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#i don’t think so and isn’t that what makes it a tragedy?

comradekatara · 2 days

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i don’t normally do this here, but i’m answering this ask anonymously to respect op’s wishes. it’s a very interesting question!

i think the tragedy of yun is fascinating because in many ways it explores the central tension of korra’s arc, but then also magnifies it by revealing that this aspect of his identity which he assumed ontologically elevated him is actually a lie. he’s literally just some guy.

korra grapples with what it means to define her humanity and her agency beyond the box into which she is forced due to her status, but at least she has the luxury of actually being as powerful as everyone assumes her to be. and obviously, this can only really be considered a luxury when compared to yun, because he is cruelly and ruthlessly dismissed and dehumanized once no longer deemed “special.”

he serves no value to the world, to jianzhu’s ends, if he is not the avatar, and so his tragedy lies in the fact that if he cannot live as a fraud, he must be disposed of. he was never simply treated as a human being, because his father figure only actually cared about him as a means to an end, and his friend kyoshi is also the reason he has been so suddenly and violently stripped of value.

there’s this idea that yun seeks revenge because he feels entitled to power and deserving of his status, that he feels that kyoshi was better as his demure servant, and that for kyoshi to be the avatar he always believed himself to be is a perversion of the order he feels owed.

but of course he feels entitled to that power. he was groomed since childhood to be the avatar, and his alternative to that power is living on the street an orphaned child making money off of performing pai sho tricks. and it’s not that he simply basked in this power; no, he took this responsibility very seriously. he was jianzhu’s perfect protege, and so he tied his identity to being the avatar to the point that he had nothing left to give beyond that role.

just because he’s in the wrong doesn’t mean that his pain isn’t understandable, imo. like, just put yourself in his shoes. everything he ever thought he knew was revealed to be a lie, and he was left for dead in a matter of seconds. no one gave him a reason to pause, to consider an alternative. even kyoshi simply told him to let go of his pain, which of course would be an infuriating piece of advice to hear from the person who “won.” even if it’s not her intention, by telling him, essentially, to “get over it,” to simply move on from this existentially significant, defining injustice, she does sound like she’s gloating.

no one ever bothered to put themselves in his shoes, no one ever offered him true empathy. i don’t believe that yun was an entitled brat. i think that, like korra, he was someone who was depersonalized in his role, his image so heavily controlled by outside forces that he lost any sense of identity beyond that role, and was discarded once he could no longer perform it.

to swallow an eye — to reclaim the violence of that dehumanizing gaze, but also to consume it, to internalize it, to project it outwards — was always his fate. so no, i don’t think that there was any way to save him. he was marked for death the moment he was first misidentified as the avatar. his demise was inevitable, because it was born of human error; no one learns anything from their predecessors’ mistakes, they simply repeat the cycle. like all true tragedies, his destiny was fixed for him from the very beginning.

#asks #analysis #yun #kyoshi novels #korra #jianzhu #kyoshi #yun is so good actually…… like tell me u would have ‘let go of ur pain’ and simply risen above #lmfao! i think not

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birdbraintoh · 2 years

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Oh my god okay so we all remember this part of Hollow Mind, right?

This obviously means that the rest of the grimwalkers, while maybe sharing traits with Caleb, didn’t look as identical to him as Hunter does.

Now I’m no biologist but I have a basic understanding of punnet squares. Our phenotypes are more or less randomly selected during fertilization and they’re passed from parents to kid. And if you have the same parents as your siblings, then you’re more likely to look like them or share traits with them. The only reason you have different traits is because there are so many to choose from and hey, you have brown hair and your sibling has blonde. That’s just how it turned out but you still carry the genes for blonde hair (not a perfect example but we’re also talking about a magical world so whatever)

What if one day Belos was making a new grimwalker. It’s no big deal; He’s done this about a dozen times now. Every single one is looking less and less like him, and Belos is getting increasingly frustrated. He keeps them around because, well, Caleb only had 206 bones and he can only make so many grimwalkers. Might as well manipulate the ones you have, right?

Belos completes the ritual and he stands at the head of the grave as the grimwalker sits up straight from the dirt.

And it’s the striking image of teenage Philip.

He kills that one quickly and doesn’t make another for a while. (Tags)

#why did you kill that one Philip?#is it a reminder that you were not your brothers keeper?#but also just the symbolism of the life you share with your siblings #because you are raised in (mostly) the same environment and more or less share the same trauma and experiences #yet you so often turn out so differently #but there’s still a string that ties you to your beginnings and your past together #and you could have easily switched places #and if Philip could have just as easily taken the path that Caleb had taken #then maybe his mission or he himself is not as pure and holy as he thought #he takes about five business days to think on that one #will I ever stop thinking about the wittebanes? no #sibling storylines just get me #especially when they’re tragic #because if Philip and Caleb had switched places #would Caleb have killed Philip?#i don’t think so and isn’t that what makes it a tragedy?#anyways #the owl house #toh #toh spoilers #wittebanes

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visenyaism · 2 months

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correct me if i’m wrong cos i don’t watch dune.. but i’ve seen people call paul a tragic character. except isn’t he a whole white coloniser tricking indigenous poc into believing he’s a prophet to serve his own interests? that’s inherently evil that cannot be a tragic character imo

so yes that is correct that is what happens. the tragedy is that he is a sixteen year old boy who gets a vision of this happening and he is TERRIFIED and absolutely does not want this to happen at all. He does not want the holy war he does not want to be the chosen one he initially very much wants to fight alongside the fremen as equals trying to liberate themselves from their current colonizer without becoming the messiah because they have common political cause.

And then the entire second half of the first book (and the second movie) are about the concessions he makes to himself bit by bit by bit (well it’s the only way to save his mom and sister. well it’s the only way to prevent nuclear war. well he does want his revenge. well maybe he IS special.) Until by the end he has lost 100% of his humanity, fully wants to be the messiah and is willing to manipulate people into thinking so, and has declared himself duke of arrakis in his father’s name and made a play for the imperial throne.

you’re right that it’s evil. the book and these movies agree with you. the tragedy is watching a child who desperately wanted to avoid this slowly completely lose himself to it anyways. i don’t think “tragic” and “evil” are inherently mutually exclusive.

#so dune is thematically complicated. because it IS very much anti white savior and anti colonial.#but the author white american weirdo that he is is still throwing a lot of orientalism out while communicating those themes #dune

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gay-dorito-dust · 20 days

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How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

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baeshijima · 8 months

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— “hands off! i’m taken!”

for the first time in your drunken daze, you don't recognise your own husband.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 983 wc, fluff, (attempts at) humour, mentions/reference of alcohol consumption

A/N : neuvillette is in pain (emotional) while you are in pain the morning after (literal).

it’s not often neuvillette finds free time amongst the seemingly endless piles of papers on his desk. when he does get some free-time, he always makes sure to treat you out to the places you most recently show interest in. however, these evenings out more often than not result in you having one too many drinks. (“it’s a rare evening date!” you would tut, waving a finger at him while your free hand holds the wine glass.)

he worries for you and your health after all, and he most definitely doesn't want you to experience these so-called "hangovers" you bemoan about as he coddles you through it all the mornings after.

and so what better way to help prevent such a tragedy than by putting a stop to it prematurely?

“hands off! i’m taken!”

…or so he thought.

regardless, that doesn’t change the fact neuvillette now stands in the middle of one of the (now quite humid) private rooms in the upper floor of hotel debord, clutching his stinging hand close to his chest while staring at your huffing form in a mixture of hurt and shock. he blinks once, twice, thrice as he slowly begins to process your words — or, lack of.

“pardon?”

“i said,” you stress, narrowing your gaze at him as you begin to sit up, “hands off! i’ll have you know i’m happily married to the loveliest, most beautifulest man in teyvat and i don’t need some… some meddlesome old creep trying to get in between that.”

were this quite literally any other day besides one you were drunk on, neuvillette would be jumping for joy over the moon (metaphorical… probably) and documenting this moment in his diary he keeps safe and secured in a locked drawer under his desk, positively cooing and sighing in pure adoration at your adorable self.

(he also doesn’t have the heart to tell you beautifulest isn’t exactly a real word, but he’s flattered all the same. and it makes you that much more adorable in his eyes.)

alas, this isn’t any other day. no, instead it is a day which marks his drunk spouse being unable to identify their own husband, and your intoxicated words render him silent.

now, don’t get him wrong, he’s glad you are, for a lack of better words, raring to defend your marital status and honour when intoxicated. however…

‘meddlesome old creep’? is that how he appears? he thought he looked quite dashing this evening, what with the way you sang his praises after he got himself dressed and questioned if you were actually married to one another.

then again, he supposes it’s still accurate to say you’re still questioning whether or not he is your husband. just not in the joking manner you initially did.

seeing how you’ve begun to grow a little restless with his prolonged silence, neuvillette awkwardly clears his throat and begins in what he hopes is a tone which masks the minor betrayal your words caused. “i’m glad you feel that way about our marriage, mon cœur, but—”

“stop!” neuvillette’s mouth instantly ceases movement. “how… how dare you, a stranger, call me that! just who… who do you think you are? my husband?”

“actually, i am.”

you blink at him. “you’re what?”

“i am your husband. neuvillette.” in all honesty, he doesn’t know why he’s nervous. perhaps it’s your scrutinising gaze causing him to sweat, taking him back to the first days when he could finally put a name to the emotions you brought out from within him — ones which have never weakened, but only seem to grow stronger as the days pass by. his hands clam up, and he’s glad you can’t see him wiping his palms against the fabric of his clothes from where you sit. even when you’re drunk, you tend to remember the most random moments. more often than not, they end up being in some relation to him.

(neuvillette laments the times where you only remembered his brief loss of composure.)

after a few more agonising seconds of staring, you speak up once more. “you’re lying.”

there are many things neuvillette wishes to say in response — such as showing your wedding rings, pulling out the small polaroid of you both nestled within his inner coat pocket, recalling the first day you met, the first day you talked, the first “thank you” you ever said to him, the first—

quickly, he snaps himself out of this spiral. just in the nick of time too, for you open your mouth to say something else. “my neuvillette is cute and lovely and pretty and everything a person could only dream to have.”

is he not cute right now? is he not lovely and pretty right now? is he not everything a person could only dream to have right now? what makes the him through your drunken lens so different to the him in your memories?

against his better judgement, he decides to ask the big question.

“then… may i ask what i am?”

“a liar.” and, as if to rub salt in the wound, you add, “i don’t like liars.”

neuvillette feels as though he could cry.

(when you awoke to a pounding headache the next morning, the last thing you expected was your husband brooding on the edge of the bed, his back facing you as he mumbled something along the lines of, “i would lie for you… not to you…” though it was a little hard to tell amidst the incessant pitter-patter of rain against the window.

despite racking your brain in an effort to figure out what caused him to be in such a state in the first place, the only things you remembered from last night were him wiping his hands on his clothes, as well as him looking as though someone slapped him across the face.

yeah. perhaps it is best you don’t tell him that.)

mon cœur = my heart, which can be read as my sweetheart/other half/life, etc.

if you enjoyed this, then reblogs with/or comments are greatly appreciated !! <33

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lets-go-hurt-someone · 2 months

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I call myself an Astarion simp and make fun of myself for loving the dumb sexy pixel man but to be honest, I’m like 30 years old and I just never expected to see my experiences not only reflected in media, but handled so delicately and compassionately.

I spent a lot of time “healing” from my past through hypersexuality. I knew it was hypersexuality. I used to tell myself, “What happened can’t be sad or important if you do it a hundred more times.” Like somehow if it was my choice x many times then the time it wasn’t can’t possibly matter anymore. Logical, right? It’s just statistics.

And then the journey of fucking your way to a semblance of mental safety just becomes a joke. It’s edgy and funny. I was doing exactly what Astarion does — if I fuck them, they might like me. And if fucking them is easier than not, I might as well, because I’ve done it so many times before anyway. I’m so good at it I’ve fucked people using the lamest lines you can imagine — wanna hear? I promise it’s hilarious.

And he’s not a perfect sweet victim or a funny edgy free love sex pest. It’s not played as a damsel in distress or a punchline. He’s just hurting and learning and when he realises the hypersexuality isn’t serving him… you can tell him it’s okay and you still like him for who he is.

I don’t know if I can really articulate what it means to me to see a background like Astarion’s being portrayed honestly and not as a sexy funny trauma thing or just straight up tragedy porn.

It genuinely made me feel like maybe I’m not alone, and think maybe other people out there also might just… understand. Not pity me, or laugh when I tell them to, but just… get it.

I’m still kind of processing it to be honest. Maybe that’s why I’ve played this stupid game like 5 times in two months.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #tw: sa #astarion ancunin

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eelhound · 5 months

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"I think Homer outwits most writers who have written on the War [fantasy archetype], by not taking sides.

The Trojan war is not and you cannot make it be the War of Good vs. Evil. It’s just a war, a wasteful, useless, needless, stupid, protracted, cruel mess full of individual acts of courage, cowardice, nobility, betrayal, limb-hacking-off, and disembowelment. Homer was a Greek and might have been partial to the Greek side, but he had a sense of justice or balance that seems characteristically Greek — maybe his people learned a good deal of it from him? His impartiality is far from dispassionate; the story is a torrent of passionate actions, generous, despicable, magnificent, trivial. But it is unprejudiced. It isn’t Satan vs. Angels. It isn’t Holy Warriors vs. Infidels. It isn’t hobbits vs. orcs. It’s just people vs. people.

Of course you can take sides, and almost everybody does. I try not to, but it’s no use; I just like the Trojans better than the Greeks. But Homer truly doesn’t take sides, and so he permits the story to be tragic. By tragedy, mind and soul are grieved, enlarged, and exalted.

Whether war itself can rise to tragedy, can enlarge and exalt the soul, I leave to those who have been more immediately part of a war than I have. I think some believe that it can, and might say that the opportunity for heroism and tragedy justifies war. I don’t know; all I know is what a poem about a war can do. In any case, war is something human beings do and show no signs of stopping doing, and so it may be less important to condemn it or to justify it than to be able to perceive it as tragic.

But once you take sides, you have lost that ability.

Is it our dominant religion that makes us want war to be between the good guys and the bad guys?

In the War of Good vs. Evil there can be divine or supernal justice but not human tragedy. It is by definition, technically, comic (as in The Divine Comedy): the good guys win. It has a happy ending. If the bad guys beat the good guys, unhappy ending, that’s mere reversal, flip side of the same coin. The author is not impartial. Dystopia is not tragedy.

Milton, a Christian, had to take sides, and couldn’t avoid comedy. He could approach tragedy only by making Evil, in the person of Lucifer, grand, heroic, and even sympathetic — which is faking it. He faked it very well.

Maybe it’s not only Christian habits of thought but the difficulty we all have in growing up that makes us insist justice must favor the good.

After all, 'Let the best man win' doesn’t mean the good man will win. It means, 'This will be a fair fight, no prejudice, no interference — so the best fighter will win it.' If the treacherous bully fairly defeats the nice guy, the treacherous bully is declared champion. This is justice. But it’s the kind of justice that children can’t bear. They rage against it. It’s not fair!

But if children never learn to bear it, they can’t go on to learn that a victory or a defeat in battle, or in any competition other than a purely moral one (whatever that might be), has nothing to do with who is morally better.

Might does not make right — right?

Therefore right does not make might. Right?

But we want it to. 'My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.'

If we insist that in the real world the ultimate victor must be the good guy, we’ve sacrificed right to might. (That’s what History does after most wars, when it applauds the victors for their superior virtue as well as their superior firepower.) If we falsify the terms of the competition, handicapping it, so that the good guys may lose the battle but always win the war, we’ve left the real world, we’re in fantasy land — wishful thinking country.

Homer didn’t do wishful thinking.

Homer’s Achilles is a disobedient officer, a sulky, self-pitying teenager who gets his nose out of joint and won’t fight for his own side. A sign that Achilles might grow up someday, if given time, is his love for his friend Patroclus. But his big snit is over a girl he was given to rape but has to give back to his superior officer, which to me rather dims the love story. To me Achilles is not a good guy. But he is a good warrior, a great fighter — even better than the Trojan prime warrior, Hector. Hector is a good guy on any terms — kind husband, kind father, responsible on all counts — a mensch. But right does not make might. Achilles kills him.

The famous Helen plays a quite small part in The Iliad. Because I know that she’ll come through the whole war with not a hair in her blond blow-dry out of place, I see her as opportunistic, immoral, emotionally about as deep as a cookie sheet. But if I believed that the good guys win, that the reward goes to the virtuous, I’d have to see her as an innocent beauty wronged by Fate and saved by the Greeks.

And people do see her that way. Homer lets us each make our own Helen; and so she is immortal.

I don’t know if such nobility of mind (in the sense of the impartial 'noble' gases) is possible to a modern writer of fantasy. Since we have worked so hard to separate History from Fiction, our fantasies are dire warnings, or mere nightmares, or else they are wish fulfillments."

- Ursula K. Le Guin, from No Time to Spare, 2013.

#ursula k. le guin #homer #quote #quotations #the iliad #trojan war #storytelling #fantasy #fiction writing #war #conflict #tragedy #john milton #paradise lost #greek mythology

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ghouljams · 6 months

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More Viking!Soap because I couldn't think of anything to beat knight!Ghost with and I need something to be cathartic no matter how small that catharsis is.

It takes another day to reach the coast. The waves beat against the cliffside, Mactavish’s hand is tight around yours as he helps you down the rocky path. Your feet ache, and you do your best not to stumble. His hands grip your hips, lifting you up off a rock he’d jumped down from. As easy as moving a child. You’re set back on uneven ground and he doesn’t look at you. Singularly focused, you think to yourself.

You understand why. Down at the beach you can see men, fire, a long ship with a curling bow. You grip Mactavish’s hand tighter, a small comfort you cease as soon as you start. He doesn’t comment on it, except to squeeze your hand quickly in return.

“I should have asked earlier,” He mumbles, “you’re a healer, right?”

You feel your heart tumble into your stomach. That’s right, you’re only alive because you’re useful. Only brought along because he had no other options after your village was burned.

“I’m still learning,” You tell him quietly. He lets out a breath, nods shortly.

“Know more than the rest of ‘em, I’d bet.” He assures you with a smile. “Say yes the next time someone asks, you’ll live longer.”

It’s not a threat, not from him at least, but it’s a guarantee. Healers live longer, and you have nothing else to your name to defend yourself with. He certainly isn’t going to defend you. You think it might be a chill from the sea air that makes you shiver.

Mactavish walks in front of you down the beach. He keeps hold of your hand, as if you had somewhere to run to, and keeps you behind him as he approaches the other vikings. You peak around him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen men so big as them. The furs and paint on their faces denote their trade as easily as their braided hair and combed beards. Walking behind Mactavish you can see the tiny braids that wind through his hair as well, the small shiny beads and clips of metal hidden within the woody brown.

One of the men near the edge of camp spots you both and makes his way towards your companion. Your hand is dropped to clap into the waiting palm of the other viking, who embraces Mactavish with a smile.

“What took you? Thought we’d have to send out a search,” The man laughs. He feels friendly but his eyes, a warm russet against his dark skin, sharpen when they touch you. “Just the one?” He asks, “Thought there’d be more willing to work.” Your shoulders stiffen, your arms close against your sides. Danish, you think, maybe. You know it well enough to keep your mouth shut. Mactavish glances at you.

“They were burning by the time I got there,” He says quietly, the danish feels so foreign on his tongue after hearing him speak gaelic. It breaks your heart anew to hear your tragedy described so callously. It helps seeing the other man’s eyes soften. “Tell Ghost not to scare ‘er, had enough of that for a lifetime,” Mactavish finishes, and you feel something squeeze in your stomach. The other viking nods.

“Happy to have a healer aboard again,” The viking tells you, his accent is pretty decent, the gaelic smooth on his tongue. “She’s pretty,” He mumbles to Mactavish, switching back to danish as quick as could be.

“Leave it,” Mactavish warns, his teeth bared with a flash of white. You tune him out, translating is making you tired, and look around camp. The fire is roaring, and men stare at you with open curiosity. Their interest makes your skin crawl. So many men, unfamiliar men, with the same propensity for violence as all vikings. You can’t think of a deeper abyss to throw yourself into, more bears to surround yourself with. “You alright?” Mactavish asks you, the gaelic snapping you from your thoughts.

“What do you care?” You snap at him, trying to keep your barbs sharp in the hopes others will see your bite. Maybe it will keep you safe. Mactavish’s eyes slide from yours, looking at the other men in camp.

“They won’t hurt you,” He tells you. What does he know? Men never think their peers are capable of the things women warn each other about. You say nothing, and after a moment Mactavish moves. Out of the corner of your eye you see him unfasten the pin holding together the fur around his neck. He’s quick to wrap it around your shoulders, hardly bothered you haven’t tilted your chin for him as he fastens it to your earasaid. “Gods if I ever have the time,” He mumbles to himself, his fingers toying with the pin. You get the feeling he’s not used to his gaelic being understood.

“You’ll what?” You challenge, eyes still fixed on the camp. His fingers hold your chin, dragging your attention back to him. It’s a gentle movement, but you tense at his touch. He’s quick to release you.

“Court you properly,” Mactavish clears his throat, fingers fixing the fur into place, “but this’ll do for now. You have my word-” his eyes are more serious when you meet them, “-no one will touch you.”

Sure, you tug yourself from his grip, you’ll believe that when you see it.

#cod x reader #x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #soap modern warfare #soap cod #soap mw2 #viking!Soap #f!reader #x f!reader #hi Gaz good to see you're here #Soap staking his claim on little reader #yeah no one's gonna touch you darling don't worry

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amuseoffyre · 9 months

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I’m emotionally ruined by the fact that Aziraphale hasn’t broken out of his heavenly conditioning. He still loves doing good. He gets happy when people tell him he’s an angel and says “it’s nice to tell people about the good things you’ve done now that I’m not reporting to Heaven”. He will literally put himself in harm’s way to make sure he does the Good and Right thing.

It can’t be understated how much Heaven’s influence still impacts on him. Aziraphale has been created, ordained and conditioned to believe it and he can’t just switch it off or walk away. Crowley didn’t get the choice. He was Fallen. He was kicked out and - as per the rules of toxic and terrifying cults - Aziraphale was always told for centuries and millennia, Falling was the worst thing that could happen. If you’re bad, you’ll be forced out. If you’re bad, you’re not one of Us. You’re one of Them.

When he did something he perceived as Right (ie. saving innocent children from death), but knew it wasn’t what Heaven intended, he broke down. Crowley found him a crying, shaking wreck afterwards because he was so convinced he was Evil. He was so convinced he was going to be dragged to Hell and that he was now a demon because he did one thing that saved some children but because it wasn’t a specific directive, it was Bad.

It shapes so much about him and it’s why the whole series looks like he’s having so much fun doing silly human things, but there’s this brittleness to it. He’s happy and excited and he’s doing his human-life things and having a lovely time, but he’s also constantly stressed because of the Need To Do Good. From the moment Gabriel turns up, he’s a nervous wreck and is trying to hide it by Doing Good, by Solving the Problem, by Fixing Things, by being so active and reactive rather than letting himself think about it. It’s a sign of exactly how frantic he is that he starts giving away his books and letting humans touch them.

Watch his face when the Archangels show up unexpectedly: that isn’t joy. That’s blind terror. He’s so afraid of doing the wrong thing in Heaven’s eyes, even though he made the active choice to do so because it was the Right thing to do. He’s a Guardian and he will protect, but he is so very afraid of the repercussions, even now.

At the end of S1, Crowley said “they’re gearing up for the big one” so Aziraphale’s not oblivious. He knows a big one is coming. He knows something worse than the Antichrist will be on its way. And he’s trying so hard to pretend that everything is normal and fine and if he ignores all the looming bad stuff, it won’t happen. If we don’t say anything about it, nothing has to change.

But then the changes come knocking at his door holding a box and the choice is gone. He can keep trying to blinker himself to it, but then there are angels and demons in the bookshop and he’s had to use his halo and everything is falling apart.

So when he realises that he can get himself into a position where he can guarantee those repercussions won’t happen to Crowley? He will absolutely take it. He says himself “I don’t want to go back to Heaven”, but the instant the Metatron offers him a free pass for Crowley, to take Crowley out of both Heaven and Hell’s sightlines, to keep him safe (Another bee inside the hive, if you will), no wonder he grabs it with both hands.

The tragedy is that Crowley thinks that when they saved the world together, that was the end of Heaven’s influence in Aziraphale. When he was cast out the split between him and Heaven was sharp and clean. He doesn’t - he can’t - understand how deeply it has tangled around Aziraphale. It’s built into Aziraphale’s entire being and unravelling it isn’t that simple. Aziraphale’s trauma is a horrible, terrible Gordian knot and Crowley can’t understand that he couldn’t simply cut through it, because that’s just not how Aziraphale works.

#good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #good omens #good omens spoilers #gos2 #go s2

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mandalhoerian · 1 year

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moth to a flame | leon kennedy x reader

pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Break-ups are never easy. Thankfully, you've been preparing for yours for a long time. Leon doesn't let this revelation go for reasons you cannot fathom when he's the one who wants to leave.

word count: 9K

warnings: angst, smut, thigh riding, p in v, kinda body worship, switch leon, he subs for like a moment and goes this better not awaken anything in me

notes: i winged this please don't judge me. also, "plot"-wise, this is an extension of my leon love language post. header template can be found here. enjoy the filth

🌀 read on ao3!

📍 continue to the BAD ENDING!

📍 continue to the GOOD ENDING!

In hindsight, you’ve seen this coming. Your face barely moves at your on and off situationship of two years forcing out, “I think we should break this off.”

So faint and unsure it’s barely above a whisper.

He looks so uncomfortable hunching over, forearms resting on the countertop, breakfast untouched, as if trying to make himself smaller than you, it’s absurd considering the nerves of steel you envy him for, and sure, he’s adorably awkward sometimes for a man of his looks, but not like this. Never vulnerable like this.

The kitchen is gloomy despite the bright winter sun seeping through the windows, almost suffocating because of his uncharacteristically transparent malaise. Leon isn’t one to openly squirm, and in turn, it’s making you all the more nervous — nothing about this is fair when you were thinking you got all the practice needed from imaginary scenarios and possibilities on all the directions the eventual separation would go.

He can’t look at you, shaking his head nervously, choked by the silence. “Say something.”

How funny it is that he’s the most fit man you’ve ever known, could lift you with one arm without breaking a sweat— one bicep literally the size of your head, yet looks like he’d cry if someone touched him right now. It’s a hard to swallow, unreal pill that you’re the one doing this to Leon, making him weak like this.

You’ve never known you had that kind of power over him until now, how he says he wants to break up but would throw up if you actually say yes.

You shift in your seat, the wood of the chair suddenly digs sharply into your skin with how hyperaware your body is of all the surroundings to deviate your attention from Leon, folding your hands on your lap.

The answer is at the tip of your tongue, it was stashed away there months ago. Of course you’ll let him go.

What makes it easier for you is having consented to how absent and private he warned half the things involving him was going to be, or it’s that you knew from the start your time with him would be limited. You just don’t question it; completely skipping the first four stages of grief and jumping readily to acceptance.

The lamb knew it would be slaughtered by the nurturing, kind humans, and yet it still got attached to them; Homer straight up told the readers how the story would end right at the start of Iliad, yet the fall of Patroclus and the rage of Achilles burned the same, if not worse — you knew Leon would inevitably fall apart and run away one day, yet chose to cherish your limited time with him all the same.

It can’t be called a tragedy if you agreed to how it would end in the first place.

Leon Kennedy is ephemeral in his nature, daydream-present and lucid-absent in your life all at once. You thought of him as an outdoors cat, never really yours in the first place, randomly shows up whenever he wants to, reluctantly leaves out of nowhere — a flighty, mysterious companion who’s happy and eager to be there but withdrawn when poked and prodded.

You accept him as such, love him all the same.

You’re not sure if he loves you just as much.

Fondness and like is there, enough for him to have stuck around for this long, but you figure it’s because you’re safe and constant. You’re happy to have provided him with at least that because you’re not sure what he saw in you, to be honest.

What’s happening is painless enough to go through exactly because of this, you hadn’t let yourself get too attached to Leon knowing he isn’t into you as much as you are into him. Maybe you are deluding yourself, maybe you are numb and not as apathetic like you thought you are, but you’re convinced this is how it should go — how it’s meant to go. What’s the point when you’re aware your name won’t be at the top of his list?

The insecurity surely is a small part of the ‘Leon Kennedy Breakup First-Aid Package’ you’ve been cultivating over time in preparation to cushion your own fall when the time would naturally come, but it doesn’t cover the shape Leon is in that even when he’s the one breaking your heart, he looks like he’s shouldering the pain you’re going through on top of his.

This is why you can’t ever be mad at him. You wanted to be with him knowing the way he is, after all.

Leon is a mess despite trying not to show it, his messy straw-blond hair doesn’t shine like it usually does, he hasn’t conditioned it, the golden sheen to it wilted almost. His bloodshot, red rimmed eyes are dim in their blue, laser-focused on the black coffee mug he’s tightly gripping, the skin underneath his lower lashes spread out in faded pink-purple half-rings and it only ever happens when he hasn’t gotten enough sleep in more than a couple days’ time whenever he has to be away for an unprecedented amount of time, or gets buried too long in his paperwork. His thumbs are wiping at the place he puts his lips on and have a sip at the contents of it you’ve seen he fed some liquor to a few minutes prior. He’s awfully domestic in his black sweater and pants, not at all looking like he just asked for a breakup.

You take pity on him.

“I see. Alright.”

His head shoots up, eyes immediately finding yours, no longer blank. He doesn’t seem sure if he heard you right, expression disbelieving. “What?”

“How do you want to do this?” Mirroring Leon’s anxious movements, your own fingers trace the rim of your own teacup. “You could start gathering your things today, but if you want to call it a day, I don’t mind—”

“No—wait—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying okay, Leon.”

He winces at the name, gaze escaping from you again momentarily and he has to blink, the lack of your usual pet name for him must have hurt him, you presume. He has to swallow before talking. “This is it?”

You’re not sure if it’s directed at the end of your relationship or you letting him off easy. “I don’t understand. What else was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know, I just—”

This isn’t being hopeful, but you ask anyway. “What did you want me to say?”

He sighs in return, tearing away his gaze and hiding it with a hand that wipes at his forehead.

Yeah, it isn’t your hopes that were crushed. You adamantly tell yourself it isn’t. He’s being nice as he always is, of course he’d question how agreeable you’re being, it’s not like his resolve is going to change. “I’m just being cooperative so we can—”

“Aren’t you angry with me?”

That was the problem?

“I’m not, Leon.”

“How can you not be?”

“Well, I…” It’s because you love him, but bringing this up would only make it harder. “I’m not sure. You’ve been that good to me along the way, I guess. I don’t resent you for anything.”

He has that subtle sarcastic look on his face you would take as mocking if you were a total stranger, but you know better. He’s being self-deprecating. You could read it. But you should, he’s thinking. You should resent me.

You don’t.

The thing with Leon is he’s too good to be true that his only flaw is being a literal ghost. A well-meaning ghost who’d send presents upon presents and work his ass off to make extra time for what he had to give up on every time your plans falls through with unexpected shit that came up from his mystery job at the White House he never talks about that has him battered and bruised each time he turns up after prolonged leaves.

Which is an oxymoron considering how attentive and absent he is at the same time. Sometimes you wondered if he’d fix his habit of being a clam about everything concerning himself after you guys were through, but imagining him becoming more open and changing for someone else hurt too much.

“Don’t you want to know why? I mean—god, why are you just taking it?”

“What do you mean taking it? You’re not doing this to hurt me, look at you, Leon, when have you last slept? It’s hard on you too.”

“That really doesn’t have to do with anything right now,” he dismisses. “How are you this unaffected? I’ll take it if it’s to get back at me…”

“It’s not.” You stand up, appetite lost. You want to wrap your food up and put it in the fridge to eat later, and this way, you don’t have to look at him while saying the sentences you have rehearsed for so long. “If you want to break up, I can’t force you to stay—or into anything you don’t want to. It’s not fair for either of us. You’ll be stuck with someone who you don’t want, and I’ll have to live with the knowledge I’m with someone who doesn’t want me.”

You find him staring at you when you’re done, your hand stays wrapped around the handle of the fridge door at how tortured he is. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He shakes his head, blond strands framing his face gently swishing in the air. He does the angry eyebrow scrunch whenever he disagrees with you strongly on something you’ve said, but decides not to at the last minute, and you find yourself the tiniest bit disappointed at him not refusing he doesn’t want you. “You always— you always do this... Be angry. You have to be angry at me.”

You find refuge in the kitchen sink, washing your hands. “Stop it. I don’t want to fight, please.”

“So you are angry.”

“I’m not!” You slam the water shut a bit too forceful and you breathe for a second before turning to him. “I’m not. Angry. I’m sad, yeah. An understatement. Who wouldn’t be?”

He just says, “I’m sorry,” at that, and hates it’s the only thing he can manage to give you, it’s blatant in his face.

You take a seat at the chair directly next to him, you both need the intimacy of good communication at the moment. “But I had a lot of time to mourn, alright? It’s not that I’m taking it or being passive or whatever—”

“Mourn?”

His eyes search yours for a second, and the realization leaves him breathless, the insides of his brows raise up, making him look younger and more innocent. “You were expecting this.”

“Yeah, I mean.” Your lips press together, and you chew the insides before hopelessly shrugging, a small smile doing its best to put itself together. “Look at us. It was never going to work out in the long term. Not really. I consider two years a miracle, to be honest. I don’t know how we got this far.”

“All this time we were together.” Leon’s voice is thick, on the verge of shaking, you weren’t expecting him to take this so badly. His pupils devour all the blue from his eyes, he has never looked at you this hostile before all the hair on your arms rise up. “You were just thinking about breaking up? Have I only ever made you insecure?”

“Not all the time—it’s just—” You swallow. ““Why are you angry at me now? What did I do? You are the one breaking up with me.”

“And here you are okay with this. You’re telling me you didn’t think we’d ever work out when I—” He huffs. “I didn’t even notice a thing. You weren’t happy at all. Ever? You were uneasy all this time?”

“No, Leon, you’re not listening to me. What I expected was that you would leave one day, eventually. Because that’s how you are. That’s how your life is.” He leans back when he gets what you are alluding at, rubbing his face with a hand, refusing to look at you — but out of anger this time around. “I know you wouldn’t be able to stand being in limbo about not letting yourself go and wanting to at the same time. I know you felt bad about everything. I guess it’s just not the right time?”

You don’t say, right person and wrong time, it’s wishful thinking on your part—Leon probably doesn’t think that, someone else seems to take that crown in his heart, you know that all too well.

The muscles on his arm closest to you flexes, he must be thinking about taking your hand in his, so you remove them off the table and nestle them between your thighs. Any physical contact from him might lead to you crying in the end.

“I’m sorry I made you go through all that,” he laments. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

Your head tilts sideways. “It wasn’t about me, Leon. Suppose I sat you down and complained you weren’t open with me, you were distant. Especially when you weren’t ready for the conversation. I’ll tell you what would have happened. Two weeks of radio silence.”

“Ah, c’mon…”

“It’s not something you haven’t done before. You said it was work, but… You know. I get it.”

Leon exhales from his nose and lowers his head, broad chest puffing up with rapid breaths, his neck is getting redder by the second. You’ve never taken him for someone with an explosive anger, but it looks like that could change any second.

“I wish you wouldn’t take this to heart, I’m not saying this to hurt you when I say I knew this was always going to happen.” You’re talking like you’re trying to soothe a tiger, and he especially looks to hate it. “You can’t possibly have expected me to ignore it. And it wasn’t going to come from me either, I’m happy to be with you either way, but—”

“That’s the problem.” He has his head between his hands, like that could possibly hide him away from the conversation. “I treat you like this and you still say that.”

You wish he wouldn’t be this hard on himself.

“I signed up for this.” He tilts his head at that, accusatory, and you get more agitated in return. “I know your circumstances. You can’t help being absent most of the time, I understand. I understand more than you think.” His forearms hit the counter loudly, he looks about to spit fire any second, but you don’t let it happen. “However. It’s no way to continue a relationship, I know that too. My perspective is that it shouldn’t be guilt that comes to your mind whenever you think of me. I wish things could be different. I wish I could be a priority to you—”

Leon’s face sours, and you stop talking when you see it.

You didn’t mean for the words to hurt him as they did, explanations becoming distraught. “Look, I like you, you know this. Possibly too much. More than I should. You have to understand that’s why I’m being this amicable with you right now. Break-ups don’t always have to end in fights, sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s what’s happening right now, isn’t it?”

It doesn’t reach Leon. His gaze is faraway, defined jawline locked clenching and unclenching.

“If it makes you feel better, I was angry for a while.” His hand comes down from rubbing a circle in the middle of his brows, eyes shifting back to yours. “But it is what it is.”

“You’re not even gonna ask?” he says, defeated.

“Would you tell me anything different from what I know?”

He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a sigh, one of his legs shaking, and his head falls forward, curtains of dark blond hair covering your view of his face. For a moment, all you want is to slip your fingers into the silky strands and comb them back, take his heat away, the pads of your fingers on his smooth cheekbones, you know he’d melt into your touch straight away and his expression would lose weight of the strain he carries you can only imagine the root of most of the time, but you abstain.

He wouldn’t appreciate it on the brink of a break-up, you were about to become nothing but strangers.

That’s why it’s abrupt when he leans forward and captures your lips in an unfair, unfair kiss, the force of it makes his teeth clack against yours and you grimace, retreating to break it. His hand slips to the side of your neck to pull you back in, the drag of calluses and heat against the skin of your neck sends goosebumps all over your body, his thumb caresses your cheek in a loving way that hurts but his lips are frantic in their gentler search to open your mouth to his, and suddenly you can’t breathe from how much Leon keeps advancing.

Turning your face away to break the assertive, overwhelming liplock, you take in lungfuls of air as you look as away from him as you can, panicking at the way he presses his forehead to your temple and the way his nose nudges your burning cheek, he doesn’t budge when you attempt to push him off the second you realize you’re enjoying this. He’s built like a fucking tank. “Leon—”

“Say no if you don’t want it,” he breathes, right into your neck, the tickle is mixed with something dangerous that sears your skin along with the low rumble to his voice directly in your ear, and you have to stop yourself from squirming, a coil of incandescence binds its threads together in the depths of your stomach. “Say it and I’ll stop.” One muscular arm hooks around the back of your upper thigh and one around your waist, he quite literally snatches you off your chair and plops you down on his lap, each of your legs hang from the sides of his hips, and you yelp at how effortlessly Leon seems to arrange you to his liking.

He’s needlessly, uncharacteristically cruel. You would always want him. Leon knows this.

“You’re so—” Your breath hitches when his fingers bypass your shirt and sneak up the bare skin of your waist and his other arm readjusts you as he buries his forehead in your shoulder and you gaze at the top of his golden hair kissed by morning sunlight and take in the familiar scent of him and his shampoo. His body against yours leaves a festering sweet longing. “So unfair—you were just breaking up with me—”

He bites down at the meat of your clavicle and you draw in a short breath, the dig of his teeth sting, but he immediately soothes it with a lick and his tongue is hot, too hot. “Unfair?” he groans, you contain the shudder at the emotion he keeps at bay and at the path his blunt fingernails make above the clothing from your hips to the sides of your legs, he’s never been like this. “You already left me in your mind before this and I don’t even know exactly when.” The tip of his nose faintly traces the curve of where your neck meets the shoulder, the tickle is unbearable, aching, you wish he would have left marks instead. “You were always thinking of leaving— our time together didn’t matter to you. What do you think that makes me feel like?”

“That’s not—” You grip both of his biceps and feel the protruding veins and the flex of the muscle underneath the skin, intimidated as always by how both of your hands added together were too small to form a full hold around one. I work out a lot, was his excuse while you were first getting to know each other as acquaintances, and you’d thought how this man belonged with someone of his league. “You’re the one—”

“You dummy, I’m not leaving you because I want to.” Leon’s arms circle your waist and pulls your body flush against his in a crushing hug, his head finding home under your chin and against your chest. It’s innocent and you feel the helplessness, the desire to hold but not be seen, but you don’t know what to do in return, his words don’t quite register. “Why would I ever when I—“ He cuts himself off, breathing shaky as the rest of the sentence dies at his throat. “Jesus, I can’t believe this.”

You tentatively hold his shoulders, surprised at how taut they are. How winded he is like some wire. “I don’t understand.”

“You are just letting me leave like that. Like some business deal done and gone, you just…”

You can’t help the sound that escapes as he bites your earlobe. Why does he keep biting?

“Ow!—“ Leon starts sucking, the wet sounds and his breathing directly in your ear sending shivers down your spine, and you’ve had enough of his thought processes ending up being completed by his lips on your body.

He’s easily able to overpower you, but obeys when he feels you’re genuinely pushing him away, some strands of your hair get stuck on his face and the view of the detained obscenity of his expression —the half-closed eyes and the missing blue, the flush of his cheekbones, glistening of his pinked lips— sends a hot wave downstairs. “It’s you. You! You’re the one leaving, Leon, I don’t get it—“

Some clarity through the pinkish haze of want dawns back to him, and he gingerly combs the threads of hair away from your face, some of them behind your ear. “I don’t want to. That’s the thing. I thought it was clear as day.” Leon searches your eyes, looking down at the details of your face, your heart races as his stare gets stuck at your lips the longest, he isn’t even aware he’s doing it and you feel feverishly desired from his insatiable look, from the slow movement of his Adam’s apple. “But—“

“You can’t help it. Right?” Your thoughts are blurring together, and he’s a black hole pulling you in. “I understand—“

Leon kisses you again, and your stolen exhale turns into a pleased hum. “Stop saying that,” he whispers with inches between your lips, eyes closed, so close your breath is his.

“What do you want me to say?“

“Stay.” He takes your hand and brings it up, planting a singular kiss at the inside of your wrist, and then rests his cheek against your palm. You can only stare at the vulnerability he’s offering you on a silver platter, the tormenting softness is blinding. “Stay.”

Your heart soars. God, you’ve longed for him to give away that he wants to be with you all this time, the insecurity is a blanket you’ve hidden under, this is it, but he’s so torn and you don’t get his struggle, what he must be hiding for such a visceral reaction. He wants to, but he can’t, and you don’t know why, having accepted he wouldn’t tell you from the start anyway.

But you ask. You ask anyway. Hope is a flightless bird waiting for her wings to grow each day. “Will you?”

Something shifts, a delicate moment broken, and Leon draws back, his eyelashes flutter as if he’s shaking off some daydream — and then he’s upset, a pinch in his brow. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I can’t—“ You’re grabbed from the arms and scooted away from his lap, putting some distance between the two of you. Leon is physically pained, unable to meet your eyes. “I don’t know why I’m being like this.” He holds your hands between the two of you, and you get whiplash from the passion just mere seconds ago and the tenderness of this touch. “I can’t keep doing this to you. I don’t know why I’m this unreasonable, it’s so childish— Shit. I’m sorry, I’ll just—“

“No.” You cup his face in both hands and he looks like an abused puppy tasting kindness for the first time. “Stay for a bit.” Your heartstrings are tugged by the way Leon’s eyes are lit up. “I want to have you. One last time. Is that alright?”

A beat passes.

“Yeah,” he says, blanking out at first, but then repeats stronger, his fingers sink into the plush of your thighs as he licks his lips. “Yeah.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, somber. “You can have me however you want.”

Leon doesn’t look like he’s particularly looking forward to it. “You sure?”

“I’ll always want you, any day, any time,” he says, and you’re flabbergasted at the burden of his meaning. But you force yourself to look past it, look past the unguarded and unarmed honesty, choosing to interpret it in the language of lust.

“Not here, though.” You get up from his lap and he doesn’t stop you. “It’s kinda cramped.”

“We can make it work if you’re up for it,” he half-teases, one corner of his lips curling up, his eyes are humorless.

You snort. Easy for him to say. He’s fit, you aren’t, that’s why being on top can’t last half the time without his assistance. “You can. I certainly can’t.”

“You keep saying I can’t to me, knowing I take it as a personal challenge.” Leon’s touch moves up your forearm and in one swift move, he pulls you in between his legs. He leaves a kiss at the lower valley between your clothed breasts. “Maybe you’re doing it on purpose?”

You’re heating up right away. “I’m not—”

Leon pats his right leg, pulling up the sleeve of his shorts all the way up to the hipbone, exposing the well-endowed, firm thigh. “Sit here.”

“Your leg’s gonna get a cramp,” you say, but it’s hardly a complaint, your crotch has begun to contract at the thought of feeling the flawless skin slipping against your slick folds and how he would mold the tendons to fit just right for your pleasure. Expectation was pulling you tight right from the start where he had you hanging from his every word.

Leon’s almost offended. “It won’t.” But his encouragement is gentle. “Come on, sweet girl.” Hooking one arm between the two layers of the bands of your underwear and pants, he lets them snap back against your skin after he pulls considerably. “And you’re taking off all that.”

You let it go. Immediately. “Fuck, okay.”

It’s morning. You’re in the middle of the kitchen. And you’ve forgotten all of that, head lost in the beginnings of a dull throb between your legs. Your dignity would have been trampled on if you were too enthusiastic, so you try to take your time, and he asks, “How do you want to go about this?”

“Huh?”

His hands ride up your knee and inch up, his thumbs in the line of your inner thighs, and your first instinct is to press them together to alleviate the ache, but Leon’s forcing them apart. “You can have my tongue or fingers first. To help the friction.” You swallow when the nail of his thumb scratches the material of your panties and feels the slight dampness, and he’s watching your reactions very closely. “Or you could just sit down.”

You don’t have strength left in your knees anymore, head spinning with the way his darkened, narrowed gaze is simultaneously bearing down on and looking up at you, and Leon helps you settle your weight on his leg after sliding your underwear down your legs, the warmth of his palms on your naked hips alone is vexing enough and it’s embarrassing that he feels the particularly strong pulse of your sex.

He angles his leg up and you slide forward with the gathered moisture, arms catching onto his neck in surprise from the sudden jolt of pleasure. “Eager, are we?”

You aren’t normally bold like this, would let him keep softly teasing rather than give the same energy back, but there’s a certain finality to this time, your brain is liquid smooth from the tantalizing delight of his touch, and you don’t hold back to inform just what he does to you breathily. “Always for you.”

The movement of his leg staggers and you look up to see him caught completely off guard. And the next thing you know, Leon has you in a bruising kiss, or you think it has the strength to bruise, he hasn’t been this rough before, and you certainly haven’t been craved to this extent in your entire life before him.

This time you accept his tongue willingly into the cavern of your mouth, his fervent licks and gasps rise the question of who’s really the more eager one here, but it doesn’t really occupy space in your mind, limbs stilling overall from how he steals away all bodily functions with just kisses that radiate desperation.

Leon ushers your hips to languidly move when you fail as a multitasker all the while the swirl of your tongues continue to tangle, and it proves difficult as your slide against him becomes smoother and wetter with him finding just how to pull the hood of your mound while you’re pulling back and drag against it in the correct angle, flexing his thigh accordingly.

He pecks your jaw. “Faster?”

Skin contact goes straight to the tightening spiral in your stomach like this. “I can’t—”

“Don’t say you can’t.” He does something that has you dropping down from heights by circling his leg, and completely out of your control, small noises emerge from the back of your throat and you can’t kiss him back anymore. “Do you want it faster or not?”

You try to hum in agreement, but he catches you in the middle of it and jerks you forward, the sharp zap electrifies all your nerves and grants him a startled moan, you can barely see the satisfaction in his face from the sudden tears. You were somehow in control of the pace previously, but once he knows you want it faster, it’s him that anchors your hips to the edge of the stars, a man on a mission.

Leon begins to leave open-mouthed, wet kisses on your neck that has you tilting your head to give him more room, and you’re glad his heavy gaze isn’t drinking in your bliss-stricken expression anymore. “You hear that?” His question is thick. “Listen.”

The noises your wetness make sliding across the muscles of his thigh in a rapid speed makes some of the blood rush up to your cheeks, and the knot is stretched so agonizingly beyond the point of no return that you’re hurling towards absolution, legs beginning to shake and your whines become sweeter. “Leon,” you pant, the fever to keep going as he is conveyed in one singular word reaches him. “Leon—ah, mmh— I’m— Leon!”

“Yeah, I got you.” Adoring kisses are peppered along your jawline and your fingers clutch to his blond hair, pulling him in, your stiffened, perked up nipples are smushed in the press of his chest against yours, and you arch into him like a cat, lost in the ascending ecstasy. “Just let go.” He bites down and your sore walls clench around nothing, the pulsating increasing in intensity. You’re on a thrill ride, shooting up, up, up— “Come for me, sweet girl, come on, give it to me.”

With a sharp, choked cry, and the throw of your head back, the coil explodes and unravels, white sparkles in your vision, and Leon holds you down when your body tries to fly off with the force of your orgasm, the sinking of his hands into your sensitive flesh only heightens and sends crashing waves as he helps you ride through it, rocking lazily with you back and forth.

“Oh god,” you shiver, clinging to him, upper body basically draped across his chest as the pleasure rolls into a stinging ache of pain with the overstimulation, bones jiggly from the floaty feeling to get away yourself. “Too much. Leon. Too much.”

His voice is croaky. “Yeah, we’re not done yet.”

He stands up with his arms supporting your legs around his waist, and you hold on for dear life. It scares every single time he does this. Leon makes it look so easy to carry you around from room to room without breaking a sweat.

The full meaning of his words only get to you when you’re thrown on the bed, wind knocked out of you. “Leon, wait, aren’t you going to Spain tomorrow, don’t you have to prepare—”

“I’m preparing,” he says, putting one knee on the bed and oh god, the shine on his thigh, the drench, that was all you—- “Need to get my fill of you to last for the whole trip, yeah?”

It’s more like he’s saying, ‘To last for the rest of my life’, the hunger and melancholy makes for a Frankenstein’s monster of ravenous, unquenchable yearning when you’re right in front of him and your flame is rekindled.

More than one round with him is uncommon most times because he’s simply busy and moves around a lot, you weren’t used to the practice, build wired to exhaustion taking over when he was finally done with you, either hot, heavy and fast or sweet and intense, each time leaving you with honeyed sore bones and the best sleep following right after.

Arousal pools in the pit of your belly thinking about what comes next.

Kneeling at your feet, he taps your tight-locked knees. “Open up for me.”

It’s morning. He could see every detail of imperfection in this light and uncertainty washes over you for a second before you do as he wishes, the sheets crinkling and rustling beneath your shifting, and he gets on his stomach and puts one of your legs to his shoulder when you thought he would be entering you already.

Flustered, you get up on your elbows. “Leon, you don’t have to.”

“Didn’t think you wanted to get it over with right away.” Sliding his hand up, he fans his fingers on your tummy, thumb pulling at the skin dipping into your vulva, and looks up at you from his eyelashes. Little sparks of pleasure light up at each stroke. The weight of his arm is wonderful. “Breaking my heart over here.”

“It’s not that, I…”

He scooches up, and the knowingly feather-light kiss he leaves on the inside of your thigh, close — right there but not there, makes your leg twitch. “Oh, you wanted something else?” The teasing view of Leon inches away from where you wanted him was a sight for sore eyes, but his sudden hot breath on your post-orgasmic sopping heat broke your daze, making your hips attempt to jump up, but his arm had you absolutely pinned on the mattress. “Well?”

It’s not something you’d planned, but his wanton beauty looking up at you shoves an image inside your brain unexpectedly, reminding you how you’d said you wanted to have him, not the other way around. This is going to be the last time Leon would be like this with you, and there were so many things left unexplored. What would it feel like to have this feline-gracious, strapping man underneath you, to run your lips through his unbelievably sturdy body all over and return the kindness on how good he’s been taking care of you? Leon was always perfect to you. Is perfect. Your wish to present him with how exactly on top of the world he has you feeling for your final time, to return the favor.

Leon has stopped moving and it’s because of your lack of reaction and the long look of contemplation regarding him. You lift his hair away from his eyes. “Can you lay down on your back?”

“You wanna get on top?” he asks, but doesn’t object to it, moving up on the bed and sitting up, getting the hint on taking off his clothes, enamored, you watch his abdomen flex and limbs stretch like a cat’s as he slips his shirt off and throws it away and shimmy off his briefs. Every single movement of his is a wonder.

“No, I want to touch you,” you say, stare not knowing where to focus on him and his half-hard dick jumps at your words. “Explore you.”

He meets your eyes, pupils blown, and swallows, nodding. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I wanted to have you, remember?”

There’s a semblance of a laugh and Leon rolls on his back, one knee up and hands on his stomach, blond hair fanning around his head on the sheets. He looks like a sculpture. “And how will you have me?”

“Pleasured without thinking of pleasuring,” you explain, he’d be better at the dirty-talk in your position, perhaps say something like ‘Crying for me’, but you’re way too fascinated by him to think about what would have him helplessly turned on. “Vulnerable.”

You would be lucky if you are able to push him to the point of not even one thought behind those pretty blue eyes, but you just want to make him feel good, and with that in mind, reach a hand and trail the tips of your fingers through the prominent web of veins along his forearm, his fingers jump, and you continue through his upper arm, lingering on the sharp lines of lighter-colored small scars until you reach his shoulder, feeling the cluster of the goosebumps that rise in his skin.

“Seriously?” he says with an annoyed timbre and you see him having gone completely hard, eyebrows shooting up in shock. “You’re going this slow? Am I some package you’re unboxing?”

“You seem to be enjoying it,” you murmur in interest, and Leon sulks at how you run all five of your fingernails all the way down the lower of his belly button and how it’s hardly even a graze at all. His abs keep contracting. “I barely touched you.”

“You, haah,” he sighs at you straddling and hovering above him. “Don’t need to point that out.”

Leon tries to hold onto your thighs but you maneuver him away, and unsurprisingly, he isn’t pleased by that, groaning. “Oh we’re doing this?”

“I’m touching you. Stay still like a good boy.”

It’s your usual banter, but for some reason, he turns his face away and closes his eyes for a second, wetting his lips as if his mouth is dry. The line of his neck clenches and unclenches and you feel the brush of his dick lightly hit the inside of your leg. You’re fascinated again. He likes this more than you expected. “God, you really want to kill me.”

Leon could stop it if he wanted to. Switch it around. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before. All the times you’ve attempted to ride him and your knees and calves failed you, he ended up sitting up and hugging you close, fucking up into you and kneading your insides from below and littering your shoulders with angry red marks, taking control of the pace, especially riled up from how endearing and sexy you were trying your best to pleasure him, in his words. He can do it again, but doesn’t. Just lies there, all for you, stuck between a rock and a hard place — which, in this case, is his discomfort and enjoyment. The lack of stimulation gets him going.

You lean down and nip at the corner of his mouth, and he responds immediately, turning back to you, chasing the kiss. His hands come up to your waist but you take them off, pinning them to his sides, and Leon complains through sharply breathing into your mouth. “I’ll only,” Kiss. “Hold you.” Kiss. “Please, just let me—” You lightly bite his tongue.

As if he couldn’t do it if he truly wanted to. He is letting you do this to him. Pleading. In that tone of voice, too. You’re in over your head, what is happening?

“No,” you say, kissing his jaw and caressing the hinge of his opposite jaw with your thumb, sounding stern but feeling silly inside, unsure if he’s amused by you deep down. But Leon huffs again like a spoiled brat not getting what he wants.

You’re shell-shocked, but continue your pursuit to find out what else he likes, settling on his ear, making a line through the outer rim of soft tissue with your tongue and sucking kisses until he’s shifting around, you can hear how he’s trying to level out his breathing, then you bite, and he hisses as you repeat it over and over again.

You’ve heard that some men enjoy getting their nipples played with, and you caress and massage, knead and fondle all over his torso with both hands as the switching of your gentle and silky mouth and the needling pleasure of teeth assault his ear, and you listen to his heavy breathing the occasional hitch of it until you circle around one nub, and flick it, rubbing down and pressing the pebbled nipple inwards, just like how he does it to you, and twist the other one. His face hides itself in your neck, and you let him have that, at least.

His exhale turns into sound and he shuts it down pretty quickly, opting to speak up instead. “Can you—” he begins, and then tuts, sounding nonchalant, but you hear it. You hear the thickness of contained arousal. “Can you move on already?”

“You want the other ear?”

His head jerks in your position at you saying that straight into his ear and breathing into it, you know the thin sheen of saliva coating it makes the sensation sharp and cool and warming at the same time. “No—” he says, but you ignore him, cutting the rejection off by taking his other earlobe between your teeth. “Jesus Christ, this isn’t necessary—”

“If it isn’t, why is this wet?” You ask, watching him closely, tapping the pearl of clear liquid gathered at the tip of his ramrod straight hardness. It’s scalding hot, throbbing at the contact. Leon hisses between his teeth, trying to contain it, and sighs as your index finger circles the tip to spread it around, another bead of precum swelling in the wake of your touch. His eyebrows are scrunched, lips thinning and returning to their usual plushness with him pushing them together, a dust of pink coloring his complexion, a weak glare is on you. “Just enjoy it.”

“I could if you actually did something already.”

You wrap a tight hand around Leon’s needy cock, heavy and thick, and he shouts, the cry turning into a high-pitched whine you would never dream of coming from him and he clamps a hand on his mouth right in the middle of it, hips bucking into you, head thrown back, blown eyes horrified at what he just did. His breaths are loud and shaky, face turning red in seconds, and you watch, utterly captivated. You’ve seen adorable sides of him before when he lets himself be light and his brow isn’t hanging close to his eyes in that grumpy mood, but what you have right here…

You’re drunk on this side of his, nibbling at his exposed throat. “You’ll take what I give you.”

“God,” he whispers behind his palm, with a subtle tremble when you squeeze once and let go. His hips stutter up before falling back. Leon’s embarrassed. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t retort back, all of the sass packed and left. You can’t believe this is working. That Leon’s obeying you like this. He’s leaked all over your hand. Oh my god.

And you’ve really barely even done anything to him.

You can’t help but wonder if this is you doing this to Leon or he’s just into being bossed around in general.

How further can you push?

“Look, you’ve wet my hand,” you say, bringing your glistening palm up and separating your fingers after circling the gathered precum around, a thin thread forming between the digits. Like a hawk, he watches you lap it all up and you don’t take your eyes off of his, hearing him grip the sheets. “Still gonna act like this isn’t doing anything for you?”

Leon’s voice is gravelly as he rasps, “Kiss me.” It’s something between a request and a demand that if you don’t do it, he will.

You oblige, pushing down on his chest to get him to lie down again when it’s apparently too slow and soft for him, and he avidly presses forward to make it rougher, intertwining his tongue with yours harsher to the point of your mixed drool sliding down his chin for more.

He’s yanking and pulling on his clasp on the dreadfully wrinkled covers in self-restraint as he bites and licks and pulls at your lips, butterflies light up the pit of your stomach and thrash against the liquefied rapture that throbs in your pussy and seeps out, the need for attention growing impatient by the minute.

You go down and focus on kissing his neck, alternating between openmouthed licks and bites, careful not to leave marks, insides doing a summersault at the small noise of disappointment he makes that transitions into husky gasps. Leon still is concerned with suppressing any kind of unbecoming sounds he’s appalled to come out of him, and you’re bothered by that. Pressing your palm on the head of his cock and twisting sure does the trick to vocalize him a bit, restoring your confidence.

“Ah… Can’t you just directly touch it,” he sighs gruffly. “This isn’t enough—”

“You aren’t asking nicely enough.”

His head snaps down, brows raised in disbelief, self-consciousness clouding the teased promise of bliss that edges him on, and you stare back at him pointedly — however, on the inside, you’re worried if he’d ever beg at all.

You twist your palm with added pressure enough to alleviate the pain, but not enough to carry him to the peak he wants to get to, and his shoulders jump up, “Ah!” Biting down on his momentarily trembling lower lip and shaking his head with closed eyes as if he doesn’t want to see you watch him be like this, he mutters, “I’m gonna get you for this…”

You grip the base of his cock so hard his hands fly up to your wrists and with a shuddering whimper, stop at the last second before he touches you and he drapes his forearms on his reddened face instead, his back rises from the bed involuntarily, Leon’s flat-on squirming and hating it.

“That’s not nice,” you tease, pressing your legs together in momentary relief and waves of pleasure that slip on your skin like silk, and narrowly stopping the moan. You breathily add, “What do we say?”

“Please,” so fast and quiet, humiliated. You understand, but don’t let him off.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Fuck, please, come on, please.” His hands ball into fists and his arm veins pop out and his right knee curls upwards. “You can’t keep doing this to me—AHH—mhhmh—!”

His sentence gets cut off into incomprehensible babbling once you start pumping your fist up and down his neglected erection, not even needing lotion for it, he’s drenched enough to make the slide beyond slippery. You add your other hand into the mix and begin teasing the tip, and his chest, having developed a thin layer of sweat and gleaming in the sunlight, is heaving, and he can’t swallow the gasps and noises anymore, fingernails digging into his palms. You can only see his puffed, rufescent lips from the way he’s covering his face.

“Wasn’t what I had in mind, but I’ll take it,” you say, and it’s genuine. This much alone was too much, way beyond what you thought could happen. Leon is always in control, he has it together so brilliantly that this is actually him falling apart, it’s an enthralling, spellbinding natural disaster so beautiful you can’t look away, want to touch yourself to the sight.

“I’ll show you what I have in mind,” Leon all but snarls, and he has you on your back and pulls you towards him by your legs harshly even before shivers can go down your spine. “Let’s see if you can take that.”

You pushed him past his limit it seems, and he darkly stares you down, eyebrows scrunched and beads of sweat rolling down his temples. sweat-dampened hair curtains his face from both sides. His hand slips behind both of your knees and scratches at the smooth skin of the crevice, shooting lightning directly into your core, and he hikes them up to hook over his shoulder and hugs one bulging arm around to hold them together, lining himself up with your slit with a trembling hand, dragging the cherry red, furious tip up and down, slipping it in for a bit, catching your insides in a tantalizing drag, and then taking it out next, making your toes curl in the air and drawing squeals out of you.

Leon would normally send you to the underground and back from how horribly he’d tease you for being this drenched for him, but he’s strained and silent now, snapping his hips against yours and burying himself to the hilt in the spasming cavern of your pussy in one go, with no resistance from how ready for him you were, ripping a fractured cry from you as your vision blacks and stars dance behind your eyes. He groans gutturally, cock pulsing inside, and you feel the sound in your body. You’re overly sensitive from head to toe, and even the sheets sliding against your burning skin makes your clit throb painfully, deliciously.

He doesn’t start slow or build to something, it’s quick and rough right off the bat as he’s ramming into you with no mercy, and he’s basically catapulting you into glorious completion, but you need more stimulation, more, something more—

He slaps your hand away when you try to reach down to your clit to slip two fingers between your tightly shut legs and falls on his forearms, “No way I’m letting you do that.” Leon arranges your legs to wrap around his waist, grinding against you.

His attention then shifts to something else and he pulls on the sleeve of your shirt that’s still on, a scheming shine comes to the blue of his eyes that worry you, and then he’s leaning in and forcing it up. It’s hard for you to move your back and slip it off with the way he’s pinning you down, and it dawns on you late after you make the mistake of raising your arms that it’s what he wants after all. After getting your head out, Leon turns it inside out around the entire length of your arms that act as a makeshift restraint and leaves it like that, you’re incapacitated with your hands over your head like this.

You whine, this is so about not letting him touch you, and he thrusts up sharply to shut you up, sucking blossoming reds into the crook of your neck, hands pulling and pinching at your nipples. It’s building up. It’s building up, but— “You’re going to come like this.”

The frantic slap of skin against skin is echoing in the room and you struggle against the bunched up shirt around your arms. “Can’t—”

“You’re doing it on purpose at this point.” He laces his fingers into your hair on top of your head, thumb on your forehead in little caresses, contrasting how he fucks you shallow and fast, his voice a couple octaves higher than it usually is as he angles your hips upwards to hit deeper, and your moans are a metronome in beat to his ruthless pace.

“Yeah, that’s right, take it!” Eyes glazed over, mouth agape, the muscles in his thighs jumping, body pulled taut, wrecked and somehow begging, Leon doesn’t leave a single spot unkissed on your face and throat and he’s hurling towards an uncontrolled craze, he’s so close himself. “More? You want more? Too bad, this is it—mmm—for what you just did to me, and you’re gonna take it!”

You’re clamping down on him and he hisses in your ear as you repeat it like a mantra, Leon is wrenching a merciless orgasm from you and you have no control over it, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t—!”

Leon’s delectable weight pins you down as you shoot up with the detonation of the pleasure into a thousand pieces, rippling through your body in building waves, your pussy clenching down on him catches him off guard and he unceremoniously spills into you with a choked, staccato shout shuddering, the succulent warmth coating your insides and adding to the ecstasy, and it just keeps coming, his load is too heavy and too much. Your stiffened legs lock the shivering man in place and tremble around his waist as he languidly rides his bliss out, forehead sticky against your clavicle, the sheer strength with which he holds you against him is euphoric rather than suffocating.

“God, what the fuck was that,” he mumbles at some point, collapsing on top of you and turning you around with him so he won’t crush you, pulling you to his sweaty chest and putting his chin on top of your head. His scent has you in a fuzzy daze. “What did you do to me?”

You don’t respond, consciousness slipping from your fingers and pulling you deep into the sweet comfort of the dark.

You feel his hand on your cheek, lightly nudging. “Hey, you okay?”

“Mhm,” you manage to make out. “Wanna sleep…”

“Okay, sweet girl, I got you,” he says, soft and endeared, from far, far away.

And with that, you’re out like a light.

When you wake up, you find yourself thoroughly cleaned up, in comfortable, cotton pajamas, with no Leon in sight and a small note left on your nightstand with the keys to your apartment on top of it.

It reads: Had to go. I’m sorry about not staying until you woke up. Talk to you when I get back.

You plop back on your fluffy pillows and sigh, chest hurting. It was always going to end this way. In hindsight, you’ve seen it coming.

Your heart doesn’t agree, tears freely falling from your eyes. It’s really over. Leon really left like that. Just as he came into your life.

You don’t have the right to complain. You’d agreed to it in the first place.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s. kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy headcanons #leon s. kennedy headcanons #resident evil 4 #re4 remake

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spiritofwhitefire · 2 months

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I do think it’s strange that Maedhros of all people is a character that gets woobified so hard because the MOST compelling thing about him isn’t his heroism, it’s the fact that he was heroic and the BECAME A VILLAIN. I’m not even going to say became an anti hero because I don’t think that’s accurate, I mean he became a straight up villain. Destroying what was basically a refugee camp, attacking the army fighting against morgoth when half of his identity post thangorodrim was once based around fighting Morgoth. I’m not the first person to mention the irony of the fact that maedhros is the only person to ever escape Angband without being in thrall to Morgoth, and then years later his actions are absolutely aiding morgoths cause rather than the cause of the remaining Noldor.

And that is what sets this character apart. His downfall. Part of that downfall is his earlier heroism but what makes this character so well written in the first place is that the seeds of that downfall start early at Alqualonde. It’s tragic but it isn’t surprising.

I changing this character around so that somehow his later actions are excusable or against his will or that deep down he has actually been a hero this whole time is very strange because if that’s the case then how is he any different than fingon or turgon or thingol? In fact if that’s the case then he’s more boring than these characters because he’s not nearly as outwardly noble.

He becomes a villain and as the shadows of that villainy were apparent early on, the shadow of his heroism is still apparent later on as well and that’s the tragedy. He could have turned around at any point, he could have still saved himself. But he doesn’t and it’s horribly tragic and as a story, it’s absolutely brilliant character work.

#the silmarillion #maedhros #silmarillion meta #maedhros meta #character analysis #these are just my takes! please don’t think I’m putting down anyone else’s #all take are valid!!#this is just my opinion

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gingerhastoomanyobsessions · 3 months

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the lords in black are so interesting to me because. they’re so us. we’re watching the citizens of hatchetfield suffer for our own entertainment just as much as they are. we’re their accomplices in all of it

pokotho made hatchetfield into a musical because musicals are entertaining. and we ate that shit up! it’s soooo fun watching a little man scramble as the world around him bursts into song. the musical genre is satirized because pokey knows how the genre conventions work just as well as we do. we like watching musicals so much that black friday and npmd are musicals, too, even though they don’t revolve around pokotho’s plans as much as tgwdlm. we want them to sing. pokotho does too.

bliklotep is the audience and the audience is bliklotep. trail to oregon calls the audience “the watcher with one thousand eyes” and that’s not all, in watcher world blinky seems to be able to see through the eyes of anyone and everyone who loves spectacle. he wants to see the characters go through angst because WE love angst. it’s fun to watch alice and bill express their buried frustrations. blinky wants it to end in bloodshed because he loves tragedy, and let’s face it, so do we. it’s like that one post about how hamlet is aware of the audience and is angry that we don’t do anything to intervene because we want to see how it plays out. personally, I think blinky could have stopped the woodwards if he really wanted (he’s an elder god, after all) but alice shooting him shifted the narrative so that the emotional payoff would be more fulfilling if they escaped. and blinky loves a good story.

t’noy karaxis has blorbos. we joke about it, but that’s really what it is, isn’t it? he’s the fan who watches the movie again and again and again and again to see his favorite character’s dramatic death scene. he’s the guy who writes and reads angst fics by the hundreds because he likes to see his faves cry. he’s the hatchetfield enjoyer who’s on the edge of their seat waiting to see how ted kicks the bucket this time. the bastard’s box is pretty much just an ao3 account filled with whump and hurt no comfort. he’s sadistic AND he genuinely adores ted, because we fans are often cruelest to the characters we love the most. he puts ted through character growth— the realization that his life went the way it did because of his own mistakes, his inability to be vulnerable with jenny before it was too late— and he does that by writing a 56-chapter angst fic that’s still updating to this day

nibblenephim is the fan who voraciously devours every scrap of content that a creator produces and demands more, more, more. let’s face it, the fandom will never let starkid rest until we see this story through to its end. and then someone will demand a sequel series. nibbly is hungry because we will never stop yearning for more stories. he’s simple because that desire itself is simple— as humans, we need creativity like we need air to breathe. nibbly wants more because we want more. and we will never be satiated.

wiggog y’rath is the ruler and the king because he’s the self-inserting writer. I think jon matteson plays paul *and* wiggly for a reason— wiggly is the only lord in black to be played by the same actor in every single show, and that actor also plays the protagonist of tgwdlm. wiggly wants to be the protagonist. he tries to force himself into the human world of hatchetfield because he wants to participate, dammit! he wants to be the bestest ruler that the earth has ever seen! everyone has to love him because he’s going to be their bestest fwiend! when he appears in human form he’s gonna be the prom king! he’s the ebony dark’ness dementia raven way of the hatchetfield multiverse. he wants every human character to bend to his whims and to love him and to put him at the tippy-top of planet earth because he’s the writer and the writer’s main character, you fuckheads, and he can make whatever story he wants, whether the other characters like it or not! if you’ve ever written a self-insert story? congratulations! you’ve been wiggog y’rath.

and the funny thing? I don’t think the lords know that they, too, are as fictional as anyone else in hatchetfield. maybe blinky knows— he sees through the audience’s eyes, after all— but I don’t think the others do. if they did, maybe they’d be a little less tyrannical. a little bit nicer.

but then the starkid writers wouldn’t have much of a story to tell, would they?

#the lords in black #starkid #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #npmd #join me in the metafiction analysis hole.#the real villains of hatchetfield are the starkid writers themselves and those of us who want to see the shows!#the only reason the lords in black fuck up the world is because WE want to see that story!!!!!#note: the ‘you fuckheads’ bit was meant to be in wiggly’s voice/pov. I do not think the good people of starkid fandom are fuckheads.

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mintmatcha · 6 months

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MONSTER FUCKING

Fandom: Dungeons and Dragons

The night continues with Obsidian.

cw: cisfem reader, feminine nicknames, female receiving oral, OC x reader, monster fucking, a TINY BIT OF DUBCON, overstimulation

PART TWO OF TWO (Part one: here)

a/n: again, big thanks to @saetyrn9 and @tyga-lily <3

He doesn’t return until the fire is burnt low, nothing but embers. His figure is nothing but a silhouette against the hall light as he creeps, doing his best to move silently around the room. His dirty clothes are replaced by the sheerest of shirts and pants, thin enough that even in the low light you can see how his scales shimmer in hue, purple and green where the firelight touches. Every now and again he throws a glance towards you, tucked neatly on your side of the bed, and then sighs, low and forlorn.

It feels wrong to watch him while he thinks you’re asleep. Even alone, he makes his movements so small, crouching to take up little space as he fiddles about, oiling his scales and the other mundane things he has to do before sleep. It hits you that he might be insecure about the space he takes up.

The world is not kind. It is tragedies and maladies, injustice and inhumanities. Tensions are always simmering under the surface, chaos always threatening to boil over. Horrible, awful things plague this world and not a single person is left untouched or unchanged.

Through all of that, Obsidian somehow remained gentle. That’s what you admire most of him- the softness he carries himself with. There’s a bitter edge that clings to you, a callus that won’t come off of your palms. He treats you well anyway, despite it all.

“You never got to ask your questions,” you say, voice only just louder than the last licks of fire.

Obi starts at the sound of your voice, then his shoulders soften. He drags himself to the edge of the bed, hands folded politely in front of him like a scolded child. He smells faintly of lemon and soap: soft, sour, and refreshing.

“Why are you still awake?” he whispers, affection honey sweet in his tone. He reaches to grab your ankle, then hesitates before dropping back to his side. “My curiosities can wait for another day.”

The night air is cool against your cheeks and the sheets are not thick enough. Obi, in all his emotional and physical warmth, is just out of reach. When you extend an arm for him, he doesn't meet you at first, hemming about like a child. It’s goofy, for such a grown man to seem so shy- you have to bite your lip to hold your smile back.

Instead of waiting for him, you peel back the sheets and crawl to him. It’s impolite and unladylike, but it earns you a smile from him and an outstretched hand. This time, he doesn’t pull away when your fingers loop with his, instead closing tight.

“I’m sorry Kiri said all that.”

“You don’t have to apologize for her behavior,” he says, eyes never leaving the spot he’s chosen at the end of the bed, “I heard how you… scolded her.”

The innkeeper had threatened to kick you all out after the way you berated the poor girl, screaming in the hallway in just your nightgown, but the elf had deserved it. She’s barely older than a teenager in elf years, you remind yourself, but that isn’t an excuse for bad behavior.

Tomorrow, when the sun is up and emotions aren’t high, you’re sure the group will discuss it all, but for tonight, you want to tend to Obi’s wounds.

“Was I too harsh?” You trail a thumb across the back of his hand. Knees on the mattress, he’s still much taller than you, able to rest his chin on your head if he wanted.

“Too harsh? No,” The hint of amusement you’ve come to love is back in his voice, “Too loud? Debatable.”

Imitating you, he drags his thumb back and forth in comfort, the rounded nail grazing against your skin. Finally, he meets your eye, the green piercing even in the night. The feeling of want is thick, slowing every breath as if your ribs are stuffed with molasses, and all you can think is that you hope he feels this too-- hope he wants this too.“I appreciate you standing up for my honor.”

“Always,” you say. A heat drips into your core as you realize his claws are trimmed and rounded-- just for you. “Anything for you.”

You rest a hand against his chest and wait in the silence, savoring the luxuriant feelings that fills your throat: want and need and desire and greed and contentment and bliss-- all a muddle you can’t swallow again, filling you, but also leaving you with a hunger that can’t be sated.

“You should rest,” he says as he slides his arms around you, grabbing handfuls of cloth.

“Ask your questions first.”

Verdant eyes flicker down, marked by his chittering. It’s like a purr, you realize-- a sound of pure contentment. Feline is the way he moves, elegant and fluid.

“Does it really feel good-” His knuckle drags down your chest and hints over the apex of your breast, “When these are touched?”

He hesitates there, a breath away from you, wondering, hoping. The air crackles a bit wilder with magic for a moment- a response to his excitement.

“Obi,” You loop a finger under the strap of your nightgown and guide it off of your shoulder, pushing the neckline dangerously low. “Do you like my tits?”

“You should know that it’s very cheeky to answer my question with a question,” he leans forward and bumps his head against yours, nuzzling ever so slightly The ridges and tiny horns ruffle your hair and all you can do is giggle and squirm into it, bumping your noses together. His touch has wandered dangerously low, cupping under your ass and lifting you into him.

Then, he sobers, voice lower than ever.

“Yes.” He takes the satin edge between his fingers and delicately, carefully, lovingly moves the other strap down the other shoulder, guiding it until your breasts fall free. Obi swallows thickly, then runs his tongue across the upper ridge of his teeth as he takes in everything about you. “I like them very much.”

His nose is textured against your skin, grooved yet smooth against your clavicle. Each breath is released so slowly that it blooms with heat, crawling across your chest as he moves down, loving every inch above your breasts. The journey is marked with kisses and nips, the lightest touch of his teeth. The way he reveres the boring parts of you makes your heart flitter and, by the time he’s sucking a bruise into the fat of your tit, your body is trembling for him too.

“I didn’t realize they were so…” Teeth sink into your tit, testing the give. The other is cupped by his wide palm, lifting it into the side of his muzzle. “Malleable.”

When he opens his jaw again, wider this time, it’s marked with the click and suck of wet. Strands of spit string together for a fleeting moment, following his panting tongue.

Oh, he’s no longer feline. He’s closer to a dog, feral and drooling for you.

The rough edge of his tongue dragging against your nipple rips a gasp from you, but it only serves as a siren’s call. His body presses into yours, folding your legs back and forcing you back into the down of the bed. The sheets crunch under you as you’re moved by the force of the way he indulges. You should scold him or warn him of the way you’ll bruise in the morning, but a heat consumes every aspect of you, robbing you of any thought. The scorch of his mouth, the delicious drip of spit trickling down your ribcage, the ambient heat that’s simply him- it all ignites that pulling, twist, blazing heat in your core, a fever you can’t sweat out.

Obi pulls away just enough to look at you through slitted eyes.

“My fawn,” he purrs, “Now you are being too loud.”

His hand grips your side hard enough that even the trimmed edge aches.

“People are going to hear you,” he continues, tongue dragging down the sweat touched valley between your breasts, “They’re going to know you’re being bedded by some beast."

That makes your stomach flip, then flip again, tying your insides into a sickly knot. Your hands find the ridge of his horns on their own. Their length is surprisingly long for his age, more than enough for you to tug and stop his descent. Obi glances up at you, giving you the reprieve you need. Both of you lay there, breathing in sync.

"Don’t say things like that," you say once you've caught yourself, "I don't like that. You're not…"

Lemon oil, mixed with the pressing of some sort of shrub nut- that's what he oils his scales with. It makes his skin so soft and makes the air always marked with him.

"You're not some beast." You rub a thumb down the ridges of his horn, "You're my prince."

The words feel so corny coming out of your mouth. You're no wordsmith, unlike him, but you can see the statement physically hit. At first, he just slightly draws back, then his eyes go wide before becoming intensely soft. Then, he curls in, tucked his chin and resting his forehead against your collarbone.

"Oh," he says, voice on the brink of laughter, "Oh, my fawn, my princess--"

He squeezes your hips again. "You're going to shatter my heart one day, aren't you?"

Before you can respond, he's kissing you for real. It's different from anything else you've experienced with humans and elves; his mouth is different, firm lips unable to fully pucker. The feeling is strange, with too much teeth and pressure,but so, so, welcome.

Obi must enjoy it too; he shifts and writhes, finding his place between your awaiting thighs. You can feel how he grinds into the mattress, strokes long and slow and rough, searching for any sort of pressure. You want to touch him again-- no, need to. You need to see his cock for real this time, coax it out of his body for you to ride.

Another tug on his horns pauses him.

"Stop, just for a second," you say. He obeys, pulling back fully, and you untangle yourself from him.

"Are you alright?" Obi says, a tad dejected, "We can stop-"

You wriggle out of your slip and clumsily push it to the foot of the bed with your feet. A sliver of doubt wrangles its way into your thoughts; even in the dim, you're sure he can see your body and all its imperfections, the scars, the marks, the bits you simply don't like: does he know what to expect? Does he even know what humans look like naked?

The room is cold without the fire going. You have to remind yourself who the man is on top of you. It’s not some stranger-- it’s Obi. Your Obsidian. A friend, a confidant, a brother in arms, and the kindest soul you’ve even met. It strikes you then that maybe you have feelings for him outside of all of those definitions, something closer to love than simple lust.

"I haven't shaved in a while, I'm sorry-"

"You have the body of a nymph," Obi blurts out, voice high with surprise, "You're exquisite."

His pupils are fully round, engulfing almost all of the iris as he soaks in the sight of you.

"Human's do not like this?" He leans down, head just below your belly button, examining when your body meets your cunt. His fingers run through your pubes, "But it's so…"

Mid-sentence he halts, mouth parted just enough that you can catch the jagged edge of his fangs. He swallows deep breaths, sucking more and more until his chest is puffed against yours. Strong, forceful hands loop under your knees and cram your legs apart. You squeal and kick, giddy in your embarrassment and barely able to contain your laughter.

"Oh, you smell so good," he exhales each word, only inches from your cunt. He’s pressing into you, almost folding you in half so he can creep into the bed with you. "That's your quim? That's what you've been hiding?"

He traces two fingers up the clef, admiring it even closer than ever. The rumble in his chest, the purring, is so grand that it shakes your thighs. Like this, strung up and spread apart, you feel so exposed, so vulnerable. You muster up even more embarrassment when fingers part your lips and his steamed breath tickles your most inner parts.

“Don’t look so closely!” you scold, but he doesn’t listen.

"Humans get so wet." You try to close your knees on instinct, but the mass of his body stops you, "Is this usual? Do you always?"

"Only when-- a-aa-ah-"

You find out that he was not looking for an actual answer. Obi takes you by the hips and drags you down into his muzzle, wasting no item before dragging that damned tongue across the entirety of you. He's eager and unaimed, licking and sucking and drooling across every inch of you except where you want him. The crest of his brow digs into the puff of your mound, blocking you from reaching down and playing with your clit yourself.

The want, the need-- it's dizzying. Words fail you every time you try to speak, your comprehensibility robbed by the hiccupped whines Obi is pulling from you. Teetering on this edge is deliciously painful, but you're already losing patience.

Frustrated, you grind your hips down and Obi's nose bumps against your clit. The pressure makes your body sing, so you do it again and again, claiming your pleasure on your terms. A laugh rumbles through your skin as Obi chuckles and obliges, lapping at exactly where you need him too.

Heat sears through you as you cum: hard. It's almost a surprise, boiling over when you least expect it. It’s a flex and release of your muscles, a quick, simple thing that gives you just enough release. It’s nothing life changing, but it’s better than what you get with most men.

You breathe and wait for Obi to move or comment, but he's still, waiting for you to pick up your pieces.

"That was nice." You say after a bit, "Now, why don’t you come here and let me ride you?"

Whe he doesn’t respond, you sit up slightly, only to be caught. A hand presses down on your stomach and locks you in place against the mattress. Dark eyes glance up at you, narrowed.

"Stay still," he says, voice rougher than ever, "I can do better than simply 'nice.'"

Immediately, you regret teaching Obi where you liked to be licked. He abuses that knowledge, focusing on your poor, overstimulated clit until you're nothing but whimpers. Your brain cant think when he's touching you; all you can do is whine. Reaching and grasping for hair that isn't there, your nails run across his scales head and find no purchase.

Then, your own head is tapped by… something. You screw back and realize he's ran you into the fucking wall; you have to extend both hands to stop yourself from being crumpled even further.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit--" This one's going to be big. You can feel it rolling in, coming like a wave.

Two thick fingers press inside you. If you weren't impossibly slick, the stretch would ache, but there's no friction left to resist the intrusion. He explores a bit, pumping and curling and-- there. That's all you need to tumble again, falling and falling and falling-

Until the drop hits.

You're left boneless. There's no resistance in your body as he adjusts you again, throwing your knees over his shoulders-

"Obsidian, no," You drum your heels against his back, "No, no, no, no, I can't take another--"

A deep, rolling growl fills the room as he squeezes tighter, locking you together as his long, firm tongue presses inside of you. You realize he’s speaking an unfamiliar tongue-- Draconic, most likely. It’s sultry tones and clicked vowels, rolling deep and slow into one long slurred sound. Maybe he’s scolding you, maybe it’s praise: you don’t care. He holds you like he owns you-- like he controls you, and you find that you like that.

“Please, please, please, just fuck me already-” You find yourself blabbering, “Need you, need it, just-- oh, Gods and Stars-- Please fuck me, please--”

You clutch on to the mattress and hope the world stops spinning. “On me--- in me, just-- Gods, fucking cum already-”

“No,” Common slips from his mouth, “Not yet.”

The night is a blur after that. There’s no possible way to count how many times you cum; they all roll into one in your mind, an unstable peak. He’s everywhere, he’s everything. You always imagined him as a patient lover, but you’re quickly proved wrong. He’s mean and demanding, drawing everything from you until the ache in between your ribs grows unbearable. Slick runs from your thighs to your knees, ruining the cotton beneath you both. The unbearable sounds of wet fill the room, marked by your occasional protests.

You hate him, you think. Maybe you love him. You can’t tell when your brain is absolutely swimming in dopamine.

“‘m gonna pass out,” you whine, weakly batting a hand against his forehead. The dragonborn pulls away with a dot of a kiss, finally listening.

“Then do, fawn.” Obi’s chest and face shine with a mixture of your excitement and his spit, “Sleep. That doesn’t bother me.”

With that, he spreads you open again. You eventually do drift off, too overstimulated and absolutely fucked to even keep your eyes open. There has to be something to it. The taste? The smell? Dragonborns are more sensitive to pheromones, you think. Maybe he's high off of you?

No, it’s too focused to be solely for him; it must be for your pleasure. He must get some sort of sick fucking satisfaction from unraveling you down to your very core and then continuing. You feel unwound, a ball of yarn left to uncoil and flounder in the breeze

In the moments of twilight between sleeps, you manage to catch him moving, legs positioned around your rib cage as he whines, voice tight when he speaks. It’s mumbled nothings, ripping through his broken voice. Draconic seems to be paced so much slower than Common, each word rolling carefully slow off of his tongue.

Exhaustion sits so heavy that you can't keep your eyes focused. You have to keep one eye closed to even get a glimpse of what he's-

Oh.

Above you, inches away from your face, Obsidian Vyke fists his cock. Contrary to what he said, his body is not very similar to a humans. All of the important parts are there, of course, but the shape is much, much bigger, with a tapered end and ridges running down the bottom. It's an ashen purple, the same color as his skin under his scales, and his balls are a bit darker, hairless and slick with his precum. The head pulses every couple of strokes and you know he's dangerously close to cumming himself.

You want that. You’ve been begging for it this entire night and it’s there, inches from your face. That needs to be inside me, you think, but your poor pussy is twitching and raw from all the attention.

You settle for the next best thing.

With all the effort you can muster, you prop yourself up ever so slightly. You stick up your tongue and the pillow of his cock presses against it. It only takes a couple of kitten licks for him to spill; he crumbles into a whine and your mouth is suddenly painted with thick, potent seed.

It’s… different from other spend you’ve had the displeasure of tasting. Less astringent, more… you’re not sure. When your ex husband used your mouth, you always winced at the taste, but now you close your mouth and suck. His cock doesn’t stop kicking, dribbling more than a man could ever dream of producing. It’s hot enough that you flinch with it touches the back of your throat, but you don’t stop swallowing, draining it down as fast as you can.

The taste was enjoyable, you realize. You liked that, as if you were a common whore. Before any sort of shame can set in, Obi scrambles away, cooing and stroking the side of your face with his usual warmth.

“Oh, sweet fawn, you didn’t have to,” he says, “Let me get you something to spit that into.”

You shake your head and open your mouth again, tongue extended to show him it’s already gone.

"Little minx." Obi speaks with a wild amount of warmth and you bathe in it, letting your eyes close again. "Beautiful, dirty thing.”

There’s no way you’re beautiful now, with your makeup smeared and your hair ruined, but you choose to believe him. The swipe of a tongue against your cheek, comforting, not erotic, elicits a giggle from you. Gods, it hurts to even laugh.

“You’re dripping in sweat. I’m going to steal a towel to clean you up with, alright?” Obi pauses, presumably waiting for your approval, before hurrying about. You can make out the slip of fabric being pulled up, the creak of floorboards, the-

Sleep overtakes you.

The sun is much, much higher than you’d like it to be when you awake. The town is in full force, boys screaming the news, merchants peddling their wares, but you can’t seem to find the energy to join them. Not when the bed is so warm and welcome.

Obi is gone. He’s always been an early riser, so that doesn’t bother you much. Besides, you aren’t sure you want him seeing you like this, knock-kneed and drained as you try to gather yourself together. Down there is unbearably slick still, even after all the time that's passed, and that fills you with a sick excitement.

It’s not until after your bath that you feel remotely human again. The glitter and lust of last night begins to fade as you strap yourself into your clothes, but a relaxed giddiness still hangs on.

By the time you meander downstairs, the inn is busy serving lunch. The air is tinged with salt and spices-- the familiar kind you haven’t smelt in ages, let alone tasted. Familiar faces are crowded into one of the smaller booths, Obsidian’s comically large shoulders bumping against his two elf companion’s. Tensions have clearly calmed since last night. The elf is busy spooning bits of vegetables out of her stew and plopping them into the dragonborn’s.

“You must take my carrots. I know how you like them,” she demands, “And I’ll have your rabbit, since you don’t eat meat. Does that sound good to you, sorcerer?”

Obsidian is already obliging, cornering the bits he doesn’t want out of the bowl. “If that’s what you want.”

"You'll take this bread too. I grabbed an extra for you."

"Oi, you didn't grab any extra for me."

"The Sorcerer probably weighs fifty times what you do, he needs more."

Obsidian pats his stomach with concern. "Fifty times?"

“She awakes!” Tig, Kiri’s lover, croons, head in their hands as they notice you. They are just as lean and beautiful as Kiri is, but painted much, much fairer. “We feared you dead, Rogue!”

“Aye, both of you act as if I would leave her rotting,” Obi bemoans. Both elves turn to the poor man and coo, patting his shoulder comfortingly. Your speech clearly had some effect on the group and that deepens your giddy feeling.

“Did you bathe again?” Kiri hands her bread over to the dragonborn as promised, “I thought you had done so last night.”

You glance over at your… lover? Friend? You aren’t sure. He watches back, brow quirked, waiting for you to lead this dance.

“Just taking advantage of the water,” You reply as evenly as you can, taking the empty seat. Your relationship news to be figured out before you make it public knowledge, especially since your last relationship ended with such…

The dragonborn slides a roll across the table with a crinkle of his eyes, sparing you a train of thought you’re not emotionally ready for. It steams as you rip into it and cram it into your mouth. Hunger suddenly rips through your body and you perk up, searching for the source of this stew.

“Did you sleep well?” Tig asks between mouthfuls. They aren’t as proper as Kiri; they spread their legs wide and take up as much space as they can, holding their utensils like a shovel. If they weren’t so ethereal and genderless, you’d think that they were a half elf.

“Hopefully I didn’t keep you up,” Obi says, offhandedly, “I’d hate to think I kept you awake.”

Oh, that rascal. His nose scrunches as he tries not to laugh.

“You bothered me a bit,” you reply, equally placid, “But I don’t mind.”

“What a shame.” He takes a spoonful of the meal and chews it thoughtfully. Then, he pauses, pressing two fingers into the crook of his jaw. “I must have sleep strangely because I woke with this awful ache in my jaw-”

A swift kick to the shin silences him.

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