#maybe it would be less annoying if they weren't all saying it like I'd think it's funny that they don't know we exist instead of like | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stellamancer · 2 months

Text

obligatory (satoru gojo x reader)

notes: haha. the valentine's fic. it's funny i still have to post halloween fic. maybe i'll finish this week since i'm off work. uh anyway, for those who say my posts, i'm kind of hesitant to post this for two reasons: 1) it's removed from context— like you can still get a feel of what is going on, but there's no explanation as for why and 2) due to reason 1 it's tonally different than usual, at least according to my beta reader. my eternal gratitude goes to @momodita who helped me workshop this fic and continues to demand i write more gojo fics despite denying being a gojo fucker.

contains: implied f!reader (no pronouns), the return of gojo's pov (a little less whacky this time lmao), jealous gojo (because those who know me know i can't get enough), light angst or whatever the hell is going on there. additionally, for those who don't know giri choco is chocolate you give out of obligation to your coworkers and honmei choco is chocolate you give to someone you have romantic feelings for. part of the infinite loop verse.

wc: 1.8k

“Here you go.”

Satoru graciously accepts Shoko’s offering: a thin, delicately wrapped box of Valentine’s Day chocolate. Naturally, it's giri choco; Satoru is well aware that Shoko would be caught dead before even thinking about giving Satoru honmei choco. That said, it looks like she's given more thought to her gift this year— the last few years she's just handed him a gourmet chocolate bar from some high end chocolatier. Actually, the last time she'd given him something wrapped up like this was…

“There better not be any liquor in this,” Satoru says in a petulant tone reminiscent of his high school days.

Shoko merely laughs. “As if I'd waste something like that on you.”

There's no way she’s forgotten how sick Satoru got the one time she did give him liquor filled chocolates. Not only had it made him sick to his stomach, it'd given him the worst headache of his entire life. If it were up to Satoru, liquor filled chocolates wouldn't even exist. “Welllll, thanks for the chocolate. I'll be sure to get you something good next month.”

Shoko gives him a relaxed smile. “Looking forward to it, Gojo.”

Knowing Shoko, she'll want liquor as usual. Maybe the same bottle of shochu that he got last year? She liked that, but then again, the same gift twice would be boring and Satoru is not about that. Whatever it is will be a little pricey, but Satoru doesn't mind it one bit— anything for one of his oldest friends.

Having given Satoru her yearly offering of chocolate, Shoko shoos him away so she can actually get to work. Satoru considers ambling around for another hour or two, but Ijichi will probably have a heart attack if he delays his mission briefing any longer. The sooner he does it the better, he guesses. Satoru starts sauntering toward the assistant managers’ office to find Ijichi, pulling at the ribbon on the box he received from Shoko as he goes. Inside are two rows of perfectly round chocolate truffles and Satoru picks one at random and pops it into his mouth. It's filled with a sweet raspberry cream that practically melts on his tongue. Shoko really went all out this year, but no matter how good these are they'd never match up to anything homemade.

Though, when he thinks about it, Satoru supposes he won't be getting anything like that this year.

When he gets to the assistant managers’ office he easily finds Ijichi, who, for once, is not bent over a mountain of paperwork, and with him is—

You.

Handing Ijichi a box of chocolates.

For some reason, Satoru suddenly feels very, very annoyed.

“Well, well, well,” he says, the volume of his voice louder than intended, but he doesn't care. “What do we have here?”

Ijichi whirls around and lets out a squeak, his face red as can be. He starts to blubber and it almost feels like Satoru's caught him in the middle of something more illicit than receiving chocolates. If Satoru weren't feeling so annoyed, he'd find the whole sight rather funny.

You, on the other hand, are far calmer, indifferent even, as a slight frown mars your features. Something about it makes Satoru's blood burn hot.

“Did I just interrupt a heartfelt love confession?” Satoru asks dryly and Ijichi starts to freak out even more, and while Satoru notices the slightest twitch of your eye, you remain impassive.

“I hope you like the chocolates,” you tell Ijichi, outright ignoring Satoru and somehow that makes Satoru's blood run even hotter. “I kept in mind what you said about last year's so they're not as sweet.”

“Thank you!” Ijichi squeals and you give the man a sympathetic smile before you head toward the door where Satoru's standing. He knows he's blocking the way, but he doesn't move.

Will you say something to him?

You don't.

Instead, you keep your head down and squeeze past him. Or try to. You brush against his side and Satoru doesn't miss the way your body jolts when you make physical contact with him. But it only lasts a second, and when that second ends, Satoru tries to ignore the feeling of bitterness rapidly spreading throughout his chest.

He means to say something, anything to you, but the words get caught in his throat.

By the time they free themselves, you're already gone.

Satoru sighs and saunters over to Ijichi, who's been taking deep breaths to calm down after Satoru's little bout of teasing. He leans against one of the desks and crosses his arms. “So, you had a mission for me?”

“Right! Yes!” Ijichi squeaks again and takes a deep breath before he starts to explain. Satoru only half listens to the briefing, his attention more focused on the little box sitting on Ijichi’s desk. The mere sight of it spurs a complicated set of feelings. He doesn't understand. You've been giving Ijichi chocolates every Valentine's ever since you moved to Tokyo and it's never bothered him before so why now?

“Um, Gojo?”

“What?” Satoru almost snaps.

Ijichi doesn't answer right away, instead he clears his throat and then says. “It's giri choco.”

Satoru scowls. Of course it is. It's not like you'd give Ijichi honmei choco. You don't see him like that. “I know that.”

Ijichi swallows thickly. Nervously. “Just making sure.”

Then he falls silent, the air between them now terribly awkward.

“...do you want some?” Ijichi asks.

“It's your chocolate.”

“I don't mind sharing,” Ijichi says, reaching over and opening the box to reveal your homemade chocolates. They're nowhere near as perfectly round as the ones Shoko bought for Satoru, but he can tell you put effort into making sure they looked presentable. “Help yourself.”

Even Satoru isn't terrible enough to steal an entire box of chocolates meant for another man, but he does grab the nicest looking one and tosses it into his mouth.

It's bitter; a mix of dark chocolate and black coffee that's not only completely unpalatable to Satoru, but disturbingly reminiscent of the bitter feeling that's now threatening to eat him whole. He almost wants to spit it out.

But he doesn't.

Satoru swallows it all.

The mission is uneventful, absurdly easy even, though Satoru took a little longer than he needed to by toying with the curses a little prior to exorcising them. Some would consider it a touch cruel, but Satoru doesn't care. Anything to rid himself of that pesky feeling from earlier.

If it were up to him, he would have headed straight home afterwards, but Yaga had asked him to come back and do some paperwork. Satoru had tried to reason with him, tell him he'd just do it tomorrow but the principal was insistent.

Satoru trudges to his office and throws open the door. Inside, someone lets out a surprised yelp.

It’s you.

Again.

Both you and Satoru stare at each other in surprise. Given that you've been avoiding both him and this entire corridor like the plague for the past two months, you're the last person he’d expect to find in his office, hovering over his desk. And yet…

You look away from Satoru, your expression awkward. This isn't like your encounter in the assistant manager's office earlier; you can't just walk out of his office without an explanation of why you're there.

Well, you can try, but it's not like Satoru will let you.

“Weren’t you supposed to be out on an assignment?” you finally ask. Satoru thinks you mean to sound annoyed, but your tone is watered down.

“I was, but it was so easy I could have done it blindfolded.”

Normally, you'd just roll your eyes or snap back about how he's a show off or his jokes are shit, but you remain quiet. He shouldn't be surprised, but it still makes him feel weird. Almost sad. Almost empty.

“Principal Yaga asked me to leave some paperwork on your desk,” you say, sounding uncharacteristically meek.

Satoru frowns a little. Yaga, huh? He never pegged him as a meddler. Satoru approaches the desk to look at the paperwork in question; he grimaces— it's a whole freaking stack.

You start to shuffle away from Satoru and toward the door as Satoru flips through all the papers. “Anyway, if you'll excuse me—”

“Wait a sec.” Satoru says and you glance back at him in confusion. There's something peeking out from under the stack of papers. Satoru gingerly fishes it out, revealing a familiar looking box. He holds it up and adds, “Did you leave this too?”

A myriad of varying emotions flashes across your face before you settle on an awkward sort of embarrassment. “I… did.”

It's weird. Satoru didn't expect you to be so straightforward given that under normal circumstances you always choose to be as obstinate as possible. Which Satoru doesn't mind in the slightest; it makes things exciting. There are few things more fun than prying the truth out of you with whatever means necessary. Answering him so readily like this… almost feels wrong.

“I accidentally made too much,” you explain.

Satoru stares at you. It’s not an excuse, not a lie. Honestly, adjusting the amounts to account for one less person probably slipped your mind until it was too late. You could have done anything with the extra chocolate, given more to each person, eaten it for yourself, but instead…

You still chose to give it to him.

Satoru tries to ignore the strange feeling stirring in his chest.

“Anyway, eat it if you want, toss it if you don’t,” you add, almost hurriedly as you move closer to the door. You give a quick bow to excuse yourself and before Satoru can say anything else, you run off.

His eyes remain glued to the empty doorway where you were just standing for a second before looking back at the box of chocolates you left for him. Carefully, he unties the ribbon and pulls off the lid. Just like Ijichi’s chocolates, the ones in his box aren’t perfect, but something about them looks nicer than the ones Ijichi got. Satoru wonders if you consciously put in a little more effort when you’d realized you had extra. The thought makes him chuckle a little.

He delicately plucks one from the box and pops it into his mouth. It’s sweet, infused with a hint of strawberry and vanilla that makes Satoru crave even more. As soon as he’s done with the first he shoves another into his mouth, and then another. With each chocolate he eats, the painful feeling in his chest grows, but he ignores it.

Before he knows it, the chocolates are all gone. Satoru licks his lips, hoping for one last taste of that strawberry vanilla sweetness only to find nothing. All he has left is the empty box and an aching heart.

if you read this whole thing, thank you and i hope you enjoyed it.

also yes, shoko got chocolates (tomo choco) too. they were similar to ijichi's, but with liquor instead of coffee.

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo x you #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #infinite loop!verse

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angelatmidnight1 · 8 months

Note

can i request reader w/ revenant? maybe reader annoys him to no end and revenant tickles the reader in retaliation >:-D

A/N: Sorry this is so late; I wanted to get this out when the Revenant Reborn season started but I got caught up with some stuff. The only warning, if any, that I'd say for this story is that it's a bit dark I guess, but it's Revenant. He doesn't hurt the reader, though. Just tickles the heck out of them. I hope you like it 😅

Hunted

You ticked Revenant off by stealing his kills in a match, and now, he’s hunting you. With a new body that’s faster, stronger, and deadlier, the cat and mouse game that he plays with you doesn’t last long. But instead of killing you, he tickles the living daylights outta you.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Your feet pounded the ground below as you sprinted through Storm Point. Gaea was the current stop for the Apex Games. But, you’d run so far away from the arena, you couldn’t place an exact pinpoint on your location. Your comms died a while ago. But, you had to keep running.

Otherwise, Revenant would catch you.

You and the simulacrum had an odd relationship. Less than friends, but not quite enemies. But it wasn’t always like that. When you were first on his team, he was rude, demanding, and threatened you more than your enemies. But, you always had a little fire in you. It’s one of the many reasons you thrived in a bloodsport.

You didn’t shy away from dangerous situations or, in this case, people. Revenant was being especially rude during one match and, eventually, you got tired of hearing him talk. So, when he said he needed more shotgun ammo, you angrily threw some at him.

“Ugh. Here, asshole.” You snapped. Revenant had his back to you, looting, so the ammo stack hit him square in the back. He growled and whirled around to you, and you went on. “You’d think you’d know how much ammo you need because you’re a literal murderbot.”

Before you could blink, Revenant suddenly towered over you. The sudden invasion of space startled you, so you backed up into the wall. The simulacrum followed and put his bladed hand against your throat.

“Say that again, skinbag.” Revenant growled. His gold optics threateningly bore down into your eyes. You glared back at him and pressed your lips together, making him smirk. “Don’t be shy now. Say it.”

“You can’t kill me,” you countered. “We’re on the same team, in case you forgot.”

Revenant laughed. “You think this pen will stop me? Just wait until we’re alone.” he said, easing the blade off of you. “Gonna be hard to talk after I slice your throat.”

You grimaced at the gruesome image, but you held strong. He pushed all of the other Legends around. You weren't gonna be one of them. “So far, you’ve done more talking than killing…”

There was a beat, and then Revenant chuckled darkly. Then, with his free hand, he suddenly hoisted you up into the air. You yelped and grabbed at his wrist, but he was much stronger than you. He brought you just inches away from his face. You swore you saw a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, I’m gonna enjoy breaking you…” Revenant purred. His eyes searched yours for a moment and then, still holding you, he walked out of the building. He roughly dropped you. “Get moving, skinbag. With any luck, we can catch up to this ‘Champion’ and I can rip out his insides.”

You rolled your eyes. “Why did you ask me for ammo if you were just gonna—”

He grabbed your flank and pushed you forward. You bit back another yelp and squirmed out of his touch.

“Shut up and move.”

After that game, and many other games in between, Revenant’s attitude towards you changed. Not by much, but there was a noticeable difference. If you were ever downed in a match, Revenant hunted that particular Legend down before he went after the rest of the squad.

“You’re mine to kill, (Y/N). Remember that.” He said as he pulled you to your feet. Now, he called you by your name more often than ‘skin bag’.

You breathed a sigh of relief, taking out your Phoenix Kit to heal. “Yeah? That almost sounds like you’re saying you like me.”

Revenant grunted. “Don’t push your luck. Or I’ll skin you after this match.”

You grinned, but otherwise complied. That is, until you started taking his kills.

For the match, you used a Sentinel as your primary weapon. Revenant opted for a shotgun and a C.A.R. Since his upgrade, he’s been opting for more up close and personal kills. So, when he rushed in to attack, you stayed back a few paces to snipe. The simulacrum pounced onto an unsuspecting squad of Bangalore and Newcastle. He made quick work of the heroic defender. Then, he turned his attention to the sergeant.

“Heh, tough luck, sarge.” He chuckled, stepping over the downed hero. “Always rough to have a family reunion and a funeral on the same day..”

But, instead of him finishing her off, you did. You trained your sniper optic over Bangalore’s head and fired. Anita went down, leaving behind a very angry simulacrum.

“Are you blind?! That kill was mine!” Revenant roared as you approached him. You initially jumped, and then scoffed.

“Sheesh, I was just trying to help! You were taking forever, and you’re grouchy when you’re downed.” You answered. This only made Revenant angrier.

“I don’t need help from a pathetic sack of meat like you. You steal my kill again, and I’ll make you regret it.” He threatened. This was one of the many threats Revenant threw your way and by now, you were used to it. Little did you know, he’d make good on this one.

You stole the next few kills again by grazing the Legend you shot at, getting the final bit of damage and the credit for the kill. Then, when you were named the Kill Leader, the simulacrum finally snapped.

“That’s it.”

Revenant lunged at you with an angry roar. You barely had time to get out of the way.

“Whoa, wait! It was an accident! I—” You snickered at first, stopping short when you saw that murderous glint in his eyes. This wasn’t one of those grumpy, irritable looks he gave you. This time, you could practically feel the anger radiating off of him. His next words chilled you to your core, and prompted you to run.

“I’m going to tear you apart.”

Your lungs burned with exertion, and your muscles ached, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Especially when you heard Revenant’s deep, gravelly voice somewhere behind you.

“Running won’t save you, skin bag. It just makes it more fun for me.”

You yelped loudly and spun around to defend yourself. But, he wasn’t there. Revenant’s chuckle echoed through the forest.

“Aw, are you scared?”

You put your hands on your knees, gasping for air. “R-Rev, come on…I was just messing around. We won the match anyway!” You yelled in between your panting. Revenant scowled.

“Championships mean nothing to me,” Revenant spat. “But death, fear? Nothing in the world comes close to that…and the fear on your face is delicious.”

A cold rush of fear rushed up your spine. You were all alone here, with no one to help you. The simulacrum’s next words came out in a purr.

“I’d love a closer look…”

There was a rustling sound to the left of you, and you jolted in the opposite direction. But, still, nothing was there. Revenant laughed a menacing laugh.

“I’m not going to kill you. Not yet,” Revenant smirked. He’d climbed up into a tree high above you and blended into the shadows. Even if you looked up, it’d be impossible to see him. “But you’re going to wish I did.”

Another rustle. Your head snapped towards the sound. Now, you could see his yellow optics in the darkness. You moved to run again, but it was too late. Revenant roared as he tackled you to the ground. You screamed as you went down. You defensively raised your hands to protect yourself, but he grabbed them and held them above your head in a cold metal hand.

This was it. You tried to pull your hands free, but it was no use. Then, with his free hand, Revenant attacked.

You screamed as his claws scritched against your side. But, it didn’t hurt. It tickled like hell. Your screams turned into panicked giggles.

“Wahahaha—Rehehehehev, stahahaha!” You snorted as he clawed from one side to the other. His hand moved at an inhuman speed and overwhelmed you with ticklish sensations. You writhed in his hold, squealing again as he pinched your side. “AHahaha! Stohohohp! REHEhehev!”

“Ticklish, are we?” Revenant hummed, this time squeezing just above your hip bone. You barked out a laugh and arched your back. “You skin bags have so many weaknesses. So many ways to break you apart…”

You could barely hear him over your laughter. You uselessly tossed to and fro, but his hand remained latched onto your skin. Then, all of a sudden, Revenant stopped and tilted your chin up. His touch was like ice and you shivered, unable to look away from his burning gaze.

“And you think you can get away with taking what’s mine?”

Revenant’s voice distorted a little bit, and it made you freeze in fear. The simulacrum released your chin and wasted no time in spidering his claws over your exposed underarm. You sputtered and giggled, twisting around in his strong grip.

“Bahahahaha! Ihihiht wahahahas juhuhust a gahahahahame! COHOHOHOME OHOHOHON!”

He suddenly dug his thumb into your underarm, pulling another laugh out of you. He let go of your arms to attack both underarms at once, scritching deep into the muscle. Your laughter drastically increased and volume and, even though you slammed your arms down, he was still able to tickle.

“I don’t care. I’m still gonna teach you a lesson.”

Revenant pulled his hands free from your underarms and clawed at your rib cage. You squealed and tried to flip over, but he pushed you back onto your back. He kneaded at the spaces between your ribs with his thumbs, and he used his claws to pinch and swipe at the bones randomly. Each scrape of his claws made you squeal and laugh loudly. Your heart beat a mile a minute; out of everything possible, how on Earth was a simulacrum good at tickling?

“Lookie here,” Revenant, noticing how sensitive your ribs were, honed in on them with both hands. You arched your back again, laughing harder and fighting with his hands. He snatched your hands again and placed them under him, pinning them with just enough weight to keep them there, but not to hurt you. Then, he resumed his tickling, pinching at the sides of your ribs and drumming his fingers up the bones. The panic surged through you as you shook your head and writhed with laughter. Revenant chuckled. “So sensitive. Heh, just as I figured. You’re not so tough.”

“NOHOHOHO!” You screamed and kicked your legs against the ground. You twisted your torso from side to side, but he just followed your movements, his hands stopping just short of your underarms. Your laughter died down to high pitched giggles. “Stohohohop! Rehehehev, plehehase—”

Revenant’s optics sparkled at your pleading. “Begging already? That was easy,” he laughed. But then, his tone darkened, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Hell, it was almost too easy. Where’s that fighting spirit, Legend? You can do better than that…”

With that, the simulacrum jumped back down to your ribs, pinching and scritching along the length of your rib cage. You screamed again and bucked your hips. Of course, Revenant’s taunting touched a nerve, but you were too overcome with laughter to snap back. Still, you tried anyway.

“AHAHAHA! I’M GOHOHOHOHNA—”

You gasped when Revenant prodded at your centermost ribs. Those ribs were especially sensitive and, judging from how he cocked his head to the side, he picked up on it too.

“You’re gonna what?” he echoed. He slowed the tickling down to where he just traced patterns on those sensitive ribs. “Laugh? Beg?” His optics twinkled again. “Go ahead, beg some more. It won’t help, but go on...”

You didn’t wanna beg again, especially if it encouraged Revenant to keep going. But, if he kept tapping against your ribs, you weren’t sure how much longer you were going to last.

Then, Revenant did something you weren’t expecting. Instead of continuing to torment your ribs, he suddenly hiked your shirt up, exposing your bare torso. Then, his hands scampered back up your sides, his thumbs digging into your skin. The cold feeling of metal digits made you squeal, and you involuntarily snorted as his claws skittered across your stomach.

“C’mon, skin bag. Beg.” Revenant demanded. He inched his way back towards your ribs and you tensed up. What started out as snickering turned into desperate giggles as he got closer and closer to the spot. Your stubbornness weakened, and your breath hitched as his fingertips swiped against your skin.

“Nonono! Okay! Plehehease, Rev. Dohohn’t tickle me,” You pleaded. The words tasted like poison in your mouth but, if it got him to stop, that’s all you wanted. “Plehehease stohohop..”

Revenant, however, wasn’t moved. “That’s it?” he scoffed, suddenly spidering his claws up and down your centermost ribs. “You don’t sound pathetic enough.”

A shriek ripped out of you as you spasmed against the floor, laughing hysterically. He didn’t let up and raked his claws over every inch of your ribs. And then, when you arched your back, he pinched at the back of those ribs. You laughed harder and moved to slam your back down on the floor, but he held you in place, continuing to prod and pinch at the spots.

“AHAHAHAHA! REHEHEV, STAHAHAHA!” You yelled, your eyes pinching shut from the force of your laughter. “PLEHEHEHASE!”

Revenant ignored your pleading and continued tickling. By now, your ribs were hypersensitive from all of the previous tickling, so it took no time for your laughter to deepen. You writhed in his iron hold and threw your head back in hysterics. You didn’t think it could get any worse for you, but it could. And it did.

The simulacrum was kneading his fingertips into the backs of your ribs when, all of a sudden, he stopped. You breathed heavily and hiccuped in between residual laughter. Your eyes were still closed, so you couldn’t see what he had in his hands.

Revenant was holding the headscarf from his previous model. Just looking at it made him angry; it reminded him of what he’s lost, and what he’s become. But, it’d work perfectly for what he had in store for you.

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of something ripping. Revenant tore off a long piece of the head scarf, binding your wrists with it. A fresh wave of panic coursed through you, and you struggled with a renewed vigor.

“NO! Rev, please! I’m sorry!” You shrieked. Now, since he didn’t need to hold your arms down, he eased off so that he straddled your waist. “I won’t take your kills again! Please, let me go!”

“This isn’t about kills anymore, skin bag.” Revenant scoffed. He dragged his claws up your sides, making you shudder and giggle. “You’d be dead by now if that’s what I wanted. No…now, I want to hear you scream.”

Revenant slowly scratched back down your sides. You bucked your hips uselessly, giggling harder. As ticklish as your ribs were, there were a few more spots that were far more sensitive, and the simulacrum was heading right for them.

“Nohohoho! No! Rehehehehv, wAHAHAHAHAHAIT!” You went rigid as he walked his claws just above your hip bones. Revenant cocked his head to the side again, and you could hear his gears hum in response. He flicked his digits against your hip bones, and your laughter fueled scream told him everything he wanted to know.

“Oh, you’re in trouble now…”

There was a sinister, teasing lilt in his tone as he suddenly descended into your hips. His metallic knuckles rolled over each bone and, when he wasn’t doing that, he squeezed them with just enough pressure to tickle. Each prod and squeeze sent ticklish jolts up your spine, and your loud laughter echoed throughout the forest.

“NAHAHAHAHAHA! NOHOHAHAHA, STOHOHOHOHOP!” You yelled and frantically struggled with the ties on your wrists. They were tight, not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to keep your hands out of the way. The simulacrum dug a little bit more into your hips, using his fingertips to scritch back at the spot just above them. You threw your head back and your legs kicked out under you as you laughed and laughed.

Revenant chuckled. He kept one hand on your hip and snaked the other back up your side. He hovered over your ribs and poked them. You yelped out a protest, but it was lost in your wild laughter. You curled in on yourself as much as physically possible, but it didn’t help.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he mused aloud. He tweaked your upper ribs and you hiccuped. “Doesn’t beat killing you skin bags, but it’s pretty damn close. And I’ve got nothing but time…”

You shook your head back and forth, your laughter now barely audible. Your stomach hurt from how hard you were laughing. You mouthed ‘please’ and ‘stop’ over and over, but it didn’t change anything. In fact, it just urged Revenant to keep going. After a couple more pokes to your rib cage, the simulacrum moved back down your torso, his hands finding your waist again. Instead of digging in, he traced the indent of your hips, enjoying how you gasped and snickered.

“Plehehehease,” You pleaded again, your torso shaking from the lingering ticklish sensations. “Nohoho more. I cahahahn’t tahake it..”

Revenant mockingly cooed at you. “Doesn’t sound like my problem. And I’m not finished with you yet.”

He hooked his hands around your waist and squeezed your hips. You bucked and yelped, trying to reason with the unreasonable, and he responded by squeezing again. You snorted and brought your tied hands down, trying to cover your hips, but you were just out of reach. Rev mixed in quick scribbles across your waist, adding a new ticklish sensation to the mix, and you jerked in the opposite direction.

Your legs kicked out more furiously under you as a response, and he reached behind with one hand to still them. His claws brushed against the underside of your knee, sending you into a deeper fit of laughter.

“RAHAHAHA!” You cried out and flattened your leg against the ground. Revenant held on and skittered his fingertips underneath your knees, making you arch your back. “SAHAHAHAHA!”

“That doesn’t sound like begging to me,” Revenant taunted. He squeezed both of your knees before returning to your waist. He dug his thumbs into your hips, sending you back into a deep pit of laughter.

“PLEHEHEASE! Please!” You yelled before giving into the laughter that overtook you. Revenant climbed up higher on your waist, so it was harder for you to buck away from him, and continued his tickle attack. It took no time for your laughter to fall silent again, and your eyes finally teared up. After another five long minutes of nonstop tickling, he finally eased up so that you didn’t pass out.

“Aw, don’t cry, (Y/N). We’re just beginning to bond,” Revenant snickered. He released your hips and took your chin into his hand, so you couldn’t pull away from him wiping the tears away. Then, all of a sudden, he sat back and cut the bonds off of your wrists, climbing off of you.

You curled up on the ground, breathing heavily. Your hips, legs, and ribs were all still plagued by the ticklish sensations, so you patted at them to soothe them. But, while you were soothing your nerves, the simulacrum loomed over you. You flinched as he approached and looked up at him. Revenant chuckled.

“The hell are you starin’ at?” He huffed before lowering himself into a catlike stance, as if ready to pounce. “Start. Running.”

Your eyes widened and, as tired as you were, you forced yourself to get up and hurry away from him. Revenant’s optics glimmered; he always loved a good chase.

#apex legends #apex revenant #revenant apex legends #ticklish!reader #ler!revenant #lee!reader #kaleb cross #revenant x reader #apex legends tickle fic

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worriedvision · 1 year

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HEI HI HELLO! I just found this idea whilst scrolling and you where the first person that came to mind that could write it (if your up for it of course!) :

"scaramouche trying to get a rise out of you and make you fight for his attention by constantly bringing up Haypasia around you, then getting annoyed when you don’t do that and just distance yourself from him because you’re too sad about it to be around him " By @/holydayaria

HOPE YOUR DOING WELL <3

Okay so I decided to reach out to @holydayaria to make sure I got the okay to do this request since I really loved this idea but ofc I wanted to make sure the person who had the idea was okay with someone else writing it!

---

"Ah, my first follower is so devoted to me." Scaramouche gushes, a smirk on his face as he, once again, begins to talk about Haypasia. "My devoted follower certainly has got my attention, her willingness to follow me of all gods. Hey, I'd say she is the best first follower any God could get, so this only indicates what kind of god I will be!"

You don't dignify any of that with a response, getting frustrated that this scholar who Scaramouche knew for a fraction of the time he knew you. You had been following him like a loyal dog for all this time, been with him when he's been at his less than ideal moments. You went against your original work to go along with him when he asked you if you wanted to be his temporary pet.

"You should take some pointers from my dear follower, you know?" He sneers, that stupid smirk still on his pretty face. "My devoted follower does not expect anything in return, as they know the privilege of knowing of my godly presence."

He's watching you out of the corner of his eye, looking for any sign of frustration. Maybe a fist tightening, a huff, maybe you crossing your arms together and scowling at him.

But he saw absolutely nothing from you.

"My devoted follower would show me some compassion in a moment like this, you know?" He smirks, walking away as he doesn't look back, expecting you to follow along like a seelie.

Except you had enough.

You had enough of him being vocally ungrateful for you being there for him. Sure, you weren't a 'follower' in the way Haypasia was, but you had become entertainment of sorts for him. Ever since she showed up in his life, he started to compare you to her all the time. How dare you not be a follower, how dare you simply be a companion.

It was exhausting to hear it all the time, and the way he was walking away from you with that confident stride that told you he just knew you were going to follow him. He must have been hoping for you to shout at him, maybe even throw something at him - anything to show it hurt.

But now, after hearing the constant comparing, you had become completely numb. Your life as a fatui agent, down the drain now thanks to him. You ruined your once respectful reputation for him, and you didn't even know why.

There was one place you could have a chance at, however, if you said the correct words. One place where you could possibly become a respectful member of society instead of someone dependent on one beings presence.

You nod to yourself before you walk towards the Avidya forest. They seemed to always be desperate for more folk, and you were trained to fight. Scaramouche had given you clothes so you weren't in uniform, and if you found the right person you could possibly disclose your previous work.

Scaramouche stopped walking after a good twenty minutes, turning around and opening his mouth to make a jab at you. Oh, Haypasia would certainly give him much better entertainment than silence. She wouldn't take his comments so personally, you needed to grow a backbone. You should be grateful Scaramouche kept you around even after Haypasia became his first follower instead of you.

But you weren't there.

Scaramouche thinks you're just being petty, that you'll come running back to him, and you'll apologise to him and beg him for forgiveness for being too emotional.

That also does not happen. No matter how long he waited, he heard nothing from you, and of course he never saw you around. He'll refuse to admit it, but he put effort into looking for you - and he never found you.

He would take it to his grave, but he realised how much he missed you.

#scaramouche x gender neutral reader #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #gender neutral reader #genshin impact imagines #haypasia

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ryker-writes · 6 months

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Lost

Jaxon Crowley's masterlist

Jaxon Crowley, the son of the headmage, and a feared delinquent of Night Raven College, didn't know what to do. He overblotted, is basically an outcast at NRC, and just found out that his mom is most likely already dead. She wasn't happy and deep down Jaxon knows he would've wanted her to be happy even back then, but he wishes things had gone differently. Maybe if she had told him he could've done things differently. He could've tried to fix things.

Before, he had planned to leave NRC to go find his mom so it could be like old times. It was the only goal or sense of direction he had to go on. Now that that's gone he's...lost. What was he supposed to do now? Where does he go from here? What does he even do with his life aside from linger around? He never had much motivations or plans before, and he had even less now.

He's empty. Maybe that's why he found himself in the courtyard just staring up at the clouds. He glared up at them. Even they knew where they were going, or at least, they were moving in a direction. He's just sitting still.

As he started to get annoyed with clouds just floating by, he heard footsteps approach him quickly. He didn't pay much attention to the footsteps at all even when they stopped nearby. It was probably just someone contemplating if they want to fight or bother him. It wasn't anything worth his attention right now anyway.

"Uhm...Crowley-senpai?"

Looks like they came to bother him. Letting out a deep sigh, Jaxon lazily looked up to see who it was. One of those Heartslabyul brats was standing there looking slightly nervous. Upon seeing the red Heartslabyul vest peeking out from his uniform, Jaxon look away completely uninterested.

"Get lost."

"I just wanted to talk to you about something."

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Why not?"

"You're bothering me. On top of that, you're part of Heartslabyul."

"Why does that matter?"

Sighing once again, Jaxon fully rolled over to face the student.

"Look, I'm confident you've heard about what I did to that Heartslabyul student years ago. You guys were told to avoid me, and I avoid you. I'm already in a bad mood today so if you keep talking, it might not end well."

"I don't care what you did years ago. I'm here to talk to you now."

Jaxon thought this might be the only kid that doesn't care about what he did. Maybe he's wanting to get on Jaxon's good side, or maybe he was just an idiot. Either way, Jaxon didn't have the energy to even fight right now and fighting would only mean he'd have to deal with his dad again.

"Whatever you want better be good."

The student smiled slightly before walking closer to Jaxon and crouching down next to him. Jaxon rolled his eyes and turned to look up at the sky once again. This kid would surely be gone soon.

"How do you manage your temper?"

"What?"

"Your temper. Like when people insult you or push your buttons, how do you not get fired up and the urge to just fight them?"

"You're kidding right? You must be stupid if you think I'm able to manage my temper."

"I was told you used to fight everyone when you were a first year even if they just looked at you. Then you come back from expulsion and people talk about you and you walk past them like you don't even care. You haven't gotten into a serious fight with anyone since you've been back. How?"

"If I fought every person who saw me in any negative light, I'd have to fight the entire school. My temper isn't gone at all. I've wanted to fight people here even now. Fighting them would mean I'd be stuck here longer though. I'd rather just deal with whatever they say or do to me than have to be stuck here longer."

"So you're controlling it better so you can get out of school? You must have something you want outside of here then...but I thought you weren't doing much in classes."

"What does it matter to you?"

There was a moment of silence as he tried to process Jaxon's question and figure out how to word it. Jaxon was as uninterested as ever and still not even looking at him.

"I have a bit of a temper and past with fighting too. I'm trying to get away from that...for my mom. I want to be an honor student but I tend to get angry and lose my temper when people say something about me or my friends."

Jaxon stayed quiet for a moment. Maybe it was because he mentioned trying to stop for his mom or maybe his past with fighting, but Jaxon felt strangely connected to it. This guy couldn't know about Jaxon's connection with his mom. He looked like a freshman and just going off what he's heard about Jaxon. After what he said though, Jaxon didn't want to just brush it off. Sighing once again, he realized he was caught in a vulnerable moment.

"Listen. Night Raven College is a school where it's impossible to avoid having something said about you. Doesn't matter who you are, everyone has something someone hates them for. Most of the time they want a reaction out of you. If you can't figure out how to get it handled then you'll probably end up getting into a serious fight."

"What am I supposed to do then?"

"Don't say anything. I walk past them without even looking in their direction and they get more upset than I do. You're still in control and winning the battle without fighting. You're trying to get away from it for your mom, but she'd probably want you to not do anything anyway. Try to think about how she would feel about it."

"I see. Is that what you do?"

"No."

"What? Why give advice that you don't even follow?"

"You're not supposed to do what I do. That's how you end up like me and everyone hates you."

"You mean you don't think about how your parents feel about what you do at all?"

He used to. He used to be in shame of what he did because he could've been the one that caused his mom to leave. Now he knows he was part of the reason, and it's too late to fix anything. His dad's already given up on him too. The only parent that cared is gone. Just thinking about it again hurt. It made him realize just how alone and hated he is.

"No. There's no one left that cares about me, and I have no reason to care about them. That's all. I do everything for myself."

"That...sounds lonely."

"Doesn't matter to me. Besides, it's not like I have any other choice."

The student didn't say anything in response. They sat there quietly for a few minutes as they thought about the conversation.

"What's your name?"

"Deuce Spade."

#jaxon crowley #twst #twst oc #poor jaxon #jaxon crowley lore

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lightlycareless · 9 months

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CHAPTER 35 IS HITTING LIKE ALL MY FAVORITE TROPES,, the ao3 outage earlier this week KILLED me right during my standard "rereading the latest chapter over and over" frenzy,,,

this one had me throwing my phone on my bed and covering my face w my hands like a flustered maiden. losing my fucking shit the entire time

the sudden "theres something going on that all the staff are whispering about" had me like,, what the fuck is going on,, is someone DEAD? and a momentary "HOW MANY MONTHS HAS IT BEEN SINCE THAT ULTIMATUM" and then its naoya's dumb ass getting himself sick. i'd be annoyed at him if it weren't for the incredible scenes this grants us later in the chapter

(and its also SO FUNNY *how* he got sick-- literally stranded in some cursed energy zone all pathetic and alone. just like my sad kicked dog description i keep using for him. he is embodying it fully and truly.)

when naoya's staff came up to y/n like "its about naoya's health we need you" i was like "ohh the drama is he gonna die without her there or something" and,, turns out thats exactly it he probably would've died from refusing to take medicine if she weren't there. glorious. hes so pathetic its unreal (affectionate)

THEYRE FINALLY ALONE TOGETHER AGAIN,, it feels like its been so long and it apparently has been for him-- feeling like its been centuries since hes seen her. ME TOO MF MAYBE IF YOU WERE LESS OF AN ASSHOLE WE COULDVE BEEN HERE EARLIER

"it feels like you could literally do just about anything with him and he wouldn't be able to stop it" - "you were sure you could control him" Y/N,, GIRL,, YOU WANNA TOP HIM SO BAD OOO YOU WANT TO DOM HIM SO BAD. IM CHEERING FOR YOU (she might've been thinking more about murder. but i know what i was thinking) that followed by the "holding the cup directly to his lips to make him drink" scene is killing me. im going insane for them.

she FINALLY gets to interrogate his ass and he CAN'T go anywhere or do anything about it this whole scene was AMAZING. we get so much added dimension to both of them with y/n finally getting to snap on him somewhat and say/ask all the things she's been hiding, and naoya finally showing a little bit of that vulnerability with the discussion about the records and his mother. there's SO much going on here and i can't WAIT to see how that's gonna unfold in the next chapter ft. all sorts of flashbacks

i would read like 35 more chapters of just these sick shenanigans going on tbh. naoya's pov during this kinda thing would be so interesting too-- how deliriously out of it is he actually? is he gonna be absolutely mortified at this behavior when he's more lucid? i could also imagine him pretending to be sick for wayyy longer than he really is just so y/n won't leave,,,

outstanding showstopping amazing. i cant wait to see whats next!

Hi!!!! AAAA sorry for taking a while to get back to your ask, however I must say that when I saw this pop up on my inbox I was going through somewhat of a sad moment, and this made me very happy :’) So thank you!! 😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

Now onto the juicy details…

I’m 100% aware that I’ve been writing nothing less than indulging tropes… AND I’M GLAD ABOUT IT HAHAHAH I’M NEVER GONNA STOP

I think I might’ve been a bit dramatic when writing the reaction from the staff. But after everything that happened… there’s no other way for them to react 😂 The never-ending drama in the Naoya-Y/N soap opera has them on edge, they saw this coming and was only a matter of waiting when it would occur.

It makes me wonder what Naobito’s opinion about this whole charade was 🤔 From disappointment towards his son, to amusement when hearing that Naoya has been incessantly calling for Y/N. He probably lurked around as close as he could to get a better look of what was happening, maybe even bringing some popcorn to enjoy the show. Y/N was right to assume that his family would’ve intervened to force her into aiding Naoya, although… not because they cared but rather because Naobito was tired of things being boring.

Omg… who does he ship Y/N with? Naoya or Naoaki? WTF am I even saying lmao 😂 I need to log off.

As for the timeline… please don’t ask me about it AHAHAH I feel like after all the things that happened, if I were to sit down and determine how much time has passed since the beginning of the story… it would probably be like 5 years or so lol —well, it certainly feels like it anyways. But I will set a time frame in the following chapters to give you an example of how long it’s been, if it’s believable anyways 😂 Thank god it’s fiction AMIRITE? (excuse my lazy writing 😭)

Anyways, the way he got sick is exactly as you described: overall pathetic. There really is no better words to say, serves to show how he’s slowly losing himself 💀😂 ah, poor Naoya, but can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. I wonder what he actually did in those missing days?

I’m very surprised y/n was involved at all for there’s no way the staff didn’t know of their tumultuous relationship. This more likely than not could’ve worsened his situation… and if she was truly vengeful she could’ve taken this chance to kill him and yet, they still had faith on her, believed she would somehow ignore all the horrible things he had done to her and do the right thing. And in that matter, they don’t deserve Y/N lol. Once again if she were a bit more unhinged, she could easily be a Tomie-type of character… but where’s the fun in that? (at least for what I have in mind, not gonna say that writing that kind of story isn’t intriguing hehe)

Well, the threat of her being forced by her in-laws lingered in the back of her mind, perhaps even her main motivator, but all things considered she decided to do so because, well, she’s not completely evil. She should’ve been a bit harsher… but well, that doesn’t really align to the values she was taught with.

Talking about the alone part… wow. It has been a while since we saw them together like that; like what, 10 chapters? Lol Still, if Y/N had been that unhinged she could’ve been like “I’m taking my ladies with me AND Naoaki for my well-being” and that would’ve murdered Naoya and his staff immediately. HAHAHAH Can you imagine that though? Still, I won’t say that doesn’t sound a bit ridiculous 😂 the whole family reunited in his room lol.

But yeah!! It’s been so long, and it’s finally happening… under relatively normal conditions where Naoya isn’t terrorizing her. It does make me wonder how their time at the ryokan during their honeymoon was like… I might write about it… some snippets here and there (or if someone wants to send in an ask of what they think happened heheh) anyways, her being in this position of power is a bit unnerving to her, and within reason. From being berated almost daily, to being in a situation where she can literally do anything and who’s gonna stop her?????

Well, Y/N isn’t that crazy like Naoya, but I’m sure she’ll make the most out of this situation anyways.

AS FOR THE TOPPING IMPLICATION…. Damn. I didn’t even think about it like that hahah I was out here imagining how “Y/N wants to beat him up, make him suffer, so he can get a taste of what she’s been through………….” And then you show me the other side of the coin where she might want to top him DAMN that’s an interesting perspective of something that might happen further down the road…. AHAHAHHAHA I won’t say anything more.

Either way, not that the aspect of “intimacy” has been brought up, for me those moments that Y/N was taking care of Naoya felt… well, intimate, if that makes sense. Probably a delusion from my side, but it’s the kind of domestic things I want to see happening between the two 😭 no more drama or fighting, just the two being in a healthy, happy relationship. Like Naoya coming back injured from a mission and Y/N tending for him because she cares for him, not because she’s being forced or because Naoya was acting stupid or whatever.

But we shall see, we’re getting somewhere after all :>

The highlights of this chapter would definitely be Naoya opening up to Y/N (although a bit, and when he’s not 100% him, but it’s something…) and Y/N talking (or more like demanding) to know about the records and why he’s acting like that… even though she doesn’t believe him that much lol.

NGL I’m excited for the next chapter, it’s going to be flashbacks that will certainly affect their relationship—something I’ve been wanting to write too! Like, I hadn’t said anything about Tomoko outside of Naoaki’s perspective, but what about Naoya?! What’s his relationship with her like? How was she during her last days at the Estate? And for Y/N, HOW DID MINAKO DIE? Oof, very interesting indeed.

The following chapter, whether for the worse or for the better, is necessary for their marriage. As well as his sickness :> We’re finally getting development for the two yall!!

Anyways, thank you so much for your patience and support! We’re slowly moving forward to the “good stuff” that I cannot WAIT to post!!! There’s also a few more tropes (I guess) that I want to introduce… some that I think are very obvious (of course, because I know what’s happening lmao) 😂 but I can’t help but indulge on them!!!! It’s like an addiction, I must… have… it.

Once again, thank you so much for being patient with me during this short break 🥺❤️ I hope you like the next chapters!! Take care, have a wonderful week, and hope to see you soon!!

#ask #ask series: first it hurts—#naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x your #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader

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newtonsheffield · 2 years

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Idk about your comfort level with the topic so please feel free to ignore this but I just wanted to say I feel the same way about dating. It just doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me, and I don’t want to put all this time and energy desperately looking for someone out of a societally-shaped fear of not being in a relationship. Have people told you things like “oh, you still have so much time, it’ll happen for you,” and “it’ll happen when you least expect it,” “you’ve got to put yourself out there more,” and if so, do you have a good response to that? I get told this all the time and I know they’re not coming from a malicious place but I’m tired of hearing it. Especially when I want to carve my happiness out of other things, and not spend my life feeling like I’m missing out.

Anyways, whether or not you answer (which of course is totally up to you), thank you for sharing that on here because it made me feel less alone. My thought process was basically if someone as cool as Molly thinks this way then maybe I’m not in the wrong and there’s some truth to that concept.

First of all, the fact that I would ever be considered cool is... concerning. I am the biggest dork you'll find.

So here's the thing, yeah people say that all the time. They can't seem to help themselves. Random friends of my Mum think it's coffee table conversation, and it's really uncomfortable. And It's a little disheartening and annoying because obviously, yeah, if it was an option I would want it, but it's not for me for whatever reason right now. I live in a small area and I'm just... not meeting people right now and honestly, I've sort of lost interest in the whole awful process of it all for it to come to nothing and that's fine. I'm focusing on myself.

Comparatively, my sister has known her husband since she was 20 and she was married at 23. So like... Yeah. There's that that people love comparing to.

I usually say this: "Yeah, I'm obviously in a really different point in my life than I thought I'd be when I was younger. I would have thought I'd be married by now but I also thought my husband would be Daniel Radcliffe."

But in all seriousness, I am at a different point in my life than I thought I'd be, and all the things I watched my sister grow up and do with her husband, I'm doing by myself. But I'm not going to stop myself from actually living my life, waiting for something that might never happen. I used to work with someone who didn't want to travel until she was married or get a dog before she was married and like, yeah, cool. But what if that doesn't happen?

Don't limit yourself that way.

I'm open to things if they happen, but I'm not seeking them out. I still have a pretty fulfilling life and here's the truth that we as human beings don't want to admit:

If you weren't enough for yourself, another person won't magically fix that.

Like I said, I'm not sure anyone should be taking life advice from me but that's my two cents

#molly irl

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mlobsters · 5 months

Text

supernatural s12e3 the foundry (w. robert berens)

we're back in minnesota. i lived in st paul for a few years. here waxing poetic about the skyways in minneapolis while watching 8x03

avocado toast, dude with a bun, how very millenial?? (me trying to remember when hipsters died out and it went to just ragging on the whole generation. dean and i are at the cusp of gen x but sammy is solidly geriatric millenial, right :p)

you understand babies crying is like. me fighting against every instinct to find and help the baby. which is especially annoying when it's a baby on the tv. it's not as bad now since my youngest is 5, less on red alert for baby crying but it's still a thing for me and it can stress me the fuck out

i would not be able to pass the crying baby haunted house lure

MARY After you left heaven, when did it start to feel like...like you fit, like you...belonged here? CASTIEL Well, I'm still not sure I do. Mary...you do belong here.

my feelings aside, boys think you do too, cas. and feeling for mary. she got pulled out of heaven (presumably - and with john, presumably? may have read something saying they shared a heaven too) and plonked down with her adult sons who she doesn't know at all, really.

egads what is this music? kind of sounds like recorder/theremin solo. also that's really short you're going there mary! new hair new you, i get it, but doing that big of a chop at home is an undertaking

suspension of disbelief that she managed that very modern cut and styling all alone in the bunker

MARY I'm gonna keep it short if I'm gonna go out on a hunt, you know? Why give the bad guys the advantage of long pullable hair right? DEAN Wow. I've been trying to tell Sam that for years.

vry cute. i'd seen that in a gifset and i was looking for it but searching for the episode just gives me wall to wall cas gifs :p

MARY It's probably nothing. I just thought I might...get out there, stretch my legs. SAM I-I thought you-you weren't down to hunt in the first place. DEAN Well things change, right? Family hunting trip.

poor mary. just trying to get some time alone to sort out her head and dean's not picking up what she's putting down. E for effort

ok i can see some potential with the grumpy and obnoxious buddy cop routine between cas and crowley

aw they're holding hands, how nice

CROWLEY So mother and I had an unfortunate, if not rather embarrassing, run-in with Lucifer. You're just mad because you're only my second choice for a Lucifer-hunt team-up. CASTIEL (said sarcastically) No, actually I think it's sweet. I thought your motivation was ambition and revenge, but now I know you just wanna save your mother. CROWLEY It's not about saving her. Lucifer has made off with a colossally powerful witch who, by the way, is the only person alive who can slam him back in the cage. He will either kill her, control her, or she will offer her services to the biggest bad in town in order to save her neck, like she always does. Do any of those sound like particularly good outcomes to you?

crowley comin in hot with the logic. see that's another thing that irks me about how they write cas. he's snarky, then he's a buffon. he understands sarcasm and knows every pop culture reference via metatron zap, the he takes everything literally and is constantly confused. PICK ONE. preferably the sarcastic snarky one :p

quietly asking for mark pellegrino to get magicked back for lucifer

MARY Hmm. Mm, maybe, but...all I know is, that little boy who grabbed me, I...he didn't wanna hurt me. He was scared. SAM Yeah, um...it must've felt that way, but, mom, the victims were all lured to their death by a baby's cry. Uh, the spirit marked Natalia right before she was killed, the same way the spirit marked you. I mean, if we hadn't gotten there in time...

mushy music returns but i already used my video quota on the weird recorder music

SAM Look, I'm happy, too, Dean. I am. I'm overjoyed. But...there's something about her. I mean, something's going on with her. DEAN Yeah, she's adjusting. SAM No, she's struggling. I mean, she's trying to bury herself in hunting to avoid dealing. DEAN And how do you know that? SAM Years of personal experience. I don’t know man. Uh...like mother, like sons.

hey sammy, does that mean you're gonna force dean (and yourself) to deal with all of y'all's shit too :p

ok also slightly suffocating that she's trying to get some space and now she's crammed into one hotel room with her very large sons. so who got the rollaway bed? mary because she's the smallest, but i can't imagine dean standing for that. maybe rock paper scissors with sam

okay that made me laugh. here for rowena being tricksy

the music in this episode continues to be weird. i really don't understand why it stands out so negatively so frequently to me

DEAN Mom, it's okay. All right? You're home now. MARY No. I'm not. I miss John. I miss my boys. SAM We're right here, mom. MARY I know. In my head. But I'm still mourning them as I knew them. My baby Sam. My little boy Dean. Just feels like yesterday, we were together in heaven, and now...I'm here, and John is gone, and they're gone. And every moment I spend with you reminds me every moment I lost with them. And I thought hunting, working, would clear my head. SAM Mom...w-what are you trying to say? MARY I have to go. I'm sorry. I'm so...so sorry. I just need a little time.

(mushy music round 2)

well. that's shitty. can see where i'd gotten the "mom walked out on them" thing from fic. but as ever, i can see both sides on that one. being yanked out of literal heaven without any say in the matter, thrown into an unfamiliar world and feeling useless. some time and space is totally reasonable. and i don't know that dean would have given that if she stayed in the bunker. but also, can see how hurt and abandoned that could leave the boys feeling. no-win situation. and not entirely sure why we're even doing this resurrected mary plotline.

#supernatural #spnwatch #spn musical score #spn mushy music #spn 12x03 #spn clip #robert berens #jay gruska

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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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first of all, omg, that maxi garter ask was so sexy, BUT it did make me wonder oddly enough about like…how the morvants get off in a sense? especially with the way you talked about how maxi’s person would be stuck in their head 24/7 or listening to them get off while spying on them 😳😵‍💫

So sorry this took me eons, nonny. :’D I hope you don’t mind me using it now as a way to kick off the things I’m trying to clear out of my askbox, after y’all have been so kind and patient through my exams.

so, I've been turning this over since you asked - since it's such a very good question, after all - and while I think I've maybe made a couple one-off comments here and there, I don't think I'd really gotten a chance to ponder it in-depth.

(nsf tumblr under the cut. yandere/stalker/possessive behavior from the three serial killer necromancers, surprise surprise)

All the Morvants are fine getting themselves off, to some degree. Maxi and Hex are both fairly comfortable with it, Maxi thinking he was going to die alone in that fucking House for ages because he couldn't stand the thought of bringing someone there he actually liked, Hex because he spent so long in tunnel vision pursuit of his latest favorite prey/next link in his Chain that he got pretty used to seeing people casually just being one more thing that held him up. Rora has a more complicated relationship with it after death, but we'll get to that.

All three of them would usually rather be with a partner than handling things themselves, so to speak, but in a pinch, if it works it works. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

In writing this, it became less a question about how they get off in general and more about the first time they get off to You, specifically, bc you're usually going to be the thing that tempts them to action if you're not around. Although they usually all tend to be around you in some way or another, even if you don't realize it at the time.

Maxi spends weeks after that first afternoon in the cemetery trying to keep his cool. He spends his days working with people in sensitive states of grief, or performing procedures on their late loved ones that have to meet very specific standards, he cannot afford to be distracted. Ever. But the more time the two of you start spending together, the more he finds himself spacing out at odd moments thinking about the way your favorite scent smells on your skin, or the way you playfully nudged him when he made a particularly bad death pun, and how it was some of the first human contact he’s genuinely enjoyed in a while. When the moment you bit your lip when you were thinking about a question he asked you plays over and over in his brain for what feels like hours one day, he realizes just how much he’s actually into you, and it truthfully scares him just a little bit. It’s been a while. He’s gotten used to doing this alone. This could complicate things considerably.

But he has eyes, he knows you're gorgeous in a way that appeals to him in particular. It's not like he didn't look you over once or twice when you weren't looking even the first time you met, as much as he was trying to be a gentleman. Eventually, the more he likes you, he starts thinking about you whenever he's alone. The particular set of your lips, the light in your eyes when you say something clever, the glint of sweat on your collar bone on an especially warm afternoon. The first time you kiss that man, he's done for. He finally cracks when he's in his office later that night and has to hastily jerk off under his desk, just so he can get the way your chest pressed against his in the moment off his mind and finish some fucking paperwork with a clear head. When he can finally think straight, he's annoyed with himself and the literal mess on his hands for letting himself be so impatient, but when you're as starved for affection and touch as he is by that point, obsessing over someone he likes as much as you feels inevitable. And it will be, although he doesn't realize quite how Literally yet.

After that, he tries to only get himself off when he's safely alone in his room - but the thought of you refuses to leave him be. He catches himself looking for you whenever he's running errands in town, hoping for even just a glimpse outside of your next planned get-together. More than once, he makes up a reason to drive past your house, just to see if you're home or busy in your yard or whatever flimsy weird excuse he concocts. He starts getting desperate the more he realizes he really, really likes you: he checks your socials constantly whenever he has a break at the Mortuary, wanting to see what you're doing and who you're with; he combs your goodreads or something similar if you have one to see what books you have in common, or what favorites you mention that he can find later and read himself; he quietly keeps tabs on your spotify once he finds out what it is (to see what mood you might be in, if you're doing okay, all definitely Normal People Stuff). He finds himself straight up laying on the prep table when he's not using it in the embalming room, listening to the music you listened to for ages and trying to retrace what he imagines your thought process to be. He wonders, when he listens to a particularly romantic song, if you’re thinking of him, because he feels like he’s always thinking of you now.

There’s at least once, and he would be mortified if anyone else ever found out, where he can’t help himself and makes himself come while imagining you riding him against the cold flat steel. He scrubs everything down obsessively after and immediately showers in a fit of pique and shame, but there’s some part of him surrounded by steam and soap and the smell of bleach on his hands that still likes the idea.

When he realizes he's In Deep, he realizes early, and he's doing his best to balance indulging in his fantasies/hopes of finally getting you alone, trying to keep his stalking urges under control, and justifying excuses to track you down to himself with trying to stay a reasonable fucking person for you, because he doesn't ever want to scare you off or give you a reason to not trust him, ever. You're the closest he's felt to a home in ages -- if he lost that, he really would go insane. He adores you, he’d do anything for you to the point of pain or death, and it kills him not to know how much you reciprocate.

He spends more and more time between your dates just chasing breadcrumbs of you: he keeps a small list in his phone of things you mention in conversation, either when you’re together or just texting, that he searches as soon as he’s closed the embalming room for the night. Any word of yours is fodder for him to look, to read, to investigate. He has audio versions of your favorite books that he listens to while he’s repairing a shattered skull (saves him from having to hear the guy’s ghost muttering in his ear); he has a playlist of songs and artist you’ve said you liked that he listens to as he does laundry at one in the morning; his search history is a running tab of things you even half-heartedly mention you like. He’s definitely watched at least a season of your favorite show when he can’t sleep (the whole thing, if he liked it too), and whenever he picks up flowers for his services at Della’s (the town’s oldest florist), he gives different ones a quiet sniff when he’s not looking, trying to figure out which ones feature in any scent you wear.

But the longer he spends with you, the more it’s just not enough, until finally, he catches himself standing at your front door with his lockpick when he's sure you're away from your place. He checks your doors, your windows, wanting to make sure you're safe from everyone else, and finally, the darker voices inside him howling in his brain, he walks into your room and immediately snatches up in the t-shirt you slept in last night that you left on your floor this morning. When he forces himself to leave your place, he kidnaps it, fairly certain he hadn't seen you wear it anywhere else before and hoping it won't be missed. He makes himself come multiple times that night with one hand holding it over his nose and mouth like a gag, at this point not even trying to pretend he's being remotely sane about how badly he wants you. It's as deep in him as blood and bone at this point, just as undeniable, essential. He keeps it under his pillow when he sleeps, dreaming of you, tossing and turning for the first time in decades when he doesn’t find you there next to him after all.

If you or his clients think he looks oddly tired, you are kind enough not to mention it to him.

Before you've ever stayed the night with him, he's hidden himself under your bed multiple times - whenever he was worried about you, or hadn't seen you in a few days, whenever your spotify alluded to some storm of sadness you hadn’t told him about. Whenever he craved the nearness of you that he had no right to claim yet. There’s a part of him that doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near you, he knows this. But the dark voice in his head is relentlessly demanding in its clench-toothed growl: Mine.

It was these nights that he learns you crave him just as much, with the sheer number of times he hears you fuck yourself senseless on a toy, or your fingers with a brutal pace he desperately craves to match, whining his name breathlessly into the dark of your room where he cannot answer. He resists the urge until his hands positively burn, trying to allow you this, this one single act for yourself... but the way you plead so sweetly for him, it takes everything in him not to crawl up onto your mattress and pin you down to give you exactly what you’re begging for. He bites his own lip until it bleeds more than once, trying to keep silent as he desperately ruts against his palm until he comes with you in the closest way he can, for now. But he won’t dare touch you until you ask him to outside your room, and even then, he’ll only come back here with you when he’s absolutely sure you’ll have him. It’s only after he ruins two of his lighter pairs of suit pants that he realizes he has to just stick to sweats or jeans when he crashes under your bed, just out of practicality (and not having to explain things to his dry cleaner).

He gets a little bolder after these agonizing nights under your bed about stealing a kiss when the two of you are out, or sliding his hand under your shirt and up your side when you’re making out on your couch, or in the hearse, wherever. He’s still near-reverential of your boundaries, and he’s the one who suggested taking things slow. But if you notice he’s a little needier after you’ve enjoyed a particularly fun fantasy alone, you’re just excited that the two of you seem to have more in common than you first suspected - especially when he pins you just inside the door to your place, pulling your clothes and finally your underwear aside as he kneels in front of you, like you’d been dreaming about the night before. There’s definitely a date or two that ends with his fingers or his tongue on you in a way that makes you whine, and even if you do reciprocate in the moment, when he’s alone in the middle of the night he’s only really thinking about the sounds you made as he makes himself come repeatedly in his dark bedroom.

If you start to notice some clothes seemingly disappearing from your laundry more often - first an old shirt you only wore sometimes, then the one you wore on your most recent date, and finally, weirdly, your second favorite pair of Nice underwear - you chalk it up to forgetfulness or a wonky dryer trap.

Your first time together, once the two of you have been obviously pining for each other more than usual, he cares for you like you’re something achingly precious, giving you everything you’d fantasized about all those nights you’d thought you were alone in your room. He’s half out of his mind from finally getting what he wants, and he’s determined to give you exactly what you want in return, now that he knows how. Knows he can, which he’d been afraid of for a little while - that you would find something in him wanting, the touch of Death too overpowering to find enough foundation for a life. You’re left gasping, near tears with overstimulation from everything he puts you through, and you refuse to let go of each other for the rest of the night. Something in you sings, and you feel at home for the first time in an age.

Maxi sleeps with his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing his chest to your back and keeping his nose buried in your hair. It is the first time he doesn’t toss or turn in a month.

When you’re together, and all of this is out in the open, he still gets himself off sometimes when he catches himself thinking of you. He’s just more inclined, when possible, to seek the real thing for himself - he knows that his imagination isn’t a substitute by a long shot.

Ever the gentleman, he’s more than happy to return the clothes he ‘borrowed’ from you eventually. Except for that first t-shirt - that he saves for the rare nights his nocturnal activities keep him away from you. A little piece of home, just in case.

Hector’s urges aren’t quite so linear. When he first sees you, it could be anywhere in Greymoon: at the weekend market, in the window of the local cafe or diner, or wandering through a little local shop. Maybe even just taking a walk through the cemetery, drawn in by the quiet feeling of company even when you think you’re all alone.

His lens will be his eyes, for a while. He’ll watch you through it like you’re merely a passing spectacle, struck by something about you he cannot name. The sunlight on your hair, the way you smile at whoever you’re talking to. Even the way you look down at your phone is fodder enough for his inner muse, and he wonders what secret joke makes your mouth quirk up like that at the corner. There’s something to you he must unravel, or piece together. He likes the way you look in the center of his frame - you wear it almost like a mantle.

So he starts to follow you before either of you have ever exchanged a word. For a while, it’s quiet. He wants to get a feel for you, see you in your natural habitat. He wants to understand your comings and goings as pieces of the larger intricate choreography that is your life. You are something separate from him still, something entirely ephemeral. You could be as distant as a sunrise, yet more captivating in the fact that you’re alive.

The first time he thinks of you when he’s getting himself off, it’s late at night in his darkroom and he’s more bored and restless than anything. This is just trying to get his brain to shut up, to make himself feel rooted in his skin again after being in the House for too long so he can focus.

It’s only when the thought of you fleetingly crosses his mind - your skin, your lips, the way sunlight at golden hour looks in your eyes - that he feels something so electric pass through him, it only takes a couple more passes of his hand for him to leave a mess quite by accident on the darkroom floor.

Panting, slightly dazed, he wonders what that was all about. It’s been a while since he’s had someone who… inspired that particular reaction, in him. Even as he’s looking for something to clean up the mess, he’s already thinking of what day it is tomorrow - where he usually sees you during this time of the week.

He wants a closer look, now. To see if maybe this would be interesting to chase.

The next day, when you wander in to the cafe for your usual morning cup of coffee, you about jump out of your skin when there’s a particularly bright-eyed man suddenly standing next to you at the counter. He laughs and apologizes immediately, offers to pay for the cup he about made you spill - but there’s a gleam in his dark eyes like he knows something you don’t. A joke he’ll let you in on, eventually.

Nonetheless, he’s charming, he’s more than cute, and by the time you realize you’re running half an hour late for whatever it was you were actually on your way to, he’s more than happily given you his number.

When you text him a couple days later, just to say hi, that’s all he needs. This is a Sign.

Maxi and Hex are both adept at finding people through social media breadcrumbs - it’s been both a necessity and something to do when they’re bored over the years - but Hex is the one who’s been learning how to brute-force a password during his years in Mexico, remotely accessing other people’s stuff when he needs to keep an eye on them. The Internet of Things is everywhere, now, and people are pretty routine creatures when it comes to things like this. He’s weirdly proud when it takes him more than a couple conversations to figure out what one of yours might be, having run through all the basic clues already - he likes that in a person. He drinks in your private data like it’s water, leaving no metaphorical stone unturned. Clearly, your essence called out to him for a reason, he’s determined to find it.

Turns out you take some beautiful photos yourself, when you’re in the mood. He has quite a bit of fun with those, alone in his bedroom on the second floor. On the nights sleep is particularly evasive, he wears himself out thinking of exactly how your thighs would feel wrapped around his back, or resting on his shoulders. It becomes a favorite ritual in the evenings, especially once he gets to know you better in the daylight.

After every outing together - starting simple, just a walk around the weekend farmer’s market, then another coffee at the usual place - he immediately goes home to check what you’re texting your friends about him or what mushy posts you confine to your drafts, what songs you throw on your music app before and after. He grins to himself the first time he sees you search a song he mentioned in conversation, and he starts doing it at least once every time he sees you after, trying to see how many times he leaves an impression.

He makes sure to park the mustang very strategically when he starts watching your windows, only when it’s dark and only when he’s sure he’s mostly obscured by the fixtures of your yard. More than once, as you’ve been getting changed for the night, he’s definitely had to palm himself through his jeans to take the edge off until he couldn’t take it anymore.

The first time he’s the intended recipient of one of your photos, he sees it on his laptop before he actually sees it on his phone, and he’s hooked. He can’t stop staring at it for at least three days, (much to the annoyance of his cousins, when he keeps forgetting to set the fucking dishwasher because he sneaks off to his room immediately after any shared meals). Once they put two and two together, however, they’re both more than fine with him not mooning over your nudes in the kitchen - and grateful their respective bedrooms are on different sides of the House.

The first time he sends you one back (with an admittedly killer angle, damn him), it from somewhere dark, kind of cramped-looking. You just shrug it off and decide he deserves a video, poor baby, being stuck wherever he is on a shoot. Something to help him pass the time while he’s waiting for his time-lapse shot to give him enough contrast to be worth shooting, or whatever.

As you’re filming yourself in a very… compromising position, one hand holding the camera and the other occupied, you’re too busy to notice the way your closet door just slightly cracks open.

By the time you hit send, he’s already trying to catch his breath on your floor with his cock still in his hand, one of your scarves shoved in his mouth to muffle any sounds that might give him away.

Hex is still respectful of your physical boundaries - he’s more than happy to stare at you when you’re not looking, that’s the only line he’ll cross with you in person - but he doesn’t hold out long after that, if you two haven’t fooled around before then. If he gets his way, he invites you to go stargazing after dinner one night in a particularly secluded spot, with a soft blanket and a bottle of wine and - well. You get the picture. But he’s just as happy if the two of you end up back at yours after going shot for shot at dinner, leading to a messy makeout session on your couch before he finally cracks and begs to take your shirt off, please preciosa.

After the two of you have been going out a while, if he wants to get himself off, it’s usually just because he’s restless or bored. He still usually sticks to the dark room or his bedroom - but his new favorite source is less his imagination, and more the collection of photos of you (both knowingly and unknowingly received) that he’s started on his phone. (If you’re around, though, he’ll usually just come find you himself and ask with those eyes of his.)

Rora is the one of the three that holds off the longest after she first encounters you - but when she does see you, for the first time, it feels like a lightning bolt. Wherever you are - in the plant nursery, or the bookstore, or the little rent-a-stall market where she sells her taxidermy - she literally forgets to breathe for a beat.

After so long of being dead, of being fixated on getting back and getting revenge and taking the title that’s rightfully hers with blood in her teeth and hair… she feels something Else. Something she hadn’t felt since she was alive the first time.

She remembers what it is to want something outside yourself. Someone.

She tries to make a point of not staring so long you’ll look her way - she does not do Looking well, not yet - but she’s taken in by your hands. They look… soft. Or, more specifically, like they know how to touch things softly. Gently, that’s the word. She watches the way your lips move when you talk, animated and lively, all the little muscles underneath your skin performing in a way entirely unique to you. She admires the curve of your ear, like a pretty shell of cartilage.

She wonders what it would be like to place a flower behind it. She thinks about what kind of flower would best suit your eyes, and what shape would complement the arch of your brow.

And then she has to not jump half a foot when Maxi and Hex walk up behind her to see if she needs help carrying things out to the car. She shoves whatever she’s holding at them in a hurry, spinning on her heel and heading for the door before either of them can track her gaze.

But even as they drive back to the House on the edge of town - the guys up front and her contented to be chauffeured in the back - she’s twirling a strand of her own hair around her fingers and wondering what yours would feel like instead.

Truthfully, she’s so busy with her plans around the Mortuary (planting her gardens, setting her workshop back up after decades of disuse, figuring out how to be a fucking person twenty years later than she was supposed to be) that you slip her mind, for a bit.

When she sees you again, it’s like lightning striking twice.

She sees you walking around town, just going about your day, but it’s still a revelation to her. She watches you from afar, determined not to let you see her Looking still, but she shadows you quietly - just to see. To get a taste of what it might be like to fit into your own skin, your original skin, like it was made for you. To move seamlessly through the world, as if you didn’t have to think about it. You were just… still part of it.

Admiring your bone structure, she thinks you wear your skin rather well.

She starts thinking of you at random moments throughout her day: when she’s up knuckle-deep in damp potting soil, or removing the delicate entrails of a raccoon, or up wandering around in the middle of the night because after the grave nothing feels dark enough to sleep.

She grasps for the curve and the hook of things - roots, bones, dreams - and wonders what it would be like for your fingers to intertwine with hers.

She starts making excuses to go into Greymoon proper - walking when Maxi’s too busy to drive and Hex is out of the House. She waves off their protests (their not unreasonable concern that someone might recognize her, even with her face on a new skull; their shared secret worry that she might disappear as quickly as she reappeared), too determined to get a glimpse of you to be kept from you by a mere hike down the dirt road that they use as a cut-through back to their place.

She knows she can’t keep staring at you forever, though. Not without you noticing eventually. And indeed, once or twice, she swears she feels your eyes pass over her when she turns her head to take in something in her surroundings. There’s a small part of her that hopes, maybe, you’ll just accept her in your orbit as part of Greymoon - a distant satellite, something that watches but never passes too near.

But, inevitably, you run into each other face to face. There’s plenty of ways it could happen: you finally get up the nerve to approach the beautiful, silent woman you see looming like a graceful specter around town; she finally swallows her nerves and figures if she can transpose her own soul back into her body, she can talk to someone she thinks is lovely; or you two literally bump into each other, coming from around the opposite sides of a building because you lost sight of one another in your silent watching. She does her best to keep herself calm, pretending her small smile is more coy than nervous. She just manages to ask if you’d accompany her for coffee, or lunch, or another trip to the nursery - something to see you, even just for a little while. When you agree, she keeps her response poised, cool, her mother’s lessons back to haunt her.

But all the week leading up to your - visit? gathering? (Not a date, it’s too soon - or is it?) - she finds herself pacing restlessly around the House, looking for things to fix, knots that need undone, hems that need altered and holes that need sewn. There’s something in her just below the surface, she can feel it shifting, pushing through her chest like new shoots.

After the date (is it a date? she’s allowed to call it a date, right? people do that now?), you’re all she thinks about. The way you smiled at her when she made a joke, or the curve of your elbow resting upon the table, the way your hair moved in its particular fashion. The way sunlight plays off your skin like the petals of a rose.

She’s in her garden one afternoon, gazing at one of her perfect blooms, when she finds herself lightly tracing the lip of one - her fingertip sliding down the curve, towards the bell at the end of the stem. She imagines what your lips would feel like if she happened to trace them; she’s had a hard enough time trying to find the right flower to match them as is, but she hopes the texture would be close… right?

She catches herself awash in the scent of her roses, her thighs pressing together as she strokes the blossom until the petals come apart under the pressure of her hand, her eyes sightless and staring somewhere else entirely.

She keeps making up excuses to come find you - both to make it so you don’t have to come out to the House where she died, and because maybe it doesn’t hurt that it gives her an excuse to be out in the world again, in a way. To remember what it was she left behind. What she could have now.

She’s possessive in a different way than the boys - it’s still visceral, when she realizes she wants you all to herself. That she wants to cradle the back of your skull in her hands like it’s something precious, to lavish your hair in love and perfume, to know exactly what you taste like and if it’s anything like nectar. She finds herself having to ask the boys how people work nowadays - where she can wander through your mind, or part of it, and immerse herself in you for at least a little while. But she gets bored with the social media stuff; sure, it’s more than the mixtapes she and her girlfriend passed back and forth back in the day, but it’s so much less tangible.

No, she takes after her twin in how she shows up at your place when she knows you won’t be home. She gets a lay of the land - literally, looking around what portion of a yard you may or may not have. What trees you have, if any, what plants, what grass calls your yard its habitat. She uses a pin from her hair to pick your door’s lock and waltz right in. She takes a look at what plants you have, where they sit in the light, makes a note of what tips she can casually drop into conversation about how to keep them healthy (and maybe gives them a little water while she’s there).

She heads for your bedroom last - wanting to savor that part. She runs her fingertips over the clothes in your closet, takes in the art and posters on your walls, fingers whatever jewelry you might have on a dresser or in a box. She looks for patterns, repeating signs, trying to see what you associate with yourself. How you want to be seen, so she knows how else she might see you. If you wear any fragrance, she pulls the handkerchief she keeps hidden (one of the only traits of her mother’s she found useful since coming back to this side of the veil) and sprays it there. She folds it up before it can dry, wanting it to permeate the entire fabric.

That night, in the white sheets of her bedroom, she holds it to her nose and breathes like she’s preparing to dive, her fingers plunging deeper into herself before greedily circling her own clit. Her fingers, as strange to her as they still are, are no replacement for yours. Her hands don’t stray too much further - the breasts of this body still don’t feel like they’re quite hers, and the lines of the tattoo on her thigh that she never chose still spook her when her hand ghosts over them by accident.

But the thought of your lips on hers, her lips elsewhere, yours lower - those, she can handle. Those make her feel at home in this new skin, even when that’s been denied to her for so long.

Whenever she smells your fragrance on you when she comes to see you, she wonders if you can see the way her fingers twitch needfully, having to look away from you for a moment just to catch her breath again.

The first time the two of you kiss - in her back garden, where she’s invited you out for a glass of her own lavender lemonade - she tastes it on her lips for three days, and does everything she can to keep it on her tongue for the following two nights.

The first time you successfully convince her that she’s safe with you, on your favorite quilt in your room, she relishes every drop she gets of you. She devours you like a woman starved, and when your tongue finally skims her clit in return, she feels the thunder from your last lightning strike at last shake her entire body. The whole of the storm, at last.

Afterwards, no matter how many flowers are around - in your house or her garden - it’s still the scent of you that makes her weak at the knees.

Thanks again for your patience, Nonny - this was exactly the kind of warm re-start I needed! <3 Looking forward to posting more soon :D

If you read this far, I hope you have some fun of your own later :3c

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fictionkinfessions · 2 years

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Sometimes we forget that we are two separate beings. We've been saying we for so long, it's strange to think that we are two different entities, a human boy and a spider.

Sometimes we wonder what would happen if we got our freedom. Luckily we are both boys so we know we only go by he/him pronouns.

I'm the only one who can actually talk as I'm the human component of our...fused state. I can hear the thoughts and opinions of the spider, I hadn't realized that spiders are as complex as they are. Maybe he is only this smart as a result of our situation but I can't help having a whole new respect for spiders after this, which is why we stay with the spiders. They are my friends, the accept me and don't call me a monster, don't call us a monster. We coexist. Even if we were ever separated and got to be separate again, I'd never lose the respect and love I've gained for spiders, and I think we would remain friends and even hang out. We are a spider boy now, a boy hanging out with a spider is surely bound to be less...weird?

We like being together, we do miss being separate, but we'd never just go our separate ways if that were to happen to us and we got the opportunity. We really bonded.

He didn't really have an identity before we became us, I gave him his own name that is separate from mine, Web. He is use to being Webber with me so we agreed that Web was the best name to separate me and him from eachother.

I wish to have gotten my dad's love, but Wilson was like a father to us, both of us. He didn't really like spiders until us. He reminded me so much of my dad, always in his work involving science, but he paid attention to me. To us. We both liked it. The love, the attention.

We came across Wendy and she is our best friend, I had a crush on her. I don't remember if anything ever happens between us, but I liked being close to Wendy. She was like us in a way, scary on the inside but all kind and sweet looking on the outside, while we are scary on the outside but really I'm just a boy who wants to see the best in everything and a spider who was just scared. I remember hearing thoughts that weren't mine telling me to let Wendy know that I liked her. It was a bit annoying and embarrassing sometimes but I appreciated the support and the fact that I was believed in. We liked playing with Wendy in the flowers and making flower crowns.

I remember that we still grew, or at least my body did. We got older. We weren't dead, just a monster according to most. We got taller, I got taller. Puberty was weird, we were already very hairy. We didn't smell the best either, but we got stronger, and other things happend to.

It was hard to tell what changed most of the time as we were just getting taller on the outside that was visable at least.

We liked growing up with everyone, the friends we made.

I don't have many memories of the events that happend when we got older besides the fact I got taller and how odd puberty turned out to be.

Maybe we became separated at some point, I'm not sure at the moment, but we don't know if we would change what we experienced for the world. We met so many cool people because of this and formed a bond that I'll always remember.

#fictionkinfessions #fictionkin #spiders cw #dontstarvekin #child neglect cw #?#mod party cat!

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idontwanttospoiltheparty · 2 years

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I don't know that I agree that music is more universal. Sure, a lot of people don't read, but I'd consider film, television, comics, and even certain types of new media content narrative fiction. And, in my experience, the approach is the same across the board there. With one lane for discussing enjoyment/quality and another for discussing the piece as it exists.

But I think you make a great point that people are far more likely to be exposed to music they dislike. Which makes discussions centering quality all the more pervasive. I hadn't considered that.

I also agree with what you're saying about the socialization around artistic analysis making the biographical route more appealing for analyzers. That's exactly what I was tempted to refer to with regards to fiction vs. music as art forms in my last ask

I think one aspect here is the size of the work of art. If the song is only three minutes long, it can be harder to have full-fledged thoughts on it, to the extent one may have about something more long-form like a TV show (or even episode), a movie, or a book. Sure, there are albums and even entire discographies, but unlike serialized TV or books or movies, you usually are not required to listen to the rest to understand one song.

I mean, I am an album girl, even an entire discography girl, and I think most of my favourite artists would not be my favourite artists if it weren't for their entire body of work, how they artistically grew over time, but I feel like few people have the patience these days to fully delve into entire albums, which is a shame, and surprising in this era of TV binging.

Also, interestingly, aside from getting annoyed at over-franchising by companies like Disney, I feel there's far less of a sentiment that the quality of TV, movies, and books (outside tiktok books I guess) are in decline like has been a prevalent narrative in some music circles for a long time. But maybe that's just my impression because I'm far more invested in music criticism.

#regarding the last paragraph: my thoughts are complicated lol #bottom line is that technology has made it quite easy to make verrrrrry basic surface level songs thatll rake in a bunch of streams #but also boomers are exceptionally good at forgetting the Bad Stuff that played on their radio and was Not Good #there have always been and always will be great artists making great stuff #music talk #ask #anon

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reki-of-the-valley · 4 months

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I don't do this often, and I don't plan on often doing this, but I've been thinking about it today so here's a few reflections I will share with yall about writing and creation. Just like a little "talking without knowing if I truly make sense" moment for me. My little Older Sibling moment for any little creative bug out there who's willing to listen to me for just a moment

I'm pretty sure the bulk of y'all know I've been writing and creating stories since before I was even conscious of my existence. Like, to the point where my parents would get fed up with having to watching my little stage plays that I'd put on with my stuffed animals and still remind me of how annoying I was to this day (long story short of that is picture a 4-5 year old putting on a 45 minute production that came with scribbled "instructions" only I could understand. And no, my parents were not allowed to leave until I was done, otherwise I cried.) But that means I've been here for a hot minute. I've been on this wild rollercoaster for YEARS. Which means I picked up a few things, noticed a few little things about it. And a lot of you also know that I have a whole ass degree in literature, which means I've also read a few things, studied styles and the effect of those styles on the reader. And like yeah, I'm not the most well read person out there, I know so many people who have read so much more than me, but this isn't a competition. I just know I've read enough for me to be able to reflect on my own writing. Which brings me to the writer that stands (sits?) here today

Y'all creating is a fucking bitch. It's a painful process, holy shit. Like it's emotionally draining, physically and mentally demanding, it's a fucking bitch. But I also wouldn't trade my ability to create stories for anything in this world. It's a bitch, but it's my bitch. And it's not always a bitch. Like it's never easy per se, but there are things that work better than others. There are some stories that take less time to be put onto a page than others, maybe because they're simpler or I have more of a vision, but they still take up time and energy. Everything takes energy, energy I don't always have, but I'm always willing to try to find. Which might be why I burnt out for two whole years, but that's besides the point. What I'm trying to say is that even if it's hard, creation is rewarding and I love it. And there's no easy path when it comes to creation. It's uncertain, rocky terrain, that's for sure. But it's rewarding.

It's rewarding, but it doesn't mean I like everything I write. And sometimes it's right when I write it, I hate it, but whatever, I still created it so that's worth something? And then maybe I come to love it. And maybe I like something, but then revisit it and hate it. I don't like everything I've made, I know, it's a shocker. And yet, I'm still proud of what I've created. Because it comes from me, from the energy I was able to scrape by. So here's my first thing I want people to remember: Even if you don't love it, even if you don't even like it, you can and should still be proud of what you've made. It wouldn't exist if it weren't for your efforts, no matter how great or little those efforts were.

Another thing is that you will improve. I know we're usually our own harshest judges, I know it's so easy to look at what we've created and go "someone would have done a better job than me" but fuck that shit. No one else can do it the way you did. No one can do your vision justice if you don't do it yourself. Because you're the only person who knows the exact colors you want there, the exact word that will tie it all together. And sometimes it's difficult to express that little thing you're trying to express, but trust yourself. Trust that you know what you're doing, even when you don't have the slightest clue. It'll work out, my dear. I promise it will. And if it doesn't, walk away and try again later. That might be what you need. Or maybe you need to ask for help. You can do that too.

Asking for help isn't proof of your failure. You're not a failure because you can't do a thing all on your own. And I know it's scary to ask for help, or admit that you can't pull everything out of your head, know every secret of the universe, but you can do it. And look, I've been at this writing and creating thing for like 20 years. And I've been at this writing "real stories" (which isn't a real thing, btw. Everything is a real story, but what I mean here is not being 8 years old and writing the many adventures I thought my pets went on while I was at school) for over 10 years. (because yes, I was that teenager that wasn't paying attention in class because I was too busy writing stories and fanfiction in my notebooks. Math? No thanks, I have to write this story about my favorite characters going on adventures and learning about the power of friendship!) I've gone through so much stuff, tried out so much stuff, that I think I can talk about. And I'm still not perfect. I still don't have beta readers for my fics. I'm the only person who edits my work because I'm still so scared of criticism. I've been writing for over 10 years, sharing my stories for just as long, and I'm still terrified of asking for help. But there have been slow steps towards asking for help, little baby steps, and I know they've helped me become a better writer.

Asking for help can come in many forms. This is going to sound stupid, but my first step towards asking for help was getting myself a dictionary. And you might be thinking "Lils, what the fuck does that mean?" and it simply means that I was so scared of correcting my writing, of having any sort of criticism, that I didn't even consult a dictionary. Because the dictionary had the ability to tell me that the word I was using wasn't correct. And I had to be correct. I had to be the best. (Spoiler alert, I was not the best and I still am not, though I do believe I am a lot better than I used to be.) Now, even if I don't have anyone but myself to edit, I at least have someone who can freely point out my typos or when a sentence doesn't make sense. There's no correction on the content itself, I can't bring myself to accept that directed criticism quite yet, but it's a step closer towards that. Learning to ask for help is a slow process, but it's a rewarding, I promise.

Now back to the improvement thing. I've been doing this for so long that I don't remember a life without writing. Writing has been a constant in my life, but I wasn't always "good" at it. If I reread the things I wrote at 13, I would want to burn those pages. Trust me, that writing style was atrocious. Just reading things I wrote maybe 2 years ago, things I know I was so proud because it was the best I'd ever written, I now reread them with almost an air of disgust. Because I'm always improving. Practice makes you better. And this goes for everything. It sucks to hear it over and over again, but fuck, it's so true. If you don't practice, you'll never improve. Because how are you supposed to get better if you never did it in the first place. So forget about that lousy "but what if it sucks?" voice in your head and just go for it. Because maybe it will suck. Or maybe it'll be amazing. And maybe it'll be amazing the moment you finish it, and then you'll revisit it years from now and go "oh shit, that sucked man." But you know what that means? It means you got better. And even if you look back at it and go "well that looks terrible," you can still be proud of it. You can be proud of that moment, because you created a thing no one else was able to make. You did that. All on your own. Like the amazing person you are.

Here's another fun fact about myself: I like telling people I don't know how to read. "But Lils, you have a whole ass degree in reading." You're correct. And you'd also be correct to day that I do know how to read, how to analyze, and all that good shit. So I do actually know how to read. But the reason I stuck to that whole "I don't know how to read" thing is because reading kinda makes me feel like shit. Or at least, it did. It sometimes still does. Because other authors write these masterpieces and I feel like I can never write something that beautiful. I'll never be as good as some of these writers. I'll never come up with a line that makes you close the book and stare at your ceiling for a solid minute, contemplating your life. I'll never write something that will appear in a "top 100 most beautiful quotes from books" list. But also, maybe I am just as good a writer as those authors.

I used to be so afraid to pick up a book and read because I would compare myself to someone who's had years and years of practice. Like, imagine being 14 and thinking you're a shit writer because your writing isn't as gorgeous as, I don't know, let's say Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. I guess I'll never be able to have a character as witty as Elizabeth or a man as lovable as grumpy Darcy, so why even try writing? But I love writing, so instead I swore off reading. I didn't read a book unless I had a book report to do on it until I was... fuck, 20? I think the last book I had read voluntarily during my teenage years was The Fault in Our Stars. All because it was too scary to have the ability to compare myself to literal adults who spent their life writing. So I told myself that I would become an amazing writer without ever reading, even if the number one advice all authors gave was "read books." It's not the best advice I'd give anyone who wants to improve their writing, but it is good to read. It helps you learn how words work. But also, there's so much bad stuff (in my opinion, I've become incredibly picky in my reading) that some books are just not what you should be using to improve your own writing. I'd say they're more like bad teachers for people trying to learn how to write, but that might just be my opinion. Not that that's the point of this.

My point here is that you're not born an expert. And I hate failure as much as the next person, and if you know me, maybe I hate failure even more than everyone on this planet combined, but you have to try something to get better at it. You have to try the colors on your page, you have to make them clash to learn how to make them beautiful together. You have to be 17 writing "But when a man is in love, you can't a snap him out of it." to be 22 writing "All she knows is that Claude is beautiful; all she knows is that maybe she too is beautiful." You have to be 13 starting a story with "HEY! My name is Emma Oak, the grand-daughter of Professor Oak!" to be 22, writing broken love letters between lovers who just never had a chance. You have to be 19 and be proud of "Anyways, it was difficult to continue ignoring him when he was kneeling in front of her, his chocolate brown locked onto her face." to be almost 23, knowing the best you can write right now is "Byleth’s damp cheek rested against Claude’s hand, her beautiful green eyes falling shut as he wiped her tears away." You have to be 21 writing "For Reki, he was ready to do anything. For Reki, he was even willing to put his heart on the line. For Reki, maybe he would be brave enough to confess all the feelings that had been overwhelming him." to be 22 writing "For Byleth, he was ready to be on his knees. For Byleth, he was ready to bring the heavens down to her. For Byleth, he was ready to go mad. For Byleth, he was ready for anything. For Byleth, he was ready to end this war." And you might not notice the difference between some of these lines, but to me, they're jarring. Maybe you don't see the difference a year has made on my writing, but I can see it. I can see my own improvement.

So yeah, my conclusion here is that no one is born knowing all the secrets about a good creation. At 13, I was too afraid of people better than me, so I just pretended they didn't exist. I refused to read books. But now, at 22, I know there are writers who are better than me, and I admire their talent. But I also know that my writing, my unprofessional, unedited, unpeer-reviewed work can change people at their core. I'm not out here writing The Song of Achilles, writing "He is half of my soul, as the poets say," but I am here writing "How could he help the pounding in his chest as fair green eyes stared at him, green eyes that were just off from his entire world?" I know I have the ability to write lines that will stick with my readers, but that's only because I was daring enough to put myself out there. It's only because I was daring enough to suck ass at first. It's only because I was daring enough to think I was the shit, that my writing was groundbreaking even if it was corny and terrible. If I hadn't written those silly little stories filled with inconsistencies, I wouldn't be where I am now. And I know in a year, in two years, in ten years, I'll look back at what I'm currently writing, and I'm going to laugh because my writing will have gotten better by then. But for now, this is the best I can do, and I'm proud of it. I'm proud of how far I've come. Any artist should be proud of how far they've gotten.

So keep creating your art. Keep writing, keep painting, keep drawing, keep dancing, keep creating. I promise, you're amazing at what you do, and you'll only get better as time goes on. Improvement is a bitch to spot, but you'll see it. And be proud of what you've created. Because only you can create that. It's yours. It's all yours, and you should be so fucking proud of that.

#I got sappy but hey #I've just been thinking a lot about creative processes #A professor asked the general question of ''what is inspiration? What does it look like? Where does it come from?'' and I had no answer #and I've been thinking about that question for the last week or so and everything that comes with creativity #I still have no conclusion other than creations are truly personal and you should be proud of yourself for creating #i love you artists <3 all of you <3 #even if you don't share what you do. Even if you don't do it often. I love you <3 #Maybe one day I'll write a journal entry type post about what it was like being terrified but also cocky about writing when I was a teenage #Give me a moment to feel like an older sibling talking about what it was like to be young and naive. The mistakes I've made #the lessons I've learned. Things I wish someone had told me growing up.#It's weird being queer and having a hobby no one really recognizes or respected much.#Maybe I'll write about that some day. but for now I'll end this here #hush lils

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