular) • Pearl, Bdubs, and Scar's absolutely magnificent and artistically wonderful megabases • "This time on Hermitcraft - Me!" by Pixilriffs during the crossover • Hermitcraft x Gamers Outreach charity stream (where they hit the goal before the stream even started!) • All Zedvancements

My love goes out to the Hermitcraft server, its members, and its community; here's to wonderful Season 10, and a well deserved break for all the hermits.

#hermitcraft #writing #hermitcraft season 9 #strbylmn posts

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wtfuckevenknows · 1 year

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<…on a scar.> for Tarlos?

Hiiiii :))) Thanks for giving me another reason to not start on the smut prompts. This really is the last one now, I guess...unless someone wants to send me more?! 👀

Sorry to everyone who's sent me a smut prompt, I will get to them eventually (maybe) 😬😂

20: on a scar

It took a couple of weeks after the solar flare for TK to heal enough to be cleared for light duty and other extracurricular activities.

Carlos didn't mind that their usually very active sex life was put on hold, because it gave them time to get to know each other better outside of the bedroom (or the couch, or the floor, or the kitchen counter...).

They spent a lot of their waking hours together because TK was still recuperating at home and Carlos would come over after his shifts. He either stayed with TK when everyone else was at work or he picked TK up, who had started spending the night at Carlos' place every now and then, which was a monumental step for them in Carlos' book.

But not only was the staying over new, Carlos also learned that TK, who had been so skittish when they first met, was a cuddler. As soon as Carlos sat down next to TK on the couch or lay down next to TK in bed, his boyfriend scooted as close as possible and cuddled into his side. More often than not, he found himself with TK’s head pillowed on his shoulder, his fluffy hair basically in his mouth, but he didn’t mind. Having TK snuggled up to him was EVERYTHING to Carlos.

Sometimes the roles were reversed and Carlos was draped over TK’s body, still mindful of his healing body though. It was during one of those occasions, when TK was wearing one of his patterned shirts, the top two buttons undone, that Carlos first saw the scar from the shooting.

He knew TK had gotten the stitches taken out earlier that day, so there would be no more bandage across his chest.

Seeing the scar took him back to the moment he heard the gunshot, standing outside with Bruce and his wife, feeling absolutely helpless. The bullet nearly took TK away from him before he was ever really his, but he had still, without a doubt, already known back then that he was head over heels in love with the brave firefighter.

Coming back to the present Carlos lightly brushed a finger across the scar, before pressing a gentle kiss to it and squeezing TK a little tighter, so grateful he was with him now.

You can find the other prompt fills here or on ao3.

Send me a Ship and a Number and I will Write a Kiss

#will this really be the last one now???#i hate that last bit of the last sentence but I can't come up with anything better 😂#me? writing? what a concept #tarlos fic #911 lone star fic #kiss prompts

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pikahlua · 1 year

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Reading some of your comments, I've been thinking about why I dropped MHA a while a go as a Bakguou fan. I'm not sure if you want to hear it but you were asking anon to tell you the reasons why they think Bakugou's character arc isn't working for them so I'll say what I think. I think it's Deku. I personally always liked Bakugou and despised Deku from start. I liked Bakugou when he was bad and didn't even want development. If Horikoshi could separate them instead I would've loved MHA a lot more.

First of all, let me point out what an immaculate ask this is. I love it. This is exactly what I was asking for. You have perfectly expressed your feelings without saying anything to provoke or upset me. I have every respect for your opinion despite not sharing the same opinion, and I would have this ask stand as a monument and example of perfection to the world. Kudos, friend.

Now, since you offered your opinion, I will respond to it with my thoughts. I hope to do so just as respectfully as you have.

So I feel for you. I did not “despise Izuku from the start” as you have, but I have come to a point in the story where I’m feeling that frustration with how slowly his character is developing, so I understand where a lot of the negative feelings aimed at Izuku particularly lately have been coming from. Even though I like him, I don’t like him nearly as much as I love Katsuki (I think that’s obvious), and while my frustrations haven’t made me STOP liking Izuku, they are still frustrations that can annoy me at times. Additionally, my perspective on the story has changed since I first started watching/reading MHA, and these perspective changes put early story arcs in a new light that highlight Izuku’s character flaws when before I may have missed them. That said, I do love me some character flaws, so I wouldn’t say that made me dislike Izuku either.

And this is such a weird thing to say, but I kinda like that you despise Izuku. XD I don’t know what it is exactly about Izuku that you dislike, but if it’s anything other than “he’s just too whiny” like I’ve had to deal with in every fandom for decades, I have even more respect for you. Aside from character flaws, Izuku does have a few traits that can be gratingly annoying on occasion, and while they’re not bad enough to make me feel the need to air my grievances, I won’t deny that they exist. I think some of that is just by virtue of him being a shounen protagonist--some tropes are unavoidable.

Now, here’s the part where I have to speculate, because I don’t fully know what you mean by how you “liked Bakugou when he was bad and didn’t even want development.” To me, Bakugou “was bad” in two ways during the early parts of the story. One of those ways was how he plainly rejected norms and acted confrontational with everyone regardless of the situation (season 1 and season 2, basically), and I can absolutely understand why you would want more of that. But then there’s the plainly unhero-like behavior from, say, episode 1, which is a moment I treasure for what it means in his story but is not behavior I would want to see continued from that point because that would leave Katsuki stagnant and unable to demonstrate his actual heroism.

Now, that said, you claim to not want any “development” from Katsuki, which...I also don’t know exactly what you mean. Do you want his character PERSONALITY not to change? Or do you want his story character to remain static. I’m not sure. I can understand (but don’t necessarily agree with) the former feeling, but I definitely don’t agree with the latter. Katsuki’s character development, especially as begun in his Starting Line episode, was exactly the initial draw to Katsuki for me. I have already alluded to how sick I’ve become of lancer rival characters regressing after learning a lesson in other posts.

I can’t help but laugh (respectfully) at what I perceive to be the potential result of your desire to have Izuku and Katsuki separated. What you’re expressing sounds to me like you would actually prefer a story in which Katsuki is the main character. That’s the major effect of splitting these two characters up like you’re suggesting. And I can totally understand THAT desire, because Katsuki is the main character of my heart (looool). But I also have enough experience with narratives to know that one of the reasons I love Katsuki as much as I do, the reason Katsuki is allowed to be the character he is in so many ways, is precisely because he’s NOT the main character. Remember what I said earlier about some of Izuku’s annoying traits stemming from the fact that he’s the protagonist? Yeah, I don’t want any of that crap getting on my precious Katsuki Bakugou. Izuku is a shield protecting Katsuki’s character from getting bogged down in that protagonist bullshit, because Katsuki IS the formulaic main character of a shounen anime who doesn’t have to do any of that shounen anime protagonist bullshit because someone else is doing it for him. That’s a little too detailed of a discussion for me to go into right now, but that’s the summation of my feelings for that.

You say some things about wanting to watch Katsuki struggle and win as the underdog and fight and earn respect, and I think you’re justified in wanting those things for him. In my opinion, that’s exactly what we get from MHA. He hasn’t been given any help in those regards--everything he’s achieved he did so on his own. The ways in which Izuku has been involved have been as Katsuki’s inspiration in some situations. But that seems to be your sticking point, which I certainly can’t help you with or would even want to try to talk you out of. You don’t like Izuku, so your feelings make sense. For me, it’s more like the Izuku that inspires Katsuki is a symbol more than Izuku the person. Katsuki is seeing the things he needs to see in Izuku (not the full picture of Izuku) in order to push him in the areas he needs to improve. And when it comes to Katsuki’s fights and whatnot, I’ve said before I don’t think people should ONLY want him to have cool fights, but I do understand the desire to want to see one on occasion. It’s just that that feeling in me gets squashed every time I think about what Katsuki is in this story. He’s already a top fighter. No fight he wins will ever look like an underdog overcoming the odds because he’s been a combat savant from the beginning. The underdog aspect comes into play when he’s rescuing someone. It would be a far more amazing underdog moment for Katsuki to save someone like Tenko Shimura when it feels like that’s something Izuku, the rescue savant, wants to do, especially when the story seems to imply Izuku is destined to do so. So I guess in this way I’m getting those things fulfilled for me that you feel aren’t being fulfilled for you. And it’s gonna make sense then why I’m still into the story where you’re not. I hope you do get those feelings fulfilled in some other part of the story or in another story altogether then.

I do think Katsuki interacts with other characters, but I can understand why many people feel like it’s not enough. (That said, I think ALL the characters could stand to interact a bit more than they do, but at least we don’t feel like it’s TOO MUCH instead I guess.) It does seem like that’s an unfortunate consequence of the story coming to an end when Horikoshi seems to be running out of steam. I hope he gets to have all the scenes and moments he wanted in his story at least. And we will always have fanfic for those moments we didn’t get in the story proper.

Your not wanting Izuku to gain from Katsuki’s victories is...a very individualistic perspective (no, I do NOT mean you are being selfish). Like, there are individualistic- vs communal-focused societies, and many western countries tend to skew more individualistic whereas many eastern countries skew communal. Japan for sure is one of those communal-focused societies, and many of their stories will reflect this, such as in themes where “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.” Shounen loves its themes of friendship, comradery, and teamwork, so MHA was always destined to have a fair bit of that in it. I’d warn you a lot of Japanese stories will be like that, but I do wonder if you’ve had an anime you felt did give you want you want before. I personally don’t see Izuku’s wins as Katsuki’s losses--Katsuki has always in some fashion desired Izuku, which may have manifested as jealousy or yearning for friendship or comradery (or whatever, depending on who all you readers are). If you didn’t like that about him from the outset, I’m afraid you were long doomed for latter parts of the story. I’m not gonna say anything that will make you feel better about the likely ending to MHA in that regard. I happen to like where things are going (at least the things I can TELL about it, since I’m guessing as much as anyone else about it).

(And I mean, calling what Katsuki did to Izuku “mellow for an anime character” is its own can of worms. We don’t even really know enough about their childhood and middle school years prior to 9th grade to be able to comment definitively on any of that, I would think. I will say though it’s not anyone’s job to attack or defend Katsuki for any of that in a conversation with anyone else. You can take what you need to from that situation.)

Again, thank you for your thoughts! I really appreciate them, especially because they actually provided me a constructive point of discussion and some meaningful insight into opinions like yours. You’re always welcome to send more asks! A+ Anon Award!

#ask pika #anon ask #katsuki bakugou #anti izuku midoriya #this isn't an anti post but there are criticisms of izuku in this post that some izuku fans may not wish to read #meta #anime only friendly

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yr-obedt-cicero · 1 year

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I'm noticing a common critique on John C. Hamilton's biographies being that he was bias in regards to Hamilton's and Washington's relationship. I think a major incentive to this criticism is that these denunciations are written during the ages of the founding father's glory days, when they were still beheld as philosophy Gods and the ultimate guide to running the nation. Washington especially, since he was the general of the Continental Army and first president. So, it's imaginable not many were easily alright with even the implication that Washington relied heavily on his associates and political partners.

A book has just been published in New York, by John C. Hamilton, the son of the great Alexander Hamilton, the object of which is to establish that his father was not only Alexander Hamilton, the leader of the Federal party, but that he was also the real George Washington who guided the Revolution of the Colonies to a successful issue, and presided over the infant Republic for the first eight years of its existence. In other words, Mr. John C. Hamilton undertakes to show that it is a great mistake to suppose that Gen George Washington did any thing of aimself for the United States, but that all his public acts connected with the trials and triumphs of the Union were originated by Alexander Hamilton, who used him as a very convenient puppet for the accomplishment of the grand and patriotic ends which Alexander Hamilton liad conceived. The chief evidence relied upon to prove this startling fact is that the bulk of Washington's military and other of ficial correspondence is in the handwriting of Hamilton, and, proceeding on so small a premise, the new writer of history concludes that every letter, paper, dispatch, draught of instructions, &c., &c., which is to be found with Washington's signature appended to Hamilton's peamanship, was really the latter's production in thought and purpose. Of course such an assumption must involve Mr. John C. Hamilton in numberless absurdities, but he cares nothing for this, and goes on to the end of the chapter magnifying the power behind the throne, till the throne itself is entirely overshadowed. In one place, where Washington had delegated Hamilton to perform certain specific duties, we are gravely informed that Hamilton (in the place of Washington,) addressed to himself particular instructions defining his line of action, having previously chosen himself, (on Washington's behalf,) for the honorable service, and the transaction to be complete, ought to have ter minated in a letter written by Hamilton to Hamilton, thanking himself for the zeal and ability with which the duties were discharged. This is surely a new way of writing history. Hamilton, as we all know, was Washington's and was secretary for a considerable period, and afterwards [tear in the paper] the correspondence of Cabinet, and that during this period, have been in [tear in the paper] should, hand-writing, is by no means remarkable To argue therefrom that the secretary should have all the credit which has attached to the principal, is absolutely to insult the understanding of the world. All biography must be re-written, all history must be revised and corrected, to suit such a theory. [...]

In the case before us, there was indeed no occasion to assert so monstrous a doctrine to redeem a name from oblivion. Alex. Hamilton needs no such service at the hands of his son to fix his reputation upon an imperishable basis. He was a man of great and original powers; he assisted very materially in the cause of the Revolution; he participated in the glories of Yorktown, and he impressed his ideas of Government upon the country as few men have ever done since his time. The Federalist is a monument of the vigor and acuteness of his intellect. In an age of extraordinary men, illustrated in both hemispheres by conspicuous examples of mental and moral greatness—the age of Voltaire and Frederick, of Turgot and Lafayette, of Chatham and Burke—he stands out as a great, independent, representative man, and the attempt to add a cubit to his stature, at the expense of the first man of all time, cannot detract from his proportions, though it must unquestionably convince the world that in intellectual development Mr. John C. Hamilton is a very unworthy son of such a sire.

In the matter of the Farewell Address, which is claimed for Hamilton, upon grounds more plausible than are set up in other cases of disputed authorship, it is time, we think, that the true facts should be brought out by our Historical Society. We have heard that in the hands of a member of the Washington family, are all the documents connected with the affair, which are ample to remove every doubt that has been raised by the Hamiltonian claim. Perhaps Mr. Irving will seek access to them, with the view of settling the controversy forever in the fifth volume of his Life of Washington. At all events, justice demands that the documents should be published, and we hope the history of the Fare-well Address will soon be written by their light.

Source — Keowee courier (Pickens Court House, S.C.), [January 16, 1858]

We fully concur in the general opinion which has been freely and widely given in the daily press concerning this remarkable volume. Had it been issued anonymously we should have suspected that it was designed as an attempt upon public credulity, and we should have warmly resented such a freedom taken with the pure and lofty fame of Alexander Hamilton as that of making him, from his grave, lay claim to all the honour and glory of the American Revolution. But it is published under the authority of his son, and we can only deplore the vanity and fatuity which seeks to magnify the reputation of the great Federalist at the expense of all the Fathers of the Republic, and especially of the grandest of them all, our venerated Washington. According to Mr. John C. Hamilton, the revolt of the Colonies was due entirely to the happy circumstance that his father removed from the West Indies to New York in the beginning of our troubles, and the majestic part which George Washington played in that swelling drama arose out of the fortunate selection of the gallant stripling as his military Secretary. Not only did Hamilton prepare the Farewell Address, says the filial John C, but he wrote all the most important documents of the campaign for Washington to sign—indeed the Pater Patriae was but a puppet in the hands of his amanuensis, which he worked to suit his own purposes. It is matter of congratulation to Virginia that our author has not claimed for his sire the authorship of the Bill of Rights and the Declaration of Independence, and thus with iconoclastic zeal smashed the images of George Mason and Thomas Jefferson, which we have been taught to revere. There can be no apology for such a perversion of history as this Alexander Hamilton was a man of lofty stature, who stands forth in the full proportions of assured greatness on the canvass of the Revolution for the admiration of the world. The effort to make him the central figure can only result in causing him to seem ridiculous. But for this, we might not object to the prosecution of Mr. John C. Hamilton’s labours as an innocent amusement. But we cannot regard such tampering with the just reputation of the illustrious dead with indifference, and if we had any influence with Mr. John C. Hamilton, we should implore him to desist. He is covering himself with ridicule, which is of small consequence indeed, but he is also belittling his father, which is a very serious affair.

Source — Southern Literary Messenger, Volume 5; Volume 26, [March 1858]

Don't get me wrong, John C.'s biographies are quite prone to bias, especially in his father's favor, which is naturally expected. But he is also surprisingly not that accurate in many subjects. Although JCH was fully aware about how unfairly serving his biography would be perceived by others, that he even went so far as to carefully exclude himself out of every volume, until the very last line that is. But he did such to give the impression of credibility, and alienation from his father so in extension alienation from any sort of bias. But honestly, it would have benefited greatly from acknowledging the bias, and instead leveraging that intimate knowledge of Hamilton to showcase a more personal touch about his legacy and life that no one else would be able to offer. But then again, thinking practically, he and his mother decided against it.

Anyway, critics bashing John Church for even suggesting his father wrote Washington's Farewell Address are discarded because it was actually entirely true. I don't agree with the first critic's point of; “Hamilton needs no such service at the hands of his son to fix his reputation upon an imperishable basis.” Hamilton was initially one of the lesser known founding fathers for quite awhile. With acts tainting his name and thus posthumous reputation, like the Reynolds affair and pamphlet, or just the dishonor of dueling and falling in one. It was a major reason Eliza wanted the biography done in the first place. There was only a noticable incline in likeness for Hamilton around after the Civil War. Because Jefferson's association with the Virginia slave power and his support for the Virginia and Kentucky Resolutions, which had encouraged the idea of nullification was becoming heavily disagreed upon. While Hamilton's focus on unifying the country, strengthening the federal government, and his general opposition to slavery, made him the more referenced and applauded figure. And while Hamilton also did gain more recognition during times of great economic prosperity in the 1920's, he would only lose it again during the Great Depression. A major incentive to the biography was to settle Hamilton's legacy in print and solidify everything to the best of their abilities for the fabric of character that would be used for centuries to come in newer biographies. And to showcase all that he did for America for the recognition he deserved as one of America's most influential figures.

#amrev #american history #alexander hamilton #historical alexander hamilton #john church hamilton #thomas jefferson #george washington #history #cicero's history lessons

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