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godslino · 4 months

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ORANGE PEELS | minho established relationship. fluff.

pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 1.2k warnings: brief mention of not eating (nothing serious, reader is just really busy!) summary: minho and the orange peel theory

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“Well hello there beautifu—oh, okay. Or not.”

Minho blinks at the empty space where you’d just been standing, dumbfounded at the lack of enthusiasm at his arrival. When he realizes you’re not coming back, long gone into the living room, he makes his way inside.

“Sorry! I have to finish!” You call over your shoulder, hurrying back to your laptop. You seat yourself on the floor, back against the couch as you resume typing.

There are sounds of Minho toeing his shoes off at the door, bags being placed on the counter, and then eventually the rustling of his jacket as he shucks it off and throws it across the back of the couch.

“You’re not done yet?” He asks, crouching beside you. He knocks a kiss to your temple, and you let yourself lean into the touch for a moment.

“No,” you sigh, “I have, like, five pages left.”

“Babe, you realize it’s almost seven-thirty, right?”

“I know!”

“Okay, okay.” He throws his hands up in surrender.

Minho disappears after that, knowing how much you need space and silence when you’re focusing. You feel bad about it afterwards, not meaning to snap at him especially since tonight was supposed to be date night.

The two of you had plans to stay in; Minho was going to cook a small dinner while you picked out a series of movies, and then the both of you were going to plant yourselves on the couch for the remainder of the evening and celebrate the rare occasion of being off of work on the same night.

Everything got derailed when you woke up that morning and saw that you had an email notification from one of your professors:

Good morning all,

A gentle reminder that your reports are due by 11:59pm. Late work will be accepted with the stipulation that 10 points are deducted for each day that has passed since the original due date. If you have any questions about my late work policy, please refer to the syllabus.

Happy Friday!

Best Regards,

Professor Kang

The whole thing is entirely your fault. You’d failed to realize that the deadline had been pushed up by a week, your mind still under the impression that you had time to finish. Thankfully, you’d at least started the report. The down side was that out of a fifteen page paper, you only had around five done.

So, after a few messages to Minho where you apologized profusely, followed by a phone call where he reassured you that it was fine, the two of you still decided to go through with your plans. You’d been glued to your computer all day, desperately trying to finish before Minho was set to arrive. But as it turns out, the rubric for the assignment is a lot more detailed than you had originally thought, so the process has been rather slow.

“Have you eaten?” Minho calls from the kitchen, followed by the sound of your cupboards opening and closing. You respond with a sound of dismissal, your eyes scanning the screen for any typos.

“Babe?” He tries again.

“Huh? What? No, I haven’t.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Minho, I don’t have time—”

“I don’t care.” He says, his voice much closer this time. “How do you expect to get anything done if you’re hungry?”

“Haven’t even had a chance to be hungry if I’m being honest.”

“Wrong answer. Again.”

“It’s fine.” You shrug, looking up at him. He’s standing over you with his arms crossed, a disapproving look on his face.

When you turn your attention back to your laptop, he sighs in defeat, walking back towards the kitchen. You close your eyes for a moment, reminding yourself that he’s only trying to look out for you. Minho has never been a fan of your tendency to neglect yourself, especially in times of stress. So, in lieu of upsetting him, you call out,

“Can you toss me one of the oranges on the counter?”

Minho doesn’t respond. He’s probably sulking, something he always does whenever he’s upset. You briefly consider getting up to kiss the pout he’s probably sporting off of his face. But the clock is ticking, and if you finish the report, there’ll be more than enough time to do that later.

You’re so engrossed in your work, a helpful article that you managed to stumble upon giving you a huge amount of evidence for your final argument, that you don’t even realize it when Minho plops down on the floor beside you. You open your mouth to say something, turn your head towards him, and are met by his hand shoving a piece of orange into your mouth.

“Eat.” He says firmly, blinking when you slowly begin to chew. You stare at him with a confused look, releasing some of the tension between your eyebrows when he brings a finger up to poke the spot in the middle of them. “If you won’t do it yourself, I’ll do it for you. Just eat.”

You swallow, a small smile forming on your lips. Minho isn’t paying attention, his focus on the peeled orange in his hands as he breaks the pieces off one by one.

Soft and loving. Minho has always treated you the way you deserve. There’s never been a moment where you questioned how much he cares for you, not when he makes sure that you’re always his first priority. It doesn’t matter how tired he is, he’s always there, always ready and willing, always giving.

You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, laughing when he suppresses a smile, the shells of his ears a bright pink. “You’re cute, you know that?”

“Yeah and you’re a chronic procrastinator.” He’s quick to bite back, holding up another piece of the orange to your mouth. You take it from him gladly, and he can’t help but finally crack a smile.

“I’m sorry I ruined date night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Minho says, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I already told you, it doesn’t matter what we do. I’m just happy we’re together.”

His words make warmth bloom in your chest. You turn to him, squishing his cheeks in both your hands. He blinks, “What?”

“Lee Minho. How did I get so lucky?”

He laughs at that, breathy and muffled from the way his face sits in your hands. “Well for starters, I’m the one who asked for your number, so if you really wanna get technical then—” He’s cut off when you lean forward and plant a big kiss on his lips.

“You didn’t let me finish.” Minho pouts when you pull away.

“You were getting cocky, I had to do something.”

“Says the person who ruined date night.”

“Hey! You said I didn’t—”

He shoves another piece of orange into your mouth, laughing when you cough around his fingers. He’s up and running in the blink of an eye, dodging your arms when you try to grab for his shirt. Minho’s quick, he waits for the opportunity and lunges for your waist, throwing you over his shoulder with a squeal. You beat your fists against his back, not really putting up a fight, though you’ll never admit that.

There’s only a few hours left until your report is due, but you can’t be bothered to care. Not when Minho is pinning you against the couch, hands poking your sides as he tickles you and kisses all over your face, the sound of both your laughter filling the apartment and the faint scent of oranges on his fingertips.

#lee know x reader #lee know fluff #lee know fic #lee know fanfic #skz x reader #skz fanfic #lee know fanfiction #skz fanfiction #lee know angst #lee know scenarios #lee know imagines

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pupcuck · 3 months

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NYMPHOMANIA !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. daddy-daughter incest, femcel reader :3, reader wants to get raped so she talks about that, dub-con for like a paragraph, suicidal thoughts, awful thoughts in general, tiny bit of somno, threats, spanking, slapping

note. HAII :3 back on my femcel shit… god i rewrote this like 15 times and restarted over and over so i hate this 😭 it’s clunky so ignore any mistakes!!! feedback n rbs always so appreciated <3 was thinking of og4 leon but.. honestly idk atp !! anyway sorry again for the slow decrease in quality in this .. title has nothing to do w the fic ack ok bye :3

tumblr removes fics that use, for example, tw non-con and any nsfw tags in general from the tags. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

There are two things you want to get off your chest.

You are not, under any circumstances, ugly. Your face just takes getting used to. (This is a cope.)

You have a crush on your dad. No excuse for this one. Cupid is a conniving bastard. That’s that.

These might not seem like related issues, but they most certainly are because being ugly is hard, and having a crush on your dad is equally as hard.

You’re a sweet girl, you didn’t choose to come out ugly, it’s not your fault you turned out this way. It’s unfair, but ultimately no one meant for it to happen

(Well, you hope no one meant for it to happen unless someone had a vendetta against your mother and cursed her firstborn. She’s an irritating lady, you can see why someone would do so.)

You won’t even be the kind of below-average woman who marries a mediocre man to have mediocre sex to make mediocre kids to live in caustic mediocrity. You have one friend, she’s an online friend, and she might be a lonely old man. To be entirely honest you would prefer that. ‘Cause that would mean someone out there wants to creep on you.

If you weren’t ugly, having a crush on your dad would be socially acceptable. That’s why daddy-daughter porn spans pages and pages and pages of Pornhub. Everyone loves to watch a busty, blonde slut on her dad’s dick. If you didn’t have a crush on your dad, being ugly would be perfectly fine— No, that’s wrong.

Being ugly is never fine. Being ugly is on the same level as being a rapist. Being ugly in the presence of people who are objectively not ugly is, like, worse than being a rapist. ‘Cause all the dudes in high school were rapists in the making. Ted Bundy-style shit.

Grope an ugly bitch in the bathrooms and she wouldn’t speak up, and if she did— She just wouldn’t actually. Would be burnt at the stake Salem style. Hung. Crucifixion perhaps. Ugly girls aren’t good enough to die like martyrs did, however. Especially not ugly girls who cry wolf.

Why on God’s green earth would a hot guy go out of his way to slap a freaky-looking girl’s ass, right? Got girls lined up down the halls waiting for him to sign their perky tits, he doesn’t need to rape. It must be wishful thinking on her part, right? A wet dream she took as reality.

Why would you say that? Do you want to throw what he’s worked for down the drain? Accusations like this, they’re not jokes, y’know that? He’s got a scholarship, college wouldn’t take something like this so lightly.

Aw, you miss her. This goth chick in senior year. Your sorta friend. When it all went down and she had nowhere else to go, you invited her over because you’re a nice girl with no nefarious intentions. None at all. When she lay beside you at night, and she opened up, and she thanked you for believing her, you totally did not have your hand in your panties. And you totally did not rub yourself raw while she spoke about it in excruciating detail. You did not treat her rape case as erotica.

The dude got away with it of course. He was on TV the other day in fact. NFL. Baltimore Ravens. Still stupid hot. God, you wish it was you he picked - wouldn’t have told a single soul. Would’ve sucked the sweat from his jockstrap without complaint.

You’re too repulsive to be touched or raped, and you’ve learnt to live with that. Passing out in alleyways would result in rapists who frequent the area to avoid those very alleyways. Only your hand knows the cushiony softness of your tits, the wetness between your legs, how great your mouth feels— Only your dildo knows that, but you can imagine it’s good. You’re a total catch. A nympho. Men love nymphos when they’re pretty, which you are not. So you’re a nympho without the sex appeal. So in other words you are a pervert. A degenerate. A fucking freak.

It’s time to start sticking your fingers down your throat. ‘Cause that’s what gorgeous girls do to achieve that grave-robbed look. Heroin chic. Modelesque. It’s all the same type of beautiful. Emaciated and sickly. Dead girls are the sexiest ‘cause they can’t say yes or no and if there’s no no then it’s a yes. A nymphetic loophole of sorts. Men love dead girls that double as nymphos. Unfortunately, you are well and alive. Walking into traffic seems like fun, but you would be classed as roadkill, and it wouldn’t be tragically beautiful, just embarrassing to get scraped off the concrete like that. Even in death, you would be ugly because you are ugly to your very core. Your bone marrow is so ugly no scientist would want to make stem cells out of it, polynucleotides so deformed— You’re ugly. No need to wax poetic about it. Nothing poetic about being ugly.

Dad is the closest a human being can get to perfection. A divine image. Michelangelo is, like, dead and gone. David should've died alongside him. Dad deserves to take his place in the Accademia Gallery. With the way people gawk at him, he might as well be art. You’re surprised he doesn’t sell tickets to merely exist in his presence. He’s hot like a Calvin Klein model, and mom is hot like a regular model. Due to how you’ve turned out, you have a few qualms with your mother.

Like, what the fuck happened to you in her womb? Did someone take a mallet to one side of her belly to ensure her child came out as asymmetrical as one can be? A lack of nutrients maybe? Was she dieting during the pregnancy? Did dad fuck her too hard? Busted her womb up or some shit.

It simply might be that two rights make a wrong.

Or you were a tester before she popped your siblings out. Little ichor-filled putto. They were child models, scouted in their diapers, and you would stand behind your mother and the cameraman so hurt you couldn’t even feel jealous. Now they’re all grown up, fully-fledged erotes, and they’re working and doing all this shit you still haven’t managed to get a grasp on. Navigating the world as an ugly bitch is terribly hard.

Rape kinks are developed, dads get crushed on - awful, terrible things happen when girls are ugly and alone and unable to leave the comfort of their bedrooms.

Pretty girls have daddy issues that are dealt with in standard pretty girl fashion - finding emotionally unavailable, salt-and-pepper-haired men to fill every hole, including the one in their doll hearts. The thing is pretty girls don’t go for their dads. ‘Cause a lot of the time dads are gross. Dads do not look like your dad does. And to be fair you don’t exactly have daddy issues. Your dad is present and he doesn’t hit or shout or do anything out of the norm. Maybe this is a you issue.

It is a you issue, not even an ugly girl issue or an any type of girl issue. It’s your issue and yours alone.

It is your issue that when Leon asks what you want for dinner you almost ask for his hand around your throat or his hand in marriage. Either would be fine. Both would be preferred.

Severing your relationship would be even better. Goddamn, girls with absent fathers are lucky. You wish he was anything but your dad— It’s just that if you weren’t his daughter, dad wouldn’t ever look your way, he would pass by you like every man does.

Dad is a busy guy, and he’s a strange guy in the sense that he’s never really bothered with you. He loves your sister, and he loves your brother. But everyone loves those two. You don’t think he likes you very much, you can deal with that. Doesn’t mean you have daddy issues ‘cause no one likes you very much. So it’s a you issue and you should try harder.

Leon’s home early today. He’s collapsed on the couch, withered into himself like he always is after business trips. Mom said not to disturb him. You don’t. Then you do. This is like crack to you. Dad.

More specifically, dad without mom hovering over him. Dad’s sleeping so your brain is not stewed by his intense gaze. It only ever lingers on you for merely a second, but your stomach flips like you’ve got appendicitis and your legs spread involuntarily.

He’s a light sleeper, you’re well aware. He’s also a living, breathing Ken doll so you don’t put much thought into it when you reach out to ghost your fingers along the bridge of his nose. So pointy it could pierce your clit. Your clit. His nose. Oh, it could work so well, you want to grind yourself to mush against it.

Until dad shifts, he’s so beautiful up close you almost forget he’s real, not a wax figure. You trace the straight edge of his jaw, then thumb his petal lips, dragging your pointer finger over the fuller bottom one to push the tip into his wet mouth. Your dad is a slut. ‘Cause he sucks for a good second or two. Heat licks at your insides. You might vomit. His spit glistens like cobwebs when you take it back. That hand is shoved down your pants. That finger finds your clit, uses what spit is left to get it nice and wet. Which is totally unneeded, you’ve been soaked since god knows when, your pussy doesn’t know when to quit.

Feels good knowing that a part of dad is in you, his spit pushed into your hole. You’ll give him something back, it’s only fair, you smear your slick on the spot you traced. His tongue pokes out, likely to combat dry mouth, it swipes along his bottom lip— He tastes you. Heat engulfs you, chars your body from the inside out, the scent of rotting meat is in your nostrils.

Dad tasted you.

Holy fuck. You sit there with a trembling smile, staring down at him and he does not rouse. Shit, you’re creepy and you know it, but you’re not stupid. What other chance do you have? You unzip his old shearling jacket, underneath is that compression shirt that fits him too well. You map out the ridges of his abs, the slight dip between his pecs, every hard line that makes up his body. He smells so sexy, lavender and leather, must be some sorta pheromone ‘cause all you want to do is drop your face into his tits to bathe in that scent, to have it stick to your skin. Shit. Holy fucking shit. You’ve got a sex doll instead of a dad. That explains the distantness. He’s made of silicone.

The door clicks the moment you find it in yourself to click open his belt.

“What're you doing?” Mom ruins everything. She’s had it out for you the moment you formed in her womb. “He’s sleeping, don’t disturb him.” She says tersely, placing her Coach Tabby on the coffee table.

“He was cold.” That’s why his nipples are peaking, piercing the fabric of that shirt. Should be illegal to wear that in public. He’s asking for it.

“Yeah?” She asks, unconvinced, bending down to unclasp her heels.

“Yeah.” You stand up, dad’s indirect kiss on your cunt, shoot her a nasty sneer before you scuttle away to your bedroom for the rest of the day.

There are stairs that creak and stairs that don’t. You hang around down here at midnight often so you know the right path to take as to not alert your parents of your presence. They’re speaking about you.

“—be careful around her.” Truly, you hate your mother.

“What is there to be careful about?” Right? You tell her dad.

“Just, just be careful. She doesn’t y’know.”

“She doesn’t what?”

“She doesn’t get off her ass, she doesn’t talk to anyone but, well, I don’t know actually, she doesn’t talk to anyone at all.” You could pretend and say it hurts, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing insulting about the truth.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re a guy, she doesn't talk to guys.”

“We don’t talk much either.” Dad is too stiff to make conversation, and you collapse anytime he breathes in your general direction.

“Yeah, but, Leon.” Mom sounds exasperated, but she’s not getting her point across well. She should know better, dad’s skull is thicker than cement. “I’m worried.”

“What, for me or her?”

“Her, obviously, I don’t want her to… I want her to get out, like, I want her to do stuff,” mom sniffles, she is so putting this on to make dad feel guilty. “It’s so hard to watch your adult daughter just sit in a room and do nothing all day, Leon, she’s like a big fucking baby, why is she like that?”

“Babe,” he coos, and your knees buckle.

“Go talk to her.”

“What?”

“Go talk to her about it,” Mom repeats, voice shaking. “She doesn’t listen to me.”

They go back and forth for a few minutes, and then dad sighs and says fine. You make haste back to your hovel that doubles as a bedroom, crawl into bed and try to look natural.

Leon clears his throat before he knocks, when you don’t answer he pokes his head in. He says your name and you stir, sheets taut to your body as you peek up at him.

“You should open a window in here.”

When you don’t respond, he sits at the foot of your bed, looks around and nods. His gaze is scathing. Not purposefully. You just take it that way.

“Dinner’s ready,” he lies, then he leaves. His perfume lingers, and you touch the space he was sitting in, his warmth remains.

The day after that, you’re in the living room, tuckered out after mom forced you to help her with the groceries. You’re not cut out for this sort of life. The living sort of life. You were made to rot.

“Door wasn’t locked,” Leon says when he steps in, he puts his keys down, shucks his jacket off, tracks mud halfway down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Your shoes, Leon,” Mom groans, “she came in last.”

“Oh, sorry,” you say absentmindedly. If it doesn’t include tits or dicks or pussy it is none of your business. You have enough energy to keep up with one thing and that is your porn addiction. Groceries really took it out of you.

“You should be careful, rapists might come in, murderers or some shit.” Leon is speaking to your mother. Not you because he has seen your face and he knows very well that an ugly girl like you would survive out of sheer ugliness.

Mom snorts, “I think you’re the scariest thing that could walk through that door, honey.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

You’d like to know what that means too. Well, you get the gist, ‘cause you’ve heard all those stories. Dad and his wandering hands.

“You know what that means.” The sound of lips smacking is enough to have you feeling sick, dizzy as you cling to the walls and make your escape. “Did she leave— Quit it, Leon— Hands off, can you go talk to her, please? Properly this time.”

He forgets to knock this time, or he can’t bother to knock. Dad sits in that same spot, he opens his mouth and closes it about five times.

“Mom’s worried about you,” Leon says robotically. “You good?”

“I’m great.” Your tone is unconvincing, but he clearly doesn’t care enough because you're his dirty little secret. Not in a sex way. You would do anything for it to be in the sex way. Dirty little secret as in the ugly kid he chooses to ignore purely because you’re ugly. Dad doesn’t like ugly girls, you know that. He doesn’t think they’re worth a second glance, even a first glance is too much. Dad is superficial and his love is plastic.

These are all things you’re making up in your head based on assumptions. This is how all attractive men think. Ugly girls aren’t worth rape, dirtying your dick in ugly pussy sounds like a hassle. If you were pretty, you wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy. Even as a self-proclaimed ugly girl, you still wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy ‘cause they’re gross, and it’s not like they want you. Ugly guys shoot high and aim for pretty girls. Duh.

So you get it. Honestly. Whatever. Dad doesn’t like you. That’s okay, you don’t like him as a dad anyway. You love him like an obsessive lover. A hallway crush that stars in your late-night rape fantasies. And you’re fine like this. You’re so fine.

“Can I… Can I actually have a hug, dad?” You muster up what is left in your hollow heart to ask him that. It’s a big deal.

Leon blinks at you, levels you with his blank stare. He’s so handsome you want to blow your brains out, it’s an easy feat because you’re always looking for reasons to blow your brains out. Every straw is your last and yet you’re still here.

“Sure, sweetheart.” Dad opens his arms, and you crawl towards him, head on his shoulder as his arms loop around your waist. Oh, god, you will your heart into giving out. Dying right here in dad’s arms is ideal.

He holds you so gently it’s brutal. He crushes you with the weight of his loveless love. Dad’s so good at pretending you almost think he cares.

“Can you… I want to stay like this.”

“Uh, sure, sweetheart,” Leon calls everyone sweetheart. Sweetheart is his default. Sweetheart ranges from Auntie Ashley to babysitters to lifeguards and retail workers who aren’t getting paid enough to deal with some old man making eyes at them. Not that anyone minds dad’s attention. It’s fucking unfair. Mom is babe, and your sister is baby, and your brother is buddy or sport or tiger or whatever shit he pulls out of his ass. And you’re sweetheart because you’re not important to him. His firstborn daughter is not important to him ‘cause she’s ugly. More of a specimen than a human.

You would do anything to keep him here.

“Dad?” You whisper into his neck.

“…Yeah?”

“I want you to…” Your lack of life flashes in front of your eyes. Bedroom. Bedroom. Porn. Bedroom. Porn. Porn. Dad. Not much. What have you got to lose? “I want to— I want to fuck you.”

Dad is silent. Then: “Oh.” He never makes the move to pull away, so you sit snugly in his grip for a few seconds longer.

“I— Dad, I touch myself thinkin’ about you.” Your stomach ties itself into a Gordian knot.

“Yeah, okay, why don’t we— Yeah, fuck, I see what she meant, okay. Wow, that’s a lot. Sweetheart, why… Listen.” Dad says a whole lot of nothing as he takes your hands off him.

“Please… I love you, dad. I really like you— I know it’s weird, dad, I do, seriously, I know, but please I just… I just like you.” There is no explanation for it. “Dad… Daddy.”

He full-on winces. It’s like you’re being flayed. Something inside of you just— Just shatters. Not your heart ‘cause it’s pumping more blood than it ever has. Fragments of your sanity splinter into even smaller segments until there is nothing left but nauseating levels of mental disturbance.

“If you don’t…”

“You seriously trying that right now?” Leon scoffs, and he’s so cocky you get hot under the collar.

(Between your thighs too, but that’s a different story.)

“Yeah, I’m serious— If you don’t… If you don’t do it- do it with me, I’ll tell mom you… I’ll tell her you raped me.” In actuality, you would never tell mom if daddy raped you. You would treasure it, keep it in a heart-shaped locket and think about it when you get off twelve times a day. Getting your pussy reamed by dad’s cock would fix you right up.

“Don’t— Are you okay?” Leon smacks your hand away, his tone is even.

“You do it too— I know you’ve done it, I know how you and mom met.”

His face drains, pallor yellowish. “That don’t… That’s different.”

“How is that any different?” Different ‘cause he’s hot and mom is hot. Leon passed it off as a drunken mistake and they end up getting together. It’s not rape if the perpetrator is a hottie. You agree, but still— It’s not fucking fair.

“‘Cause I didn’t do this.” Leon gestures abstractly.

You kiss him, hands braced on each of his tits, digging your fingers into the meat to feel him tense and harden like he’s wearing a chest plate. “You’re so hot dad,” you whine into his mouth, and Leon is quick to push you off, your wrists in his hands. Makeshift handcuffs.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Dad is using his dad voice. It’s like porn to you, only makes you wetter. “I don’t like hitting girls, but you’re givin’ me a damn good reason.”

“You can hit me, daddy.” You offer your face to him, stretching your neck forward, closing your eyes as you wait for the impact. It lands firm on your cheek, his fingertips catching the tip of your nose. Fuck that felt good. Shit. You think you’ve creamed your panties. “Again, dad, hit me again—“ He does. Harder than the last time. Your head knocks backwards, and your brain must have a dent in it.

Dad puts you over his lap and you’re so sure you’ve entered the pearly gates. Or the innermost circle of hell. Probably that ‘cause Jesus Christ are you steaming.

“I hate stupid little sluts that try it out on me,” Leon drags your sweats over the swell of your ass, “Do you have a dick?”

“What, dad— No!” You tell him, more mortified at his question than you are by your bare ass under his palm. Fuck— You’re so wet it’s disgusting, dripping down your thighs and surely staining his lap. Thick like treacle.

“No? Were you gonna rape dad with this stupid cunt?” Oh, you hope he spanks your pussy. Porn makes it look delicious. “You look like you might have a dick with that face of yours.” He traces the seam of your cunt through your panties. “Or is your pussy just fat?”

Good fucking lord.

“Dad…” You arch into him, only to have a hand come down on your left ass cheek. One. Two. Three. They all hurt bad as each other. Four. “Ouch!” That one hurt real bad. Five. You feel like a naughty child. This is not as hot as you thought it would be. More dull and embarrassing. Not even the good kind of embarrassing.

Leon puts you on your knees, the hand wrapped around your jaw forces your lips into a pout, and you think he is going to kiss you— God, you close your eyes and wait for it, lean into him, shit you’d pop your leg if you were standing up. He spits in your face and it trickles down the bridge of your nose.

“Got me dirty with that filthy pussy.” Dad speaks offhandedly, he speaks to you like you’re dog shit. Not dog shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Just dog shit on the side of the road. Like the sort that bothers you enough to complain about it, but it doesn’t ignite any real anger.

His hand remains tight on your jaw, then he drops it to fish his fat cock from his pants to slap the drippy head on your cheek. The sound ricochets off the walls. Hits you like a bullet. Holy fuck. Dad really just did that. You giggle, batting your lashes up at him as pretty as an ugly girl can, and he grimaces so it can’t be pretty.

“Christ, you nasty fuck,” Leon snickers at the look on your face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Daddy,” you whimper, nosing the tip of his dick, he smells so good you want him in your mouth, “I jus’ love you lots.”

“God, I hate ugly little freaks like you.” He said that already, no need to rub it in. Another slap of his cock on your face. Your heart beats for him and him alone. “You know what I think?” Dad guides his cock into your warm mouth. “Shit, that’s good— I think your mom is a liar.”

His dick is all you’ve ever wanted. It’s heavy on your tongue, though the longer you suckle on the tip, the weightier it gets, and he’s wet. Dripping all over the place. You must get that gene from your dad.

“‘Cause I don’t think,” he grunts, palm resting on your forehead to push you off his shaft, “I don’t think I could make a kid this ugly.”

“No,” you say breathlessly, “No, you’re my dad, my daddy.” Crouched down below him, you lave over his balls, putting more effort into this than you have done with anything else in your life. Gargling dad’s balls is your best work. Nothing else you have to be proud of.

Your pussy is pulsing, shit has its own heartbeat, you drop your hand down to soothe your poor cunt, rubbing figure eights into the bulge of your clit over your panties. It’s not enough, you push them to the side, your fingers slip a couple times, not enough, only dad’s fingers are enough, only his cock will plug up your leaking hole.

“Get off me,” dad instructs, and you might be glued to him, but you detach yourself immediately. “C’mon, stand up.” You use his thighs as leverage, standing on shaky legs that threaten to give out at any second. He takes your shirt off. “Cute tits gone to waste,” dad sighs like it’s heartbreaking. “We could've done something about it, y’know? Could fix your face right up, just had to ask daddy.”

“Really, dad? I want to be pretty, daddy, I want to be pretty for you, you never call me pretty— Daddy, I want to be pretty, please.” You clasp his shirt, and he brings you into his lap once more, raising your legs to slide your panties down so you’re free bleeding on his lap. Free bleeding without the blood. Just good old pussy.

“Messin’ with you, sweetheart, can’t fix that dog face,” dad coos to you tenderly, and the plain-as-day insult flies right over you. Dad could get you to sell both your kidneys if he keeps talking to you like that. “Just gotta live with it.”

You have. You have lived with it. That’s what you do. Live with your ugly face. You could die, that’s an option, but you choose to wait it out. ‘Cause dying is pretty scary no matter how much you want it. And Leon’s dick is hard beneath your pussy so there are things to live for. The world isn’t all cruel.

“Up,” he taps your lower back, you raise your hips and he presses his cock to your stretched hole. Toy after toy after toy. All to ready yourself for dad. When you sink down on him, your body convulses. It’s the sweet release of death. Or an orgasm. Fuck. Dying on dad’s cock is— You haven’t died on his dick, he fucks you through your high, feet planted firmly on the ground as he thrusts upwards, dick angled just right.

Heroin is meant to be good. You’ve seen Trainspotting. Better than any cock— You don’t believe that for a minute. Unless he’s leaking smack straight into your pussy, numbing your walls. Could be that ‘cause god— You’re not really thinking, not that you think much, when you decide to shove your fingers into his mouth.

“Daddy, can you taste me?” You ask him, giving a languid grind of your hips down onto his cock, you regret it immediately ‘cause it’s so good your cunt squelches loudly. “Do you taste me, dad? Dad—“

“Yeah,” Dad says, muffled, “Shoving your fingers down my fuckin’ throat, you little psycho, ‘course I taste it.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Daddy looks so pretty with his lips wrapped around your fingers, you fuck them in and out of his pink mouth, his tongue runs along the length of your fingers like he’s sucking a nice cock. Treating your fingers better than you did his dick.

Daddy’s splitting you in two. He fucks you without a care in the world. ‘Cause he doesn’t care about you. One-time-use pussy. You’re disposable like the gloves you get with box dye. Like a plastic spork. His cock is so deep he might as well tear open your middle and fuck your guts. Leon grabs your hips, forces you up and drops you down. The air in your lungs has no time to build up— You grasp at his shirt, bouncing in his lap like you’re a fleshlight, and you would be so happy with that title. Dad’s personal fleshlight. It makes you giddy.

Leon’s cock twitches inside of you, when he lifts you off of him, your pussy clings to the tip, holding on for dear life, insistent on milking daddy’s dick, taking every drop of his cum.

“Daddy…” Your head drops to his shoulder. “Please, daddy, am I pretty? Can you call me pretty?”

His hips stutter, and you don’t have to see his face to know he hesitates. It’s a struggle to call a girl like you pretty. “You’re so pretty, sweetheart.” Then he dumps his load so deep— So deep, you warm to the thought of having your daddy’s baby. You already fucked so why not go the extra mile?

Dad doesn’t kiss you, but he lays you down and tucks you in like he never has before. “Your mom’s worried.” He goes back to the topic at hand and you groan, covering your face with a pillow. “Hey, we can, uh…” Leon scratches his head. “We can y’know…” He shrugs, glances down at you. “Can do that if you try pulling your weight a little.”

The promise of your dad’s cock is enough to have you applying for every job in a thirty-mile radius. Dad’s cock is a fix for an ugly girl like you. You’ve got a pussy only your daddy could love, and you think you’re more than okay with that.

#leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you

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starryluminary · 2 months

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♪ Jane Doe - Alicia Keys

The EX Files finally!! The episode where Cody and Noah face the consequences of their actions (the consequences they frankly don't deserve)

I hope this is coherent. I had to add and change some things last second to tie it together and I reeeeally hope I managed to have it read well

Notes about this episode under the cut! (There’s extra detail I couldn’t fit in the doodles and needed context for future episodes, so skimming them is recommended!)

* (It’d be funny if Noah had a black eye this episode from Sierra’s backhand.)

* It starts off with Sierra crying and Courtney and Heather making Cody comfort her, which he does reluctantly.

* Cody's not entirely sure what to say to try and calm her down, but she retorts with “Whatever… it’s not like you're in love with him.”

* Sierra looks back at him… and he’s frozen. He doesn’t know how to respond.

* Sierra can take a guess, though. “…No you aren't.” She harshly grabs him by the arms and yells at him, desperately, “NO YOU AREN'T!!”

* Heather grabs Sierra and Courtney grabs Cody to separate them. Cody promptly runs away and Sierra promptly gets yelled at by Heather (not because she cares, but because Cody being injured would make him a liability.)

* On Team Chris’s side, Alejandro, Owen, Duncan and Tyler are huddled discussing the incident. Owen tries his best to be on Noah's side, defending him, but Alejandro twists the story to paint Noah as the one in the wrong. Owen doesn’t want to admit he’s making sense. Duncan is completely against Noah, backing up Alejandro. Tyler however doesn’t participate until Noah gets fed up of the not-so whispering and storms out of first class.

* Cast regroups for the challenge rules and Noah joins Cody's side, quipping something I can’t remember. Cody quips back. Sierra pushes Noah to the ground in response, pretending to be in on the joke.

* The “Courtney throwing challenges” bit is replaced by Tyler watching/paying extremely close attention to Noah to determine if Noah’s situation is sympathetic or immoral. Noah gets more mad the longer the episode goes on cause Tyler isn’t exactly subtle.

* Cody finds the cloning pod and makes Alien Cody like in canon. [I’m making him a bit more curious and a bit less initially threatening, like he has Cody’s thoughts and opinions and feelings.] Alien Cody approaches the real Cody slowly, and Sierra finds them. She’s shocked at first: “Two Codys?” Then she starts wondering, and asks the Alien Cody a question. “Do… you love me?” Alien Cody sticks its tongue out at her and scurries away.

* Once Sierra and Cody are alone together, Sierra tells him she’ll forgive him. Cody is confused. Sierra explains. “Obviously Noah got into your soft, easily manipulated mind, and that was wrong of him!” She grabs Cody’s face. “But don’t worry.” She leans in and puckers her lips. Cody looks at her horrified. “I can fix it.”

* Before Noah and Cody find each other, Noah finds Alien Cody. He thinks it’s the real one at first, approaching it casually. He then notices the messy hair, green tinted skin and the eyes (which I’m making entirely black cause these are pencil drawings with no color) and becomes more cautious towards it. “You’re not Cody. What… are you?” ET finger touch.

* Duncan sees this from afar and yells at Noah: “Are you *seriously* messing with Cody right now?!” Noah tries to respond: “I’m not! This isn’t-“ Alien Cody interrupts him with a growl directed at Duncan. He charges towards him with malicious intent and Duncan punches him, making him explode into goop. Noah does not falter. “Way to kill our winning ticket, idiot.” Duncan does not hesitate. “I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you.”

~ *[Events of the comic]* ~

* Team Amazon makes it back to Chris with an artifact first and win the challenge. Cody looks back at Noah (whose team was only slightly behind his own) sympathetically. Noah looks back with understanding. I want to say Sierra’s slightly too loud and exited about NOT the Amazons winning, but of team Chris losing. Tyler (who’s paying way too much attention now) notices and comes to a conclusion.

* Owen gets voted off this episode for being dead weight, and he and Noah hug before he jumps. Owen tells Noah to “win for him” and Noah replies that he makes no promises… but he’ll try.

Sorry that’s. Like a lot. The story kinda got away from me

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moonstruckme · 7 months

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On Thin Ice

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

This was requested by anon, but I'm not including the request because I'm going to write at least one more part and I don't want to spoil anything. But thanks so much for requesting, anon my love! I'm really having fun with it :) Also, just a disclaimer that I know next to nothing about figure skating, so while I tried to look most things up, there may be some inaccuracies

summary: when your usual figure skating partner Regulus is injured, you're forced to prepare the most romantic routine you've ever done with Sirius Black. You've known Sirius since you were little and have always found him irritating, but as you spend more and more time together, your feelings towards him start to change

cw: mention of injury (no details), Sirius Black is a relentless flirt

Figure Skater!Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 3.3k words

You want to be kinder to your friend, but you’re a bit angry with him. You’re not great at hiding it, either.

“It’s not like I can fucking help it.” Regulus rolls his eyes, and you do your best to undo the petulant pout of your lips.

“I know,” you sigh. “I know that. I’m sorry, it’s just, seriously? Why can’t Coach give me someone else?”

“You know why.”

You blow out another huffy breath, because you do know, but that doesn’t make you like it any better. Sirius is our best bet, your coach had told you, firm and impassive to your protests. He’s great on the ice, he always scores well, and Reg can teach him the routine while they’re at home. If we used anyone else, we’d lose time while they learned it. You’d sulked, and he’d given you a stern look. So suck it up.

And you’re trying. Kind of. You wouldn’t ordinarily consider yourself an ill-tempered person, but Sirius Black brings out the worst in you. Always has. He’s Regulus’ irritating older brother, always around to pull your pigtails when you were little and make fun of everything you and Reg enjoyed as you got older. And in everything you love about your best friend, Sirius is the opposite. Where Regulus is restrained, Sirius is brash; where Regulus is content with a few close friends, Sirius needs an entire posse around him at all times; where Regulus has a quick, quiet wit, Sirius seems to feel a joke isn’t worth telling if everyone can’t hear it. He’s loud and facetious and insufferable, and now he’s your partner in the most intimate routine you’ve ever done.

“I know,” you groan again, falling back onto Regulus’ bed. “I just wish I could change it. Who do I have to bribe to get you a miracle recovery?”

Regulus scoffs, but he lies down beside you sympathetically. “The doctor said it should be better by next season, but a fractured ankle doesn’t fix itself in a couple weeks.” His voice turns bitter. “Trust me, I asked.”

You wince guiltily. You’re not the only one suffering from Regulus’ incapacity. You’d both been practicing this routine for weeks. It was one of the most challenging and showy either of you have ever done. You were both supposed to have the chance to really shine, showing off your skills with complicated jumps and throws, some of which you’d never attempted before. But now Reg wouldn’t get the change.

Ironically, it had been a fairly simple routine that had taken him down. One of your go-tos. You’d been performing it together for years, but maybe that sense of security was dangerous too. It’s too easy to land wrong, and one tiny slip had fractured Regulus’ ankle right in the middle of competition, forcing your coach to come help you get him off the ice.

You’d cried more than he had as the on-site medics had inspected it, completely unhelpful but unable to bear seeing your best friend’s features twisted in agony. It turned out that was nothing compared to the look on his face when they’d told him he wouldn’t be able to skate on it for months.

“How does it feel?” you ask, more gently now, and Regulus’ scowl softens in response. “Does it still hurt all of the time?”

“Not really, only when I walk on it. And they said I should be able to do that without much pain soon, just no jumping or anything.”

Your heart aches with sympathy, and you have to resist the urge to reach over and touch his hand, his hair. Regulus has never much liked being touched, which you understand, but it makes him a difficult person to comfort. You resort to your method with the highest success rate: distraction.

“Well, at least the cast is a fun accessory,” you say, forcing levity into your voice. “We could draw on it, it’ll be like having tattoos.”

“Pass,” Reg replies disinterestedly. “Tattoos are more my brother’s aesthetic than mine.”

“Ugh.” You roll your eyes, unable to stopper your irritation at the return of the conversation to Sirius. “Do you think Coach will let me have a new partner if I kneecap him?”

“If you’re going to kneecap someone,” comes a cool voice from the open doorway, “it’s probably best not to ponder your scheme so loudly in their house.”

You raise your head to find Sirius leaning against the door frame, arms crossed insouciantly in front of his chest. He looks at you with the eyes he shares with his brother, but where Regulus’ tend towards cool grayness, Sirius’ always seem to waver between gray and blue, like the sky during a storm. They’re flashing now, amusement mingled with cunning, as you meet them with a glare.

“Maybe I’m just giving you a red herring,” you say smoothly, “so you’ll never see my actual plan coming.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you, shortcake,” Sirius replies, grinning when your face goes hot at the nickname, “but I think I’ll start wearing protective gear just in case. Reg, think you could revoke this one’s key until after the competition?”

Regulus pretends to contemplate this, staring up at the ceiling. “No, she’ll only start coming in through my window again.” You grin at him, and the corner of his mouth twitches in response, remembering all the cuts and bruises you used to have when you were younger from climbing the old tree outside his window, late at night when you were both supposed to be asleep. The first few times you’d tried, rotting branches had broken and fallen from beneath you, but you’d kept at it until you’d plotted a safe course. You’re sure Reg would have snuck downstairs to let you in the front door if you’d ask him, but better you get in trouble than him. “Anyway, it’ll be entertaining to watch.”

“Whatever happened to brotherly loyalty?” Sirius feigns hurt, but gets past it quickly. “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to keep in mind that if I can’t perform, there won’t be a performance. I’ve already learnt half the routine, and I think you might struggle to find someone else skilled enough to catch up in time.” He winks at you, and you scoff, pointedly unaffected. “So I’ll see you at practice on Monday, sunshine,” he gloats, and disappears down the hallway.

You wait until you hear the click of his door to lay back down, passing a hand over your face exhaustedly. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to deal with that all of the time,” you moan.

Regulus chuckles wryly. “Welcome to my world.”

☆ ☆ ☆

“Y/N,” Coach calls frustratedly. “You have to let him throw you, not jump.”

You’ve almost just followed in Regulus’ footsteps for the upteenth time today, which isn’t exactly in line with your plan of getting Sirius injured, but you figure will do in a pinch. The truth is, your focus has been off all day. Switching to a new partner is always hard; you’re used to Regulus, you’ve spent years learning how to skate together, to anticipate the other’s movements, and finding that rhythm with another person takes work. But learning how to skate with Sirius is more challenging than even you had expected. He’s distracting, for one thing. He keeps smiling at you, making faces when you mess up, and whispering obnoxious little pointers when you’re in the middle of a complicated move. And his own movements are bigger and more elaborate than you’re used to, lacking Regulus’ control. You can see, objectively, how it works for him. It gives his performance that extra bit of artistry that Regulus has often been accused of needing, but it makes him more difficult to anticipate. He’s stronger than Reg, too, so he throws you higher, flings you farther, grips you tighter. It’s a lot to learn, but your coach doesn’t seem very sympathetic to your plight. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve wasted almost an entire day of practice and are undoing weeks of hard work learning the choreography with your repeated mistakes.

You nod at him again, moving to reset, but Sirius slides in front of you.

“Hey,” he says, “I can feel you tensing when I go to throw you. Is something wrong?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest, breath still puffing into the air between you from the exertion of your leap. “No,” you reply shortly. “I’ll fix it.”

And really, you should have been able to fix it a dozen tries ago. You’ve practiced throws with Regulus for years now. You’re supposed to push down on Sirius’ shoulders, use the momentum of your spin to give you a little boost, and let him do the rest. But you can’t seem to manage the last part. Sirius’ hands on your waist had discomposed you from the first try, and you keep finding yourself trying to jump off the ground before he has a chance to lift you. It doesn’t work, you know it’s never going to work, but it’s like some fight-or-flight instinct takes over every time Sirius’ hands get close to you. You suspect it’s because you’re so used to Regulus’ touch aversion; this routine is meant to seem romantic, but between the two of you, it had always felt chaste, more about the mechanics of the movements than the meanings behind them. Sirius loves to be touched, though, probably too much. He teases you about how cold your hand is in his, the tentative way you touch his shoulder when you’re supposed to grip it, how you jolt a little when he rests his hand on the small of your back. You’re on edge every second he’s around you, which by the very nature of the routine, is often.

And so you keep jumping, which causes Sirius’s throw to be stunted when he can’t get a good grip on you, which causes you to fumble your landing. Every. Time.

“You can trust me, you know,” Sirius persists, looking half earnest for once in his life. “I’m not going to launch you too high or anything. Just let me do the work.”

“I’ve got it,” you growl, and Sirius raises his hands in mocking surrender, moving out of your way. You glide back into position, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You don’t need his advice, you’ve been doing just fine without it for years. You’ll get it on your own.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Why is it,” Regulus drawls, coming into your room, “that when you mess up at practice, it’s still my problem to solve?” He sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to disturb the open bottle of nail polish you’re using. “I’m not even your partner right now, but both Coach and Sirius are complaining to me that you can’t sync up with him.”

You keep your eyes on your fingertips, sweeping the brush across your nails in careful, measured strokes. “I’m working on it.”

“What’s the problem?” He sounds more puzzled than frustrated. “Sirius is annoying, but he’s not actually an asshole. He won’t sabotage you.”

“I’m not accusing him of anything,” you say. “I just…I can’t get it right. I don’t know. He’s so different to you, and I can’t figure out how to make it work.”

“Well, you’d better figure it out soon,” Regulus replies, not without sympathy. “There’s only a couple of weeks until comp, and it seems like the both of you will need all the practice you can get together.”

You know he’s right, and that’s exactly what you’re dreading.

☆ ☆ ☆

The next practice goes about the same, the only difference being your coach’s mounting exasperation. Actually, no, there is one other change: Sirius’ movements become smoother, more sure, as he grows increasingly familiar with the choreography.

So basically, he’s getting better while you’re getting worse.

Though you all know there’s no time to waste with the competition coming up, Coach ends practice early in his irritation, letting you go with strict instructions to get your shit together before you meet again tomorrow. You promise him you’ll try, though you’re both coming to know that won’t be enough.

You take your time unlacing your skates, shrugging on your jacket and stopping to buy a hot chocolate from the vendor up front before going out into the brisk autumn air. You’d started this new routine after your first practice with Sirius, stalling so that he’d have a head start and you wouldn’t have to walk home in the same direction, but you take two steps outside before you realize your plan has been foiled.

“Coach will kill you if he catches you with one of those,” you say, and the cherry of Sirius’ cigarette burns orange as he takes a drag, eyes lighting with playful defiance.

He blows the smoke away from you. “You won’t tattle on me though, will you, sunshine?”

“Reg won’t like it either.”

“He knows,” Sirius says, as though Regulus’ opinion is of little concern to him. “You took your time in there. Ready to go?”

You don’t try to keep the suspicion from your face. “You were waiting on me?”

“I figure we could use some extra practice.” He drops his cigarette, stamping it out half smoked. “If you’re not too tired, I mean.” You give him an indignant look, and Sirius grins. “C’mon, it’s too cold out here for those leggings.”

You follow him reluctantly, sipping at your hot chocolate because damn it, he’s right. The wind had been cool when you’d gone into practice, but nightfall has stolen the little bit of warmth the sun provided. You wouldn’t be surprised if you woke tomorrow to find the trees prematurely bare of their leaves.

The Blacks’ house isn’t far, and your eager pace gets you there in a hurry. You’re thinking you’ll go to Regulus’ room as soon as you get inside, ditching Sirius and whatever humiliation he has planned for you, but when you approach the house, every window is dark.

“They’re at my aunt’s for dinner,” Sirius answers your unasked question, unlocking the door. “I begged off because of practice.” He laughs as you follow him inside. “Try not to look so happy about it, shortcake.”

You roll your eyes, starting up the stairs that go to the bedrooms. “When will Reg be home?”

“Late.” Sirius’ voice is close behind you. “You’re welcome to wait for him, of course, but we may as well make use of the time.” On the top step, you whirl, relishing the opportunity to look down on him for once.

“Fine. What are we doing here?”

You don’t know if you’d hoped he’d be intimidated, but Sirius appears as unbothered as always. “Like I said. Practice.” He brushes past you, leading the way into his bedroom. After a moment, you follow grudgingly.

Like everything about Sirius, his room is loud. Almost every inch of wall space is covered in band posters, medals from competitions, pictures of his friends. There are clothes strewn across the bed and shoes scattered about the floor, but if Sirius is even conscious of the mess, he doesn’t mention it.

“What did you have in mind?” you ask.

Sirius turns, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re surprisingly determined. “We need to figure out whatever it is that’s been holding you up,” he says. “We’ve gotta get past it.”

You feel like stomping your foot, but very maturely refrain. You’re about done with the subject of your failures for the day. “I don’t know what it is.”

“I think you do,” Sirius says cooly. “Wanna know how I know?”

“How?”

He grins. “Because you just admitted it.”

“You—I just asked how,” you splutter angrily.

Sirius gives you a knowing look. “Right, so it has nothing to do with you being afraid of me touching you?”

Your face heats. How could he know that? You look at him for a moment, and he looks back at you with that cool, even gaze, like he thinks he’s got you all figured out. As much as you resent him for it, he’s right. You’ve got no shot at a decent score in this competition if you can’t get past your mental block around Sirius. “I’m not afraid.” You roll your eyes, downplaying the admission. “I’m just not used to it, okay? I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but you’re not exactly a carbon copy of my usual partner.”

Sirius grins again, and for the first time you get the sense that he’s laughing with you instead of at you. “I have been made aware of that a few times over our lives, yes. But okay, you’re not used to it. Let’s get you used to it.”

You cross your arms over your chest, not sure where he’s going with this but fairly sure you won’t like it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m going to throw you until you can handle it without flinching. Sound good?”

You look at him like he’s stupid. “The rink is closed, and there’s nowhere for me to land here.”

“Sure there is.” Sirius pats his bed cheerfully. You stay right where you are. Something changes in his expression, and you think you might detect a bit of kindness behind his teasing tone. “C’mon, sweetheart. I don’t know what Reggie’s told you, but I don’t actually bite.”

You huff, but go to stand in front of him. He’s shed his coat, revealing the plain black shirt underneath, and the sleeves grip his biceps. Even in the poor lamplight, you can see his eyes changing colors like schools of fish as they swim. Now blue, now gray.

“Alright.” Sirius sets his hands on your waist, and you tense automatically. “See, that’s the habit we have to break. Relax for me, shortcake.”

His words certainly don’t help, but you do your best, unclenching the muscles in your stomach and legs.

“Perfect,” he says, then launches you into the air. You barely have time to gasp before you’re landing on his bed, springs squealing in protest. “Okay, next time, try to spin or something.”

“I wasn’t ready,” you protest.

Sirius laughs. “I know. Sorry, couldn’t resist. Let’s try to do it like practice this time, yeah? So you go over there,” he motions to the door, “and run towards me. When I throw you, try to spin if you can, but don’t try to stick the landing or anything. Just land on your butt.”

You roll your eyes, moving to the door. “Yeah, I’m in no hurry to break my ankle like Reg, thanks.”

He winks. “Just making sure.” He spreads his feet a bit, bracing himself. “Alright, let’s give it a try.”

It’s easy to remember Sirius is an older brother when he gets all bossy like this, but you comply, gaining as much speed as you can on the way to him before he’s gripping you around the waist, tossing you into the air. You manage a half-turn before your back end hits the bed.

“Better!” Sirius exclaims, beaming at you. “You still seemed a bit tense, but at least you didn’t try to jump by yourself. Again?”

You can’t help a little smile of your own as you nod, pushing up off the bed and repositioning yourself at the door.

☆ ☆ ☆

When Regulus gets home, he finds you sprawled on Sirius’ bed with his brother sitting beside you, both thoroughly worn out.

“Did you fix it?” he asks.

You grin at the ceiling, wondering if it’s your pride or Sirius’ you’re feeling in the air, or both. “I think so.”

“Coach might get the chance to be mad at me instead, tomorrow,” Sirius laments. “My arms are fucking dead. Too many throws and I might drop you on the ice.”

“Don’t break my partner,” Regulus says warningly.

“Yeah,” you second, hauling yourself into a sitting position and going to meet Regulus at the door, “please don’t.”

You can hear Sirius’ eyes rolling as he says, “I won’t. See you at practice tomorrow, shortcake?”

It’s harder than usual to muster up annoyance for the teasing nickname. “See you tomorrow.”

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pinktom · 3 months

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why do so many tomarrymort shippers try to make harry suck?

as much as i dislike portrayals of tom riddle as a dominant, awesome figure—rather than the goofy camp psycho he actually is—there's really nothing worse than how some tomarrymort shippers try to bastardize harry's character.

important facts:

harry is:

uniquely resilient - a dandelion child - a child who can be stomped on, ruthlessly, and still get back up and fight

a jock - his love of quidditch is one of the most important details about his character, erasing this from him is like saying hermione doesn't like reading

masculine - yeah, i mean there is quite literally nothing effeminate about him whatsoever - he's competitive, he loves playing sports, he physically protects those around him, and his approach to conflict isn't to be gentle and diplomatic — it's to fight [note: i mean this in the traditional "personality" sense, there's nothing wrong with putting him in a cute pink dress or knocking him up with omega babies, i mean fuck it]

harry is not:

whiny / bratty - even against the most extreme adversity, he's quite chill and will clap back in a heartbeat

academic - he's very smart and does really well in school, but he shows very little interest in reading and learning as a hobby

weak - he is actually the strongest character, in spirit and mind, in the entire series, as demonstrated many times, like his ability to throw off voldemort's imperius curse (at the age of 14!) and his willingness to stand proudly and face death (age 17); how so many people get away with writing him like this spineless wimp, i'll never comprehend

if harry is your self-insert comfort character, just say so. don't annoy everyone by insisting he has traits he plainly doesn't have. it makes you look like you can't even read at the third grade level.

tom and harry are one in the same - headstrong, resilient, unyielding. they're both masculine and they're both tough. the heteronormative projections on this ship go so crazy.

#not tagged for a reason xD #just wanted to bitch

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absolutelynotmate-archive · 1 year

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you gotta move, or move on- c.leclerc

love is so short, forgetting is so long pairing: charles leclerc x female reader word count: 5.5k warnings: angsty slay I'VE MOVED BLOGS! if you enjoy this and are looking for more, follow me @formulaforza

You were seventeen when your parents picked up your entire life and moved to the tiniest, most congested country they could have possibly chosen. You’d vacationed there, spent your summers there for years, and you’re the first to admit it’s beautiful. Paris is beautiful, too. Home is beautiful in a way Monte Carlo will never be because home belongs to you.

You’re a transplant in Monaco; a foreign organism who doesn't know the streets, the places, the people. You weren’t done with school, you had a whole year left. Why couldn’t your parents hold off for twelve months? Wait until you were in University and could stay where you belonged, let you choose your own path? You had to get familiar with a new city and a new school, new friends, new teachers.

That’s where you met him, sort of. Through school, not at school. He was friends with your friends, but you’d never seen him at school before. A driver, Formula 3, they told you. It meant nothing to you considering you’d never followed racing, and weren’t going to start now. He’s really good, you didn’t care, not really. You were with your new friends, and he was there, rarely, occasionally, always a big deal when he showed up.

Then, he was doing something else, somewhere else, and winning all of the time. He’s going to get promoted, everyone was always saying, always watching his races on their phones and on their laptops and on their televisions. You were riding along with your friends–his friends–to all of these European races. You’lldo anything for a vacation when you’re a teenager. You picked up on the obvious things pretty quickly, learned more about the intricate details in the grandstands; while you wouldn’t call yourself invested, you weren’t comatose while watching the races, either.

You think that’s what he liked about you, what sparked the interest in the first place. Half of the girls your age at home were throwing themselves at him, trying to land him before he made it big. That’s what they always tell you about athletes, you have to get in before they really make it or else you won’t ever mean anything to them, they want you to prove your loyalty to them. You think he saw you, all passive and unbothered by race results–good or bad–and it intrigued him. It’s the only plausible explanation in your head, because he had his pick of the litter and you’ve never considered yourself the smartest, the prettiest, the best at anything, really. He could have had the best, but he chose you.

It started off with these weird glances, ones where you’d catch each other’s eyes all of the fucking time. It was always so awkward, like you’d caught each other doing something wrong. Your eyes would dart away to another friend, to the sky, to your shoelaces, and your stomach would get all tangled in itself. You always felt like apologizing, like when two people are trying to move out of each other’s way and they both step to the same side; an awkward smile and a muted apology and then you think about it for the rest of the day because the whole thing was so mortifying.

Then it was conversations, ones you’d never had before and always about nothing important. The two of you were friend-adjacent, at best, but now you were always lingering at the back of the group. Ending up sitting in the restaurant booth for a beat longer than everyone else, waiting for the other to fill their plate before finding a place to sit. You’d talk about school, about your plans for the future, about missing Paris and he’d talk about racing, about his dreams, about missing Monaco. You live here, you’d always say to him.

Barely, he’d always reply, the better I get the less time I have.

At some point the group meetings became one-on-one. A restaurant you’d never heard of, one he swore had the best food in the entire world. A coffee shop you wanted to try, one he knew nothing about because he didn’t drink coffee. He didn’t tell you that until you were ordering and you felt foolish, but then he ordered a hot tea and you sat at a little table and talked some more about nothing. You took him to Paris once during Fashion Week, because you had a family friend who had a show. You showed him around and even though he’d been a million times, he let you because he liked the way you talked. Alwayssaid there was something sweet about your voice. Like candy, he said, after you pointed out the bus stop you sat at every day before school as a child, after you asked him why he was smiling like an idiot. That’s when you realized you had a crush on him– in Paris by the old bus stop.

“We’re not dating,” the two of you told friends for two months, even though the only thing that made the statement true was the lack of a label. You were doing everything people who date do. Suddenly, they were asking, and you were smiling and blushing and gushing all the details of just how he’d asked you to make it official.

You got into a fight in May, because he heard from one of your friends you were going to University in Monaco. It hurt that he heard it from someone that wasn’t you but it hurt more that you were staying. You haven’t shut up about going back to Paris since I met you, he said, over the phone because he was away at a race. Why aren’t you going to Paris? You felt like a Gilmore girl, a Jess and Rory original.

“You live here”, you said, like always.

“Barely,” he replied, like always.

That was precisely it, though. If he could barely make it back to his home, how could you ever expect him to have time to come see you in yours?

You ended up going back to Paris, reluctant that he’d be able to fulfill his promises to come see you. When you packed your boxes of things into the trunk of your car, part of you knew it was just the beginning of the end. The rest of you pretended it wasn’t, carried on with red eyes to Monaco and weekend studying done on trains following him around for two trips around the sun.

You’ve always prided yourself on being realistic, it’s what you thought helped draw him to you in the first place. But, you were coming to learn he needed optimism, the undying and unrelenting kind that you were never going to be capable of providing. You weren’t the kind of person that could watch him drive for shit and pretend he didn’t. You drove for shit, you would tell him, only if it was true and then he’d get all passive aggressive and close doors with more force than necessary and sigh dramatically every five minutes. You weren’t a villain about it, you were still his biggest cheerleader, next race you’ve got it, I know you’re better than this, but you were honest. You’d always be honest, and it was dragging him down.

He’d be better off, you thought, if he could have his choice again and find someone who was coded in a way that built him up instead of tearing him down. If you were smarter, prettier, better at all of it, you think you could be what he needs, that you’d be able to adapt and change the way you thought for him. You weren’t those things, though, you were just you.

So calls became short, time zones felt greater, and he never did come see you in Paris. You lost touch with your friends in Monaco, a year, unsurprisingly, does little to form life-long friendships. He kept in touch with them, was always so much better at relationships than you were. Charles would talk about them all of the time, about how much they were helping him, how good they could make him feel. It always made you sad, knowing you were never going to be enough.

I feel like I barely know you anymore, you said once, on the phone, in the middle of the night because it was the only time you got calls from him anymore. He’s in America, racing with Sauber now and you haven’t been to a single race outside of Monaco.

I can’t wait for your wedding, one of his friends, an old, once upon a time friend of yours said sometime that weekend. I bet he proposes, soon. You knew he wouldn’t, knew you were treading dangerously close to the extinction line. Your relationship was teetering on a cliff and waiting for a gust of wind, a breath of fresh air, a cold–hearted shove to push you over the edge and into a fiery explosion of doom, death, all other bad things. You dragged out the end of the call, worried the earlier admission would make it your last for a while. I wish you were here, you said and he didn’t reiterate the sentiment.

You never remembered Paris as being so cloudy, so chilled, so rainy. All of the colors felt gray and muted and you just wanted to be with him, wherever he was. The U.S, China, Monaco. He was everywhere but with you, and you were furious and depressed and bratty and selfish about it. Home is a person, as cheesy as it is true, you’d come to learn.

If you knew this is how it would have gone, you never would have conceded, you would have gone to school in Monaco and everything would be perfect. If you knew, you would have learned everything there was to know about Formula 3 all those years ago. You would have studied it like your life depended on it and would’ve become a fan girl and he never would have found you relevant or interesting and all of this could have been avoided. You didn’t do any of those things, though because you never could have known you were going to fall in love. Allgrandiose and emotional and comfortable. You never could have predicted you’d be counting sheep to spend time with him. You never could have known, never could have prepared.

You tried to fix it, you did. Some things just aren’t repairable. You called more often, you tried to get more time off work and blew all your money traveling. When you were together, it was so good. It was never hard to share space with him, to occupy the same air. That was the easiest part. That was why it was worth trying to fix, all the conversations about nothing and everything, about your dreams and his dreams, about the future neither of you fully believed you’d share. It was lovely in the chaos and it was pure in the silence.

We have to be at rock bottom, you told him, teary eyed on the sofa of a hotel suite on a Monday morning. You were packing your bags, you back to France, him to the next race. You just started crying, out of nowhere, while you were folding your underwear. He laughed at first, but you didn’t stop crying. The thought of going back to being apart was one you couldn’t grapple with, refused to come to terms with because it was so bad when you were away. A shredded heart apart, a mended wound together. The pain of it was becoming unbearable.

You moved back to Monaco. It felt like the only thing left to do, a last resort. All those times he told you he was barely there, he wasn’t lying. He was away from Monaco the same as he was away from Paris. “You love me,” you teased him over Facetime, cooking dinner, making horrible jokes, trying with all your might to make it all better.

“I love you,” he said, rehearsed and bored and unamused. Reminded, maybe, by your words that he was supposed to love you. Every word for the rest of the night feels like checking the expiration date on a bottle of something you don’t remember buying and can’t identify.

Winter break, he was back home for the holidays, to see his family, to see you. You didn’t want to do it then, but it felt like the only option. “I’ve had enough,” you said to him, among a million other things.

“I understand,” he told you, and you knew it was really over because he didn’t try to fight for you, to convince you otherwise. If he had tried, you would have let him, would have caved, you know it.

“We can still be friends,” you offered, a concession prize because being with him really was that great. It was all the complicated long-distance relationship dynamics that killed what you had, what you still have.

“I don’t want to be friends.”

You cried, he cried, and when you went to his apartment three days later to pack up the things you had there, you found a little velvet box on the top shelf of the closet. Curiosity killed the cat, and you opened it, instantly regretted it, memorized the diamond ring inside, closed it and returned it to it’s original spot and never told another person. You should have said no, but you would’ve said yes.

There won’t be too many drunk calls, you hoped, from either of you. A clean breakup. You figured it wouldn’t be long before he moved on, before you saw on social media that he was walking the paddock with a girl who could give him everything he needed, everything you couldn’t. You thought it would make you happy, to see him happy and fulfilled and with a partner that was better suited to him.

She looks just like you. Your sister texted you at the beginning of the next season. He was a hot shot now, the promised prince who would be bringing Ferrari to glory again. He was also walking through the paddock with another girl.

Il Predestinato, the predestined. You wondered if it held any truth. Wondering if the universe had it all planned out, if every single thing that has ever happened to him, including you, was all a part of some master plan. If it is, the universe is sick, you think.

He looks happy, good for him. You replied, cried for four hours, soaked shirt and sheets and pillowcase. You could have kept going if you had any tears left to give, but you used them all up scrolling through social media, doom spiraling until you found out who she was, found her twitter, found her Instagram, scrolled to the bottom of her tagged photos, learned the name of her sister and what color dress she’d worn in Italy with her teenage boyfriend. You needed to know all of it, because he was your teenage boyfriend before long before he ever belonged to her.

You never thought of Monaco as a small town, but, now that you’re expecting to find a ghost around every corner, to spot his car on every street, the fucking country has never felt smaller. You’re claustrophobic here, everything reminds you of him, his picture is everywhere. Formula One is everywhere. Your friends, the ones you’d reconnected with since moving back, they were his friends first.

They act like nothing’s changed, like they’ve chosen your side when they clearly haven’t. You wonder how long they all knew about his new girl, how long they’ve been together, how long it took him to move on. You expected it to be quick, but God, it’s barely been a few months and he’s already comfortable enough subjecting her to the media circus.

You try to go out, to drown your sorrows with the girls who aren’t really your friends. The nightlife is always bustling here, but every club feels empty without him there. Everyshot needs a partner and every fruity drink needs him stealing sips and refusing to admit he likes it. Your friends try to cheer you up, and guys try to hit on you, but you feel like a shell of a person. Justfloating around without purpose. Floating, waiting, hoping it’s all a nightmare.

You don’t run into him, thank God. You run into Pascale and Arthur, though, which is arguably so, so much worse. It’s just on the street, they’re heading to the grocery store, one of them tells you. You’re walking to nowhere, from nowhere. Pascale hugs you and you think you might burst into tears. We miss you, she says, and it fuels the jealous ball of guilt in your soul for another day.

I miss you guys, too, you said, and meant it. You wondered if any of them knew about the ring. Charles was never one to keep a secret, he was historically terrible at it, it was endearing. Arthur was almost hard to look at, the same eyes, the same voice. Identical laughs, all nervous and short, the same face, practically. “How’s Lorenzo?” You asked, because you couldn’t ask about Charles.

You walked home, passed his building and wished you were dead so any trace of your relationship could be buried with you. You tried to pretend you didn’t know the cracks on the sidewalk, that you didn’t have each and every one memorized from walking the same steps so many times.

Home is just as haunting as the streets are. He’d helped you pick out the apartment, went to look at this one with you and said he’d never forgive you if you didn’t lock it in. You ate pizza on the living room floor, before you had any furniture at all, before you even had an internet connection. Sauce dripped from your slice onto the floor and he hurriedly grabbed a napkin to wipe it off the wood floors. You can’t afford to lose your deposit, idiot, he told you, smiled like a goofball and wiped the sauce on your face.

The whole place sings of him, the walls have heard his favorite songs played over, and over, and over again. He picked that paint color, helped you put it on the wall and raced to see who could finish their side first. You deleted his playlist from your phone, along with all the pictures and the videos, but the memories still linger, stunt your healing and stick into your life like a stubborn splinter.

You buy out your lease the next week, move back to Paris and stay with a friend until you can get a place of your own. It’s good for you, the best, being away from a place that was never really yours. It allows you to pick up the pieces and move forward, to not spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been, what might have fixed things.

Paris gives you clarity, makes it impossible to be angry at him because it wasn’t anyone’s fault. There’s nothing anyone could have done, the universe itself never would have been able to intervene. It was just young love, all poetic and film-inspiring and heartbreak song-inducing. Innocent and infuriating and codependent and convoluted. Your first heartbreak, the first real, gut-wrenching experience with losing a love, it’s always like this. The movies and the songs proved that. You just didn’t experience that loss until you were in your early twenties. Distance allows you to recognize that. Having the same aching pain settled so deep in your chest would have been unbearable if you were any younger. You were lucky, as sick and twisted as it felt.

He swears to God he saw you during the podium in Monza. A flash of your hair, your eyes, he blinks and it’s gone, you’re gone. A figment of his imagination, he tries to convince himself he’s seeing things in the chaos of winning Ferrari’s home race, but, he can’t shake it, the feeling that you’re here.

You’d come to a race at Monza, a million years ago, 2016. It was a sprint race and he retired. It’s okay, all of his friends told him. All of them except you. You didn’t say anything, just smiled and gave him the same awkward hug you always did. “What did you think about the race?” He asked you.

“It was whatever.” You’d shrugged. “Shit for you, I suppose.” It was right there. That’s the moment he pinpointed, the exact second he decided he wanted to know you better, that he needed to prove himself to you, show you just how interesting his life could be. He always figured he would tell your kids the story one day, that he’d mention it in his wedding vows and get a spattering of laughs from the guests.

That was the last time you were in Monza together. That’s why he was seeing you in the crowd, he was projecting, surely. He asks his brother, his mother, if they saw you. They give him strange looks and ask him if he’s okay because, why would you be here?

You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t be here, he keeps telling himself. He half expects to find you in his drivers room, or lingering by the coffee machine in hospitality. You’ve never even been inside the Ferrari motorhomes, but, he thinks you’d look so familiar in there, like he wouldn’t bat an eye seeing you.

His mind races, and he feels like a teenager again. Like no time at all has passed and you and he are painfully in love and it’s stupid and young and lovely. “What’s going on in your head?” His girlfriend asks him, playing with his hair like you used to.

“Nobody.” He says, slips up unconsciously, because he doesn’t want to start an argument.

“Nobody?” She says, that incessant whine in her voice that drives him up a wall. He sighs, because she’s gearing up for a fight. He wonders if it’s too late to crash his car into the barrier, pull a few dozen G’s and have an excuse for perfectly teeing her up.

He runs into you at a Christmas party that winter. It’s the anniversary of the end of you two and he wonders if you remember as vividly as he does. One year without each other, a date he never thought he’d remember. A date he never thought would come.

You’ve got a guy with you, who just told the worst joke he’s heard in a while. You laugh, because you’re sweet, but he knows you don’t think it’s funny–knows your laugh too well, worked hard to hear it for too many years.

He watches the two of you, studies you, wonders if he looks as foolish with his new girlfriend as you look with your new boyfriend. It’s painfully obvious, he thinks, how unhappy you are, how ungenuine you appear. That’s not your smile, not your drink, not your favorite pair of heels.

“Hi,” he says when he finds you in the kitchen of the house party, alone. “It’s good to see you,” A lie. He’d almost turned around and walked right back out the door when he saw you. You, with someone who wasn’t him.

“Yeah, you too,” you said, also a lie. He knows you, whether you like it or not.

“So, new guy, huh?” Awkward. So fucking awkward. You nod. “Nice.” He sips his drink.

“Are you seeing anyone?” You asked, and he thought there was no way you didn’t know. No way you’d gone unalerted to your doppelganger walking the grid. Surely, someone told you. Your sister, likely, maybe a friend.

“Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck because his hands don’t feel like they belong to him. He doesn’t know where to put them. “Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah.” She’s nothing like you, he wants to say. Wonders if it would do more harm or good, if you’d read his words as an admission that you are irreplaceable or if you’d see them as an insult.

“Great.” You say, smile, and it might be genuine. He’s startled that he can’t read it precisely, forced to confront the notion that he doesn’t know you like he once did. Beat after beat of silence, tense and awkward and strange. He was more comfortable when you were breaking up with him than he is right now. “Do you hate me?” You finally spoke, and his heart broke a little. It broke a lot, but, your heart isn’t his to break anymore. That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

It hurts to say your name, the air rips its way out of his lungs and through his vocal cords and gets caught in the back of his throat, again on the tip of his tongue. “I could never hate you.” He wishes he could. He’s tried, time and time again to hate you, to loathe you for existing. You tore him into a million tiny pieces and sprinkled them in every corner of the earth, hid them in the deepest nooks and the tightest crannies. Destroyed some, just for the hell of it. Then, you sent him on his way, handed him a bottle of glue, a good luck in the form of we can still be friends and expected him to be fine.

He knew–was able to recognize now–that he was far from perfect. Far, far from it. He was distant and pushed you away and was a complete ass, but fuck, he loved you more than he knew. You hurt him more than anyone would ever know.

There are few things as sobering as returning an engagement ring to the jeweler. It’s a sympathetic look he’ll never forget, and even then he knew he couldn’t blame you, that the blame lied solely on him for fucking it all up. His mom cried when he told her, called him an idiot in three languages, told him he needed to fix it, that you were worth it. I know, Mama, he told her, I know, but I can’t fix this.

He broke up with your twin a few weeks later because no matter how hard he tried, there was no replicating you. He wondered how long it would be before word got to you, if you’d even care when it did.

He hated being home, now. Monaco was a nightmare, you were all over his place, all over the most important years of his life. Your smell could be erased from the sheets with a few washes, but the grease stain you left on the corner of the couch? The one you cried about and apolgized for everytime you saw it? There’s no getting rid of it.

He cleaned out his closet a couple weeks ago, after all these years. Your name was written in pink marker on the wall, behind a bunch of shoe boxes. You were here, 2017, it read, and he spent thirty minutes going over it with a Magic Eraser only for it to be just as vibrant as before.

There was one time, before he broke up with his girlfriend, where he caught himself just before saying your name into her shoulder. The first syllable slipped and he had to pretend it was a nonsensical shuddered breath. He’s fallen into more of a monthly rotation since then, keeps them around until it becomes glaringly apparent they’ll never fill the shoes you left behind. Flavors of the month. It works well enough, distracts him well enough.

The more removed he becomes from you, the cloudier the memories become. Clarity, people tell him he needs it, but, the haze distracts him just the same. He can forget you for a while, live his life without looking for you in everyone who tries to buy him a drink. Distractions come in the form of driving, of friends, of family. In the form of a girl who looks nothing like you, who speaks nothing like you, who acts nothing like you. It won’t last, he knows it won’t but he can’t find you anywhere in her and it’s refreshing.

This is so weird, I totally get if you say no, she texted him late one night. But, do you want to go to a wedding with me in a couple weeks? He should say no, he thinks. Committing to a wedding in a couple weeks is committing to being interested in a couple weeks and he can’t guarantee that. It’s commitment he can’t make and that’s if you disregard all the implications of going with someone to a wedding. It’s like the first rule of dating, you don’t go to a wedding together if you don’t see things lasting.

It’s too romantic, there’s too much love flying around. He’ll be catching side eyes all night from her, longing glances that make everything weird. The bouquet toss will be taken just a little too seriously for two people who are casually dating.

It’s too weird, right? She says after a few long minutes of radio silence.

No, not weird. He replies. Sounds like a good time.

That’s how he ends up there, believe it or not. The sickest fucking coincidence in the world, he thinks, standing in front of this intricate sign. It bore your name, your fiance’s name, written in delicate script.

There’s no way, he thinks. There is no fucking way. “How do you know them, again?” He asks the girl on his arm.

“My mom is friends with the Groom’s mom. We grew up together.” She says, smiley and lovely and perfectly dressed. There is no fucking way this is his reality. He has to be dreaming, stuck in a nightmare, surely. Even the universe isn’t this fucked up.

This isn’t the wedding you always talked about wanting, the one you daydreamed about when you were feeling particularly in love. It’s not the one he planned on giving you. There’s so many people here, it’s not like you. I want something intimate, you told him once. I want to love everyone there. You never would have had a family friend’s plus-one in attendance.

“Hey,” She says, flashes him a flask in her purse. “You wanna do a shot?”

God, you have no idea. “Yeah.”

You’ll cry when you see me, you told him. If you don’t, I’ll turn around and do it again. He thinks about that when you’re standing with your dad at the top of the aisle, beaming, glowing. Your dress is the most you thing he’s ever seen–fits you right in every spot, classy and spunky and traditional and fun all at the same time. He looks to the end of the long aisle, to your groom. He’s smiling, has his hands crossed behind his back and laughs, no tears.

He tries not to stare, because he doesn’t want to catch your eye, to catch your father’s eye, but it’s so hard when you look like that. “She looks so beautiful,” His date leans into him and whispers, doesn’t look at him. A good thing she doesn’t, too, because his eyes are bloodshot.

“Yeah,” He says, blinks away a tear.

You’re giddy at the reception. The bar serves two cocktails–his and hers mixed drinks. His date drinks yours, and he steals a sip and it’s fruity and sweet. “Can I have another shot?” He asks, and she subtly slides her flask to him under the table.

His eyes can’t stop finding you, watching you all dopey and smiley while you hug everyone and talk with grand expressions. You’re making the rounds, and he slips away before you and your new husband make it to his table.

Your sister catches him by the bathrooms. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” He says, chuckles at his shit luck because there’s nothing else he can do.

“No, Charles.” She says it firmer this time, like he’s in trouble, which–understandable. “Why are you, here?”

“My, uh.” He twists the ring on his pinky. “The girl I’m seeing, I’m her plus-one.”

She looks nervous, your sister, like she’s fraternizing with the enemy and at any given moment someone is going to catch her and take her head. “Has she seen you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You can’t be here.” She’s practically whispering, grabbing his arm and pulling him behind a corner.

“You’re telling me.” He laughs, because he’s about to cry at the wedding of the girl he thought he was going to marry. He’s going to cry at your wedding, just like you always said he would.

“I mean it. You need to leave.”

He cocks his head, she’s not serious. She’s just being a good sister. “Come on, don’t you–”

“Charles.” She says it soft, cracked and sad. There is so much unsaid. “Leave.”

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain this one away, but, he has the walk from the bathrooms to the reception hall to figure it out. “Yeah, I’ll go.”

And he does–go. He goes, and wonders for the rest of his life what would’ve happened if he stayed.

#f1 #f1 angst #f1 fluff #f1 one shot #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #cl16 #f1 2022 #f1 fanfiction #f1 2023 #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 x reader #ferrari

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harunovella · 9 months

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bae watch; s.g. - lifeguard!gojo headcanons

a/n: in the midst of working on my gojo series, I saw this still and just had to throw something together! I forgot making hc’s was a thing? would’ve saved me sm time to get out all my fic ideas… anyway, here’s some lifeguard!gojo x beach goer!fem!reader, enjoy (no warnings, just a bit suggestive at the end & not beta read)

- gojo satoru knows he is the hottest man alive, he has no humility in that aspect, it’s just obvious to him… why else would people—specifically mothers—constantly gawk at him when he walked along the sandy beaches in that red lifeguard sweater unzipped, chiseled abs and solid chest on display, and tight (matching) shorts to top it all off? not to mention, the rounded dark shades that he always let slid down his nose to send the ladies winks their way… he’s handsome, he’s sexy, he’s every synonym for attractive known to man

- there’s no doubt the partners of said women (should they be their with a boyfriend or spouse) are dripping in jealousy… how can they compete with that? those ocean ices, snow white hair that shined under the sun lilac and that subtle ton on his smooth skin… all recipes for jealousy. gojo thrived off of it, it boosted his ego… no matter how many times his friends warned him to take it down a notch, the man never cared, this was his serotonin! so of course when there’s a new cutie on the beach during the summer—a new regular—he can’t help but want her attention as well!

- and by her, I clearly mean you. he wants your attention. he’s a slut for it, he needs everyone’s undivided attention on his washboard abs and charming smirk that held pearly white teeth. however, you weren’t giving it to him. you didn’t pay him mind and he wasn’t liking that…

- you, for once, took the summer off from college. sure, you were in a hurry to finish, but your mental health came first and you needed time away…

- the beach was actually in your home town, the school you attended was more inland and you needed to get closer to nature somehow. and that somehow was the ocean blue before you. you didn’t live to far, a good half hour drive depending on traffic, sometimes relying on the bus if you were feeling a bit lazy… most of the time you came with your childhood friends you kept in touch with. most were already working their full time jobs while others were on the same boat as you, managing work and school life. the bright idea of enjoying the summer at the beach almost daily came from one of your good friends and you couldn’t quite turn the opportunity down—you practically grew up on the beach. you just didn’t expect an obnoxious man to obstruct that… let alone, your view.

- according to one of your friends, gojo satoru was the local hottie… the man everyone wanted but no one could have. a true, living and breathing tease. all sorts of rumors floated around him but you didn’t pay him mind… wasn’t like you were interested anyway! right?

- wrong! who were you to deflect the gojo satoru’s charm? well… at least you tried…

- you spent what felt like days ignoring his every move, the constant flirtation, the obvious need for your attention specifically… you weren’t sure why, he barely even knew you!

- unbeknownst to you, one of you local friends was actually good college friends with him—ieiri shoko

- what you didn’t know was that your belove lifeguard begged and begged and pleaded his old brunette college bestie for any and every detail about you: from your favorite color to your oddest quirk. she didn’t understand why at first, for as long as she’s known the man, he’s never cared for anyone other himself (not entirely true, he actually really loves his friends)… that is until it hit her. he actually had a crush on a girl who didn’t want anything to do with him! how odd was that?

- wasn’t all that odd when shoko was a good people reader and she knew that deep down inside (not too deep) you very much found gojo attractive. she’s seen the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. she’s seen the way you’ve counted his abs, your eyes bouncing from side to side… and she’s definitely seen you doodle little sketches of him along the margins of the books you were reading in ink… you’re not so innocent yourself.

- thus! she plays matchmaker! she helps her little (but really, giant) white haired friend to get the girl under one condition: he doesn’t fuck it up!

- and he swears tooth and nail he won’t!

- to her surprise, he actually is doing everything to get your attention. not always the right way but he’s trying. he asks you how you’re doing, but then let’s put a snarky remark, only to save it with a compliment out of nowhere. he may be a great flirt to women he actually has no interest in, but when he’s flirting with a girl he actually wants… he’s awful… oddly enough.

- and yet… you start to fall for that? when those goofy moments slip? he always kills it by trying to play it cool (you wish he wouldn’t) but when that awkward, flustered gojo escapes… it makes your heart skip a beat. makes it race just a little bit…

- maybe that’s why one day you couldn’t help but pull him into a kiss outta the blue. maybe to get a reaction, maybe because you’ve been wanting too—he’s got pink plush lips, who wouldn’t be tempted to? also… maybe you wanted to shut him up because, really, wasn’t it obvious he won you ever? he already had you visiting more than before (alone), he already was sitting by your side on his breaks… you never shooed him away, actually spoke to him, and even brought him food most of the time. was he that oblivious? he just kept blabbering on, thinking he still needed to win you over but, really, it actually wasn’t as hard as he thought (which kinda scared you but here you are, kissing him out in the open as if he wasn’t a lifeguard on duty).

- you obviously latched onto his jacket, had him yanked your way, maybe even slid in between his legs to get a better angle… gojo maybe have wrapped his massive hands around your waist to keep you there and he may have gotten significantly hard to the point you felt it and couldn’t help but laugh hid it kindly with your extra towel and a “rain check? you know, when you’re not in the middle of watching over people…” and gojo being the fool he is couldn’t help but pout, complaining about “how can I go back to the tower when I’m like this! you have to help me!”

- and guess what? you know those little changing tents? maybe you two slid into one, maybe you loosened up those shorts that accentuated his thighs and ass and maybe—just maybe—you got on your knees for him as a reward for his efforts of winning you over ♡

#harunovella writes;#gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk #satoru gojo x oc #headcanon #lifeguard!gojo satoru #fem reader

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restinslices · 3 months

Note

I love your stuff so much, could you write something with the reader getting jealous about Smoke? Someone getting a bit too close to him and the reader feels bad about it. And Tomas finds out and comforts her, finding it endearing.

And I love you💕 Idk why this was kicking my ass so bad. I did two drafts and idk if I like this but this is all I got😔

Word count: 1476

Tomas was not entirely stupid.

Sure he had moments where he'd made something that should've been simple, incredibly complicated but he wasn't stupid. He didn't think so at least.

Anyone who's been around him for the past week might disagree though.

Tomas had just returned from a mission along with his brothers, and naturally he was telling you all about it. If you were being honest with yourself, you weren't really listening. Tomas tended to ramble and his missions were usually the same as the last, so it was best to let him go on and on but still add commentary here and there. “Wow”, “Really?”, “No you didn't”, and other side comments would hold him.

Your ears perked up and you started to listen more when he started mentioning women.

It's not that he couldn't speak to other women or he couldn't have female friends, you weren't that crazy. It was just the way he was describing them. Great fighters, moving with the wind, long flowy hair that danced in the sun. It was compliment after compliment, and as much as you hated to admit it, it made your heart squeeze.

“Wanna tell me how they all looked in detail?” You said sarcastically. You expected Tomas to hear your sarcasm, realize what was wrong, apologize and keep telling his story. Instead he just chuckled and said

“Then we'd be here all day”.

Unfortunately for you, the day got worse.

Another woman whose name you hadn't memorized was all over him. Giggling at jokes that weren't nearly as funny as she pretended they are and finding any reason to touch him.

You should've said something. You should've communicated your feelings. That's how relationships are supposed to work.

But you didn't.

On one hand, you thought you had every reason to be jealous and if Tomas actually cared for your feelings, then he would've picked up on this and apologized. On the other hand you thought you were being unreasonable. Tomas couldn't help if some ditzy bitch liked him. Plus, you never told him how you felt, so you couldn't be mad at him for not understanding. In the same breath though, why didn't he tell her to get off of him and why did he feel it was necessary to describe how great these other women he met were?

You were arguing with yourself for a solid week, and each day that devil on your shoulder got louder. After all, if Tomas did care about how you felt, he'd stop entertaining that girl. Everytime she was near, you left. Didn't you absence bother him?

But once again, that damn angel got in the way telling you to just be honest with him. He'd understand. How can you be mad at something you hadn't communicated upsets you?

But communication came with shame. How would you look telling Tomas that you got a little butt hurt about him talking about other girls and a girl that kept flirting with him? He'd either understand, or he'd be upset. That's how relationships fell apart, right?

No. It was the lack of communication.

Maybe?

“I'm gonna throw myself down the stairs” you mumbled.

“Why?” he asked.

You somehow forgot he was there. You and him were in charge of washing dishes for the week, but neither of you had been talking.

“I just hate washing dishes” you said, not completely lying.

It went silent again, the only thing filling the air being the sounds of you washing and him rinsing.

Then that silence was broken.

“Are you ignoring me?” he asked. You didn't know how to answer. You didn't mean to ignore him. You were just in your head a lot.

You didn't answer and he sighed. “Did I do something?”

“No” you answered without thinking. It was a reflex at this point. Tomas over thought things a lot and you'd have to remind him not everything was on him. Telling him he wasn't at fault was natural, but you weren't sure who was at fault now.

“I mean… I don't know. It doesn't matter”

“It does to me”

“Does it?”.

You closed your eyes and breathed slowly. You were being way too harsh and you knew it. Tomas was asking you to share what was going on in your head, and you were saying no?

You opened your eyes again. Your mouth opened a few times, trying to figure out how to put what you were feeling but it never felt right.

“I don't know how to get this out. It doesn't even make sense in my head. It won't make sense out loud”

“Just say it anyway and I'll ask you questions if I'm confused”. You wondered how Tomas was so good and patient and wondered if he learned that from one of his parents. Or maybe his sister. Either way, you mentally thanked whoever he learned from.

“Ok so, I just feel- no. No, I should explain first in chronological order. You came back and then… actually that sounds really accusatory”. You groaned and looked over at him “can you just tell me to shut the fuck up”.

He smiled a little and shook his head. “I wanna hear it. We have all day”.

“It's late at night. That is not true”. He didn't respond and he wouldn't until you confessed whatever you were thinking.

“Chronological order then…”, after some more stumbling and backtracking you managed to get it all out. Why you were jealous, when it started, how conflicted you felt and how ashamed you felt for being jealous in the first place. The whole time he just listened, nodded, and furrowed his brows at some parts. You couldn't tell if it was confusion or anger.

“I didn't mean it that way” he said when you were done. “When I said 'then we’d be here all day’. I just meant there was a lot of them, which I realize now still sounds bad but I didn't mean it in some 'they were just too beautiful’ way. I didn't hear your sarcasm”

“And I just kept conversation with her to be nice. I don't know. I didn't wanna seem rude”

“Being rude can go a long way”

“I guess. And I noticed your absence, I just didn't know why. I figured you needed space for whatever reason, so I didn't bother you”

“I think it's impossible for you to bother me”.

Once again, he smiled and let out a small laugh. You looked back down at the soapy water and that's when you felt like a complete idiot. You were worrying him when you could've been had this conversation.

“I'm an idiot”

“I don’t think so” and you could tell by his voice that he was smirking. “I think you're just really in love with me”

“Ok buddy”. You rolled your eyes, even if he was right.

“It's cute”

“It's embarrassing”

“Loving me or-”

“Being jealous. I haven't been that jealous before with anyone else”

“I'm not like anyone else”

“You're white. You're quite literally like everyone else-” Tomas flicked water your way, some of it getting in your eye.

“I'm gonna kill you”

“You wouldn't. You'd get jealous over the Grim Reaper”. You frowned but he kept smiling that stupid smile that was both loving and antagonistic. Then he laughed. A nice heartfelt laugh that ended up making you crack a smile.

“Are you smiling because I'm laughing?”

“Absolutely not”, you lied.

“You really got a thing for me”

“I've never met you a day in my life”

“That's even more embarrassing then if you're that in love with me”. You went to make another smart comment, but he bumped his shoulder against yours “hey”, he said softly. So soft it threw you off guard. “I think it's cute. You're like a little guard dog”.

“Were you dropped on your head as a baby and now your social cues are scrambled? A guard dog? I'd prefer if you stabbed me. Here-”, you went to grab a knife but he caught your hand. Any other time you would've hated this. Both your hands were soaking and something about the feel of that made you skin crawl, but you guessed you could deal with that.

“I think it's cute that you love me so much. I just wish you'd be more honest about what you feel. I was worried”.

You cringed. You supposed that was your fault. You and your dumb brain making shit complicated, which is something you swore was more of a Tomas thing.

“I'll be better. I promise. I'll start now”

“Now?”

“Now. The texture of you wet hand makes me wanna die. Please unhand me”. He couldn't help but laugh as he let you go, and you couldn't help but laugh as well.

You didn't know what you were laughing at.

You were just happy to be laughing together.

Finally getting back to requests. The crowd goes wild. Tumblr has this big space between lines so I cannot tell if the format is weird and I should add more space or if I’m tweaking. Oh well.

#mk1 #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat 1 #tomas vrbada smoke #tomas vrbada #tomas vrbada x reader #tomas vrbada fluff #smoke x reader #smoke x you #mk1 smoke

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ramhaiba · 2 months

Text

𝖧𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖵𝗈𝗐𝗌 (𝖸𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖬𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋)

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝔽𝕠𝕦𝕣, 𝔾𝕚𝕗𝕥

MINOR DO NOT INTERACT SERIES TW: Gore, Stalking, Sexual themes, major character death

previous chapter

"Where the hell is everyone" you scoffed, walking down the halls, not seeing a single servant or guard.

Suddenly you bumped into Nobara, holding a tower of plates- now shattered to the ground, falling on her ass- "HEY- Look where you're- Oh. Y/n" Nobara huffed, her tone easing down as she noticed you.

"Oh, god- the plates" Nobara gasped, looking down at the ground, shards of white, golden detailed plates spread all over the floor. "I'm so sorry- I'll help you clean it" you apologized, getting on your knees to carefully pick up the shards into your palm.

"What exactly were you doing, I don't usually see you do any housework" you commented, slightly laughing at the memories of Nobara making Yuuji do her chores.

"Well, It's not by choice. The whole house is calling for an all-hands-on-deck situation because of the dinner tonight" Nobara explained, helping you pick up the fragments of glass off the floor.

"What makes a dinner so special that everyone's losing their head over it" you questioned. You noticed that Nobara shifted her attention to you, forgetting about her duty, looking at you as if you just said one of the most heinous things she'd ever heard.

"What? Did I say something wrong?" you repeated, concerned about why the tone of the conversation shifted so drastically. Nobara took a moment to close her eyes, taking a deep breath, most likely fighting back the urge to punch the 'stupid' out of you.

"Today is Megumi's birthday and every night on his birthday, the Zenin family throws a dinner. Which is what everyone is so busy preparing for. " Nobara explained.

"So you're telling me that I was the only person that didn't know it was Megumi's birthday?"

"Your words, not mine"

"And that I'm going to meet the entire family tonight?" You asked, dumbfounded.

"Atta girl, Y/n. Now you're all caught up" Nobara laughed, lightly hitting your back.

"This isn't funny, Nobara! Maki or Mai could snap me in half without breaking a sweat and much as it pains me to say this- they're considered to be borderline rejects in their family. So what does that exactly say about the members that are actually respected?" you ranted, aggressively picking up the glass off the floor, trying to focus your anger onto cleaning.

"Y/n, I didn't mean it in that way. This whole place just messes with you "Nobara apologized, embarrassed she took out her frustration on you.

You sighed, cooling your thoughts, "Yeah... I know it's just not easy-" you yelped as you felt a shard of glass slice your palm, instinctively, forming a fist to deal with the stinging pain.

"Shit- did you just cut your hand? Just hold on. I'll help wrap it up for you" Nobara sighed, helping you back on your feet, starting to lead you down the hall.

"W-what about the glass?" you yelped, Nobara's hand around your wrist, in the process of dragging you to a room.

"Oh? Right- the glass. ITADORI! CLEAN UP THE GLASS FOR US!" Nobara shouted, stopping in her tracks.

"Oh for crying out loud! This is the last time I'm doing this for you!" You heard a distant Yuuji shout.

---

You sat on your bed, injured palm extended towards Nobara as she bandaged it, the other hand holding your face, elbow on your lap.

"How come you didn't tell me earlier that it'd be Megumi's birthday today" you asked.

"Well, it hasn't been easy exactly getting a conversation with you, Maki, or Mai dragging you into some stupid wedding practice session. And besides, I figured they'd tell you" Nobara sighed.

"So am I suppose to get him like... a gift?" you questioned. "That would be the smart option" Nobara added.

"What exactly do you get a man who has everything?"

"Uh.. Sex?"

"NOBARA" you gasped, face heating up with embarrassment. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding" Nobara repeated, an obnoxious grin on her face.

"Well, according to the servants, your 'husband' is going to be out the entire day until his birthday dinner. So, maybe you can do some snooping in his room and see what type of things he'd like" Nobara answered, serious this time.

"Are you suggesting I invade his privacy?" you questioned.

"Oh please, he's done worse things to you" Nobara replied, waving off your worries.

---

If you could describe Megumi's bedroom in one word, it would be

Organized.

Jesus Christ, how are you going to do any snooping if he'd probably have memorized the exact position of every book on his shelves? No one is allowed into his bed-chamber, not even the servants. That means he most likely does all the cleaning himself. The room itself was gorgeous, with dark wooden floors, a blueish-grey detailed bedframe, white silk pillows, and mesh curtains on arched tinted windows, bookshelves almost as tall as the ceiling.

You traced your finger across all the books on the shelf, stopping at a bright red book, so thin that you'd thought it was incomplete. You slowly pulled it out off the shelf, getting a better look at the book's red cover decorated with an unsettling drawing of a wolf with a sheep's corpse hung over its body, a dark bold title saying 'the wolf in sheep's clothing."

Megumi owns dozens of hard-covered books written and published by some of the greatest dictators and academics of all time- so what in the world is a child's book doing in his collection? Out of curiosity, you opened the book, skimming through the pages until reaching the end, where a tan piece of paper lay on the page as a bookmark, with closer examination, the bookmark was a small black-and-white portrait of a content short dark-haired woman, dressed in a beautiful long gown, a chain with an 'F ' pendant around her neck, cradling an infant. The small portrait looked like it was made years ago- so you doubt this woman could be Megumi's 'secret' lover.

"Well... that was a dead end. Now where does a man keep all things that he wants to remain a secret?" you thought, putting away the book and its hidden portrait.

As if a lightbulb appeared above your head, you got on your hands and knees, peeking your head under his bed, squinting your eyes to search for anything. You squished your hands into the thin sliver of space between his bed and the floor, managing to pull over a small wooden chest.

"Great, a lock" you huffed, pulling at the golden lock on the chest. You should have figured, Megumi wouldn't be dumb enough to keep anything important unlocked.

But at least you know there is something important enough for him to keep a secret. You slowly pushed back the chest under the bed, praying a spider wouldn't touch your hand in the process.

As you got up back on your feet, your back was pressed against someone's chest, causing you to jump.

Shit- what's Megumi going to do when he caught you snooping- maybe he'll actually feed you to the wolves this time.

To somewhat of your relief, it wasn't Megumi- however, it looked a lot like him. He was taller than Megumi, his arms crossed revealing how muscular his biceps were- you're pretty sure he could crush your head with them, straight dark hair laying on his forehead, a scar across his lip, and the same blue eyes as Megumi.

"Now, you don't look like you belong here. Mind, telling me who you are, kid?" He asked, tilting his head, oddly seeming very nonchalant for a man who caught a person in a place that was strictly off limits.

"Y-Y/n L/n. I'm Megumi's fiancé" you stuttered, hoping that the man would go easy on you because of your status.

He took a moment to process your answer, eyes widening as if he unlocked a memory, before subtly laughing, "Oh yeah, you're the one that I'd agree to marry my kid. Oh, I was so drunk when I signed off on a proposal from your old man."

Drunk. One drunk decision is the reason you're here, having to survive these nightmares of tests while dealing with demons in human form.

"And you are?" you questioned.

"Toji Fushiguro. Now what might you be doing in my son's room? I might exactly not be around that much but I know that Megumi likes his privacy especially when it comes to his room" Toji answered, the scar on his lips bending as he subtly smiled.

"I- I was just looking for him, so I can wish him happy birthday" you lied, unable to keep eye contact- too intimidated by his confidence.

"You were looking for him... Under his bed? Okay. If you don't wanna tell me the truth. I'll go tell Megumi what I saw... I bet you'd love to tell him the truth, right?" Toji replied, turning his back as he walked towards the door, hand hovering over the door knob before you yelped

"Don't"

Toji tried to contain his laughter, slowly turning back to you, "Oh? Care to explain why I shouldn't, princess?" he added.

"I didn't- I didn't get him anything for his birthday- and I exactly don't know what to get him so...I thought maybe I'd get some ideas of what he'd like if I looked through his room. I mean... You can tell a lot about a person by the things they keep near their bed" you confessed, batting your eyelashes, trying to appear like a simple innocent naive girl. Of course, you won't tell him the entire truth- that you were also trying to find some dirt on Megumi.

Toji didn't even bother covering his laughter, shamelessly laughing at you, causing your face to boil with embarrassment as you watched the man almost fall to the floor laughing at you.

"It-it's not that funny" you huffed.

"Holy shit, you really are a mess" Toji chuckled, wiping a fake tear from his eye.

"Now that you're done laughing at me... are you still going to tell him what you saw?" You asked. Toji took a moment to think, holding his face with his palm as he softly hummed.

"Nah, I think I'll do you a favor and help you out" Toji sighed, before searching for something in his pant's pockets, taking out a golden chain, a thin 'F' shaped pendant hanging off of it.

"What are you waiting for? Take it. You need to get the kid something right? Just tell him you found it somewhere and polished it" Toji added, shaking the beautiful chain in his hand.

"Why exactly are you helping me?" you asked. "Think of it as an early wedding present, princess" Toji smirked, placing the chain in the palm of your uninjured hand instead of waiting for you to accept it.

next chapter

#yandere x reader #jjk megumi #fushiguro megumi x reader #jjk x reader #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #prince megumi x reader #yandere jjk #yandere jjk x reader #yandere megumi #toji fushiguro

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 9 months

Note

for the kiss prompts - a playful kiss to make the other stop rambling + geraskier, pretty please 🥺

Jaskier has never been one to suffer stage fright. Since the first time he gave an impromptu performance at one of his parents’ banquets at the age of seven, he’s soaked up the spotlight at any chance he can get. There’s nothing he delights in more than having a crowded tavern or ballroom watching him with starry eyes, hanging onto his every word. He knows he’s good at what he does, a far cry from the boy who used to get bread pelted at his head while he sang about hags and abortions.

Except that as he stands behind the stage at the Oxenfurt Music Festival, listening to a pair of Nazairi troubadours sing a lovely duet, his insides roil with the same queasy nervousness he’s carried with him all day. He glances over at Geralt to make sure the witcher doesn’t notice. Geralt is leaning against the wall, looking remarkably stoic for a man who has been dragged to a music festival entirely against his will.

Jaskier can’t let him know how nervous he is, not when Geralt took on two wyverns singlehandedly only three days ago. The fact that Jaskier, who has been a traveling bard for years, who has faced far scarier things than a crowd of onlookers (usually while cowering behind Geralt, but his point stands) has stage fright is too mortifying to admit. Luckily, Jaskier is excellent at keeping his feelings under wraps after years of traveling with his witcher. He’s sure Geralt has no idea.

“You’re nervous,” Geralt says.

Fuckity fuck.

“Nervous?” Jaskier breaks off in a monologue about how he lost the Student Bardic Competition to Valdo Marx his final year due to trickery and biased judging. “I’m not nervous! Merely excited to claim yet another in my long list of accolades.”

“You stink of anxiety.”

Jaskier just manages to resist the urge to sniff himself. “Why, thank you, Geralt. How kind of you to say. And here I thought you liked this new perfume.”

Geralt just stares at him, unimpressed.

Jaskier sighs. “I seem to have come down with the tiniest case of stage fright.”

“Stage fright?” Geralt arches an eyebrow. “But you perform all the time.”

“Not at places like this.” Jaskier waves his hand in the direction of the stage.

“You just told me in detail about all seven times you performed here before. You said you won five times.”

“And it would have been all seven, if Valdo Marx weren’t a cad and a cheat.” Jaskier puffs up in remembered outrage. “But that was the Student Bardic Festival. Everyone expects the acts there to be a little bit shit. Melitele help them, but my classmates didn’t give me much of a run for their money, save for Valdo and Essi. This is the first time I’ve performed in a professional competition.”

“And that’s why you’re nervous.”

“Yes!” Jaskier throws up his hands in exasperation. “I know this isn’t a wyvern or an angry mob, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of thousands of people!”

Geralt gets an expression on his face like he’s valiantly refraining from pointing out that Jaskier doesn’t normally care about making a fool of himself. “You perform all the time.”

“For drunks in taverns who won’t notice if I make a bunk of the pronunciation of an elven ballad or courtiers who wouldn’t know a wrong note if it hit them in the face. Many of these people are trained musicians themselves who have come from all over the Continent to be here today. I have to be perfect.”

“Then be perfect.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier moans and slaps his hands over his eyes. “Have you ever heard of Elsa Svensen?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Of course you haven’t! She was a cautionary tale when I was at Oxenfurt, a rising star in the bardic circuit until she tried to sing The Six Swans at the Lan Exeter Bardic Festival.” At the blank look on his witcher’s face, Jaskier elaborates. “It’s a famously difficult ballad in Elder. Very long, lots of tricky notes. She butchered it so badly that she was laughed off stage! Suffice to say, there was an unfortunate mispronunciation and she sang a line about the hero committing unspeakable acts with a donkey in front of the entirety of Lan Exeter, including the king and queen. It ended her career. Rumor has it that she changed her name and is now working as a traveling player.”

Geralt doesn’t look suitably horrified, in Jaskier’s opinion.

“A traveling player, Geralt!” Jaskier practically shrieks, which isn’t good for his voice, but he can’t stop himself. “I can’t act! There isn’t a single troupe of traveling players that would have me. I’ll starve. Gods, I should never have let Essi talk me into this. I’m too young to live in disgrace. Can you go out there and tell them that a horrible tragedy has befallen me and an evil witch has stolen my voice? Ooh, yes, say I’ve ruined her for all other men and this is my punishment. Do you think we can find an actual witch in—”

He doesn’t realize Geralt is approaching him until the witcher presses a brief kiss to his lips.

Jaskier blinks, surprised. Geralt isn’t one for displays of affection where anyone else might see. “What are you—”

Geralt kisses him again. Jaskier can feel the curl of his lips.

“Geralt, this is—”

Another kiss, this one accompanied by Geralt nipping at his lower lip.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says through another kiss. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“Trying to shut you up.”

“How dare—”

Geralt kisses him again. “You were working yourself up.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, then realizes he was just plotting to find an actual witch to steal his voice in order to get out of a performance. Perhaps Geralt has a point. “Right.”

“You know Elder too well to accidentally sing about donkeys. And if you do manage to fuck up so badly that you ruin your career, I won’t let you starve.”

Jaskier melts into him. “Geralt, that’s the sweetest—”

“Because you’re right, you’d be a shit traveling player.” Geralt’s lips quirk.

“You—”

Geralt kisses him again, slow and sweet, and Jaskier feels the last bit of tension drain out of him.

“Jaskier the Bard!” a woman’s voice calls from the stage. “Also known as the Dandelion!”

“That’s you.” Geralt pushes him towards the stage. “You’ll do great, Jask.”

Jaskier can’t help but smile at him. “How can I not, after a sweet pep talk like that?”

“Hm. Probably not as great as Valdo Marx did earlier.” A full-on smile spreads over Geralt’s face at Jaskier’s outrage. “But we’ll see.”

And just for that, Jaskier gives the best damn performance of his life. Which is probably what Geralt intended, the terrible man.

***

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

Kiss prompts

#the witcher #twn #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills

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crushedsweets · 2 months

Note

What do the proxies think of each other?

this is gonna be kinda messy and disorganized but i got it HANDLED

again, THIS IS ALL MY AU!!! there is a streamline, detailed plot that intertwines, so these characters mingle and grow in ways they probably wouldnt in canon, since different events follow them here O/S Syndrome = Operator/Slender Syndrome, aka slender sickness

Toby: He thinks of Brian and Tim kinda like shitty uncles who only come around every now and again . they used to taunt him a lot cuz toby was always like. annoying, selfish, sarcastic - so it would piss them off, and they'd piss toby off, and then it would be pretty bad. but as toby gets older and calms the fuck down, it gets better between them . he gets pretty sad when they eventually cut him(and everyone) off to move to like, canada or oregon or something.

he likes kate. theyre both outcasts even in a group of creeps and killers and literal monsters.... so toby's always been nice to her. when she refused to come to the cabin, he ended up dragging a mattress over to the mines for her. brings her food, gallons of water, t shirts. she owns random band t shirts that she doesnt even listen to cuz toby gave it to her LMFAOOO . he's the reason kate starts coming and staying at the cabin

Kate: she hates tim. completely cannot stand him. she hates when slendy makes them work together. he's been a dick to her since he met her, because their first time meeting was um. her dragging tim through the forest while he was unconscious. and she was generally part of what tormented him during the events of marble hornets (IN MY AU OBVIOUSLY). he's also uncomfortable because when she kills people she does it with her bare hands. will lick the blood and dirt and grime off her fingers. generally freaky.

she's better with brian. he doesn't remember her tormenting him so much during MH, but he still knows - but he's better at empathizing with her situation. he kinda pieced together what happened to her, while tims just blinded by like. anger and trauma. dont get me wrong, brian is still uncomfortable around her (again, she acts really scary when working), but when she's not working and she just sits there. she looks so tired, and she's so quiet, and its sad. he feels for her.

she likes toby, too. first person to treat her fully like a person after becoming a proxy without her having to like, beg for it (directly or indirectly). again, he brings her things, he's kind to her, laughs with her. he'll tease her and make fun of her but she can tell it's not with ill intent so she'll do it back - she considers him her best friend for a while.

Tim:

HE'S A HATER HE'S A HATER HE'S A HATER ok i know i call him an asshole and say he's mean a lot but i legit am not mad at him and i think he is within reason (like 60% of the time) since like. kates dragged his unconscious body through the forest and left him covered in scratches/bruises, toby's almost always throwing the first punch, he's had his entire life derailed for so fucking long, and these kids don't make it any easier- he could've been in kates position, which is the one thing that makes him kinda hesitate when he wants to say smth mean. he usually isnt an asshole unprompted, but he'll always take it the second step.

a lot different for brian. he wanted him dead for a while too. blamed him for a lot of stuff, but at this point he........... has nobody else. brian is his friend. i feel like writing too much about the complication of their relationship kinda takes away from it. theyre roommates, they leave together, they'd fight tooth and nail to stay in eachothers lives. despite everything

Brian:

i feel like i dont have a lot to say about brian since I already described everyone else's relationship...

just to sum it all up with him, he cares more about all three of them then he lets on. but he's also a lot better at showing he cares. he brings some basic groceries and beer and shit over to the cabin pretty frequently, he'll hang around toby and if kates there, ask if she needs anything. she usually just shakes her head, but on the off chance she says she wants like. a specific drink. he kinda feels like he got +1 friendship points with her LMFAOOO . and obviously he jokes around and messes with toby when they're not fighting

and again, same thing with tim. that's his friend. he's missing a LOT of memories from the events of MH, but tim hasn't hesitated in telling him how he feels about it... and he feels bad. it all sucks. even now, he says things he doesnt mean, just because all of the guilt and anger and trauma gets him and tim both riled up. then they go get a drink together and move on

overall, the proxies are pretty messy. brian and tim arent very present anymore, toby and kate are sort of taking on their 'in charge' roles. their relationship slowly mends itself over time, since my AU largely focuses on improvement and recovery and redemption (HOWEVER MUCH THEY CAN ALL THINGS CONSIDERED...), but its still pretty bad

#asks #creeped #hcs

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 1 year

Text

(3) WHAT LOVE DID THEN, LOVE DOES NOW [r.l]

“They wanted each other in the way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.” — ‘these violent delights’, micah nemerever

pairing. rowan laslow x vampire!reader

warnings. swearing, mention of sex + death, spoilers for wednesday s1

summary. a certain someone approaches you and rowan.

word count. 3k

>pt1, pt2, pt3

iii.

You completely - and I mean totally, wholly, entirely - underestimated Enid Sinclair’s gossiping capabilities.

The both you had expected her to tell a few people, maybe, just get it out there that, “wow, Rowan and [Name], are, like, totally boning, oh, and he’s a vampire now.”

The whole nonchalant gossiping thing. You’ve seen it happen — aw, Bianca’s dating Xavier, oh, wait, they're over; Davina and Sinclair’s older brother were caught after curfew, that’s nice; one of the fangs knocked out a normie on Outreach Day, go them!

You didn’t know how out of proportion things could get. You were no expert on gossiping - that was Yoko’s thing.

Maybe it was because she was younger than you. These days, being older than two centuries felt like you were a fucking senior citizen.

By next morning, several Fangs had knocked on your door asking about you and Rowan. By pure ‘coincidence’, Rowan would walk by the door, or maybe he’d call you back to ‘bed’, and the inquisitive Fangs in question would gasp, quickly say goodbye, and leave.

In actuality, you and Rowan had practiced this after the first fellow Vampire had come by and asked. By some terrible stroke of luck, Weem’s had permitted Rowan to move out of his dorm with Xavier Thorpe and move into your empty one, as your whole reason for turning him had been to stay together forever.

Ugh. Curse Weems and her disgustingly romantic heart.

When the two of you arrived in your first period (you in Latin, Rowan in Fencing), you had been bombarded with either questions or whispers (you with questions, Rowan surrounded by whispers, which didn’t really bother him. It was like a regular day of being an outcast freak, except now, instead of laughing behind his back, everyone shied away from his gaze.)

You reconvened at lunch, hiding in your dorm to take a break from everyone’s unabashed staring. Even on your way to Karnstein Hall, people popped up left and right, scrambling from their place across the room to see you two up close — holding hands, of course, as you had to keep up appearances.

“So,” you said, putting down your dorm keys on your bedside table, “How was your morning?”

“Ugh,” Rowan groaned, flopping down onto his bed across from yours — which was still bare, as he’d moved in just the night before — “don’t even ask. I was okay with the whispers, but by third period Seance I had people coming up to me and asking for details.”

You shrugged off your Nevermore zip-up, throwing it onto your bed. “God, I saw Davina eyeing me from across the greenhouse - I thought I was gonna get sirened into spilling secr—“

A sharp knock rapted at your cherry-wood door, interrupting your ranting. The both of you paused, far too tired to deal with any more questions.

“[Name], Rowan, I know you’re in there.” A familiar voice said, before knocking once more. Immediately, your expression grew alarmed.

It was Wednesday Addams knocking on your door.

You inched closer to the door, hand hesitantly grasping around the brass knob. From behind you, Rowan looked like he’d rather die again than open the door.

He had told you about his mother’s painting and her psychic abilities - the reason why he had attempted to kill her - and how he still couldn’t trust her. Despite how Rowan knew that psychic powers weren’t the most reliable, and could even make one go crazy - like his mothers had - he still held the utmost trust in her.

Nonetheless, Rowan obliged when you mouthed to him: “Weems is on her case. Any wrong move and she’ll be done for.”

Twisting the knob slowly, you cracked the door open a few inches. “Hi, Wednesday.” You pasted on a bright smile, all teeth and, on purpose, entirely, noticeably, fake.

“I need to talk to Rowan.” She said shortly, black eyes boring into your own. They were completely devoid of emotion, blank and lifeless. If you ever saw her laying on the floor with the same expression, you’d think she was dead.

“I’m afraid we’re,” You grinned larger, trying to flush some color into your cheeks, “having some quality couple time.”

She furrowed her brows. You lifted a hand onto her shoulder, “You get it, righ—“

Suddenly, Wednesday’s head flew back, and her body stiffened. Her back was arched, arms flailed at her side. Wednesday looked completely out of it, eyes rolling to the back of her head, breathing scattered like she was heaving.

“Wednesday?” You whispered, hands curling around her thin arms. “Wednesday!” You repeated, shaking her rapidly when she didn’t come out of her stupor.

She looked like she was about to convulse, but instead her body held still for a moment, until it grew limp and fell into your arms.

You gaped. Then, you looked down the hall, left and right, feeling your nerves practically burn on fire at the thought that someone had seen.

Thankfully, nobody was loitering in your wing of Karnstein Hall, but you knew Yoko was going to grab her herbology kit soon for her next class.

Decisively, you dragged Wednesday’s sagging body into your room. Then, you gently placed her body in the middle of the room, and locked your dorm door.

“What happened? What the the fuck did you do?!” Rowan said, springing up from his bed. His panic was evident as the pitch of his voice climbed higher and higher, nervously hopping over Wednesday’s body and standing next to you.

“Why the hell is that your first thought?! I didn’t do anything!” You said defensively, throwing your arms up in the air.

“Then how come she’s - passed out like that. Is she passed out? Did you kill her or—“ Rowan’s voice was quickly growing staccato, and he was running out of breath.

“I didn’t kill her! What are you even saying?! We were just talking—“

“If you were just talking then why is she on the floor, in the middle of our goddamn room?!” Rowan shouted, heaving.

You were sure Rowan was about to pass out, when Wednesday suddenly lifted her upper body off the floor. It looked like when elder vampires sprung from their coffins, unlike the younger generation of vampires that shed the need for coffins and got their energy from social interaction. Changing times, you guessed.

Wednesday turned to the both of you, almost mechanically, and you both froze on the spot. Her gaze pierced the two of you. It was calculating, all knowing; like she knew secrets you did not.

She drew in a thin breath between the teeth that, suddenly, looked as sharp as knives. “That night - in the forest. You died.” Wednesday looked at Rowan, her eyes tracing the bite scar on his neck.

“But it wasn't the monster that killed you,” Wednesday continued. Her eyes drifted, latching onto you next. “It was [Name]. They followed the scent of blood, found you… and turned you.”

Wednesday’s dull, lifeless eyes grew a miniscule sheen. “Am I correct?” She said, pushing herself up from the wood floors and dusting her black pants off.

You looked at Rowan. He looked at you. You both continued like that for several moments, all the while Wednesday stood watching and waiting. She seemed to have no qualms at all about waiting, like an idle game character.

Never mind Wednesday Addams’s mannerisms — how in god’s fucking name did she know that? In utmost detail, nonetheless, even down to how Rowan’s attack made itself known to you.

“How - did you...“ Rowan broke the silence, fumbling over his words. His hands animatedly expressed his shock.

You pressed two fingers between your eyes. “Who told you this? Who saw this, and who else knows?”

If there was even the slightest chance that this information leaked… the two of you would be done for. The possibility of a homicidal monster being known to parents would effectively close the school - and for how long, you did not know.

(Although Nevermore had never been home, it was single-handedly the only place you and Rowan had ever known so comfortably.

For centuries, you wandered throughout Europe - through Romania and back again, in France, Italy, Denmark, Istanbul when it had still been Constantinople; every country in the North-Eastern hemisphere you traversed, unable to sit still, unable to get comfortable, unable to feel okay, until you crossed into the Americas, into Nevermore. It was not home, but at least it promised something similar.

After Rowan’s mother’s death - no, even before she had passed, his house wasn’t home. His mother’s psychic abilities had ailed her - not physically, which had killed her - but in the head. Rowan’s mother had not been herself for at least a decade before she passed, and when she did die, it was saying goodbye to a stranger, loving a figure who did not love you back, nonetheless raise you.

His father, even moreso, was estranged. Rowan’s father had cherished his mother more than anything in the entire world; more than the family business, more than their heaps of wealth, more than Rowan himself.

When she died, in that large, empty, home, the warm part of his father died with her.

Despite the way he was treated at school, he preferred Nevermore over his house, because at least he was treated with contempt. In the Laslow family estate, Rowan was not treated with anything at all. In that empty house, Rowan felt like a ghost. No one spoke to each other, no one spoke to him, and his father drowned himself in his work.

Nevermore was for the fleeing. You and Rowan fit those conditions entirely. It welcomed the fearful, the alone, the outcast. It attempted to make something of a home out of you all, and even if it didn’t fill the gap in you and Rowan, it, at the very least, filled some of it.

So closing the school could not happen.)

“Nobody told me this. I did not see this matter in the way you think. And no-one else knows, excluding you two, and now me.”

“You lie,” You said. There was no other way she’d get a hold of such intimate details.

If possible, Wednesday looked slightly offended at the connotation. “I have not lied for the entirety of this conversation.”

And lie again. You sucked air in through your teeth, taking short and rapid breaths. What right did she have, knocking on your door and passing out, barging into your business, all knowing and spilling your every secret?

What did she want?

Something dawned on you, your eyes widening with each passing second. Passing out? All knowing—

Wednesday looked you both in the eye. Her gaze was as transparent as glass, and it looked as though she was prepared to lay all her cards on the table.

“I suppose, as I’ve found out your secret, I must tell you mine. A quid pro quo, of sorts.”

“You did not see it in the way we think,” You thought to yourself, piecing together Wednesday’s vaguely knit puzzle of words.

Wednesday’s hands clasped together. “I get visions. Of the past, or the future.”

You and Rowan looked at one another once more. That would explain many things, but you both still regarded the Addams’ daughter with a certain distrust. You did so for reasons you could not quite understand, but perhaps it was her eeriness that held such a discomforting air that made you both need more convincing.

She turned to Rowan, “On Harvest Day, I saw you die. No more, no less. Before you did so, I did not see you try to kill me. Until now, I did not see [Name] save you.”

Rowan’s eyes thinned. “What else have you seen?” He said, distrustingly.

Wednesday looked similarly distrusting, which was not surprising, as Rowan had tried to kill her. Nonetheless, she answered. “I witnessed a Jericho civilian’s death by cervical fracture before he died.”

“These visions… you cannot control them?” You said, interrupting Rowan and Wednesday’s impromptu death-staring contest.

Wednesday blinked. “Touch seems to be a common factor. But no.”

“Are they all knowing? Fixed?” Rowan scrutinized, an unashamed attempt at sleuthing.

Wednesday, in her limited ability to show much emotion, seemed pensive. “To claim my visions are omniscient would be superbia. However, their accuracy has not yet failed me.”

You bit the skin on your nails. You could feel a drumming in your head, and you could imagine that was what a thrumming heart was like.

Everything you asked, Wednesday seemed to answer - or perhaps, counter - completely. She left no room for suspicion, completely devoid of holes in her story.

You exhaled a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay - fine. Yes, I turned Rowan. I - smelt his blood from the festival, followed the trail, and decided the only way I could save him was to turn him.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, acknowledging. “Smart decision on your part. In terms of eye-witness testimonies to the monster, all victims dead meant no accounts.” Wednesday’s gaze then turned to Rowan, whose previously impugning attitude disappeared.

“I - didn’t see much.” Rowan began, in a meek voice. “As much as you saw, Wednesday. Maybe even less.”

“It does not particularly have to be what the creature looked like. Anything at all that you may remember,” she said, placing her hands in front of her expectantly.

He grimaced. “It… reminded me of a werewolf.” Rowan started, before quickly shaking his head. “But it wasn’t one. No, it was… violent; out of control.” Rowan bit his lip, thin, pointed fangs nipping at the skin so hard he nearly drew blood. “I remember it staring me down - with those huge, crazed eyes. But it - It looked like it… knew what it was doing. Like they - it, was attacking me intentionally.”

Silence filled the room, and it felt like a cold draft blew in, despite zero openings. The environment grew tense, and you looked at Rowan. If possible, he looked paler than before, a certain despair settling into the lines of his soft face.

A heavy guilt weighed on your shoulders. Of course he wouldn’t want to talk about the monster that almost killed him. In what world would one happily talk about their near-murderer?

Breaking the silence, Wednesday hummed. “Intelligence, rather than animalistic instinct. Interesting.”

“I - think it’s best if you go now, Wednesday.” You said, looking at Rowan’s blank stare. His lips were pressed in a thin line, and he looked elsewhere. Far away from the now, melting in his memories.

Wednesday blinked, and looked as if she wanted to say much more, but settled with a curt nod, and exited your dorm room. Before she left, she said, “Try not to let this conversation of ours leave the room. I have reason to believe the monster may very well kill all who know about it.”

After Wednesday left, it was just the two of you in the room. The awkward silence suffocated you both, like a noose constricting around your neck. Any words you wished to say died on your lips, their ghosts coming out as mere sighs.

“I’m sorry.” You said finally, turning away from Rowan, who now lay still on his bed. He looked akin to a corpse in a casket during an open funeral viewing.

“What for?” Rowan droned dully, eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling above you. You knew he wasn’t really listening, and he wasn’t really answering. His mind was so far between from his body, his subconscious answering for him.

“We didn’t have to tell her. We didn’t have to answer. I didn’t mean to force you.”

Rowan didn’t answer, at least not for a long moment. Your simultaneous breathing was all that could be heard; in and out, in and out.

Finally, Rowan let out a breath of air that was tattered, ragged and tired. He sounded worn out; aching. “We had to tell her. She already knew.” He tried to catch his fleeting breath, “And you didn’t force me. I chose to tell her what I saw. What tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry,” You said, turning to face him. Rowan’s body had turned to face the wall, on his side with his legs pulled up to his chest. “for everything.”

“It’s not your fault.” Rowan whispered, almost inaudibly.

You inched closer, until you were at the edge of his bed. You kneeled beside him, and in the softest voice you could muster: “I’m sorry for turning you. This - being what I am - isn’t anything good at all. It - isn’t what you’re supposed to be.”

“I’m - it wasn’t my choice to make; I — I turned you into something you’re not. Something terrible.”

Rowan rolled over, meeting you face to face. His light brown eyes glistened with small, shining tears, brows furrowed. “You - saved me. I’m not human anymore but I’m — I’m still alive.” His eyes coursed over your melancholic face, “That’s more than anyone else could do.”

“I’m sorry.” You repeated, like a broken toy. The guilt of turning a human into something they should never be, twisted your thoughts in all the wrong ways. You felt sick, icky for playing God with someone’s life, for playing God with Rowan’s fundamental being. “I should’ve never—“

“If you never turned me, I’d be dead, alright?” Rowan said gruffly, pushing himself upright from the mattress. He wiped furiously at his wet eyes, “It doesn’t matter if I was human, or not. I would’ve been dead. Gone. Okay? Stop -“ He pressed his shaking hands together, “stop saying you’re sorry.”

Your lips opened and parted, your throat deathly dry. Words you couldn’t muster clawed at your esophagus, rendering you silent.

Turning Rowan had been, what you felt, like the greatest sin in your entire, long, lifespan. You thought - that deep down, Rowan hated you for it.

“I’m sorry.” You looked him in the eye, weak on the floor. You could only ever imagine repenting for turning him. It was a taboo act - one you knew saved him, for certain, but had ruined him.

You had been born ruined; born without the ability to be saved. There was no reason to condemn Rowan like so; to take away the humanity you so desperately wanted.

Rowan’s eyes crinkled, a sad smile tightening on his lips. He knew he couldn’t change your mind, no matter how much he wanted to. “Don’t be.”

#rowan laslow x reader #calum ross #wednesday #calum ross x reader #rowan laslow

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buckyalpine · 2 years

Text

Imagine

18+ Minors dni

Bucky x f reader

A/N: self indulging here with how we ended up down this rabbit hole. A lil cocky Bucky.

Warnings: Dirty talking, a little smut, illusions to smut, swearing

The TikTok that started it all: https://www.tiktok.com/@hungrymathi/video/6948835965326707973?_t=8Tqbk2XuzbB&_r=1

Word count: 1.2k

You looked around you, sighing contently seeing no one else in the shared living room. You plopped down onto the large couch, snuggling into the cushions, pulling your phone out.

Tumblr.

Wattpad.

AO3.

The holy trinity; your latest guilty pleasure and favourite place to be. It all started with a tiktok.

Avengers walking in on you naked

You snickered at the accuracy of how each person would react; Tony, Steve, Sam, Peter but then the next avenger made your stomach clench. The one and only James Buchanan Barnes. The other avengers would run away or sneak a little glance. Bucky on the other hand, flicks his eyes over your body, licking his lips before walking in and shutting the door behind him. Sure, it was someone else pretending to be Bucky but that did it for you, you had entered a very interesting rabbit hole. You let curiosity get the best of you, searching his name and finding hundreds of TikToks. Some were some rather spicy edits of him working out or pictures of him shirtless. Those were nice, but what really sent you into a spiral were the stories.

It felt wrong but so right. He was your co-worker (disgustingly hot co-worker) for fucks sake but…

The first video you came across made you blush like a little school girl, momentarily confused about wtf y/n stood for. It was an elaborate story about you and Bucky pining for each other, classic idiots in love, there were almost 50 videos for the one story. It was sweet. Wholesome.

And then there were the ones where you were apparently Tony’s daughter (not too different from reality, Tony was very protective over you, more like a brother) and you were caught hooking up with Bucky. It started off with him teasing you, then you sat on his lap and then…. Butterfly emoji. You can imagine the rest?

You huffed because it was never enough, the videos always hinting to sexy times but with 0 details and fuck you wanted to details! You scrolled through the comments, seeing a number of people recommending Wattpad and AO3 stories that had all the details.

You figured just a peek wouldn’t cause any harm, you’d see what it’s about and it’d scratch the itch. You were so fucking wrong because with each story you read, you only wanted more. You allowed your mind to explore all the fantasies you always had, your heart racing and stomach erupting into butterflies with each spicy detail.

It didn’t help that all the fics were all so accurate. They all nailed Bucky’s personality and you were able to imagine everything perfectly. You did your best to hide your filthy little secret from everyone but it was becoming more and more difficult.

Which led you here; to this very moment. You kept the phone extra close to your face so no one would be able to sneak a peek at your screen, immersing yourself in the smuttiest of fics. Your heart was racing as the plot line was reaching its climax with Bucky ramming his cock into you against a wall.

“Whatcha reading there y/n?”

You shrieked, throwing your phone across the room, looking back to see Bucky with a smirk, his head cocked to the side right behind you.

How long had he been standing there?!

“N-nothing! I- cookies! It’s a cookie recipe!” You grabbed your phone and headed straight for your room without looking back, feeling his eyes watch your flustered form run away.

“Cookies my ass” Bucky smirked to himself, his cock stirring in his jeans.

You slammed the door shut, throwing yourself onto your bed to scream into your pillow. Ugh, why were you reading that in the middle of the living room like a perv. You had no idea how you were going to face him again, deciding to take a very cold shower because your entire body felt like it was on fire.

You let the cold water shock you, your mind racing hoping to Bucky didn’t actually see what you were reading but who were you kidding. He had super everything, hearing, sight, stealth, he was probably able to smell how aroused you were too. You shook your head, contemplating on sending Tony a resignation letter, maybe moving to Switzerland, live out your days as a cow on a nice pastoral farm. You switched off the water, grabbing a towel to wrap around you. You stepped out of the bathroom, your soul leaving your body; towel almost falling in the process.

Bucky was lying on your bed, casually scrolling through your phone, a shit eating grin on his face; how the hell did he know your pass code?!

You gripped onto your towel, bolting towards him, straddling him, trying to grab your phone, struggling as he grinned holding it out of your reach.

“Bucky!! Ugh, give it back! That’s private, you can’t just scroll through someone phone like that!” The towel nearly slipped off as you momentarily let go of it, squirming on his hips, your face flushing as you clutched it again.

“I thought we were friends doll, friends don’t hide secrets”

He continued to hold the phone out of your grasp, his eyes trailing the water droplets that were running down your neck, past your collarbone and into the valley of your breasts. He let out an involuntary groan each time your hips clumsily rocked forward, your breasts bouncing in his face, inching closer to his mouth.

“There are no secrets, you’re just being a creep right now, give me my phone back!” You huffed, crossing your arms across your chest, sitting back right on his crotch, your eyes growing wide as you felt his clothed cock pressing into your ass.

“Maybe you can tell me what you’ve been up to on your phone then, been noticing you’ve been glued to it recently”

Bucky grabbed your hips to sit right above his achingly hard length, moving you to grind on him. You gasped, unable to process anything that was happening right now, as he licked his lips, watching your mouth gape, your brain glitching. You could feel your core clench around nothing, arousal pouring out of you. Bucky gripped your ass, flipping you around, trapping you under him, his metal hand holding both of your hands pinned above your head.

“Tell me what you were reading”

“I…”

Bucky smirked, watching the way your eyes flicked between his eyes and lips, moving closer to your face so his lips would brush against yours as he spoke.

“You like imagining all the dirty thing’s Id do to you?”

You nodded, whimpering, your legs spreading apart further allowing him to rut his clothed throbbing length onto your desperate core.

“You like imaging me pounding you against a wall, wrapping my metal hand around your throat while I fuck your brains out?”

You moaned, squirming under him, trying to rub yourself on him, the growing ache between your legs was becoming unbearable. Bucky reached between your bodies, ripping the towel off you, leaving you bare underneath him. He sat up, tugging his shirt off before laying back on you again, his hand making its way down, teasing your folds while he kissed your neck.

“You don’t have to imagine babydoll, I can just show you”

Please let me know if you wanted to be added or removed from the taglist!

Tags: @glxwingrxse @hungryyeyes @sebsgirl71479 @beabutterfly987 @teambarnes72

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tigertales9 · 11 months

Text

Who's the Boss?

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Warnings: 18+ / Smut

Description: This is a short, porny nugget inspired by media day.

Time/Place: 6/12/23 - Cincinnati, Ohio

Edit: Added a link to the pic that inspired this - So Damn Hot

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You take a deep breath and throw a side-eye at your phone when it chimes with yet another text about your "hot ass" man.

Your cousin and your best friend are getting a kick out of Bengals media day, and they're blowing your phone up sharing lewd comments from fangirls and guys about Joe's new pics and vids.

You laugh it off for a bit before getting annoyed at a particularly raunchy comment. You don't blame folks for thirsting after your man -- his media day pic was hot as hell -- but you're not in the mood to read the OTT nastiness. Plus, you know there's plenty of comments saying you're not good enough for Joe, that he can do so much better. You roll your shoulders to ease some tension. "At least my friends have the good sense not to send me those," you mutter.

You eventually turn your phone off and start dinner prep, chewing hard on your lip when you hear the garage door open. A minute later Joe strides into the kitchen looking like walking sex, his tousled curls tumbling over his headband and his big smile almost painful for you to look at.

"Hey, babe," he says, walking up behind you to kiss your neck as you dice tomatoes for a salad. "Hey," you mumble, flinching slightly when his lips touch your neck. "What is it?" he asks, reading your body language effortlessly. "Nothing," you lie, shrugging him off before snatching a dish out of the oven. "Dinner's almost ready," you whisper, avoiding eye contact. "Sit down."

He watches you closely for several heartbeats before doing your bidding. You serve dinner, picking at your portion while Joe scarfs his down, talking about offensive schemes and how he dominated in ping-pong, never one time mentioning media day.

When he finally scrapes the last morsel of food off of his plate you hop up and grab it, hurrying to the sink to rinse your plates and shove them in the dishwasher. "Let me help," he protests, his brow furrowing when you wave him off. "I got this," you state. He watches you for several seconds before responding. "What's wrong?" he asks, stepping forward to place his hand on the small of your back; you react like you've been tasered, flinching away from his touch. "Leave me alone, please," you mumble, quickly closing the dishwasher before heading for the stairs.

Twenty minutes later you're immersed in a tub full of bubbles, simultaneously feeling sorry for yourself and feeling stupid for overreacting. You close your eyes and try to relax, your entire body going stiff when Joe knocks on the door. "Go away," you mutter, sinking farther into the bubbles when Joe walks into the room.

"Okay, listen," he sighs, walking toward you and dropping down on his knees alongside the tub. "I checked the calendar and it's not your period, so what is it?" he asks, his brow furrowed and his pretty eyes filled with apprehension.

"Are you saying I act like an emo asshole when I'm on my period?"

"No, of course not. I'm just trying to figure out what's wrong."

You shake your head. "It's stupid," you mumble.

"Tell me."

You shake your head again.

"Tell me, please," he begs, his earnest expression making you weak.

"Media day," you croak, making a face before squeezing your eyes shut.

"Oh."

"Yeah," you grumble, opening your eyes and hitting him with a direct glare. "90 percent of the viewing public wants to fuck you, and they like to describe it in lurid detail."

He swallows hard and scoots closer to the tub, looming over you. "You know I don't care about shit like that. You're the only one I want."

You roll your eyes and sink father into the bubbles, gasping when he reaches into the tub and easily scoops you out.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, woman" he mutters, striding into the bedroom and dropping you in the middle of the king-sized bed, a few bubbles flying as he strips naked before crawling on top of you. "You want this?" he purrs, his icy blue eyes going dark as he settles between your thighs, muscles rippling as he spreads your legs with his broad shoulders.

He holds himself still while waiting for your reply. "Yeah, I want it," you finally admit, fisting a hand in his dirty-blonde curls as he slides his tongue inside you. He tongue-fucks you for several minutes before raising his head to make eye contact; he gives you a feral smile while sucking your essence off of his lips as he slides his agile fingers inside you, slowly pumping them while dropping back down to suck your clit. "Don't stop!" you whimper, pulling his hair as your climax hits.

You're still catching your breath when you feel his erection at your entrance; he leans down and you bite his shoulder as he buries his cock inside you, both of you moaning when he bottoms out. You wrap your legs around his waist as he hits a steady rhythm, his groan vibrating against your lips as you scratch your nails up the muscular expanse of his back. He nips your bottom lip before locking eyes with you. "You're not allowed to read those damn comments anymore. Got it?"

"Not allowed?" you snort, biting your lip when he buries his cock to the hilt, grinding his hips in a way that causes your core to contract. "Not. Fucking. Allowed." he grits out, narrowing his eyes when you laugh. "I'll do what I damn. well. please." you state, a squeal escaping your lips when he abruptly pulls out and flips you onto your stomach, one big hand connecting with your ass hard enough to make you gasp. "The correct response is yes, sir," he purrs, caressing your stinging buttcheek before continuing. "Let me hear you say it."

"Yes, sir, I'll do what I damn. well. please." you sass, hissing as he smacks your ass in the exact same spot before pulling you up onto your knees. You arch your back and wiggle your hips, moaning when you feel him drag the tip of his cock through your slick folds. "Fuck me hard," you whisper, fisting your hands in the sheets in anticipation. "Not until you say what I wanna hear," he teases, dipping the plump head of his cock just inside before pulling out. "Fine, I'll do it myself," you grumble, reaching down to slide two fingers into your wet heat.

There's silence for several heartbeats as he watches you finger yourself. "You gonna be stubborn, huh?" he finally asks, his voice thick with arousal as you pick up the pace, grinding your hips and moaning against the mattress. "Fuck," he mutters, leaning down to lick your fingers as they slide in and out. "You gonna say what I wanna hear?" he asks, pulling your fingers out and replacing them with his tongue. "No, sir" you whisper, holding your breath when he removes his tongue from your aching core. You're desperate to feel him deep inside you, but there's no way you're gonna give in and he knows it.

"Stubborn as hell," he growls, smacking your ass and burying his cock to the hilt, both of you groaning when your core contracts hard at the sudden intrusion. He waits two heartbeats before starting to thrust, impaling you on his thick cock over and over as you writhe beneath him, a steady stream of whimpers and moans spilling from your lips. "You better be glad I'm weak as fuck when it comes to your tight little cunt," he grits out between thrusts, his deep voice and soft grunts sending a sizzle of heat down your spine.

You let out a whine when he reaches a hand around to play with your swollen clit. "Feel good?" he asks, pounding into you with a force that takes your breath away. Your only response is a primal groan as he expertly handles you, his limber fingers and thick cock working together to push your body to the limit, the pressure quickly building in your core as you dig your fingers into the mattress. "Don't … stop," you manage to whisper, screaming into the mattress as your climax hits; he follows you over the edge several heartbeats later, hissing in pleasure as your spasming core milks him dry.

You eventually collapse in a sweaty, heaving pile, both of you gasping for breath as Joe rolls off of you. Several minutes later -- after your heart rate and breathing have somewhat returned to normal -- Joe eases off the bed and heads to the bathroom, emerging with a warm, damp cloth to clean you up. You roll onto your back, smiling at Joe when he crawls back into bed, pushing up onto an arm to look down at you. "You were never giving in, right?" he asks.

"Never," you agree.

"You like a little power play, don't you?" he teases. "Like to show me who's boss?"

"Yeah, I like it," you smirk. "And from the sounds you were making during that climax," you give him a dirty wink. "You like it too."

"Guilty," he laughs, leaning down to kiss you before rolling onto his back, both of you watching the ceiling fan spin lazily overhead for a few minutes before he speaks up. "I'm gonna take a nap."

"Me too," you sigh, yawning as he reaches down and grabs the sheet, pulling it over both of you. "Babe?" you whisper.

"Hmmm?"

"I can't wait until media day next year," you confess.

"Me neither," he growls, throwing a big arm around you to pull you against his chest, the sound of your shared laughter echoing off the walls for a bit before you quiet down, your breathing synching up as y'all drift off to sleep.

#joe burrow #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine

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rs-hawk · 4 months

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For the 25 days of Kinkmas, how about a short fix-it for the Beauty and the Beast Christmas movie? Belle falls through the ice, Beast rescues her, but then he just throws her in the dungeon of the castle without even changing her out of her soaking wet, ice cold clothes! What if he instead took her to his bed to get her out of those clothes and warm her up against his big furry body?

I haven’t watched this since I had it on VHS as a kid so forgive me if I get any details wrong.

Kinkmas: Day Seven

The Beast

When the Beast rescued Belle from the freezing water, he couldn’t help the anger that burned his chest. She was cold to the touch, her breathing shallow and her face pale. He held her close to him as he patted her back, barely cringing as she coughed water up onto his fur.

She blinked and looked up at him, the frosty air making her lashes nearly freeze together. He looked… concerned? Frightened? She didn’t say anything as he carried her back to the castle, Philippe and Chip in tow. He hesitated by the tower stairs, considering tossing her there for her insolence, but then she sneezed, and his heart completely melted.

“I’ll get you warmed up,” he mummered, carrying her towards the West Wing.

“Is the Master taking her to his room?” Coggsworth asked as he saw the Beast walking away.

Chip nodded as he looked up at his mother, who has appeared as soon as she heard the door opening. “It appears so,” Mrs. Potts agreed, confused but curious.

The Beast didn’t say anything as he carried Belle through the ruined hallways, not even when she asked, in a weak and shaking voice, what had happened here. He covered her head so she wouldn’t see his ruined portrait. As he finally got to his room, he set her on his bed.

“Fire,” he growled at the fireplace, where it instantly lit up and danced with flames.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he rummaged through his wardrobe to gather thicker blankets and a coat for her.

“Why did you do that? Do you hate it here so much?” he gruffed as he tossed the thick blanket at her.

“No!” she exclaimed, taking off her soaking wet coat and cape to wrap herself up in the blanket. She wanted to take off the rest of her clothes, but was too embarrassed in front of him. “No,” she repeated when he turned to look at her. “I just… wanted to make you happy. I thought maybe if I brought the joy of Christmas back, maybe it would make you smile.”

“Make me smile?” he barked as he closed the distance between them grabbing her by her shoulders. “What if something happened to you? How would that make me smile? You’re the only thing that’s made me feel anything since-,” he cut himself off, his grip on her loosening.

“Beast,” she says in that gentle tone, picking up one of his big paws and putting it to her face. It was nearly as big as her entire head. “Why don’t you come with me to pick out a Christmas tree?”

He didn’t say anything, but she started shivering again, and coughed softly. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

He started to slide down her sleeves, but her delicate hands stopped him. “Maybe I should go back to my room and change?”

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly as he let one of his claws trail down her chest and stomach, pushing the frigid fabric more against her skin. “You see me in a near state of undress all the time.”

She considered this, because it was true. He essentially only wore shorts around her at all times. Would it be so bad? Before she could make up her mind, worrying her lower lip between her lips. Just as she was about to still say no, she would go change, he propped himself up on one arm, sliding off his shorts.

“There, now you have nothing to feel nervous about,” he said in a gruff voice.

Her face flushed as she looked up at him, consciously not looking down.

“W-well, I suppose,” she said as she slipped out of her dress, letting him pull her close to him.

His fur was warm and made him feel cuddly. She buried her face in the fur of his neck and she let out a soft sigh of content. Maybe she could stay here. Maybe, she could be happy here.

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onewingedsparrow · 6 months

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I gotta talk about one of my favorite details in RiD 🔥It's a moment that puts the story in storyboarding! While this is only one of many such moments throughout the show, this one is definitely more, ahem, in your face :) than some other, more subtle parallels. This moment is split between two scenes; the first in S2E2, "Overloaded, Part 1"; the second is the bookend partner to that, coming in S2E2, "Overloaded, Part 2." (Spoilers for S1 and S2 below, obviously) Also, I suppose I should warn that this is a long post, because I have many words about this :)

By the end of the first season, Bumblebee has proved himself the worthy leader Optimus always knew he could be. 'Bee has overcome Megatronus, saved the Allspark from merging with the Antispark (and thus, spared both Earth and Cybertron from imploding), and even found a catchphrase that fits his leading style! Yay! What a great way to end a season. After such a high point in his life, however, the writers know that to start the next season off, they need Bumblebee to face a particularly rough challenge. If he's going to keep growing as a character, as a leader, he can't always be riding the high of victory. He needs a new catalyst. Therefore, Season 2 starts off by throwing him a curveball: a Decepticon from his past, that once injured him severely in the war, infiltrates the scrapyard pretty much immediately after Optimus, Bumblebee's greatest support, has vanished through the ground bridge.

When this Decepticon, Overload, arrives, Bumblebee recognizes him instantly. His entire demeanor darkens with rage so suddenly that Grimlock and Strongarm can't help but notice.

The Bee Team will learn later on that Bumblebee has a personal score to settle with Overload, but for now, they can only watch as their normally levelheaded leader throws himself at Overload, fists flying. While hand to hand combat isn't unusual for Bumblebee, in this moment, it feels wrong for him to launch into that—given all the times prior where we've seen him first, coolly and calmly, take a step back to handle an active Decepticon threat. Not to mention, Bumblebee makes no move to brandish either his gun or his Decepticon Hunter; he just wants to punch this 'Con's lights out. Overload beat him up in the past, and he wants to return the favor. The first occasion where Bumblebee punches Overload, the perspective feels extremely familiar. The camera doesn't need to show off this particular view to show Bumblebee's anger, per se, but the makers of the show choose to position the camera like so. Clearly, the storyboard wishes for us to recall a scene we've seen before. It didn't take me long to think of it: the first time we see Bumblebee fighting in TFP! This screenshot on the right is from the very first episode, "Darkness Rising, Part 1." When Arcee needed backup against Eradicons, Bumblebee came and decked Steve right in the face. Bam. Look at those sparks flying! (I'll get to that later.)

What is most interesting to me about this moment in RiD as compared to the moment in TFP is: in RiD, Bumblebee should be exemplifying how he's gained valuable combat experience since his younger days. However, in TFP, when Bumblebee punched Steve, his motion was very precise, very direct. in RiD, when Bumblebee tries to punch Overload, his arms swing far looser, far wider than that.

It's a bit easier to see in motion, so if you're curious, I highly recommend watching the episodes yourself.

Notice how TFP Bumblebee, Scout Bumblebee, uses his left arm to map out his bullseye, preparing his right arm to swing in for a tightly controlled punch. He's aiming before he launches, whereas RiD Bumblebee, Warrior Bumblebee, mind you, isn't taking time to aim. He's just firing punches willy-nilly, because he's fragging mad. He doesn't care about accuracy; he cares about hitting Overload as hard as he can, as fast as he can. It's such a wonderful way to convey just how upset Bumblebee is regarding Overload; his battle style is reverting back to his rookie days. He's subconsciously slipping into bad habits because his hurt has taken the psychological wheel, and his emotions can't throttle back so long as that's driving him. Even if you're unfamiliar with the parallel scene from TFP, the animation of RiD makes it clear to the viewer's eye that something about Bumblebee's fighting style is off. And, if the big, sweeping motions perhaps aren't obvious enough to the viewer, Overload easily dodges or deflects most of Bumblebee's wild attacks, making it strikingly clear. In watching the RiD scene and the TFP scene side by side, you may also have noticed that the TFP punch is far more satisfying, because we get to hear the big metal KAPOW as Bumblebee clocks Steve's face. This sound effect, combined with the shower of slow motion sparks, invigorates the viewer because look at how cool Bumblebee is! Wow! What a spectacle! Epic!

With Overload, however, we receive no such hype. No sparks go flying, even when Bumblebee manages to land a hit, because we're not supposed to feel that this battle is going well. We're supposed to feel a little uncomfortable, like we can sense something is missing, something is wrong, because Bumblebee isn't at the top of his game, and he won't be, so long as he remains lost in his anger. Ah, but fortunately for our favorite Prime in Disguise, this isn't the end! Compare that first attack on Overload in the first episode to his final attack on Overload in the second episode!

By this point, Bumblebee has realized the folly of his mindless rage. He had to get a little beat up again to reach this realization, but he has come to accept that he doesn't need the payback of revenge to be satisfied with his victory over Overload. He knows he needs to move on from the hurt of the past, and simply do what he was called to Earth to do: capture rogue Decepticons. He just needs to get the job done. So he does! In the screenshot above, notice how his form is much more controlled this time around. No more wild, swinging, rookie punches. This punch is focused, tight, and aimed. This punch channels the Warrior experience he's gained over years of fighting. This punch is heading home. And it hits hard.

So hard, in fact, that sparks go flying. Slow motion sparks that feel quite familiar, almost as if they were meant to remind us of another equally satisfying visual moment. Hmm, I wonder what moment it could be? ;) All in all, I think these moments are beautifully set up and executed. The parallel to TFP isn't frame for frame in either RiD scene, but it doesn't need to be; both scenes are reminiscent enough that they trigger the audience's memory, strongly. As a final note, I would also like to point out that this episode ends on another glorious parallel between Bumblebee and Optimus ✨ When Optimus punches Polarclaw, the similarity is unmistakable.

To grow beyond his rookie mistakes and lingering bad habits, Bumblebee has to learn let go of the hurt of the past. Only then can he become an even better leader than he is already, further reflecting Optimus Prime as he always has. The Prime in Disguise still has a bit farther to grow as Season 2 takes off, but he's on the right track; and after this encounter with Overload, 'Bee is even more ready to rev up and roll out.

#sparrow nerds about transformers #rid appreciation post #prime in disguise bumblebee #rid #rid15 #robots in disguise #bumblebee #optimus prime #maccadam #long post #rid 'bee my beloved #parallels #storyboard study #i wonder how long i spent writing this lol but it was worth it. so worth it

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