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quiteliterallyilliterate · 4 months

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I legit just see you randomly on my feed and your writing was really good and I thought why not? Since requests are open, may I request for yandere skyward sword link with goddess reader? Reader can either replace Zelda herself or is a whole other goddess that doesnt even belong or own Hyrule. Id love to see what else you have in store here!

Order up!

Sorry it’s been a while! I’ve been dealing with a lot these past two weeks but hopefully life will improve (?) Love this concept and there’s a mention of @monpalace’s idea with Skyloftians using shed loftwing feathers to propose. Not proofread, I am sorry, this took wayyyy too. Much like Link, i am eepy. That’s about all!

Hope you enjoy!~

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

There was little refuge for Link on the surface, that much he knew. That much the world made incredibly apparent. Aside from what little lands like that of the kikwi or the ancient temple, there was little non-hostile life. The sun was fading from the sky, Hylia’s light fading from the surface land, letting monsters run rampant across the untamed earth. Not a particularly pleasant situation given the stab wound he’d nursed, limping through the forest as he tried to find a way home. With no statues in sight, he resigned himself to his fate —alone within an unkind world. Not that it’s a first that he’s felt such a manner, everyone knew everyone in Skyloft, his business was never truly his. And with Groose and his goons taunting him for his every breath, there wasn’t much to say for company. He could be surrounded by people, and yet he was —to some level— still alone. That was, aside from Zelda, missing among this realm. There was some small, nagging part of him that wish he needn’t search for her. Sure, he valued her companionship, and yet… it’s been odd lately. Originally he kept from the sky to be with her once more. But now knowing he was a piece in a prophecy —one she knew, no less— he couldn’t help but question the authenticity of their friendship. He feels wrong about it to question. The hylian people serve Hylia, he should be grateful that he’s been sent on a mission she foretold. He should be so many things. It just seems added onto the pile of things he should be. More outgoing, Zelda would say after he’d share his difficulty with speaking to his peers. Less pathetic, Groose and his lackeys would sneer. Dead, He’d often think, looking at the bags under his eyes and tousled hair. So it seemed irrelevant that Hylia wished he’d be heroic. The small decaying temple looked surprisingly stable from the inside. Vines and mosses grew into the cracks within the marble, nature filling in where people could no longer support. The door was easily blocked and the main area was large enough to safely light a fire without smoking himself out. Above a plinth stood a statue, sharp imposing eyes glaring at whomever entered with judgement. Their face was alight with the golds of the fire, setting in the allure within his mind. Looking down past stone ceremonial robes were offerings, placed at their feet, still fresh despite the centuries since any people lived down here. A deity, he noticed a little too late. Perhaps it was sacreligious of him to stay here, the Hero of Hylia taking refuge in a different god’s home. But perhaps that kingdom has since crumbled, their blades too rusted to do him any harm. The blood seeping through his tunic was the least of his concerns as sleep pulled him in familiar as ever.

Link liked to sleep. It was safe and warm, something quite the contrast to the life he’d led. He wished many times both before his journey and since its onset that he could stay asleep forever. It’d be a blessing, to exist in such a state of peaceful serenity outside of a world defined by its wars. And yet, morning after morning, he’d awake to soft sunlight or be shoved out of his bed. Hylia did not wait on him. So waking up to fingers carding softly through his hair as a lullaby —one his memories could just barely grasp at— was a sharp contrast. He felt no pain in his stomach nor the jolt of adrenaline he was used to. Turning around sleepily, he saw you, the very deity he seeked refuge under. He scrambled to apologize, your sharp eyes looking down upon him as he lay strewn across your body.

“I’m- Oh- I-“ He could not, for whatever reason, speak. Much a common theme in his life that whenever he needed his words, they’d fly away faster than a loftwing. Strong arms tightened around him, shushes and soothes whispered to his pointed ears.

“Be at ease. Your goddess cannot find you here” The fingers resumed carding through his hair, twirling the uneven cuts. “You are safe, little hero” Your words bled with a care and endearment he had not been given in so long. His mind latched to you, to your care and your soft treatment of him. He let himself rest limply, telling himself that it would pass soon. Nothing ever stays this good for this long. And yet, there were no monsters to kick in the door or someone waiting on him. There was just you and him. And no other God watching. “She’s put you through so much.” Your statement hangs in the air as Link can’t find the words that dignify a response. “To wander in here bleeding as badly as you were.” His eyes widen and he does his best to pat his tunic, feeling for the blood. And yet there was none. Aside from the rip in the forest fabric, there was no signs of him ever being injured.

“What?” His brows furrowed and he found himself looking up to you. Your skin held an inhuman glint, a glow to it that needed no sun nor fire to illuminate. Your hunter’s eyes had no iris, a scalara of pure white looking back at him. Your lips here pulled to something of a mischievous smirk as you looked upon him.

“I fixed you.” Your tone was a little uncanny, voice unused to conversing. “I used to do it frequently for the before people” He felt his eyes widen marginally. He’d never heard of the ‘before people’ only if what came after them. He knew naught of their societies, nor their deities. You giggled at his curiosity, pressing lightly on his shoulders so he’d lay back down. “It’s been so long since i’ve had such lovely visitors” Your voice was a far off cry in his mind as he buried his face in the nape of your neck. There was no rushing of blood to lull his own rushing mind, and yet you soothed him all the same. “Rest now, little Hero. I will watch the world in your stead.

There were many times afterwards that he visited you. He’d put a beacon near the clearing where your quiet temple sat. Gone was the comfort of absence that came with sleep, that nullifying expanse of nothingness. Instead, he’d seek out you, the glow of your grace soothing the rage he now brought upon the world. At your Altar he’d leave gifts, anything you’d mentioned in passing or anything he knew must’ve been good. You’d offhandedly speak of how much you missed the ancient cistern, and he’d bring you its water. He’d gather the fruit of the Faron woods, making into pies and jam and alcohol for you to feed off of. It wasn’t often, but he’d occasionally get you blood or meat. Not common, he didn’t want to raise concerns, but he knew the spirits would strengthen you. You may have only had a one man clergy, but he was loyal to a fault. He cleared the surface of monsters so you could roam freely, basking in the moonlight as your fingers brushed the grass. His favorite gift to you came in the form of a plume of crimson feathers. You were quite oblivious to the meaning behind the exchange, instead cooing over the bright colors and imagining the majesty of the bird it came from. But he knew that maybe then the other half of his spirit —as the people said— would mingle with your own to care for you as much as you did him. Bound to you perhaps by fate and now with the matrimony of his gift to you, no longer would you lay forgotten to the world. He’d build an empire in your honor if it would be your wish. He’d kill the goddess who subdued you if it were your ruling. Afterall, he was prophesied to kill a deity.

#yandere link x reader #link x reader #yan!link #yan!sky #yan!sky x reader #yan!link x reader #deity!reader #zelda skyward sword

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stressfulsloth · 8 months

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In regards to your post “and now I'm. Just thinking about the loneliness that is SO pervasive through Elysium.”…

I have one thing to offer, or perhaps nitpick if you’d prefer it that way.

I don’t think it’s entirely fair to say the Sunday Friend isn’t a real friend. The Smoker On The Balcony believes him to be a real friend, even if he isn’t going to be there come Monday morn. But isn’t that enough? A friend on Sunday is still a friend, even if it makes waking up Monday all the worse.

Perhaps I’m biased though! Now that I think about it, most of my friends would fit the description. “Fair weather friend” feels to cold, but “sunday friend” is good enough.

And of course none of this is to say your post is at all wrong. It’s lovely and true. I just felt the need to quarrel publicly with that little detail.

To conclude, since I really just did not make myself very clear here; you are utterly correct to include the Sunday Friend in a post about loneliness but I take slight issue with saying he’s not a real friend. And so I wrote you a very long ask. And now as I reach it’s end I’m realising this was a very silly undertaking. But I’ve come this far so I’m going to grow a pair and hit “ask”.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, I hope it isn’t too desperately obnoxious.

Peace out ✌️

Ahh man I'm sorry anon but I'm going to have to disagree with you pretty strongly here 😅 tbh I was a little too easy on him in the original post. It's not necessarily the temporary nature of their acquaintance that makes the Sunday Friend's friendship questionable on its own, although it doesn't help.

The Sunday Friend is quite literally not a friend. "Friend" in his title is a euphemism; he's not coming to visit the Smoker because he's his friend. He's coming to visit the smoker to do a bit of poverty tourism, to admire the crumbling place that his beliefs have helped to destroy, and a bit of heavily implied sex tourism too. A "first world" tourist, a bureaucrat from the international government, visiting one of the most impoverished districts of Revachol to spend his nights with a student. He's not the Smoker's friend, he's a client. They're using 'friend' as a stand-in for his actual role, which is a) as a part of the moralist bureaucratic system repressing the revolution and keeping the city as a whole trapped in a laissez faire purgatory easily exploited by foreign capitalists and ultraliberals, while still maintaining a friendly respectable face, and b) as the Smoker's customer, exploiting the poverty of Martinaise's residents to get what he wants for cheap and using the easy mobility that his money and status give him. Imo he's intended narratively as a parallel for the moralist coalition government; he views from a distance, focused on money and *ze price stabilité* but entirely divorced from the poverty and consequence of his work. Happy to dip his toe in and make use of exploitable populations in Revachol, but always ready to leave too. When asked how he became 'friends' with the smoker, his response is literally to describe the coalition occupying Revachol.

He knows so little about the Smoker beyond him being there to study art, but what kind? "Perhaps graphic design? Printmaking? Who knows?" As to your point about the Smoker thinking he's a real friend, the Smoker is under no illusions about who the Sunday Friend is. An injection of money. Someone with power, someone with the mobility afforded to him by ownership of a non-Revacholian passport, someone content to watch the place decay and do nothing but indulge himself in pet projects and worry about bureaucracy. Someone with the freedom to leave when things get bad; a freedom that is narratively only assigned to a rare few extremely bourgeois characters. Dora, on her flight to Mirova, Joyce and her boat, Trant and his academic travels, and the Sunday Friend who will be out of Martinaise like a shot the moment things start to kick off despite being a part of the overarching structure that is responsible for Revachol's subjugation and rising political tensions. The Sunday Friend will use the Smoker's labour, use the vulnerability of Revachol's precarious situation to his advantage, then once it becomes too precarious or he gets bored, he'll withdraw. In answer to your question, no, I don't think that's enough. Again I probably oversimplified in my last post but the loneliness all throughout DE is not just an emotional state but a political one. Alienation is a major theme. As is the impossibility of building community in the face of capitalism relentlessly subsuming anything in its path, in the face of shallow relationships dictated by the need for survival. The Sunday Friend embodies that concept perfectly. He is exquisitely shallow in conversation, a perfect moralist who at all times strives to remain impartial and distant.

Anyway. Tldr; my point is that the relationship between the Smoker and the Sunday Friend is far more transactional, and far more exploitative, than you seem to believe. "Friend" is not being used literally but euphemistically. A 'fairweather friend' is better than none, sure, but that's entirely inapplicable to this situation. Sorry for the long post and I hope it's not too rambling- I'm surviving on very little sleep right now but I hope it clears up for you a bit why I referred to the Sunday friend in that way initially.

#disco elysium #sunday friend #long post #sorry this is such a long reply- there is so much more that i could add but i am cutting myself off or I'd carry on forever

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bestworstcase · 1 month

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on the last rose of summer. again.

Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes Or give sigh for sigh!

summer is not the last rose; her epitaph (“thus kindly i scatter”) identifies her with the poem’s speaker, who plucks and scatters the last rose. “the last rose of summer” means the same as “summer’s last rose.” her emblem is the burning rose; she sets the rose aflame. scatters its petals and ashes to the wind.

RLR2: “i never planned that i would leave you there alone […] i didn’t have a choice, i did what i had to do/i made a sacrifice, but forced a bigger sacrifice on you” -> the last rose of summer left blooming alone is ruby.

all her lovely companions/are faded and gone/no flower of her kindred/no rose-bud is nigh: what happened after summer left? tai “shut down” and yang “had to pick up the pieces;” raven fled and returned to banditry, qrow was often taken away by long missions in distant places. ruby couldn’t even talk yet.

but.

summer is her own reflection: the evil stepmother is also the good stepmother, and the best of us is the one who would set the world on fire to do the right thing. duality is in her nature, is the foundation of her character.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one. To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

for every life: “some roses will never bloom/some dreams will rot on the vine/some lives will end much too soon/some evil will never, ever die/some wars will not end in peace/some heroes choose the wrong side/sometimes it’s worth it all/to risk the fall/and fight for every life”

& sacrifice: “born an angel, heaven-sent/falls from grace are never elegant/stars will drop out of the sky/the moon will sadly watch the roses die/in vain/loss, no gain/but you’re not taking me”

& guide my way: “open wide/you were born to hypnotize them all/they said their prayers/can you hear me up there?/what survives/after all the dust has gone?/were you there til the end?/were you at least called a friend?”

& rising: “and we’re on our way/love’s the choice we made/we’re looking to the sky/the light will guide us/the rose will grow to be a seed/from every life, another leads/born the way we’re meant to be”

& RLR2: “you’re not the only one who needed me, i thought you understood […] would i change it if i could?/it doesn’t matter now/the petals scatter now/every nightmare just disclosed/it’s your blood that’s red like roses”

and: “we don’t have to kill you to stop you, and we will stop you.” -> “your mother said those words to me; she was wrong, too.”

summer’s epitaph, thus kindly i scatter, is the inflection point of the poem when the speaker plucks the last rose and scatters its petals—a mercy-killing, to end the grief and loneliness the speaker imagines it must feel.

summer rose meant to kill salem, to end the war once and for all. (did she think of it as a kind of mercy, for a being so ancient and terrible?)—the last rose of summer, left blooming alone (but some roses will never bloom). some wars do not end in peace, some heroes choose the wrong side. summer thought he would end a war that existed only in fairytale; when she learnt the truth, when she realized the cause she served was one of subjugation and genocide on behalf of a god who holds humankind in disdain, she took salem’s hand and ignited a firestorm. sometimes it’s worth it all to risk the fall and fight for every life.

i’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem; and oh! who would inhabit/this bleak world alone?—were you there til the end? were you at least called a friend?

if summer is the burning rose… what survives after all the dust has gone? the rose will grow to be a seed/from every life, another leads…

& this time: “this time/the ways of the past we’ll get over/this time/enlighten a new state of mind/and now/i’ll stand with you shoulder to shoulder/out of the ashes, a new flame ignite/rise up from shadows and into the light/well stand undivided/our futures aligned”

& rising again: “stand firm/outlast/we won’t be beaten by the past/one goal/one pact/looking forward, never back”

ALL THOSE SALEM-RUBY PARALLELS… they are. both. summer’s last rose: the one summer left behind, petals scattered among her faded and withered companions, and the one summer would not leave to inhabit this bleak world alone. out of the ashes a new flame ignite/rise up from shadows and into the light—this is the faunus’ motif but (of course) it is also salem’s; she works from the shadows, ozpin says, but truth will rise, revealed by mirrored eyes, salem answers, and i can’t wait to watch you burn.

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229zmi · 1 year

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CRASH AND BURN

PAIRING: Oikawa Tōru/Reader

CONTENT: reader is emotionally constipated, crying, comfort, i use the derailment of a train as a metaphor

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

(Picture this: an empty train in rectilinear motion, careening through rolling hills and lush greenery that appear to stretch on and on for miles. The exterior is scuffed, worn after decades of use, though the interior isn’t any better with its chipped paint, cobwebbed corners, and torn seats. Back outside, billowing wisps of smoke twist their way into the troposphere, slowly dissolving into the inky swirls of the sky.)

Oikawa can’t remember the last time he’s seen you cry. You aren’t one to wear your heart on your sleeve, and based on what he’s gathered throughout all his years of friendship with you, it would take a lot for you to cry.

Because you didn’t cry that time you painfully crashed your new bike into the neighbour’s garden and thus spent the rest of your summer break helping them replant everything as an apology. Neither did you cry the time you landed on your knee after toppling out of that old treehouse in your backyard nor when you knocked out a tooth during a game of tag. All Oikawa remembers is you sprawling out on the ground like a starfish and wailing until somebody helped you, but you didn’t cry. There were no tears.

You didn’t cry either at any of the sappy rom-coms movies you and him watched together, even though Oikawa figured you weren’t a very empathetic person anyway after he told you he found a roach in his shampoo bottle and you merely laughed in his face. You didn’t cry after a tumultuous breakup with your boyfriend of a whopping two months, not even after you got fired from your shitty job or during your high school and college graduation ceremonies, and you most certainly did not cry over the tragic end of another relationship years later — of a whopping two and a half months this time.

(Listen: the wheels clash against the rails with a continuous rumble. The wind whistles deafeningly, drowning all other noises of nature as the train picks up the pace.)

So you weren’t a sentimental person either, he eventually concluded, but for the longest time, he thought there was something wrong with you, or maybe you had a lacrimation allergy that he wasn’t aware of.

But no, that’s just how you are. The first image he sees when he thinks of you is exactly this: you with a loose grin, a thumb jutted at yourself, and your chest puffed out for the effect of confidence. Whether it’s mock or real, he can’t tell.

You’re an amalgamation of no use in crying over spilled milk, c'est la vie, and so on; you’re nearly the textbook definition of the jester archetype. Happy-go-lucky and lax, you laugh at the bad and then carry on as if the aforementioned bad never existed.

…At least on the surface, where it matters.

You’re like an onion in that sense, he supposes. Peel back all the layers, and suddenly the reality becomes clearer. You are nothing but a hollow, emotionally-constipated shell of everything you were taught, not through mundane lectures at school or how-to tutorials on YouTube but rather through reprimands that built up over time. Of crying equating to a display of vulnerability that would, in turn, only precipitate uncomfortable stares and artificial pity from others, and of repressing your shitty feelings so you wouldn’t have to deal with them.

(Listen, again: a sharp, grating noise rattles the vacant vehicle wholly. Too loud, too haphazard-sounding. There might be something wrong, but if a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?)

The then Oikawa might have shared a similar sentiment at some point, a very low point back in high school, but the now Oikawa knows all too well that this facade you keep up is a lot like a banana with too much ethylene gas; it’ll only continue to get worse over time until it ultimately decays.

In your case, you’re bound to self-destruct sooner or later. He’s sure of it.

But — you turned out fine, didn’t you? After all, you had escaped most of your childhood injuries with temporary bruises and scars that faded later on anyway and a fucked up knee that only mildly inconvenienced you at times. You’re not sure what was the problem.

And anyway, he’s getting off-topic. The point of this is as follows: it would take a lot for you to cry, he’s never seen you do it anyway — that’s just how things have always been.

(The harsh noise repeats itself, and the wheels start to come off the train. Another screech — shit goes off the rails.)

It’s a Monday evening. A torrential downpour had hit the city approximately half an hour ago and still persists; the local weather forecast says it won’t be at least another fifteen minutes or so before the rain starts to clear up. Thunder echoes overhead nonstop with the occasional jagged flashes of lightning ripping through the sky.

On a Monday evening, you show up at the door to his apartment unannounced. No text, no call. Just you. Oikawa surveys you all in one glance, eyes quickly flitting from your drenched figure to your slumped posture as if there’s an invisible weight physically holding your shoulders down. There’s a downcast expression overtaking your face, your lips are twisted into a scowl, and a translucent sheen glazes your puffy eyes.

Almost like you’ve been crying.

“[Y/N]…” he breathes out, instantly alert as all the alarm bells in his mind ring. His jaw might as well have dropped to the floor and scuttled away with how visibly shocked he is. Opening the door wider, he grabs you by the shirt sleeve and pulls, no, yanks you inside. Various questions threaten to spill off his tongue, the most prominent being something along the lines of What are you doing here?, but one more once-over of your haggard appearance and he decides that perhaps the prying inquiries can wait. Regardless of the situation, you’re way more important anyway.

After closing the door and with an arm slung over your shoulders, he guides you over to the living room. Or, at least. Tries to. The thing is, you sort of give up halfway there against your own will, falling into safety net of his arms right before you crumple to the ground, and perhaps this situation could be considered romantic if it’s not for the fact that you’re now crying. Like really crying, snot-faced and uncontrollable hee-hawing type of crying.

For a moment, Oikawa isn’t exactly sure what to do besides hold your trembling body closer to him and gently rub circles into your back, hoping that will somehow help soothe whatever it is that you’re feeling right now.

“I’m—“ You inhale intensely as if it’ll help you gain your composure just enough to finish your sentence, but then you break into another sob, moving your hands up to aggressively swipe at your cheeks. Oikawa catches your wrists with one hand, not wanting you to accidentally hurt yourself in the process with how rough you’re being, and wipes away your tears for you with the other.

“It’s alright, let it all out.”

“Tōru— I’m so sorry,” you finally manage to blubber out, your voice all gurgly and muddled with hiccups in between. You sniffle and then curl your hands into the fabric of his sweater, suddenly despising the shameful feeling that now shrouds you. Regret bubbles inside of you like a loud burp waiting to be released as you stare at the large wet stain on his sweater. “I’m sorry— for messing up your sweater and— showing up without letting you know I was gonna visit. I just— shit, I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You don’t have to be sorry at all,” he assures. His thumb swipes over the back of your hand tenderly. “Are you okay, though?”

You nod, not trusting your voice to speak again without breaking.

“Do you want to talk about it? Need anything? Water?”

This time, you shake your head, and the conversation falls to a standstill. Outside, the sky emits yet another low rumble and a flash of light that briefly illuminates the two of you before darkness engulfs you again. Rain continues to lash violently against the window — a stark contrast to Tōru’s comforting embrace.

You speak up once your hiccups fully die down and you’ve had enough of listening to the sounds of the thunderstorm, “Still, I’m sorry for… y’know. Getting all dramatic on you.” You chuckle with a smile that falls short of your eyes. “I don’t even know why I was crying.”

Your words hang in the air for a moment before Oikawa processes them. His voice abruptly cuts through the silence, coming out harsher than intended.

“I don’t know whatever it is that’s bothering you, but you were not being dramatic, and I don’t want you to think that,” he snaps. You blink at him, momentarily stunned as if what he just said was outlandish in any way, though you quickly recover, painting on what appears to be a bashful expression.

“Aw, you don’t have to lie for my sake,” you tell him. There’s a hint of humor in your tone, yet the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. Matter of fact, it grows; you’re making him nervous. “I was literally full-on sobbing. Boogers and everything. You don’t think that’s at least a tiny bit dramatic?”

“That’s just you letting out your emotions after keeping them bottled up for so long.” You open your mouth to speak, but he’s not done. “[Y/N], that’s — that’s normal, and there’s no shame in doing so by crying.”

A loud roar of thunder shakes the walls of Oikawa’s apartment. You don’t respond in the couple of seconds it takes for the sound to dissipate, instead deciding to stare distantly at the ground for a moment as you gather your thoughts.

“Huh,” is all you say at first before your voice grows somber and tense, even more than it was minutes prior when you had just finished crying your heart out. Oikawa listens attentively. “You don’t think I’m weak or think any less of me for it?”

“Of course not! Look.” He stands up and gestures for you to follow him. The two of you stop once you reach the window, and he pulls away the curtains.

First, you see your reflection in the glass — a bleary image of your tear-stained face and Oikawa standing beside you, who offers a smile as your eyes meet, setting your cheeks aflame. You quickly divert your gaze out of embarrassment, and you next see the city — a labyrinth of towering skyscrapers and wide, open streets bustling with people and vehicles despite the deluge.

“It’s like this. You see that it’s raining outside, right? Lots of people say that means the sky is crying, the city is crying, whatever. Does the city look weak to you?” he asks.

“No.” You squint your eyes down at all the buildings, the cars, the people, as if it’ll magically improve your vision. You could say that it looks vibrant because of all the lights, that it looks busy because of those who still have places to be. But instead, you say, “It looks alive.”

“Does the sky look weak to you either?”

“No.” You look out at the torrent and the storm clouds and the lightning all at once and think the words to yourself this time: it looks beautiful.

“Then why view crying as a sign of weakness? It’s only a natural response to whatever you’re feeling,” he says. “And if anyone tries to convince you otherwise or says they think less of you for it, I’ll just— I don’t know. I’ll beat them up or something.”

He curls his hand into a fist, holds it up with the base knuckles facing you, and shakes it a bit as if the action is supposed to be menacing. Really, all that does is further dwindle his credibility, especially since you’re confident this man cannot fight for shit, but whatever — it’s the thought that counts anyway.

The ends of your mouth curl up, and a particularly strident laugh escapes you much to your surprise, cutting through the tension with ease. Your shoulders scrunch up and tremble and your eyes fill with tears of mirth as you try to contain your giggles, though it’s too late because Oikawa’s already thinking: he has never seen anything more beautiful.

Your own hand comes up to wipe away your newfound joyful tears once you find the moment no longer amusing. You exhale, like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

“Do you feel better now?”

There’s a beat of peace and quiet — a shift in the air. Neither of you can hear the thunder anymore. Eventually:

“I do,” you conclude. “I do feel better.”

Outside, the rain relents at last.

#oikawa toru x reader #oikawa x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu comfort #oikawa x you #oikawa x y/n #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu x gn!reader #229ZMI

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twst-drabbles · 1 year

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You ever just...

look around, seeing requests of an insecure reader with Vil and how he'd react, and they'd answer that he'd comfort and pamper them and make sure they'd feel beautiful and all that. And, do you ever just think "Would he though? Would he really?"

(Uh, kinda get rambly and uh, warning as well. I curse cause I'm nitpicking at how insecurity is often presented.)

If the insecurity is not so common then sure, I can see it, but if the reader was insecure from the start and it continues to do so, then no, I can't see it at all. The comfort Vil would give wouldn't be the "Mom Mode" that everyone slots him in, it would be kinda on the harsh side to be quite honest, cause Vil is the kind of person that delivers what he feel to be the truth upfront rather than trying to put it in a sugarcoated package.

Meaning, if the insecurity pops up, he'd likely try and point out the source of the discomfort and try and give ways to get at the root of the problem rather than just saying sweet words and gifts and all that. Vil's pretty much a man of action with a sharp eye to boot. Simply put, the comfort would not come right away, so to the person who's feeling insecure, it will seem as though he does not care for them, because insecurity is nasty in that nature. Because one's own self-worth is so low, it makes it real easy to believe that if you don't get nice things, it's because you don't deserve it rather than it's because the nice things will come later.

Get the blood moving, take up a new hobby, refresh the closet, spoil yourself in the shower. Essentially, Vil is going to introduce things the reader can do by themselves along side some of his own spoiling. Keep in mind, he's doing all this with the mindset that the reader can and will help themselves rather than Vil trying to do all the work for them. I suppose that's what usually bothers me the most about asks that requests a super insecure reader, cause usually they want the "cute" side of insecurity that ends with super fluffy comfort without wanting to think of the consequences that can and will come. And I get that. Nobody wants to think about how insidious insecurity can get cause it delves too close to reality and nobody likes that.

But there's a comfort in exploring that side of insecurity cause, often times, it leads to many a decaying or cutting of friendships or relationships. When one is so deep in their insecurity, it becomes easy to believe they're helpless, but they don't want to be, they really don't want to be helpless, but they also believe themselves to be so useless and dumb and not good for anything that any help they try to do will lead to more hurt. Lead to confirmations that yeah, those things you did to help yourself? Didn't do shit cause you can't help yourself. Why did you believe you can do anything?

So when one gets some comfort that has no strings attached, it leads to this unique euphoria that's easy to get addicted to. It feels good, for the first few times, but then the brain forgets and starts to doubt and the effects of those words expire. So, they gotta hear them again. And again. And again. And if they start retracting? The brain hits the red alarm button and starts thinking of all the worst outcomes known to man. Spiraling into another, worst cesspool cause now they have to deal with the withdrawls. Only makes their own self image worse cause they asked for too much, they're too needy, they shouldn't have said anything. Shouldn't have said a word.

And when everyone turns their back to then, letting go of the hand that's gone necrotic with how gripping their own fingers were, they look outside and go "I think I'll spoil myself today. I don't deserve it, but that's okay. I'll feel like I'll do one day."

See, I don't really answer to any super insecure reader with Vil, or any character in general, cause I would not do the topic justice in just a single drabble. Along with the fact that I wouldn't make it a pretty fluffy piece either cause I don't like to write the watered down version of insecurity. That and Vil will not help an insecure reader that will not take the steps to help themselves. He will not hold their hand, he will not mother them until after the steps have been taken. Cause Vil does not mess around when it comes to that.

Honestly have a hard time seeing him with anyone that has self-image issues. And, if this insecure reader refuses to take any of the olive branches, he can and will leave them even if it will leave them an emotional wreck. It's because Vil knows of his limits that he will break up with them. He can't be in a relationship of equals if one party looks to him as their savior, as their sole reason for having any confidence at all. And, as such, the reader would suffer tremendously as a result.

So, yeah. All in all, Vil can be in a relationship with an insecure reader, provided that they can find self confidence in themselves rather than solely relying on Vil to be their rock. Otherwise, he will not enter into that relationship and will be upfront about it. He's, uh, a little too harsh for them.

#admin #NRClutter

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retrodreamgirl · 2 years

Text

seasons of becoming: spring | steve harrington x fem!reader

spring | summer | fall | winter

summary: spring is beauty in relapsing buds and the kiss of the sun in all its saturation, its birds singing and hearts beating on high, its the devotion of new friendship in a place that once held none and it's the question of love at first sight vs love we never thought we lost at all; for you spring is baking and gardens, giggling girls, and pizza after courtside, but somehow it's also steve harrington, fake tears, failed plans, and some girl named polly who (in your opinion) has killer high heels [5.1k]

warnings: uh...steve kinda being a jerk ig? just typical mean girl stevie, reader having mixed emotions about steve, strangers to friends to lovers, slowburn, fem!reader, eventual mutual pining, some mentions of sexual intentions but nothing explicit, not proofed or edited(sorry bout it), lmk if i missed anything!

⤜♡→

You find Steve at the edge of spring.

You’re laying amongst the protrusion of freshly bloomed flowers with their petals white, decorated with darkened lines of pink crawling from the center to tickle your cheeks with their waxy finish, resting as pollen at the lining of your nose. Your legs are crossed at the ankle, dress fanning about your thighs like you’d done it all your own, the colors reflecting from the wild growth flourishing as blossoms beneath the watchful eye of mother nature.

It’s just coming upon noon, the sea of flowers swallowing you whole enough that the average passerby wouldn’t even notice you lying there with nothing more than your arm to shield you from the unforgiving wrath of the sun.

It’s a recent niche, the silence of the trees and the lake brushing delicate mist every so often on a catch of wind easily preferable to the prosaic monotony of Hawkins.

It’s freedom away from the daunting reality of everything outside of the prolonged stretch of green. You never knew anyone else came here and you were wholly taken with the delicate stretch of land.

You often imagined what it would be like to build your own little town, not like the square etchings of your hometown with everything exactly where it’s meant to be. Maybe a house in place of the town hall, a pizzeria in the center of a suburb and none of it would matter because it would only be you.

Your hand is raised halfway to the sky, tracing the thickness of the clouds and their analogous shapes, painting them with your nails of chipped pastel pink. Building something as confused as you.

You find Steve as the obstruction lining the area beneath your pointer finger.

He’s pretty, is your first thought followed by a string of inconsistencies in his character. The way he would constantly throw his head back and run his fingers through his hair like he was angry then the laughter that would follow suit like he found himself a surprising amusement.

You think he must be talking to someone, but once he’s made himself aware enough to step beyond the lining of the trees you recognize his thoughtful solitude.

A melancholy soliloquy to serenade the budding stems, a eulogy to the ones that would decay in tandem with the sun sinking beneath the horizon.

There’s a sudden guilt in your concealment with the Earth. Like you’re intruding on something private, an invasion as long as you continue to watch him as a false inhabitant of the wild field.

You were too embarrassed once he got to the thick of it, nearly screaming the words he spewed like venom, grabbing at a loose branch to assault the trunk of an innocent tree. So you lay there, focusing on the lingering scent of petrichor resting beneath the blades of grass you steadily cull with your fingers.

You glanced at him often enough to commit his distant features to memory, closing your eyes in an attempt to picture him as someone happier. You ache to tell him there’s something better than whatever it is stressing his voice and the delicate lines of his face. An empathetic farce that tugs at the strings attaching to the appendage too often guided to your brain and the misgivings of reality.

He never looks in your direction, too complicated in his emotions to bother, but it didn’t stop you from drinking him in like a precipitation necessary for your body to take root amongst the flora.

Eventually he begins walking away, presumably the way he came, to a car that would drive him far away leaving you with nothing but a committed memory. But what is memory if not the most inaccurate of mental capacities.

You decide then that you should at least know his name.

With his back turned you could pretend you’d never seen him at all, like you’ve been hiking in the woods and you only just realized your car might need a jump so you can get home.

You finally stand with your dress clinging loosely to your legs and the unnamed stranger that you would later come to know as Steve Harrington walking steadily from view with his broad shoulders hunched over like nothing he’s said in the last twenty minutes made a difference at all. You part your lips with the intention of speech, but it never comes.

You were too afraid to say anything.

So you didn’t.

~*~

“What do you think of love at first sight?” You muse, tucking the best flavors of chocolate then securing the lid onto the feux gold box. You scratch at your ankle behind the counter, that way lovestruck girls do in the movies when they’re remembering their lover in absence.

You feel dull for even thinking it, don’t know what this odd feeling of amour could possibly be longing for as it rests dormant in your chest, waiting for the draw of a flame like a moth in dusk.

“You should walk by again.”

“I’m serious.” You gasp, tightening a bouquet of flowers with silk ribbon around the cellophane covered stems. It’s not the first time Lucas has darkened your doorstep, pockets clanking with loose change and his heart stapled to his sleeve. Usually something about a cute redhead you’ve come to know as Max Mayfield.

“So am I! I can barely keep up with love after a near catastrophe and obvious mutual pining.” He’s laid out an assortment of candy to go with his selection of orchids, some of them wilted enough that you marked the price to nearly nothing. You don’t bother asking what he has or hasn’t done this time. The constant roller coaster of teenage allure is an affair to remember though you’d swiftly taken it upon yourself to forget it entirely. “What good could possibly come from falling in love with someone you’ve never actually had a conversation with?”

“You know, you shouldn’t be so pessimistic.”

“It’s called being a realist. Hey, do you have any of those sticker packs around here? I think Max would like them for her portable.” You dig beneath the counter, the sheets you tend to use to decorate boxes of cookies or cupcakes ordered to go.

“Sure, but have you actually tried to apologize to her? I mean, the things you tell me are so sweet. Maybe you should actually say them to her and you wouldn’t be here so often.” You slide a sheet of stickers along the counter, something a little more neutral than the swatches of hearts bubbling in various shades of pink.

Lucas stops pestering the package of chocolates on the counter to look at you like there’s a head too many sprouting from your neck.

“You think I haven’t tried? Every time I start I just get all sweaty and tongue tied. I look like an idiot.”

“You’re the smartest kid I know, have faith in yourself. Besides, I don’t think we’d be such good friends if she didn’t believe in you at least a little.” You procure a gift bag to gently package Lucas’s apology topped with rose colored tissue paper. You don’t bother ringing him up at all, the monetary loss is something you’re willing to take in the name of true love. “Go talk to her, Lucas. Next time I see you in here it better be for something romantic. You could even bring Max. I already feel like I know her so well.”

“I can’t just take this.”

“It would hurt my feelings if you didn’t.”

“Why were you asking about love at first sight anyway? You got a crush or something?” He’s mischievous now, the completion of his initial significance satisfied enough that he can zero in on the innocence of your quick conversation.

“It was just a question.”

“Yeah sure, and Dungeons and Dragons is just a game.”

“Glad we’re on the same page, Einstein.” He looks like there’s something tipping over the edge of his tongue, but he grabs it just in time to stuff it back in and suffers his loss as gracefully as possible. “Now get out of here, I’ve got actual orders to fill.”

“I can’t, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Is it Max?”

“No, it’s Steve. He’s dropping Dustin and Mike at the arcade.” It pains him to say it. That he’s not wasting his money on Dig Dug and skeeball instead of apology gifts and above average pastries.

“Who’s Steve?”

“He’s our babysitter.” If you were to describe the way he spoke the words you’d say he’s missing the usual angsty abandon of any other teen who had to say they have a babysitter. He’s rather resigned to the whole thing, more annoyed they aren’t here than that they exist at all.

“You’re in high school, do you still need a babysitter?”

“He’s more of a glorified chauffeur now, but he likes to pretend he hates being the babysitter so it stuck.”

“Poor guy.” You deadpan, startling when the front entrance shoves open. You’re momentarily speechless, watching the stranger, who lacks the unfamiliarity of someone you’ve never met, approach the counter. “Welcome to—”

“Don’t bother, he doesn’t have anyone to buy for. He’s kind of a loser now.” Lucas teases, snatching his bag from the counter.

“You know, that’s big talk for a guy who needs a ride to buy flowers for his girlfriend. Or is it ex? I honestly can’t keep track.” You’re about to speak up on someone’s behalf, but they’re both so quick you never had a chance.

“Don’t even worry about it, Steve. I guess you’ve had your ass kicked too many times to keep a long term memory.”

“Lucas!” You chide, unused to him being so brash in any circumstance. Steve takes it in stride, stealing the gift bag from his hand to root through its contents. You feel exposed watching the way his brows knit, like he’s judging you and your store entirely too harshly. You feel awkward, shifting on your feet, trying to place exactly where you’ve seen this guy, Steve, before.

You wonder then if you have anything out of the ordinary on your person, prone to stray blots of flour on your cheeks or embarrassing stains of chocolate on your front. It’s never been embarrassing before, but now you’ve decided it must be entirely silly to bake for a living.

There’s a hint of persuasion in Steve’s movements, like everything he does is with the intention to draw you in. The gentle precision of his hands and the way his hair dangles just right over his forehead forcing his habit of knocking it away by frequent occasion. He only glances at you slightly, lips pushing toward the apples of his cheeks, leaving you with the emotional repercussions of his perception. Lucas rolls his eyes, turns to you with a funny look.

“Do you see what I put up with?” You don’t retort, just tear your attention away from Steve tight lipped. You weren’t lying when you said Lucas is the smartest kid you know, his brain nearly ticking with the resilience of his intuition. He seems to realize what you don’t, eyes widening a fraction then falling with a certain resignation. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, whatever, let's go. I’ve got a date.” Steve shoves the bag at Lucas, flipping his keys in hand. “You want me to take you to the arcade?”

“No, I want you to take me to Max’s. What do I look like showing up to the arcade like this, dummy?” You shape your hand to fit over your lips, no intention of laughing at the two so outright. Steve really looks at you then, rolling his eyes like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Do you see what I have to put up with?” He counters Lucas’s earlier notion, finger spiraling at the brink of his ear, pleading insanity.

“You’re coming to my scrimmage this weekend, right?” Lucas ignores Steve entirely, slapping a flier atop the counter. “It’s just for fun, but I could use some loyal fans.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.” You nod, watching him jog out of the store. Steve follows suit, your eyes trailing every smack of his sneakers against the tile, but he doesn’t look back once.

~*~

You hadn’t intended to be sitting so close to Steve at the game.

The distance of your seat two rows below him and his date is pure coincidence and you’d move away if you could. You don’t know why the thought crosses your mind, but once it does you can’t seem to shake it.

Your leg bounces nervously beneath you, something about a perpetual embarrassment of character that’s chased you since birth. You aren’t sure he’s spotted you, but you’ve been sitting there too long to have suddenly spotted him you think. Especially because your back is to him and to have seen him lofted above you would mean to be staring entirely too hard. Not to mention there’s no guarantee he’d know you at all.

“Mind if we sit?”

The game is in the gym at Hawkins High, a building that’s meant next to nothing to you since you graduated just a couple short years ago. Not that it meant anything but an eight hour sentence set to witness the cruelty of adolescence and the mercy of occasional mental stigma when you did walk the harrowing halls.

So you’re unsurprised when the first people to attempt to commandeer the empty space beside you on the bleachers are a couple of younger girls, their hair pigtailed and half up respectively. The one that actually addressed you with a heaviness in her tone, one not meant to spur your defenses but rather one that begs an even determination, has a head of fire with the flames crowning her shoulders.

“Oh yeah, go ahead.” You smile, tracing the sliver of skin that shimmies from the sleeve of your t-shirt. Only a few moments after they settle, the makeshift teams with their netted jerseys jog onto the court. “Let’s go Lucas!”

You’re not sure what’s appropriate for the setting, but when Lucas glances over he seems altogether pleased with your public display. You send him a pair of thumbs, nearly apologizing when the girl to your left side taps at your arm.

“You know Lucas?”

“Yeah, he’s kinda the only reason I’m here.” It clicks then, the licking flames and soft intimidation. “Wait…are you Max?”

“Yeah, who are you?” The girl she stumbled in with peers over her shoulder, a magical sugar stick dangling from the corner of her lip while her eyes widened with a serious case of curiosity. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that…I just—”

“Don’t know who I am? It’s a fair question, don’t worry.” You calm, retaking your seat with the scant bodies crowded around you. “I’m Y/n, I work at the semi-new bakery in town. I may or may not be responsible for the chocolates and sorry flowers on Lucas’s behalf.”

It’s awful the way she blushes under your attention. Not in a bad way, but rather the rude subtext that she doesn’t quite believe an affection like that should be reserved for her. It plagues you not to grab her by the shoulders and profess her as more worthy of love than she can understand just now.

“You’re nice.” El supplements, offering you the pack of blue sugar she’d forgone in favor of gnawing her confection bare. You take it kindly, wetting the tip of your finger and dipping it into the tart dust. “I’m El.”

“Thanks. You guys are sweet.”

“We’re going for pizza after, you should come.” Max offers, nudging your hand aside to dip her own finger. There’s something nice about the way her face scrunches at the nose, her lips pulling at the edges in reaction to the impression of the granular saccharine on her taste buds. She looks at you, your own face not far off, and giggles. “Steve is driving, but if you're coming El and I will ride with you.”

“He looks like he’s on a date.” You chance a quick glance to find that Steve is very much on a date. He’s molded the length of his arm around her waist and his head is entirely invisible where it eagerly attacks the flesh of her neck. It’s a wonder you’re able to make him out at all, the two of them nearly one person.

“It won’t last long.”

“Yeah, he’ll say something stupid and she’ll dump his ass by the second half.” El nods, tugging at the colorful sleeves of her button-up. “So you’ll come?”

“I mean…I don’t wanna intrude. It seems like a friend thing—”

“You’re our friend. Besides, Robin can’t make it so the boys totally outnumber us.” Max is matter of fact, somewhere in her little rant she snuck her finger back into the candy so now she wiggles the deep blue saturation in your face as if that proves it because she would never do that to someone who wasn't bound to her for life. “It’ll be great I promise, and I’ll make sure Steve doesn’t flirt with you.”

“Okay, yeah I’ll come.”

You live in peace with the two girls until about partway through the second half. Lucas has successfully scored twelve points in addition to two free throws when you feel a presence hovering with uncertainty over your shoulder.

You tilt your chin a fraction, the flit of your eyes over your shoulder is noncommittal until Max senses your discomfort and follows the momentary trail herself. Her shoulders heave and she seems more amused than concerned when she exhales.

“What do you want?” It feels safe to turn completely then, Steve’s hand fanning the air vaguely in your direction.

“I could use a bit of assistance.”

“With what?” El looks around, her pupils rounded with a conditioned pointedness. She appears ready to pounce and were it not for the sheepish way Steve pats her shoulder you’d think something was seriously wrong.

“Look, she's just a little…duller than I expected.” He dips his chin in the direction of his seat above you. The girl he seemed molded to just an hour ago now picking at the chips in her nails and popping her gum excessively where he left her. Between your own thoughts popping like the chewy bubbles she blows behind her head and the constant squeak of sneakers scrubbing the court his excuse is mildly irritating.

“Just take her home.” You offer lamely, turning your attention to the game in an attempt to seem like you don’t care either way.

It’s not that you do care, but if you were invested enough in him to have any sort of opinion you would tell him she doesn’t seem like his type. Though you don’t know his type at all and the connection of your brain that begs to differ seems to think his type must be something vaguely reminiscent of you and it makes you sick.

You felt like the dull one just the other night, laying unperturbed in your bed until the ritualistic terror of reliving every interaction you’d had that day no matter the significance. When you seemed justified to spend a little too much time on the portion of the day occupied by Lucas complete with the sliver of Steve, you came to realize you’d known him all along.

To keep pace with your own tired brain, you were weighed down with the task of remembering just about every doggedly irredeemable interaction you had back at Hawkins High.

In short, Steve Harrington is what you came up with.

Not overtly evil or the incarnate of satanic possession, but he’s of no innocence, popular for running with the crowds that were. You vaguely remember the streak of mean that painted him so grossly back then.

The way he spoke and reveled in his sleight of hand, pockets sealed with cash and the ability to wave inconsistencies in his character with the sleazy crest of his lips. Feigned as the charming trust fund boy who tucked his polos and always sprung for a first date.

It was lying there in your dorky quiz team t-shirt with your legs bare and your beloved plush tucked to your chest trying to remember that absent feeling you felt at work, that your mind was met with the betrayal of your youth. The way you were no saint in your habitual avoidance of Steve and his petulant posse by day when your body gave way to fanciful fits of lust by night with your hand taking the place of he whose name you slowly blocked in favor of your faceless fantasies.

It’s not that you forgot him, but by the time you graduated he seemed to fade from the spotlight that presented him as so unflattering. You didn’t see him commanding the halls so much as you did in the beginning years, only sporadic whisperings of a king dethroned.

Steve shifts, drawing your attention back to the problem, for him not you, at hand. He’s half kneeling on the bench, close enough that you can smell his cologne and what you surmise is a piece of the gum his date is chewing so aggressively.

“I tried, she’s not budging.”

“You could always go for honesty.” Max rolls her eyes, clearly more seasoned with Steve’s waning fits of passion. You begin to wonder how he came to be so influential with such malleable youth. “God, Steve, I don’t care. But she’s not coming to eat pizza if you don’t even like her.”

“I know, I just need some help, please. I’ll pay for pizza.”

“You were already paying.” El snickers, scooting just a hair closer to Max. She looks at you expectantly. “Maybe you can help.”

“Uh…how?”

“Just follow my lead.” Steve clutches your wrist, the moment feeling a tad too charged when he’s softer than you were expecting. His thumb grazes along the underside, the pad slightly calloused but still an uneasy comfort. You avoid his eyes, no intention of acknowledging your susceptibility to the shiver up your spine or the way you slightly stumble forward when he rounds the bleachers. “So…how are you with fake crying?”

“I mean…I’ve never done it seriously. What’s your plan here?”

“My friend needs me because her boyfriend is a huge jerk and broke her heart!” A genius truly, is how he presents it. Far too well versed in the art of a clarity that only appears to find him when he’s finished shoving his face beyond the valley of someone’s breasts. “It’s simple really, all you have to do is look devastated then she’ll totally fall for it, I’ll take her home maybe call her for a little one and done another day, we’ll take the stooges for pizza and everything will be perfect.”

The unfortunate audible that Steve wasn’t expecting is the girl in question catching wind of her inattentive date with his hand locked rather suggestively around your wrist, the distance between you less than paramount to anyone watching.

Further, as luck would have it, Max and El are no longer paying attention to Steve thus making your display appear far more intimate than it is. You itch to get away, suddenly no desire to be at all linked to Steve and his callous predisposition toward the many girls he’s seen come and go.

You recall Nancy Wheeler in this instance, wondering just how much of that’s actually true. She seems smart enough not to entrap herself in his snare without good reason.

“I don’t think that’s gonna work.” You posit, readjusting your stature to distance yourself from Steve’s incredulity.

“It’s the perfect plan.”

“Sure.” You nod, almost pitying Steve’s ignorance to his own detriment. “What’s her name by the way?”

“Polly, why?”

“Hey, Polly, what do you think of Steve’s plan?” Steve flinches, turning around only slowly enough to catch the tail end of Polly’s ponytail following the length of her objectively killer, right heel sinking painfully into the toe of his sneaker.

You’re minutely remorseful for not speaking up sooner, half proud of yourself for teaching him a lesson no matter how small and with the knowledge that it probably won’t stick. He’s keeled over by now, finding solace in the release of the lofty weight from his very minor injury.

“Guess that solves it!” Max chirps, just as the final buzzer squanders any remaining gratification when you realize you’ve missed the end of the game. “Just in time for pizza. I’m gonna go congratulate Lucas.”

Max jogs off, El looking off somewhere in the jumbled masses until she spots something of interest, excitedly waving her arms over her crown. You see a slouching troop of three boys approaching your trio, likely the friends Lucas is always on about. El glances at you then, chuckling at Max’s retreating figure.

“That just means she wants to kiss him then tell him he smells so he’ll shower before we’re all stuffed in a booth with his sweat.”

“Remind me to thank her later.” You counter, just as a curly capped boy makes haste crouching at Steve’s side. It’s funny the way Steve clutches his shoulder then shoves him away like he’s realized the implication as mocking.

“What happened to him?”

“His date.” El shrugs, climbing the short distance to the gym floor. “It’s okay, Steve, Dustin’s here for you.”

“Shut it, Hopper.” He grunts, managing the admirable feat of standing once more on his two feet and without so much as a limp. “Why didn’t you tell me she was there?”

“Call it…a responsibility to my sex.”

“What about my sex?” He spits, though it's not as weighted as he hopes, especially when the trial of pubescent boys snort something of an obnoxious sound in return. “She does stuff, and now I’m never gonna experience it because of some stupid solidarity between women.”

“Oh come on, you’ll have someone new lined up by the end of the week. Get over yourself.” You shove him, shouldering your tote. “You said she was dull anyway. Wouldn’t you rather find someone you have a good time with?”

“Forget it.” One of the other boys speaks up, his hair more of a mop than anything that could logically be tamed. He’s also much ganglier and towers over you without trying. “He’ll just go on another tangent about Nancy and I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Don’t be a jerk.” The last of them to speak also looks to be the sweetest of the bunch, his soft features and bowl cut enough of an indication without the speech that flows like clumped batter. “But she’s right, Steve. You should actually try to find someone you actually like.”

Yeah yeah, we’re not talking about this. Especially not here, someone tell those two we’ll be outside.” He glances around the gym like it’s something too disgusting to be bothered with and you can’t say you disagree.

The walk to the parking lot is enlightening enough, you learn new names and exchange your own followed by a brief yet entertaining squabble about who would be riding where.

“You can all forget it!” Max makes herself known in the nick of time, volumes rising to an extreme in the filtering slab of concrete. You're taken to admiring an unusual spot of growth near the lining of trees to one side. A rainbow like structure of flowers though missing the extremes of bright orange and firetruck red in flavor of muted pinks and blinding white. “You guys are riding with Steve, El and I already called Y/n.”

“Hey, she was my friend first.” Lucas chimes in, jogging up from behind with his gym bag tossed over his shoulder. He’s freshly showered and still glowing from his performance, clearly still an agent of chaos in his freetime.

“Lucas, you did great! You have to tell me when your next game is. I missed the end because of someone.” Your tone is joking, but Steve is no less grieved by the subtle dig. He tosses his keys once before setting off the short distance to his car.

“If you’re not in my car, belts buckled by the time my key is in the ignition it's on you.” He grumps over his shoulder, though you’re sure he doesn’t mean it when no one moves an inch.

“Not that I agree with him, but I’m starving.” Lucas breaks, hand settling against his abdomen. You’re in no place to disagree, your only meal being the meager helpings of a leftover cinnamon roll you refused to let rot in the display case this morning.

“Then I guess you boys better get going.” Max points toward the raging taillights of Steve’s car, four pairs of eyes bulging when he dares begin backing from the geometric holdings of his parking spot. The four of them set off jogging, Lucas just catching the handle of the backdoor enough that Steve gives. You can see him spitting something toward them as they all pile in.

You're left with the two girls giggling at your side, something of a youthful exuberance infiltrating you where you stand.

“Boys are stupid.” El sighs, gripping your hand unexpectedly. You didn’t take her as someone to hold affection so openly, her slow creep towards you throughout the past few hours something like a timid animal, you the willing participant in her frightful give and hope to receive.

“They are, aren’t they?” Max is more deliberate, looping your arms and resting the warmth of her cheek atop your shoulder.

The steady breeze of the growing season kisses at the apples of your cheeks, the sudden path of flowers that earlier snagged your attention feeling as beautiful as the moment you find yourself a part of, the blossoming of new friendship. It’s infectious, the way you smile at both girls forcing the blush higher on their cheeks where they return it in kind. You begin the steady lead to your own car, now resting solitary in the lot now that Steve’s peeled off without further pretense.

You decide that like all seasons there’s something in the becoming of the soft air and the nuance of the foliage making itself known amidst days of warmth and sudden rain in spring. A delicate hush in the song of the birds in their fresh return from winter, mating along the trees and soaring to heights only known by the grace of feathered flight. It’s inhaling fresh dirt and new leaves, the fluorescence of a scarab beetle reflecting in the concrete.

The beauty of things to come.

“That they are.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington series #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction

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ariaetherium · 7 months

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Itachi Uchiha One Shot

Warning: HEAVY SMUT

It's a long one, enjoy. ;)

"That was just foreplay..."

As Fiyori strolled through the haunting remnants of the Uchiha Clan, a wave of somber emotions washed over her. Among the decaying structures and faded memories, she suddenly spotted a lone figure standing in the tattered doorway with his long, jet-black hair tied up in a ponytail.

Her initial reaction was to bolt from the scene, but as she pivoted, a twig gave way beneath her foot, a clear, "Shit," escaping her lips in hushed frustration.

The man, alerted by her unintended slip, spun around with an almost eerie agility. "Who’s there?" His voice, deep and smooth, pierced the otherwise heavy silence that loomed in the desolation.

Caught in a moment of hesitation, Fiyori crossed her arms, her heart racing as she weighed her options. "Surprised to see you here... after what you did," she whispered with contempt.

The man, seemingly perplexed, inquired, "Who are you?" His head tilted slightly as he tried to place the voice.

Finally, Fiyori turned to face him, a wry smirk playing on her lips. "You don't remember me? That really hurts my feelings, Itachi."

Itachi's eyes widened in disbelief. "That voice... is that you, Fiyori?" His surprise was evident. "What are you doing here...?"

"Long time no see, friend," Fiyori teased as she walked closer to him. She looked around the desolate ruins. "I just felt the urge to see it, again. I couldn't believe it when they told us... it was you who did this, all those years ago."

"It had to be done," he whispered, the words heavy with the weight of past decisions. "Did you come here because of me?" He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I know," she whispered, her gaze locking with his. "I came here because you might have crossed my mind..."

Itachi's expression remained stoic as he probed, "Do you understand why I did what I did?"

Fiyori nodded, her voice gentle and reassuring. "You don't have to explain yourself to me, Itachi. I was always on your side," she whispered.

"I thought you would hate me. Just like everyone else..." He spoke in a quiet voice, his concern palpable.

Fiyori offered him a half-smile, a mixture of forgiveness and understanding. "Itachi... you were my best friend. I know that what you did, even though it was horrible, was for a good reason." Her voice remained hushed as she studied him, realizing that ten years had passed, and they had both matured. Yet, as she gazed into his crimson Sharingan eyes, the remnants of her once-familiar friend seemed distant.

"Fiyori..." His voice quivered with unspoken emotions. In the depths of his gaze, his eyes reverted to their natural, onyx hue. Memories flooded his mind, resurrecting images of a time when he and Fiyori had been bound by an unbreakable friendship. They had shared laughter, played like carefree children, and stood as dedicated teammates throughout their formative years. The corner of his mouth curled up into a grin as he stepped closer to her.

"I thought... I thought I was never going to see you again," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. Her brows furrowed as she gazed up at him, searching for answers in his eyes.

"Fiyori, I—" He faltered, struggling to find the right words amidst a torrent of emotions that surged within him. As he got closer, he finally had a good look at the person she had become over the years.

“You look beautiful…” he murmured in a quiet voice.

Fiyori's eyes widened in surprise, and she tilted her head. "What?"

He maintained a calm and smooth demeanor, offering a reassuring smile as he said, "Sorry... I just haven't seen you in ages. You look… different."

"It's okay. I appreciate the compliment," she chuckled softly, a moment of warmth breaking through the intensity of their encounter. However, her expression soon turned serious again, concern etched across her features. "You can't be here... if anyone finds out, every shinobi in Konoha will be after you." Her tone was urgent, emphasizing the gravity of their situation and the risks he faced.

“Not every shinobi…” He mumbled as his eyes pierced into her. But then, he took a deep breath, his voice lowering to a hushed tone, "You’re right, though. I'd say I've been here for far too long already. As long as you keep this between us, I’ll be fine. I can trust you, right?"

Fiyori paused for a minute, “Of course you can trust me.”

“Come here..”

(Insert emotional anime music)

Itachi's arms enveloped her waist, pulling her in, and he pressed his cheek against hers. He held her with a gentle yet firm touch, savoring every moment of their closeness. He closed his eyes, wanting to remember the sweet sensation of her in his arms, a touch he had longed for over the years. Fiyori wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him in even closer.

“I’ve missed you… so much.” Itachi’s voice was soft, his breath hot on her ear.

“I've missed you too," She confessed. But then, the somber reality began to settle in, and she gently pulled back, looking into his eyes. "Itachi," she said softly, her gaze searching his, "you really need to go. It's not safe for you here."

"I know," Itachi acknowledged, reluctantly releasing her from their embrace and taking a step back, his gaze holding a hint of longing and determination. "But we will see each other again, right?" he inquired. "I need to see you again, Fiyori," he declared, his voice laced with a sense of authority and dominance that left no room for doubt.

Fiyori's heart raced at his intense desire to see her again, but she felt compelled to address the harsh reality of their situation. "Itachi, I want to see you again too," she admitted, her voice filled with longing. "But it's dangerous. You're a criminal in the eyes of every shinobi within a 100-mile radius. I'm part of ANBU, and if they found out I saw you, it wouldn’t be good for me." Her words were tinged with a mix of yearning and apprehension, as she grappled with the complicated choices they faced.

“Come with me.” He stared at her intently as he made the bold proposition.

Fiyori's eyes widened, her disbelief and the weight what is being asked of her evident in her gaze. "Itachi, if I do that... I'll be considered a rogue ninja, like you. I... I have a life here," she explained with a mixture of apprehension and responsibility, torn between the deep bond they shared and her duty to Konoha.

"I understand," Itachi whispered, his voice heavy with acceptance. He tried to maintain composure, though a pang of emotion tugged at his words. "It was worth a shot. At least I got to see you again, Fiyori..." he whispered, his voice laced with a sense of melancholy. Though the situation was far from perfect, the fact that they had found each other again was a bittersweet consolation.

Fiyori stood there, pursing her lips together. She knew what it would mean if they met again, she could feel the tension growing by the second. "I have an idea..." Fiyori whispered, her voice carrying a glimmer of hope as she sought to lighten the somber mood. "I'll leave a window in my apartment open tonight. Use those stealthy skills of yours and come." Her words holding a promise of a secret meeting.

Itachi gave her a warm smile, "I'll be there." They both turned to walk away. But a sudden thought halted Itachi in his tracks. He turned his head, "Hey, Fiyori?"

Without turning to face him, she raised her brow curiously. “What is it?”

"Is the Sharingan unsettling?” Itachi chuckled.

Fiyori's smirked, and a mischievous glint sparkled in her eyes. "No, I want you to use that Genjutsu on me," she declared in a low and sultry tone.

Itachi's eyes darkened with a potent mix of surprise and desire, and he couldn't help but bite his lip, a sharp breath escaping him. "You sure about that?" His voice a husky growl.

Fiyori turned her head, offering Itachi a suggestive smile. "I'm well aware of your Genjutsu skills," she whispered provocatively. "I just wonder if you know how to use them for pleasure, not just pain. Or maybe a bit of both..." With those tempting words, she sauntered away.

Itachi was stunned, surprised by the audacious proposition she had just made. His eyes, smoldering with lust, traveled down her enticing form as he watched her walk away, his gaze narrowing in like a predator eyeing its prey.

This is going to be an interesting night…

Itachi, like a shadow, made his way to Fiyori's apartment, moving with an almost imperceptible speed, a master of stealth. He silently leaped through her open window, his presence masked from the senses of any average person. There, he found Fiyori sitting on her couch, engrossed in a book, her features illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby lamp.

Fiyori spoke without looking up from her book, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Glad you made it without getting caught," she whispered with a sly smirk on her face, fully aware of Itachi's stealth and skill.

Itachi approached her, his presence commanding and magnetic. With a single finger, he tilted her chin up, making her meet his gaze.

"Missed me?" he purred, his eyes radiating an intense hunger, locking onto hers in a seductive and intense stare.

“Yes…” Fiyori breathed as a delicate blush colored her cheeks.

Unable to restrain the overwhelming desire any longer, Itachi pushed Fiyori back into the plushness of the couch, positioning himself between her legs. Their mouths locked in a hot, devouring kiss. His lips moved against hers with an insatiable hunger as their tongues tangled. Itachi’s hands, strong and commanding, roamed down Fiyori’s curves as he tore her shirt off before giving her breast a rough squeeze. Fiyori held Itachi close, her fingers entangled in his dark, silky hair. Her back arched in response, her breath quickening as his lips made their way down to the sensitive curve of her neck. She exhaled soft, breathy moans, her body quivering under his touch.

They slowly broke apart, their breaths coming in heavy, heated gasps. Fiyori's gaze remained fixed on Itachi. Her pupils dilated, and her lips still tingled from their kisses. Her heart raced in her chest, each beat echoing the rapid pace of her breath.

"Let me take control, Fiyori..." He urged, his words brushing against her lips. His hand trailed down her body, sliding into her shorts, stopping to make tantalizing circles on her sensitive bundle of nerves. A breathless moan escapes Fiyori’s lips as his fingers continue to tease her. Itachi's smirk deepened as he bit down on his lip, his Sharingan reactivating with a crimson glow. His gaze was now locked on Fiyori's expressions of pleasure, every subtle change in her face and body language intensifying the growing need for her that coursed through him.

In a matter of seconds, Fiyori found herself naked, positioned between two Itachis as his Genjutsu wove a complex web of illusion, enveloping them in an altered reality. Fiyori gasps as she feels the heat of Itachi's body pressed against her back. His fingers grasp her jaw tightly. She trembles under his touch as she can feel his breath almost burning against her ear. "So, you wanted to try my Genjutsu, hmm…" He licks a searing path down her neck before sucking on the tender skin. On his knees before her, the other Itachi leaves scorching trails of hot kisses on her inner thigh until he reaches her core, eliciting a desperate moan from Fiyori. He ravishes her with his passionate touch, savoring the way every nerve in her body quivers and shakes as he toys with her delicate clit.

Itachi grips Fiyori's chin possessively, leaning down and devouring her lips in a desperate kiss. His tongue demands entry into her mouth, and she eagerly complies. With one passionate motion, their tongues entwine in a wild and frenzied rhythm, as if they cannot get enough of the taste of each other. They moan hungrily into one another's mouths, lost in an electric heat that surges through their bodies. He trails his fingers up and down her body, entwining them in her soft curves, exploring every inch of her sensuous frame. Fiyori gasps with pleasure as he cups her breasts, kneading them hungrily. His touch coaxes a feverish moan from her lips as he swirls his fingertips around her nipples.

“Are you ready for me?” He purrs against her lips. His words send a thrill through her entire body and she eagerly nods, unable to resist the intense sensations raging within her. He slowly turns her face and Fiyori's breath hitches. Her eyes meet Itachi's, a silent plea for release and fulfillment. A predatory grin spreads across his face, revealing his hunger for her. With deliberate slowness, he positions himself between her legs, his gaze never leaving hers. Itachi's hard length slowly slides into her wet and inviting pussy, eliciting sharp breath accompanied by a deep moan from her. He thrusts in deeper, building a mesmerizing rhythm that forces a scream from Fiyori’s lips as she feels her walls stretch to accommodate him. “F-fuck, Fiyori…” he groans as he begins pounding into her.

Itachi watches her from behind, his eyes blaze with desire as he dips his hand between her legs and rubs urgent circles around her clit. A taunting smile spreads across his face as he leans in closer, "Mmm, you like that, Fiyori? You like it when I fuck you hard like this, and play with your pussy?" He whispers, his voice dripping with seduction. Fiyori shudders and whimpers, her whole body quivering. “Yes. Oh fuck, yes... Don’t stop...” She cries out desperately as her eyes roll back. Itachi smirks and increases the pressure of his fingers on her throbbing clit. She throws her head back as waves of intense pleasure wash over her. "You feel so fucking good. Such a good girl for me." He whispers into her ear, she trembles in response, lost in his every movement.

Fiyori's body shudders as her orgasm approached. She grabs onto the back of his neck with a firm grip. Waves of warmth crash over her as she screams his name with a passionate cry, every nerve in her body tingling as she releases. "Oh fuck, Itachi!"

The Itachi before her leaned closer, his Sharingan gleaming with intensity as his gaze fixed on her. A satisfied grunt slipped from his lips, and he whispered, "I’m just getting started with you." Fiyori's eyes widened, and a sharp inhale caught in her throat. The Genjutsu had enveloped her in an illusion so vivid that every nerve in her body was ablaze with sensations she couldn't believe weren't real. It left her trembling with a potent mixture of desire and amazement.

In a matter of seconds, she found herself in her dimly lit bedroom. One Itachi sat on the edge of the bed before her, his crimson eyes studying every inch of her body, while the other stood behind her. His hot breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine as his hand firmly commanded her to bend over.

Her mouth watered as she approached the first Itachi's impressive cock. She took a moment to admire it, her heart pounding in her chest. The way it twitched with anticipation, glistening with beads of precum, and the bulging veins that wrapped around it made her hands instinctively reach for it.

"Such a beautiful sight," murmured the second Itachi, his fingers gently trailing up her thighs to grip her hips.

"Mhm, I love this view." the first agreed, a sly smirk playing on his lips, his hand moving to tangle in her hair, guiding her closer to his throbbing length. Fiyori trembled at the intensity of his gaze as their eyes finally met in that moment.

"Go on," added the second Itachi, his hand connecting with a firm, commanding smack on her ass.

Fiyori’s tongue darted out, teasing the tip of his cock as she tasted his essence. Itachi’s mouth fell open as a low groan rumbled through his chest. His grip on her hair tightening, “You’re going to take it all down your throat.” He commanded. With each inch Fiyori took him deeper, sucking harder, turned on by his moans and the way his body trembled beneath her touch.

“Fuck, yes,” Itachi hissed, his grip tightening as he fought the urge to thrust wildly. “Just like that, baby.”

Itachi's pulse raced, his body trembling with desire as he stared into Fiyori's hooded eyes. Every fiber of his being screamed for release, and he knew he couldn't hold back any longer. With a guttural growl, he yanked her back by her hair, assertiveness dominating his every move. His thumb caressed her bottom lip as he hilted her to look up at him.

"Open," Itachi ordered, his tone demanding obedience. As he took himself in hand, he couldn’t help but bite his lip, drawing in a sharp breath at the contact. Fiyori’s complied, opening her mouth immediately. Itachi positioned himself, guiding his pulsing cock between her inviting lips. He began to thrust slowly, his breath ragged as the rhythmic went sounds filled the room. He licked his lips as he watched the sinful display before him. Fiyori traced her hand along the contours of his chest, down his stomach, feeling the muscles beneath her fingertips. Her other hand gripped his thigh as her fingernails dug into his skin for support.

“Ugh, fuck,” Itachi moaned out between clenched teeth, control slipping away as his thrusts grew more urgent. He threw his head back, his eyes rolling in ecstasy as he felt the pressure building within him. He couldn’t contain himself, surrendering to the overwhelming sensations as his thrusts bordered on violent now.

Fiyori moaned as she gripped high thigh tighter, the friction between them making her even wetter. Her eyes widened as the other Itachi's fingers traced a path through her wet folds, their searching touch creating shivers down her spine. "Mmm," he groaned with satisfaction, his voice low and husky as he slipped two fingers inside her. He leaned down, his breath tickling her ear as he whispered, "You're so wet, I can feel how much you want this." A muffled moan escaped from her, an electric thrill raced through her body as he curled his fingers just right, hitting the spot that sent pleasurable tremors through her core. Itachi pressed scorching kisses down her spine as his other hand snaked around her waist, teasing her swollen clit. “Mmm, so sensitive,” he observed with a devilish grin, ejoying the way her body reacted to him. He squeezed her clit between his fingers, tugging gently, teasing her as he pulled his fingers out from inside her wet heat. He finally thrusted his thick cock into her, filling her completely. Itachi’s hips pounded into her, “You’re driving me fucking crazy.” He murmured, his voice rough with need.

Fiyori couldn’t think, couldn’t breath, all she could do was feel, feel both of them consuming her senses. Itachi’s hands clenched around Fiyori’s hair with an iron-like grip, he couldn’t help but take in the delicious scene before him. The other version of himself, identical in every aspect, down to the predatory glint in his eyes– was ruthlessly pounding into her from behind as he himself was violently thrusting into her mouth. His breath hitched as Fiyori let out muffled moans around his engorged cock, the vibrations by her cry rippled through him.

“Mm,” the other Itachi grunted, a twisted smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “She’s a good little cocksucker, and this pussy is… So. Fucking. Tight.” He punctuated with each thrust.

Itachi couldn’t help the perverse satisfaction that burned within him as he watched Fiyori pleasing him while being taken so roughly from behind. “Keep going, baby,” he urged her, his voice low and guttural. He could see the strain in her eyes as she tried to focus on pleasing him. It only made him want her more. Her utter submission, her willingness to endure such a brutal coupling for his pleasure – it was intoxicating.

Fiyori choked around him, her eyes watering as his cock slipped further down her throat. Itachi had to admit, there was something undeniably erotic about seeing her like this, pinned between two versions of himself, enduring their relentless assault.

“Ugh… I’m close,” the other Itachi grunted, his fingers digging into her hips as he pulled her back to meet each of his thrust. “Cum with us, with me, Fiyori…”

Itachi growled low in his throat, unable to hold back any longer, he came, pulsing hotly into her throat as she swallowed every drop. Taking him deep, milking him for everything he had.

“Oh, fuck…” Itachi panted, staring down at Fiyori’s flushed face. She looked utterly depraved, and it was all because of him. A nagging thought tugged at the back of his mind: was this their twisted fantasy or an insight to the dark depths of his own desires?

The thought, as fast as it came, vanished as Fiyori’s lips curled into a sultry grin, her eyes fluttering as moans escaped her. The room was thick with the scent of sex. Sweat dripped from Itachi’s brow, landing on Fiyori’s skin, and she shivered at the sensation. His nails dug into her shoulder, leaving marks as he drove further into her. The wet squelching sounds of their bodies colliding filled the air as he pounded into her.

"Itachi! Your cock… feels so fucking good!" Fiyori screamed as her eyes rolled back into her head, the waves of her orgasm pulsing through her entire being. Fiyori's breathing became ragged, her chest heaving up and down. Itachi's pace slowed down, his hips moving slowly now, intentionally torturing them both. She whimpered, begging him not to stop. "This pussy feels so fucking good. You’re going to make me cum so deep inside you." Itachi groaned into her neck. Fiyori threw her head back, feeling his warm tongue trace the skin under her ear.

She gasped and came hard, her walls gripped him tightly, milking his cock as he pumped it in and out. Itachi buried his face in her neck, taking long deep breaths as he tried to regain his composure. Fiyori’s legs were shaking as she felt his cum filling her up. Itachi pulled out slowly, his cock twitching as he came to a stop inside her.

Suddenly, Fiyori snapped back to reality, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, while Itachi hovered over her, a menacing grin playing on his lips. "Itachi... holy shit, that was..." she gasped, her mouth left hanging open in shock as his Sharingan eyes returned to their natural state. "Yeah…" Itachi whispered, his eyes lingering on her gaze before trailing down to her lips. "How was that for my Genjutsu skills?" he purred in a low, seductive tone, his voice brimming with satisfaction and allure.

Fiyori bit her lip as she regained her composure, but then the realization her. "Oh, what's the time?" she asked with a sense of urgency. Itachi let out a low chuckle and whispered, "Go see for yourself." Fiyori quickly stood up and rushed to check the clock, only to discover that a mere five minutes had passed since he'd arrived. Her jaw dropped in bewilderment.

"What the… that felt like..." she began, and Itachi interjected, "Forever? Like time didn't exist?" His words, delivered in a sultry whisper, sent a shiver down Fiyori's spine as she felt his warm breath on her shoulder.

Fiyori turned to face Itachi and she took a deep breath. He leaned closer, his nose brushing against hers. Itachi's hands rested on her waist, his gaze an intense fixation on her, as his desire for her became palpable. His mind spiraled. He wanted her again, and again, and he admitted in a seductive tone, "That was just foreplay..."

Fiyori's eyes widened as the sensations from the Genjutsu still lingered, making her question whether she could handle more. "Itachi, I can't..." she whispered, her voice wavering. Itachi smirked and pushed her against the wall, his voice determined. "You can," he whispered, his lips trailing kisses along her jawline and down her neck. "I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you." He commanded. "Except this time, no Genjutsu, just you and me. Here in the real world," Itachi growled as he lifted her up, cradling her in his arms, and carried her to the bedroom. The promise of an unadulterated, passionate connection between them hung in the air, and Fiyori's heart raced with anticipation as they ventured into the realm of raw desire.

#smut fic #smut #itachi uchiha #itachi naruto #itachi x reader #itachi smut #itachi fanfic #itachi uchiha smut #itachi uchiha headcanons #itachi uchiha x reader #roughfuck

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mothmanssweetsucculentass · 11 days

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Bloody Painter Headcanons

Did y’all miss these? Idc if this seems like a weird direction to go from my past two HC lists, I’ve always loved Helen as a character and I just went and read up on all the compiled lore DeluCat made of him years ago, and I got some HCs fresh in my mind!

I used THIS YouTube video from DeluCat herself as my main source, assume anything I don’t list/discuss here is filled in by anything here. I’m actually really impressed that she did so much research on different serial killers, psych ward operations, and violent crimes to make Helen as realistic as possible.

Expect canon typical horror/mature topics being discussed from this point forward, nothing is censored beyond this point!!!!

Roughly about 25, give or take a few years

STRICTLY he/him, will react violently if anyone calls him different pronouns, especially feminine ones

Despite this, he’s definitely not cis (it’s actually canon that he’s agender! Friendly reminder that pronouns =/= gender)

Like bro you were literally raised to have a gender crisis. Everyone point and laugh at the egg

Jeff used she/her for him once as a joke and he still has deep scars from what Helen decided to do to him

Like I shit you not, Helen took a sizable chunk of skin out of Jeff’s back, and only stopped because Eyeless Jack physically had to hold him back until Jeff left his line of sight

You wouldn’t even expect such violent outbursts from this guy considering how normally calm he is

Barely talks at all tbh

Like, he’ll interact politely with most of the residents of the mansion and isn’t turned off by conversation, but don’t expect him to hold a full conversation if he deems you boring or unimportant

Which tbh he probably will, he’s not super big on friendships considering how his last one went

Mostly prefers to keep to himself and is often in the more run down/abandoned wings of the manor

Has a naturally more feminine looking face (long eyelashes, smaller nose, etc) and does nothing to try and fix/hide it

Has converted one of the dilapidated rooms into an “art” studio

And by art. Heh. Let’s just say. Corpses

No actually he really just has an entire room dedicated to some of the most fucked up art a person is capable of making

Sculptures made out of bones and flesh, jars filled with coagulated blood submerging his taxidermy projects, eyeball jewelry, teeth jewelry, paint made from pummeled organs and flesh, brandings and etchings on stretched human skin, plushies made of human hair, he’s got it all

He also makes more “normal” art, which in reality is just more traditional mediums that still depict his usual obsessions with violence

Has gotten used to the scent of rot and decay like pretty much every resident has, but is one of the few who enjoys it

Is very selfish, self centered, and has an ego larger than Texas

Him and Ben have a somewhat transactional relationship; Helen films all the depraved torture and crafting he enacts and shares it with Ben, and Ben prints out news articles of Helen’s crimes for Helen to make art with, or just look at to admire his handiwork

ZERO empathy. His morals heavily align with the BEN AI, and even somewhat Slenderman’s

Hates animals. Not cause he’s scared of them or anything, but because he finds their existence useless

…unless he’s using it for fucked up taxidermy

LOVES torture the same way Eyelss Jack loves vivisections

One of his favorite things to do is rip a person’s fingernails out one by one, and then severing the hand and using the bleeding nail beds as the world’s most fucked up large paintbrush

Besides art, he loves to read. Kind of a given considering he’s basically the quiet kid

Loves depraved horror novels and serial killer memoirs/autobiographies

Can speak fluent Chinese, and often shit talks other pastas to their faces without them even knowing

Kagekao learned Chinese just so the two could gossip

Similar to EJ, has a more “buff” physique and has been seen breaking bones effortlessly. When you’ve been murdering steadily for over a decade at this point you kinda just learn where the weak/break points are in the human body

Can improvise anything into a weapon

Actually he really loves killing people with unconventional murder weapons. Scenes are often found with things like metal straws lodged in a victim’s sternum, or the top of a bowling pin shoved down a victim’s throat so far their jaw broke and the victim subsequently choked on their own blood from their shattered teeth

He’s gotten so good at this that the other pastas will literally make a game out of it and challenge him to use an outlandish item as a weapon the next time he kills

“Okay okay how about a bong” “are you being serious right now” “just answer the question art boy” “twice, actually. Though technically I think one of them was a really weird ceramic frog instead. That, or a pcp pipe.” “Awesome”

Hates removing his mask around anyone he’s not acquainted with

Gets reeeaaalll fuckin quiet too

Has gotten so good at being stealthy he doesn’t even alert or startle people like Eyeless Jack does

Surprisingly enough he actually gets enough sleep compared to most of the other residents of the manor

He’s also able to get comfortable and sleep practically anywhere, in the weirdest positions too. Is often found passed out in his studio sitting up, or laying on the floor covered in metal torture tools and bones

Despite his lack of empathy, his blood boils and he seethes if anyone dares to mess with Sally

The first day he stumbled across the manor and introduced himself by what the media called him, Sally gave him a drawing of himself, and he vowed on the spot to look out for the little snot

Is already a naturally patient person, and is incredibly patient and gentle when explaining how to do specific art things to Sally

Jokingly “agrees” with Sally about not liking doctors whenever she’s around eyeless Jack (though in his case he hates psych doctors vastly more than physical ailment doctors)

Back to the patience thing: will stalk a victim for months to toy with them. He has an eternity to do this to people with his newfound abilities granted to him by slenderman, why rush?

Helen 🤝 BEN/Ben = malewhore mansplain manipulate

Will say anything to get what he wants

Thinks in a very transactional and technical way. If you don’t do or offer something to benefit him first, he doesn’t even see you as a person

Is friends/close with: Sally, Eyeless Jack, BEN/Ben, Jason, Ann, and KageKao

Has a tolerable relationship with/is very neutral about: Masky, Hoody, Jane, Liu, Puppeteer, LJ, and Slenderman

Doesn’t get along with/HATES: clockwork, Nina, and Jeff

Him and Jason often collaborate together on pieces involving still living people

Him and Ann have a mutual distaste for doctors/hospital settings, and can often be found stitching up their wounds (or sometimes in Helen’s case a piece involving human flesh) together

Ace, heavily questioning if he’s aro too

He finds Ann aesthetically pleasing to look at, but his thoughts don’t go any further than that. Often uses her as figure practice (with her consent)

Is mainly fascinated by the fact she’s a walking sentient corpse

Tried cannibalism once, wasn’t a fan

Tried going to both Eyeless Jack and Ann once during a dysphoria-spurred panic attack and begged for bottom surgery

“But why tho” “I’m ace. I don’t need it. Don’t women who never want to get pregnant get rid of their uteruses anyways?” “Well, yes, but-“ “so help me god get this thing off my body”

Obviously one of the few times he actually doesn’t appear calm and put together to people. Tries his damn hardest to hide these panic attacks unless around Eyeless Jack or Ann. Would be mortified if Ben, Sally, or any of the loud judgmental pastas saw him in this state

Gives a lot of his full corpse art pieces a physical sex swap

You’re dead but hey free top surgery and you get to be fucked up art

Honestly doesn’t give a shit about symbolism, makes art of whatever he wants/feels like and makes it pretty clear there’s no hidden meaning

#bloody painter #helen otis #Creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta hcs #creepypasta mansion #horror #weirdly enough I had a hard time coming up with unique HCs for him #there’s so much that’s already canon #delucat

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invisiblequeen · 4 months

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Noe Bodi Gameplay: Day 34, Part 1

NEW NEIGHBOR MOVED INTO OASIS SPRINGS!

Darrell Parker (@simsinfinitylt) is an aspiring chef with a poetic nature and, as I later discovered, a wildly desirous side.

I noticed a pattern: anytime I first start playing a sim, they either need to sleep or eat. In Darrell's case, it was the former.

But once we got that out of the way he went to apply for University! He wants that academic, prestigious culinary training, and I'm not mad at it.

As he waited for the application to go through, he turned his focus to his favorite hobby, producing!

I will never regret my choice to make the walls purple zebra patterned. It is exactly the kind of room a music producer should have.

Now, you know that the point of this gameplay is to see how all these sims interact. So when I saw our resident bear man Pax Ramey (@theosconfessions) strolling across the street...

I sent Darrell out to say hello.

And boy, did they get along great.

Their chemistry was so on point that halfway through talking I was able to get them to hip bump and it only added more friendship points!

Then Darrell's stomach started growling, so he had to go back inside for some eggs and toast.

The clearing of his plate was perfectly timed with the arrival of our Resident Zombie Boy, Leslie Stanfield (@zestykim)!

You'll notice that Darrell, waving excitedly and introducing himself, didn't seem to notice that Leslie is in fact a Zombie Boy. And, to be fair, Leslie takes great care to make the rotting half side of his face look more like a third degree burn from a past accident, after which he sprays his body down in the sim equivalent of Axe whenever he leaves his hidey hole.

So Darrell's unawareness was actually a win for Leslie, confirming that his cover hadn't been blown and he wasn't too decayed to fool the average sim.

Unfortunately, Darrell also looked scrumptious to him, so he had to cease breathing through his nose and squint his eyes to center himself.

No sim-made tapas today, folks! They powered through a small chat and got along great!

This time when Darrell yawned, I sent him to bed for a real sleep.

It didn't take him into the next day, but it did keep him from yawning anymore.

Look what he did the second he woke up--check the university applications!

No news yet. You could argue that it hadn't even been 24 hours yet, but Darrell would not listen to you. He will check every single day until he gets a rejection or acceptance.

I had no more time to dwell on his academic future, though, because another neighbor sauntered in, waiting to be introduced.

Remember Donna Richmond (@elysiantrait)?

Here I was thinking this would be like the other introductions, so I sent Darrell out to say hi without a care.

But oh, was I wrong.

Love. At. First. Sight. The last time this happened was with Rivers and Rory! I love when the mods be modding and guide my story for me. :)

So obviously, they got along splendidly. Talked about anything and everything, with the strong flirty tone running under every word. Not once did their smiles fade. Not once did a negative relationship point appear.

And I am nothing if not a Love Guru, so I decided to send them on an early dinner date, to nurture their fateful bond over drinks and bites.

Little did I know the insanity that would follow.

[previous] - [next]

#sims 4 #the sims 4 #sims4 #simblr #ts4 #other people's sims #n0bodygameplays #noe bodi gameplay #sims 4 gameplay

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elftwink · 3 days

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every few months or so i have to reach out to someone i inexplicably stopped speaking to for literally no reason at all and in my mind this doesn't impact the nature of our relationship in the slightest (i think ive seen a post floating around on here that phrases this like "i don't have a friendship decay mechanic" and thats pretty accurate to me as well) but it is literally so scary because other people definitely can feel negatively about this complete gap in interaction and read into it my intentions (or worse when its due to memory issues do that thing where theyre like "if it was important you would remember ergo i am not important to you") and its like idk how explain that life is just moving to damn fast like to me we may as well have been talking yesterday... makes me very sad because on the one hand people have a right to feel that way and i understand that it can feel like your time is being wasted or that the other person doesn't respect you enough to get back to you (because also. some people do deliberately ignore messages for these reasons unfortunately)

but on the other hand. for me i feel like im always on the back foot because i just dont have the capacity to actually keep up with everyone, and i barely have the capacity to do the apology rounds every few months. also i hate the apology rounds because even if i have every intention of keeping up with people it always slips. i dont think i was meant to live in a world with instant messaging i think we should go back to snail mail. i would also be bad at replying to people with it but at least i would have a better excuse

also sometimes im just like i must be inventing problems when i write replies to people like an email on average takes me 4 hours or so to compose if given my own time. for time sensitive work emails it's still at least half an hour to an hour, which is also about the time it takes me to compose a text message to someone (unless i see it right away and stream of consciousness my answer without thinking then i can do it in 2 minutes but if i dont do this at the exact moment i see the text i cannot do it at a later time). during this process it feels impossible to speed up but its obviously ridiculous for two emails to take the time of an entire work day. also i have to take a break after sending an email or text like it is genuinely really draining and there is just no way it takes this much time or energy for anyone else because if it did we would have made texting illegal by now. but at the same time no single component of writing an email/text is that obviously difficult or energy intensive so im like sweating blood for hours to produce something that looks like it took 3 1/2 minutes maximum like what is wrong with meeeeeee

also no i didnt send my email yet im procrastinating by writing this post. perhaps this is also contributing to my extremely long composition times :/ ok bye everyone if i post again in the next hour and it does say "yay i sent my email" or something of the like please yell at me

#good idea generator #writing my email now and im like. just so embarrassed. gonna send it still but im so embarrassed #then after that. might reply to all the comments on my fic also from last june #and then. after that. if i havent keeled over from stress. i also have like 4 ppl whose text messages i need to reply to #but those are from the last couple weeks which is business as usual for me so significantly less dire than this email

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heycarrots · 10 months

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My entire life, I thought I had straight hair.

You might ask, how do you NOT know your hair is wavy? Doesn’t it wave naturally?

It does, but only if allowed the opportunity and the encouragement to take its natural shape.

Growing up, if you were a girl, you got up early before school, showered, and then gave yourself an EXHAUSTING salon-level blowout every single morning. If you didn’t, if you let it *gasp* NOT be flat and shiny, you were considered dirty, unkempt, not feminine enough. The only exceptions being the CURLY folks, the female identifying goddesses who could NEVER ever be mistaken for straight-haired girls because their hair slingshots back into shape the moment any moisture hits it.

Over the years, I laid on more damage that society demanded, or so I believed. I bleached it to match my Marilyn aesthetic at the time. Platinum blonde, ramrod straight and then, ironically, hot rolled into submission to create the look of artificial pin curls.

All that bleach and all that heat, of course, destroyed the strength of my hair. It was brittle and, while it looked beautiful from the outside observer, I was losing a battle with it.

Growing up in South FL, the heat and humidity were my constant source of struggle. No matter what I did, how much I ironed my hair silky straight, it would fluff up like a chia pet within 15 minutes of going outside.

Looking at other girls around me who did not share this same struggle, I felt defeated. Why can’t my hair just lay flat? I mean, it LOOKS straight in the morning, I’ve always been able to shock it straight since childhood . . . What’s happening to my hair?

Well, motherhood happened. I was too tired to continue my battle with the blow dryer and flat iron every day, so I said fuck it, and just started letting it air dry.

At this point, my strands had been beaten down to the point where they were like, yeah . . . we’re not gonna lie flat and be cooperative, but we also don’t have the proteins and care required to spring back to life. So I got what could best be described as slightly bent frizz. I was very close to accepting this as just my lot in life when someone said, look at all that frizz! It looks like your hair is trying to curl.

My initial response was . . . No way! It’s definitely straight! It’s always been straight. I’ve worked really hard to assure it’s straight because, for me, the alternative was unattainable.

This kind soul turned me onto the curly hair method and assured me that If I put in the work to undo the damage I’d done to it over the course of my entire life, I would see significant change.

The day I finally accepted this was when schools shut down in Japan and I lost my job during the pandemic. I no longer had a reason to conform.

So, over the course of the next few months, I implemented the changes she had suggested and my hair improved dramatically! I won’t say it was always pretty . . . It was super awkward at first and I had to endure cold silent judgement when out and about in ULTRA conservative rural Japan, where any texture in your hair is equated with moral decay (not even exaggerating . . . try going to an onsen with a visible tattoo).

But now . . . my hair is thriving. As soon as water hits it in the shower, it clumps up and beings to curl. I haven’t straightened my hair myself in years.

If you’re thinking this sounds a bit like a metaphor, that’s because it is. Yes, this IS also the truth about my hair journey.

But just like my hair, I went through my entire life assuming I was straight. I’m married. I was married previously. I’ve had some very good relationships with men. I’ve had some REALLY bad relationships with men, but my relationships with my female friends have always felt a bit desperate, a showering of affection I tried to mentally attribute to my being on the spectrum.

Events in my life have recently caused some serious reflection . . . on female friendships I’ve had over the years that felt entirely one-sided, a longing for something deeper that just wasn’t reflected back at me. At a certain point, after losing my dearest friend to cancer in my early 20s, I shut down female friendships. They were too painful for me and I never understood why.

I am not straight. Never have been. I’m bisexual. This doesn’t change my relationship with my husband, any more than the fact that I appreciate most men would cause me to dart off after the nearest alternative. However, accepting this about myself has unlocked a sea of understanding about my past, about my role in those failed friendships, the expectations I was unknowingly placing on these girls which, because they were hidden, even from myself, they were destined to fall short of.

Over the course of the last month, I’ve been reeling with this paradigm shifting revelation and one thing I’ve come to understand is that I’m not my own type. I’m not drawn to girls who look like me (or at least look like I DID, with the pinup makeup and exhausting beauty routine). There’s nothing WRONG with that, but I’m not attracted to it because it holds no mystery for me. I know how hard they are working. I know the art and the artifice. Because I never looked at a woman as beautiful as Max and had FEELINGS, I assumed I had to be straight. If one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen makes me think *meh*, then I guess I must not be attracted to women.

But then, there are those women who simply do not give a fuck. Not a single one. And yet, they glow. They know no shame and have always known who they are and fight for the world as it should be, not as it is. And look at that! It appears I do have a type, after all. I guess you could say they are the Madis of this world, the Mirandas of this world.

To those women, thank you. I intend to approach life brackets emptied. Unredacted.

Love is love.

#know no shame #black sails #madi scott #miranda hamilton #coming out #bi awakening #wavy hair #hair journey #straight hair as a metaphor #some of you know my story already and thank you for the care you took and your kind guidance #I am eternally grateful #lgbtq positivity #max

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herrscherofmagic · 8 months

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finally caught up with the current HI3rd event, the Luna one! so time to share lots of random thoughts, hehe

It felt a bit surreal first seeing this conclusion to the Captainverse story, but now that I've gone through the whole thing I can say that I really liked the way Mihoyo handled it. Of course there are details that I'm still iffy on, like the whole Luna-aged-over-10,000-years thing is pretty clearly fan service-y; but even that doesn't bother me too much.

More than anything else, I appreciate how the Captainverse gave us a happy ending for the "holy trinity of depression" in HI3rd's main story: Kallen, Himeko, and Sirin. All three of them suffered so much in the main story, after all.

Even if these bubble-world versions of them aren't the originals, it's still heartwarming to see them looking forward to a brighter future, instead of being faced with certain doom in the face of powers beyond their understanding.

Himeko especially hits me in the feels, not just because of Final Lesson but all the way back in her late teens when she lost her father, as we saw in the Alien Space manga. It was a completely life-changing event for her, and if she hadn't lost her father there then Himeko could've followed her passions and lived a very different life.

The Captainverse Himeko isn't the same Himeko, but it feels like she's carrying on that same dream. It's almost like a different version of the Kiana-MemoryHimeko reunion in the Flamescion arc; but instead of a mature Himeko seeing off her student, it's the young Himeko starting a new adventure and following her dreams...

I also loved how well Mihoyo wrote the Captainverse cast. The way everyone interacts w/ each other felt so natural imo, it was really nice seeing all the different connections that started popping up. The rivalry between Luna and Kongming, the budding friendship between Bronie and Sirin, Himeko & Captain, and so on. There was very little technobabble or convoluted plot stuff (at least in my opinion) for most of the Captainverse events. All these fun character interactions were the center of attention, and it was an absolute blast! ^.^

There's two final thoughts I have about the Captainverse, and I know that Mihoyo probably isn't going to explore either of these possibilities, but I'll choose to dream that it'll happen someday >.<

First: The Main Story showed us that HoFi Kiana has the power to stabilize an entire bubble world. Even if she didn't, the Earth civilization is still pretty advanced thanks to the Divine Keys (1st Key and 2nd Key especially). So if the Captainverse Hyperion crew ever encountered Earth and met our Main Story cast... wouldn't that be the perfect solution to the bubble world dilemma? After all, much of the pain these characters have gone through was the result of the inevitable decay and collapse of unstable bubble worlds (which is nearly all of them).

I doubt it'd ever happen in the story, but I'd still love to see how the Hyperion crew would react to meeting their "real" selves, and to discovering that there's a way to save all these worlds. Of course there's probably countless bubble worlds so not ALL can be saved, but every world saved is still a massive achievement!

And I'm curious how they'd react to the existence of the Imaginary Tree. As far as I can tell, none of their bubble worlds seem to have any idea that the Imaginary Tree exists. They likely have no clue that there is a Cocoon of Finality, or that Earth is a thing and that it's part of a solar system, and so on. So learning about all these things would probably be a huge revelation for them. Kinda like a Plato's cave allegory. Which is quite fitting tbh, since bubble worlds are basically shadows of the "real worlds".

Second: I genuinely believe the Captainverse cast would fit perfectly in the setting of Honkai: Star Rail.

One obvious point is that the Hyperion crew is a clear candidate for a Path of Trailblaze faction. Instead of traveling across the Imaginary Tree with the Astral Express, they travel through the Sea of Quanta on their own Hyperion. They don't connect "real worlds" and I don't think it's accurate to say they connect bubble worlds, but they're still able to travel between them and transfer people and ideas. Surely with enough time they could come up with a way to truly bridge the gap between different bubble worlds, and then they'd be a near perfect thematic parallel of the Astral Express- just in the Sea of Quanta instead of on the Imaginary Tree.

Then there's also the fact that most of the Hyperion crew members have a strong ambition to travel, explore, adventure, and so on. Bronie and Himeko want to see what lies in the countless worlds of the Starry Sea, Captain wants to continue traveling between worlds and helping people, Sirin wants to grow stronger and learn how to better protect her own world, and so on. Almost any of these characters could feasibly join the Astral Express if given the opportunity (and if they weren't already part of Hyperion).

I also feel like their character dynamics would fit HSR's balance of sillyness and seriousness. The Captainverse crew can all get serious when they need to, but they're also capable of plenty of fun shenanigans. I could imagine them getting into trouble and engaging in a bit of tomfoolery just as easily as I could imagine them facing down the Antimatter Legion and fighting to save a world from its impending doom.

Again, there's basically 0% chance of this happening... but I'd still love to see it someday. The Captainverse crew might be a bunch of familiar faces but they all have their own unique origins, ambitions, skills, personality, and so on. They're not just mere copies of the "real" versions of themselves, but they've become their own characters through this story.

It does hurt a bit, knowing that this cast is ultimately going to be relegated to side stories and temporary events. I believe that if you changed some of the terminology and character designs a bit, then the story of the Captainverse could probably stand entirely on its own as an independent piece of media. The concept of traveling between unstable and decaying worlds in the Sea of Quanta, the use of consciousness mapping and how it affects both the world & the user, the Ether Anchors; all these ideas are well-developed and they're conveyed in a story with a lovable cast. There's so much potential here, and this story doesn't really need the rest of the HI3rd story to give context to these characters and the setting they're in.

If this is truly the end of the Captainverse, I'd still be satisfied. If we still get Captainverse content but it's just minor stuff, I'd still be satisfied. I think this event did a great job of answering questions, tying up loose ends, and leaving things open for the future.

But despite that, I still wish we could see more of this cast. I want to see Bronie reuniting with Ciora and Theresa, Sirin growing stronger with time as she explores the Sea, Himeko's excitement in traveling across worlds, Kallen & Luna bonding and growing past their troubled past.

at this point I probably care about the Captainverse as much if not more than the Main Story. I'm excited about Mars, don't get me wrong... but the Sea!!! the bubble worlds!! Himeko & Sirin & Kallen & everyone else!! >~<

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