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qvrcll · 9 months

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college melodrama — V.

summary: ellie survives with a bruised lip and a throbbing pain that keeps her awake in her own bed. abby is elsewhere and of little care to you — you are beside ellie and nursing her wounds. tender touches lead to tenderer tellings and something worth recalling, perhaps.

warnings: injuries mentioned, food / medicine mentioned, just fluff, some angst but let’s be honest, it will be drowned out by the fluff 🫶🏽

a/n: part five and can i just say… THE POLL RESULTS ARE MAKING ME CREASEEEE. we love to see it! i love ya abby but you went too far… also my old divider stopped working for some odd reason :( + sorry for the slow updates, life has been brutally interruptive. anyhow, hope you enjoy this :-]

You’re tapping your feet anxiously beside the cotton of Ellie’s comforter the next time Dina checks in. Some part of you jumps from the familiar sound of the notification, but you put your good faith in Dina. You’re still shaken from the party’s brutal givings — besides Ellie’s bruised lip and cruddy looking jaw, the fight had taken flame amongst the entire college. From videos to whispers, you can feel the tension tenfold when you enter a room. People are nice enough to ask how Ellie is, but not nice enough to keep their eyes from telling.

You’d left her room when the messages rolled in, so it was safe to say that Ellie couldn’t hear the squelch of your heart playing in your throat right now. She couldn’t hear the deafening plea in your lungs drying the substance there, robbing it of the air that was. But she’s quick to realise, quick to ease you of your worries. You feel stupid, feel bad for even being upset but seeing her this battered and bruised hurt the world beneath your eyelids.

She knows all the right things to say and you’re really too hopeless to stay this way. You realise you’re unknowingly blaming Ellie for what’s transpired and make quick work of assuring her that no, it’s not her. It’s you and your dumb, full, thudding heart that is tipping over depravity. For her. But Ellie’s message makes you stop, makes you think. Makes your fingers shake as she loses her mind over her own recklessness with her feelings.

This is tipping close into uncharted territory. Into something of a ruse or something… warm and blanketed. Into something you’ve both hidden. But you’re not sure and Ellie is second guessing every bit of your letters, words, sentences. She’d rather have a shockwave plummet her to death than to lose you to her feelings. But if you were to be the same, she’d only dare to fall, no?

It’s an easy route to her dorm room. With her injury, prone to Abby, it had been a frequent endeavour and now, you were quite literally soaring through different altitudes. Savouring sweeter tastes. Hoping for something you’re sure you haven’t lost your mind to gain.

“Ellie?” your hand is on the door knob and the creaky, old thing flits back to allow you some space inside.

I’ve done this before, so many times. Why is it so much harder now?

“Y/N?” her voice comes softer, like the feel of peeled tangerines, in the commodity of her humble dorm. As you glance up, she’s standing in her flannel jacket, comfortable and so much like the reason as to why your heart is unrelenting in this very moment. But you can’t do this without surety — can’t do this without reason and lose half your mind with it too.

You step forward. It’s the right thing to do. You convince yourself that much, and whatever truth there is in that, is only helping you steer clear of what’s… meant to be yours, “You feel any better?”

“Y… Yeah. Totally. See,” she points ardently to the flesh that has begin to heal against her lip, “Already good. On the way… to be good, I hope.”

This is endearing, you think.

“And good, you will be, Ellie,” you reply, feet lambent against her floors, as you take her hands in yours in a complete show of camaraderie. But underneath the flesh and bone of it all, there’s something raw and pulsing there. Something alive and aware of consequences. Aware of a few of things. Curious of a lot more.

Curious of her hands.

Curious of her lips.

Curious of the row of hairs above her neck.

And of so, so much more.

“Is there… something else… you wanna say?” she suddenly asks. Rips the breath out of your lungs as her hands work to shield yours in some tight grip. Certainly not camaraderie. It’s something sacred in a nuanced sense; a telling? Or maybe one of her hidden shows of affections? But you need to try. Have to.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“When have I, Ellie, ever been wrong?”

“Dickhead. I won’t tell you now.”

“No, wait, hey! I’m sorry!”

You purse your lips, bite and swallow and throw away the smile that burdens them. But a ghost of it remains anyhow and she’s teeming with hope too, you see now. Something illusive made seen with her curiosity. She’s twice as nervous and holding you tighter and… leaning in.

Fuck.

Your lips meet slower than expected. Your nose budges against her cheek. Her teeth taste like oranges and medicine and raw, hot, scary love. Her hands are in your hair and you push the speed of them to match her—

“Ow. Ouch,” she bites her groans of pain, still holding you close. You shudder, afraid suddenly of the truth that she’s still not fully healed, “My lip… it’s just…”

“I’m so sorry—“

“Don’t be. Please?” she whines and her eyes are pouring into yours and you see her past the line you’ve always drawn between the two of you. It disappears till you can no longer smell it in the air anymore. Nothing to stop you anymore. Nothing to be afraid of anymore.

“Okay. Okay,” you laugh against the flannel of her shirt and she coughs out a laugh, the light in her smile, “but you’re going back to bed! Heal, first. Kiss me later?”

“Mmm. Promise you won’t leave?”

“When have I ever?”

“Right” her spit of auburn hair seeps against her ears and despite your words, her lips cut the skin of your cheek anyways. Light, airy, yet leaving with the air of your lungs. You curse comically as she laughs, exits to her room, and you’re doing your best to follow when suddenly…

You hadn’t blocked her. Everything is redrawn and spilt in red. Anger, confusion and curiosity is alive in you when suddenly you become aware. Aware of your buzzing phone. Aware of the back of Ellie’s figure as she retreats to bed. Aware that whatever has started has yet to be resolved.

THE DECISION IS UP TO YOU: YOUR ACTIONS HAVE CONSEQUENCES.

[taglist: @theganymedes @nil-eena @ximtiredx @inf3ct3dd @oceanparadox @cjrights @eveshyper @sosobaker @hsangel64 @zombie-catz @twsmalie @badbye666]

#ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams fic #tlou x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #tlou x you #tlou x y/n #ellie williams fanfiction

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thwip--thwip · 7 months

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dick or treat

itsy🕷️bitsy: DICK or TREAT! 🍬 It's October 31st.... 🎃🎃🎃 U know what that means?? YOU GUESSED IT! 👻👻 Happy SLUT-O-WEEN.💦💦 The last day of COCKtober… 💦😫😭😭 don’t be a bore 😴 ….so make sure you DRESS 👠 like a TOTAL 💅🏻 WHORE! 🤸😈🥵 send to ♋️ HALLOWEEN HOES 👯♀️ before MIDNIGHT 🌚 CUMS or you’ll be CURSED 🌀😱 with a NO 🚫 NUT 🥜 NOVEMBER 😩😩👻

itsy🕷️bitsy: I AM SO SORRY

***

Read on AO3 or below the cut!

It takes Peter nine full seconds to realize he made an earth-shattering mistake.

The thing is, he’s a horrible victim of circumstance, not that it will make any difference to the cruel, capricious universe. He just wasn’t paying attention. Peter was brushing his teeth with one hand, copied the message from Ned with his other, and mis-clicked. ‘MJ😳❤️’ is right above ‘Mr. Stark💡’, and he was so focused on not sending it to ‘May🌷’ that he didn’t realize what his fat thumb had done.

“NO!” His gasp is agonizing and garbled around the toothpaste he’s spitting everywhere as he frantically taps at his phone, trying desperately to unsend the message. He’s panicking, and that’s not good because the app freezes and force closes, and every second counts here because you can only unsend before two minutes are up—the tick of the clock has never sounded louder, oh for the love of—

By the time Peter gets the text message open again, the worst copypasta in the world blazing at him with all of those horrible emojis, the little gray text in the corner already reads Read 8:32AM.

He’s so screwed.

***

“You WHAT?!”

Ned’s yell is loud enough that the entire homeroom turns to look at them, and Peter thumps his head down on the history textbook in front of him. Mr. Harrington doesn’t really care what they do during the morning announcements, but even he looks perturbed by Ned’s shout.

And now Ned’s hyperventilating, which isn’t really helping Peter feel better about the situation.

“You wished Iron Man a happy slutoween.” Ned hisses, and they’re really lucky there’s a Latin test today, or Connor and Alexandra sitting next to them in the back of the room would be paying more attention instead of cramming last-minute flashcards. “Did he say anything?”

“No,” Peter sinks down further in his chair, wondering if Mr. Harrington would even care if he went boneless. If he melted into the floor and just never got up. “But he read it. I’m toast, dude.”

“Oh yeah,” Ned agrees unhelpfully and far too quickly, nodding like a bobblehead. “Do you think Captain America will come to your funeral?”

Braining himself with his history book is looking more appealing by the minute.

***

“Maybe you can pretend someone stole your phone,” Ned offers, as he has been all morning, coming up with less and less plausible excuses. Peter sighs, leaning over their woodshop project, measuring out the piece of wood they were about to cut. “Or you could say you fell on it and the suggested autofill feature wrote it.”

“On what planet could autofill have done that?” Peter looks up at his friend incredulously, and Ned shrugs.

“Through God, all things are possible.” Peter’s expression gets even more bewildered, and Ned throws up his hands. “I don’t know, my lola says it a lot!”

“I think God has abandoned me,” Peter says, mournfully staring into the abyss.

***

It’s 1:46PM when Peter gets a response.

He knows because the vibration almost gives him a heart attack, as it has all day - he turned off all notifications for everything, and the only text he’s gotten all day was from May, about movie tickets for Sunday—but he pulls out his phone like it’s going to bite him, anxiety thrumming like a physical pulse under his skin.

Mr. Stark💡: Joe’s Pizza, 3:30.

“Oh God,” Peter’s sweating, he can feel it rushing over him, making him clammy. He doesn’t have a specific scenario in mind for what’s going to happen in 104 minutes and counting, but every cell in his body is yelling BAD. “Oh my God.”

“What?” MJ asks, appearing over his shoulder out of nowhere like she’s so prone doing, and she sees the text messages before he can do anything. “Oh my God, Peter.”

“I know,” Peter starts, feeling numb, but MJ is laughing, maybe harder than he’s ever seen her laugh, full tears welling in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.

“How does this shit always,” MJ can’t get through her sentence without wheezing, still fighting through the tears. “happen to you? You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” Peter’s hands fly into his hair, pulling at it in distress. “That’s the problem!”

***

Tony’s waiting on the roof when Peter flips up onto it, which is already weird. Mr. Stark is never on time to anything, let alone early.

“Mr. Stark, I am so sorry.” Peter starts in immediately, words coming out in a nervous rush. “It was an accident I swear—”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. reads my text messages out loud, kid.” Tony cuts to the chase, eyes are indecipherable behind his sunglasses, and his words stop Peter cold in his tracks.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes, spiderling,” Tony raises an eyebrow, thumb hooked in his suit pocket. “Want to take a guess where I was?”

He feels like he might faint. Why couldn’t a sinkhole just open and swallow him already?

“A national security meeting.” Tony shakes his head, as if that isn’t supposed to make Peter flip out. “Congrats, kid. You definitely passed on your message to…what was it, sixty-nine ‘Halloween Hoes’? Including the Vice President of the United States of America, naturally.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t screen them for importance?” Peter asks desperately, and Tony huffs out a breath.

“She has an algorithm to detect unusual patterns in personal messages. You know, in case it isn’t you texting?” Peter covers his face with his hands, and Tony snorts quietly. “This one was bizarre enough, it triggered her protocol.”

“If I throw myself off this roof, do you think I’d die?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m going to let you get off the hook that easily.” Tony claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder, warm through the breathable fabric of the suit. “FRI reads the emojis out loud too, you know. Longest sixty-three seconds of my life. I thought I’d seen it all, Pete, but you’ve proven me wrong once again. How the hell did you even come up with that monstrosity?”

“It’s just a thing,” Peter chokes out, and honestly he might actually pass out, the way the blood has rushed to his face. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be another color other than scarlet. “Every Halloween it just—goes around.”

“Slutoween, you mean,” Tony corrects, and Peter would really rather never hear that out of his mouth again. “I already knew you were bisexual, by the way, you have that pin on your backpack and Spidey swung at pride.”

“What?!” Peter shouts, because that’s not where he was expecting this to go, and suddenly Tony is the one that looks a little nervous.

“Well - ‘dick or treat’ kind of seems like a hint, if you know what I mean.” Tony spreads his hands helplessly. “Do we need to have the Talk?”

“What? No.” Peter waves him off frantically. “No, no, no. No. I am good. So good. Beyond good.”

Tony snickers, but at least he doesn’t look mad, and Peter will take his blessings where he can get them. He rubs a hand over his face, looking up at his mentor sheepishly. “…what are the odds we can forget this ever happened and never mention it again?”

“Nope. Not possible,” Tony shakes his head, clapping Peter companionably on the back once again. “You gave me the material of the century kid, and you managed to terrorize me while doing it. This will be paid back in full.”

“Through God, all things are possible.” Peter counters.

Tony laughs.

#marvel #mcu #spiderman #peter parker #tony stark #iron man #irondad #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #spiderson #irondad and spiderson

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blacklight-ghoulette · 1 year

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The Dangers of Summoning A Fire Ghoul

A snippet focusing on Dewdrop's summoning.

notes: this is part of my Life Eternal au, where Dewdrop's ghoulish name is Chanda.

(more under the cut)

“What? Why haven’t you finished up and taken him off?” The words themselves made no sense to him, but the annoyance in the man’s tone was bright and clear.

“There’s a, ah, problem, Papa…” the shorter of the two ghouls grumbles, sounding like he wanted nothing more than to not be there.

“Problem? What problem? He is right there, the mask is in place.” The human’s tone grew irritated and impatient with every word; if he were a ghoul his tail would be twitching, or perhaps even whipping side to side.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” the short ghoul whines, petulant.

“We can’t tell what element he is,” the other ghoul―this one tall with broad shoulders and chest―finishes, shrugging. “He feels like both, we dunno who has to take him.”

The human sneers at them, managing to look down at them despite being shorter than both. “And how does that involve me, precisely? Just go ask him, stop wasting my time!”

“It’s rude to ask…”

“Yeah, and,” the taller one cuts in, “we don’t wanna start off on the wrong foot, you know? Could you just, I dunno, ask him for us?”

“Oh for Belial’s sake, fine!” The man throws his arms in the air and turns on his heel, stomping over to the magic circle.

“You, ghoul,” he barks in heavily accented ghoulish, a gloved hand coming out and snapping at him, “what are you.”

“Get this fucking thing off my head and maybe I’ll tell you,” Chanda snarls in return, baring his fangs behind the silver mask. If his tail weren’t shoved away under the mask’s glamor it would be lashing, a clear message of ‘you have ten seconds before I try to rip out your throat’.

“If not, go fuck off elsewhere you pompous dick.”

“You…!” The shocked gasp caught the attention of the remaining ghouls and humans still lingering in the chamber, all eyes suddenly staring at them. The shock quickly turns to rage, mismatched eyes gleaming angrily.

“You insolent little whelp! How dare you speak to me in such a way! Don’t you know who I am?!”

And again, the words spill from his lips before Chanda could stop them, dripping in vitriol, “Some self-important asshole who’s decided to play dress-up in his mother’s clothes?”

There is a twitch of an eye, the white one, he notes absently, before it feels like the very air around him had become solid, constricting around him like being caught by a moor basilisk. He glares defiance for as long as he could, till his muscles screamed and spasmed, forcing him to lay flat on the frigid stone floor.

‘The circle isn’t drawn,’ he notes absently, mind attempting to think of something besides the thought of his eyes bursting from the pressure. ‘They’ve carved it right into the ground and cast the lines in… Silver?’ Fancy...

“I am Papa Emeritus the third,” the man says, his voice once again soft and melodious but now edged in steel. “I am Lucifer’s chosen here on Earth and I speak with His authority. You, little ghoul,” the word ‘little’ given hard emphasis, “have been summoned by me, bound to my will to this plane of existence to carry out His will. I am being kind to you now, but further insolence will see you chained in Splendor-blessed silver. Or worse. Do I make myself clear?”

“Fine,” he spits out, yet the pressure does not abate, only becoming concentrated on his chest as if a foot were pressing against his sternum.

The man tsks at him, waggling a finger as he smirks at the prone ghoul, “Yes, Papa.”

Green and white eyes bore through him in the scant milliseconds it takes him to respond with a grimace, spitting the words out as if they burned his tongue.

“Yes… Papa.”

“Very good! Now, let's try this again. Tell me, ghoul, what element are you?”

For the briefest moment he thought of actually complying meekly but his entire being balked at such an idea. Instead he gives a snort, rolling his eyes as he concentrates on the golden lace that peeked out from the heavier black robe at his feet. His fire springs to life hungrily, igniting on the metallic thread and beginning to devour it.

Papa doesn’t notice at first and tsks at him yet again in impatience, “out with it, ghoul. What is your element?”

The only response he gives is the slow bloom of a shit-eating grin across his face; ‘pity he can’t see it behind the mask…’

Approximately three heartbeats later, Papa yelps as the fire begins to chew on the thicker purple-lined black robe, flailing and twisting as he yells in his incomprehensible language, attempting to extinguish the flames. The larger of the two ghouls leapt forward to aid him, yelling a short burst of words as he Papa bodily.

“STOP, DROP, AND ROLL!”

The two minutes of the ghoul forcibly rolling the cleric across the chapel floor while enthusiastically beating at the now-extinguished yet quite singed robes was well worth the pain that followed. Papa finally managed to screech loud enough for the ghoul to “fucking stop already, it’s out, fuck, the fire is out you idiot stop rolling me on the floor!”

The big ghoul merely steps back, holding his hands up in resignation, “hey, I’m just making sure, yeah? Don’t want you to like, be all burnt and shit.”

“Whatever,” Papa snarls, gesturing at his new, ill-mannered ghoul, “now you know what he is, but you can take him after I’m done with him.”

The last thing Chanda remembers was the bright gleam of rage in Papa’s eyes before pain wracks his body, twisting and chewing at his nervous system till his vision blacks out.

#Asellas writes #fic snippet #dewdrop ghoul #alpha ghoul #water ghoul #papa iii #life eternal au #the band ghost #ghost band #ghost bc #nameless ghouls

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munsonsduchess · 1 year

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It is me ☕ I know you said you would respond to the OTHER message on Thursday, which is great but I uh. Just had a flashback. A MOMENT.

Cause see, when me and Cole made out. I forgot about one tiny detail. Until I read a fic tonight and my brain unlocked a specific memory. A specific moment. I am full on cringing but also blushing..I want to run into a wall (thank God we dont have each others numbers). If I have mentioned it in a previous message then I forgot cause I blocked it from my memory aha

So uh. Key here is I was absolutely drunk, and he was definitely tipsy. It was a party of course we were drinking. And he was so sweet. Anyways, we were alone and obv making out. And I was kneeling and he had stood back up and he pushed some hair out of my face and just left his hand kind of cupping my face. And I was like oh I am absolutely going to suck this man off (which I didnt because he refused to let me because I was drunk and technically couldn't consent (which side note this is the third guy I've heard of doing this to a few of my friends , so props to those men and my guy cause thats a real man right there)). Anyways he refused and im kneeling right AND I SAID "OK WELL IM GONNA LAY DOWN NOW" AND STRAIGHT UP JUST WENT TO FACE PLANT INTO THE GROUND. Like i full on was kneeling and, did not lower myself gently, i just faceplanted and mumbled "im ok". He laughed and pulled me off the ground as he somehow maneuvered himself to the ground, I really have 0 clue cause I was laying prone and not looking at him.

Next thing I know he had pulled me off the ground and flipped me like a pancake, and had pulled me against him. He was sitting against the wall and I was laying on him with my back to his chest. I looked at him and made some comment about he was strong and he just laughed and denied it. UH HELLO?? HE JUST PICKED MY DUMBASS UP AND FLIPPED ME LIKE AN OMELETTE IN A SAUTEE PAN?? Anyways I laid against him and he told me to rest. Which I did not do we just talked about random shit, and by we i mean I rambled and do not remember half of it which is terrifying, but he did talk some. But the entire time he pet my hair and held me.

I dont remember everything I said, I could have been spilling deep dark secrets(which I have like 1 only, which isn't a secret cause some people know) or I could have been talking about work (ew) or some specific interest. He probably remembers the whole thing.

Which makes our awkward encounter not encounter at the not party from the last message more awkward in my mind. But also, we still had chemistry which is amazing cause I have had some bad or weird experiences with people and after the chemistry is GONE

Anyways I had to tell someone about my MORTIFYING ORDEAL I blocked from my memory and wish I could reblock it thanks

The drunk mind does incredible things.

If I counted the amount of cringe encounters I’ve had while drunk I would run out of fingers.

Good for him for not letting you do anything when you’re drunk. I know the bar is literally on the floor but some guys still manage to stumble so.

My desire to be manhandled has been significantly amplified by this confession. Man just flipped you like a subway sign and then says he’s not that strong. Lord have mercy.

I mean he seems like a nice enough guy all things considered so even if you were spilling deep dark secrets I don’t think he’d tell anyone. I also don’t think he’d tell anybody about your face plant moment so it’s all good there.

We like Cole. Cole seems like a nice guy.

#☕️ anon #duchess answers questions 💌#❝ I’m not that strong ❞ ok sure

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dialhforhorrorpodcast · 1 year

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Barbarian Review

Listen here

I have been… trying to gather my thoughts for months now to try and accurately describe how it makes me feel. I’ve watched this movie four times - including one time in theaters - just to try and understand why people like it so much. And each time I come up with more anger at the potential this movie had and how it completely falls flat on its face in every aspect except for the marketing. Yet it was praised as one of the best - if not the best - horror movie of 2022. And for that I have to say… why? Who is this movie for and why do people seem to love it so damn much when at its worst it’s a slap in the face to the “female revenge” genre and a mish mosh of a bunch of nonsense that makes even me - the master of suspension of disbelief - scoff at it. And at its best it’s a poorly made horror flick that might’ve left most of its actual context on the cutting room floor. While it’s not “Halloween Ends” terrible, it’s still terrible. For the life of me, I can’t understand why this movie is considered “scary” or “incredible.”

If you weren’t able to tell from the title, this is about the Zack Cregger feature film that came out in September of 2022, Barbarian. It’s currently streaming on HBOMAX and if you haven’t already cancelled your subscription because of Velma, go ahead and click off this post, watch the movie, and come back after. There will be a LOT of spoilers so I don’t want anyone to watch this that hasn’t yet and wants to. Go on. Go subject yourself to this torture.

Now, I know this post is coming very, very late in the game, but there’s a real reason for it. See, I’ve wanted to talk about how atrocious this movie was since I saw it back in September of last year. I wanted to speak up and be the voice of the unheard a.k.a. The voice of those of us who really do not like this movie. As I said, I saw it in theaters the weekend after it came out when I kept seeing reports of how “terrifying” it is. My roommate and I were pissed we spent money on it so… thanks, movie reviewers. Then we decided to give it another chance after it was placed on HBOMAX. We thought it would get better upon rewatch, but no. It just made us angrier and have more questions that were left unanswered. Then we made her sisters watch it and they confirmed our disdain. We did not tell them how much we hated the movie beforehand. We let them formulate their own opinions and they confirmed that this was not a good movie. Finally, I half-watched it with my own sister and my sweet, scaredy cat of a sister sat through that movie, only jumping once, and then proceeded to say, “I want that hour of my life back.” When my sister who can hardly watch most horror movies says your movie isn’t scary, you KNOW you done goofed! It’s one thing for a seasoned horror fan like me to say I didn’t find your movie scary. It’s a whole other ball game when people prone to jumping at jump scares don’t flinch. So, I gave Barbarian a fair set of chances. I tried to find people who would have different viewpoints in my life and almost everyone said they hated the film or at the very least, it bored them. So, why on earth does this movie have a 92% rating on Rotten Tomatoes - a site known for being entirely unforgiving to movies that are actually freaking amazing? How? Who is this movie for?

I’m going to try and split this blog into three parts. Part one will be an analysis of the marketing. Part two, a summarization of the film (ft. Spoilers). And then part three, why I find this movie fails on its core message. Let’s get into it!

Part 1 - A Masterclass in Marketing

A huge problem with modern film marketing is that most of the trailers you see show too much. While some movies can show you a lot while still showing you very little, others basically show you the entire film in one fell swoop. No genre abuses their marketing system more than horror.

Horror movie trailers will show you the absolute scariest parts of their film to try and entice you to go and see the movie, but the problem is, once you’ve seen the parts that are creepy, eerie, spooky, or just plain terrifying a million times over on youtube, TikTok, or wherever in ad form, you’re immediately desensitized from how scary the actual film could’ve been without seeing those parts. A great example of a film ruining itself by showing way too much in its trailer is the movie Smile. While I still enjoyed Smile, and will probably do a deep dive into it at some later date, this movie showed all its scariest moments in the trailer. Particularly, the one scene that freaked me out the most when I saw it was the scene where the entity stretches its neck to smile at the main character in the car. However, that scene was shown over and over again to the point that when I finally saw the movie, I not only knew when it was coming, but it didn’t scare me as much as when I first saw it unexpectedly on TikTok. A scene like that would’ve been better left for the shock value it had rather than as the punctuation mark on the end of the trailer. But this is where Barbarian differs - and excels. Because the trailer tells you nothing.

The trailer for Barbarian leaves you with the most basic level information. A woman (played by Georgina Campbell) goes to an Airbnb only to find that a man (played by the absolutely gorgeous yet creepy Skarsgard brother, Bill) is already staying there. Insert awkward exchange here. Then said woman finds creepy shit in the basement. You hear screams, see flashes of things you can’t quite tell what they are, and then… title card.

When I first saw the trailer, I remember thinking, “I’ve gotta see this.” First of all, you had me at Bill Skarsgard the same way Infinity Pool has me at Alexander. Second, you’re telling me there’s a basement? We all know creepy shit happens in basements! At the very least, I’ll get a few solid jump scares in. And finally, we don’t know what’s going on? It’s shrouded in mystery? Is Bill a crazed serial killer who lured Georgina to his actual house to hold her hostage? Is Georgina actually the serial killer? Did an unnamed person lure them to that house to conduct Saw like traps on them and this is secretly a Saw sequel? Did I just see Justin Long? Will he become a walrus at the end? No… wait, wrong movie. What I’m trying to say is that this movie did not leave me with a ton of info and I appreciated it for that.

The smartest thing they did for this movie was leave you wondering what on earth was actually going on in that house. The trailer gave away no jump scares. No killer or monster was hinted at. They just left you wondering - which in turn left you wanting to actually SEE the movie. Genius. But in this case, this is one movie that could’ve allowed a bit more context, because unlike a movie like Smile where what you see is what you get and your expectations are set relatively low for it, this movie wrote a check that its tush couldn’t cash. That leads me into the summary of this film.

Part 2 - A Very… Weird Story

So this is the part I’m going to ask that all the people who haven’t seen this movie and still want to see it please exit stage left and come back once you have. We’ll miss you, but I don’t want to be responsible for ruining the film for you. I’ll give you a little time to collect your belongings before I launch into my spoiler filled summary about it.

Ok, so now that they’re gone, let me give a rundown of what happens. If you’ve seen it, you know what happens. I’m really only doing this to make my rant make sense going forward. So, here we go.

The movie opens with Campbell’s Tess showing up to her Airbnb in the middle of the night only to find out that it’s already occupied by Skarsgard’s Keith. After a bunch of awkward exchanges, Tess decides to stay the night seeing as she has a big interview in the morning. The movie tries to really sell you on the idea that something is wrong with Keith and to Cregger’s credit, this part is done remarkably well, but I’ll explain why in the last segment of this video. Eventually, Tess decides to chat with Keith, they bond over being sort of in the same profession before going to sleep that night.

Tess wakes up in the middle of the night to find her bedroom door open and Keith screaming on the couch in his sleep. She asks if he opened the door to which he says no. First part that bothers me in hindsight to what the story’s about. Anyways, moving on. She goes back to bed, locking the door, but not before we get a clear shot of the basement door opening in the background.

The next morning, Tess wakes up to find that Keith is gone and he leaves a note asking her to leave the key in the lock box so he can get back in after he’s done with his work. She walks out the door to immediately see that the entire neighborhood is dilapidated. Like… this neighborhood doesn’t even look like anyone lives there. Again, another part that bothers me in hindsight. She shakes off her discomfort and goes to her interview. After her interview, the person who was interviewing her asks where she’s staying and when Tess tells her, the interviewer drops a bombshell saying, “you shouldn’t be there.” Ominous, creepy, and would’ve made any normal person ask questions or at the very least pull up their phone and do a damn Google search. I mean, the house you’re staying in is the ONLY house in the entire neighborhood that doesn’t look like it’s decaying and then the woman who interviewed you is like, “get the hell out of there. Now.” And you don’t even think, “before I go back, lemme hit up google and find out what’s up with this area?” Unrealistic part number one. No normal person would do that. Not after what she saw.

Anyways, so Tess stupidly goes back to the only house within a five mile radius that looks like someone is still tending to it. As she’s heading into the house, a homeless man runs up telling her to get out of the house. Girl, this is the second time someone’s told you to leave and you’re not gonna listen? To her credit, this guy is hella abrasive. He’s running and screaming at her. I probably would’ve went inside, too, but still. Would’ve been red flag #800 and I would’ve packed my bags and left when the coast was clear. Oh, I forgot to mention, this movie takes place in Detroit. So, when Tess calls the police, they play on the stereotype that the police are never available when you call them in Detroit. I don’t know how true that is. I’ve never been to Detroit. I just don’t wanna piss anyone off who lives there. Tess is now left to her own devices from the spooky homeless man and she decides to use the bathroom (side note: they show this woman peeing a lot. Well, not a lot, but two times is too many. Why do we have to see her in the bathroom sitting on the toilet? I don’t wanna see anyone sitting on the toilet). And of course, she’s out of toilet paper. So, she has to go into the spooky basement and here’s where the movie gets off its ass and finally goes somewhere.

Tess ends up getting locked in the basement and of course she leaves her phone upstairs because that’s what we all do when we’re in a strange house and have just been rushed by a homeless guy telling us not to go inside. So since she can’t make a call for help, she’s basically left to sit in this basement until Keith returns. That’s when she starts exploring and finds a rope coming out of the wall. She… pulls that rope, as you do, and finds a creepy staircase with a room that has a light emanating from it. So does Tess: A. Close the door and continue waiting for help or B. Go down into the creepy basement? Well, she kinda does both. At first, she quips cutely, “Nope” before going to sit on the staircase and wait for her unintentional roommate to return, but the darkness keeps beckoning her for some reason. Not literally of course. Just figuratively. This woman really wants to go down there, so she does.

Upon entering the room, she finds a lamp that somehow still works and someone is still turning on every day, an empty bucket, and a bed with what looks like blood on it. That’s enough to give her the heads up that something is very wrong with this place. She goes back upstairs only to find that Keith has returned. She gets his attention and he tries to get her out of the basement by opening a window. When that doesn’t work, she slips him the key and he lets her out via traditional methods.

Tess explains to Keith about the creepy af room she saw and like a typical man, Keith isn’t phased by it. Tess wants to leave (the smartest suggestion she’s made thus far), but Keith doesn’t wanna just go running because of a bed and a bucket. He tries to convince her to let him look before they make their exit and eventually she concedes, but follows up with the proclamation that she won’t go back down there again. Keith descends the staircase and suddenly it’s quiet. Tess cries out to him, but there’s no response, leading her to go back on her word and go back down the stairs.

She looks around the room only to find it empty, leading us all to say where the hell did this man disappear to? As it turns out, there’s another set of stairs straight ahead and instead of informing her that there was something else down there, Keith just… went down these second set of mysterious stairs himself. Tess begrudgingly follows him only to find a tunnel. She walks down that tunnel, calling out his name until he appears out of the darkness in front of her looking worse for the wear. He’s urgently telling her that they need to go further into the tunnel because whatever just attacked him came from her direction. Tess and Keith argue back and forth until the something that attacked is revealed. You see, up until this point, the movie really tries to make you believe something is wrong with Keith and that he’s probably our titular Barbarian. For seasoned horror fans, it’s an obvious red herring. The dude is Pennywise. It’s a stroke of genius to cast him as someone we’ll be suspicious of so we’ll never see the real threat coming. I will admit this was the only time I jumped while watching this film. It just caught me off guard entirely. As Tess and Keith are arguing about which way to go, a long limbed woman comes charging out of the darkness and very quickly and brutally dispatches of Keith via rock wall. Then she looks at Tess and lets out an ungodly screech before the movie cuts to black and you think, “is that it? That can’t be it. That YouTube short jumpscare might fly while watching people like Jacksepticeye and CoryxKenshin watch a bunch of scary videos, but it doesn’t work for a film in theaters.” To be honest, if the first act of this movie was uploaded on YouTube, I guarantee that Cregger would have a couple thousand followers in a week. The suspense he built is phenomenal and the reveal of the woman is so abrupt and jarring that it would have everyone throwing their phones and screaming before sending the link to everyone they know. Unfortunately, that’s not the end of Barbarian. It’s the end of the only good thing about Barbarian.

The movie returns with the introduction of Justin Long’s character AJ in the most obnoxious and annoying fashion possible. Singing one of the worst songs I’ve ever heard and driving a convertible top down next to a sunny beach. It’s actually kind’ve smart to introduce his character this way because, off the bat, you know you’re going to hate him with a burning passion. His happy-go-lucky tune is interrupted with a phone call from his agents. It’s there we find out he’s an actor who’s just been ousted from his new tv show because he did something very bad to the lead actress. (Fill in the blanks). They also tell him an article with the Hollywood Reporter is about to drop detailing the entire heinous act. So AJ’s career is essentially dead in the water. Of course, Scumbag AJ decides he’s going to fight back and after a little bit of expositional scenes, it’s revealed he’s the owner of the house that Tess and Keith were staying in. Unfortunately, he’s going to have to sell it in order to pay legal fees.

When he arrives at the house, he finds Tess and Keith’s luggage and is of course upset. He contacts someone who I believe is handling the rentals and she drops the bombshell that no one has rented that house. That could mean two things that the film does nothing to clarify. This is a few days after Tess and Keith stayed there and someone checked them out or no one ever rented them the Airbnb in the first place. Either way, this part makes no sense and could’ve been done differently, but I’ll save that rant for later.

After more crap with Scumbag AJ where we learn he definitely did do those things that he’s accused of at a bar with his friend, he ends up going downstairs and finding the same creepy staircase and torture room with tunnels. What does he do? He looks up if an underground basement can be included in the square footage of the house to get more money. After extremely vague confirmation, I mean it basically says sometimes but mostly no, he gets a tape measure and goes to measure how deep the basement goes. He ignores all the horrifying things down there including cages where it looks like someone was kept in there, like this man is just… he sucks. It isn’t until the tape measure get yoinked from his hands that he encounters the long limbed woman who is known only as The Mother.

He gets thrown into a hole by the Mother and that’s when we find out Tess is still alive. Then we have arguably one of the most disgusting sequences in the entire movie. The Mother then pokes a bottle with the nipple covered in hair through the grate. Tess drinks from it and quips to Scumbag AJ, “see? She just wants you to be her baby!” As if that makes this entire scenario any less horrific. Scumbag AJ of course doesn’t want to drink from the hairy bottle and to be honest, I can’t blame him. But unfortunately, that sets off the Mother and she pulls him from the hole, leaving it open so Tess can escape. The Mother then drags him to a room where a video about breastfeeding is playing and… yeah, I’m not gonna describe this scene. This is just nauseating.

Meanwhile, Tess actually manages to escape the basement to go and look for help. She stumbles her way to a police car and tries to frantically explain to them that she was being held hostage, a man has been killed and another man is now being tortured. The cops, because this is Detroit and apparently the police don’t help in Detroit, don’t believe a word she’s saying, accuse her of being inebriated, and even threaten to take her to jail. She convinces them to come back to the house with her to rescue Scumbag AJ, but when they get there, the officer basically treats her like she’s a hysterical threat and is dangerous. They end up getting another call and dip.

Back with AJ, he manages to escape the Mother’s grasp only to stumble upon one of the smelliest looking rooms since the OG Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Like seriously. I felt like I could smell this room through the screen. He soon quickly realizes that there’s a man lying in the disgusting bed in the corner of the room. He’s bed bound, can’t speak, only coughs, and definitely looks like he hasn’t bathed in 20 years. That man is Frank.

Through flashbacks, we see that Frank is the original owner of this creepy house. We meet Frank at a store buying things for a baby. He tells the woman working what he needs and she takes him around to get those things. Off rip, Frank gives off a creepy vibe, but he’s just buying diapers and food for him and his wife’s soon to be bundle of joy, right? Wrong. After Frank’s shopping trip, we see him get in his car and spot a woman getting in hers. He waits for her to pull out before pulling out himself and following her home. He puts on a work jumpsuit, goes to the door and knocks, telling the woman he has to check the water in their house. This gives him the chance to go and unlatch a bathroom window in preparation for what is obviously an abduction. Points are given here, we’re never actually shown the abduction or any of the cruel, unspeakable acts Frank does to the women he kidnaps. Most directors would revel in showing us intense sexual violence, but Cregger didn’t go for the low blow there and I can wholeheartedly respect that.

Later, we see Frank talking to a neighbor who announces him and his family are moving and urges Frank to do the same to which Frank responds with something along the lines of, “yeah no. This is my murder house so… I’m staying.” Ok, he didn’t say that, but it’s what he meant. Essentially, Frank asserts that he’ll never sell his house and move, but we know he did at least one of those things because Scumbag AJ now owns the house.

Speaking of Scumbag AJ, he tries to communicate with Frank, but obviously, Frank can’t speak or move very much. That’s when AJ looks around the room to find tapes labeled with all sorts of names. He pops one into the VCR only to find it’s essentially a snuff film. Again, the violence isn’t shown. We’re left to guess what’s on the tape, but we know it’s bad. Scumbag AJ freaks out, berating Frank for the horrific acts he’s performed on women all the while Frank is grabbing a gun and you guys can guess what Frank decides to do in that moment.

Scumbag AJ decides to take the gun after Frank dies as a form of self defense against the Mother. At that point, Tess has broken back into the house to get her car keys, only to get the Mother out because apparently she roams the house at night. Which is why Tess’s bedroom door opened and why we got the shot of the door opening to the basement in the beginning of the film. Remember that? So Tess of course tries to crush the Mother with her car and it seems to work, so she goes back into the house to find AJ. Only to be shot in the stomach by Scumbag AJ who’s now armed and dangerous because he’s a jittery piss baby.

AJ helps Tess out of the house and of course, the Mother’s body is gone. They wander for a bit until they run into the homeless guy. You know the one who rushed Tess earlier and she called the cops on? He offers them a place to stay for the night and basically tells us the story of that house finally. He shares with them that Frank was kidnapping women and having babies with them. Then having babies with the babies and so on. The Mother is a product of serious inbreeding and of course, now she wants a baby of her own. AJ has a moment where you think there may be some character development as he waxes poetic wondering if he is the monster he’s currently being made out to be. Tess worries that the Mother will find them hiding with the homeless guy. To which he scoffs and says, “she never comes here” followed by the most predictable jump scare that he might as well have said, “she’s right behind me, isn’t she?” The Mother proceeds to rip one of his limbs off and beat him to death with it Mortal Kombat style as AJ and Tess try to escape.

Stay with me, folks, we’re almost to the end of the movie! So, AJ and Tess now run up a tower and one thing to note is that AJ runs in front of Tess the entire time. Not only leaving her vulnerable to the Mother - who’s hot on their tail - but not keeping an eye on the person that he just shot in the stomach! So much for that brief glimpse of character development from him. Still a scumbag! They get to the top of the tower and AJ drops the gun like the moron that he is. This is when he has the realization that the Mother doesn’t want him, she just wants Tess. So, he… throws Tess off the tower to her presumed death. He’s right, though. The Mother instantly jumps off the tower after her, grabbing her midair and taking the impact of the fall with her own body.

Scumbag AJ goes down the tower steps to find that Tess is still alive and the Mother is apparently dead now. He apologizes to Tess who takes it way too lightly before the Mother gets up and grabs AJ’s head. She very quickly dispatches of him by way of ripping his head in half and I gotta tell you - that’s still better than being turned into a walrus! This is when the Mother’s real nature is shown. She is upset when she sees that Tess is hurt and does want to try and help her, but she realizes she can’t. Tess then retrieves the dropped gun and shoots the Mother in the head and… roll credits! Yeah. That’s the end! Confused? Don’t worry, I am, too. So let me get into my thoughts about this film.

Part 3 - What’s the Message?

So let’s talk characters a bit. Tess is probably one of the weaker final girls in recent film, but I kinda did relate to her. Obviously, I don’t know how I’d react in her exact situation, but her constantly putting the needs and comforts of others ahead of her own is very relatable. But I think that’s also why she’s such a frustrating character. She follows Keith down into the tunnels, she constantly goes back to help AJ, she even accepts his apologies for him shooting her and throwing her off a tower. Apart from that, she stays in an Airbnb with a stranger just because he’s insistent about it. She’s accommodating if accommodating were personified. In part, she’s the best part of Cregger’s overall message that the movie is trying to say. What’s that message? Essentially, women move through the world differently than men do because they have to. Women are hardwired to bear the emotional burden, to make room for others, and to put others before themselves in ways that men are not. Tess perfectly exemplifies this in every way. In a lot of ways, she seems to feel safe with these men she barely even knows and would rather the harm come to her than them. It’s very frustrating to watch and can leave many viewers screaming, “girl, what is wrong with you?”

Then we have Keith (RIP). Keith is an awesomely done character. He’s the definition of “good guy needs you to know he’s good.” He’s over-accommodating, too, just like Tess. When watching the movie the first time, his actions seem like he’s secretly the Barbarian the title speaks of. He’s too nice, too quick to insist that Tess stays, and works his hardest to prove he’s not a creep which in turn makes him seem very creepy. But watching this movie knowing he dies pretty early on, I see him now as the type of guy who genuinely might be nice, but he goes out of his way to prove that he’s nice. He’s the type of guy to still ask for the consent to hold your hand even after you’ve been dating for a while not because he wants you to feel comfortable, but because he never wants you to see him as a threat.

And then conversely, we have AJ. Unlike Keith, AJ is the guy who thinks he’s super nice and wants everyone to think it, too, even though he’s not very nice at all. The entire time we see him in this film, he’s constantly defending himself and saying he would never SA someone, all the while, putting his accuser down and saying she made it up. Then when we get the full story, he admits to engaging in the act when both were inebriated and being aggressive about it as well. AJ calls his accuser names, uses a homophobic slur freely, ignores obvious signs of danger in his basement, shoots a woman who was trying to help him, and willingly throws her to the Mother to save himself. There’s a reason I kept calling him a scumbag throughout this entire video.

It’s very obvious that pretty much every man in this film is either evil or useless and from the things I’ve read, that is what Cregger wanted to convey. The whole purpose of this movie - from the director’s mouth - is that it’s a hot take on the things that women have had to put up with in society. From the fear of being kidnapped and tortured to men just not listening and taking us seriously. Every extreme is crammed into this movie to try and get its message across, but it fails so miserably because nothing about the movie makes any sense!

Let’s start with the obvious - the house. From flashbacks, we see that Frank - the serial killer - was the original owner of the house that Tess and Keith end up sharing. He makes it clear that he doesn’t ever plan on leaving, and from the discovery in the tunnels, it’s obvious that he kept that promise. The biggest issue here, then, is who the hell sold the house to AJ? If Frank never wanted to leave and was still living in the tunnels beneath the house, who put the house up for sale? Frank would’ve had to do it or maybe the bank seized it. Then that leads to another question - did no one else find the tunnels before and alert the authorities? Oh wait! Here’s another question - why did no one investigate all the missing women? There were dozens - if not hundreds of tapes in Frank’s room. You mean to tell me no one was investigating?! Also, what happened to the boys? Obviously, Frank was alluded to have taken his daughters and reproduced with them in order to get the monstrosity that is the Mother, but you mean to tell me every single woman he impregnated only had girls? Did he plan it that way and if so, how? Did he adopt out the babies or did he just off them? Like that’s kinda weird how there were no boys born at all. Makes no sense. And let’s not talk about the Mother who is severely inbred, but somehow has superhuman strength. Like, does anyone here know science?

Most, if not all movies ask you to suspend your disbelief in order to enjoy the film and Barbarian is no exception. The problem is, you don’t have to go too far before you start ripping the thin plot to shreds in order to realize that this movie has no idea what its doing. Recently, someone told me they loved the movie because it was hilarious, but it was never marketed or presented as a horror comedy. It’s literally categorized as a straight up horror film so the comedy in the film is more incidental. Which makes sense considering that Zach Cregger was mainly a comedy writer up until this film. I also saw an article comparing him to Jordan Peele and saying he has the makings of replacing Peele as the premiere horror director of the decade and to that I say, absolutely not. Jordan Peele’s movies, while they add comedic elements to them through dialogue and sometimes sequences, are meticulously crafted down to the very last detail. They’re chock full of easter eggs calling back to other movies, pop culture phenomenon, and even earlier events in the film. He mastered suspense and creating unnerving and unsettling experiences. Zach Cregger made a jump scare fest horror movie that’s plot is so paper thin, you can poke a hole in it from the very second you start watching it. He claims it’s a movie about the tragedy of being a woman, but as a cisgendered man, there’s no way he can relate to that experience. Jordan Peele wrote what he knew for his first horror flick. Zach Cregger tried to make a glaring social commentary that ended up being more cringey and laughable than eye-opening. The only pass I give him is him actively making the choice not to show the sexual violence inflicted upon Frank’s victims because as I said earlier, many other directors would’ve thrown that up close and personal in your face for shock value. Aside from that, the story makes zero sense, the comedy is bare bones at best, and worst of all, it was marketed incredibly incorrectly because it’s not scary at all. For that, Barbarian gets a whopping 1 out of 5 skulls from me.

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evanjinx · 3 years

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alternative universe buddie fics recs :)

note: the links weren't working the first time i wrote the post but i edited and they're okay now!! if it still isn't working for you is probably because you're trying to open from a reblog from before i edit it, so try open directly from the original post on my profile.

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Buck goes to the store one late night to buy food because of Maddie's pregnancy cravings. Whilst at the store, Buck accidentally gets caught in the middle of a robbery and gets knocked out. After waking up in the backroom, Buck finds himself as a hostage with a handsome and caring stranger.

Leading with the Left by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels [complete | explicit | 84.7k]

When Buck said he was a "bartender" in "South America" what he actually meant was "stripper" in "Mexico." And when Eddie said, "What's your problem?" what he actually meant was, "Is this about the time you gave me a lap dance?" In other words, there's a few things the 118 doesn't know about Buck. Or Eddie. Or Buck and Eddie's relationship.

Lift me up by @captain--sif [complete | teen and up audiences | 5.5k words]

Buck gets stuck in his apartment building's broken elevator with his good-looking neighbor from the sixth floor.

Love and Bullets Both Shatter Hearts (But Only One Can Put You Back Together) by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels [complete | explicit | 11.2k words]

Agent [Redacted] Diaz is the best at what he does. Usually. But lately there's this real pain in the ass* who's been ruining his missions: Code Name "Buck."

*stupidly handsome and annoyingly talented rival spy

Mr. Buckley's After Hours Detention by aresaphrodites [complete | mature | 11.4k words]

It’s not like Eddie Diaz planned on this. Really, there was no scenario in his mind where he would ever be bringing his son’s teacher a freaking goody basket to class; a homemade goody basket, no less. Then again, Christopher has never had a teacher quite like Evan Buckley.

MukbangsWithBuck by @reallysmartladymariecurie [complete | teen and up audiences | 19.3k words]

After growing tired of eating alone in his loft, Buck decides to start a YouTube channel where he records himself eating dinner and telling stories about crazy things his team has encountered on calls. He eventually gains a substantial fanbase, and he is led to the channel of another LA firefighter who uploads informational videos and also casual vlogs with his ten-year-old son. It isn't long before the two start a friendship through messages, both of them secretly hoping it will turn into something more. Or, Eddie and Buck are both firefighters/YouTubers and they end up falling in love.

Objects in the Mirror by SevenSoulmates [complete | explicit | 139.1k words]

The voice had always been around, Eddie remembers it, like a stream of consciousness that babbled incoherently to the point where Eddie just tuned it out. But then the voice started speaking directly to him. Conversing like he was a whole person standing right in front of him. Like he could see what was happening around Eddie. Eddie shook his head. No one was talking to him, and Eddie most certainly was not talking back. He wouldn’t talk to the boy in his head ever again. There was no boy in his head.

Passive Aggressive Flirting by @starlingbite [complete | general audiences | 4.5k words]

Buck and Eddie have never met. They both work at the 118 but just on different shifts. That's all about to change when Buck finds a sticky note message, signed E.

String of hearts... by @reallysmartladymariecurie [complete | teen and up audiences | 11.1k words]

“Now. Eddie is this incredible presence. He’s funny and smoking hot, and he has a son who sounds wonderful. And he’s serious and vulnerable at times. But so enjoyable to be around, every single second that he’s there. And how can I put myself out there when the expectation is so high? When the thing I might lose is so beautiful?”

In which Buck owns a plant shop in LA, and Eddie becomes his new favorite customer. Pining ensues.

check out my post of buddie fics with dad!buck

#i will probably do a part two of this because i have more but this post its already way too big #buddie #buddie fic #buddie fic rec #fic rec #911 #911 fox #911 on fox #buck x eddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #otp: you act like you're expendable but you're wrong #tv: 9-1-1 #*

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tennessoui · 3 years

Note

You kind of already did 31 but pleaseeeeeeee

these ficlets keep getting longer ffs this is 2k

31. One is a sex worker, the other is a client AU

anakin's had his turn as a sex worker in my writing so it's Obi-Wan this time, paired with Vaderkin and i made it more dark than I thought would happen whoops but. warnings are: probably bordering extremely dubious consent even though no sex happens and this is just the lead up. a brief reference to underage sex work, though absolutely nothing comes of it. and vaderkin being a bit creepy.

There is a saying among the workers at the Establishment: if the imperial palace calls for you, you should hope the person that is displayed next to you is prettier.

Obi-Wan has never bought into prayers of any kind and this saying is only ever said with something akin to a worshipful dread. Still, when Ahsoka drapes a cloak of red around his shoulders and whispers those words to him—“May the others be your betters”—he thinks for a second about the nature of prayer and of hope and the futility of both in this galaxy.

“Don’t worry, little ‘Soka,” he smiles from under the cloak’s hood. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.” He is, after all, one of the oldest workers here, makes most of his money these days tending bar and running the front desk, called in to serve mostly for virgin customers who want a gentler and more experienced hand to guide them in the art of pleasure. He doesn’t think any of the words could be used to describe the Emperor Vader, can’t see the imposing black-suited man interested in the art of pleasure.

Ahsoka can’t look him in the eye, but she hugs him tightly as he boards the shuttle that will take him to the Palace.

The ride there is quiet. Obi-Wan tries to avoid as many glances from the other people as he gives to them. Most of them are young, human. He seems to be the only male above 40. His chances are good.

Maybe he hadn’t been lying to Ahsoka. Maybe, truly, his name being included on the list had been a mistake

Something inside him hesitates though. He’d been out in the Upper levels a week ago, making his way home after one of his rare appointments with an old client turned friend. A child had fallen into the path of a small parade of speeders. A correctional officer had raised a whip. Obi-Wan had reacted on instinct, catching its lash with his forearm. The child had run off. Obi-Wan had stayed. He’d raised his head just enough, eons later, to see the durasteel outside of the largest speeder pass by his prone form, just enough to see the Imperial crest on its hull. Just for long enough to see a glint of a yellow eye from the window.

Bacta had treated his wounds, but his mind had not allowed him to rest easily, caught up in the memory of that eye--had he imagined the interest? Had he imagined it all?

And so to hear his name called tonight--the first calling since The Incident--had felt like the confirmation of all of his most unfounded fears.

Would tonight be the night he died? He had lived a long life. A rough one. Perhaps it is time.

Still, in the back of his head, a selfish, utterly human part of him whispered, may the others be your betters.

---

Those chosen do, often, come back. Sometimes they do not. Mostly they do. Obi-Wan has never truly decided which of these fates is the worse one. Those who survive don’t say anything for days on end, their eyes blank as they stare forward. Their bruises, if they are there, are easy to heal. But something is always wrong with their minds afterwards. And those who don’t come back...well. It’s hard to say what happens to them, where they go. Far away or down below.

Obi-Wan is forced to his knees in between a moderately aged female Togruta and a fairly young teenager. The boy is shaking. He can’t be more than sixteen.

They’re in the Entrance Hall. Obi-Wan has never been here before, but he supposes it makes sense. There will be one person who ventures further into the Palace. The rest will be dismissed out the doors that just shut. No need to bring the scum further in than they have to.

Distantly, like a funeral drum, Obi-Wan can hear the sound of feet falling, making their way closer. Just a single pair. He wants to look up, to watch the Emperor--because it has to be the Emperor--approach, but there’s a Guard behind him, holding his head down.

The footsteps are close now. There’s only ten of them--sometimes, Obi-Wan has heard that there can be as many as twenty or thirty--so the line is short. Vader paces quietly from the first to the last person, before stopping in the middle. Obi-Wan can just see the black of his boots if he flicks his eyes as far as they can go to the left. The boy next to him lets out a muffled sob. Obi-Wan wishes he could offer the kid some sort of comfort, some sort of reassurance that the Emperor will choose one of the other workers, a body more desirable than either of theirs, but there are no words to describe the guilty relief of a suffering passed onto someone else.

On some sort of invisible signal, the Guard behind Obi-Wan wrenches his head back by the hold he has on both the silken hood and his own hair. It’s far from comfortable, tilted so far back. The message is obvious. Submission is not optional. Respect will be shown through any means necessary.

Obi-Wan tries to keep the hulking form of Vader in his eyesight, even though to see ahead of him he has to close his eyes almost completely because of the angle. It’s impossible to see anything from the chest up, but he can still hear. Loud, mechanical breathing fills the halls. Vader stops at each person for no longer than five seconds before he continues down the line. Obi-Wan holds his breath, waiting for his turn. Does he turn his head as much as he can, to try and accentuate the gray at his temples? Does he lower his eyes?

He doesn’t, in the end, do either. Vader is wearing a mask, completely covering his face. He doesn’t even look human, except for the way he cocks his head slightly as he stares down at Obi-Wan. He feels flayed, just under the single look, but he can’t turn away either. He glowers up at him. Five seconds pass. Vader should be moving on by now. The fact that he hasn’t fills Obi-Wan with the sort of fear he’s only felt a handful of times in his life.

“This one,” Vader says through a voice modulator. Obi-Wan closes his eyes in defeat, thinks of Little Ahsoka back at the Establishment, thinks of what she’ll think if he doesn’t make it home.

But the boy next to him bursts into sobs and Obi-Wan opens his eyes to see that Vader’s hand isn’t pointing to him at all, but instead just to his right.

But Vader’s face is still pointed directly at Obi-Wan though, head still cocked. The question is as clear as if he actually spoke the words aloud. What will you do about this?

What will he do? What can he do? It’s the street from a week ago all over. A child is in danger. How can Obi-Wan ever live with himself if he doesn’t at least try to throw himself on the blade?

“No!” he says before he can think it through. The Guard behind him jerks his hair back roughly in punishment, but the monster in front of him runs two gloved fingers down his cheek, the pantomime of a lover’s caress. “Me instead. Choose me.”

“Quiet,” the Guard hisses to him, making him wince with the ferocity of the yank he gives his hair. Obi-Wan pants open-mouthed as he tries to think of an argument, of a single reason why the Emperor should not get what he wants, should settle for a washed up whore instead of a younger model. All he can think of is the moral justifications of it, and he’s not sure Vader would care for that line of reasoning.

“I’m asking,” he blurts out. The fingers pause from where they’ve been absent-mindedly touching his beard. “When has anyone ever asked?”

The Emperor takes a step back and seems to consider Obi-Wan, what he has to offer. He tries to preen, to throw his shoulders back and sit back on his heels to show off his body, but it’s hard when the Guard hasn’t let up on his hair. In fact the grip gets even tighter as the man behind him snorts a common insult.

A second later, the hand and the pressure disappear. Obi-Wan falls forward automatically at his sudden release. He scrambles away instinctively, even if that means closer to Vader. Vader who has his hand raised out in front of him clenching his gloved fist tight. Obi-Wan looks behind him at the guard who had held him. The man is scrabbling at his throat. Obi-Wan knows already it will be a futile effort. With Vader distracted by his execution, he turns to check on the boy. He’s looking down, refusing to make eye contact.

Probably for the better.

The Guard falls to the floor. The other nine Guards don’t move at all. Obi-Wan supposes there’s no room for loyalty in a galaxy like this.

“Come,” Vader says, running a hand through his hair. It’s a surprisingly gentle touch, seeing as that hand just took someone else’s life.

Slowly, Obi-Wan rises to his feet and follows behind him, through the twisting halls of the Imperial Palace. He thinks anyone could get lonely here if they have no one to keep them company. It’s so big. Obi-Wan shares his room with three other people, and he frets if one of them is still gone by the time he falls asleep.

This much space would drive anyone mad for another’s touch.

He blinks at himself, incredulous. Is he actually trying to feel compassion for the Emperor? Is it actually working?

The Emperor flings open a pair of elaborate doors without touching them, and suddenly Obi-Wan’s in the bedchambers of the most powerful man on the planet. And to think, he’s wearing mismatched and terribly darned socks.

He resolves to not ask Vader for permission to do anything with his own body for the entire night. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches as Vader takes off his cape and his gloves.

“Would you like to know my prices before or after?” He asks as cooly as possible.

“Your price is that it’s you here and not the boy.”

“Would you have wanted the boy?” Obi-Wan can’t hide the disgust in his tone.

“No,” the Emperor says succinctly. “But I did want to know what you would do. If you really were the same man as the one in the street.”

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. “Why would you want to know that?”

“There’s so little good left in the galaxy. It’s fascinating that so much is concentrated in you.” Vader reaches up to unlatch his mask. A cascade of golden curls falls out.

He huffs. The Emperor of the Galactic Empire thinks there’s not enough good in the galaxy. It’s at the very least ironic. “It’s a greedy galaxy, your Imperial Majesty--”

The Emperor turns around to face him, helmet still held in his hands. Obi-Wan is surprised to learn he’s just a man. An attractive man, certainly, young and almost pretty with a perfect arch to his lips and a roguish scar cutting through a thick eyebrow. If he had been one of Obi-Wan’s workers, he’d have taken him under his wing, tried to protect him from the clients who would have paid extra to rough up that face.

He was saying something. Obi-Wan had meant to say something else. Oh. Right. “Good cannot be bought.”

The man in front of him--was it really Vader?--smiles, but it doesn’t reach his yellow eyes. “No,” he purrs, discarding his helmet and stalking forward. “But you can.”

#asks #tw: dubious consent #obikin #my fics #vaderkin #prompt fill

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chubmins · 3 years

Text

candy bear, sweetie pie (i wanna be adored)

cw: feederism, belly kink, weight gain, burping, brief mention of body image regarding jimin’s family, streamer!jimin.

“hello there... it’s manggae.”

jimin’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as he laid back on one of his hands and appraised the rapidly growing influx of messages on his live’s chat. they weren’t quick enough that jimin would lose track, but nowadays he would have to scroll back up to catch something he missed a few times. his audience had been growing.

“you missed me? cute. it’s only been a week.” his full lips stretched in a smile his viewers would be able to see and fawn over. jimin always positioned himself carefully, camera catching him perfectly from the lips down — not because he didn’t want the audience to see his face, they had seen him a handful of times now, but because he wanted his body to be the main focus.

and his body explained why his nickname on the streaming website was manggaetteok.

jimin had always liked to eat. growing up in an extremely rich family, food had never been an issue — until it started being taken away from him by parents and nutritionists who believed his chubby cheeks were something to be ashamed of. jimin spent his teenage years on diets, pills and stinky gym bathrooms. he almost started hating his body as much as his parents did.

until he moved out. was moved out, to be more precise — an apartment bought for him in the heart of gangnam, too big for just one person, way under-decorated to look like a homel. jimin was twenty and out of his parents' claws for the first time in his life.

it didn’t take him more than a year to figure out the most crucial things about himself: he prefered boys over girls, silk robes and lace over black pressed suits, and he very much prefered to stay home and order food to going out to a new bar every friday night.

jimin turned into the perfect definition of a homebody; and, soon enough, of a foodie.

he didn’t hold back when it came to food, and the results of his indulgence after years of restriction showed on his body rather quickly. at least his parents were right about one thing — he really was prone to gaining weight, and a lot of it.

sitting now on the floor of one of the three bedroom’s in his apartment, the one he had slowly decorated to be his streaming studio, jimin weight gain is nothing if not noticeable. nicely placed down on his fluffy baby pink carpet with thighs spread as wide as they would go, his belly hanged almost touching the floor. it looks so soft and pudgy now, bulging forward in an almost perfect round dome even when it’s empty. he has pink stretch marks from the top of his jiggly thighs to right under his belly button, which has gotten deep enough for jimin to fit and poke his entire pinky finger inside. his flabby tits rest nicely on top of his swollen gut, round puffy nipples a pretty light brown on display.

“remember when i’d dress up all cute and pretty for these lives?” jimin practically purred at the camera, both hands heading to his breasts so he could squeeze and jiggle them while chuckling. “my bras don’t fit me anymore… i need to buy new ones.”

as if on cue, the silent notification bar that signaled new donations started popping up repeatedly, each time with a different amount of the website’s currency he’d get to convert to real money later. jimin chuckled again, he knew how to play this game too well. he had indeed grown out of most of his fancy silk and lace lingerie, but he also didn’t want to repeat the same ones he’d still fit into. that being said, he had decided on his fit for today as being a pair of baby blue silk shorts that barely covered his ass when he stood up, and a matching silk choker with a small emerald pendant.

“well, well, look at that! seems like i’ll have some new lingerie to show you guys soon.” His hands moved away from his body before he could get too excited, and moved towards the tray he had off camera.

with a little bit of maneuvering, he pulled the traw towards himself until it was in between his massive thighs and the camera, positioned just so that his body wouldn’t be too covered up and his belly would still be on display.

“as you can see” jimin praticaly purred, “i followed your requests and got a full american breakfast. there are pancakes,” he pointed at each and every item as he spoke, mouth watering just thinking about how he was finally going to eat “eggs, sausages, muffins, bagels and a berry smoothie.”

that was probably enough food to feed a family of four — the chat flooded with excited messages of how they couldn’t wait to see jimin eating it all. at first his viewers’ excitement would startle jimin a bit, but now? now he lived for it.

after all, he’d always get as excited as them.

“should i start with the pancakes? they’re still warm.” he asked, reading all the messages he could, all of which were encouraging him to start eating.

jimin reached for the pancakes. there were six of them in total, fluffy and golden brown with melted butter running down on all sides. jimin’s fork was quick to make work through the first three layers as he balanced the plate on top of his belly, and once the big bite was inside his lips he moaned unashamedly.

“fuck… so good.” he barely finished chewing before he pushed more inside his mouth, closing his eyes in bliss. “i could eat this everyday. imagine how much bigger i’d get.”

his viewers got off on that, as he came to learn very quickly after starting to stream himself eating. jimin’s primary goal certainly wasn’t to gain weight, but it did keep the cash coming and he didn’t mind the plushness one bit. just a small price to pay for all the food he shoved inside himself, and he did look hot with all the extra pounds. jimin continued to shove the pancakes inside his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing, moaning almost obscenely throughout the whole process. it didn’t take more than five minutes for him to polish the whole stack.

“kinda wish i had ordered more” he pouted, putting the plate away and lightly slapping his still very empty gut. the donations started popping up again, messages telling him to order more right at that instant, to order ten times more next week. “don’t worry everyone, i still have a lot more to eat!”

jimin reached for the bagels next — there were 9 of them in a box alongside 4 muffins of various flavours, and jimin had started alternating between them while answering some of his viewers questions.

“last time i went on a date? that was a couple months ago, actually” he answered between bites of a blueberry muffin. “made him take me to an all you can eat buffet, ate like a pig. had to unzip my pants for dessert and all...” jimin licked his fingers clean, making a little show out of it before reaching for the last bagel and all but eating half of it in one big bite before continuing in a lighthearted tone, cheeks full. “probably freaked him out, he never called again.”

the story was only partially true — taehyung had taken him to an all you can eat buffet for their first date, but he also had called again. they were dating, in fact, but had made an arrangement to keep it from jimin’s subscribers. as much as jimin didn’t mind showing his body and face online for thousands to see, his private life remained private, and he was a firm believer that nobody needed to know his real name, the city he lived in or his relationship status.

“i need something savory, now. those muffins were really sweet.” jimin sighed, taking a big sip from his berry smoothie. one of his chubby hands played with his belly, caressing around the belly button before lifting the fat mass and letting it fall, sighing at the way it jiggled back into place. the movement dislodged a gas bubble, and he could hear the gurgling noise coming up his throat and feel the pressure on his chest right before letting out a loud belch.

“oh, yeah… that felt good.” another burp made its way out right then, shorter and deeper than the first one. jimin bit his lip and smiled, playing coy. “excuse me!”

he reached for the eggs, three full plates with enough spicy sauce on top that it dripped down Jimin’s chin at his first bite. he didn’t clean it at first, too preoccupied with stuffing his face until he could barely chew with his mouth closed. jimin still had a few steps to take before he felt actually full, but his stomach definitely felt a little bit harder at the top, now. he ate the first two plates mostly in silence aside from the casual moans and loud slurps from the berry smoothie, lips feeling tingly and swollen from the spice.

“you guys remember last time i ate this spicy sauce, right?” jimin smiled, going for the third and last plate. “that day with the ten hamburguers. i downed almost the entire bottle with them, got so gassy afterwards. couldn’t stop burping.” the memory makes his comment session go crazy, talking about how hot it was, how he should do it again. jimin chuckles, happy his viewers don’t mind how much of a pig he can be sometimes.

he continues eating, barely stopping to breathe — there’s still two dishes to get done with, and his stomach is starting to protest about the eggs he just ate.

“hmm… tummy is talking, you guys hear that?” jimin all but shoves a finger inside his belly button, moving the digit around in a movement that could almost be considered obscene. he feels so good, exposed like this, stomach gurgling away the fullness.

the donations keep coming at a fast rate as jimin keeps eating, pace much slower than when he first started with the pancakes, lips greasy and adorned with crumbles. his hands find his belly a plethora of times, caressing the stretched out skin, pressing against the swelled up gut as he unashamedly lets out moans and sighs of pleasure. that’s how jimin, sooner rather than later, finds himself out of food to eat, only half of his smoothie left.

“so full…” he groans, leaning back to expose his full, rounded out fat belly. it gurgles audibly then, jumping out in an abrupt movement as jimin’s lips fall open and he belches again, a long and wavering deep noise that sounds both disgusting and relieving. only then he reaches off camera for a tissue box, cleaning his fingers and then his lips and double chin, laughing as he spots some muffin crumbles on his chest and wipes them away carelessly.

“that was so—” jimin is interrupted by a small burp, cheeks puffing up cutely. “so good. but i can’t help but feel like i could pack more in here.” he pats his belly kinda harshly, the slapping sound loud inside his room. “should i go for 10 pancakes next time? or maybe only have pancakes, a huge stack of them… ah, bet i could eat 20.”

the chat is, as always, extremely encouraging. the donations start coming at a surprising speed again, some messages attached about how the money is for his future grocery trip and for him to buy double of everything. jimin bathes on the attention for a little longer, answering some questions while trying to soothe his ful, oversized belly, chuckling every now and then and pointing out the gurgling noises it makes as it tries to process all the food he just ate.

he was not lying, though — it does feel like he could pack more if he tried. but that’s a thought for next time, and jimin stores it for next week’s stream as he bids goodbye and claims it’s time for him to get into his food coma and digest so he can come back even fatter.

“this has been manggae… until next time, guys!”

#i'm literally shaking i'm so flustered about posting this fic #it's been a while since i've written anything #please note english isn't my first language #am trying my best #as always idk how to tag #chubby bt5 #chubmins

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littoraly-art · 3 years

Text

an aching heart

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2.1k

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Tags: modern au, hurt/comfort, sick!Jaskier, insecure!Jaskier, established relationship, living together, panic attacks, chronic pain, nausea

A/N: this is just a very self-indulgent fic I've been working on, on and off, whenever I feel sick. I decided to leave it fairly ambiguous as to what Jaskier suffers from, just so that people can project if they want because hey, we all deserve to be a bit self indulgent, right?

Read it on AO3 or down below!

The sound of the shower was soothing, a constant stream of noise that mimicked the rainy days that the man loved so much. The steam, that clouded up from the shower, helped relax his muscles and ease his breathing which, up until that moment, had been panicked.

Logically, he knew he shouldn't be panicking–this was a regular enough occurrence, after all–but panic wasn't logical was it? It struck whenever it wanted, sometimes without clear reason unless one were to delve deeply into analyzing the moments leading up to it.

His breathing had been terribly constricted and he had been shaking something fierce, a whimper or two escaping him. The severe shaking had left his muscles feeling weak and achy but, again, the warm steam was helping relax him. He eventually found himself counting his breathing whilst lying on his stomach, cheek against the cool tile flooring of the bathroom.

That contrast of temperature, with the cool air rolling in from the vent on the floor, helped calm his mind with that sensation of distraction. The warm steam drifted over his damp skin like a comforting blanket while the cold air came in waves, offering some sort of relief from his nausea.

He knew he should move, actually get the shower that he had planned on getting, but he couldn't pull himself from the position he was in. It offered just enough relief that he dreaded moving. At least for a little while.

By the time he heard the sound of the bedroom door opening and the creaking of floorboards under heavy footsteps, unfortunately, his stomach was rumbling uneasily again.

"Jask?" There came a knock on the door. A knock which made him flinch despite being well aware that there was someone there. "I'm headed ou–"

Geralt's voice cut off when Jaskier couldn't stop the whine that escaped him in response to his boyfriend calling his name. A wordless, instinctive, plea for help. He immediately regretted the sound (that hadn't been entirely voluntary in the first place) when Geralt spoke up again.

"Jask..? You alright in there?"

He tried to respond, which did not work in his favor as it only created another pathetic sound, a whimper that was followed by a sniffling sob. He didn't want to disrupt Geralt's day or for the man to see him like this but, damn it, he also really wanted someone to care. Deep down. Even though he was ashamed.

"Okay, I'm coming in," the other man announced as he gave another knock before opening the door.

He looked to the shower first, since that was what he had been able to hear, but his attention was quickly taken by the prone form of Jaskier, stretched across the tiles. He frowned deeply in concern, the corners of his lips dipping severely, and he immediately moved to kneel next to the younger man.

"You shouldn't have come in," Jaskier croaked unhappily, despite also somehow being glad that the man was there, and let out another soft whimper, really not able to help the sounds at this point. Oh, he felt so fucking pathetic. "I'm gross."

"Gross?" Geralt moved his hand forward to smooth it along the back of Jaskier's bare torso as he rubbed his thumb gently into his hips every time he passed. "Don't," a soft sigh punctuated his pause, "call yourself that."

His tone was so patient but tinged with annoyance, an annoyance that didn't interfere with the patience even though it seemed it should. Jaskier knew the annoyance wasn't really directed towards him, at least not fully. An annoyance that came with Jaskier's words about himself, not the situation they found themselves in.

"But it's true."

"Why?"

"Because.. Because it just is–" He whimpered heavily and then shivered tiredly as he felt Geralt shifting to help him up. A soft whine, mixed with a gasp, escaped him as he was pulled away from the cool floor.

He was moved into a sitting position, pulled against Geralt's chest with his head tilting to rest on his shoulder. Jaskier's eyes slipped closed as he sniffled, relaxing into the hold, and enjoying the way that Geralt began stroking his hair.

"You're calling yourself gross because.. what? You're sick?" His boyfriend murmured to him while continuing to stroke his hair, pulling his body more fully into his lap. All the while, his warm hands continued to move across Jaskier's body, stroking in slow, soothing swipes.

"Well.. it's just fucking gross, it just is," Jaskier whispered out, tears streaming down his cheeks as he shivered again. Aching pain shot through his hips and it caused another whimper as he pushed his face into Geralt's neck.

He heard the white haired man give a heavy sigh and the tips of his ears turned a bit red in his embarrassment.

"Well, I'll admit that it's.. unpleasant. But that doesn't make you gross, Jask. Why would it? It's not like you chose to get sick."

A soft kiss was pressed to his hairline and it caused more tears to well up as he let a shaking sob bubble up and then escape through trembling lips. His fingers curled into Geralt's shirt and he whimpered a couple more times as the man holding him started to hush him quietly.

"How about we get you into the shower, buttercup?" Geralt's voice was even softer than usual and he helped him sit up by himself so that he could pull away. "Sitting on the ground like that isn't good for your back."

Jaskier leaned limply against the cabinet that sat under the sink and watched with tired, reddened eyes as Geralt got undressed. He watched as his boyfriend paused to use his phone, his brows furrowing in the way they always did when he wrote out text messages.

"Weren't you going to go.. like.. help out at Vesemir's?" Jaskier spoke up after a moment, feeling guilt pool in his core since Geralt had planned to make a day of it, now that he thought about it.

The other man gave a simple hum and paused for a bit longer before setting aside his phone. He raised his brows and shifted around to take off his briefs, kicking them off of his foot once they fell down.

"Yeah, but now I'm not."

"You shouldn't skip out on that just because–"

"Taking care of you is way more important," Geralt cut him off firmly and frowned for a moment as he moved over to crouch down next to Jaskier. "Now let's get you into the shower, okay?"

Jaskier eyed him with an unsure twist to his lips, guilt still rushing through him but, all the while, there was a part of him that desperately wanted to be cared for so, he nodded slowly.

He wanted to be cared for. He craved this tender, loving attention and not having to do it on his own. He wanted someone to lean on, someone he could trust but..

Damn it.

He felt so fucking awful. He felt like a burden. Like it was his fault he was sick, somehow, even though Geralt insisted that wasn't true. And logically, he knew that Geralt was right but that didn't stop the feelings from washing over him in overwhelming swells.

He felt so gross and ashamed and– and–

His thoughts were cut off as Geralt cupped his cheek, briefly, as he raised Jaskier's head and rubbed his thumb against his cheekbone. He gave Jaskier the softest, most heart-melting smile before shifting forward to slide his arm under the brunet's knees.

"Come here."

Geralt circled his other arm behind Jaskier's back and then lifted him off the ground as if he barely weighed more than a sack of flour. And he knew for certain that he weighed more than that. Obviously.

It was no small feat to carry Jaskier into the shower, given that they were nearly the same height, but Geralt managed to do without so much as a muttered word or awkward maneuver.

Once they got into the shower, Geralt carefully let Jaskier's legs down so that the younger man could tentatively find his footing. When it became clear that Jaskier wasn't going to be able to stay upright for long, Geralt kept a firm hold around his waist.

"S'cold," Jaskier muttered, despite it still being warm enough to create steam, and he reached out to turn the heat up.

"Well if you're gonna do that.." Geralt turned them about so that Jaskier was underneath the stream of water, since he didn't like taking those really hot showers that Jaskier liked. He guided his boyfriend's head forward, though, keeping it out of the flow of water and onto his shoulder.

"Thmks.."

"Mhm."

Jaskier lost track of time like that, focusing on Geralt's pulse that thrummed underneath the press of his lips. The rumble of his voice when he hummed. His soft breaths.

Geralt's hands roamed his body in long soothing strokes, easing aches and promoting relaxation. At some point, a soft loofah joined in, sending the comforting scents of oranges and honey, swirling around him. The loofah scrubbed gently in small circles until he was lathered in bubbles so that Geralt could pull the shower head down and rinse him off.

"All.. done. Squeaky clean," Geralt murmured as he placed the shower head back into place and Jaskier laughed quietly, into the man's neck.

A kiss was pressed to his forehead and then, suddenly, he was being lifted. He made a noise of surprise but let Geralt pick him up, guiding his legs around his hips as his hands rubbed along his thighs. After, the shower was turned off and it left them in silence. Dripping wet and starting to grow cold.

It didn't take long for Geralt to step out of the shower, immediately hushing Jaskier as a few whimpers escaped him. The cold air, blowing from the vent on the floor, hit his skin like electric sparks and he shivered as Geralt looked for his towel.

Fortunately, the warm, fluffy towel soon met his back as Geralt continued on his way. He carried his boyfriend all the way out to their bedroom and settled him down onto the edge of their bed.

That effectively had him on his knees, in front of Jaskier as he started drying the younger man off. A small smile settled onto his lips and a soft sort of glimmer caught his eyes before he leaned in. As he dried off the other man, he began pressing feather light kisses all over Jaskier's exposed skin.

One.

Two.

Three. Four. Five.

Six… Seven.

Another. And another. And another. And.. too many to count.

But then, to his dismay, the kisses abruptly stopped as Geralt moved the towel to dry Jaskier's hair. He dried it thoroughly, with lots of squeezing of the strands and rubbing it down.

A whole minute passed before the towel was removed, leaving Jaskier's hair sticking up in ridiculous directions as the brunet pouted. Before he could say anything, though, Geralt leaned back in and pressed a firm kiss against that little pout.

"Lay down, I'll grab you some briefs and your heating pad," Geralt told him, gently squeezing Jaskier's thighs and finally drawing a smallish smile from the man on the bed.

Without a word, Jaskier moved to lay down on his back and rubbed his hand over his stomach as he sighed heavily. He listened to Geralt shuffling around in the closet and then his other hand rested against his chest, over his heart as he stared up at the ceiling.

What had he done to deserve such a thoughtful partner?

Geralt returned, helping guide the pair of briefs onto Jaskier while pressing kisses to the man's legs. He was making it very hard for Jaskier to feel embarrassed. He was touching him freely and without hesitation, giving him the same affection he always would. He didn't care that Jaskier was gross.

He made him feel.. not so gross.

Jaskier inhaled sharply as he felt the heating pad settle against his abdomen, not having expected the sudden touch to his area of pain. Geralt's hand lay heavily on top of it as he climbed into bed next to him and applied the weight needed to distribute the heat across his stomach.

It slowly began to warm up and Jaskier's eyes slipped closed, finding some relief through the heat.

"Try and take a nap.. I'll lay here with you in case you need anything," he heard Geralt say from next to him just as there was some shifting. A longer pillow was tucked under his knees and a soft gasp left his lips as the pain in his lower back eased some. "That's it, buttercup. Just relax and try to sleep."

"Thank you for taking care of me," he murmured and felt Geralt lean close to kiss his cheek. He finally felt less ashamed of taking the help and it warmed him more when he heard the smile in Geralt's voice.

"Always."

#witcher #witcher netflix #the witcher #witcher modern au #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction

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ari-writes-hq · 3 years

Text

Unlucky Days and Back Scratches

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Bokuto x Fem! Fiancée! Reader

Summary: Bokuto has a really bad day and just wants to be in the arms of his love

Words: 2,476

Warnings: Bokuto has a bad day (he's accident prone), fluffy fluff, and some grammar errors maybe?

A/N: I'm genuinely terrified to post this for it is my very first fan fic (that I started and finished and it took me 3 days to do so too). I'm honestly getting the confidence to post it because it's 12:20 am and @toru-oikawas-milkbread. Please be nice to me and I hope that ya'll enjoy <3

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It had been a very, very, very long and rough day for Bokuto Kōtarō. It first started when he had accidentally overslept, due to staying up late into the night making love to his beloved girlfriend-turned-fiancée and had completely forgotten the early start that Meian had scheduled for the team, he was late to practice by nearly three hours. On top of that, “Silent Mode” was turned on on his phone as well, so he didn’t hear the mass messages and calls from his various teammates.

Aside from waking up late, Bokuto struggled leaving the house. How could he leave his long term girlfriend of nearly four years who had just agreed to marry him, and someone who doubled up as his best friend, all alone in their big apartment? The beefy 6’2 male just wanted to stay home and wrap himself around his woman who slept peacefully next to him in all her naked glory. If she had been clothed, Bokuto probably would have only been an hour late to practice. He doesn’t regret it though, he knows that he’s going to end up staying late to make up for the time that he had lost.

When Bokuto finally made it to the MSBY building, he had tried to sneak his way to the locker rooms, but with his luck and the morning he was having, he had accidentally knocked over the janitor’s broom and mop that had been leaning up against the wall. Quickly, his coach and teammates, who were having a small discussion of what to work on next, whip their heads towards the noise, finding a sheepish and guilty Bokuto. Within seconds, he was bombarded by his coach and teammates.

Somehow escaping their wrath, Bokuto was able to finally make it to the locker room where he struggled to open his locker. Has the code changed? Did someone switch his lock as revenge for him coming in late? About fifteen minutes later, with the help of Sakusa, who was sent in by Meian, he found out that he had just been twisting the knob the wrong way. Then, while trying to change, he realized his jersey was far too small and as he was trying to get the constricting article off, he had accidentally tripped and fell over one of the metal benches. There is now a bruise on his left shin.

During practice, and after getting a new shirt, Bokuto’s work performance seemed to lack. He kept messing up his serves. If he wasn’t hitting it, he was missing it. Then at one point he had put a little too much force into one of his spikes, causing the ball to lose control and hit one of the managers in the face, they walked away with a bloody nose. The salt and pepper haired male never truly believed in karma until now. As he was trying to receive a ball, the ball then bounced up from his upper forearms and nailed him in the face… fifteen times.

On top of that, he couldn’t get any of the new moves down. It was concerning since he was one to learn decently quickly when it came to new techniques. Meian had even questioned him about his performance loss. Bokuto had no idea, normally he was on top of his game both in practice and games. So why is he suddenly having a hard time with everything?

After practice, which ran three hours late in the night, Bokuto thought his bad luck was finally at a stand still. Outside, the sky was clear, the stars were bright, well, assuming that they were since the city lights made it impossible for anyone to see them, and there was a gentle fall breeze, so, Bokuto decided to walk home rather than message his lover, who he believed was asleep.

Not even three minutes out of the ten minute walk, rain had suddenly downpoured. Clouds rolled in, hiding the once clear sky, lightning flashed the same gold as Bokuto’s eyes, thunder rang in his ears, and the once gentle breeze suddenly became rough. If not for the rain, Bokuto’s gravity defying, black and white hair would have fallen into its dejected droop.

Why does the world hate me today? He had thought to himself as he huddled underneath a building's canopy. Quickly pulling out his phone, he had checked the time, Midnight, Y/N’s probably asleep. Maybe Akaashi? He opened his messages and pressed his old high school teammate’s name before pressing the text box and sending a quick, Akaaashi, are you still awake? Y/N dropped me off at work today and it was really really nice out when I got off so I decided to walk home instead of catching a ride but now it’s storming. I forgot my bag so I don’t have anything to protect me from the rain. Please, come save me. Satisfied with his message, he pressed “send” with a hopeful smile.

Roughly two very slow minutes passed by before Bokuto’s phone went off.

Yes, Bokuto, I am awake. I will come get you. Next time look at the weather forecast. Where are you? Was Akaashi’s reply. Bokuto grinned at his phone quickly sending him a,

Thank you, Akaashi! I’m-, Bokuto raised his golden eyes to look around his surroundings, not entirely sure where he is himself. I actually don’t know where I am. A few moments after sending the message, Bokuto’s phone lit up, an “incoming call” from the former setter. Answering it, Bokuto pressed the “speaker” button.

“Bokuto, how can you not know where you are? You know what, don’t answer that.” The male on the other side of the receiver sighs. “What are some shops and landmarks around you? Street names?” Bokuto hummed, quickly looking at his surroundings once again.

“Well, I do know I’m not too far away from the MSBY building, uh, there’s a fountain outside a res- oh wait! That’s the restaurant I proposed to Y/N last night! I’m under a… oh I forgot the name of the roof thingy,”

“A canopy?”

“Yes! That thing! I’m under one of those across from the restaurant I proposed to Y/N!”

“Good, okay. I’m on my way. Do not move from your spot, I don’t want you to get lost… again.” From the other side of the phone, Bokuto could hear his friend unlock and open his car door. “You understand?”

The former ace chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yeah, yeah. Just hurry, please,” he basically whined. “I want to go home and cuddle Y/N. I miss her.” Akaashi rolled his eyes and hung up, causing Bokuto to pout down at his device. “Akaashi’s so mean.”

What seemed like an eternity, Akaashi’s car came into view. Bokuto, unsure if his friend can see him, raised his large arms and flailed them around, only stopping when the car came to a stop right next to him. Throwing the front passenger door open, Bokuto slipped into the seat and closed the door with a, “Thank you so much, Akaashi,” he put the seatbelt on. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

The dark haired man put the car in “drive”, starting his way towards the other man’s home, he replied, “Nah, you didn’t wake me up. I have my deadline coming up so I’m trying to finish everything as quickly as I can.” Bokuto nodded enthusiastically. The short car ride was filled with some talk of the past, bringing up some of their most memorable moments from high school, then, some of the talk was the two catching up, given the fact that the duo both worked two completely different jobs and have very little time to hang out anymore.

Akaashi talked about his work, telling what little he could to his friend, not wanting to spoil anything. Believe it or not, Bokuto read the little stories that Akaashi edits for his work, just because the two don’t see each other often doesn’t mean he can’t support his friend in other ways. After Akaashi, Bokuto talked about his day, how everything seemed to go wrong for him and all he wanted to do was to go home and be in his fiancée’s arms.

Soon enough, Akaashi pulls his car in front of a luxury apartment complex. Getting out with another, “thank you”, Bokuto closed the door and swiftly made his way into the building. Once Akaashi knew that his friend was inside, he drove off. The tall male was on a mission: get into the arms of his lover as quickly as possible. He knew that the moment she wrapped her arms around his body, even if he had to wake her up for it, his bad day streak would end.

Running up to the elevator, Bokuto pushed the “up” button and impatiently waited for the elevator with his thick arms crossed and a pout on his lips. Giving up with a huff, Bokuto makes his way to the stairs and runs up them, tripping at least five times and falling once. Why did I choose to live on the top floor? Y/N even said it was a bad idea. He grumbled to himself, tripping on the very last step that leads to his home.

Rushing to his front door, he removes his keys from one of his pockets and fumbles with said keys, even dropping them not once, not twice, but three times before he finally was able to unlock the door. Throwing it open, he yells, “baby, I’m home!”, as he takes off his shoes and places his keys on the hook next to the door. His golden eyes racl over the large, dark living room and the equally dark kitchen. Realizing that she is in fact not in the room, he makes his way towards their shared bedroom.

“Baby, you awake?” He slowly opens their closed bedroom door, trying to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake Y/N up if she is actually asleep. Peeking in, his eyes fall onto her body lying on his side of the bed, her back facing him. “Baby?” he whispers, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, albeit louder than intentional. This caused the girl to jump in her sleep and whine.

“Baby, you home?” she called out, turning towards the door, mind blank, not realizing and too tired to care that it could have been an intruder. The tall man hummed in confirmation and quickly started to take his clothes off, wanting nothing but to be in his lover’s arms as fast as possible. “Kou, you okay?” Y/N piped, worried as she watched the man catch his foot in his shorts and nearly face plant had he not caught himself on the edge of the bed. He launched himself onto the female.

“No, bad day,” he mumbled, face smooshed into her neck.

“Wanna talk about it?” Y/N ran her hand through his droopy salt and pepper hair. The larger man removed his body from the female’s, a pout on his lips as he sat back on his knees, Bokuto began to talk about his “unlucky day”.

Half an hour and many tangents later, he finished the detailed story of his day. Large hands reached out to Y/N and roughly, but softly, pushed her to lay flat on her back, then, Bokuto took hold of her arms and splayed them out on the bed, he did the same to her legs too. Happy with her position, Bokuto nestled himself in between her legs and covered the female with his body like a blanket.

Smooshing her cheek with his, he let out a puppy like whine. “Hold me,”. He reached his hands out to her arms and moved them around his torso. “Want you to hold me, baby, please, need it. Need you to.” Bokuto rubbed his nose against her cheek before peppering kisses down her neck and nuzzling into it. “Please, baby.” He whined more.

Chuckling softly, Y/N tightened her arms around the man and moved her head to the side to place a soft smooch on his head. “Of course, baby. Anything else you need?” Bokuto let another whine out, shifting himself so he could get closer to the woman, even though he was lying on top of her with all of his body weight. “Kō?” Bokuto mumbled into the female’s neck, although she couldn’t hear him. “Baby,” she tapped on his back. “Can’t hear you.”

The man huffed and lifted his head up, his black and white hair disheveled, golden eyes glossy, and a pout on his lips. “Scratch my back, baby, please,” he whined and dropped his head back down into the warmth of his fiancée’s neck. He wiggled in Y/N’s hold, scooching up her body so he was closer to her ear. “Pleeeeeease, baby.”

“Ask and you shall receive, my love.” Y/N’s left hand that was flat against Bokuto’s back arched into a claw. Slowly and softly, but with some pressure, she traced her nails up and down his back, or wherever he specified (the nape of his neck seemed to be his favorite spot). Every so often, Y/N would look at her ring finger to admire the pear shaped engagement ring that the male on top of her had proposed to her with the night before.

“Baby,” Bokuto lifted himself up to look at the woman. Y/N hummed, turning her head up towards him to make eye contact.

“Yes, Kō?” He had a lopsided grin on his face and gave a whiney chuckle when the girl’s nails scratched up his nape.

Bokuto moved closer to his lover’s face. “I love you,” he said confidently. “You’re the love of my life,” he nuzzled his nose into hers. “Never wanna let you go.” With that, he pressed his lips onto Y/N’s and flopped back onto her, whining and cooing into the kiss as she kept up with her ministrations. Pulling back from the kiss, he cooed into her ear, “So good to me baby. M’ safe haven. Can’t wait to marry you.”

With that, Bokuto gripped at Y/N’s sides, whining and cooing as he pulled themselves impossibly closer. Placing a small, wet kiss to her neck, Bokuto nuzzled himself back into the woman’s neck. Within the matter of minutes of Y/N scratching his back and a, “I love you too, Kō. I’ve got you, my love, you’re safe”, the love sick man fell asleep peacefully, happy, and safe in his lover’s arms, a smile on his face.

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agentrouka-blog · 3 years

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Tyrion and Tysha murder mystery hints - first mention in the text

This thing just keeps tugging at me, and this recent thread made me ambitious to examine it in more detail. So I’ll look at hints for an even darker edge to the story of Tyrion and Tysha in the parts of the text that actually mention her.

Since I have limited time, I’ll do several posts. This one is about how we learn about Tysha in A Game of Thrones.

We head into AGOT, Tyrion VI via a chapter transition from AGOT, Jon V, where Jon talks Maester Aemon into choosing Samwell as his assistant. In the presence of his current assistant Chett, who - it is revealed later in the ASOS Prologue - murdered a girl he liked for rejecting him.

Chett gave a nasty laugh. “I’ve seen what happens to soft lordlings when they’re put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot.”

“I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone.”

“Yes?” Maester Aemon prompted.

Jon glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. “He could help you,” he said quickly. “He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.”

Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon was afraid that he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “Maester Luwin taught you well, Jon Snow. Your mind is as deft as your blade, it would seem.”

“Does that mean …?”

“It means I shall think on what you have said,” the maester told him firmly. “And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brother to the door.”

(AGOT, Jon V)

The chapter is followed by AGOT, Tyrion VI, where Tyrion and Bronn rest on the high road after being kicked out of the Gates of the Moon, after he won his trial by combat:

They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering dead-wood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. “Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me.”

The entire conversation between Jon, Aemon and Chett sets up Tyrion. A lordling, bad with manual labor, but smart and a reader. Yet we know he is no Samwell Tarly in his sensibilities, and the last sentence is dedicated to Chett.

Chett...

The only women Chett had ever known were the whores he’d bought in Mole’s Town. When he’d been younger, the village girls took one look at his face, with its boils and its wen, and turned away sickened. The worst was that slattern Bessa. She’d spread her legs for every boy in Hag’s Mire so he’d figured why not him too? He even spent a morning picking wildflowers when he heard she liked them, but she’d just laughed in his face and told him she’d crawl in a bed with his father’s leeches before she’d crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. When they caught him down near Sevenstreams, old Lord Walder Frey hadn’t even bothered to come himself to do the judging. He’d sent one of his bastards, that Walder Rivers, and the next thing Chett had known he was walking to the Wall with that foul-smelling black devil Yoren. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life.

But now he meant to take it back, and Craster’s women too. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. If you want a woman to wife you take her, and none of this giving her flowers so that maybe she don’t notice your bloody boils. Chett didn’t mean to make that mistake again.

Like Tyrion, Chett is rejected by others for his appearance, has a violent father and a lot of resentment that comes out in the shape of murdering “slatterns”. He also mixes it up with the idea of marriage. Like Tyrion, the cold night reminds Chett of the girl in his past.

He could see Bessa’s face floating before him. It wasn’t the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever he’d thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way she’d looked, dying. What was wrong with him?

Chett killed her in a rage, but the truth is layered and haunts him.

But back to Tyrion.

Tyrion VI emphasizes Tyrion’s cleverness as he converses with Bronn, explaining his strategy in the Vale for how to steal Bronn from Cat’s service and make use of his practical talents, and his strategy for their travels in the Mountains of the Moon. Tyrion talks, Bronn listens and agrees to serve him.

The point is, Tyrion is very observant and smart. Reader, trust Tyrion’s judgent and words, is the message. Then we get more personal.

As they light a fire and eat a goat, Tyrion remembers his goaler Mord who treated him cruelly in the sky cells.

(Mord, btw, translates to murder in many a germanic/Scandinvian language.)

“And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said.

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that.

The image of coins spilling from hands is picked up later.

Tyrion was hoping to lure in the mountain clans, but they take their time showing up, so he tries to be even more conspicuous.

Tyrion chuckled. “Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror.” He began to whistle a tune.

He chooses the “terrible” tune himself. It leads straight to his memory:

“Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head.” Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. “I met her on a night like this,” he heard himself saying. “Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats.

Myrish, as in the Myrish lens. The object Lysa sends Catelyn, which has a false bottom hiding the real message in a secret language, a message of murder and conspiracy. A secret language, a foreign language, like Mord.

"A lens is an instrument to help us see." (AGOT, Catelyn II)

Bright and merciless as truth.

My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed … yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to … well, nowhere, really.

Where Tysha went will become a theme. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir examines that beautifully here.

But even right here, the tone is ominous, and GRRM goes out of his way to emphasize it with the ellipses.

We get the story of Jaime chasing after the outlaws and Tyrion and Tysha falling into bed at an inn after drinking, eating and talking, and the story of their marriage, and its end.

Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. “That was the end of my marriage.” He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.

“He sent the girl away?”

“He did better than that,” Tyrion said. “First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.

NOTHING about this makes sense, which is ridiculous when you consider we were just hammered over the head with how smart Tyrion is supposed to be.

Since when is Jaime prone to setting up complex schemes? Why would feel the need to push Tyrion to have sex at thirteen, and why would be ever do it this way? Why would be hire him a virgin for his first time? We don’t question it because GRRM has told us not to question the smartiepants. But as we later learn, that was all. not. true. So maybe other things aren’t true, either.

“After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she …” The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. “Lord Tywin had me go last,” he said in a quiet voice. “And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more.”

The parallels to his memory of Mord are striking. Silver and gold, coins spilling from hands, a “price” beyond expectation... and a promise of something very sinister at the next meeting.

After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. “Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me.”

1) Nice how Bronn makes it about Tyrion’s pain. Tysha’s pain does not exist to them. And so the reader is also drawn away from it. Poor Tyrion.

2) Another reference to killing. It foreshadows Tyrion’s murder of Tywin over this very matter, of course, but at the same time...

Tyrion gestured impatiently with the bow. “Tysha. What did you do with her, after my little lesson?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Try harder. Did you have her killed?”

His father pursed his lips. “There was no reason for that, she’d learned her place … and had been well paid for her day’s work, I seem to recall. I suppose the steward sent her on her way. I never thought to inquire.”

“On her way where?”

“Wherever whores go.”

Tyrion’s finger clenched. (ASOS, Tyrion XI)

I don’t think it can be emphasized enough that this happens right after he murders Shae. Shae the whore.

“Did you ever like it?” He cupped her cheek, remembering all the times he had done this before. All the times he’d slid his hands around her waist, squeezed her small firm breasts, stroked her short dark hair, touched her lips, her cheeks, her ears. All the times he had opened her with a finger to probe her secret sweetness and make her moan. “Did you ever like my touch?”

“More than anything,” she said, “my giant of Lannister.”

That was the worst thing you could have said, sweetling.

Tyrion slid a hand under his father’s chain, and twisted. The links tightened, digging into her neck. “For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm,” he said. He gave cold hands another twist as the warm ones beat away his tears.

And just before he asks him about Tysha, Tywin assures him he was meant to be sent to the Wall. Whether or not that’s a lie, we’re looking at another Chett parallel. Murdering a “slattern”, facing life at the Wall.

We close Tyrion’s memory of Tysha:

Tyrion swung around to face him. “You may get that chance one day. Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He yawned. “I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.”

He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss …

Like Chett, his thoughts return to the girl. He turns into the goaler, Mord, his rage comes through, his capability of great violence. In ASOS, his lashing out at Tywin is preceeded by directing his violence toward the “whore” who allegedly betrayed him. Which is preceeded by a truth about Tysha.

“Thank you?” Tyrion’s voice was choked. “He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me … watch.” Aye, and more than watch. I took her too … my wife …

“I never knew he would do that. You must believe me.”

“Oh, must I?” Tyrion snarled. “Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!”

“Tyrion—”

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. “I … I suppose I earned that.”

“Oh, you’ve earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can’t begin to tell you what you’ve earned. But you’ll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

(ASOS, Tyrion XI)

The turnkey here is interesting. Once again, Tysha’s memory is associated with a cell and the presence of a turnkey. In his anguished memory, Tyrion almost stumbles over him. The last turnkey was Mord.

So, just looking at Tysha’s first mention, there are so many ominous connections. Murder murder murder.

The chapter ends with Tyrion meeting and “hiring” the mountain clans. How? To avenge himself on Lysa Arryn, he promises them the entire Vale. Really driving home that “a Lannister pays his debts” is all about disproportionate retribution.

A few chapter later, to create some distance to this dark tale, Tyrion meets Shae and sets up to re-create his entire Tysha trauma. The two are intertwined, so why should their ends not be?

That’s fodder for a different post, though.

#asoiaf #anti tyrion lannister #tysha #murder mystery #long post #Shae #tywin lannister #bronn #mismemory #memory edit

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

November Second

It’s Hotch’s birthday and he’s trying really hard not to let it bother him that everyone seems to have forgotten. (for @therealmadblonde) WARNING: briefly mentions some domestic abuse and child abuse

November 2nd.

They’ve been preparing for a week.

It’s strangely humorous to think that they know one another inside and out and yet, can hardly manage to throw a party for one of their own.

“He’s O negative,” Emily supplies, legs tossed up onto the edge of her desk. She’s twirling a sucker around in her mouth. It’s made her tongue a deep blue and as she speaks Morgan spots it. He points to her tongue-- drawing attention to it with a surprised laugh-- and then points to his own. A silent inquiry if his own has changed color. She nods her head eagerly, “it’s green!”

Morgan nods his head with a proud smile, “cool.”

Dave rolls his eyes at the interaction-- at the idiocy of his coworkers. He loves them, of course, but sometimes he has no idea how he does this every day. “Emily,” Dave says her name with thick disappointment. “You’re the man’s friend. He trusts you and all you can think to add is that his blood is O negative?”

Emily knows more than just that. She knows how he takes his coffee and his Chinese take-out order. That he won’t sleep without a blanket but he doesn’t need a pillow. In fact, he’s more than likely to just sleep without one. He sleeps on his stomach and doesn’t snore. His favorite snack is gummy bears and she’s never once seen him refuse the offer of an oreo. However, she’s failing to see how any of these things amount to “helpful” right now.

So she rolls her eyes and thoughtfully pulls the sucker from her mouth so that she can clearly dictate the amount of sass and snark needed for a rebuttal. “Sorry, Dave.” She shakes her head and motions vaguely with the sucker. “I just thought it would be a little more important to know his blood type than what his favorite color is. Given that he runs into more medical emergencies than battles with evil kindergartens holding him at gunpoint and demanding to know if he likes blue better than green.”

Dave sits back in his chair, shaking his head and leaning his head heavily on his fist. God help them, he thinks. No, God help him.

“It’s good to see you all hard at work,” Hotch comments, dryly as he walks across the cat-walk. He’s walked the path every day for years so it’s nothing for him to keep his eyes glued to the file in his hands rather than where he’s walking. He also knows his agents, his friends, well enough to know that there can’t be any work getting done if they’re all in the bullpen together. Not that he minds. While his tone may divulge a different assumption, they know what he really means-- “please don’t be getting into any trouble”.

Emily turns herself, feet still kicked up, but head now turned so that she can see him. “Hey Hotch,” she greets, lopsided grin pulled to the side by the sucker she’s placed back into her mouth. “What’s your favorite color?”

He comes to a staggering halt on the catwalk. Dark eyebrows knitting together as he turns his attention to the bullpen, his file snapping shut at his side. He’s just come out of a meeting with Strauss-- the only reason the team had gathered in the bullpen to talk so broadly about him. After sitting with that witch of a woman for the last two hours, his brain is a little scrambled-- overworked. So it’s taking him a moment to process the question.

Emily pulls her feet down and smirks, casually caught off guard by the fact that this is so trivial to him. Surely, Jack has laid this question on him. There is nothing children aged 3-6 love more than inquiring about colors. “What is it,” she asks, growing a little more impatient each second he leaves her unanswered. “It’s gotta be green or blue or something.”

He clears his throat, right-- colors. Those are colors. What are his favorite colors?

Purple. It comes to mind first. His eyes dart to Reid the second it does. He associates his resident genius with purple. Lavender, really. Soft. It makes him think of Haley’s funeral, the scarf that Reid had wrapped over his coat. The only real color that day. Hotch’s eyes kept flickering over to it, the only thing that seemed to ground his racing mind.

The answer used to be red. When he was just a boy and naïve and because it was the same color as a fire truck. The color doesn’t associate with firetrucks anymore. He remembers his mother’s busted lip as she urgently shut him into a closet, seven years old and cowering away at the sound of his mother’s choked pleads for his father to just leave. He didn’t need to do this.

“He’ll learn,” she had begged. “He’s just a boy, Mark. Please, please--” He’d flinched when the door was thrown open, his father standing there in the doorway.

And Haley. Red reminds him of the pain. Haley always got cold so easily and he’d just wanted to hold her a little longer. Keep her warmly tucked against him and try to remember the way she used to play with the hair at the back of his head. Pushing her finger against the way it grows.

“Hotch?”

He blinks once-- twice-- “I, uh,” he shakes his head. Trying frantically to remember whatever color he’d told Jack last. Probably like… “Blue or green,” he says with a shrug, trying to play off his reaction. His hands ache with the memory of that day. He’d broken three metacarpals in his left-hand killing Foyet, set himself up for carpal tunnel and arthritis. A price he pays everyday. A handful of medicine to survive the damage of the stab wounds and another to work against the inflammation.

Shaking his head of the thoughts he keeps heading towards his office. That’s not what he needs to be thinking about right now. If he’s not careful he’s going to end up having an anxiety attack on his office floor and that’s just not something he really wants to deal with right now. Especially, here with no medicine insight and where any member of the team could walk in on that.

That’d be just his luck.

Bogged down by work, he doesn’t even think about his birthday. He gets too caught up in Halloween and the party Garcia throws for Day of the Dead and he’s exhausted. Rundown.

He doesn’t even realize how quickly his birthday is rolling in until the morning of.

November 2nd.

He’s fifty-four. Old.

Hitting snooze, he lets himself sink back into the warmth of his bed. He doesn’t want to go to work. He’d much rather stay here. Catch up on sleep and, who knows, eat something crazy for lunch. Chocolate chip pancakes or eggs and too many pieces of bacon.

But he can’t afford that. The office still needs him. There’s still a job to be done.

Birthday or not.

He’s not expecting anything but typically, by now, most of them have sent him a fond message. Nothing crazy.

Garcia bakes him macadamia nut cookies. A dozen, just for him, and takes the team their own. There aren’t any cookies on his desk when he comes in.

Derek and Dave are nowhere to be seen. JJ’s arguing loudly with someone on the phone. Emily’s ducked into her work and Reid’s spinning in his chair. No one says anything to him. He decides it doesn’t matter. Today’s just another day. Every year he tells them how much he hates celebrating his birthday. He does hate celebrating it but… he doesn’t mind it entirely. He does like Garcia’s crushing hug and having to squeeze Reid so he knows Hotch doesn’t mind their hug. He likes Morgan making jokes at his expense and Emily rising to his defense. Dave shaking his head at them all.

Then, when they’ve all left, Dave pulling him in tightly and reminding, “I’m so proud of you, kid. Happy Birthday.”

He guesses they’re not doing that this year.

He’s searching for where Reid’s ran off with the sugar when Emily Prentiss blows through the break room. “What’s the rush,” he asks. Hotch doesn’t talk all that much. He’s prone to silence and a much better listener but he’s starved for a little adult conversation. Something, even a meaningless conversation, is better than the internal monologue he’s had going since he stepped into the office.

Glancing over her shoulder at him, she shakes her head, sighing. “A case,” comes her haste reply. “They’ve got me running front for some case in Louisiana.” An obvious hit at Emily to bother her. Southern states are typically covered by Morgan or Hotch. It’s not to be presumptuous but the more southern the state the less likely they are to want to listen to a woman’s advice on the matters of their murders.

He grimaces in sympathy, “I’m sorry.”

She sighs when she sees the other coffee pot is slowly filling, meaning she’s going to have to wait for a cup.

“Here,” he offers her his own cup. The mug is one Jack had gifted him some time ago. Hand-painted. He and Haley had made it when he was only about a year-old. The colors are horrid but Hotch can’t stand to think about parting from the thing. Ugly as it is, in Haley’s fine print are the words: We Love You Daddy! Sometimes rubbing his finger against those raised letters is the only way he can get through the day.

Emily accepts the mug with a sad smile. She knows he’s partial to the mug but she needs the coffee. She slides him her mug, it suddenly hits her when she does. “Shit!”

He frowns.

“I’m so sorry,” she pours sugar into his mug. She’s clearly overwhelmed, visibly upset. “I can’t go to lunch.”

Every year on his birthday they go to lunch. It’s nothing special. They got to lunch all the time. About once a week. So, it’s not really that big of a deal but he can’t help but feel a little sad. He likes spending time with her but he doesn’t so much as let an ounce of that disappointment show.

Taking Emily’s mug, he shrugs it off. “It’s fine,” he insists, well aware that she’ll know he’s lying if he can’t meet her eyes. He makes a point of forcing his gaze on her, settling a rare smile her way. “We’ll catch up later,” he assures with a nod. “Go on, I’m sure the Louisiana PD are waiting on hand and foot to hear back from you.” She rolls her eyes and he smirks. When she turns to walk away he adds, “and, Emily? If they give you a hard time--”

She shakes her head at him, “I know....” Turning back to hurry out she shouts back to him, “happy birthday, Hotch!”

No one else says anything.

He just… sits in his office. His paperwork is done. There’s no reason for him to be here.

Haley would have remembered. She always remembered.

Every year she’d make him a cake-- something crazy and he’d never know what to expect. For three years in a row, she’d burned the hell out of the cakes and he’d come home to her sobbing on the floor. In her defense, they were both very stressed trying to get her pregnant. Things weren’t going well. Then she got pregnant and forgot about the cake and it burned. Having a toddler around the next year had not helped her case.

He’d never minded. She was also so happy to have him around.

The other side of the bed used to be warm. He’d wake up to her fingers ghosting along his back or her head on his shoulder. Now he wakes up alone and raises their son alone.

He killed her and he’ll never forgive himself for that.

Sighing, rubbing at his tired eyes, and feeling the steadily increasing pain in his back he decides he doesn’t want to celebrate his birthday anyway. What is there to celebrate? What about him is good enough to praise? On his watch, Reid had been kidnapped. JJ scooped up by the “Pentagon” and sent to war where she lost a child. Emily died. Garcia got shot outside of her home. Morgan was forced to face his abuser, again. Jason left. He didn’t help Elle.

He doesn’t even deserve it. It’s not even worth the time.

“Hotch?”

He flinches at the sudden invasion, squirting to see who it is at his door. Reading glasses askew and pen hovering in the same spot it has been for the last hour, at least he looks like he’s been busy. He forces himself to liven up a bit, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Can I help you,” he asks hopefully, a smile tugging at his lips.

JJ nods, checking the watch on her wrist. “Yeah, uh, Garcia needs you down in the lair. I don’t know-- Listen, I don’t know what it is but she’s been bugging me about it all day. Can you just go check it out?” She sighs and pushes her hair back from her face. “I’ve got to get out of here. See you later, Hotch.”

He just nods. Throat tight.

It’s stupid. This whole day.

He’d never even celebrated a birthday until he was eighteen. Haley had gotten him a cupcake, just trying to make something of the day. For the longest time, she was the only person who even cared. Then Dave and Gideon had come. On his first birthday with them, they’d gotten him a tie. It had birds on it. Then Derek had come and JJ and Garcia and Reid and then Emily. He went for almost twenty years without celebrating a freaking birthday.

This one isn’t even that important.

He’s just being stupid.

Sighing, he makes his way out of his office. No one’s in the bullpen. The place is shut down for the night.

Hands in his pockets, he’s sulking down the hall. Head down and eyes on the tiles as he walks. Vaguely, slowly he hears the unmistakable banter of Garcia. It’s hushed, quick. At the top of the hall, he can see her door is cracked open. Just enough to allow him to see Reid moving inside, his hand being swatter because it looks like… he’s got icing on his fingers. He doesn’t even look ashamed to have been caught swiping at the cake.

Too anxious now to be excited, Hotch makes his way down the hall. Thankful the motion sensor lights have been turned off now that the building should have officially closed some two hours ago. They don’t hear him coming.

Sticking his head in the room he sees Garcia’s entire lair is covered in gifts, decorations, and stuffed with the members of his team. He smirks at the sight. Morgan’s trying to light the candles on the cake, Reid observing that they’re probably going to set the fire alarm off. Emily’s sitting on the couch, fiddling with the zipper on her boot, waiting. JJ anxiously wraps her necklace around her finger.

“Sir!”

He feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

When Garcia sees him, though, her lower lip starts to tremble. “Oh sir, I’m so sorry!”

He stiffens when she hugs him, completely unprepared. “Sorry,” he repeats, looking over her head to the others for some sort of direction. “What are you sorry for, Garcia?’ It’s clear they hadn’t forgotten. If they had he would easily forgive them. It’s a birthday. It doesn’t matter that much.

She hiccups sadly, pulling away to look up at him. “We made you sad,” she whispers. “It was stupid idea,” she says with a shake of her head. “We just wanted to throw you a surprise party but you don’t even like parties!” With each passing moment, she’s just getting more upset. “So, look--” she goes to the left, to a little table where she produces a plate of cookies. The macadamia nut cookies. “I even brought you cookies--”

She’s flustered enough that when he’s the one to pull her into a hug, she just melts.

“Garcia?” She holds onto him tightly. “Thank you.” He can feel her pulling in a breath to push away the words but he keeps going. “No one, other than Haley, has ever cared enough to even make me a cake. Let alone try and throw me a surprise party.”

She sniffles, “that’s so sad.”

He huffs, smirking, “I guess.”

Shifting from foot to foot, Reid really doesn’t want to break up the sweet moment but the cake has been taunting him all afternoon. “Does that mean we can cut the cake now?”

Morgan rolls his eyes, “you’ve had your fingers in the damn thing all day, pretty boy!”

Hotch nods his head and Reid smirks at Morgan, clearly pleased he’s won this argument regardless of the fact that he has been swiping a finger through the icing. But cake is cake.

“Alright birthday boy.” Emily’s balancing the cake in her hands, bringing it to him carefully. The candles lighting up her eyes in a way that seems scarily mischievous. “Make a wish!”

He frowns at her but the look softens when Rossi places an encouraging hand on his back. He blows the candles out with a smile.

“What’d you wish for?” Reid asks hopefully.

Morgan pushes him, “you can’t say it out loud, doofus! It won’t come true.”

Emily rolls her eyes, obviously mentally scorning them both for their childish natures and for Morgan believing that.

It makes him smile to watch. The three of them hovering over the cake as Emily cuts it and Reid and Morgan try to fight for the first piece she cuts. Reid gets it but that’s not surprising. He smirks at Morgan but the devious look falls quickly when he sees Hotch is watching.

Dave seems to come out of no where. He leans against the wall beside Hotch, “you good?”

Hotch nods, unsure if he can trust his voice right. Very good.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #david rossi #spencer reid #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau #criminal minds fanfiction #derek morgan #tw abuse

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devilishsahbi · 4 years

Note

Hello! I saw you're requests open and I was wondering if I could ask for an nsfw request with mammon? I'm a real sucker for soft sweet nsfw stuff so like maybe a confession scenario because Lucifer seems really interested in mc and mammon gets jealous? And sweet sentimental first time together, lots of I love yous lol Only if you want to of course! Thanks!

a/n: this is almost 5k words of like... angst and fluff and then smut. so, i hope you enioy! 💕

different sides of love. mammon x fem! reader

GREED. IT WAS HIS SAVING grace, his addiction, his curse⏤he desired all that the world could give him, wanted nothing more than to have his pockets full of grimm and still not have enough to satisfy his wants and needs. At least, that was what he told himself, until that greed, the pivotal part of his sin, became skewed towards something else.

His greed now extended towards you. Your smiles, fond hugs even though he pushed you away, the sleepy jokes you'd text him at night, even the barest glance in his direction. All of it. He wanted all of it and more, more than you would ever give him, because he desired more than just kind words and sweet reassurances from you.

He wanted your love.

For him, the words would never come. He expressed it in other ways, as often as he could, even if you didn't notice or know it was him. A little extra grimm in your wallet; some food hidden from Beel during his kitchen raids; text messages late at night when you couldn't sleep through the devildom storms, even when he was dog tired and unable to keep his eyes open; and when you were awake writing essays, the faintest glow of your pact mark upon your hip even if you didn't see it.

Mammon could feel it, sometimes, if he tried hard enough, when you traced it with your fingers. Felt your touch like a hot, iron brand, because while he had the ability to stop it, to not get feedback from the magic that bound you, he didn't want to. It both tortured him and pleased him to know that you acknowledged the mark at all, even if it was absentmindedly touching it out of habit.

So when Lucifer stepped in and changed made his interest in you known, it pissed him off. All in the span of a week, the most powerful of them had shifted gears the moment he sensed competition and had made it a point to draw your attention to him, to engorge his pride as the eldest⏤and the eldest got everything he wanted. Power. Prestige. Fear.

At dinner, when Mammon's boiling point reached a peak, Lucifer made his final move. It was as Asmodeus was lecturing Beel on getting oil in his pores and everyone else was listening to the conversation, laughing, that he spoke up. Mammon could make out the words, make out what was being said.

Lucifer had offered you a night in his room.

He didn't even wait to hear your answer. He was so wrapped up in trying not to snap⏤he had the most control out of all of them, damn it, and he wouldn't let his jealousy and greed stop that⏤that he got up out of his chair and left the house without even saying a word. Left his D.D.D, wallet, and keys on the belfry, and slammed the door behind him.

He hadn't even stopped to listen to you say,"No."

You waited for Mammon to return, even after everyone else retired to bed. You deliberately ignored the suggestive brow raise that Lucifer gave you as he big you goodnight, nervously clutching Mammon's D.D.D in your hands and watching the door nervously. You were too worried to even think about that now, not even what it meant.

You tried desperately to contact him through your pact, but he was either ignoring you or had cut off the connection somehow. As far as you knew, he had never cut the connection before⏤Satan had told you that Mammon almost always kept his pact marks with the witches closed, but exclusively left yours open for use. And now it was closed or entirely useless.

The clock hand ticked past eleven, twelve, and approached one without Mammon giving even the slightest sign of showing back up. You would normally text him by now, but he had left his D.D.D and wallet, and it was raining so hard outside that your gut clenched painfully at the thought of him walking in the rain without even a way to call for help.

It wasn't like he would call you, though. He never did, even if it was clear he needed it; his brothers were cruel, even if it wasn't completely obvious to any of them that they were. They always thought the worst of him, even though he thought the best of them always. You saw it in his easy submissiveness, the carefully orchestrated plans to get them to interact with him even if it was in anger. You didn't understand why he would go to such lengths to earn even the slightest of attentions from his brothers; you had tried desperately to offer him that kind of affection, but he pushed you away every time, like it wasn't what he wanted.

You had no clue what to do anymore.

When it became clear that you were sitting up for nothing, you went upstairs to take a shower. A hot one, one that you would regret later when your nerves were screaming at you to stop and turn down the heat, but you needed something to take your mind off of Mammon and the insane need to go outside in the storm and find him. A shower was the best way to do that.

As you got the water running and set out your favorite pajama set, you took the time to look at the pact mark sitting proudly on your hip⏤perhaps greedily, you second guessed. It devoured the expanse of your pelvic bone, diving down the curve of your hip to lick at the start of your thigh, curling into the valley between hip and leg. It was a startling golden yellow, more vibrant than a tattoo, and held more heat than the rest of your body. Your other pact marks never felt like Mammon's; they were cut off, blocked, and nearly transparent on your skin. You never asked them why.

And, as odd as it sounded, you felt it was too personal to even try to.

You stayed in the shower for a good while, waiting until your fingers pruned and all of the worry had seeped out of your body. But the moment you stepped out of the shower and pulled your nightclothes on, your thoughts went straight back to Mammon, worrying⏤what if he had gotten called by one of those witches? What if he had gotten trapped in town?

On the way back to your room, you peeked inside Mammon's bedroom. It was dark, still, and not a thing had been moved, from what you could tell. So you shut it, gently, and padded down to your door and slipped inside before any of the other brothers could bother you. You didn't know if you could deal with Asmo's teasing or Lucifer's suggestions right now without blowing up and going to Purgatory Hall, or chasing after Mammon.

Flicking the light on with an angry sigh, you tore the towel off of your head and looked towards your desk for your D.D.D⏤and froze.

There, with his elbows propped on his knees and head bowed, was Mammon. Rain water dripped from his hair and landed in solid droplets on the carpet floor; his jacket had been abandoned, his white t-shirt nearly transparent and clinging to his lean frame; he was thoroughly soaked to the bone, and yet he wasn't even shivering like you would if you had stepped outside. Steam from his abnormal body temperature evaporating the water curled into the air; your room felt half like a sauna.

"Mammon?" You breathed, rushing over to him in relief. He didn't move or acknowledge you as you gripped his shoulders and pushed him back to look at his face. "Oh, Mammon…"

He looked like he had been sent through the wringer and back. A fresh bruise was blooming on his jaw, already fading rapidly with his healing. He had several scratches on his cheek and near his eye. His lip looked to have been busted open several times, the wound not quite healing completely. All of the scrapes and cuts were dirty, hindering his power to some extent⏤or he was holding back, as usual, because he felt he deserved it.

Mammon had gone looking for a fight and, clearly, had found one. Several, by the looks of it.

With shaking fingers, you tipped his head back and examined the scrapes more thoroughly by your lamp. Traced the skin with a pained grimace. "Mammon, what happened to you?"

He didn't answer. You didn't know if you wanted to hear one.

"Let's get these cleaned up, okay? But get out of those wet clothes, please. I'm sure you have a pair of sweatpants in here from that heatwave last week."

When you moved away from him and turned your back to rifle through your closet to find the first aid kit⏤you had invested quite heavily in it after realizing how prone you were to "accidents" with the brothers⏤you heard the sound of wet clothes being peeled off and dropped to the floor. It took everything you had in you not to imagine the way the fabric parted from his skin, glistening in the light and beads of water tracking down his neck from his hair.

You tore open a few packs of alcohol wipes and bandaids, listening to him shuffle from your chair to your bed. He let out a faint groan as he sat down, the springs shifting and popping underneath, and you winced at the thought of him hurting. He probably was in some pain, if he had gotten into as many fights as you thought he had.

When you were sure he had made himself at least partially decent, you turned around and made a pointed effort not to let your eyes sink directly to the indentations of his hips or the faint dusting of pale hair that vanished into the sweatpants.

With all of your supplies on the bed beside him, you nudged yourself between his legs and moved his face up where you could clean the wounds out properly. He didn't even fight you as you moved his head around, hands coming up to rest lightly on the sides of your legs when you were close enough that your body was a hair's breath away from touching his.

Something was seriously up with him, but you didn't even know where to start.

"These look awful," was all you could say as you picked up an alcohol wipe and began cleaning the outside of the wounds. Gravel and dirt came away on the cloth. His eyebrows furrowed at the sting, but that was all of the reaction you got. A normal Mammon would be milking it for all it was worth; but instead, he was completely, utterly silent. "I hope whoever did this is crying in a back alleyway, just so you know."

His lip quirked. Just a bit.

When you were done with the scratches and the deep gash near his eyebrow, you moved on to the gastly split in his lip. When you ran the alcohol wipe over it, it bled anew, aggravated by the sudden movement. You dabbed at it carefully after that, unaware as Mammon carefully began following the curls of his pact mark peeking out of your pajama shorts.

"Ya didn't have to do that," he whispered when you were finished. His voice was completely hoarse, as if he had been yelling at the top of his lungs for the past three hours, when he spoke. "I could'a done it myself."

"You could have, but you were already here." You tossed the bloody wipes in the trash can beside your bed, then settled your hands on his shoulders. The skin was cold from the rain, but underneath you felt the demonic heat surging just under the surface. You half expected him to stutter out an objection and shove you away. It didn't happen. "And… I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Wha' for?" Mammon sneered in reply. His lip cracked open and a thin line of blood ran down his chin. "Wasn't like anyone else was worried. Luci never is."

"Lucifer?" You inquired, feeling his fingers tighten on your legs as you uttered the name. The controlled bunching of muscles against the pads of your fingers, moving as he stiffened up. "What does he have to do with this?"

Mammon snorted. Whoever this was, you weren't familiar with them; the scummy second born had vanished. In his place was this raw, angry man who had no idea what to do with his anger except put it out on someone else.

"When does he not?" He huffed. His breath ruffled the slowly drying strands of hair near your collarbone. "He's got everything ta do with this. I could've killed him, then. But I did'n. I had to leave. Do somethin'."

"What…? What did he…?" Your thoughts drew back to dinner; at what Lucifer had asked you. Offered you, since it was your decision. You had told him no, but Mammon had stormed out before that. It had been odd, but Asmo had assured you it happened all the time… But now, you had a sinking feeling in your gut that told you it was for a good reason. "Oh."

"Uh-huh." Mammon pushed you away then, gently, and got to his feet. His eyes were fixated on the door. "I'm gonna go ta bed. 'Night."

"W-wait!" You grabbed his wrist and pulled him back; or tried to, anyways. He stopped, half turned his head to you to listen. "I didn't… You just… You left before I answered. I told him no."

He laughed, sarcastic and sharp. "Sure you did."

"I did. I mean, I really did tell him no." You watched the muscle in his jaw tic. "You really worried me, Mammon, leaving like that. I thought something bad had happened to you…"

"Is tha' all that stopped ya?" His voice was painfully soft. "From tellin' him yes? Me leavin'?"

Your stomach rolled. You hadn't intended on telling him like this, but there was no other option. You could let him leave, let him hate both you and Lucifer forever; or, you could tell him that you loved him, and erase that hard frown on his face.

It was obvious what you chose.

"Mammon." You approached him carefully, releasing his wrist the closer you got to him. You stood toe to toe with him, him a little taller than you were, and reached up to hold his face in your palms. His expression didn't change, but you felt him tensing, felt his entire body shift at the touch. He looked so sad, angry, and fatally jealous all at once that it made your heart hurt to even look at him. "I told Lucifer no because I don't love him. I love you⏤the great Mammon, avatar of greed, the scummy second born. Not him. Just you."

And before he could register your words, you rose up on your toes and kissed him. You were gentle, mindful of his split lip, and felt the slow pull of his face turn into shock.

You pulled away, just so you could meet his gaze, noses brushing. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, and a faint blush had crept up his cheeks. He suddenly felt far too warm, the rain completely evaporating off of him in wispy curls. You watched him swallow, his throat working around a knot.

"It's okay if you don't feel the same," you whispered, reluctance in your tone as you lowered yourself to your heels. Your hands dropped from his face to rest lightly on his chest. "I didn't know what I was⏤"

Your breath left your lungs when you were scooped up, pressed so close to him that you felt every muscle against your body flex, his body heat sinking through the flimsy silk pajamas you wore. His lips pressed brutally against yours, hard and searching, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.

You pulled away, desperate for air. He chased your lips before you could take a breath, claiming them once more, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth. You tasted blood, but it wasn't yours; it was oddly sweet, blooming from his split lip. He didn't seem to mind, tongue swiping against the part of your mouth deliciously.

Mammon shifted your weight abruptly, bringing you up by your legs to position you higher. Your locked your ankles around his waist, fearful of falling on the floor, and his hands snuck up the backs of your thighs and under the silk of your pajama shorts, gripping the flesh in a bruising hold.

"Mammon," you gasped when he released your lips, dragging his mouth down the side of your cheek to press kisses to the hollow of your throat. "I don't… Are you s-sure?"

"Sure o' what?" His voice was rough, grainy with lust when he pulled back from your neck. You watched as his eyes, normally a brilliant cerulean blue, darkened when witnessing the flush of your face, the swell of your lips. He held your weight with an arm under your legs, the other coming up to brush your lips with his thumb.

"Of… this." You swallowed deeply when he moved his hand down to cup the side of your neck, fingers hovering over the fluttering pulse of your artery. "Me. I'm just a human. You even said so yourself⏤"

"I lied." He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. His entire body relaxed, as if that anger and tension and jealousy had been drained out of him on one fell swoop. "You ain't just any human. You're my human. Got it?"

That was as close to a confession as you were going to get. The honesty in his eyes was overpowering; the scarlet flush of his cheeks hot underneath your questing fingers; even his heartbeat told you all that you needed to know.

He meant it.

"Got it," you whispered faintly. He grinned then, a flash of teeth, and began walking towards your bed. "What…?"

Mammon dropped you on the bed like a dead weight. The back of your head hit one of your softest pillows and you squirmed to get comfortable as he parted your legs and moved himself between them, placing his hands on either side of your face.

You stilled, a deer in headlights as you met his predatory gaze with your own. His pupils had shrunk into narrow slits, much like his demon form's when he was irritated. But then he seemed to calm down, his aggression softening, his pupils returning back to normal. His fists relaxed on either side of your head.

"Sorry," he croaked, leaning down and burying his face in the curve of your shoulder. Your eyes fluttered closed as he placed kisses upon the skin there. "Almost lost it there. Figured ya didn't wanna deal with that right now."

"You mean you almost shifted?" You inquired, humming pleasantly underneath his attentions. He was placing hickeys wherever he could reach, moving his hands to sneak up your shirt and take a firm hold of your hips. "Mammon?"

"Mmf. Yeah." The pale haired demon shifted between your legs, but this time you clearly felt his arousal thigh, hot and pressing against the sweatpants he wore. He moved again, this time hissing right in your ear when he pressed firmly against your heat, the silk shorts and underwear already damp. "Shit, [Name]. Shit. I ain't gonna last long like this."

You had half a mind to tell him, desperate for friction he wasn't giving you, to just go for it raw. But he seemed to have other plans in mind, shimmying down your body. You whimpered at the loss of contact, attempting to rub your thighs together, but his hands came down on your knees and spread them apart.

"Uh-uh." Mammon hooked his fingers in the waistband of your pajama pants and panties, dragging them down and off of your body. You gasped at the feel of cool air between your legs, automatically attempting to close them again, but Mammon nudged them back open and settled between them. "There. Look at ya, all wet and ready ready for me."

"Mammon…" you whined. You fisted your hands in the pillow beneath your head.

"Are ya still sure?" When you looked down between your legs, at his face, he looked hesitant. Unsure. His fingers ghosted around your knees but never went farther. Insecurity was creeping in and you cursed his brothers for making him this way; you were absolutely certain that, before they had fallen, he hadn't been like this. But then he wouldn't have been Mammon. "I, uh, don't wanna force ya into somethin' ya don't want."

You smiled reassuringly and sat up, moving your hands to cradle his face once more. He leaned into the kiss you offered him, hands sinking into the bend of your hips. You pulled back, stroking his cheekbones with your thumbs. The scratches and gashes had already healed. "I'm sure, Mammon. I've wanted this for… a while now. If you're having second thoughts…"

"No." It was a growl; but he almost immediately became a little embarassed by it. He ran his hands up your back and fiddled with the clasp of your bra. "No. I'm not havin' second thoughts. I'd be stupid if I did."

You pulled your shirt off when he had managed to unhook your bra, tossing both items somewhere on the floor. You then reached for him again, smattering kisses all over his face. You felt his skin grow hotter under the affection, felt him press as close as he could in the position he was in. "Pants off. I feel way underdressed."

He snickered, fully back to himself, and wormed out of the sweatpants, kicking them off on the floor. He didn't give you time to admire him in his full glory, lit with the gentle light of your lamp, and got on his knees, dragging you into his lap.

You felt him⏤all of him⏤pressing against you, as close as a second skin, unnaturally warm and smooth. He didn't move to kiss you and instead let you thread your fingers through his hair, staring at your face with adoring eyes.

If he had been anyone else, they would have told you they loved you. What came out of his mouth as he moved in to rest his forehead on your shoulder, kissing your collarbone, was far better than any simple 'I love you'.

"My human," he breathed. He rolled his hips against you, devouring the sharp inhale you took at the sudden friction. "No one else's."

"No one else's," you agreed, a cracked moan passing your lips when he rolled against you once more, following a deep, hard rhythm that you had no doubt he would be mimicking inside you in short order. "I love you, Mammon. I really, really do."

He grunted into your shoulder, unwilling to give up the dry thrusts he was using to maintain his sanity. You felt his acknowledgement of the words in the gooseflesh rising all over his body. You smothered a loud cry into his neck when one particular upward roll of his hips had the head of his cock pressing sweetly into you. Just for an instant, and then it was gone, with him mumbling,"Shit. Up."

You lifted your hips obediently, following the urging of his hand on your hip. He slipped his free fingers into you, groaning against your breasts when you unintentionally dug your fingers into his hair and pulled him closer.

A few strokes and they were gone, leaving you nearly irate with need. You squirmed, close to reaching down and stimulating yourself, but he batted your hand away and positioned himself at your entrance.

"Gonna be a tight squeeze," he whispered against your breast,"but I doubt ya have the patience for anythin' else."

"You're not wrong," you whispered, words muffled by a moan as he finally sank inside you. It was most definitely a tight squeeze; the bare thrusts he had given you before weren't indicative of his size in the least. You gripped his shoulders, half in pain half in pleasure as you lowered yourself at your own pace, eyes watering dangerously⏤with happy tears, you noted, feeling the antsy flutter of your heart.

He rubbed your back and let out sharp exhales the more of him you took in. When you finally hit the hilt, hips flush against his, he locked his arms around you and whispered, strained,"Don't. Move. Please."

You froze in place. Listened to him breathe deep, not just because of the threat of him orgasming right then and there, but because you felt his body temperature skyrocket. Felt the bristling of his back as his wings threatened to tear through his human form. Felt heat against your cheek where his horns would be.

"Mammon?" You asked quietly, concerned. "Are you alright?"

Mammon took a few deep, calming breaths, before placing a kiss on your neck. "Yep. Just a minute. Gotta… shit, hold on."

And you were falling onto your back, Mammon pushing past what you thought you had already taken, and sitting far more deeply within you than you had expected. Your mouth popped open at the sweet burn of being stretched, turning into a moan when he pulled out and sunk back inside.

"Better," he mumbled to himself, reaching up and lacing his fingers with yours. Your fingers tightened against his as he repeated the motion, rolling his hips and teasing you relentlessly. "You alright?"

"Perfect." You locked your ankles somewhere above his tailbone and leaned up, catching him in a deep kiss. He pressed you back down, unconcerned as his weight bore down, and ran his tongue over your bottom lip. You nipped at the sore scab on his bottom lip before allowing his tongue to move past your mouth, swiping against yours almost lovingly.

Then, he began to move. Your legs clamped tight against his hips, moving with each thrust he gave you, deep and pointed and ramming against the sweet spot every time. Every rock of his hips was solid, measured, and had you to the brink of tears once more.

He broke from the kiss and buried his face in your neck, panting hard. You could already feel the pressure behind your navel building, curling into a feeling that you couldn't ignore. You managed to bury your scream in your pillow just seconds before it came, teeth boring down on the fabric as your orgasm rocked through you like an earthquake.

Mammon continued on, this time a little less controlled, chasing his own release as you rode out yours, chanting your name desperately. You felt yourself clamp down on him, arousal building once more at the desperation in his voice, and just as he reached his peak, you heard the whoosh of wings, felt the swelling inside you reach a head, and teeth sink down into your shoulder.

He came hard, slamming himself back inside you with one final thrust, every muscle in his body as tight as a strung wire. His hands tightened against yours with enough force that you almost were sure he would break your fingers in half.

All at once, he relaxed against you, wings stretched pleasantly into the air. You giggled tiredly and touched one, startled when he twitched inside you.

Mammon leaned back and pushed up onto his hands, meeting your amused gaze with an almost horrified and bewildered look. "I couldn't stop it."

"I know." You laughed and slung an arm around his neck, dragging him down into a sloppy kiss. "You bit me, though."

"Yeah." He sounded sheepish now, but you detected a smug undercurrent as he reached up and traced the brand new mark on your shoulder. Take that, Lucifer. You'd notice it in the morning and, hopefully, not beat him into next week for it. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Mm. It's fine." You sighed when he pulled out of you and tugged his sweatpants back on. His wings and horns vanished like they had never been there. "What are you doing?"

"I was goin' back to my room." Mammon blinked at you as if it was obvious. "Why?"

"I wanted you to stay." You rolled over and patted the open spot beside you. "Just for tonight, if you're uncomfortable with that⏤"

"Hell no, move over for the great Mammon!"

fin.

#mammon #obey me x reader #obey me #obey me mammon x reader #obey me mammon #swd mammon #mammon x mc #mammon x reader

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 3 years

Note

I loved your GuardianCorp from forever ago of Lena dealing with chronic pain post-poisoning. So maybe something of her still dealing with that when Lex comes back with a possible hint of GuardianCorp? You’re the reason I started realizing they could be a good ship ❤️ if only you wrote the show instead ://

James screeched to a stop outside Lena’s building, his heart in his throat. He’d done this before, once upon a time, and found Lena curled in agony on her bathroom floor. Now, after a garbled voicemail from Lena, he refused to consider what he might find now. Charging into the elevator, James jabbed the button for Lena’s penthouse, then pressed the doors closed before anyone else could join him. As the car rose, James called Lena again on his cell-- again, the line went straight to voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached--”

“Come on, come on, come on!”

The doors finally opened, and James used his key to let himself in the front door, bracing himself for the chaos his mind had conjured for him. But instead of a ransacking, he found Lena’s apartment in perfect order, immaculate as ever. He found no pools of blood, no food left untouched on the kitchen counter. The only thing missing was Lena herself.

“Lena?” His voice seemed to echo with how empty the place was.

Moving towards the bedroom, he found it even darker than the living room, with the blinds and curtains both shut tight against the light. Blindly, he reached for the light switch. When the overhead light blazed on, a lumpy shape on the bed constricted with a pitiful whimper. He flipped it off again in an instant, plunging the room back into shadows.

Moving to Lena’s bedside, he saw first a shock of dark hair against the pillow, then Lena’s eyes scrunched tight with pain. He knelt, careful not to jostle the mattress.

“Hey,” he said softly, combing the hair from her face.

Lena pried her eyes open to the narrowest slivers, her features clouding with bleary confusion. “James?”

“I got your message.”

Her brow furrowed in consternation. “Shouldn’t have come…”

The words slurred together, and James slowly put the pieces together. “Migraine?”

Lena was prone to them, for as long as he’s known her, and James had helped her through a few already. This one, however, seemed worse than anything he’d seen before. But Lena shut her eyes. “Lex…”

James’ blood chilled.

Lex Luthor may present himself as the world’s best hero, but Lena had shared enough for James to know the danger that lurks beneath the congenial smiles and grand promises-- a danger that seemed to focus itself entirely on Lena.

“What did he do? Lena--”

“Metha-- methahexital…”

James cursed inwardly. He didn’t recognize the name, but he knew a drug when he heard it, and knew better than to believe Lex was above drugging his own sister. There was a reason Lena refused to meet with Lex alone outside of LuthorCorp. James filed the knowledge away before turning his focus back to the symptoms before him. Whatever the cause, a migraine was a migraine, and a migraine he knows what to do with.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” he said finally, cupping the back of her head with a gentle hand. “Don’t move, okay? I’ve got you.”

Climbing back to his feet, James headed first to the kitchen for a glass of cool, not cold water, then to the bathroom where he dampened a washcloth with cool water. After shaking a couple of Lena’s migraine pills into his palm he returned to the bedroom with bounty in hand.

“Can you take these?” he asked softly. Lena’s eyes opened, struggling to focus. James didn’t reach for her until he noticed her trying to sit up, fighting against fatigue and dizziness until James hooked an arm around her shoulders and helped prop her up. She swallowed the pills with long gulps of water as James watched patiently; he put the cup aside when she finally relinquished it. When he offered her the cool compress, she pressed it against her eyes with both hands, another small whimper deep in her throat.

She sat like that for long minutes, until she finally lowered the compress to her squint at James through the pain and low light.

“I’m sorry I--” She cut herself off, wobbly voice shifting into a tearful sniffle. She wiped her eyes. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

In the years since they’ve been dating, James has gotten used to apologies. Lena’s gotten better about accepting help, but asking for it still tripped her up, her toes catching on the ingrained Luthor tradition of suffering in silence. Every time, Jame told her the same thing.

“You never have to apologize for calling me,” James said, “you know that.”

Lena wiped her eyes again. She didn’t respond.

“I’m here for you, babe,” he continued, pressing a kiss to her sweat damp forehead. “No matter what.”

The affection made Lena freeze, her entire body gone rigid as she stared at him. James froze as well, uncertain what he had done wrong. But before he could ask, Lena’s eyes filled with tears that quickly spilled over.

“Lena--”

James reached for her, but Lena pulled away, covering her mouth against the ragged breath of a sob. Unable to do anything else, James reached again, and this time Lena allowed him to wrap his arms around, holding her silently as she sobbed into the fabric of his shirt. When the tears faded, James helped Lena lay back down, then pressed the compress against the back of her neck while his free arm threaded between her neck and the pillow, spooning her gently the way that usually helped her feel a little less miserable. Lena’s hand curled around his wrist the way it always does, and James knows he’s done something right.

“Y’shouldn’t be so nice t’me,” Lena mumbled. James could tell the meds were beginning to kick in-- between them and the crying jag, Lena felt boneless beside him, her words slurring with imminent sleep. Even so, James grins into her hair.

“I’m not allowed to be nice to my own girlfriend? Since when is that a rule?”

Lena’s fingers tightened on his wrist, almost tight enough to hurt. When she didn’t say anything, James nuzzled into her neck, compress and all. “What is it, baby?”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The whisper came thready and breathless, as though Lena were on the verge of new tears.

“What do you mean?”

Lena sniffled wetly. “There’s two people inside me… I don’t know which one is real anymore…”

James closed his eyes, savoring every aspect of her that he had: her body, curled against his; her hair, tickling his face and neck; her fingers, wrapped around his wrist. Whatever doubts Lena had, James only had certainty: whoever Lena was, he loved her. He would spend the rest of his life with her, if he could only buck up the courage to tell her. Soon, maybe, but not today.

Today, all he said was:

“Sleep. The rest will come later. I promise.”

//prompts are closed

#guardiancorp #quarantine prompt party 2.0 #its not chronic pain #but the other one wasn't either #so it's just some more of the same #hurt comfort #tlc #this is set in the episode directly following the crisis event #this is an au where james and lena have been dating in the new reality #so lena suddenly has someone in her corner #and doesn't really know what to do with it #i love these two; i really do

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after-witch · 4 years

Text

(Horrorfest) ‘Don’t Fall Asleep’ Dream Demon Dabi x Reader

Title: Don’t Fall Asleep (Dream Demon Dabi x Reader)

Synopsis: Inspired by A Nightmare on Elm Street. ‘Whatever you do... don’t. fall. asleep.’

Word Count:

Notes: Kinda-yandere, horror, violence, implied assault

You nervously chew on your bottom lip. You hate this habit, because you think it makes you look like a ridiculous schoolgirl. It reminds you of the many pasts that you left behind, the old versions of yourself that you shed like old coats when you first started college, then again when you graduated, and once more when you moved to a new city. Always running, always on the move, at least until meeting actual friends and landing an almost fulfilling job in a city thriving with life and culture made you set down roots.

Roots which were currently threatening to wear thin, to rot and mold underneath your feet. All because of your dreams... all because of Dabi.

“(Y/N)?”

You look up, and realize your friend had stopped talking a while ago. What was she saying before? Something about her job and--

“Are you okay?” Her tone is more annoyed than concerned, but you can’t exactly blame her. You’ve been drifting off so often lately, finding it hard to focus at work, at home, and even with your closest friends.

“Sorry,” you spit out. “I’m just--” You want to tell her, but you’ve told her before, and you knew she didn’t want to hear it. Not after the bad dreams had stopped for a while and everyone went back to a nervous, egg-shell type of normality.

They were so worried about you, but you were better now, so everyone was relieved; there were no more frustrated group calls and secret group chats where you were left out of events because no one wanted you to nod off and wake up screaming in the middle of a board game session.

You sigh and play with your ponytail. “Really stressed with work,” you finish, lying through your teeth. A look at your friend makes your stomach drop. She knows you’re lying. She’s going to make you tell her everything and--

“Oh,” she says. “No worries. So anyway, like I was saying…”

Her words feel muted as she repeats whatever story she’d been telling. She knows you’re lying, you think, she knows the dreams are back and you’re terrified and alone and--she doesn’t want to hear it.

You nod occasionally while she speaks, keeping up the pretense of conversation in the hopes that it will help you stay awake.

If someone were to hack into your phone, they wouldn’t find anything very strange. Unless they wandered into your alarms and wondered why in the hell anyone needed alarms set every 30 minutes or so.

The alarms are your saving grace. You started setting them when you realized that you could get sleep.. you just had to be careful not to sleep enough to dream. Experts said it took an hour or 90 minutes to dream, but experts weren’t being chased by some terrifying monster every time their brain decided to shift into REM, so experts could stuff it.

Truthfully, you feel proud of yourself for thinking of the idea in the first place. You weren’t going to let that bastard and his dreams keep you from sleep--no, you’d get sleep and keep him from you. Ha-ha, two birds, one stone--and one infinitely wise (Y/N).

Tonight, you decided that you’re going to get a few naps in before the sun rises; you have an important meeting at work tomorrow and the naps will help you brain feel a little refreshed. You still felt foggy, but nap after nap was better than no sleep at all. So you make your bed, cozy but not too cozy, double check your alarms, double check the sound on your phone, and fluff your pillow. Your eyes close easily and it’s not long before your conscious thought slips away.

You jerk awake, sudden and harsh, to the the sound of an obnoxious unknown ringtone you’d selected solely for its ability to annoy the fuck out of you. It was a true, cobbled together shitshow of a tune that you loved to hear, because it meant another successful nap.

You check a text message on your phone, then look over at your cheap dimestore clock you’d pinned to the wall, before glancing in the mirror. Check, check, and check. Everything was normal. Your phone worked right, the clock was working, and you could see your own reflection. You weren’t dreaming.

Your stomach grumbled. You hadn’t eaten since that afternoon--catching up on late work earlier had left you frazzled and you worked right through dinnertime just to make your extended (and oh so late) deadline.

It was too late to order in, but you did have a frozen pizza somewhere in the back of the freezer. Happily, you got out of bed, pulled on your warm robe, and walked out of your bedroom into an dingy boiler room with peeling concrete walls and a roaring furnace making the floor and walls and air heavy with heat.

Wait.

Your heart pounds ferociously as you spin back, reaching helplessly for a bedroom doorknob that isn’t there. No, no no no--

“Did you have a good nap, (Y/N)? Did you get some sweet shut-eye?” The voice is taunting and cruel and absolutely terrifying. You screw your eyes shut and repeat the mantra you’d drilled into your head: “I am dreaming. I recognize that I am dreaming. And I want to wake up. I am going to wake up. I am going to--”

A voice, harsh, low, and right in your ear:

“That’s not going to work, you dumb bitch.”

The whimper that leaves your lips is unlike any noise you’ve made before. Helpless and hopeless, like an animal caught in a trap. Tears are streaming down your face as your force yourself to open your eyes, coming face to face with your tormentor. Dabi. The name and face that was etched into your memory from the first time you’d dreamt of him, years ago, when your life still felt normal and sane.

His face is partially scarred, and you cringe at the sight of bright, silver rings lining his eyes and cheeks; with Dabi this close, they practically glinted.

“IwantowakeupIwantowakeupIwanttowakeup--”

His hands are suddenly on you, harsh and hot and burning you as he shoves you against the wall. Your back collides with the concrete and you cry out at the searing pain that shoots through your legs.

“You’re not going to wake up. At least not for a while.” His grin is practically feral as he brings up one of his scarred hands to your cheeks, stroking it with a deceptive gentleness. “You’ve been asleep since this afternoon. Poor little (Y/N) fell asleep at her desk…”

You shake your head rapidly. “No--no, I set my alarms, I’ve been up, I, I--”

The slap to your face is sharp, light, and humiliating. “I-I-I,” he says, mocking and cruel. “Nah, sweetheart. I tricked you good though, didn’t I? Let you think you actually got something done for once, let you think you weren’t a total fucking failure.”

He leans in close, practically whispering; his breath is acrid, like smoke, and his entire presence radiates an uncomfortable heat. “Can’t say I’m going to be as nice later on, though…”

You jerk your shoulders, a pitiful struggle makes him smile for a moment, but when you don’t stop trying to get out of his grip he pulls you forward and slams you back into the wall. Instead of hitting heavy concrete you feel yourself falling, falling--then landing with a surprising bounce on something soft.

You look to the side and see you’re on a mattress. Dabi is above you, both arms pinning your shoulders down with a firm force. He leans in close, as if to kiss you. Your entire being lurches at the thought.

“No!” You say, kicking your legs. “Get--get off, don’t--”

Dabi chuckles and pulls his face back. “Don’t worry, I’m not that fast. You’re not here for that, yet.”

You stare up at him. Your body feels numb, tingling in fear. You finally manage to whisper out: “Then what do you want?”

He tilts his head slightly before his eyes roam up and down your prone form. His gaze lands on your chest. His hands press on your shoulders and you can feel stinging, like running your hands under hot water in the kitchen sink.

“We’re going to play first.”

You wake up at your desk, your real desk, your real home. Your entire body aches as you force yourself to move, to jump around, wave your arms, as the tears blur your vision nearly entirely. You do your checks but realize it could be another trick, it could be--but Dabi would never have let you go, not at the moment when you finally pulled yourself out of the dream.

Suddenly, the elation at being awake, at being free, at being alive turns into searing pain; your chest hurts, it hurts so bad. You pull your shirt down--and scream.

You think, faintly, vaguely, wildly, as you call for an ambulance: well, at least they’re second-degree burns. I can still feel the pain.

You turn off the cold shower tap, trembling and shivering in the frigid air. They were brutal and sometimes painful, but they kept you awake, and that’s all that mattered. You quickly dry yourself off and slip into a thin nightgown before grabbing your toothbrush.

The bathroom mirror has never been a more unwelcome sight, but you force yourself to stare into it, to stare into your own, tired eyes. You look sick. You look older. You’re so sleep deprived that you honestly, truly think you might die from it.

But you know that won’t happen, not really--because Dabi would certainly kill you before the sleep deprivation could. And his version of your death would not be nearly as merciful. If he would even kill you at all. Could you keep you forever, dead or alive, but dreaming all the same?

The thick burn scar running across your chest aches as you considered it.

You grab another handful of caffeine pills and swallow them, hard and bitter, chasing them with a chug from your lukewarm energy drink. God willing, you won’t sleep… at least not tonight.

#horror #horror writing #dabi #bnha #yandere #a nightmare on elm street #afterwitch writes #horrorfest #yandere dabi

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