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thecuriousquest · 8 months

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dabihawks bondage fic 👀👀??

A Little Tied Up Right Now

Tag List: @issamomma @repostingmyfavs

Warnings: Yandere themes, NSFW, bondage, spanking/paddling, fingering, orgasm, implied kidnapping, sadistic Dabi, sadistic Hawks, degradation

Checkout my Master List here.

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“Don’t make me punish you,” Dabi threatens with a chilling sense of calmness.

Those five words were all it came down to. You barely have anything left. Your sense of security already diminished to a laughably small size. They cause you pain whether you’re good or bad, but how they treat you is entirely up to you. If you’re being a good girl for them, the pain won’t be as bad. If you’re being an absolute brat, then they’ll discipline you accordingly.

Today, you don’t want to play nice. Today, you want to be left alone. However, once those words were uttered by the flame thrower, you couldn’t figure out what you wanted to do. Should you behave and make things easier, or should you keep defying them in hopes that they discard you of this terrible life.

The latter has never worked before. Why would you think it would work now?

However? The latter is the option that you choose.

Much to your surprise, it isn’t Dabi who grabs you. Instead, it’s the strong hands of Keigo who leads you to the room with all of their toys, none of them are ever fun for you.

“No, I don’t want to go to the toy room! Stop! Let me go!” You fight to be released, but you’re so weak in the face of the pro hero.

“Come on, Dove, hold still for me. Take it like a good girl, yeah?” Keigo asks with a sultry note in his voice.

You continue to squirm as Hawks binds your wrists with rope. He uses intricate knots to fully secure your position. The rope was already attached to a sturdy hook in the ceiling, so all he has to do is raise your arms above your head. He does this slowly in a dramatic fashion while pulling on the rope until you’re left dangling like a worm on a hook, your toes barely touching the floor.

Dabi lays flaming hands on you, burning your clothes to ashes. It looks like you won’t have any clothing privileges anytime soon. Some of his fingertips linger on your skin a little too long, and he burns you.

“Aw, it looks like you got yourself another little burn. Shouldn’t have been such a brat then. Honestly, someone would think you want this with how much you act like a fucking bitch.”

At your loss of control, panic begins to set in. They watch you have a little episode until you have exhausted yourself into calming down. Quiet sobbing is the only thing that can be heard from you now, and both men share a look, signaling that your real punishment is about to begin.

Dabi grips your sex with the palm of his hand. A lewd gleam in his cruel blue eyes flashes at you, and you gasp at how his fingers find their way inside of you.

There’s rummaging going on behind you, yet all you can focus on is the gathering wetness between your thighs. The pyro is so unbelievably close to you that you find yourself moaning into his chest.

The raven haired man leans in close to your ear and whispers, “All you had to do was ask if this was what you wanted, slut.”

This wasn’t what you wanted, though. What you wanted was to be left alone. What you wanted was for them to release you of this life whether that be letting you go or killing you.

It’s terrifying how good he can make you feel, though.

You hear it before you feel it, a lightning fast crack before you feel something beat against your flesh. You try to twist enough to see what it is, but your numb arm is in the way.

You feel the stinging smack again on your left cheek, and it has to be the paddle. Keigo loves spanking you with that evil fucking thing.

You bite your lip, trying to hold back a “fuck” that so desperately wants to leap from your lips.

Your eyes widen in pleasure from Dabi before squeezing shut in pain from Keigo. It’s tormenting, it’s exhausting, and it’s exactly what they want to turn you into a good girl.

“P-please!” It’s the only word you can get out of your system.

“P-please w-what?” Dabi mocks you, voice hitching in a high pitch just like yours.

“What does our little songbird want?” Keigo teases as he lines up the paddle for the next stroke.

They know exactly what you’re begging for.

The pain and pleasure mixing together like red and blue paint, creating a beautiful purple to the point where you can’t even tell the difference between the two colors.

You feel the impact of the paddle this time, yet the fingers thrusting in and out of you make it hurt a little less.

“Come on, what does my doll face want?” Dabi whispers in your ear with a haughty voice.

“I want you to let me come!” you cry out.

“I don’t know. Do you really deserve it?” His fingers work their way inside of you even faster, the friction rubbing against that sweet spot of yours.

You can hardly stand it as your toes graze against the hardwood floor.

“I’ll be good! Please?!”

They have to let you come. You can’t stand the thought of them leaving you like this.

Keigo raises his arm and brings the wooden paddle down across your cherry red ass for the fifteenth time.

“What do you say, Dabi? Think we should be nice and let her make a mess?”

You’re close. You can feel your climax not too far away with how Dabi continues to stroke that little ball of pleasure that continues to build and build and build…

You clench around the width of his fingers before gushing all over Dabi’s hand. The creamy orgasm spreads all the way down to his palm, dripping onto his wrist. There’s a lot, and you don’t feel any shame for it.

Keigo stands there, laughing behind you. “You have no idea what you just did.”

Dabi slides his fingers out of you and inspects his hand before wiping it off on your hair. “Keigo, finish up with her.”

You watch the villain saunter over to a chair. He takes a seat and watches you with mild interest.

The pain is amplified tenfold now that you’ve come down from your high, and the man with scarlet wings beats every inch of your rear into a deep crimson hue with indigo bruises.

After all of this, you have a feeling that you will be behaving yourself for a very long time.

#triggering content #triggering themes #yandere themes #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x darling #my hero acedamia #boku no hero academia #dabihawks #yandere dabi #yandere keigo takami #yandere dabihawks

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roscgcld · 3 years

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ZEN’IN NAOYA || husband’s duty

request: omg if it is okay can i ask for a part 2 of sweet little things 🥲

note: you definitely can, love! honestly this definitely cracked my head a little since we didn’t get to explore naoya too much as a character, underneath all that complexity that makes him up as the man we saw in the manga. But I am not gonna sit here and say I do not simp for him AHAHAHA - that would be a huge lie. But we shall see, no? I feel like I made him too soft though, but I live for soft!Naoya - so do not touch me T^T

part one

warning: suggestive scene throughout, but nothing happens really. just naoya being an ass lol

pronouns: she/her

A content sigh left Naoya’s lips as he leans back into the warm water of the bath, his eyes slowly sliding shut at the warmth that surrounds him. Today has been a long day on the office - with back to back meetings and piles of paperwork on his desk, he was just ready to land into his bed face first and sleep the evening away.

“What do you want for your onigiri filling tomorrow? The farmers that produce that special rice you like sent a bag of rice to us earlier today.”

Your soft and sweet voice was what broke him out of his tranquil trance, yet he doesn’t find himself getting angry. Instead he hummed as he leans towards the direction of your voice, seeming to melt further in the steaming water when your soft hands immediately rest themselves against his broad shoulders. Fingers immediately getting to work on the knots that had started to build up since the afternoon. “Hmm...unagi filling sounds good.”

“I’ll make some for your bento tomorrow then,” You reassured him with a warm smile as you started to work through the knots on his shoulders, making sure to not accidentally dig your short but well kept nails into his skin. Whilst Naoya enjoys leaving marks of ownership all over your person, he does not appreciate having any scars left on his skin. And although he does not voice his disapproval, you know your husband well enough to know that unless he is in the mood, you should be careful about things like your nails scratching his skin.

The idea of you making one of his favourite dishes for him, knowing that he has to deal with more paperwork and calls tomorrow has him smiling softly in response. He would not voice out how your little actions causes his usually cold heart to skip a beat; instead he just leans back a little when he heard you collecting some water from the tub with the wooden shower pale. Relishing in the feeling of the water being poured over his two-toned hair, along with your soft fingers gently running through the strands.

Many people feel bad for you, since everyone knows what kind of man Naoya is. Everyone knows that he is nothing more but a skirt chaser, a man who views women as nothing an accessory to hang off his arm. Whose purpose is to provide strong heirs, and nothing more. You knew of the man even before you met him the first time on your family estate - listening to your older sister rant about how much of a myogenetic, rude, and disgusting excuse of a man Zen’In Naoya is. You’ve heard of the whispers from the other women whenever you would join a jujutsu event where the Zen’Ins would be in attendance. You knew that the moment both your fathers shook hands after Naoya shows great interest in you, your future was sealed to be with a man who seems to be every woman’s living nightmare.

And yet, for the last 4 months of marriage life, things have been...pleasant.

Naoya knew from the moment that he spoke to you that he needed to act ‘softer’ in order to gain your trust. That he cannot be his full self around you for at least the first month of your marriage in order to make him trust you; or until his patience runs thin from acting.

However, even though he has promised himself that he will drop the act after the first month; here he is, 4 months into your new marriage. Still finding it almost natural for him to act softer and more...kinder around you. Maybe it is because he finds your personality just so soft and welcoming that it just...felt right to treat you differently. Maybe he is just trying to reason to himself that as his wife, you should be treated differently from the common folk outside of your private home; after all, as long as he keeps you happy, he can get away with pretty much anything.

And yet...he has yet to find it in him to actually act like his usual self around you. Almost as if he was afraid of scaring you, or fearing that you’re scared of him. It’s laughable - how a man who was so self centered and only cared about himself and no one else, seemed to be so worried about what his wife thinks about him. He had reasoned to him that this is normal; that any husband would want their wife to fear them.

But just...it was odd to him. How he chooses to act differently around you, and not feel like he is forced in any way.

His opened his eyes to take a peak at you when his thoughts start to wonder, scanning over your concentrated features as you carefully worked the shampoo through his hair. Somehow just seeing you so focused on making sure that he was enjoying his bath had his heart skipping a beat; something that would have scared him if it were to happen with anyone else.

Yet, instead he found himself letting a small but genuine smile tug against the corners of his lips, one that immediately catches your attention as you carefully wash the studs from his hair. “What got you so happy, my love?,” You asked him curiously as you carefully ran your fingers through his hair, making sure that all the studs were gone. Instead of answering he just reached his hand up to grab your wrist in his gently, pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your wrist.

Naoya isn’t a man to convey his emotions often. He doesn’t necessarily view emotions as weak; he just sees no reason to show others around him how he feels unless it brings him some form of advantage. Other then that, he just puts up an arrogant and unbothered front for the most part. But with you...well, you were different. You are his wife, and in order to be a good husband, he needs to show you that he is willing to show you what is underneath his mask. Or so, he thinks that is what he needs to do.

The feeling of Naoya’s lips against your skin send a set of shivers down your spine, your eyes shyly glancing away from his handsome face as you felt the tips of your ears warm up. Just seeing how bashful you were about something as small as showing you emotion had him smirking against your wrist, immediately wanting to see just how far he can push his luck.

And he knows exactly what to do. “Get in the bath with me.”

You immediately snapped your shocked eyes back at your husband in shock, immediately feeling your cheeks warm at how he was staring at you expectantly. Although you’ve seen each other naked before, with him being so obsessed of having an heir of his own - it would be a surprise if you haven’t see him naked in all his glory. It wasn’t like he was bad to look at either - from all the training puts himself through to perfect his Technique, you would be lying to say that you’ve never stared at his strong back or broad shoulders whenever you two are alone.

It was just...so sudden. And you immediately knew what his intensions were, yet you just pouted softly as you quietly pulled yourself up from the steps you were seated on. Just seeing the soft pout tugging against the corner of your lips had Naoya biting back a smile as he watches you strip from your kimono, carefully folding the expensive fabrics to the side.

Soon you carefully made your way up the wooden steps of the traditional bathtub, thanking your husband quietly as he held a hand out to help you into the tub. You awkwardly knelt down between Naoya’s knees, still a little nervous to touch him even though he was the one who invited you into the bath with him. Naoya found your fear quite amusing, and without missing a beat he grabbed your hand in his before he pulls you close; chuckling at the squeak you let out when you landed against his bare chest.

“Don’t need to be so scared, my wife,” Naoya mumbles with a smirk, hands trailing down your soft back to relish the goosebumps that appear on your skin; his eyes glancing away from your shocked face to your fists resting against his chest. “After all...if there is one person worthy enough to be by my side, it will be you,” He mumbles, hands that seem even warmer than the water surrounding you two resting on the small of your back.

A combination from his soft touches, to his overly sweet but frank words had your face burning up once more as you whine and bury your face into his neck, your actions causing Naoya to let out a soft but genuine peel of laughter come from his chest. “Did I startle you?,” Naoya asks in amusement, already knowing the answer to that question. Yet he wanted for you to answer the question yourself, since he lives for seeing you getting embarrassed over the smallest of interactions with him.

You fluttered your eyes close to try and calm you rapid heartbeat, yet you nodded your head gently to answer his question. “A-A little..,” You mumble back quietly against his skin, heart skipping a beat a little at Naoya’s soft chuckle that he breathed against the shell of your ear. Naoya did not want to admit it, but he finds this subconsciously clingy side of you quite endearing. Whilst he hates it when others touch him, even if they grazed him by accident; he does not mind it when it’s you.

Maybe he has gone a little insane after marriage.

After you’ve managed to gather your wits, you quietly pulled away from him before you reached back to grab the wash towel you had grabbed from earlier, Naoya curiously opened one of hi eyes when you shifted against his chest. Just having you pressed up against his chest, along with the warm water surrounding him had lulled him into a tranquil and sleepy state. But he didn’t stop you as you wet the wash towel before you carefully lathered his body wash into the fabric.

Quietly you started to wash his body like you would usually every night, yet this time it was a little different since now you were in the bath with him. Something that he has never really allowed before, since he views his bath time as his personal time. You would usually help him bathe before you leave the bathroom to prepare for bed and whatever wifely duties you need to fulfil for the night.

But if you were being honest, as you carefully washed your husband clean, you did not mind a change to your routine. Yet you did not voice your inner thoughts as you continue gliding your hands over Naoya’s arms, making sure to keep quiet to give him the silence he enjoys whenever he’s in the bath. However, Naoya was in the mood to talk today.

Whilst you were carefully washing his chest, Naoya’s hands started to wander along your body once more once more. “So, what did you get up today whilst your husband was out at work?”

You blinked up at your husband curiously, to which he just raised an eyebrow in response at the look you threw his way. “Can a husband not know what his wife gets up to when he slaves away at his desk?,” Naoya asks with a soft raise of his brow, his words causing you to widen your eyes as you shake your head immediately. Not wanting him to think that you’re questioning his authority. “O-Of course not! I-I just...thought...you’d like some quiet in your alone time..”

A soft sigh was your only response, to which you awkwardly looked away from your husband’s eyes to stare at his hard chest; worried that you’ve angered the man. “You know...I want to hear about your day too,” Naoya mumbles after a few tensed seconds of silence, a finger gently crocking under your chin to coax your eyes to look up at him. He did not have a smile on his serious face, yet there was a soft look shining in his usually hard eyes. “I get curious sometimes when I have time to breath...what does my beautiful wife do at home when I am away? Does she miss me? Does she take the free time she gets to pretend that she is not my wife? What could you be possibly be doing when I am away from home..?”

When you heard his words, you tilted your head softly as you scanned his face, trying to understand the meaning behind his message. He wasn’t dumb - he was more than aware of the whispers of the maids that thought he was not around, how people feel bad for you that you are married to a man like him. He honestly doesn’t care what others have to say about him - he never cared about what others have to say about him. Because he knows that when they need power or need something to get done, they will always turn to him with fake smiles and praise dripping from their tongues.

However, he was genuinely worried about you - he was worried that the whispers of his past will start to scare you away. Make you think that you are an idiot for marrying a man like him, and slowly but surely take you away from him. For once he was worried that you are going to leave him, because for once in his life, he finally understand what it truly means to be home. The very thought of you leaving him shakes him down to his very core, and he will do everything in his power to prevent that from becoming his reality.

“I don’t...think like that, you know.”

Your soft voice snapped his train of thought as he glances back into your eyes, blinking when your soft hands rest against his cheeks gently with a soft smile gracing your features. “I knew the type of man you were before you came to my family estate that day, and I have heard of all the rumours of your attitude even whilst you were courting me. But that didn’t change my decision because I genuinely enjoyed having you around.”

Your words had Naoya widening his eyes as his mind went blank at your confession. And seeing your usually stoic and arrogant husband looking stunned had you giggling as your thumbs started to stroke at his high cheekbones. “Yes, you may be a little colder and stricter then I am used to, but you are still a good man. You’ve been nothing but a good husband to me, and far from the rumours paint you to be. So don’t worry too much about my thoughts on our marriage, because I am nothing but happy to be your wife.”

Quietly you gently tugged his face close, resting his forehead against yours with a smile. “I know that you grew up in a different world from I did, and that you were brought up with different morals from mine. But I also know you’re trying for me, and that is more than enough for me at the end of the day.” You mumble softly, revealing to him that you were more observant than you let on. Yet you faked ignorance for his sake because you genuinely cared for him as a person. “Because at the end of the day, a wife is knows all of her husband’s sides the best.”

For once Naoya was completely stunned into silence, having never expected for you to be so candid about your feelings. Your response to his stunned silence was a quiet giggle as you lean forward to press a soft kiss against the tip of his nose. The feeling of your warm and soft lips snapped him back into reality, and upon realising how close you were, his pale cheeks flushed up from embarrassment. Immediately one of his hands pulled itself away from where they were resting against your bare hips to cover his cheeks with the back of his hand, eyes darting away as he leans away from you immediately.

“I-I want to get out of the bath now...”

You let out a giggle at the sight of your husband so out of character, yet you made no other comment as you nodded with a smile. “Lets get ready for bed then, my love,” You hummed out as you carefully got out to grab the towels for the both of you, biting back your smile at how cute you find him to be as you dried yourself before you did the same for him.

It was only later into the night, long after you’ve fallen asleep when Naoya really calmed down. You had long fallen asleep, face tucked away underneath his chin whilst your arms wrapped around him loosely. He knows he needed to sleep in order to function properly tomorrow, but his mind has been racing the moment you two got out of the bath to prepare for bed together.

He still cannot wrap his head around the idea that you willingly stay, even knowing that there is a chance you might see a less ideal version of himself. You choose to stay knowing all of the rumours about him and his, admittedly, horrendous behaviour and morals. And whilst he does not know what was it that he did that had you landing in his life, he is 100% sure he will never let you go.

Quietly he presses a soft kiss against the top of your head, a soft but content sigh leaving his lips as he closes his eyes to try and get some sleep before his alarm would go off later. Signaling to a start of another long and boring day away from you once more.

“You’re the best thing that has happened to me,” He mumbles softly into the quiet bedroom, a soft admission to you whilst you’re far away in dreamland, dreaming of things unknown to him. But the least he can pray for is that he wouldn’t become the enemy in your nightmares.

Because at the end of the day, it’s a husband’s duty to protect the happiness of their wife from the evils of the world. Even if the biggest evil in their lives is themselves. As long as he is your husband, you will have nothing to fear.

He will make sure of it.

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dreamingofaizawa · 3 years

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Powerful Ch. 4

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU*

Warnings: A little fluff, misogyny (not from Shouta), descriptions of body part removal, blood, a teeny bit of gore (sort of), violence, a dagger, reader is a little bit crazy, so is Shouta tbh, there's a tiny bit of spice (it's like two sentences idk), swearing

Word Count: 4.2k if you read the violent part, 3.3k if you don't.

Author's Note: Okay, so I decided to make this a full part with the option of skipping the kinda graphic part. Yes, reader is a little insane here, yes, this reflects my level of crazy. HOWEVER, the only reason it's like that is because the man being de-tongued is a piece of shit and deserves everything that came to him.

ANYWAY, enjoy~

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

As the months pass you’re getting more comfortable with Shouta, more comfortable with the physical touching and the closeness that comes with the relationship. He’s always on you, a hand always on your lower back, around your waist, he’d even begun holding your hand. You appreciate this side of him that only you are allowed to see, the soft beneath his rough, calloused exterior.

So far you’d attended at least six more meetings, only one ending in another incident. It was you that made the final threat, this time without unsheathing the dagger. The tactic seemed to be working, there were less men outwardly demeaning you and your assigned title has been the only one you’d heard when being addressed.

The power trip is honestly a little intoxicating, knowing that more began to respect you and the ones that don’t have fear in its place. Knowing that you have the freedom to tell off overly rude men, can wave your dagger at whoever dares touch you and have Shouta backing you always.

And you know Shouta will back you up. You may be on a bit of a power trip but you still have your wits about you. Both of you know you’ll never step out of line, never needlessly flaunt your power or antagonize for no reason. Shouta understands that whatever you do, it’s for a reason. Because that’s just how you operate.

Logic resides over most anything else in your brain, which is why you’re so good at concealing your emotions. Before the engagement, your family’s success depended heavily on wits and intelligence rather than sheer force. Having been taught all your life to use your brain and logic to help you in and out of situations, logical thinking has become a habit, as subconscious and natural as breathing.

Of course, that doesn’t mean everything you do is logical. You’ve had your fair share of rash decisions and emotional slip-ups. And you’ve learned to sharpen your words, make them sink deep and tear at your target’s weakest points, or even their strongest points, making their argument and resolve come tumbling down like a rockslide. Needless to say it’s immensely satisfying to see someone get so thoroughly humiliated by your words alone.

You have to admit to yourself sometimes, you can be a cruel motherfucker.

* * *

You’re woken up by movement. Your eyes open just as Shouta is leaning over you, carefully pulling his arm from beneath your shoulders as you’re placed on your back. When his eyes meet yours he sighs through his nose, he was clearly trying not to wake you. Calloused fingers brush a few stray hairs from your forehead before he leans down and presses a kiss there.

“Go back to bed, little one. I’ll wake you up in a few hours.” Your eyebrows knit together and you let out a small groan.

“What time is it?” His soft hum nearly lulls you back into dreamland, but you manage to keep your heavy eyelids open.

“5 am. Sleep.” He kisses your forehead again before slipping out of bed and disappearing out the bedroom door. You do try to go back to sleep, let your eyes close and snuggle up in Shouta’s leftover warmth. But then you smell coffee. You take a deep breath, soak in the scent, and suddenly you’re not tired anymore. With a new motivation you get up and make your way to the kitchen to find a shirtless Shouta pulling a mug from a cupboard and taking out creamer and sugar. You sneak up behind him and wrap your arms around his trim waist, pressing your cheek into his back.

“I thought I told you to go back to sleep, little one.” You hum, squeeze him tighter.

“I smelled coffee.” The muscles under your palms jump with his deep chuckle, and he takes out another mug for you. The two of you work in comfortable silence, savoring each other’s company. You sit at the dining table first, watching the man as he returns everything to its place. You can’t help but admire his form, how every muscle ripples under his inked skin, how calm and graceful his movements are despite his rough-cut reputation. You can’t help when your gaze drifts south, gray sweatpants sitting low on his cut hips, and your face burns as you realize exactly what you’re looking at before ripping your eyes from him.

He joins you at the table soon after with his mug held in one large hand. There’s still only silence, and you keep your eyes locked on your own mug, occasionally bringing it up to your mouth and taking sips of the hot liquid. Shouta’s eyes are on you, watching every small movement and sigh that escapes you after a sip of coffee, how your mouth turns up after your tongue peeks out to lick your lips, the flutter of your lashes as you savor the taste of the bitter drink.

You don’t notice until your eyes flick up and meet his, and you freeze in place for a moment, confused as to why he might be looking at you. He thinks you look so cute, your doe eyes big and round and your head tilting to the right. Do you even know you’re tilting your head like that? His heart nearly bursts in his chest when you blink a few times and nibble at your lower lip.

“Shouta?” He hums and averts his eyes, resting his elbow on the table and his head in his hand.

“I apologize for staring, little one.”

“It’s fine. I’m just not used to the attention, that’s all.” An eyebrow raises, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips.

“Really? A pretty little thing like you, not used to attention?” You blink. Is he….flirting? You can’t stop a smile from working its way onto your face, your eyes dropping to focus on your coffee that was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. A man had never done this before, you never had any romantic attention because you were never allowed to date. Something warm settled in your stomach, making you feel a bit fuzzy and happy. Is this what butterflies are supposed to feel like? Shouta speaks in your flustered silence.

“Well it isn’t my fault I’m the only one with an amazing taste in women. At least now I know I won’t have any competition.” You had to stifle a giggle at his antics, shooting him a sceptical look.

“Shouta Aizawa, are you flirting with your fiance?”

“If I were, would you say it’s working?”

“That answer will depend on the end goal.” He hummed, glancing up at the ceiling as if it held the answer.

“I’d say the end goal is to get my fiance to like me back.” You cross your arms over your chest, faking a pout and turning your head away in false disgust.

“Well then it’s failing. Miserably, at that.” He places a hand on his chest, furrowing his brows in mock offense.

“Now why would you say that?” You stand, taking your mug to the sink with a playful swing of your hips and a dramatic lilt in your voice.

“She is unhappy, your fiance. You’ve neglected her!” With the mug in the sink you lean back, throwing your head back and placing your hand on your forehead, closing your eyes for dramatic effect even though your back is to him.

“She is hungry, Shouta! There is no food in her stomach!” Without a sound he’s suddenly behind you, pressing his chest into your back and leaning over to place his mug next to yours. You’re a bit shocked at the sudden proximity, jump just a bit when an arm wraps around your waist and he grabs the hand that was on your forehead. His breath is hot on your neck, voice soft and sultry in your ear.

“Well she’s not the only one that’s hungry.” Teeth nip at your ear, sending a shiver down your spine and heat to your belly.

“But we can fix that pretty easily, don’t you think?” He leaves a searing kiss beneath your ear before he’s releasing you, cool air washing over you where his body had been pressed only moments ago. You’re left flustered, breath stuttering and skin hot. It’s almost laughable, the reaction he’d pulled from you. He asks what you want to eat, says he’ll have it brought up so the two of you can relax until the meeting at lunch.

But you aren’t really listening, still trying to calm yourself from what he’d just done.

____

When you don’t answer him, he peers over at you still standing at the sink. At first he’s confused, not sure why you’re so still and unfocused. But then he watches as your chest rises and falls just a tad faster than normal, lower lip tucked just barely between your teeth and your body very stiff in the same position he’d just left you in. You’re either extremely flustered or very uncomfortable with what he just did. Before he can apologize you suddenly turn on the sink and splash your face with cold water.

“Are you okay?” It’s cute, how you jump at the sound of his voice. It’s almost like you forget he’s there, too focused on whatever had been swirling around in that beautiful mind of yours.

“Yeah, I uh...I’m fine.” The nervous little chuckle you let out said nothing of your emotional state. He’d have to ask himself.

“I apologize if that was too forward, little one. I’d hate to make you uncomfortable.” You waved your hands in front of your face, eyes going a bit wide. It’s odd, seeing you outwardly, and frantically, expressing emotion like this when you’re usually so calm and rational.

“No, not at all!” You stopped, dropping your gaze and clasping your hands in front of you, your voice getting softer as you speak.

“I mean, I wasn’t, really. I… didn’t hate it so… yeah.” Ah, so you’re flustered. It makes sense, seeing as you said you aren’t used to receiving attention. The real question is why you hadn’t gotten attention from potential suitors. You’re a beautiful woman, a goddess in your own right, and on top of that you’re intelligent and flexible, easy to get along with. Were you just surrounded by extremely stupid boys your whole life that couldn’t tell the difference between a rock and a diamond if it were sitting in front of them?

Well it doesn’t matter much anymore, because you’re his now, and he’s not going to let you go.

____

Ultimately, the two of you decide on a simple breakfast, eating and relaxing afterward just as Shouta wanted. Soon you’re both standing outside a large hotel, the restaurant at the top serving as today’s meeting venue.

You’re greeted at the door by an escort, a woman in a beautifully tailored suit, who then guides you through the hotel and to a secluded elevator and up to the restaurant. The entire floor remained empty and silent, save for the one chef and waiter and the ten other Yakuza men seated at a large round table.

At this point you’ve gotten used to the sudden silence as you approach and sit at the table with Shouta. For the past few meetings that’s the only real acknowledgement to your presence aside from the occasional headbow and a quick address to both yours and Shouta’s titles. It’s a small step forward, recognition, and it’s better than you had expected by now.

However, it becomes obvious that the recent halt in outwardly opposing voices were only the calm before the storm. Nothing you’d seen or heard yet matched what happens next.

“Shouta, old friend, why have you brought a woman to this meeting? Or any meeting for that matter?” Well shit. Someone really wants to die today. Shouta doesn’t seem to move at all, though his eyes flicker over to the man who had spoken. He seems around Shouta’s age, light brown hair short with an undercut and deep brown eyes. A scar cut through his face, from his right temple through his eye and across his nose to his left cheek.

The fact that he’d addressed him so casually meant he must have a rank close to Shouta’s, there’s no possible way he was a real friend. Shouta makes his viewpoints clear, the only person you’d see him refer to as ‘friend’ is Hizashi Yamada, who’s just as much of a feminist as he is, though the loud blonde is radically louder and more flamboyant than Shouta.

“You are not my friend, nor I yours. We may have known each other for a long time but that does not change how much I despise you. You’re lucky I don’t carve your tongue out for what you just said, so I suggest you be extremely cautious choosing your next words.” The man doesn’t seem affected by the threat, but you know Shouta’s tone of voice. He’s dead serious. The brunette only succeeds in digging himself into a deeper hole.

“Oh don’t be like that. You know as well as I do you can’t do anything to harm me for no real reason. Besides, it’s obvious she doesn’t belong here. She probably has close to no experience with such power, let alone being able to keep up in a meeting of this caliber. You’ve chosen poorly, my friend. My sister would have been a much better match for your wife.”

Now you’re seething. He’s openly insulting you, which is plenty grounds for Shouta to react negatively. Shouta’s word is law after all. Of course, he waits a beat for you to react first, and you do, speaking with a venom reserved specifically for assholes like him.

“‘She’ has a title, and you’d be wise to use it.” Shouta leans back and crosses his arms over his chest as he watches the events unfold. The brunette only scoffs.

“Like I’d use such a ridiculous title for you. Being Shouta’s fiance doesn’t change your rank at all, you’re inferior. Even disregarding rank, you’re a woman, you don’t belong here anyway.” You’re still deadpanned, only a single eyebrow raised.

“As far as you’re concerned I do belong here. And the title is anything but ridiculous. By refusing to address me at all you’re disobeying Shouta’s direct order. I wonder, what kind of punishment does that entail?” You look over to Shouta, who opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the other man. All the while the other nine men sit back in silent horror as he digs his own grave.

“No punishment at all. A bitch like you is hardly worth a title, let alone be addressed by name. You’re lucky I’ve even allowed you in this meeting.” At that you stop, letting out a low ‘ah’. Shouta is smirking, an evil thing that you had never seen up until now, but you know what it means all the same. It means you get to have fun. You take your dagger and slide it across the table to the man, who looks at it with confusion.

“Cut out your tongue.” Your words catch him off guard, his eyes wide before he starts laughing.

“You really think you can do that? Shouta, put her in her place will you?” Shouta only gives a dark chuckle.

“You heard her. Pick up the dagger and cut out your tongue.” He scoffs, clenching his jaw.

“That’s nonsense. You can’t do that.” Shouta stands, beginning to remove his tie.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want, Masa. Now, you either pick up that dagger and slice your own tongue off or she can do it for you. You’ve disregarded my explicit order to refer to her with her assigned title, and then you insulted her directly. A woman above your rank commands more respect. On top of that, you’ve failed to address me with my title after I’ve told you to do so several times in the past, which is grounds enough for you to lose several teeth.”

Shouta stands behind him now, and you’re making your way over as well.

“Now, what’s it going to be, Masa?” You fully expected him to drop to his knees and apologize, beg for mercy, because it would be a damn pain to clean up the blood after taking out someone’s tongue. He only sat there and scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest in a show of defiance. Looks like he’s losing his tongue.

“Alright, then,” Shouta speaks louder now, addressing the entire room, “Let this be a lesson well learned. Masa here has refused to obey my order, and then continued to insult my wife. For his transgression, he’ll lose his ability to speak for the rest of his life.” Shouta grabs his collar and rips him out of his chair, manhandling him and tying his hands behind his back with his necktie. You make a mental note that he called you his wife just then.

Meanwhile you go over to the chef and ask him and the waiter to lend you their largest apron and a pair of gloves. Once you have them you ask them to have someone bring up a small tarp or something to cover the floor, and not to return to the floor for the rest of the day. It’s only a few minutes later you’ve got an apron over your dress and latex gloves on, a small blue tarp on the floor and a stack of towels on the table.

**The chaos starts here, so if you’re not all that crazy or averse to blood you can just scroll down and skip it**

You grab the dagger and waltz over to where Shouta has Masa on his knees, Shouta’s hand yanking his head back by his hair and the other hand squeezing his cheeks, forcing his jaw open. Shouta raises an eyebrow at you.

“What’s with the doctor’s getup?” You playfully roll your eyes at him.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Blood is hard to get out of clothing and the smell of death is rancid. I really don’t wanna deal with the cleanup this is gonna involve. I’ll try not to get it on your suit, too.” He shrugs.

“I can pay for another suit. Don’t worry about it.” You pout.

“But I like that suit. It looks nice on you.” He groans, a very faint blush on his cheeks and at the tips of his ears. It’s rare to see, but it makes you giggle every time.

“Just hurry it up. We still have a meeting.” You nod. Poor Masa is now starting to thrash, and the other men are either shaking their heads in disappointment or looking down at him with little more than disgust. He must have been quite a douchebag to earn the ire of this many high-ranking Yakuza.

You peer down at him and brandish your dagger, reaching down to pull his tongue out. He starts trembling, shaking his head and garbling out something that sounds like ‘please’ and ‘no’ and ‘don’t do this’. You almost pity him, and being as merciful as you are you release his tongue.

“Why are you so afraid, Masa dear? I was under the impression you wanted this to happen, considering your attitude earlier.” His words were slurred with Shouta’s grip on his jaw, but they were coherent enough.

“No, no, no I didn’t I swear! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean any disrespect!” You coo down at him, crouching and cupping his face in your free hand.

“Oh sweetie, I think you did mean to be disrespectful. You see, we had warned you, and you didn’t take that warning to heart. Looking down at your hands now, I can see you’re missing the pinky and ring finger from your left hand and the pinky from your right as well. You must be in serious debt to several oyabun right now, so I have no idea why you’d be so careless. You clearly haven’t learned your lesson, so now it’s my job to teach you isn’t it?” He thrashes some more, shaking his head as much as he can in Shouta’s grip.

“No! No please! I promise I’ve learned!” You coo again.

“Aw, sweetheart. You want to keep your tongue? Is that it?” He nods furiously, tears beginning to prick his eyes. You look up to Shouta, who looks incredibly amused at the scene unfolding.

“Oh Shouta, don’t laugh at the poor thing. He wants to keep his tongue, you know. He looks desperate.” Shouta rolls his eyes at you.

“Yeah right. Stop toying with him. You’re just being cruel at this point.” His voice is playful, and you can’t help but playfully scoff at him.

“Rude! I’m not that cruel. It’s fun when they get desperate. Besides, I’m not completely heartless. Adrenaline helps with the initial pain, so it’ll hurt a bit less. What better to get the heart pumping than some false hope and then ripping it away?” The brunette, whose face still sits in your palm, nearly growls.

“You’re fucking insane, woman.” You look down at him, slightly shocked that he’d just said that and subsequently dug himself into a deeper hole. Then you giggle, almost maniacally.

“Why thank you, dear Masa. You know what they say, all the best people are crazy~”

With that you reach into his mouth and grab his tongue, quickly slicing it off. There was little resistance thanks to your dagger being as sharp as it is, and there was a moment where everything was still. The sound of his severed tongue hitting the tarp rang loud through the room, then the bloodcurdling scream sent everything back into motion.

Shouta released him and he doubled over, blood spilling from his mouth like a waterfall as he hacked and tried not to choke on it. You grabbed Masa’s bloodied face and tilted his head to look up at you, then grabbed a towel and stuffed it in his mouth before cleaning up his chin.

“It’s over, Masa dear. I’m sorry I had to do that, but you just refused to listen. Hopefully you’ve learned your lesson now. Try not to upset anyone else, okay?” Shouta untied his hands and you stepped away to let him take care of his wound.

You remove the bloodied gloves and apron and wipe the dagger clean with a towel, discarding them onto the tarp before grabbing Masa’s phone and holding it out to him, having him dial his own medical team and explaining the situation to them. They arrived shortly after, taking the bloodied tarp and everything else with them as they tended to Masa’s wound.

**The morbid ends here**

When all is said and done the meeting carries on as normal. Afterward you and Shouta went home, got comfortable on the couch in pajamas and turned on a shitty romcom. It really was pretty shitty. You turn to Shouta, who had started munching on popcorn.

“You think he'll be okay?” He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Who? Masa? That prick will be perfectly fine. He might have to learn sign language being unable to speak and all, but he dug himself into that mess.” You hum and nod.

“Why are you worried about him?” You hum again and think about the answer to that question.

“Well I’m not really worried, just more curious I guess. I have no clue how a wound like that is supposed to heal so I guess I just wanna make sure I didn’t kill the guy by accident.” Shouta’s chuckle is low, his chest and stomach bouncing as he laughed.

“At least now I know you can take some blood. Remind me to let you do the dirty work from now on.” You groan.

“Oh come on, Shouta. That shit takes forever to prep and clean! I don’t wanna have to do that a lot, it takes so much energy and time.” He scoffed at you.

“It took less than five minutes to have the tarp down and you completely decked out. That’s not ‘forever’. You’re just lazy.” You roll your eyes.

“Yeah? And so what if I’m a little lazy? A girl can’t take a break?” He chuckles.

“Don’t be like that. We both know you enjoyed removing his tongue.” You sigh, then lay down and put your head on his lap.

“Fine, you caught me. I did like it a little.” He chuckles a little, but doesn’t say anything else on the subject.

“What do you say we get to bed, little one?” You peer up at him as he brushes hair from your face. He’s so gentle with you it’s hard to believe he’s the same man from earlier. Though you’re sure he could say the same about you. A completely different side of you emerged today, the side that craves violence and relishes in bloodshed. You always knew it existed, but you wondered if it was just in your mind or if you really did want to be able to do that sort of thing. Turns out it was the latter.

You smile up at Shouta, and he gives a small smile back.

“Sure. Let’s go to bed.”

#shouta aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x fem reader #shouta aizawa bnha #shouta aizawa mha #shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shouta x fem reader #aizawa shouta bnha #aizawa shouta mha #aizawa shouta #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: gore #violence #blood

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morgana-ren · 3 years

Text

Pale Imitation

The front page of any porn site is always a marriage of humorous and disturbing, but he can honestly say he wasn’t expecting to see his name at the top of any list that had a direct connection to satiating someone’s libido, yet there it was, plain as day on the top ten.

He didn’t think of himself as particularly narcissistic, but this he had to see.

Rating: E

Warnings: Porn, Masturbation, Yandere, Stalker Shigaraki, Shigaraki is a total creep, Rough sex, Noncon Fantasy/Roleplay

Preemptive Note: Before you continue I just want to note: I'm not a sex worker but I have nothing but the highest regard and respect for them. What ensues in this story is pure kink and fantasy and is not meant to reinforce any harmful/mean stereotypes what so ever. My personal fantasy is degradation and I can't really seem to get off without it so it's a majority of what I write, but I swear to you it was not written with the intent to insult or hurt anyone in the profession! I realize the hardships endured by the men/women/NB/GN in the adult sex work profession and this is just intended to be a pure sexual fantasy and is by no means attempting to reinforce or normalize toxic behaviors in the workplace.

Bad wig? Check .

Poor voice imitation? Check .

Shoddy, unsealed makeup that sloughs off onto the unfortunate scene partner’s skin? Check .

All the tell-tale signs of a bad porno but with one distinct peculiarity that drew his interest.

You know, this certainly wasn’t what he was expecting to see when he settled in for his first nightly wank. The front page of any porn site is always a marriage of humorous and disturbing, but he can honestly say he wasn’t expecting to see his name at the top of any list that had a direct connection to satiating someone’s libido, yet there it was, plain as day on the top ten.

He’s no stranger to the villain kink page. Tons of civilians indulged in their darker fantasies through their nighttime excursions below their pantyline, and being a villain himself, naturally he was curious. Most of it is about what he’d expect. Villains, ancient and new, participating in copulation of all sorts. Some of it is that extremely out of character slow and romantic pornography. Other times, strangely enough, it’s the villains themselves getting taken advantage of. Sometimes by heroes, other times by random people, objects, or even tentacles. It’s interesting, to say the least.

Him though? He’d never seen himself in one, let alone being featured on the front page.

Up until recently, the media and all it’s sinful offshoots had opted to ignore him. However, his recent exploits must’ve caught the attention of the general public, and alongside it, the licentious denizens that dwell within. There had been a few forum posts, a little fan art (most of it flattering), and even a few oddly obsessive fangirls he’d come across. But this? Oh, now this was a whole new caliber.

He didn’t think of himself as particularly narcissistic, but this he had to see.

The guy they’d hired to play him was naturally a flat disappointment; Too bulky, and way too short. He could tell there was a classically handsome man underneath all that poorly done makeup that was meant to make him look pallid and dry. A sad, pathetic, and pale imitation of the real thing, missing some of his scars and moles entirely. The ashy gray wig they used to try to mimic his shaggy, unkempt hair had an awkward cowlick and kept flopping down too far on the actor’s forehead and looked far more dead than even his own unwashed mop. The voice he was using to mimic him was strained and scratchy, far too forced to be comfortable or even remotely realistic. If he had to place it, it sounded like the guy already had a terribly sore throat and had continued yelling for several hours to achieve the ‘desired’ effect.

He hadn’t expected much, but it was still disappointing. Though to be fair, they nailed the clothing, minus the brand of shoes he wears and the exact coat he’d chosen as his signature.

A part of him was ready to shut it off. Whatever lies ahead could only be utterly insulting, right? This grotesque pastiche lifelessly parroting his mannerisms was already curbing his sexual appetite toward something more violent, and not in the way he liked. Yet, out of sheer curiosity, he kept watching. What exactly did the average screenwriting porn cinematographer think he was into anyway?

It was a little ambiguous at first. At least until the shaky camera followed the Walmart brand Shigaraki knock-off down a generic hallway and into a borderline barren room, bringing into frame a quaking young woman tied up on a filthy mattress. After that, it became very quickly apparent just what type of smut he’d stumbled onto.

The camera zooms in on her face, tears leaking from her eyes and leaving trails of thick black makeup and mascara trailing down her cheeks, her begging and pleading muffled by a rag hastily stuffed in her mouth and secured with what appeared to be a bandana tied around her head. She’s clad in nothing but a flimsy tank top with the straps yanked down over her shoulders and a small pair of lace panties, covered in what appears to be made up lacerations and fake bruising. A nice touch, he notes.

He’ll admit, he’s intrigued now. It looks like they got one thing about him right, perhaps two now that he inspects the adult actress hired to play his unfortunate victim. She’s flattering, far more flattering than he expected given the low budget circumstances. Her watery eyes and quaking body coupled with the slight rope burn embedding into her chafing skin is enough to get his legs stirring and his pants tightening. She looks so pretty, so vulnerable behind all the waterworks and thick stage makeup. He thinks, just maybe, he might be able to get into this if he hyper focuses on her.

As his imposter approaches, she pushes her bound legs out, squishing herself back against the wall and as far away as she can manage from the threat encroaching on her personal space.

“Heroes can’t save you now.”

The shallow mockery of his voice grates at his ears, but he’ll admit the comment is on brand. The actor harshly yanks the bandana out of the woman’s mouth, her pouty lips trembling as she begins to grovel, blinking more tears down her swollen cheeks.

“I-I’m sorry! Please just let me go! I won’t tell anyone anything!”

All things considered, she’s convincing enough to get his blood pumping. Tomura readjusts himself in his chair, reaching his hands beneath the band of his sweatpants. If he can ignore her counterpart, he thinks watching her squirm and squeal will get him off. After all, it’s supposed to be ‘him’ violating this cute girl. Maybe if he defocuses his eyes enough, he can pretend it really is.

“I’m going to show you how much of a villain I really am!”

Ugh . Whoever wrote this dialogue clearly had never met him, or probably any real villain for that matter. It’s enough to make him want to retch, but the feel of his own hand on his cock and the soft whimpering of the actress as the villain stand-in strips off his coat brings him back and makes him throb. The camera moves in to offer her a close up, face dropping and eyes widening in horror as she comes to the “realization” of what he means.

“No! Please! Anything but that!”

She kicks at him, trying to fend him off with bound limbs as he crawls over her onto the bed. A harsh slap to the side of her cheek is enough to quiet her down and allow the assailant to cage her to the bed with one hand, the other clumsily fumbling with the buttons of his jeans. After he shimmies his ill fitting skinny jeans down his thighs, she looks at him with eyes widened in horror, shaking her head erratically.

“No! Please Mister Shigaraki, it’s too big! It won’t fit!”

A hand far too burly to be his wraps around her neck, pointer finger plucked awkwardly upward. “Quiet! You’re my prisoner and you’ll do as I say!”

Just ignore it.

The free hand goes to grab at her tank top, a brief but noticeable pause in the filming leaves her topless with stage prop ash sprinkled along her torso, the ropes around her wiggling legs conveniently gone now. While the cinematic effect was laughably bad, Tomura can’t bring himself to care. Not when her tits are now on display for him to ogle.

Chest bare and heaving, perfect nipples perked to attention just for him. Smooth, creamy skin goose pimpled and tender, so tempting that he's aching to feel her. A quick swipe of his thumb over his sensitive, spongy tip elicits a rumbled groan from deep in his chest. It’s easier now to ignore the shitty portrayal of himself, especially when he can lose himself to the throes of lust and pretend that it actually is his hands wrapped around her little throat, other fingers drifting lower and lower down her trembling belly.

A quick hook around the seam of her panties and they’re ripped clean from her hips, legs splayed and leaving her pussy center frame, already wet and glistening. He swallows hard, the sight enough to make him salivate. She fumbles around beneath him, desperate to buck him off, but it’s to no avail. Fingers, his fingers, tease the entrance to her tight little hole, slipping one finger, and then two inside, oscillating in and out preparing her to take all of him. Just like she said, he’s so big. He doesn’t want to hurt her, not like that.

After that, it’s all too easy for him to slip into his fantasy. He strokes his cock in tandem with the pumping of the fingers, pausing only briefly as the girl mewls as the fingers slip out and the tip of his cock is aligned with her little entrance. He pistons his own hips as it slams inside, head reeling back on the edge of his chair.

The high pitched whine that escapes her throat as the fake buries himself deep inside has him biting his lip, slowing his hand by force on his shaft. Fuck, even her moans are hot. Her bouncing tits and staggered breathing as his imposter rails into her has him enraptured. The subtle way she leans into the hand on her throat, back arched off the filthy mattress, face expressing clear distress but body betraying her clever act.

It matters little that she’s being paid to partake in the scene with ‘him’. The fact she was open to it says more than he could have hoped to know, and clearly she’s enjoying the treatment. His hazy eyes focus in on her face, working his hand harder with every little nuance she gifts him. The twitch of arms as her nails imbed themselves into her palms, the parting of her moist lips. He’d be willing to bet her tongue could work magic, taking him all the way to the back of her throat. God, she’d look so cute like that. Hands tied behind her back, a sloppy, drooling mess around his dick.

“S-Shigaraki! You’re too rough!”

The hand clamped around her throat tightens, her final word more of a croak.

“You like it, you little slut!”

At least there’s one thing him and this mediocre porn actor can agree on; she certainly does like it. Rolling her hips against him and wailing in a way that has him wonderfully immersed in his fantasy. Hearing his name on those sighs only strengthen his hold, he can practically feel the warmth of her skin, indulge himself in the wet, clenching tightness of her cunt.

It’s fucking insulting that this trash gets to wear his skin, steal his countenance to fuck her. It should be him. If this whelp could get her all hot and bothered, just imagining what the real thing could do sends the remaining blood reserves rushing between his thighs, prick pulsing even harder in his palm. Yeah, he could get this little bitch squealing. She’d fucking like it too, judging by the look on her face as she gets plowed by a man wearing his visage.

Oh, he’d make her scream. Leave real bruising in place of that cheap costume makeup they’d so lazily applied to her naked form. Truth be told, the video itself was rather boring. He’d only kept watching because of how enraptured he was with the little witch being stuffed full of cock by his imitation. He’d never really been taken with an adult actress before but this one? Oh yes, he could really get into her.

He wasn’t sure what it was about her. So pretty to him, so deliciously pliable, so completely worked up about a villain using her as a toy, pumping in and out of her warm little pussy until he fills her with his hot cum and she’s overflowing with every fluid thrust. Sweet, sensitive neck exposed just for him to bite and abuse. Face stained with tears, puffy cheeks just aching to be squeezed and smacked. Probably tastes like rapture, eager to swallow whatever he decides to spill into her mouth.

And she could take it. He just knows it. Bent over for him, any hole he pleases free for him to use, hand-shaped welts raising on the swell of her ass. Fingers fisting her hair and arching that cute face back to look directly at him as he spits between her open and waiting lips. She’d swallow it like a good girl, just like a good girl, he knows she would.

He works himself faster, his own breathy whines joining the cacophony of licentiousness that echoes in his eardrums. His imagination shifts into overdrive, clumsy, irregular strokes of his hand tenting and deflating the crotch of his sweats. Soft, pillowy tits bulging through his fingertips as he kneads them, sucking on those tender nipples until they harden just for him. Fucking her mouth until her lips are swollen and red, face covered in a mixture of drool and cum with lipstick smeared around her cheeks. Legs locked around his narrow waist as he slams into her repeatedly, chanting his name and begging him incoherently not to stop, never to stop.

“P-please don’t cum inside me! Please- I-“

Oh, he’d cum deep inside. He’ll cum anywhere he wants on his little whore until it’s slick and dripping. He’ll tie her up, smudging it across her broken expression and let it dry nice and thick. Slip his cum covered thumb into her mouth and then ignore her until her thighs are grinding together and she’s begging for his thick cock again, any way he wants her.

Fuck- fuck she’d love it too. Ride him until each slap of her ass on his bony hips made his cock punch hard against her cervix, crying in pleasure and pain but never stopping until he allowed her. Dig his nails into her back, his teeth into her flesh and mark her up real good, let everyone who sees her know just what she’s been up to with him-

“Shigaraki! Fuck! Shi-Shigaraki!”

His name spills from her lips in a needy sob, voice cracking and so utterly genuine that it sends him over the edge. His cock throbs and stutters in his hand, shooting jets of sticky white seed all over the inside of his black sweat pants and staining his fingers. His entire body shudders, legs stiffening and balls tightening and clenching as his cum spills in fat ropes across the fabric. Try as he might to focus on her face as she cums for him, he simply can’t, eyes slamming shut and mouth left agape as a strangled cry erupts from his throat.

He gives a few subconscious pumps into his hand as searing pleasure crackles through his body, toes curling in his shoes as his lower body lifts off the chair to chase his high. Millions of images flash across his mind, the foremost of which is her, greedy eyes hungry for pleasure only he can give her, silky cunt milking him eagerly. A jagged tooth bites a little too hard into his blistered lip, enough to crack it open but he’s too submerged in bliss to notice. The only thing he can feel is her.

His thighs tremble as his body falls back down into the worn computer chair, orgasm leaving his entire body feeling weak and drained. His breath comes in heaves, gulping down air as he tries his best to shake off the residual searing pleasure so hot it almost hurts. Overstimulation looms on the horizon and his heavy eyes drift open, feeling so drowsy now he can hardly keep them apart. The orange bar at the bottom of the video is all the way to the right, the video having concluded itself.

He’s never cum so hard in his life.

Her name. He needed to know her name. He needed to know everything .

He doesn’t bother reaching for the tissues. He simply withdraws his hand from his waistband, wiping his mess onto the knee of his pant leg before grabbing his mouse and scouring the page for any crumb of information he can find. The comments, while amusing, are hardly helpful.

So hot xx thanks

Who’s the guy even supposed to be?

This babe is so hot, luv her stuff everytime

Yall r gunna get rekt when he sees this shit lol

any sexy girls wanna reenact this with me? Hmu

I’m a girl and I love this!

Wish he’d do that to me <.<

He’d dwell on all of that later. For now, he settles for a quick search through the uploader’s account. It’s a small studio, only a few films out to date, most of which revolve around taboo relationships between villains and society. Following a hyperlink to their main website leads him to bio, complete with her stage name and picture, and even another link leading to an interview with a small time adult magazine, an article called “Cum to the Dark Side” that he bookmarks for later reading.

Even post-cum, she’s just as beautiful. Enchanting, sultry smile and cheeky little expression in her picture. Maybe it’s fate that he stumbled upon her. Maybe she really was just that good at acting and she didn’t have a thing for him at all. Either way, he wants some time with the talent. For research, of course.

Her personal details, as expected, are hidden. They go the lengths to protect their employees it seems. What isn’t hidden, however, is the studio’s number.

He thinks he can work with that.

#NSFT #shigaraki x reader #tw adult stuff #tw yandere #tw uhh self love #tw stalker behavior #Part 1 #tw noncon roleplay

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lavendersb · 3 years

Text

Our Ultimatum

Chapter 1: Charity

Boba Fett x Reader

Summary: Finding yourself stuck between a rock and a hard place, you take a gamble and seek the mercy of the new ruler of Tatooine.

Warnings: Spoilers for S2 Ep8 (It’s set some time after the end credit scene), implied age gap, Boba flirting the entire time, mentions of slavery, gratuitous use of the phrase ‘little one’

This is just an excuse for me to be h*rny over king boba i’m so sorry, the smut will probably be in the next chapter!

Things couldn’t get much worse.

Life had never been easy on Tatooine. With the harsh weather, the hellish wildlife, and the abundance of seedy criminals there wasn’t too much to celebrate on the planet that you had grown up on. You’d always been conscious of the risk of poverty, on this desert world it seemed almost everyone was working off their last credits and thankfully you’d always managed to make yours stretch.

That was until a few cycles, ago when things had taken a turn for the worst.

You see, though the rebellion had brought with it many prosperous outcomes, like the end of the Empire and a half-decent attempt at eradicating slavery, it had also caused a few problems. Tatooine, being the hub of criminal activity that it was had faced a rather thorough clean-up, and the New Republic had pretty much scared away the local bounty hunters guild, taking with it most of the planets custom. Since then raiders seemed to pillage every town on a near weekly basis, leaving you and many others penniless and desperate.

You’d just managed to scrape by, but since losing your job and being evicted from your sorry excuse for a home you’d been faced with a tough decision. One that had lead you on this perilous trek through the desert.

With just the clothes on your back and a small satchel of your few personal belongings, you were headed to Jabba’s Palace, or at least the palace that had once belonged to Jabba the Hutt. Since the death of the Huttese criminal overlord, the Palace had changed hands many times, most recently into the possession of a notorious bounty hunter with a growing monopoly on the criminal underworld. You didn’t know much about this new leader, other than the fact he ran a tight ship, but sadly he might be your only hope.

You’d heard stories of destitute citizens like yourself travelling the Dune Sea to offer their services to the Hutts, a life of slavery in exchange for a roof overhead and a meal every-day. Much more than what most could expect living free. You could only hope that this new leader would be open to the same sort of offers. You’d never thought you’d end up in this situation, but the universe works in mysterious ways.

The palace was a great, monstrous thing towering high above the rocks and dunes surrounding it. You’d once heard it had as many floors underground as it did above, even containing its own exotic animal menagerie. Perhaps you’d soon find out for yourself if that were true.

“What business do you have here?” an armoured guard called out as you approached the doorway to the palace’s main tower.

Adjusting your grip on your satchel, you try to regulate your breathing.

“I’ve come to see Boba Fett,” you announce in what you hope is a determined tone.

The guard seems unconvinced, turning to his partner and laughing beneath his leather helmet. Suddenly you feel very small, and painfully aware of how pitiful you must look right now.

“He’s a busy man,” The guard says, turning back to you “He doesn’t have time to talk to kids like you”

“If I had any other choice, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve come here to offer my services” You snap back, angered by his patronising tone.

The guard bristles, incensed by your little outburst. He shifts his weight and raises his blaster slightly, just enough for you to feel the threat there, but before he can respond his partner interjects.

“Look, sweetheart, this isn’t the place for you. Go back to town and don’t worry yourself with what goes on in here. It’s grizzly business.”

He’s right. You can feel how out of place you are, but right now that just isn’t an option for you. The only thing waiting for you back in Mos Eisley is an empty stomach, your only shot at a future is behind those big metal doors.

Slowly you reach for your pocket, bringing out your last fistful of credits and holding them out in front of you. It’s laughable really, barely enough to buy a bottle of Spotchka and yet it’s all you’ve got to bribe your way in.

“This is all I have left. You can have it if you let me inside”

The guards stare at the pile of credits for a moment, before the first one reaches forward and takes the whole lot.

“Fine. If you’re so sure it’s what you want” he snaps, motioning for his other (and arguably nicer) partner to let you in.

The guard opens a small door behind him, ushering you through ahead of him. You try to ignore the look of pity he gives you as you step past him.

You emerge into a large, cavernous hall dimly lit with warm lights that hang suspended from wires of various lengths from the ceiling. Distantly you can hear the sound of many people talking and laughing, perhaps some music too. In the centre of the room, a wide descending staircase leads to the lower levels, curving off to the left and into the darkness. It sounds like that’s where all the noise is coming from.

The guard nudges your shoulder softly, gesturing towards the stairs.

You descend into what might be the busiest, loudest room you’ve ever been in. Filled with all sorts of species conversing loudly in groups all over the room, underscored by music that emanates from somewhere you can’t see. It’s dimly lit with a low ceiling that makes it feel like the room is about to collapse in on you, and the gravity of your situation slowly starts to dawn on you.

The guards were right, this Boba Fett really is busy, and you know you don’t belong here.

“He’s up there. Say what you need to say and try not to get me into trouble” the guard says, before stepping back against the wall and out of sight.

You look to where he had pointed, and instantly your blood runs cold. At the back of the room, sat on a raised dais and surrounded by the fiercest looking soldiers you’ve ever seen is the man you’ve come here for. He sits sprawled across a large stone chair- no, throne in his green Mandalorian armour that seems almost black in the low light. He has his face turned towards a woman beside him, her dark hair plaited tightly on her head as she nods along to what he says.

As though she has felt your stare she looks up. Saying something you can’t quite make out, she refocuses the armoured mans attention to you, and now, even from the other side of the room you burn something fierce under their combined gaze.

Boba Fett readjusts himself on the throne, spreading his legs just a fraction wider in a way that is both devastatingly inviting and frighteningly dangerous. He tilts his head, and you take this as your cue to step forward, weaving through the crowd until you reach the space before the dais.

“Are you lost, little one?”

Oh dear.

His voice rings out clear despite the noise around you. His pitch is low and measured, and pierces right into you. For a moment he’s rendered you useless, until you remember he asked you a question.

“No,” you respond in a voice you hope is as clear as his.

He huffs out an amused laugh and tilts his helmet. A few of the soldiers that surround him have turned their attention to your conversation as well.

“Forgive me. It’s not very often I get to see pretty things like you down here. As you can see I move in very specific circles” He gestures with his fingers, and you follow where he points.

Not that you needed to. You’ve been well aware from the minute you set foot down here that you don’t blend in with the numerous bounty hunters and criminals that fill the palace.

“But it seems you’ve come here with a purpose. What can I help you with?” Boba says, leaning forward slightly.

Right, you’ve practiced this. You had plenty of time whilst walking the desert to plan what you were going to say, and now as you face Boba Fett in all his imposing majesty, you’re infinitely glad you did. You probably couldn’t voice an original thought right now even if you tried, not with the nerves coursing through you under Boba’s unwavering gaze. You take a slight breath, ready to begin your well-rehearsed spiel.

“I have nothing. No money, no food. I’ve heard the stories about the people who came here looking to work in exchange for shelter- “

“You mean the slaves?” The dark-haired woman interrupts, throwing you off your rhythm and forcing the words to die on your tongue.

“Well… yes” you say, barely above a whisper.

“How dare you?” Hisses a zabrak bounty hunter that’s been lurking beside the throne “comparing our actions to that of the Hutts?”

The zabrak jumps down from the raised stone plinth, stalking towards you and causing you to shrink away. You’ve barely opened your mouth and already you’ve managed to ruin things. Honestly, you wish the ground would swallow you up.

“That’s enough, I’ve taken no offence” Boba warns, and the zabrak eases off slightly “but you should know we don’t do that here. Strangely enough there is some semblance of morality among us”

“I’m sorry” you offer lamely, hoping to repair some of the damage done in this conversation.

Boba studies you from beneath his visor for a moment, before offering out his hand to you.

“Come here” he asks, and not wanting to cause any more offence, you comply

Tentatively you step forward, eyeing the leering zabrak cautiously before taking Boba’s hand. Your hand fits neatly into the leather of his gloved palm, and he easily helps you up onto the dais to stand directly before him. Boba inspects your face again.

“You look tired, little one. Did you walk across the Dune Sea?” You faintly notice he hasn’t released your hand yet, still clasping it gently in his. You nod, not trusting your words just yet. Boba makes a quiet sound of sympathy that makes your heart flutter, much to your horror.

“And where did you walk from? Where’s home to you?”

His voice has dropped so it’s barely a whisper, a conversation just for the two of you alone.

“I don’t have a home.”

Boba doesn’t respond right away, instead reaching up to thumb the threadbare and sandy material of your tunic. He does so for a moment, seemingly lost in his thoughts before snapping his head up to face you.

“You must be tired. Follow my friend here, she’ll take you somewhere you can rest,” Boba points to the dark-haired woman beside him “Her name is Fennec.”

Shocked by his response, you can only babble out a strangled little “thank you” before Fennec promptly takes you by the arm and starts leading you away. As she ushers you into the crowd again, you turn one last time to meet Boba’s visor. He gives you a nod before you disappear into a hallway.

“I’ll admit you’ve got courage coming all the way here” Fennec says as she leads you along “most people choose come by speeder, the Dune Sea is a dangerous place”

“Well, I didn’t have many other options” you say, taking in the hallways you pass through, trying to commit them to memory.

“So it seems,” she responds, before turning to face you.

“You know if you really want to work for us we could probably sort something out. We can try and find you a job that’s safe and out of the way”

You’ve stopped outside a door, and the woman quickly presses a few buttons on the keypad to open it. Inside you catch a glimpse of a room, its fairly plain but still much nicer than anything you’ve ever had before. The bed looks divine, and you can’t wait to burrow under the covers and rest.

“I’d like that” you respond with a grateful smile; glad your little insult earlier hadn’t ruined all your chances here.

“I’ll see what I can do. There’s a refresher in there. You should wash, and I’ll find you something clean to wear. Rest as long as you need.”

Thanking Fennec you head inside, dropping your bag at the foot of the bed and reaching out to feel the sheets. They’re soft to the touch, but the sand that coats your body in a fine layer falls onto it, ruining the silky texture. Stepping back you begin to strip from your clothes, unwinding the binding that seals the cuffs of your sleeves and trousers. They’re supposed to keep the sand from getting under your clothes and irritating your skin, but in their threadbare condition the bindings haven’t done their job. When you shake out your trousers, half of the Dune Sea seems to fall out of them.

The shower amazes you. It’s a decent size with strong water pressure and it takes you a few moments to figure out how to change the temperature. You take your time under the water, enjoying how relaxing it is compared to the sonic showers you had used your whole life. When you’re sure you’ve washed away all the sand on your body, you wrap yourself in one of the soft towels and pad back to the main bedroom.

Someone had left a set of new clothes for you on the bed, a simple grey tunic and loose-fitting trousers, socks, underwear, and over by the door a soft looking pair of shoes. As you change you vaguely register your growing hunger but thinking of the soft sheets and just how tired you are, you decide that’s something you’ll fix after your nap.

As you lie under the covers in silence, you can just about make out the distant sound of chatter from the throne room. If you concentrate hard enough, you think you can hear Boba, his voice cutting through the noise as he calls out words you can’t make out.

It’s plaguing your thoughts. The kindness he showed you and the feel of his hand holding yours. The way his gaze pierced you even from behind his dark visor. This bounty hunter king was not at all what you expected him to be, but funnily enough you weren’t too mad about that.

You wake to a series of short knocks to the door.

“Hello?” you call out blearily, trying to regain your senses as you switch on the bedside lamp.

The door slides open to reveal Fennec. She steps inside, leaving the guard she brought with her in the hall and smiles at your groggy state.

“Seems you slept well” she quips.

“Yes, thank you,” you say, reaching up self-consciously to fix your hair.

“Boba wants to talk. Get yourself ready and follow the guard, he’ll take you to him” Fennec says.

The prospect of speaking to Boba again sent your mind into a frenzy. Your brief conversation earlier had left you dumbstruck, his measured tone and focused interest in you effecting your brain in an almost embarrassing way. How were you supposed to pull yourself through an entire discussion with him?

Fennec leaves you to get ready. You do your best to calm your hair, splash some water on your face, and slip on your new shoes, and as the guard leads you through the palace hallways, you work on trying to steady your nerves.

The room you’re led to is empty. It has the same stone walls and floors as the rest of the palace, and windows in the ceiling illuminate the sizeable stone table that sits at its centre. The table is set for one, with a decent amount of food and a large bottle of spotchka. You’re quickly reminded of your hunger but don’t dare take even the smallest piece of food without permission.

“You gonna eat that food or just stare at it little one?”

Boba’s voice makes you jump. Spinning around you see him standing in the doorway, hands resting on his belt as he watches you. You can’t quite manage to make your mouth work, and in the absence of a response Boba steps forward, walking past you to take a seat at the table.

“Come on then.” He points to the chair in front of the plate of food.

He doesn’t need to offer again. Even if Boba has rendered your brain useless, your stomach is still fully aware of its need for food, and you waste no time getting stuck into the meal offered to you. Boba chuckles softly at the speed at which you eat.

“Spotchka?” He lifts the bottle of glowing blue liquid.

With your mouth full, you shake your head. Boba nods and pours himself a glass instead.

You’re so preoccupied with your food that you nearly miss when the bounty hunter lowers his head and removes his helmet to drink. Suddenly your food is a lot less interesting, now your undivided attention belongs to the face of the man opposite you.

He’s older than you, that was no surprise, and handsome too in a hardened, grizzly way. The scars, however, that wrap around his handsome face have certainly piqued your interest. Of course it makes sense for a bounty hunter to have a few scars, but scars of that severity must have a particular story behind them.

“I’m not the nicest to look at, am I?” Boba quips without looking up at you. His tone is light, thankfully not offended by your staring.

“No!” You say, before you can stop yourself “Wait no…I mean… I think you’re very nice to look at”

Wow, how eloquent.

Boba seems to find your flustered state very amusing, laughing lowly as he looks at you over the rim of his glass.

“Well thank you, and I’ll be sure to thank the sarlacc for not maiming all of my face”

A sarlacc? Well that certainly explains the scarring, but how could anyone survive a sarlacc pit? It seems that the more you learn about this bounty hunter king, the more questions you’re faced with. Your face must give away your thoughts, as just when you open your mouth to question him he pipes up again.

“You’re an open book little one, I’ll tell you about it some other time. Now though, I want to talk about you” He says, placing down his spotchka.

You tell him nearly all of your life story, from your name to your rather precarious financial situation and Boba listens diligently despite your babbling. By the time you’ve finished explaining to him the decision you had made to come to the palace, Boba has sat back in his chair, studying you.

“I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality so far, its far more than I deserve after the way I spoke to you earlier,” You conclude, but Boba wave his hand in dismissal.

“It’s hardly an issue, your courage and honesty endeared me to you” he says, “but I want to do one thing more for you,”

“Yes?” you prompt softly.

“I’m going to take you up on your offer. I’ll give you work, and you can stay here at the palace, but I will be paying you a salary.” He lets the offer hang in the air. You’re too shocked to respond, this is much more than you thought you’d be given.

“You’d be free to leave our employment at any time, and you can stay in the palace for as little or as long as you want. I want you to understand you won’t be a slave here, you’ll always have your own autonomy,” He elaborates.

This is certainly not what you expected from such a hardened figure. It seemed almost comical for the leader of the criminal underworld to be offering you, a nobody, this level of charity. It baffled you.

“I- thank you,” you respond, mouth numb with shock and unable to fully articulate yourself.

Boba downs the last of his spotchka before fixing his helmet and rising.

“You’re very welcome. Finish your food, little one. We’ll find you some work in the morning.” Boba turns to exit, leaving you alone at the table with your mind running a mile a minute to process your new situation. Jumping up from your chair, you go to stop him before he leaves.

“Wait,” you say, reaching out to grab his arm. He turns back to face you quickly, and for a moment you worry that you’ve overstepped a boundary by laying hands on him. When the scolding you’re anticipating doesn’t come, you continue.

“I don’t understand, why help me like this?”

Boba cocks his head.

“Why would I not?” He says simply.

“You could have just accepted my original proposition or sent me away.”

“Do you want me to send you away?” Boba quips. Leaning towards you, you can almost hear his teasing grin behind his visor.

“No,” you respond.

“Must a man always have a reason for his ways?” He reaches out to smooth the collar of your tunic, letting his fingers skim across your collar bone.

For some reason you’re not entirely convinced by his answer, but the feeling of his touch does a remarkable job at diverting your attention. His fingers follow the tunic’s neckline, stopping when he reaches the lowest point of the shallow v neck. He lingers there for a second before raising his hand to tap your chin with the back of his curled forefinger and let out an amused little huff at your dumbstruck expression.

“I’ll see you soon, little one.”

#i swear there's smut coming #on god #the only way i'm coping with my emotions after the finale is by lusting after boba #boba may be lovely and sweet to the reader in this chapter #but he fucks mean and he aint gonna let yall forget that #boba fett x reader #my writing #the mandalorian #the mandalorian spoilers #boba fett #star wars #boba fett imagine #nstf

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whirlybirbs · 4 years

Text

✧ — SHIFTING TIDES.

summary: as the crimson dawn grows, you become a spearhead within the organization. a tie in with my other fic of emancipation and trust, set a year after — around s7.

pairing: maul x ex-servant!reader

a/n: it’s been a minute since i’ve written, so here’s some casual dialogue work with maul since his latest appearance in tcw has my knees quaking. it’s soft. if you’re confused, give of emancipation and trust a read to catch up on these two’s relationship.

“Oh, do forgive me then, Prime Minister —”

The room drops ten degrees in temperature before it falls so stiffly silent that Maul is sure a pin could drop half-way across the Sundari Royal Palace and everyone in the room would be able to hear it...

Had it not been for the rather pointed tone you’d taken up when verbally undressing a certain Prime Minister Almec — robbing him of his pride and assumptions right then and there with your words alone.

“— If I’m not overly fond of a clan who kept me enslaved for eight years of my life.”

Maul, posed on the stiff-backed loveseat, plucks at a stray string from his tunic pants — he flicks it as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward. His mask betrays him. He seems uninterested; however, pride is the feeling that fills his lungs and makes his words float a bit softer through the parlor’s air.

Pride in you.

You’ve become a wicked little thing; smart, beautiful, cunning... All things that were there before but... Given the chance to grow?

You've blossomed into quite the Syran plant.

“Almec.”

The Prime Minister in question is left to tear his dumbfounded look from you and your regal posture in the far corner of the room. You’re pouring Coruscanti brandy into a glass for yourself. Maul can feel the anger rolling off the politician —being upstaged by you, no doubt, has put a sour taste in the greying man’s mouth.

It’s entertaining.

“Yes, Mandalore.”

“I believe it best for you to leave us.”

There’s almost a snarl upon Almec’s lips. Almost. But, then you turn, sip your brandy, and bore a hole into the man’s skull with your fed-up glare. Adorable, really, if Maul may say so.

“Right,” a short bow is spared towards Maul. Almec’s voice is wound tight, “Do consider the... finer points to this argument, will you, Maul?”

“I said,” Maul sharpens his tone now, shooting down Almec’s clear attempts to undermine your advice and discredit your view with a wave of his hand, “To leave us.”

If you weren’t so irritated, maybe you’d laugh.

The doors to the parlor slam shut as the politician skirts from the room in a flash of embroidered petticoats.

You move then, finally given the space to move about the small room. You cross the plush carpet and step down from the raised area that is home to a small bar and another set of couches. The curtains are drawn, making the room look smaller thanks to the cast of the warm lights running along the underside of the shelves around the room. They bear trophies of war — relics of Mandalore’s past.

Your fingers find the lock keypad on the gilded door handle.

Ice cubes tinker as you turn around and eye Maul.

He’s leaned back, legs spread wide, as he worries his bottom lip with his index finger.

When you speak, your tone is icy.

“It’s all a show, you know.”

A crimson brow ridge quirks. His eyes follow after, ghosting along your face as you move to settle in the loveseat across from him. You plop down and ditch the heels you’d worn to dinner before pulling your legs up to your chest. Your thin, satin dress swims around the cushions as you muss a hand along your scalp and sigh.

“It irritates you,” he mumbles. The sound is smooth and low, “Why?”

Your brows raise. You fuss your lip and play with the glass in your hand.

“I thought it was obvious. They think they can get the upper hand — destablizing and reorganizing. It’s insulting. Especially coming from The Hutts.”

“Insulting to you?”

You scoff at the idea. “No. It irritates me to think they believe they can get away with it.”

“Ah. So it’s pride, then.”

You make a face. His gilded eyes narrow for a dash of a moment.

“Pride in me?” Maul rumbles as his words gain a new color of amusement, “Perhaps you believe I cannot be bested? Is that why you attempt to fight my battles for me, sweet one?”

“I don’t want you to be bested,” you correct lightly with the sort of sternness he’s come to appreciate, fingers ghosting the patterning stitched into the arm of the loveseat as you watch him carefully.

“For your own sake?”

You blow a raspberry at the thought. You answer honestly. Maul can tell. You don’t lie to him — even the small things. He’d know. You may or may not know that, but it doesn’t matter. The trust between you both runs deep. Uncompromised.

"Never for my own sake. I care about you. I only ever want to see you succeed.”

His eyes fall; scrutiny lost.

Maul makes a sound that you’ve come to understand as contemplative. A small hum, one that only hangs in the air for a moment or two while he parses the information given — and now, he parses the way you’re feeling.

You can feel the gentle prodding through the force. You shoot him a look.

“Do you trust me?” it’s nearly joking. You swat at the imaginary hands probing the air around your head.

“Always,” Maul mumbles, “But there’s something else bothering you.”

“Almec, to start.”

That earns a laugh. Dry and short.

The two of you sit there for a moment, eyes falling along the other. It’s Maul — finally, after a minute of silence — who pulls himself upwards and crosses the space of the parlor to find himself by your side. His weight shifts the loveseat as he sits and you turn to eye the Zabrak’s pointed frown.

You reach and ghost your fingers along his jaw.

His hand falls to the bare curve of your knee.

It’s a tender moment, overshadowed by the increasing difficulties the Crimson Dawn is beginning to face. These next few weeks will not be easy. If the whispers at dinner were any indication...

“You believe The Hutts are going to attempt to gain additional territory in the capital as a distraction, then. Correct?”

You hum, thumb running along his cheek. “Jabba is not stupid, despite his looks. The Desilijic Clan are masterful. They’ve done this before. It’s how they’ve stayed in power for so long. They do not want to owe anything to the Crimson Dawn.”

You trace the thick, inky black lines alone his jaw.

The Mandalore exhales as he thinks.

“But,” you say softly, turning his face so you can see his eyes, “Perhaps I am simply worrying over nothing.”

“Don’t discredit your intuition,” Maul offers gently, “You have an uncanny sense of these things.”

“As do you,” you chide, “But the point is, unlike Almec, I don’t get off on pretending I know more than I truly do.”

A scoff. The Zabrak shakes his head. You grin.

It’s now, after a day’s worth of politics and a long dinner with the heads of the Clans that you can see the exhaustion settling into his face. The Sith usually holds a cunning amount of vigor, but... recently, with nearly a year of power established, things have begun to grow unsteady. Clans getting restless. Powers shifting around.

You sigh.

“There’s something else.”

He’s watching you.

You sweep your thumb over his cheek as you speak. Tender. Loving.

“Yes. You haven’t been sleeping.”

The idea that you’re worried about something as small as that is almost laughable to Maul. Almost. If it wasn’t so true... Perhaps, three months ago, the Sith would have chided you for twaddling over something so trivial. But, in recent weeks, he’d hardly been able to keep himself still for more than an hour’s time. Meditation and sleep have been nearly impossible and...

Here he is, leaning into your touch and grumbling out a low apology.

“Have I been keeping you up?”

The answer is yes — though you don’t see the need in saying it. He knows, already, but he knows that’s not the reason you’ve brought it up. It’s worry, again, that does it. Just as worry had brought your pointed words with Almec to ahead.

You stay quiet. Maul frowns. This time, it’s his turn to shift and watch you with care. His gaze, usually cold, softens considerably.

“I have, haven’t I.”

You offer a light laugh and press a gentle touch to the ridge of his horn on his temple. “That isn’t why I brought it up.”

He gives a huff. “I know.”

You tilt your head, hair falling along your back and shoulders as you do. The corners of his mouth pull downwards, accentuating the ever-present malice etched into his features from years of hatred fueling his survival instinct.

Now, with you... Things are different.

“Perhaps,” you croon with innuendo, lifting his face, “I just need to be tiring you out more.”

He’s smirking when you kiss him; his hands wind around your waist tightly, thumbs crawling up the curves of your ribs. The warmth of his hands nearly burns a hole through your dress — and with your chest to his, you’re left to admire the way the Zabrak melts against you.

“...You already do enough for me.”

A quiet confession. His nose brushes yours. Maul speaks slowly and quietly, hands falling along your jaw to cradle your face.

“I am proud of you, sweet one,” he mumbles, dashing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’ve grown.”

The compliments sit neatly in the homes of your heart. Warm and lovely. Especially so coming from the Zabrak before you.

“I love you.”

You don’t mind that you always say it first.

“And I, you.”

#maul #maul imagine #tcw imagine #darth maul imagine #star wars imagine #of emancipation and trust #maul x reader #darth maul x you #maul x you #darth maul x reader #wow i wrote something??????#amazing

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cosimuhs · 4 years

Text

haven’t seen you (since i was your little girl)

“Oi, Poppins, there’s a lady here to see ya,” she barely gets out, before the woman is turning and Dani’s face is falling, hands grappling for purchase on her pots.

“Mom?”

[or: Jamie has never been good with parents, but this? This feels important.]

read on ao3 or under the cut!

It’s a slow afternoon when the bell on the door jingles open, bringing with it a brisk wave of autumn air.

Honestly, as much as Jamie grumbles about it, autumn in Vermont has grown on her. She’s not one to celebrate the death of plants lightly (unless it’s a pesky invasive species) but there is something to be said about New England foliage. In quite the contradiction, it feels like life is abound in these months - the crunch of leaves and the brightness of Dani’s laugh that settles deep in Jamie’s chest.

As the heat of the summer slips and then disappears altogether, so does her personal space. In the newfound chill, Dani takes it upon herself to warm up, not with extra layers, but by pressing as close as possible — in the street, their joined hands stuffed into Jamie’s jacket pocket, shoulders knocking, or in the middle of the night, when Jamie will wake up, half off the bed, a pile of blonde hair heavy on her sternum.

Yeah, it definitely is one of her favorite seasons.

The only downside is the dip in sales, people sequestered at home against the chill, not looking to start gardening as they face the winter head on. Not to mention, as the months trip slowly past the autumnal equinox, the housewives who pop in, begging for mistletoe and holly in the middle of October.

The woman who has just entered, greying around the temples with lines of age deeply indented around her eyes, seems like just the type, and Jamie steels herself to send her packing for another month or two.

She looks strangely surprised to see Jamie, which is dumb because it’s her bloody shop, and even more taken aback at the lilt in her accent when she asks if the woman needs her help. That at least, she’s well acquainted with, because for some reason, no one in this town is aware that Brits exist.

So caught up in her stewing, she almost misses when the woman speaks. Almost.

“Maybe I got the wrong shop,” she mumbles, wringing her hands.

Jamie has to try hard to tamp down her annoyance because, really, what kind of product do you expect from a store called The Leafling?

Instead she tips on her customer service smile, the one that Dani says makes her look like she swallowed a lemon. “What were you looking for?”

“Who,” the woman corrects and pauses long enough that Jamie thinks this odd lady is not going to provide any other information before she continues.

“I’m looking for Danielle… er — Clayton. Danielle Clayton.”

There’s something familiar about the woman, yet Jamie doesn’t recognize her as one of their regulars. Even weirder, Jamie has never heard anyone refer to Dani as Danielle in her entire life.

“Ah, she’s out at the minute, but she should be back soon,” Jamie says, and she’s about to ask how and why and who, but the lady must see the confusion in her eyes and cuts her off.

I’m Karen,” the woman adds helpfully, as though that will clear literally anything up for her.

“Okay, Karen,” she says, drawing out the vowels and trying desperately not to roll her eyes at the lack of context. “I’m Jamie…?”

Karen’s shoulders have dropped from around her ears, the worry lines fading into her forehead now that she knows she’s in the right place, though the anxious energy surrounding her doesn’t completely dissipate.

There’s a spark in Karen at Jamie’s introduction, like her name means something.

And.

The familiarity is scratching at the base of her neck, that feeling where you know you should know something, but it’s an inch past your reach and you’re forced to scrabble aimlessly, trying to connect the dots. She knows , can place this stranger in the swirl that connects the two of them, but she just can’t name it.

Thankfully, the door is pushing open again before she can guess, this time bringing in the object of their conversation, windswept and harried as she nudges hair from her eyes with a wrist, arms laden with multicolored arrangements.

Dani looks beautiful like this, cheeks flushed from the cold, even with the scowl on her face.

Her afternoon has been filled with endless options and the sharp bite of a bridezilla who needs everything to be practically perfect and Jamie knows Dani can’t wait to let the long day soak away, curl up with Jamie and a strong cuppa — said as much before she left the sheets this morning.

She’s going to close up shop early tonight, she decides the second she sees the strain in Dani’s shoulders, and help release the tension in other ways.

They just need to get rid of Karen first.

“Oi, Poppins, there’s a lady here to see ya,” she barely gets out, before the woman is turning and Dani’s face is falling, hands grappling for purchase on her pots.

“Mom?”

And oh .

Shite.

They have the same eyes, Jamie realizes belatedly, and the aging woman in front of her clicks into place with the grainy childhood photos Dani has tucked away in their apartment.

Karen — Mrs. Clayton — steps forward, enveloping Dani in a clumsy hug around the planters clutched to her chest. Dani doesn’t move to put them down, and Jamie would think it’s all rather laughably awkward if Dani weren’t looking at her over her mother’s shoulder, mouth set and pleading.

“How did you — Why are you… here?” Dani asks like she doesn’t really want to know the answer and Jamie’s chest aches because she knows Dani is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thinks her mother has come to convince her to move back yet again, or to make her feel bad about leaving in the first place all these years later.

Could never just be a trip to see her daughter.

Jamie knows Dani has told Mrs. Clayton about her, on their sporadic calls throughout the years. Not about them necessarily, but that they work together, live together. Dani had never said they were just roommates, but her mother assumed and she never bothered to correct her.

Even still, it’s a warmth with which she is greeted by Dani’s mother that she wasn’t expecting, one that must have emerged in the years following Dani’s maturation if the look on her wife’s face is any indication.

“I looked you up in the Yellow Pages!” Mrs. Clayton looks remarkably proud of herself, her palm still warm on Jamie’s forearm. “I figured not many flower shops have the same name in Vermont.”

Dani cringes and Jamie almost snorts, knows she’s regretting telling her mother the name of their store right about now.

Mrs. Clayton pushes forward, not even noticing the strained energy of the room.

“I’ll be here for a few days, in the inn down the road,” she beams. “I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to come out here!”

There’s a reason she hasn’t been invited. After years of bombarding Dani with questions of when she’s coming home, not willing to listen to the truth of she’s not, not now or ever, it seemed the pestering had suspiciously disappeared.

Now they know why.

Jamie clocks the quiet resignation that settles in the slope of Dani’s shoulders, but she thinks she sees a spark of eager excitement, smothered and tamped down, behind the solemnity.

Well. No way to avoid this now.

She’s hardly a religious person, but she sends up about ten Hail Marys in preparation for the evening, splayed long and endless, before her:

“You staying for dinner, then?”

---

Supper is maybe the worst thing Jamie’s ever sat through, and she had had to deal with Peter Quint for a good portion of her life.

She ruins the chicken and usually, Dani would grin, wide and teasing, before kissing her breathless against the stovetop.

This time, she sends an exasperated sigh towards the heavens and orders Chinese.

It’s stilted and uncomfortable and she finds herself constantly trying to stay afloat in this weird staring competition that Dani and her mother have got going on. Mrs. Clayton had already tried to mention Eddie, and Dani’s curt, “Don’t,” and the way her eyes flashed over the tableware had thankfully been enough to snap her mother’s mouth shut.

Dani had told her once, the hum of her words spilling into the dark warmth of their bedroom, that her mother had started truly caring about her too late, too removed. By the time she came around to the fact that she had a daughter worthy of time investment, Dani was past caring, had already learned to seek shelter in other, different people — too burned.

And now they’re here. At an impasse - mother and daughter who know nothing about each other, when it really comes down to it - who have spent decades tiptoeing around the mutual hurt and pain of being pushed to the side. Swept under the rug in favor of brief and surface level phone calls since Dani left for London.

Yet, Dani is so open, so achingly vulnerable always, in her emotions, that Jamie can see the longing drawn in the soft lines of her every time she hangs up the phone, sees the way Dani wants, violently, to tip headfirst into the notion that her mother means it this time around, right at the dinner table.

Jamie has been rough around the edges her whole life and she has never, ever been good with parents and, luckily, hasn’t had much opportunity in her life to make her impressions worse.

But this — Dani’s parent — feels important.

So she fills the space between by talking about hydrangeas, her favorite brand of manure composite, and whether she dabbles in vegetable growing. With each breath, she watches Dani breathe out of the corner of her eye, loosening in tune with the flow of Jamie’s brusque accent.

By the end of her blabbering, Dani is giggling at a particularly bad joke she makes and Mrs. Clayton eyes her daughter curiously across the tablecloth.

“Well, I would love a tour of your apartment, ladies,” Mrs. Clayton claps, and it jars Dani so much the table shakes when her knee jumps.

Her knee is the last of Jamie’s worries as she meets Dani’s wide eyes, because she totally forgot that they only have one bed, and how in the fuck are they supposed to just be roommates now?

Dani’s entire body has returned to rigid, fingers white-clenched on her chopsticks and Jamie longs to reach over, smooth her fingers over the groove of knuckle, kiss the promise sitting mercifully unnoticed on her ring finger.

Christ, this is so not how Jamie imagined the evening going.

“Sure,” Jamie yelps. “Why don’t you take a look around the living room while we clear up?”

She ignores Mrs. Clayton’s protestations and politely pushes her towards the record player in the corner as Dani fills the sink with warm, soapy water and they settle into a well worn routine; hip to hip against the counter, one washing and one drying.

“I’ll just be Bert the Chimney Sweep tonight, Poppins,” she murmurs, stroking a subtle hand down the length of Dani’s back when she’s sure Mrs. Clayton is distracted with the photographs on the wall.

Dani rolls her eyes.

“Bert was Mary Poppins’ love interest,” Dani whispers, but the corner of her mouth tilts up and she sags into Jamie’s touch for a moment.

“Allegedly,” she lobbies back, revelling in the grin she gets over the suds.

“I am serious, though,” Jamie continues, knocking Dani’s elbow gently with her own. “Just say I’m in the process of moving out or something and I’m crashing on the couch for a few days, that’s all.”

Jamie can see the moment that Dani decides, what she decides. Can read it plain as day on the face of the woman she loves more than life, in the curve of her lips and the set of her jaw.

“Are you sure?” They’re words from another time, another life, but Jamie means it just as much this time — would rather prioritize comfort, security, over rash decisions.

“I am always sure about you,” is the reply and Dani looks at her so softly, so carefully, that Jamie thinks she could cry, heart ricocheting against her ribcage.

---

She does it in the most Dani Clayton way possible.

“Mom, this is our bedroom,” Dani says, syllables burning quiet and destructive, nostrils flaring. “Where we sleep together.”

Jamie doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but it’s certainly not what happens.

Mrs. Clayton nods thoughtfully, brushing past the door frame to inspect the plant prints above the bed. She doesn’t speak for a long moment, fingertips running over the worn paperback on Jamie’s side table.

Finally clears her throat, thick and sticky.

“It’s a lovely apartment, Danielle.”

Dani’s mother glances up, meets their surprised faces, turns towards Jamie. “It seems like a lovely life you’ve built together.”

“You… Oh?” Dani manages, her calm belied by the tremble in her voice.

Jamie is frozen watching it all, the beauty of it unfolding in front of her with bated breath.

“I may not be a great mother, but I’m hardly an idiot,” Mrs. Clayton chides with no real malice.

At this, Dani’s eyes well up and she stumbles forward to sink onto the mattress, mouth opening and closing without a sound.

Jamie shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans, suddenly feeling like she is intruding. Wants to give the pair the time they so desperately need from each other.

“Tea, Mrs. Clayton?” Her voice sounds loud in the still acceptance and she thinks she says something about Dani being terrible at it but her ears are buzzing too loudly for her to be sure.

“Please, call me Karen,” Mrs. Clayton says for the umpteenth time, and Dani lets out a watery laugh and nods, fingers slipping over Jamie’s briefly in quiet reassurance. She will be okay by herself, and if she isn’t, she trusts Jamie to help her pick up the pieces.

She dips her head and excuses herself quietly, winking sweetly and reveling in the faint blush that pinks Dani’s cheeks.

The apartment is quiet for a while and if Jamie makes more noise than usual putting the kettle on to give them their privacy, then no one has to know.

The drinks have long gone cold by the time they emerge, raw and yawning in the waning candlelight. Mrs. Clayton bundles herself into her coat when she sees the time, clutching her daughter’s hands in her own, and Dani hugs her, actually hugs her, eyes red rimmed and gentle.

“I would love to see you both tomorrow,” Mrs. Clayton looks at Jamie with Dani’s cheekbones, Dani’s kindness, and smiles.

It feels like approval.

---

After, when the door is long shut behind her and Dani has flicked on the television, feet curling under Jamie’s thigh, they will breathe again.

“All good?”

Dani looks at her with those mismatched eyes and presses a kiss to her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Keeps peppering long soft pecks until Jamie has to lean forward to capture her in a proper kiss, lips slotting together easily, eagerly.

Thank God for those Hail Marys because this is definitely her heaven.

Jamie gets lost in it, has barely been able to kiss this woman all day. Can feel the tightness in her chest unwind when Dani sighs into her, pulls her close and vows not to let go, maybe not ever with the way Dani’s hand is winding around her neck. She makes a little noise in the back of her throat and Jamie cracks open, splintering into oblivion to settle within Dani’s bones.

When they finally separate, foreheads tipped together, lips swollen and hair mussed, delight is written in every curve of Dani’s body.

She is radiant.

“All good.”

#the haunting of bly manor #thobm #dani x jamie #damie #the haunting of bly manor fanfiction #mine #dani clayton #jamie #my fic

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kreweleaderbuuru · 4 years

Photo

Part 3 baybeeee i realised that the babies I use more often these days werent included. Annoying elaboration that doesnt matter under the cut

Sex

Self explainitory

Gender:

Self explanatory

Build:

Singrid: The most in-shape member of her family. She’s very enthusiastic about honing her skills with her hammer, carving canoes with her bare hands, and punching sharks in the face.

Grunt: The grunt has been working on building muscle, but her years of starvation and abuse have left her permanently stunted.

Algor: Despite being absolutely fuckall massive, he’s not too interested in honing his physique. He’s got some scholarly chub on the way.

Poom: Actually more muscular than you’d give him credit for- though still malnourished and spindly. His baggy clothes are in part to hide a very embarrassing hourglass figure.

Height:

Singrid: Just a few inches shorter than her brother, much to her dismay

Grunt: Shorty due to malnutrition

Algor: Fuckall massive

Poom: Comes from a pretty tall family, but just so happens to me the shortest member of that family. He thinks he’s shorter than he actually is.

Handiness:

Self explanatory

Intelligence, Scholarly:

Singrid: While Singrid was offered the same education as her brother, she struggled with even the most basic concepts. At a certain point she decided her job was just to carry heavy equipment. Living proof of nature vs. nurture.

Grunt: Scouted by inquest recruiters as a child. The Grunt was subjected to the standard foot soldiers ‘education’ within the Inquest. It wasn’t all that great, but it wasn’t like she could leave.

Algor: Personally tutored by his adopted asuran father- surpassing the potential of even some asuran peers in Rata Sum. Living proof of nurture vs. nature.

Poom: Got along okay in school, enough to Graduate Dynamics with above average grades. His true passions lie in paranormal investigation, which isnt as revered in Rata Sum. People just assume he’s crazy.

Wisdom:

Singrid: Would look a grenade launcher down the barrel as she’s trying to figure out how to fire it.

Grunt: What the Grunt lacks in formal education, she makes up for in sheer experience. She’s worked on just about every Inquest base the Megakrewe allows such a low-ranking agent, and tangled with more bizarre magical creatures than most norn hunters will in their lifetime.

Algor: Algor began making supply runs in greater Tyria when he was sixteen, allowing him to come into his own as a traveller and genius.

Poom: Easily distracted and has a nasty habit of sharing his conspiracy theories to the members of the organisations he suspects. Common sense is not amongst his strengths.

Education:

Singrid: Technically a ‘drop out’, seeing as her father gave up on teaching her alongside her brother. However, the special attention Ruffik can give Singrid while Algor is away has convinced her to give his lessons another go.

Grunt: Didn’t so much as ‘graduate’ as she was drafted to punishment detail. Her propensity for disaster and mayhem did not make her school days enjoyable.

Algor: Greatly exceeded his father’s expectations.

Poom: A decent student, but easily distracted by his true passions.

Social Ability:

Singrid: Dreamed all her life of leaving the Far Marina Base to party all through Tyria, only to suffer from extreme social anxiety. She’s since found happiness on the peaceful ice caps, content with her few friends and family.

Grunt: Pretty amicable, if you can get over the whining and increased likelihood of the bar burning down.

Algor: Still relatively uncomfortable in his own skin, but growing out of it.

Poom: A highly contagious affliction and subsequent quarantine has given an already antisocial oddball agoraphobia. Poom has slowly been taking steps to be more comfortable with people, and can at the very least venture outside without a panic attack.

Perceptiveness:

Singrid: Sensitive, painfully sensitive, so sensitive she becomes overwhelmed in large gatherings. Is one of the few people who can really understand Ruffik’s emotions at any given time and could be mistaken for a mind reader when it comes to people she’s close to.

Grunt: Despite her attempt at an aloof bounty huntress persona, the Grunt is mostly in wilful denial. She knows whats going on, why it’s going on, and how things will probably end. She’s very bad at pretending not to care.

Algor: His time outside the Far Marina Base has taken him from clueless hermit to what is average teenage boy. He still doesnt understand girls, though.

Poom: Absolute dogshit at reading social signals, to the point of being near debilitating. His friends have to intervene to keep him from being beaten up half the time.

Readability:

Singrid: There are two Singrids: The one who is comfortable and knows the people in the room, and the Singrid who is in public and trying to keep from crying. You wouldnt expect the firey young norn from the FMB to wilt so easily in a crowd, and you’d be wrong.

Grunt: Any attempts to hide her emotions are humorously in vain. Its lucky her partner, krewemate, and totally-not-boyfriend is painfully dense.

Algor: Can put up a pretty convincing stoic front. It’s when he opens his mouth the youthful bravado comes spilling out.

Poom: His high anxiety and odd mannerisms make him an open book. An open book in a language you cant read, but nonetheless open.

Introvert/Extrovert:

Self explanatory

Sexuality:

Singrid: Straight

Grunt: Straight

Algor: Bisexual

Poom: Pansexual with a male preference

Romanticism:

Singrid: Straight, Monogamous

Grunt: Straight, Monogamous

Algor: Biromantic, Open to Polyamory

Poom: Panromantic with a male preference, Monogamous

Romantic:

Singrid: Has a massive crush on her childhood friend, but he’s painfully oblivious.

Grunt: Hopelessly in love with her partner, friend, and krewemate, Anakk. Even though they live together, work together, provide each other with emotional support, and sleep together exclusively, they insist they are not in a relationship.

Algor: Would do anything for a partner to share his intellect, but is still too insecure to ask anyone out. There’s also the size factor- none of the other apprentices so much as reach his knee. That ‘tragedy’ is a bit romantic in its own right- according to him.

Poom: Is oblivious to romance, and hasnt had the best track record. His last relationship ended in nothing short of catastrophe, he’s still too ashamed to face his ex to stay long in Rata Sum. This has kept him rather guarded when it comes to relationships.

Affection:

Singrid: Very touchy. Will shamelessly pick up and snuggle anyone she cares about.

Grunt: Has a pointed distaste for ‘mushy stuff’ and goes out of her way to avoid any intimacy that could be construed as romantic.

Algor: Mostly only hugs his sister. Was more cuddly as a kid, but since the growth spurt he worries about accidentally crushing people.

Poom: Has gone three years without touch due to his affliction. Avoids touch like the plague so as not to become overwhelmed.

Disposition, Outwardly:

Singrid: Whether she’s in full swing or shyly hugging the wall, Singrid comes across as a friendly, if not rough around the edges- young norn.

Grunt: Affable and friendly until things go wrong. They’re usually going wrong.

Algor: Knows how to be polite in public. Snarks on occasion.

Poom: Absolute bastard of a man. You know this. Why even ask.

Disposition, Inwardly:

Singrid: Pretty neutral on people as a whole. Gets irritated easily, and doesnt have any kind words for people who make her uncomfortable.

Grunt: Is far more effected by her past than she lets on. The grunt is generally distrustful to strangers and spiteful to those who hurt her- even a little.

Algor: Has a healthy dollop of teen angst.

Poom: One of the more kindly people you’ll meet, once you get past his eccentricities. Genuinely doesnt want to upset anyone, and is a die hard pacifist.

Petty:

Singrid, Grunt, Algor: All petty little drama queens.

Poom: Will put up with a lot of bullshit, so long as you dont press one of his triggers. Can only really muster the energy to hate one thing at a time. Usually tries to solve ‘misunderstandings’ when they come up.

Sanity:

Singrid: Crippling social anxiety

Grunt: PTSD

Algor: He’s fine, honestly.

Poom: Autism, PTSD, Depression, Social Anxiety, Agoraphobia, probably more.

Freindliness:

Singrid: She knows who she likes, and isnt particularly eager to make new friends.

Grunt: Finds it relatively easy to get along with people, especially if theres alcohol involved. She has a strange habit for attracting the affections of much larger and more powerful beings. Anakk, her skyscale Mr. Bastard, and the hulking inquest abomination Brukk, to name a few.

Algor: Able to chat up strangers so long as he’s not feeling too self-important. He’s growing out of that bit, though.

Poom: Absolutely desperate for validation. Can and will join a cult if he’s not claimed.

Stoicism:

Singrid: Will break pretty easily either from her anxiety or by getting too excited about a cool rock.

Grunt: Attempts are made at stoicism. They are laughable.

Algor: Is prone to teen melodrama. He’s growing out of it, though.

Poom: Will go home and cry for stepping on a bug.

Grace:

Singrid: Her training in the harsh Far Marina conditions have made her an adept warrior.

Grunt: Prone to disaster.

Algor: Is actually quite a talented dancer when no one’s watching. One of the ways he tries to stay in shape between studies.

Poom: If he’s not knocking something over, he’s putting his foot in his mouth.

Stubbornness:

Self explanatory

Bravery:

Singrid: Despite her issues with crowds, she’s run after icebrood twice her size with nothing but a dagger. Has wanted to cultivate an epic legend ever since she was a kid.

Grunt: Complete snivelling coward.

Algor: Will run from conflict as easily as he runs from a spider.

Poom: An almost destructive lack of self-preservation.

Loyalty:

Singrid: The few companions she has, she aims to keep.

Grunt: Wont die for the ship, but will save her favourite pirate.

Algor: Still has somewhat naive opinions on teamwork in a krewe. It’s almost a good thing he’ll likely never be in one.

Poom: Not a lot of people understand him, those that try are greatly appreciated. Even people who dont try, he’ll gladly meet half way. Even if you dont even like him at all he’s got your back. Even if you’ve just spit in his mouth he’ll-

Lawfulness:

Singrid: Does what she wants. If that means breaking some heads, she’ll do it. If it means drinking tea and brushing up on her knitting, thats her glitching right!

Grunt: Rules are for people who don’t regularly get hit by lightning.

Algor: Painfully naive.

Poom: The rules suck, but he gets in trouble enough as it is without provoking others.

Attitude:

They’re all edgy assholes lol

#singrid #algor #poom #the grunt #guild wars 2 #gw2 #norn #asura

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guesswho-mp3 · 4 years

Text

[ Catch Me ]

AU: batman!jaehyun, tomcat!taeyong | Pairing: character x reader | Warnings: some language, shoddy characterization, minor dom/sub themes, references to smut | Rating: 17+ | Word Count: 2.2k

Based off of the dynamic Batman and Catwoman have both in Arkhamverse and the New 52, kinda botched and this took a direction that I wasn’t planning but whatevs.

“You could’ve used the door you know.”

The intruder bolted upright, his foot catching on the window ledge, tripping before catching himself.

“Sorry Cat, old habit.” He ruffled his hair, unable to meet the man’s eyes who was leaned up against the door frame, arms crossed over his Kiss the Chef apron.

He let him off with a shake of his head. “Oh no I’m flattered. It’s not every day someone gets to see Gotham’s Prince climbing through their window. You remind me of the bad boy parents warn their kids about,” he said. His smile faltered as his gaze fell behind Jaehyun to the alarm system, wires shot and lifeless, swaying from the window sill.

The billionaire at least had the decency to look ashamed when his eyes trailed to see what he was focused on. “I’ll buy you another one,” he promised. He let out a noise of affirmation as he pivoted, leading the guilty party into his dining room, where an assortment of dishes laid on a table set for two.

“You cooked.”

“Well, last time when we were at yours you nearly burned down the whole manor attempting to make carbonara. I decided to save you from Alfred’s wrath and take care of the cuisine this time. Plus I wanted to.” He paused while filling up their wine glasses, overcome with a fondness and sincerity that nearly suffocated him with its implications. ”You’re welcome.”

Their eyes met and suddenly it was still. The usual chatter of car horns and wailing sirens that blasted through all hours of the day quieted to soft whispers. Acid bubbled and ate away at their flesh to reveal their bare bones but they loved the burn of it as they were able to see each other’s hearts and underlying scars. Both extremely fucked up inside.

That brought them some semblance of peace. They were able to understand why the other had scars marring their skin; why the other would wake up in a cold sweat, hands twisting the sheets; why they both had to become something that made their innocence cower and tremble in fear, all in the name of survival. With each other they could breathe a little easier even with Gotham’s vices smothering them.

“Cat?”

“Yes, Bat?”

“I—.”

“I know. I love you too”

Batman grabbed the goon’s neck and slammed him to the ground, the move providing leeway for Tomcat to catapult off his back and scissor kick another.

With the last of the thugs down and Two Face knocked out and handcuffed they were able to finally catch their breath. The thief languidly stretched out his already sore muscles but the Bat remained tensed, primed for a fight.

“What’s got you brooding, B-man? Get your spandex in a twist?”

“What are you doing here, Taeyong?” he asked.

The man’s peach lips pouted, “You know Bat for such a big dark secretive vigilante you sure do drop the aliases quick. I thought you liked to keep things professional dur—”

“Why are you here?” The words were made more malicious by the voice scrambler, warped and demonic, he was using the same voice he did to intimidate criminals. The feline hissed.

“Easy now. So maybe I popped in for a quick steal. I didn’t know Two Face and his lackeys would show up, but I could’ve handled it on my own.“ The vigilante didn’t like that answer.

“I know you can handle yourself, but this is about you being here, causing trouble. All the thefts!The fights! Your idiotic risk taking!” The demonic barking escalated into a frightening crescendo but the cat kept coy.

“How long do you think we can keep this up before I actually have to do something about your proclivity for burglary and not just stand by like an idiot?”

“Honestly I thought the sex would buy me some leniency,” the feline fatale admitted. “But fine you win! Take my prize that I worked so hard to steal,” he pouted, pulling out the satchel of jewels.

“It’s not that simple, Cat. If I make exceptions for you where does it end? I’m supposed to fight injustice, not share a bed with it.”

Cat narrowed his eyes. “I’m not gonna quit if that’s what you’re implying. And I’ve known you long enough now that you’re not just gonna drop me either. You care about me too much to let me fall.”

A beat.

“That’s why this has to end.”

Oh. He was serious.

“No! You don’t get to do that! If you think I’m gonna let you—“

An explosion set off, Tomcat being blinded by shutters of light, a ringing in his sensitive ears.

He hacked, waving away the plumes of fog, vision hazy. “Fucking smoke bombs. That angsty bastard. He’ll be back.”

He wasn’t.

Even with Cat’s weekly break-ins having dwindled down to zero and after being off the G.C.P.D’s radar for some time now, his good behavior still didn’t earn him any gold stars. Pictures he had in his head of Batman crawling back to him in that delicious little black number were far from the reality.

If he wanted the Bat’s attention he had to quit playing and do something big. Grab his attention. Stealing the city’s single most prized diamonds seemed like the logical thing to do.

It was truly laughable just how easy it was to slip into Gotham Jewelers undetected. After multiple robberies from his truly over the years, Taeyong couldn’t help but wonder why they never bothered to up the security. His lithe body easily sailed through the wires, not even a single scratch on him; claws cutting a perfect circle into the glass case like ribbon and snatching the necklace before she was slinking away. Right before he grappled up the ceiling grate he made sure to trip the alarm. The Bat would be there in minutes.

Opening the panel that led to the rooftop, the cat burglar easily jumped out before he actually took some time to inspect his steal. Wrapped around his neck, neon lights bounced off the glimmering diamonds as he admired himself in a puddle that had formed earlier in the day’s gloomy showers. The choker, which consisted of hundreds of intricately beaded diamonds, cost a pretty penny, but he couldn’t have given less of a shit about the price tag when her person of interest would be arriving in 3….2…..

“Thieving again, Tomcat?”

Like clockwork.

He couldn’t help the scoff that fell from his lips at his professional persona bullshit. He turned around, seeing Jaehyun’s form for the first time in awhile, some part of him wanting to run and cling to him, the other wanting to rip him to shreds. He decided on the latter. Consider it payback. “Breakups tend to make people fall back into old habits. You should know why I’m doing this more than anyone, Jaehyun.”

“I’m not here to play around, Cat. Hand over the necklace before I turn you in.” All he got in response was a raise of the burglar’s eyebrows.

“Turn me in? Oh no, you can’t do that. If I’m locked up then who's gonna play our little game of chase,” he questioned.

Let’s see,” Taeyong listed on his fingers,” Joker is in Arkham, probably running himself up the walls, Riddler is doing…Well, whatever it is Doyoungie does with his puzzles. Your little “Super Friends” are off saving the day somewhere, so sad for you, you’re out of a playmate. But put me in a cage, if that’s what you truly want. My bet is you’re just trying to get me in handcuffs again...” he trailed off, twirling his whip like a tail.

Batman visibly stiffened at the insinuation, and Tomcat purred. He’d be lying if he said a small part of him wasn’t thoroughly enjoying making this little birdy squirm. Riled up Jaehyun was always better in bed.

“Aw what’s the matter, has the reminder of our previous moonlight trysts got you hot under the cowl. We could have fun just like we used to, all you have to do is say yes.” He was a breath away from him now, daringly scraping his claws up the proud insignia splayed across the Bat’s chest.

Before he could react, a gloved hand wrapped around Cat’s neck and his back met the brick wall with a dull thud.

“What I want is the diamonds. I’m not going to ask again, kitten.”

A gasp escaped from Tomcat’s throat, roses blooming on the his cheeks at their position. God, his stubbornness was pretty fucking annoying when it was being used against him.

Cattish eyes slanted at the challenge, a growl rumbling deep within him. His razored claws didn’t penetrate the titanium tri-weave breastplate, but they still provided enough grip for him to swat Jaehyun away and glide out from under his grip. This was taking too long.

“You’ve held out longer than I thought you would. Newsflash world’s greatest detective! You’re too hard headed to see what‘s going on. I know you Jaehyun.“ Knees bent, him body coiled.

I know there’s something you want more.”

The cat pounced, paws ripping off the dark knight’s cowl and capturing his midnight lover’s lips. Provoked, Jaehyun pulled him closer by the scruff of his neck, their passionate dance of swiping tongues and nipping teeth accompanied by a symphony of pleasured groans and breathy sighs.

Slowed down to a tender waltz, the tensed crime fighter’s form went lax at the change of pace, Cat pampering him with soft pecks and kitten licks. Each note that left his mouth struck another chord within Jaehyun’s heart.

“You make it so hard to resist you,” the billionaire acquiesced.

Biting Jaehyun’s bottom lip to cause a little more mischief, the reformed thief stepped back to readjust his knight’s mask. “That’s why you love me,” he purred, smoothing his claws over Jaehyun’s cheek bones before backtracking to the edge of the roof.

“Hey pretty boy—“ Cat turned, arms spread above his head, a performer taking center stage lit up by neon lights.

“Catch me!”

Then he swandived.

Tomcat’s life had slowed down a lot since he quit the burglar business. His old schedule of dropping into banks and vaults was now exclusive to plundering criminal elite’s hideouts, which was allowed as long as she donated most of it. It earned him a reputation for being a backstabber and a traitor to his kind in the underground but every half-brain thug knew thieves were loyal to no one.

Except maybe this one to the Knight.

After a long day teaching step combinations to a bunch of chaotic and rowdy kids in his newly opened dance studio (with money earned from a cash grab from Penguin’s vault) she just wanted to curl up on the couch and watch cartoons— but nothing in his life was ever that fucking simple.

Some stupid idiot decided to break in. How ironic.

He had yet to take off his fur coat when an object in his periphery caught his gaze, the hairs on the back of his neck called to attention, eyes forming into slits. Laid poised on his four poster bed was a satin box that looked extremely out of place.

The last “gift” that was left for Tomcat on his bed sprayed chloroform in his face and she woke up dangling over a vat of acid in Ace Chemicals as bait. Not his proudest moment, but he still got a good view of the Bat’s muscles flexing when he was knocking out the Joker’s goons. If curiosity killed the cat he was sure Jaehyun would find it amusing that it was his spandex covered ass on his mind before he went out.

With caution, he raised the box up to his ear, not hearing any ticking sounds he gave it a tiny whiff and a lick, noting the absence of any chemical substance. Just to be safe, he angled his face away from the lid as he slid it off to avoid any undesirable repeat occurrences.

Nestled in the crushed velvet interior was a very familiar diamond choker, under it a receipt of purchase which he gaped at the price before crumpling it and carelessly tossing somewhere. There was a small card attached, immediately recognizing the elegant penmanship the faintest kiss of his fingertips running over the writing.

Dinner, same time as last. I look forward to seeing you in this. -J

Clasping the adornment around his neck, Cat fell back onto the sheets with a bubbly laugh, holding the card to his thrumming heart. More champagne giggles tumbled from his lips at the acknowledgement that snagging Jaehyun was her grandest heist he’d ever pulled off, his pièce de résistance complete with dimples and a savior complex. Just then he noticed his curtains fluttering, swaying from the wind entering through the cracked open window. The high-tech alarm system that must’ve cost a mini fortune sitting deactivated. He huffed, a fond grin on her porcelain features.

“Rich bastard, he owes me another one.”

Looks like the cat got the cream and gets to eat it too.

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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

Text

when i said it i thought it was true [2] {Ben Hardy}

A/N: 2821 words. continuation of the Fake Dating AU; enjoy

[part 1]

He calls you darling with his head between your thighs, and a camera over your shoulder, and you’re scripted to card a hand through his hair - you can barely look at that wig and keep a straight face - and just as you do, the door in the centre of the frame bursts open. The camera refocuses, and it’s Gwil in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, announcing that the band had been played on the radio. After a beat, he stops, sees you scrambling to push Ben away and cover yourself, but he’s more excited at the news as he gets to his feet.

It’s a short scene, and once cut is called on the first take, and the crew take a moment to look over the footage. Like clockwork, people start moving around you, adjusting lighting, shouting technical jargon that you’ve learned to tune out over the years, and Ben sits on the edge of the bed as Gwil joins the pair of you, chatting with Ben about the football.

You’ve got a robe somewhere but you don’t bother with it, just wait as the scene is reset around you, and people come in and fluff the pillows behind you, and the camera angles itself a little lower as the sheet gets pulled off of you. You’re very glad that most of the crew are professionals, because they’ve got you in a pair of high-cut, surprisingly flattering cotton panties, and a tight, brown crop-top with a fringe that stops just above your stomach.

Gwil leaves and Ben leans back, his head pillowed on your thigh, and you gently kick him with your free leg, though it only serves to make him laugh. And then the cameras are rolling and Ben shifts so he’s laying on his stomach, his cheek resting against your thigh as he looks up at you with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

There’s a moment, seeing the way he looks up at you, part of you forgets it’s acting on top of acting, and you feel like you’re thrown back in time, leaning against his headboard as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, the room dark around you apart from the warm glow of the light beside his bed and-

The director calls action and you’re ripped from the memory. If it hurts, just a little, to see him smile at you again like that and know it means nothing, you try not to dwell on it. You smile back.

“Do you have to get up? We’ve got the day off.” Ben wraps an arm around you pressing his forehead to your back, his voice still rough with sleep.

“You have the day off.” You correct with a small smile, trying to sit up. He just tightens his grip, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Ben.” The way you say his name is a gentle warning, and you can feel him smirk, his lips against your back as he gives a hum of acknowledgement. “They want me on set in an hour and a half.”

“Come on, that’s heaps of time.” And he’s tugging at your hip. You take that as your cue to turn, fondly exasperated when you finally look at him. “So this one is...?” He prompts, small smile on his lips as he sees the way you’re playful annoyance turn endeared.

It’s something else to wake up next to him, his hair a curly mess, expression unguarded and affectionate in the morning light. The curtains aren’t open, but there’s a sliver of light peaking through a gap between them, and the light shines in, hitting the arm he’s got draped across you. The idea of Ben Hardy trying to keep you in bed, smiling at you like that, would have been laughable just a few months ago, yet here you were.

“Midsomer Murders, they’ve got me playing a baker’s daughter who’s killed ‘cos she looks like some bloke’s ex.” You tell him quietly. There’s a moment of silence that follows, and you’re not even sure he heard you, a look in his eyes like the world outside could be burning and he wouldn’t even care if you’re by his side.

“Sounds like it’s right up your alley.” He mused, arm still around you, and you laugh at that. The sound makes his smile brighter.

“What the baker, being murdered, or looking like an ex?” You asked lightly, though you realise too late that it could be construed as some sort of twisted relationship test, thought he just chuckled, not reading anything into it.

“Finding yourself playing someone tragic.” He explained. He’s still smiling, but your own expression falls as you consider the weeks you had ahead of you.

The producers of Eastenders had sat you down to explain that your character was going to overdose at the end of the Season, and be rushed to hospital. The survival of her was entirely dependant on the fan’s reaction to the character and the event, but even if she recovered, her romantic arc with Ben’s character would end. The fans wanted him back with Lauren, and the production team agreed.

“Do you think it’s weird that my characters keep getting killed off?” You asked, and he rests a hand on your cheek, thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone.

“‘course not, babe. Two is a coincidence, maybe start worrying about being typecast if it happens again.” He’s so gentle when he says it that you can’t help but smile back, leaning in to press your lips to his before getting up to start getting ready, and Ben grumbles without you by his side, but he’s smiling as he watches you flit about the room.

“You and Ben were together last time we worked together, right?” You and Gwil are the first two on set for the first day of shooting the Madison Square Garden after party. You’d just wanted to get their early knowing you’d have to spend a good deal of time in hair with the wig they had for you for the scene.

“That was a while ago; surprised you even remember that.” You laughed, eyes closed where a makeup artist was busy applying eyeshadow.

“Yeah, I forgot about it until the Interruption Scene,” he says, and you snicker, humming with agreement. The silence that stretches between you is a pleasant one. You’d been on quite a few episodes of Midsomer Murder with Gwil, enjoyed his company well enough, not that the two of you had really spoken back then, he’d been a lead and you had different bit-parts every time, and you hadn’t really kept in touch, but he was shaping up to be a good friend on set here.

“How are you two going now?” He asked, idly, watching your reflection as your lips were painted a bright red.

“Good.” You answer automatically, pausing to blot your lips before elaborating. “It’s- uh, honestly it’s weird being back together.” You cast an uncertain gaze to the makeup woman who was clearly trying to hide her surprise.

“Good-weird?” Gwil asks, raising an eyebrow, and you hesitate. When your words come out next, they spill, too fast as if making up for the silence in which you had to actually think about the answer.

“Yeah, of course, it would be weird if it wasn’t, you know, good-weird.” After a beat, you took a deep breath, forcing your shoulders to relax. “All relationships are weird at first.” And you swallow, standing from your seat and heading into get your wig. Ben’s yawning as he steps past you to get to the makeup trailer, and you catch his wrist as he passes.

“Hey.” Voice soft, you smile at him, trying to push down your sudden uncertainty. He looks a little confused, but his answering ‘hey’ is kind and fond. He catches sight of a makeup assistant waiting for him, and he presses a quick kiss to your temple before making his way in.

It’s easy to pretend to love him.

Almost as easy as it was to actually love him.

"So are you gonna leave him once you leave Eastenders?” Maisie was rather blunt. She was one of the only people you talked to after having your production with her had wrapped, and that’s more so because she was a freelance production assistant for indie movies, and she’d let you know about upcoming projects.

“What the hell, May, no.” You spluttered, and she rose her eyebrows leaning back and taking a long sip of her coffee. She’s judging you. She’s always judging you. It’s part of her charm, you learn not to be insulted.

“Oh, I thought it was just like, a publicity thing.” She admitted, and your brow creases in confusion.

“That’s fucked, that’s so disingenuous.”

The two of you fit together so easily, sitting on a gilded love-seat in the middle of Freddie’s living room set. Ben’s got an arm around you and a prop glass of alcohol free champagne, and there’s extras all around you buzzing with energy. Every so often you’ll catch one of them watching you and Ben as if you’re some sort of spectacle, and you have that unique sinking sensation that comes with being a public figure; of everyone knowing your business whether you told them or not.

“I think they know.” You murmur in between takes, and he makes a hum of acknowledgement, before turning to you, expression neutral, if not a little confused. “I know, that’s the point.” You know what he’s trying to say without him having to say it, reading him even after a few years apart.

“You wanna get dinner after this?” He asks quietly, and your expression turns reflexively confused.

“It’s already midnight, it’s not like anyone will expect us to be out, not that anything’s open.” You rested your cheek on his shoulder as he looked out at the crowd.

“We can go to Seven-Eleven for all I care, I just need to get food after this.” He muttered, and you suppressed a smile.

“So we’re putting it on for the cashier?” You asked, and he turned to face you, chin bumping into your forehead when you refused to move your head.

“Babe,” he says pointedly, and you have to laugh, because if you don’t you think your chest might ache a little, “I just want company, it’s not that complicated.”

Except it is that complicated. Being around him like this has reminded you how good it felt to be with him. It’s been almost three months, and you’ve forced yourself into the habit of reminding both of you that it was fake, that it was for attention, and even if you were really friends again, there was nothing real about the romance. It was getting on his nerves, now that you were closed to the end of filming.

“I know that this isn’t real.” His grip on the steering wheel is white knuckled as he drives to McDonalds. “I get it, okay, I know what’s happening, you can stop reminding me.”

“It’s not all for you, Ben.” Voice soft, you lean back in your seat. He’s parked, but neither of you feel the need to leave the car.

“What? You’re reminding yourself?” He asked, and you made a noise of affirmation, and he’s quiet for a long time.

“Half the time, if I don’t remind myself, I just forget.” You refuse to be embarrassed or ashamed by that. “We didn’t actually break up that long ago,” you reminded him; it had only been about two years, “so I’m sorry if it’s weird for me.”

“It’s weird for me too, okay?”

Your final scene of the Season has you laying in a hospital bed. There’s no words, just the steady beat of a heart monitor that’s going to be added in post production, and a shot of Ben’s face before he leaves, slamming the door to lean against it with his face in his hands.

You fall asleep about five minutes into filming, and it’s only when Ben comes and lays down beside you on the hospital bed that you wake. Apparently they’d already filmed three takes. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he’s smiling.

“Don’t cry for me.” You tell him, gently teasing, laying your head on his chest and yawning loudly. He wraps an arm around you.

“Tell that to the writers.” He snorted, his hand rubbing gently up and down your arm. “I don’t know how you can sleep through all this.” He mused, and you give him a deadpan look.

“Well someone didn’t let me get a lot of sleep last night.” Though your tone is accusatory, your smile is playful, and Ben refuses to meet your gaze, a blush rising on his cheeks.

“I’m not going to apologise for that.” He says, tone lofty, though his voice drops to a murmur. With a giggle, you press a kiss to his jaw, murmuring that he shouldn’t need to apologise anyway.

When he looks at you, looks past the makeup they’ve put on you to make you look sick and weary to the way you’re grinning at him, and he kisses you gently, his finger beneath your chin, lifting your lips to meet his.

Ben’s called away a few moments later, and you see the woman playing Lauren smirking at him from the door frame. Ben rolls his eyes at her as he climbs from the bed, telling you over his shoulder that he’s sorry he disturbed your nap, and you laugh at that, shuffling into a comfortable position as one of the crew members came over and straightened the hospital blanket around you.

After the two of you talked in the McDonalds car park, things have become easier. There’s no more reminders, not in the traditional sense; when it’s just the two of you, he calls you dude, and you call him buddy, and neither can take the other one seriously. He almost snorted beer from his nose when the two of you grabbed dinner at a pub and you’d told him;

“You look cute tonight, buddy.”

Low effort, low pressure, you let yourselves fall into the role of best friends who occasionally kissed when in public. It’s not even weird when you remember little details about one another from when you were together, it was more fond than anything else.

“Ben, settle an argument for us,” they’re on the set of Freddie’s first apartment, and you weren’t actually in the scene, but you’d been bored out of your mind at the hotel you were staying at and came along to watch the recording. Ben was sitting beside Lucy on his phone on the brown leather sofa in the middle of the set, while Rami and Joe were laying side by side on the mattress by the piano, and you were behind the camera with Gwil, trying to touch his wig, and getting your hand slapped away every time, as if it were a game.

“Is this the most impractical bed,” Joe parroted the script, and Lucy’s delivery, to which the actress rolled her eyes with a goodnatured smile, “or just a genius designing his room to best suit his own creative feng shui?”

“Why would you ask him?” You call over as Ben considers thoughtfully for a moment. “He designs his living room about how to best minimise glare on the TV.” You snicker, and Ben looks like he’s about to protest, but then his expression changes and he’s nodding in agreement, before adding.

“The bed’s impractical though, I keep kicking my shin against it.” He adds, and when the boys are giving him a confused look, surprised that he agreed so quickly with your words, he shrugs. “We lived together, she knows what my living room looks like.” He says, as if it’s explanation enough, and honestly, it is.

“Do you ever think about getting married?” The two of you are curled up on his sofa one evening, binge watching something forgettable on Netflix, and your whole body freezes. “Christ, calm down, I’m not asking you, I’m just curious.” There’s a laugh in his words, and you let yourself relax.

“Maybe one day, when I’m a bit older.” You muse, sighing softly and leaning further into him. “When I stop playing crack whores and murder victims.”

“But you play them so well.” He says, with all the fake-enthusiasm he can muster, and you shove him in the ribs.

“Oi, I’ve got more range than that.” You huff, before settling back down. “What about you?” You ask, and he lets out a low, long hum.

“Haven’t really thought about it much.” He admits, and you make a noise that’s halfway between amused and confused.

“What’s got you thinking about it now?” When you ask, he tightens his grip on you, just a little, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Not really sure.”

the rat pack: @callumidiot @rockandrollandshit @bohorap @pietrorunsforme @sweetfierceimagines @itsjackothy @mhftrs @sherlockiantheatrenerd @softbenhardy @multifandomgirlrandomstuff @virtualsheepeat @smile-nine

(crossed out means it wouldn’t tag; i’ll try again for the next part, lemme know if you wanna be tagged xx)

#ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x reader #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #bo rhap #borhap imagine #borhap cast imagine #bohemian rhapsody imagine #queen #queen imagines #eastenders #eastenders imagines #gwilym lee #joe mazzello #rami malek #the angry lizard writes

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poeticsandaliens · 6 years

Note

The forever classic, they are doctors/work in a hospital AU? (Debbie and Lou)

I know jack shit about medicine so hold onto your hat darling. This is going to be a bumpy ride, and not exactly the one you waited in line for. I’ve combined this with another prompt, a military AU of sorts.

5 Headcanons for a Hospital / Military AU:

1. August 6, 1944. Captain Louisa Miller plummets to the earth in a blaze of glory over Marseilles. She is rescued from the wreckage of her craft by the Allied ground forces and evacuated to an on-site emergency medical base. Once stable, August 10, 1944, she is returned (ironically, by plane) to the United States.

2. August 12, 1944. Nurse Deborah Ocean (Debbie, if one asks nicely) covers a shift from midnight to six am. She steps into the room 203 with clean gauze to find the patient—a pilot shot down in Southern France—awake and alert, her face contorted in barely concealed pain.

“You’re a lovely woman to wake to,” the pilot croaks. She reaches up to touch the stiff gauze over her cheek. “Huh,” she murmurs, running her hands down the bandages that hide second and third degree burns. “Guess I’m not dead after all.”

Her name, or so Debbie reads on her forms, is Captain Louisa Miller. “Lou,” she corrects almost instantly. “First woman pilot to fly into combat for America, and the first woman to be shot out of the sky on French soil.”

Debbie’s smiles almost undetectably. “Is that how you introduce yourself to everyone?”

The woman frowns. “It’s a right bit better than, ‘hello, I’m Lou, feel free to shift uncomfortably until you have the balls to ask how I fucked up my face.’”

Debbie chuckles darkly. “You injured a lot more than your face, Captain. You have a couple of months to go before your ribs and tibia heal properly.”

“Perhaps,” she acknowledges with a crooked grin, wrinkling the gauze along her temple. “But I’m not dead, am I?”

3. August 22, 1944. Between her late night shifts, she sits at Lou’s bedside. Lou sleeps at odd hours, typically whenever she’s administered a fresh dose of anesthetic, and when she’s awake, cringing and wincing at the bandages that hide her skin from view, Debbie talks to her.

“Why did you learn to fly?” she asks in the early hours of the morning.

Lou closes her eyes and leans back into the cot. “It was exciting. It was something daring to do. I defied the laws of nature every moment I spent in the air,” she says wistfully. “Not to mention—” with a hint of amusement— “it made my parents furious.”

There’s something transgressive about flying, breaking the laws that nature has set for mankind. There is something utterly wild and transgressive about Lou as well, her character and manner of speaking. She doesn’t speak as a lady ought, and Debbie finds that strangely alluring.

“Why are you here, Debbie?” Lou inquires. Her eyes have softened to something kind, still fiery but lacking their challenge. Lou doesn’t believe in formalities, Debbie realizes. She genuinely wants to know.

“My brother died in Normandy. I was engaged at the time, to man up in New York, but upon Danny’s passing I decided to join the war effort. I wanted a career, a life of my own, and a means through which to honor my brother. So I trained to be a wartime nurse.”

“Honorable,” says Lou, and the way her voice trembles a little, Debbie knows she’s not mocking. Beneath the callous wisecracks lies a woman who fell like comet over the South of France, and in the wake of her wounds is learning to live with herself again.

4. September 30, 1944. Debbie peels back the gauze with two fingers, wincing as Lou does. She hates seeing anyone in pain, least of all Lou Miller. She’s grown closer to Lou than a war nurse should get to anyone, but Lou is a dashing enigma of a woman whom Debbie’s had the pleasure to unravel. Her stomach flutters every time Lou’s honey-and-gravel contralto regales her with tales of the sky; then it aches at the implications of her feelings.

She is attracted to Lou, and quite certain the pilot is attracted to her—though Lou has never been outright about her sexuality (how could she be), there’s a roundabout honesty to everything she says. When she tells Debbie, “you’re unspeakably beautiful,” she means it from her heart and not her head.

“Do I want to look?” Lou asks her now, as Debbie with a pair of tweezers discards the remaining gauze.

“It’s up to you,” Debbie assures her, because really that’s all she can do. She was there when the doctors treated Lou’s burns; she knew how they would heal, how they would scar, if cared for properly. As a nurse, little can surprise her, and as Debbie Ocean, nothing about Lou can appall her or dissuade her from her attraction. She is okay. Lou is not. Lou is the one who needs a choice and a comfort.

“You never have to wear those awful bandages again,” she reminds Lou.

“I know. Honestly, I’m not bothered by the look of it,” she says, touching her unfettered cheek. “I have quite a story to tell for these scars.” Her voice wavers, in a way only Debbie can catch. Lou doesn’t give a single hoot what strangers on the street may think of her, but no matter what, she will bear a physical reminder of the war she fought, an involuntary tattoo in the most exposed of places. It’s not about beauty, nor about what other people think; none of those things matter to Lou. What matters is what she sees when she looks in the hand mirror, and the inevitability that she’ll struggle to accept it. Debbie only knows because she’s done this before, peeled away the bandages on soldiers’ scars and held them the first time they saw themselves anew, and wept like mother and baby alike, like they’d given birth to a cracked and welded automaton of their own bodies.

So, because it is her duty, she offers Lou the hand mirror and because she is no coward, she does not look away from Lou’s bluebell eyes when she holds the mirror to herself.

“Oh,” is all that escapes Lou’s lips. Sitting beside her, Debbie hesitantly rests a hand on her shoulder. Lou’s fingers run over the darkened skin of her cheek, stained not unlike a birthmark but roughened irrevocably. The lines, like forked lightning of spidery scar tissue where the third degree burns had been, run like a storm, like a story, curled and calligraphic down her temple. “Oh,” she says again. She blinks, once, twice, then rapidly, as the tears begin to fall.

“I don’t know why I should be upset,” she protests, even as she cries. “It’s not as if I’m concerned for men to look at me, or that I give a whit what—”

“I know,” replies Debbie, cupping her uninjured cheek. She wonders if part of the reason for Lou’s tears is the fact that she couldn’t give a whit if she tried. Or perhaps that she gives a whit for women she cannot love, and she weeps because the scars have no bearing on her loneliness. Life after is as life was before.

It is now that Debbie asks if she can kiss her. Because for Debbie, Life After will never be the same.

5. December 24, 1945. Debbie sits in a posh leather armchair in the top-floor apartment she shares with Lou. It is homey, if a bit small, and they must be careful in bed for fear of letting their neighbors know the true nature of their relationship.

A snowstorm whisks through New York City. Lou bursts through the front door, a red scarf wrapped around her shoulders, a black fur coat hiding her suit. She sheds layers desperately as she nears the fire and quickly checks her pocket watch.

“Twenty-two Twenty-five,” she says aloud.

“I was beginning to worry,” Debbie informs her with a slight frown.

“No need. We landed after the first signs of a snowstorm, but as you know traffic was awful as the blizzard started to blow in.” She got the job at the flight school a few months after her recovery. Her record spoke for itself, and she was laughably legendary amongst the midshipman. Something about the mystery of a visible battle scar enticed young men, granted her immediate respect because clearly—clearly she had done something incredible and lived to tell the tale. That’s what the scar really said, in the end—she lived to tell the tale.

Debbie pulls her into her lap, and Lou stumbles over with a laugh that rumbles from her chest, freer than any laugh Debbie heard in the hospital. She kisses Lou soundly and begins to work apart the buttons on her vest.

Lou brings her hand to Debbie’s neck, to the small gold ring on a chain dangling between her collarbones, a symbol of the marriage they cannot share. Debbie shivers at her touch.

“You’re freezing, honey.”

“You could rectify that,” Lou whispers mischievously, nibbling her ear.

Debbie shakes her off but grants her a lingering kiss. “Let the fire warm you up a bit; then you can put your cold hands wherever you please.”

The hearth flickers invitingly, wafting the smell of pine and burnt wood about the room, even as the smoke curls up the chimney. Lou holds out her hands to the flames. They lap at her, their shadows dancing across her skin.

#ocean's 8 #heist wives #debbie x lou #lou miller #debbie ocean #ocean's eight #military AU #hospital AU #5 headcanons

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charlyoddsox27 · 6 years

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its 6am, i havent slept, im bored, so im posting a list of the mercs in order of whom i like the most and reasons why, because thats something i should do i guess?

here goes

(spoilers for the comics down below but either way i think im the only person on earth who has never read them before now)

~~~

~~1. Medic~~

reasons for being my favourite:

• fucking. look. at. him. 👌

• 'mad german doctor' is one of my favourite tropes and he is a pretty bang-on satirical depiction of it

• cute-ass german accent

• he has pet pidgeons hE LOVES HIS PIDGEON PALS THEY KEEP HIM COMPANY

• healers are the most respectable class imo and since Medic pretty much started it he's automatically the best, thats how it works right?

• he sold some random persons soul to satan in exchange for a ***ballpoint pen*** and can i just say, fucking mood??? (he is literally the "i'd sell you to satan for one cornchip" meme)

• "yes, Archimedes...I couldn't agree more." *shudders* b oi .. .

• so many more reasons to love this gross old doctor so little room in Tumblrs posts.

~~2. Spy~~

reasons for being my second favourite:

• cranky, done with everyones shit, just wants to be left alone, fucking mood

• he's a spy i mean c'mon. look at the swanky-ass suit, look at the class radiating from this asshole.

• he may be a dick but he has a soft side he's just too jaded to show it most of the time (see: Scouts death in the comics?? real tears. honestly wish they'd panned that out more.)

• masks are hot tbFH--

• he enjoys a nice glass of whisky by the fireplace and so do i (fun fact: france is the biggest importer of scottish whisky in the world so its a nice touch)

• shapeshifting is fucking cool are you serious like he can just. do that. what a legend

• "i have a cyanide pill in one of my molars, if i break it then spit some in your mouth before i die, we can avoid being tortured." *'heavy' bursts in to save them* "PFFTHBTHF--"

• "SEDUCE ME."

• arrogant frenchman is one of my other favourite tropes and this is the most arrogant frenchman ive ever seen

• he's the only fully sane Merc, maybe apart from Engie.

• people love to hate him bc he's an asshole but...come on. after working with all those other weirdos for years, you'd be pretty jaded too.

• as a gross shipper, he's the easiest and the most fun (imo) to ship with Medic (rip me)

~~3. Pyro~~

reasons for being my third favourite:

• would have tied with Soldier if it werent for that one picture of them in the comics holding a puppy over their head with the most adoring expression on their mask??? good Pyro. goodest Pyro.

• doesn't do much in the comics but makes up for it in pure charm. look at that soulless face and tell me you dont love it.

• ambiguous gender ambiguous gender amBIGUOUS GENDER AMBIGUOUS GENDER. she/he/they? trans? nb? whatever you headcanon, it'll never be confirmed so its literally up to your own imagination. fucking ace, Valve 👌👌👌

• likes to burn things. god damnit. they like to burn things, guys. but they enjoy it so much, you just cant hate them, you can only feel a sympathetic joy that this precious lunatic is having fun in their own little world.

• canonically mentally ill (schizoprenia? it could be hallucinogenic drugs but i like to think its schizophrenia.)

• pretty sure they burned a pair of pedophiles in the comics. at least i think thats what those panels were insinuating. "lets open an orphanage and have an endless supply of kids to--" sounds pretty red-flaggy to me tbh. plus they were the villains so, eh?

• bludgeoned a bear to death until its skull was pulp because it insulted their special interest. you go, Pyro.

• for a few bits in the comics they have a really cute family dynamic going on with other Mercs, Soldier for example."Miss Pauling, Pyros on my side of the car." "Miss Pauling, Pyro cut off my hand." fuckin' cuties.

• when they start putting on like 50 shirts to keep warm in the Russian mountains. chubby.

• a gas mask that can function as both badass, and completely adorable.

• just. everything about them. how could you not love them. they're not in the wrong, you are. stay away from my misunderstood child and let them burn things god damnit.

~~4. Soldier~~

look I'm sorry, I love Soldier and he was gonna be tied with Pyro but that fucking puppy drawing sold me.

• absolute gold every second he speaks. he could sneeze and i'll laugh.

• such a dumbass you cant get annoyed at him for it. like. just agree with him and move on. no point reasoning with a boulder. "haha! silly Miss Pauling, thinking theres different types of blood." Medic: "haha yes! indeed, silly."

• HUTTAH *NECK SNAP*

• i'm not American and even i can see how blatantly his character mocks stereotypical Patriotic Americans™. but its so dumb and laughable, its adorable.

• EVERYTHING ABOUT HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH ZHANNA IS A BLESSING. EVERYTHING.

• the first "meet the Mercs" video i ever saw was "meet the Soldier" so he holds a special place in my heart

• (preaches about experiencing the horrors of war; has never actually been to war. shh dont tell anyone though--) *neck gets snapped*

~~5. Demoman~~

• I'm Scottish. even though his accent is absolute garbage (no offense to the VA), any representation is very nice.

• Black AND Scottish?? i mean has a character like that even existed before TF2??? amazing example of representation right there. there are barely even any black people in Scotland, how did this happen. I love it. more of this, please.

• he's a drunk guy who blows shit up for shits and giggles and god I wish I could too, sounds like a miracle stress-reliever.

• his sassy black scottish mother. combining the stereotypical black mother with the stereotypical scottish mother is literally the best thing that ever happened.

• the bit in the comic where Medic explains that Demo can't remember what happened to his eye bc he scooped out part of his brain, and the look on Demo's face. just. the look.

• again, he's scottish, he's stereotypical, and he's awesome.

~~6. Sniper~~

• underrated

• piss jars. piss jars everywhere.

• "no dad, im not a crazed murdering lunatic, I'm an assassin. ...well one's a job and the other's mental sickness!!"

• "meet the Sniper" has kickass music

• ruffled gross old man who isn't actually old, he's just seen some SHIT

• actually given development in the comics + some really good scenes with Spy.

• so suave...so...handsome. handsome ruffled bushman. me like.

• he dies first in the comics but gets brought back and gets a cool-ass scar. and then he's just walking around naked everywhere for the rest of the comic. Medic, where the fuck did you put his clothes.

• isn't actually Australian. thats like one of the biggest twists in the comic. "no wonder i was never inhumanly strong and my chest hair didn't grow into the shape of Australia!!" Classic.

• says "bugger" a lot and i love that word

• he needs a hug, let me hug him. and give him a bath.

~~7. Heavy~~

I'm gonna be crucified for putting the big lad so low but i promise i dont dislike any of the Mercs. he'd be higher up but...ive never really liked big huge tank-men tbh :/

• loveable as fuck

• will murder you if you bully his puny little Medic

• i looove Russian accents omfg

• he like big gun. i can respect that.

• when Medic was killed and he went APESHIT on Classic!Heavy and I lost my fuckin' mind over that shit

• he probably has a soft spot for small cute animals. i love imagining him being swarmed by Medics flock of doves and petting them like "good bird...so many good bird..."

• actually smarter than people give him credit for???

• i really really wish his character was a lil more fleshed out but. that's just me. i love him but he doesn't have the same appeal to me as Medic or Spy.

• his entire relationship with Medic...ugh. yes. best friends and/or boyfriends. all good to me 👌

• he named his gun Sasha and that's adorable

~~8. Engineer~~

• gOD, FUCK, I REALLY WISH HE DID MORE IN THE COMICS. i barely know anything about his character. i like him a lot but...god, he...he doesn't...do.....anything.......

• he built a cool robot arm for himself and AI turrets and teleporter machines and guns that fire magic healing powers and immortality machines, in the 1960s. what. some kind of wizard fuckery is this.

• smoothest voice in the west

• "y'all"

~~9. Scout~~

oh god i really am gonna be crucified. i dont hate him i just. like him the least.

• shitboy

• reminds me of a shitty ex but also kinda relateable in a way

• some genuinely funny bits in the shorts.

• gross horny hetero teen boy with a god complex and serious daddy issues. also, he can't read. the "sex bom" tattoo on his chest will be an eternal testament to that. nice job, Spy. you raised him good.

~~~

hoo boy there we go theres all the boys, all the beautiful boys (and Scout) in order of how much i love them. if i made any errors in my info about the canon, feel free to send me death threats 💙 (no seriously tell me though, being a newbie is embarrassing)

so uh. yeah. that took two hours to write. its now 8am. im still bored lol. bye i guess.

#long post #charlyspeaks #charlys cesspool of interests #team fortress 2 #team fortress #medic #pyro #heavy #engineer #scout #spy #demoman #sniper #soldier #zhenna #tf2 #drabble #my opinions #ooooo

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domeverett · 4 years

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Making The Cut. James + Cass.

Title: Making the Cut Timeframe: Sometime in the afternoon of 9.27 Tagging: @cruelboy Cassius Westbrooke and James Ashworth. Total: ~3,000 words Notes: Completed.

JAMES

James was honestly used to this sort of thing. Someone didn't make the team and felt entitled to know why. These boys, though very skilled and often competitive in impressive ways, were also entitled. They were used to being able to bully or buy their way into anything they wanted and if not? They had mom and dad come in and try a second round. Some sent their parents in on the first go round.

He had been prepared for at least one fight when he'd posted the team listing to the school bulletin board, just outside the main dining hall, where teachers sat for their meals at the faculty table. He just hadn't assumed Westbrooke would be one of them.

"As I said," James looked up from his papers, fingers slotting together over a pile of syllabi. "The decision has been made. I know that each student tries their best when they're out on the track but unfortunately there are a limited number of spots, which means not everyone will get one."

He paused, knowing compliments often softened the blow. "Yours was an excellent tryout...but there were better runners. It's that simple..." Though the intricacies of his decision weren't technically that unburdened. There was one Dom student who might not have made the cut but James assumed Cassius merely wanted to keep fit, for aesthetic reasons. He could do that on his own time. "Surely there are other physical fitness activities you could pursue....?"

CASSIUS

Cassius can be quite machiavellian when he wants to be. He’s got his preferred method for solving certain problems, but he’s smart enough to realize that a good kiss with a fist can’t solve everything. (Most things, but not all things.) He hasn’t written off the possibility that that’s what this situation needs just yet, but he’s willing to adapt to the whatever challenges Mr. Ashworth throws his way.

Cassius is invested in Cross Country. He doesn’t really care about soccer or lacrosse, though he sees their importance in keeping his demons tamed - but Cross Country is one sport that doesn’t require him to be part of a team and he is damn good at it. After the initial burst of anger that burns bright like a firecracker when the news he hasn't been picked initially drops, Cassius stops and makes a decision. He’s going to get Mr.Ashworth to change his mind.

Three seconds into talking to this man and he knows that persuasion is the poison of the night. He won’t be coy about it, nothing was ever gained without boldness but this last statement that almost makes him throw his composure out the window. This is a submissive thing, isn't it? There’s that firecracker again, threatening to go off, threatening to spark hot.

“Yeah, I'm already doing soccer and lacrosse and I’m going to fucking blow my brains out if I have to do another team sport. The other ones don’t really interest me. I want to do Cross Country.” Cassius says firmly. His gaze finds the other like a lighthouse. “You’re making a mistake,” He continues. “I made great times out there. But that’s the thing... you need at someone who can make the times and handle the stress that comes with - and at least three of the guys you picked are pussies.” Cassius states this like fact. Because it is. “What’s it going to take you to reconsider?”

And if Mr. Ashworth doesn’t reconsider, Cassius is determined to make the rest of his life at Lowell a living hell.

JAMES

James gave pause as Cassius laid out the dire nature of his self-inflicted predicament. He blinked a few times and studied the student. "Two other sports and you're aiming for a third, alongside classes?" It was true that at Lowell they pushed for excellence but the submissives were meant to focus on more of the... softer arts. Now that he knew Cassius had made two other sports he was even more concerned that he wasn't embracing his role here.

"Wouldn't you prefer more energy to... perfect the activities that you're already apart of?" James liked to work in one particular way when it came handling disagreements with students: convince the other person that what he wanted was what they wanted.

He sat back at Cassius' critique of the Dominant students. "Mr. Westbrooke, if I'm not mistaken, you've just arrived on campus, yes?" He asked. "And you're telling me you know these students very well and know how they handle stress?" He lifted his brows, almost inviting Cassius to confirm this, even though the way he'd laid out the assertion msde it clear that was impossible. "Because I have been coach of Cross Country since I began my teaching tenure here and I tend to have an ability to pick capable and competent athletes." Not a slight on Cassius but James knew the other may take it as one. "It was a close call and you would have been...a fine addition to the team, but I just don't see how your argument for reconsideration is based on more than 'I want it and I deserve it more than the ones who got it.'"

He wasn't about to reward such an argument. It was lazy. It seemed an invitation for Cassius to make a better one if he wanted to sway James for real. The Dominant could appreciate a good mental back and forth. Kept the mind sharp. "Do you see where that puts me in regard to your request?" Though, it was favorable that Cassius wanted it badly enough that he was willing to fight for it.

CASSIUS

“Yes” Cassius said, rather stiffly as he listened to the other's response. Glad this one could count. “Real kind of you to look out for me, but I know what I can handle.”

And he meant that. Cassius had spent the majority of his life looking out for only himself and Cassius would continue doing so. He really didn’t need someone who barely knew him telling him what was best for him or where his energies would be better spent. He watched the professor sit back in his chair and he settled back into his own. Cassius wanted to let out an exasperated sigh when Mr. Ashworth demanded an explanation as to how exactly he knew. There was an eye-roll, certainly not the last of the evening, but Cassius returned a steady gaze to the older man. His jaw clicked in determination. No point in lying. “I know these things because because I’ve fucked all three of them.” He said, like it hadn't meant much. It hadn't. He hadn't done them all at the same time, of course, but that would have been fun, wouldn’t it? A thought for another time and place, “or ‘knew them,’” He continued Quote, unquote, “In the biblical sense. Whatever politically correct phrasing you need in order to not write off the validity of the point here. I can confidently say from first hand they cannot handle stress.”

His eyes narrowed, gaze sharpened, though his words were the things a person would cut themselves on. Cassius leaned in, at the edge of his chair so it tipped forward slightly. He enunciated his words, a little like he was speaking to a child.

“My argument for reconsideration is based on the fact that I am better than them.” And I want it and deserve it. But that, apparently, was already a given. “I know this is about my class and I don’t know what you’re trying to prove here by protecting an archaic and regressive system. It won’t mean anything when you don’t place at regionals. Silver and bronze don’t matter, people only remember gold.”

JAMES

"It's my job to think about all students, but especially ones who I have selected to be on my team," he said confidently. He paused, cautious of his words. "It's always good to know your limits," he said, knowing the usual associations of the word.

The eyeroll. The crassness with which he spoke -- however honest -- the determination he'd made of the selections James had made. There was a part of him, somewhat dormant but ever present, that was prickling a little at the way Cassius insinuated himself into this decision. As if he knew better. As if James was mistaken. A dominant made mistakes sure, but his had been a strategic choice. He felt sound in his logic. Yet...Cassius talking back, being a little more obstinate...it wasn't the type of submissive James was used to. It reminded him of something. Almost as though a long forgotten place he had once known but rarely visited. He was catching glimpses of that place. Ghosts. Yet he couldn't quite get it to show itself to him.

"You dangle your...acceptance...as a surety of gold. You tout your talent and your grit. You seem so certain of your persecution based on your classification." James seemed to hold back just a touch of amusement. Of course he'd heard this before. It was something of a tactic, whether genuine or not, which some subs here used to get their way. There was such shame for some Dominants and such a scrambling to appear PC that they wouldn't dare to let themselves stand accused of being classist.

"No, I can see...you want this." He moved from his chair and walked around his desk to settle against it. He crossed his arms over his chest. "So, I'll give you three options. You can do what apparently hadn't crossed your mind in the first place, and ask nicely for a spot on the team." He paused. "You can ask one of those Dominants you're so sure won't get me the gold to step down so you may have their spot..." James' blues looked at the man. "Or, you can accept defeat."

In a way, James need not assert his Dominance at all in a scenario like this. It was plain for Cassius to see in the manner in which he handled the complaint. He knew this choice would not be easy for a guy like Westbrooke. It would be a true sign of character to see what he ended up choosing. Your move. He seemed to say.

CASSIUS

Cassius processed the options as they were given to him. Absofuckinglutely not, was his immediately response to the first. When had Cassius ever asked for anything nicely in his life? The second was laughable: and Cassius wanted to ask if Mr. Ashworth wanted to be responsible for a dead body. That was the only way Cassius was getting through a conversation like that with a Dom.

But the third.... the third was just downright unacceptable. Cassius wouldn’t even consider it, couldn’t even consider it. Immediately, it repelled him. Cassius stepped into this office with every intention of changing this professor’s mind and he didn’t intend to leave without it. A bitterness spread across his tongue. His lips threatened to stretch back and bare teeth, a caged animal ready for a fight. So. One or two it was.

“That’s a helluva choice.” He said slowly.

He hated this trichotomy offered to him, as if these were the only three options in the world. But that was the way of this place wasn’t it? The trichotomy of classification, the dichotomy of dominance and submission. Cassius was going to burn it all down, but that was a long con. He knew this. For now, Cassius was going to make Mr. Ashworth regret putting such an offer on this table. It was a shift in him, a simmering under the surface, like he had smoke for skin. And now, like a chameleon, he changed. Cassius’ sharp eyes, usually quick and darting, trailed slowly up to look at the other from the spot they had settled at his feet. He counted the seconds in his head — and made sure to linger just a hair too long on the Professor’s crotch. It wasn’t long, blink and you missed it. Up and up he continued till their gazes were locked. Cassius looked up at him through dark eyelashes.

In that moment, Cassius decided he wanted to haunt this man.

“But if asking you nicely is really all it’s going to take,” Cassius was all edges, but he traded them out now for poisoned honey. “Then I think you should look at the cold hard evidence presented. Look at those actual times and consider the people. I think you’ll find it the team’s best interest, in your best interest,” his eyes casually flicked to his area of interest, “to reconsider your decision, Sir.”

Your move. He replied.

JAMES

James gave a look, as though Cassius should know to expect nothing less from James than being given a choice of that caliber. And if he didn't know it yet then he did know it now. James was not one to be ruffled or trifled with. No, he'd been through dances like these before. Skirmishes of will power. Of trying to navigate and negotiate something one wanted and using nothing to bargain. He knew the tricks and there was a relative sort of ease with which he dexterously handled the other. It wasn't about classification, not really. It was an exciting grapple of minds. That's what got James in these encounters.

He'd not lost many of times against someone trying to exercise their will over him. It was partly why he enjoyed being sponsor of Debate so much. He got to test his mental muscles and exercise them regularly. Same with his use of words and handling the mental landscape. It was something he felt helped him in his study and instruction of Dominance, too. If someone was perceptive enough to see what the situation required and have the manner and will to execute it...they already had a strong foundation for Dominance.

"Ah, ah," said James. He'd noticed the look Cassius gave toward his bulge. He wasn't made uncomfortable. They were all men here. Adult men. Studied men. Let him look. He wouldn't be the first. Yet, he wouldn't be the one to touch either. James would be sure of that. "That's not what I said."

James wanted to stand in front of Cassius but he didn't. Just remained leaned against the desk with his arms crossed and blue gaze utterly comfortable. "I said you could ask nicely. What you did was suggest something to me." Did his lips curl up in the slightest smirk? Did his humor show in the near subtle arch of his brow? Did amusement color his tone? "I thought for sure you could do better than that..." he paused. "Can you?" He made it a question. He felt that boys like Cassius liked having the answer. "Would be a shame, if not."

CASSIUS

Oh this motherfucker wanted him to say ’Please.’ Now there was a foreign term for Cassius, but he was in it now. He was decided in his decision to haunt. Haunt he would.

It’s clear goading. Cassius, for all his layers and intricacies, has one very obvious button and it was clear James had found it. Looked like he was having a little too much fun pushing it too if that smirk was anything to go off. That was a good sign for Cassius. More importantly, Professor Ashworth was in no way perturbed by Cassius’ wandering gaze, which made Cassius wonder how close he could get.

He stood up, and moved to close the space between them. Till they were standing toe to toe. “Sounds like you’re looking for something very specific.” He licked his lips, grey blue eyes finding bright blue. “Kinda like you want me to beg for it.”

Fingers danced forward till they met the fabric of slacks on Professor Ashworth’s thigh.

“I’d like you to please reconsider your decision to let me onto this team, Sir.”

That nice, enough for you?

Truth be told, Cassius liked working for it. Nothing not struggled for was nothing truly earned. There was an element of fun to this, cat and mouse — though Cassius was still deciding though if James was worth the chase.

JAMES

James wasn't usually one to push like this. Only if he had a clear sense of his boundaries; but Cassius didn't seem the wilting flower type. He seemed to have just as much a backbone for this type of banter as anyone else. They were both adults though and James had set about handling Cassius, given the boy's sense of entitlement and his penchant for being bossy.

He quirked a brow as Cassius moved to stand toe to toe. Whatever he was doing James was unbothered. He was merely curious to see where Cassius would try to take this. The fingers on his thigh had James glancing down before looking back up into Cassius' eyes. His fingers gently clasped around the man's hand on his thigh and rubbed a circle over the back of it before he patted it twice and set back at Cassius' side.

"I appreciate the use of the title," said James. "And really...I can tell that must have taken something for you." James couldn't help the little lift to the corner of his mouth. He should accept the offered words. Really, they would have sufficed for anyone else. Though James wanted to see how well Cassius actually listened to direction and took to James' authority on matters such as this.

In a way this was Cassius' second try out. He may not believe this was a team sport but that didn't mean he could do whatever he wanted. As his coach Cassius would have to listen to James. Would he heed him? Would he follow direction? Even if he didn't always like it?

"But, again, that's not what I asked." James watched him. "That was another suggestion. Can you...ask me? Truly. Like you want to be on the team?" Let me hear it, he wanted to say. Let me know that this is what you want. Ask me for it. "We can take some time and revisit this conversation, if you'd like to think about it."

This wasn't an all or nothing one time deal. He wasn't a monster. Cassius could wrestle with whatever he needed to and decide if it was worth it. But James had set his terms. It was up to Cassius to meet him where he stood.

CASSIUS

Fingers circled over his skin twice, far more intimate than they had any right to be considering the resounding “no” that the gesture ultimately screamed. The pat was almost comical. Cassius let out a sound that was half scoff, half laugh.

The way he saw it, he’d given his offer. This guys loss if he wasn’t going to take it - and Cassius, as overwhelming as he was, was not the sort to force himself onto someone. People earned the punches they received without asking them for all the time, this was not the same for intimacy.

“Oh now you’re just being difficult,” Cassius all but mocked.

Still, he was no quitter. The hand that had been placed at his side clenched, still feeling the ghost of the fabric at the tips of his fingers. He supposed the process of elimination left him with no choice. He’d have to appeal to a Dom on a team. Fine. That was fine. Cassius could get away with punching one of them far easier.

With a cheeky grin, that most certainly said this was not over, Cassius turned on his heel.

“Let’s revisit it.” Cassius said, throwing the words over his shoulder as he grabbed his bag. He was already running through the team roster in his head. “Give me a second to really reflect on it, you know?”

What? Did Mr. Ashworth really think he was going to be the one to inspire personal change in Cassius? No, not even the people Cassius loved could inspire that. Yeah, the professor could just deal with it when Cassius showed up on the team next week - on his own terms.

FIN

#cruelboy #para: all #para: cassius.#para: making the cut.

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anwenwrites · 4 years

Text

My Own Best Friend—Chapter 1: Buried

This is an original work I have been writing for a year. It is the sequel to a novel that I started in high school, but you don’t really need to read the first one to understand this one. I’ll probably post the first one eventually, but for now I wanted to roll these chapters out as I wrote them. I’ll alternate between this and my Open Heart fanfiction!

Summary: Duncan King swore that he would never return to his childhood hometown in Australia. Yet somehow nine years later he ends up back in Sydney, only to make some painful discoveries about his mother that leave him with more questions than answers. Duncan's detective friend and mentor, Sukarno, who hails from the forests of Borneo, must help him crack the case. Meanwhile, Nadya Setiawan's father keeps her on a tight leash as she and Duncan grow closer than ever, and Nadya's best friend, Mikha Lestari, is overcome with grief and confusion after her first relationship suddenly ends, which leads to conflict between her and Nadya. While separated from each other, all three must learn to overcome a challenging time in their lives alone, and more importantly, to be their own best friend. Written in three points of view. DUNCAN POV

I’ve left it buried for long enough.

The memories, the pain, the uncertainty, the heartache of simply not knowing. Whatever happened to Mom’s belongings after she died? Her house? Her ratty old pickup truck that always smelled like her favorite air freshener? Uncle Jacob—rest his soul— and I had cleaned out her stuff the last time we were in Sydney, but then returned home to Canberra only to realize her favorite jewelry was missing. In our rush to prepare for her funeral, we must have forgotten. That day is still burned into my memory like the most painful third degree burn. I told Mom at her grave that I was sorry her landlord’s smoking killed her, and then swore I was never, ever going back to Sydney.

Except apparently Charles’ smoking also killed him, and now I was going back to Sydney. Today was supposed to be just a normal day. Wake up, eat breakfast with Rasi, go to work at Orangutan Rescue Project, and train the little orangutans to fend for themselves. That’s what I had been in the middle of doing this morning when my manager, Rinaldi, came out of his office to tell me there was a phone call for me.

I don’t remember much of the conversation aside from the woman on the other end saying, “Your mother’s former landlord has died, and he has left the house to you in his will.” The woman sounded kind, in her late fifties, and like she had made calls like this thousands of times. “Track down Emily King’s son, and tell him the house goes to him. All my money, as laughable of a sum as it is, also goes to him. I’ve got no one else in my life to give it to, and I saw great things in that boy. Great things. I quote him directly,” she continued.

I’m not exactly sure how Charles’ lawyer tracked me down. Or what I’m going to do with the house. Or how Charles even remembered me in the first place. After all, I was just a depressed thirteen-year-old the last and only time he saw me. But I told the woman I would book my flight tonight and let her know when I would be there to see the house. Then I got off the phone and hit a stick against a tree for about ten minutes, simply dreading it all. Dreading seeing the house, the dilapidated scrap of a building that held so many painful memories. When I swore I was never going back, I meant it. Or at least I meant to mean it.

My friends and I have lunch outside by the front entrance of ORP. I don’t say much during lunch; I only watch my friends, feeling a little outside of myself. Mikha is absentmindedly twirling her shiny black hair around her finger, barely touching her food. Nadya is sitting to my right, looking at me with concern in her eyes. We’ve been close for so long that she can read me like a book without me even saying anything. I’m not sure what we are, but we’re something, for she rests her tiny body on my shoulder. The fabric of her pink hijab tickles my arm. Across from me, Rasi is sloppily eating a bowl of noodles, and Eric struggles to open a bottle of soda.

“What’s the matter, Duncan?” Mikha asks me. “You’re quiet today.”

“He’s probably just quiet because Sukarno’s at his other job today,” teases Rasi. “They get pretty rowdy when they’re working together.”

Mikha sticks her tongue out at him. “You’re certainly one to talk. Look at you and Eric!”

Right on cue, Eric finally manages to open his soda, spraying it all over Rasi.

“Hey!” Rasi complains, dumping his cup of water over Eric’s head. The two immediately begin chasing each other around.

“Is something bothering you, Duncan?” asks Nadya. “If you have something on your mind, you can always tell us.”

“I got a phone call earlier this morning,” I say. “My mom’s landlord died, and he left the house to me in his will. So now I’m going to take a trip to Australia, to fix it up and sell it.”

“Did you know the landlord?” asks Mikha.

“I only met him once, right before Mom’s funeral. He was quite a heavy smoker. But apparently he had no one else to leave the house to. At least that’s what he said in his will.”

“Wow,” says Nadya. She squeezes my hand. “This must be a lot for you to take in, Duncan.”

“What must be?” Rasi reappears, Eric right on his heels.

Mikha fills them in, and their mischievous smiles disappear.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, Duncan,” says Rasi. “If you need to talk, I’m sure Natasha would be happy to help.” Natasha is his older sister who just moved back to town last month after completing her training to become a therapist.

“Thanks,” I say. “I gotta admit, I’m pretty shaken up.”

“But at least you’ll make some extra money off the house,” says Rasi, clapping me on the shoulder.

“How long will you be gone?” asks Eric.

“I’m not sure,” I answer. “Hopefully it doesn’t take long to sell the house. But I honestly don’t know who would want that crappy thing.”

“You could fix it up into a vacation home for yourself,” suggests Nadya.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Lots of painful memories there.”

Nadya frowns. “I understand. Ever since my mom died, my dad never took me back to her favorite restaurant. Even though it was my favorite too.”

“I’ll take you there.” I smile at her. She rewards me with a smile in return.

“We should all go!” Rasi exclaims.

“Yeah!!” Eric yells.

“Can’t wait,” says Mikha, though she looks down at the grass as she says this. She hasn’t been herself since she and her ex-boyfriend Arif broke up last week.

“Are you suuure you can’t wait?” says Rasi, nudging her.

“Yes, yes!” Mikha rolls her eyes and gets up. “I’ve gotta go back to work now, if we want to get out early enough to go out to dinner.” She packs up her barely-eaten lunch and hustles into the office.

“What’s with her?” whispers Rasi once she’s gone.

“She’s been having a hard time since she and Arif broke up,” says Nadya. “It was her first relationship.”

“Perhaps a night out will cheer her up,” says Rasi. “I don’t like seeing her sad.”

“You just don’t like having to be the happy one,” jokes Eric.

Rasi mock punches his arm. “Oh, would you like to be the happy one?”

“Get me into pilot school,” says Eric. “Then I will be.”

“Guys, guys!” Nadya laughs. “We can all be the happy ones. We have each other!”

“This,” I say. “I like this.”

“Will you text Sukarno and ask if he can come to dinner tonight?” Rasi asks me.

“Sure will. Hopefully he’s not too busy working on some case or something tonight.”

“I’ll text Natasha too!” Rasi pulls out his phone.

“You know, considering how much Sukarno hates people, I’m surprised he chose to be a detective of all things. He has to work with a team,” says Eric.

I laugh. “The way he sees it is that someone has to keep the bad people in check. And he’s the perfect person for the job.”

“Well, we’re definitely safe with him around,” says Nadya.

“If only he could have been around to keep Iwan in check,” says Rasi.

“And Amy,” adds Eric. “Can’t believe that was two whole years ago. Now Mikha’s dad is our boss, and he’s the coolest ever. Some of the staff are...quite annoying”—Eric narrows his eyes at the twin girls, Naila and Yasmin, who bat their eyelashes and wave at him from across the lawn— “but at least no one here is evil now. Except for Dominic. That giant red ape almost flattened me against a tree the other day!”

Rasi rolls his eyes. “Only because you didn’t approach him properly.”

“Oh, please,” says Eric, shoving Rasi. “Patrick and Carrie distracted me!”

“Sure, whatever,” says Rasi.

My phone buzzes. It’s Sukarno, confirming he’s on for dinner tonight.

“Sukarno’s coming,” I say. “We’ll swing by his office and pick him up after work.”

#original writing #original work #realistic fiction #friendship #romance

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clayray3290 · 5 years

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Clayray Closeout 2018

Another momentous year has passed, and I am feeling reflective about my tastes and my year, so once again, clayray is closing out the year. Usually I don’t do this, but this year, I traveled a lot, like A LOT a lot, and I made the move across the country to LA, so before I reflect on my media consumption, here is a list of all the places I went to this year:

January - Baltimore for a baby shower February - San Francisco Sonoma for a wine tasting trip with college friends March - New York City to see musicals April - Las Vegas for PBS TechCon Two days after getting back - Sarasota for Roadshow Less then a week after - Tulsa for Roadshow May - San Francisco for CAAMFest Louisville for Roadshow Literally the day after - LA San Diego for Roadshow June - Detroit for Roadshow Toronto with mom Montreal to see Sarah July - Charlotte to meet up with Colleen and Katy Smoky Mountains for a bridal shower New Hampshire for a wedding September - Moved to LA! October - San Francisco for a wedding Boston Newport for a wedding November - Florida for Thanksgiving

Whew! As you can see, August and December were the only months that I didn’t travel, and that was because August was spent preparing for my big move and in December, my family came to me. What with layovers, I was on 33 flights plus 5 significant buses plus several “road trips” with friends/family, too. And some of these trips were so back-to-back that I barely spent any time sleeping in my own bed!

Now, I’m still in a weird period of transition, but soon enough, I will develop a routine and establish a place here. I moved across the country with no job, no apartment, and very few friends, and it was a humongous change to make. But as scary and hard as it can be, I think I have enough faith in myself that it will all work out and I will be okay. And with that, I’m looking forward to 2019!

But meanwhile, continuing to look back:

Music - Artists

La Luz

Joywave

Jesse McCartney

Younha

Saint Motel

30 Seconds to Mars

Betty Who

The Aces

BTS

Infinite

As always, artists that I saw live are a huge presence in this list: La Luz, Saint Motel, 30 Seconds to Mars, and Betty Who, and technically I was walking up to the venue when Joywave was playing (which I am still bitter about, for the record.) Other artists I saw live this year: MisterWives and Walk the Moon opening for 30 Seconds to Mars, Tamia, Duckwrth and Buyepongo at the Made in LA Festival literally my second day in LA, Gymshorts opening for La Luz, Vincent Vallières and Brigitte Boisjoli and Martha Wainwright and Michel Rivard and Klô Pelgag at the Fete in Montreal, Bleachers, Sara Bareilles at MisCast, Dionysia and Bazmati Vice, Gryffin, and I guess technically I saw Pregnant Boy.

I have been in love with Jesse McCartney since I was 11 and he released new music this year, which I adored (which you will soon see in the Top Tracks), so of course he’s that high up. Similarly, Younha released an excellent album this year and I’ve always loved her. I actually didn’t find Infinite’s album particularly thrilling, but I guess I liked it well enough that I wouldn’t skip their songs whenever they came up.

I had actually listened to The Aces before, but this year was when I really got into them. Their album is stellar and I love their sound and their look!

And as for BTS, my mom’s actually a huge fan and there was no escaping their immense worldwide popularity. I remember when they debuted! It’s great to see how they have grown to be the K-Pop group that has “made it” to the States.

This is the first time in a long time that my all-time favorites like Secret and McFly haven’t been in the top. Secret’s disbandment really hurt, even though we all saw it coming, and I’m still not over it.

Odesza didn’t make it up to the very top, but I also listened to them a lot with my boyfriend. :)

Music - Albums

Younha - RescuE

The Aces - When My Heart Felt Volcanic

Infinite - TOP SEED

Hamilton OBCR

Alexz Johnson - A Stranger Time

Dan Masterson - When Reality Calls

La Luz - Floating Features

Janelle Monáe - Dirty Computer

Eric Nam - Honestly

Anastasia OBCR

Unsurprisingly, my top artists are showing up in the top albums. I was surprised to see that the Hamilton OBCR was so high, but then I remembered that I featured it heavily in my 4th of July playlist that I played during my party. I’ve been fond of Alexz Johnson since Instant Star, even though I didn’t actually watch the show, and my friend Schuyler and I had a bit of a phase reminiscing about that era of “teen show” singers like her and also Drake Bell.

Dan Masterson is, full disclosure, a friend of mine from college, but his album is really excellent, and you should check it out if you’re interested in piano-based singer-songwriter tunes!

What is there to say about Janelle Monáe except that she is a beacon of brilliance, and we are lucky just to be able to witness it.

The other musical on this list is Anastasia, which is one of the musicals I saw this year. I saw it on Derek Klena’s last evening performance, which is actually one of two times that I saw him. I also saw him in Jagged Little Pill at the A.R.T (he is not the best part of that show, though, Lauren Patten’s “You Oughta Know” is hands down unequivocally the showstopper). The other musicals I saw this year were Allegiance, Hello! Dolly, and I saw the Genies’ Jukebox. Not a musical, but I also saw the off-Broadway show Puffs, which was hysterical.

I’m not sure why I didn’t pay attention as much, but Death Cab’s album this year is pretty great. I didn’t love the Arctic Monkeys’ album as much as I wanted to, though they actually just missed being in my Top Artists by 10 listens. Robyn’s album this year was also pretty stellar, but it was released pretty late in the year.

Movies

As always, subjective ranking and not numbers-based.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Okay, biased, what with my children’s media thing and PBS thing. Tbh I don’t even like documentaries that much, but this one. I wept. And we really needed this film right now.

Blindspotting I saw this at the Independent Film Festival Boston, with a Q&A with Daveed Diggs and Rafael Casal afterwards, and just wow. This is an incredible tour de force. Brilliantly crafted and visceral and hilarious, too. I know a bunch of people were drawn to it because of Daveed Diggs and his Hamilton fame, but genuinely, he and Rafael Casal’s passion for this film and overwhelming talent shine through in this.

Searching Look, I love love loved Crazy Rich Asians and Asian August and Asian-American women bringing back the rom com. As an Asian-American woman, I have been waiting for so long for this to happen. But I picked Searching because as a film, Searching takes the screen footage tactic, heretofore only really used in horror films, and capitalizes on it to such amazing dramatic and emotional effect. John Cho is fantastic, of course in this very tense and very stressful film.

Black Panther I cannot believe it hasn’t even been a year since Black Panther. Can we start using the term BBP and ABP for Before and After Black Panther? I saw somewhere that Letitia Wright is the biggest box office star of the year, which is fabulous because she is fabulous (and a Disney princess!). The world-building is amazing, the action is amazing, the eye candy is amazing (Helloooooo Michael B. Jordan and Chadwick Boseman and Danai Gurira and Lupita Nyong’o and...you get the point).

Ralph Breaks the Internet I spent a lot of this film marveling at how only Disney could have pulled this off, this massive ambitious bringing together of so many brands and characters and, y’know, the internet. I also enjoy that this is not a romantic love story, and it is a story about love in other ways. Loving your friends and caring for them and respecting them is so important, and dealing with insecurity is as well. This is such a smart movie, and as somebody who cares about children’s media, that is the standard to which we should aspire.

Honorable Mentions: A Quiet Place (Though of the horror films this year, Hereditary and Annihilation were also very good), Madeline’s Madeline for Helena Howard’s performance, I Tonya because um duh figure skating but does not make the list because trying to pass off Margot Robbie as teenage was laughable, Three Identical Strangers

Movies I Want to See But Haven’t Yet: Eighth Grade, Sorry to Bother You, Support the Girls, Widows, Creed II, The Hate U Give, Halloween, Burning, RBG, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, Dumplin’ (My roomie’s in it!)

Movies I Should See But Haven’t Brought Myself To Care About: A Star is Born, Mission Impossible: Fallout, Mary Poppins Returns, Green Book, Love Simon, Paddington 2

2020.12.02 EDIT: I was wrong about Paddington 2. It is an incredible film.

Television

Sharp Objects I’ve read the book (and own it somewhere...) but it had been a while, so Sharp Objects did what a good mystery does - even upon a revisit, the things you don’t remember are tantalizing and the discovery of new clues and revelations keep shifting your perspective and giving it a jolt each time. Amy Adams is phenomenal in this (as she always is) and Eliza Scanlen as Amma gives a piercing performance in this.

Queer Eye All of the remakes happening incessantly is tiring and also eyeroll-inducing (it’s cliche but honestly, where are the original ideas nowadays?), but then we get something like Queer Eye. Reality TV gets a hard rap, but with Queer Eye, you get the entertainment factor and also incredibly moving emotional heft as well. Also, I genuinely wonder at how Bobby gets all that house remodeling done and he doesn’t get enough credit for it!

The Haunting of Hill House I love the Shirley Jackson story and also the original movie (I have not watched the 90′s movie and I don’t think I ever will), so my only real gripe with this show is that I wish they didn’t call it The Haunting of Hill House because it really isn’t. But what it is, is a brilliant family drama launching off of the Hill House story. It is captivating and beautiful and spooky, and also the casting of the young kids is impeccable.

Nailed It! Sometimes you just need to guffaw over people’s ridiculous failures. This show doesn’t take itself too seriously and because it embraces the silly, it’s full of heart and joy.

Élite I love foreign teen dramas. I love murder...in my television/movies. Of course I was gonna love this show. But just because it has these two elements doesn’t mean that I automatically was going to think it’s a great show (It does probably mean I would automatically enjoy it, but that’s different). Both of these genres are rife with tropes, but this show takes them and executes them in such a way that it rings true and doesn’t distract from your enjoyment.

Honorable Mention: Memories of the Alhambra only because it’s still ongoing! It’s a brilliant way of looking at technology and combining it with all the elements of a K-drama that you could want. It’s kinda like if a good episode of Black Mirror (because goodness knows that quality varies) combined with a K-drama.

Also of mention are some excellent series that continued this year. I can’t believe I didn’t watch them when they first came out, but The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Big Mouth are both so so good. Though I have strong feelings about the second season of Maisel and think the Paris bit was just an awkward flex and should have been cut, and the Catskills could have been an entire series of its own. Also, I actually saw Nick Kroll do some readings of all the characters in Big Mouth at the Vulture Festival this year!

In addition to the show-watches-from-the-beginning that I am still working through (Parks and Rec, The Wire, Gilmore Girls, Mad Men, etc.) I’ve also started watching Ugly Betty and Strong Woman Do Bong Soon from the beginning.

There are a few new shows from this year that I really have been wanting to watch but haven’t yet: Killing Eve, Kidding, Homecoming. Mostly Killing Eve for Queen Sandra Oh and also the girl from MMFD!

Okay, whew! That’s enough of that. Where do I even find the time to watch all this stuff??

#Clayray Closeout

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