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threadbaresweater · 14 days

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Arthur Morgan x f!reader. No plot, just love. Written in about 20 minutes with no editing. System purge, if you will. 18+ content. Body worship, prose-y sex. Talk of babies at the end. I'm whipped for him and I'm sharing it with you.

Arthur likes to take his time with you.

He's a man who lives a life where he often has to move fast to avoid danger. He's spent years on the run from one bad heist to the next, never knowing whether he'll survive to see another day. Even his moments of rest are ridden with apprehension and doubt; he's hardly able to get a good night's sleep even if he's plumb exhausted after days on the open road.

You, however, just might be the most dangerous thing of all.

You're most beautiful to him laid out like this, bare beneath the vast expanse of stars on a cloudless night. There's moonlight in your hair and firelight on your skin, and everywhere he touches feels electric. His fingertips are rough along the softness of your thigh, the swell of your breast, the apple of your cheek. You sigh his name and he bends to you, one big hand encompassing the back of your neck to take you in a tender, all-consuming kiss. The fire sputters and dances, sparking into the sky as he shifts his weight over you and lifts one of your legs around his waist.

This is something he doesn't want to rush.

"Look at you," he whispers. And he does. He looks at you as if you're the one that hung the moon, and you gaze back, awestruck and vulnerable and smitten with this brute of a man who has killed with the very hands that now touch you as if he's afraid he'll break you. When you smile, he can't help but press his mouth to yours again; he takes a shaky breath in and out through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that burn beneath. How the hell did he get so lucky, that you would give your love to him so freely, so honestly?

You don't rush him, as much as you'd like to feel him inside you. He kisses his way down your throat, across your collarbone; with all the tenderness he can muster, he cups one of your breasts and sucks your nipple into his mouth, only for you to arch your back and whimper his name again. He traces along your ribs, across the softness of your belly and down to your thighs and back again. Lips follow fingertips until you're a live wire. He's hard against your thigh, legs tangled with yours. Your hands are in his hair, cradling his head against your chest as you lift your hips off the blanket, seeking friction, relief for the throbbing ache between your thighs.

"You keep doing that, and I'll have you right now."

"That a promise?" you tease, breathless, desperate.

Arthur doesn't tease. He opens you with a firm grip on your thigh and ruts inside, carving out a space inside you just for him. His pulse is wild despite how slow, careful, and deliberate he is, his eyes closed against the deluge of sensation, the way it feels to become but an extention of you. You cling to him, unaware of anything else around you besides the weight of him atop you on the little blanket just outside your tent. You hone in on his breath, his beard scratching against your cheek, on the way he threads his fingers with yours and presses them against the dew-kissed blades of grass. The summer night air is thick and balmy, mingling with the smell of sweat, of sex, of dinner over an open flame and a shared bottle of rum. Though, the alcohol isn't what you're drunk on now.

Every stroke of him feels deeper, harder, filling you in ways you could never have imagined. The times you've been intimate at camp have been rushed, hushed; not always unsatisfying, but usually ending with a hurried sorry when he has to make a quick exit. Tonight, there's no worry. No prying eyes, no curious ears. Just you, Arthur, and the love you make, lying under the stars that wink their approval.

He chuckles at you when you start babbling, your nonsensical and teary-eyed warbling, telling him yes, right there! oh, please! but he's soon overcome with his own pleasure when he feels you tighten and flutter around him. He pulls out at the last second, despite the iron grip you have him in with your thighs; you whine at the loss, the warmth of him leaking onto your belly as you both catch your breath.

"Lucky I'm stronger than you, woman," he says, wiping away the evidence with his bandana. You drag your fingers lightly through his beard, kissing him at the corner of his mouth.

"You're lucky I wasn't on top," you fire back. His eyes flash with something akin to fear until you tell him you were only kidding.

"There'll be plenty of time for baby making when we get the hell out of this mess," he murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Let's just keep practicing for now, okay?"

It's the first time he's indicated that he's had any thoughts of a future with you. Your heart feels light, and a giddy laugh bubbles up from your chest that he kisses away while rolling you onto your back.

He has no intention of sleeping tonight, and quite frankly, neither do you.

#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan

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dont-f-with-moogles · 2 months

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Valentine’s Day prompt 💝

For Dazai x Reader 🔞: it’s Valentine’s Day & Dazai tells Reader how romantic it would be to die together today & Reader replies “how about we fuck instead?”

A Little Death (Dark Era; aged up/18+; NSFW) Mafia!Dazai x Reader 1706 words Tw: sui ideation, choking

It was a secluded scene, shrouded in silence. No one dared to cross the boundary of the hotel’s grounds; to do so was a privilege only afforded to a select few. Its air of secrecy was such that it rendered the half a dozen armed guards who brooded over the tower like ravens, quite superfluous. Port Mafia territory. For a scarce number, its walls knew their secrets but whispered none. For the rest, it was simply impenetrable.

The hotel room was neither luxurious nor homely. Thin gauze blinds let in little moonlight. Outside, the starless sky was streaked with storm clouds. Even the fluorescence which defined Yokohama’s horizon and kept the city in artificial daylight did not reach this dark corner of the prefecture. Rain pattered relentlessly, the deluge so intense that entire waves were dashed at the rattling windows. Thin branches scraped against glass. You glanced above your head, half-expecting the flaked plaster to cave in at any moment.

Quieter than the storm came the clicking of the heating unit. A stale smell lingered about the plain, whitewashed walls. A black suit jacket thrown over a chair. Unfinished business. Sake bottles cluttered the side table. A low electric light. Crumpled bed sheets and the scent of sex.

You felt too cold to remain in the doorway. Shrugging your coat off, you hung it on a wall-mounted hook beside his. Its belt dripped rainwater onto the matting beside your discarded Louboutins. As you crossed into the room his silhouette came into view. Dazai sat cross legged on the floor, arms in his lap, his back against the end of a double, Western-style bed. He made no sign at your approach. His gestures, or lack of, were as inscrutable as ever. No one had ever sifted the murky depths which submerged his heart. You only knew that he played games. And, if his intention was to set you on edge, then you would just have to make yourself comfortable.

“I know I kept you waiting…”

The bed gave a small creak as you knelt upon it. Removing the tie from your hair, you allowed it to tumble down, sodden and tangled, past your waist. Then, with a sound of relative contentment, you flung yourself on your back and stretched out your legs luxuriously upon the pillows. Dazai was motionless; the back of his head remained against the foot of the bed. Dark, brown tufts stood up, unruly. You let your head hang down beside his so that your rain-flecked skin brushed against his face. His cotton bandage wrapping grazed your cheek. You felt his jaw tighten. Upside down, the cracks in the floor appeared more fragile than the ceiling. Either one could give way at any moment.

A hand reached into your hair.

“If you remember, you did promise me romance…” Dazai’s tone was as soft as silk. With a turn of his head, the tip of his nose brushed your own. His breath, sweet with sake, clouded you. Threatened to pull you under. Only the initiating thread of conversation and he was already reeling you in.

Slowly his fingers stroked loose strands from your face, until he was cradling the back of your head. There was something so gentle, so loving in the subtle press of his fingertips that you closed your eyes.

“I know…” Your words bore the weight of remorse, even if you didn’t feel it.

Rain lashed violently at the window. Dazai gathered your damp hair around his fingers, weaving a braid like a coil of rope. Playful. If his patience was worn then the lithe movements of his hands did not suggest it.

“How beautiful…” he mused to himself, wrapping the twisted knots like a noose around his knuckles. Watchful, you lay still. In the gloom the pale skin of your neck shone silver.

“What is?”

Wet hair tickled your throat.

“...why, the thought of dying with you tonight. What else?”

Dazai’s voice was thick with desire, quite at odds with such a fatalistic notion. The weight of your corded braid was draped across your neck. With a rustling movement, he had risen to his knees.

“...that’s why you came here, after all.” Dazai poured his whisper into your ear. Liquid black.

Unkempt hair brushed your skin. A pale face; his scars half-hidden beneath wrappings. Dazai’s exposed eye gazed down at you with lust. Its colour was as dark as earth whilst the iris gleamed like molten gold at its centre. His words, his gestures, his games; who could look beyond the endless depths into Dazai’s heart? No; to meet his eye was to stare down into the core of the world itself.

A pull upon the end of your hair; the vine wound itself tighter. You smiled up at him, despite the pink blotches forming on your skin.

“Actually -” you managed, your breath stuttering, “- what I proposed - was a little death.”

Your scalp burned where strands were almost yanked from the roots. Ignoring your hold upon his sleeve, Dazai twisted your hair around his fingers. As ever, he wove his little designs only for you to fall, ensnared in his trap. Not that you minded. If you had any intention of survival, then you would never have accepted his invitation here tonight. Easy prey. What was the point in the struggle when Dazai could so easily devour you whole?

Then the twisted cord collapsed. Your chest heaved in the quiet room. The long ribbon of your hair was still gathered in Dazai’s grip. Fiercely, he jerked your head backwards.

“Is that all you can manage?” Warm breath curled over the shell of your ear. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your lobe. Bloodlust rose to the surface.

You let out a shiver of breath, rolling your head back against the covers. Dazai’s shadow fell; rippled down your chest as he leaned over the edge of the bed. His black tie swung loose; draped over your ribcage. With a brush of cool air he drew your collar away. Languorous in his movements, he enjoyed the sight of you like this. His nose grazed your bare shoulder, breath ghosting over your skin. Then - a gentle drop of his lips.

“Find out for yourself, Osamu…”

Dazai pressed his kiss to the base of your throat like a knife.

Hands gathered in his hair, you sighed as Dazai trailed slow, hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your jawline. Your legs writhed against the pillows. Purple wounds nicked into your skin; each mark counted and tossed on the mound of his sins. They said that only darkness flowed through his veins. Mafia black. Doomed to love as dangerously as he lived.

Dazai tasted your jaw; lingered over your cheek, his breath coming quicker. Threading his fingers through your own, he drew your arms beneath him. A feather-light touch to the pale skin of your wrists, his fingertips wandered your limbs. A tuft of dark fringe swept your chin as Dazai kissed your lower lip. Thighs clenched together, you gave another airless sigh. Your mouth chased his, body arching beneath his caress. Head turning against his own, you felt his tongue glide over the back of your teeth.

With a creak of mattress springs, the weight upon the bed shifted. Dazai’s knee sank into the covers beside your head. Bandaged hands smoothed the hem of your dress as his mouth nipped languidly at your bottom lip. The material was bunched together in his fist, and then he slowly drew it up over your hips.

You gasped as Dazai broke away from your mouth. Fingertips stroked your upper leg. A thumb dipped into the waistline of your underwear.

“La petite mort… the brief state of unconsciousness.” Dazai’s breath warmed the inside of your leg. “Only those consumed by death or desire know it…”

With one hook of his finger he had drawn the lace down around your ankles. Teeth grazed your thigh. Your chest rose and fell as he pressed a kiss to your soft, warm skin. Inching closer, closer… until he was right above where you wanted him. Your hands slipped down Dazai’s lower back. Then, the first brush of his tongue. A low moan bled from your throat. His crumpled shirt almost tore under your nails.

Dazai teased, tasted your clit; his subtle toying sent heat flaring. But one taste had provoked a deeper craving within him. Tongue flattened against you, Dazai indulged himself. His grasp upon your legs tightened until his knuckles blanched. The swill of his tongue set your tender flesh aflame. Your mouth dropped open, back curved away from the bed. Beads of sweat broke out over your forehead as you gripped the bedsheets in your fists. All you wanted was to feel his movements inside you.

As Dazai leaned over you, the fabric of his suit brushed your ear. Self-serving, of course he never gave without taking. All that mattered was the price you paid. In this position, he had you exactly where he wanted you. Reaching out, your hand brushed the rigid pleat in his trousers. Hastily, you unclasped his belt; slung down the material; drew him out. With a firm grasp you guided his rock hard cock down to your open mouth.

Lips closed around him. Tight. With a shudder, his hips thrust forward. Dazai’s bandaged hands lifted your legs, splayed you open to swallow you whole. Fingertips buried themselves in your skin. Oh how he longed to grip them in your hair whilst he rubbed himself against your lips. Your nerves were humming; shivers shot through your limbs like electricity. The first syllable of his name collapsed into a moan which sent vibrations down his cock. He scraped the roof of your mouth over and over, until his rhythm began to stutter.

“Fuck…” you heard him choke. “...fuck… no one else can take me like you do.”

He gripped your legs higher, pulled you to him, drank you down. Insatiable. You were burning alive. Helpless, your body melted on his tongue. With a choked gasp, you clenched your thighs around his neck.

“...wanna die happy…” Dazai’s voice was weak as he wiped his mouth on the inside of your thigh. “...so let me die between these legs, Beautiful...”

#thanks for your prompt Val!#I wanted to take a break from Levihan #but I'll be back on my bullshit soon dw #some of these lines were used in my Levi drabble #but I originally wrote them with Dazai in mind ;)#so had to honour them here. They were always meant for him <3 #mafia!dazai #bsd dark era #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #dazai x fem!reader #bungou stray dogs #bsd #tw choking #tw sui ideation #n.sfw #my writing

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serenescribe · 5 months

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pénthos Twisted Wonderland | 2.2k Summary: Silver is dead, and everything is wrong. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52165603 TW: Major character death, heavy angst

I wrote this a few days ago while trying to process my complex feelings about death and life continuing on, mainly due to the sudden decline in health of one of my family's dear pet cats. It is, in essence, a vent fic; it deals with a lot of grief and hurt.

Nevertheless, writing is still a form of expression, and I hope that someone can find some meaning in this, in spite of the heavy content.

The cottage door opens with a long, drawn out creeeaaak.

He covers his nose and mouth with a hand as he steps inside, eyes squinting against the deluge of dust and musty air that permeates the inside of the house. For a moment, Lilia lingers there, standing stock-still in the doorway, his other hand still wrapped around the handle of the door. His grip tightens the slightest bit, the movement imperceptible, matching the way his heart is squeezed within his chest — a scarcely noticeable gesture to match such inner, invisible pain.

With deliberate effort, Lilia forces his hands to drop to his sides.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

And then he dives in.

A home is a place, everyone says. That is the textbook definition of what it is — a place where one lives permanently, especially as a family member, or as a member of a household. This cottage is a home, has been a home for all these many years spent deep in the woods of the valley. It was once decrepit, abandoned, falling to pieces, but Lilia had restored it for the purpose of creating a home.

A home for two — for him, and for his son.

His steps are slow, soles practically dragging against the dirt-stained floor. Despite the way the stale air makes him cough, with barely any fresh oxygen in this musty household to revitalise his soul, Lilia leaves it as it is; it is far more fitting this way, than to push open the windows and allow sweeping gusts of forest air to burst inside, washing the living room alight with life.

The decrepit atmosphere matches his mood, the emotions clawing inside his chest, tearing into him from the inside out. There is no point bringing life into a home, when to him, it does not feel like one anymore.

And with that thought, that realisation, Lilia stills. He blinks, and for a moment, it feels as though something indescribable has overcome him — an emotion so peculiar, so powerful, eating at the hollow abyss that has festered within his chest ever since it happened. His shoulders stiffen, teeth snagging against his lower lips. He raises his head, pulling his eyes away from moth-bitten curtains and dust-smeared windows to glance around instead.

Lilia looks at the frames on the wall, housing paintings and photographs within them — an oil painting of him, hair streaked fuchsia yet still draping over his shoulder in long locks, a slumbering toddler seated on his lap; smaller colleges of him years later, laughing in black-and-green uniforms with a boy who towers over him; and scribbly doodles on yellowing paper that tears at the edges, crayon scribbles of stickmen, with wobbling words that read: “Papa and me.”

The claws of fate snatch at his chest, and strangle his heart.

Pressure builds behind his eyes, something wet pricking at the edges. Before he even knows it, Lilia is pressing a hand against the framed drawing, tracing the amateurish yet loving strokes, a lump forming in his throat to choke him until he collapses into the black.

From the very moment he found a crying bundle in a castle of thorns, he has known one singular truth: Lilia has never intended to live longer than the son he shall raise.

Even all the way back then, as he used magic to bless the baby, watching sunlight-spun hair turn to streaks of silvery moonlight, Lilia has always known that his end was near. His only mistake was assuming he had more time than he actually did; if he were truly aware of how meagre his magic reserves were, of how he would run out before Silver even reached the threshold of adult maturity, he would have taken careful steps to preserve it longer.

But Lilia has always known he would not outlive his son. For all his human mortality, Silver was young, and Lilia was old; death has always followed him in his shadows, stalking him with each ticking year, looming like an inevitability that would one day swallow him up.

And yet, the fates had been cruel. Far, far too cruel.

Everywhere he steps in the cottage, Lilia sees him.

He lingers in the bookshelves, from the picture books to survival guides and training manuals. He is there in the wood-carved critters, from amateurish carvings of a bird to much more detailed squirrels and bunnies, that gather dust along the shelves, keeping the neglected books company. A candle, half-burnt, the wax melted a significant amount, sits on the square table they take their meals at; it would always be lit by a smiling son, who started with matches and ended with flickers of budding fire magic.

He haunts the creaking steps and groaning floorboards, the hinges that squeal as Lilia pushes into room after room. He stiffens with each sound, whisked back to years of the past; suddenly, he is playing hide and seek again, and he expects to hear a squeal or a giggle as he calls out a playful warning; “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” When Lilia steps into the bathroom, he spots the laundry basket that the giggling boy used to sit in, when he was tiny enough to hide inside and pull the lid over his head, unable to stop his laughter from squeaking out as Lilia entered and feigned ignorance about his obvious whereabouts.

He lives on in the withering potted plants and the bird houses hanging from the outside of the windows, still visible even through dirtied glass. Signs of life taken care of, from the flora which flourished under his care, lapping up water poured from a little cup and blooming with ample sunlight, left in the view of the shining sun, to the birds and squirrels who would clamber up swinging feeders, chirping and chittering as they tucked into meals of nuts and berries, a veritable feast gathered by a young boy who simply loved the world.

The hollow ache in his chest never dissipates. It only grows and grows, consuming his heart.

Lilia feels something streak down his cheek, and absentmindedly wipes it away.

Silver’s room is untouched by time.

Everything is just as he left it, coated with thin layers of dust. His bed is made, quilted duvet folded and spread over it neatly, his pillow fluffed up at the headrest. His tables are cluttered with a few trinkets, and his training sword, wrought from wood with some metal to emulate weight, leans against the wall. Books line his shelves, next to gifts received from his years of schooling — clocks received as gifts from hometown travels, a little jewellery case that gleams with far too many expensive jewels, and a memory album received in his final year. Lonely clothes hang within the wardrobe, limp and sad without their owner to adorn; he swallows a lump in his throat at the sight of a silly hat tucked away within an inner drawer, thinking back to the silly smile his son adorned when he wore it for the first time.

The weak rays of a setting sun streak into the room. Dust dances in the air.

Lilia stands in the middle of the room, and stares.

Slowly, he moves to the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and he spreads a hand against the patchwork quilt beneath. Lilia can remember every little patch of fabric and their origins; against the logic that barely stands out in his tumultuous, aching mind, he summons what little bits of magic he has left, closing his eyes as he casts—

“Far Cry Cradle.”

Silver is young, and Lilia is younger than he is now, new to fatherhood with little idea of what to do. Silver outgrows his clothes at a rapid pace, faster than Lilia expects — how peculiar it is, the way the little human baby seems to grow in the blink of an eye!

The clothes pile up, again and again and again. Silver is older, tottering around on two feet. He giggles at him and claps his hands together, babbling at him over and over.

Lilia has always held a weapon in his hands. The calluses marring his flesh is proof of that. The needle he picks up feels pathetically small in comparison, thread looped through the little ring on the end. Silver slumbers in the cot nearby. A pair of scissors rest on the table to his side, along with a mountain of tiny patches of fabric.

A patchwork quilt. Baul told him about it, when Lilia visited him and his daughter and her family, and had grown interested in the colourful blanket folded across her child’s bed. “She sews one for everyone in the family,” Baul tells him, his voice gruff, though pride and affection underlines it deep within. “It’s her way of showing her love.”

So he tries. He uses Silver’s old clothes, before he moves on to his own, and then he moves on to anything else he can get. Silver grows as new squares are added, his stitching clumsy before it slowly straightens out over the slowing movement of time.

By the time he is six, Lilia wraps him in a thick, snug blanket, heart soaring at the way the young child beams at him, flashing him a toothy grin.

“I love you, Papa!”

Silver is dead, and everything is wrong.

“The worst thing about loving humans,” Baul’s daughter said to him once, when he’d visited in a panic over Silver growing sickly and ill, “is that they don’t live long.” At the time, she had fed the baby some medicine, mixing herbal remedies with some warm milk before feeding him with a bottle, and when she and Lilia began to converse, she had been rocking the slumbering baby in her arms.

Her eyes had grown distant as she glanced down at Silver, before raising her head. Their eyes met; “The knowledge that you will outlive them won’t ever go away,” she told him, her voice tinged with a miserable acceptance. A sad smile graced her lips, scales across her face shifting with her emotions. “I will someday have to bury my own husband, and perhaps even my own children. And yet, that is the risk I have taken, to love who I love, and to raise those who are mine.”

“I do not know if I will outlive Silver,” Lilia had confessed. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, eyes floating down to the slumbering baby cradled in her arms. “I’m not sure how much Baul told you about me, but I am rather old, as it stands. And it isn’t just an issue of age,” he added. “I… greatly overworked myself during the days of war. Magic is what makes us who we are, after all — and how much longer can a fae live without their magic?”

There had been a pause, a comfortable silence filling the air. And then Silver had hiccupped noisily, eyes squinting open the slightest bit. He babbled, hands raising weakly, and Baul’s daughter had smiled at Lilia, reaching forward to pass him the little bundle of life. “You never know what may happen, Lilia,” she said, as Lilia took Silver into his arms, the baby breaking into a toothless smile. “Lifespan is one thing. Have you ever considered how much more fragile humans are?”

“Of course I have,” Lilia answered as he rocked Silver back and forth, heart bursting with such melting warmth. “Who do you take me for?”

And that was precisely why he decided, there and then, that he would raise Silver to be the strongest human that ever was. To live long, to live forever, to live past Lilia, and thrive through the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, fingers clenching tight around the quilt. He hangs his head, the tears finally flooding forth, pouring down his face as he gasps for breath. “Silver, I’m sorry—”

But the only thing left for him is the ghost of a home, an empty cottage ladened with dust.

Even as Lilia wraps the patchwork quilt around him with trembling hands, burying his nose into the fabric in hopes of drinking what little snatches of Silver there still are, he knows, deep down, that Silver is gone. A horrible reality he never hoped to pass has come true — he has outlived someone he always knew he would, no matter how hard he tried to cope, lying to himself about a shortened lifespan and dwindling magic.

Fool, he thinks to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. You absolute fool, you—

A home is not a home without the son he so truly loves. As Lilia tips backwards, collapsing into the bed, he stares at the ceiling. The little mobile with the carved animals that he made when Silver was just mere months old still hangs over the bed. Even as Silver outgrew it, he still insisted on hanging it when he upgraded from a cradle to a bed of his own.

Lilia watches as the animals drift the slightest bit — barely moving, for all intents and purposes, static.

He sucks in a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

#my writing tag #personal writing #twst #twisted wonderland #twst spoilers #twst ch7 #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst fanfiction #twst writing #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #thank you all for your support. i love you guys #i'll be fine. i just miss my cat a lot

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 4 months

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Hunted by a sunless city that never sleeps (part 1)

Dracule Mihawk x reader

Werewolf!AU for the short series that began with Built a haven for your love (until I let you fall apart). Can be read as a standalone.

This is part one of five. This fic is dedicated to @alphaash99.

Title taken by another song by Beast in Black -Moonlight Rendezvous- since it's not part of the main continuity. Kuraigana Island is Mihawk's home in the manga/anime.

Shanks being in a relationship with his crew's doctor is an allusion to this headcanon list and then to this fic, even though they take place in a different continuity.

*****

One day Mihawk, soon after waking up, searches for you in his bed and doesn't find you.

The discovery shouldn't be too surprising, since you are not living with him, and you never did; thus, your absence is the norm, nor the exception, and surely nothing to wonder or get alarmed about.

On the other hand, it is true than ever since he moved to Kuraigana Island you have been the sole regular visitor, and the only one who he actually invited; indeed, excluding occasional sailors or pirates who inadvertently stumble upon his home and are strongly encouraged to leave as soon as they can, you are the only person he has been in the company of while he remains in the solitary islet he had made his home. If there is someone he could expect to see in his castle, it is undoubtedly you.

Still, what he feels as he turns, barely half-awake and vaguely groggy after a night of deep sleep, and sees the other half of the bed empty, is not simply confusion, followed by the realization you haven't visited in weeks; it is disappointment, and the reason for that is much more private and difficult to describe...

Mihawk had first met you in his (and your) youth, and ever since your paths have kept crossing regularly, a series of coincidences only partially attributable to the fact that you were both allied with the World Government, he as one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea and you as a mercenary, and had therefore to regularly visit the Marines HQ. It was as if destiny kept pushing the two of you together, he more than once reflected as he sat in front of you to enjoy a glass of red wine and an intelligent conversation, for some inscrutable reason, but in the privacy of his heart he was actually glad of it, since you were one of the very few people whose company he genuinely enjoyed. In time, your relationship had developed, and you had become part of him, someone who was almost constantly in his thoughts and who made him genuinely happy with your mere presence.

At first, as he became aware of his feelings, it had been unsettling, almost terrifying, to realize there was a person who had that sort of influence on him; in time, those emotions were replaced with relief, and gratitude, because he now knows you feel the same for him.

He has always been an early riser, quickly leaving his bed after waking up instead of wasting time lounging (unless, of course, you are there with him) but today Mihawk lingers for a while, a pensive expression on his face as he contemplates the other half of the bed, empty and unslept in, before finally rising and beginning his day.

As usual, he spends the morning training, first with Yoru and then with a smaller blade, one of the last three remaining works of a deceased swordmaker that you had found and gifted him; it is an excellent weapon, deadly and of exquisite workmanship, but that is only one of the reasons why he is so fond of it. He prefers to practice outside, having furnished a clearing behind the castle as a suitable training ground, but the day is rainy, the blue of the sky completely covered by thunderous clouds as a veritable deluge falls on the island, and thus he decides to retreat to the armory, a large hall in the east wing that is still as serviceable as it had been centuries ago, for the lords and the soldiers who once inhabited the castle. As he wields his sword, practicing lunges, parries and figures he could repeat in his sleep but still repeats over and over again, either against the leather and straw dummies or an invisible opponent, he is almost inhumanly focused, no thought or emotion distracting him from his life mission, the title he conquered more than twenty years ago and has since then defended against countless opponents. Mihawk is not the sort of man who, fulfilled his ambition, loses interest in what he does and lets complacency weaken him; conversely, ever since he has become the world's strongest swordsman he has been training twice as hard as before, pushing his body and his mind to their limits and beyond.

One day, perhaps after old age has weakened him, someone stronger than him will come, or he will die, making way for another swordsman to claim the prize he had aspired to since he was old enough to hold a wooden sword; but that day is still far in the future, and the world will know the name of Dracule Mihawk for many years to come.

The sun has barely begun its descend in the sky when Mihawk stops, wipes perspiration from his face and gives himself permission to stop, and eat. Returning to the set of rooms he has claimed as his own when he moved to the island (not the largest apartment of the castle, nor the most grandiose, probably belonging to a less important member of the royal family or a minister; still, it's perfect for him, and Mihawk feels no discomfort whatsoever in inhabiting alone a castle once populated by dozens of people), he glances out one of the large windows along the main corridor. The sky is still grey, but the violent downpur of that morning has decreased to a light drizzle, the murmuring of the drops hitting the ground reaching him through the glass.

His transponder snail is resting on a table close to the door of the banquet hall, where Mihawk regularly has his meals. He reaches it, quickly dialing a number he has long known by heart.

When the call is picked up, the voice that answers is not yours, rather that of a man - which does not surprise, or anger, Mihawk.

"Lady (name)'s line. How can I help you?"

"It is Dracule Mihawk." he explains, and he doesn't need to say more; after all, even when a secretary is entrusted with your transponder snail while you are otherwise occupied, he is the only person, together with your mother, whose calls you always accept, even if it's not an urgent matter and you are busy.

"Just a minute, sir; I will call her immediately." the secretary answers, as expected, and less than two minutes pass before he can hear your voice through the receiver, which in turn is enough to make him smile - at least when he is alone.

"Hi." you murmur, your tone low and intimate. Mihawk leans against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles, enjoying the moment.

"Hello. Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all; I had a meeting with the treasurer, but we finished earlier than expected. And you know you never disturb, I'm so glad to hear from you."

There is no mistaking the sincerity and affection in your voice, and Mihawk sighs; suddenly the prospect of waking up alone tomorrow as well is unbearable.

"Are you all right?"

"I am. It is raining today; it made me think about that day."

"Did it?" you ask in a more playful tone; you don't need to ask which day, which pleases Mihawk more than he would feel comfortable with admitting "I had no idea you were such a romantic."

"It was a good day." he softly points out, before moving on to the main reason for his call "Can you come over?"

A brief pause; Mihawk can't see you, but he knows you are smiling as well, savouring the unexpressed reason behind that request, which is also why you unnecessarily ask:"When?"

Now. "As soon as you can."

"I think I can be there the day after tomorrow in the morning; it is my mother's birthday today, but from tomorrow on I can clear my schedule for a few days."

You quickly arrange to meet at the harbour as usual; you usually keep your conversations brief, which is perhaps surprising for two people in a long-distance relationship, preferring to exchange letters, and Mihawk is about to say goodbye when he hears you speak again.

"Just one thing."

"Yes?"

"The full moon is seven days from now." you cautiously mention, and Mihawk, who had hoped he could convince you to stay for a little longer, sighs; he is not going to insist, or to reproach you, both because he doesn't want to be that sort of partner and he knows how important it is for you to take part in the ceremony, but he has to admit it: the whole affair is starting to annoy him.

"All right." he answers in the end with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, I... I could wait for it to be over and come later..."

That would work, the swordsman reasons; you would have more time to clear your schedule, as well as to spend with him. Still, that would mean having to wait more than a week before your next meeting...

"There's no need. I... I want to see you. As soon as possible."

Mihawk hesitates; the ease with which that confession leaves his lips is almost scary, even though he knows you are the only person in the world he could talk like that to, and you will always keep his secrets... as he would keep yours.

"This morning..."

"Yes?"

"This morning I woke up and you weren't there."

For a few moments silence falls on the two of you; when he finally hears your voice, it sounds strangely strained, as if your emotions prevented you from talking.

"I'll be there tomorrow night."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I'll leave as soon as my mother goes to bed tonight, she won't mind and we'll save an evening at least."

Mihawk is now openly smiling. "All right. I'll be waiting for you."

"You do it, Hawk Eyes."

You say goodbye, and close the call. Mihawk is happy no one can see him in that moment; he looks out of the window in front of him, and sees a timid sun emerging among the clouds.

*****

In the years, a quiet, apparently distant but firm friendship had blossomed between you, a somewhat surprising rapport for a solitary man like him that Mihawk nonetheless hoped would resist the test of time. He respected you, trusted you and genuinely enjoyed your company, as he did with very few people in the world; he did think you were an attractive woman, but there was also much more in you that he appreciated.

He never thought your relationship could change; he knew you occasionally took lovers, mainly during your travels since the island where you lived was so small it would have been impossible to avoid your old flames, while he had been alone for a few years and was perfectly content with that state of affairs...

... until one day he saw you admiring the raging sea under a stormy sky, the crescent moon hidden by iron-grey clouds, from a pier not far from the inn you were staying at. A large umbrella was open above your head, but that had not been enough to protect you from the deluge, coupled with the strong wind blowing from the sea: your boots, your dress, above which you wore the holster of your favourite gun hanging from your waist, and even your face, were drenched, as you remained still as a statue, your gaze embracing the huge combers raising from the sea's surface.

It was such a peculiar scene, Mihawk approached you under his own umbrella, wanting to know why in the world you were not hurrying towards the inn or even just a shop to take shelter from the rain. "(name), is everything all right? You'll catch pnneumonia if you remain here..."

He realized a moment later than he should have that he was talking to you as if he were your father, and you a child too young to know better, but when you looked at him, it was with your usual friendly smile, not a frown.

"I know; I just... love the rain; it makes me feel alive." you explained "Sometimes I just like to look at it. It reminds me of when I was young, and I would go out and play when it poured. My poor mother who had to go outside and drag me in..."

You had to be cold, but you were smiling, your eyes lost behind some distant memory. The spectacle of the stormy sea was striking, Mihawk privately admitted; it could remind any pirate, no matter how experienced they were or how large their ship, that its power was still overwhelming, and the danger of drowning and shipwreck unwise to forget.

"My father used to say rain is good, because it nourishes the earth and washes blood away; when I let it wash over me, sometims I feel as if it could clean me from pain and bad memories."

"I wish that were so easy." Mihawk mused; his coat, not to mention the part of his chest left bare by it, was starting to get wet as well, but he suddenly felt much less desirous to find shelter than a minute before.

"Yes, me too."

You smiled at him, perfectly aware and unconcerned about the bizarre show you were offering, and something in the quiet beauty of your form, soaking wet but so at ease surrounded by the fury of the storm, fascinated him. Obeying a sudden, irresistible impulse, Mihawk kissed you, a kiss you happily returned, your still warm body pressed against his, one of your hands caressing his hair as his held you by the waist; he felt you shiver, but the rain could take no credit for it. It was the most unexpected, sweetest kiss of his life, one he wished would last for hours and that at the same time was not enough to quench the desire suddenly burning in his belly; and when your eyes met, there was no need for words to make him realize you wanted the same.

You returned to the inn together, him holding the umbrella above both of your heads, and left your rain-drenched clothes on the floor (but, you had carefully placed the holster of your gun on a chest of drawers, and he had propped Yoru against the nearby wall) as you made love on the bed. Your friendship had ended that night; and something even more precious had taken its place, something that on the next morning, as he contemplated the now clear sky out of the room's window and you still slept, curled up against his side, he realized he wanted to be more than an one-off occurrence.

Thanks all the Gods, you had been of one mind on that as well.

You have been lovers for three years now, a relationship you are both fully committed to, and to each other. You have never spoken much about it, not feeling the need to give a name to what you share, aware that wherever you are, while he takes care of his duties as a Warlord and you travel the world in search of your next quarry, you both carry each other in your heart. One day, he supposes, the two of you will have to think about the future: after all, you will have an island to govern once your mother passes, which means you will also have much less time to devout to impromptu vacations with your lover; also, he hopes sooner or later you will tell him about the plenilune ceremony, and your flask, and the reason why you have never invited him to your island.

It will all go well; he trusts you, and what you share, enough to be sure. And until then he will respect your secrets, and simply wish you didn't have to part so soon.

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Dracule Mihawk #Mihawk #Dracule Mihawk x reader #Mihawk x reader #Steven John Ward #Bellona's stuff

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concussed-to-pieces · 8 months

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Wolves At The Door; Prelude

Fandom: Resident Evil [Village]

Pairing: Eventual Karl Heisenberg/AFAB!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

Summary: It started small, or as small as a gargantuan man stuffed into a traveling cart could be considered.

A/N: Welcome all, welcome to our prelude! We will begin in earnest next Wednesday but until then, the prelude 💚 Enjoy!

Tag List: @cookiethewriter @amneris21 @topgirl17 @vodkafolie @a-smol-witch @baby-lisuga @clockworkmidnight @calwitch @zombiexbody @silver-quinn01

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains mentions of blood. Stay safe!]

It started small, or as small as a gargantuan man stuffed into a traveling cart could be considered. He called himself the Duke, and would sometimes appear in your front yard on clear nights when the moonlight was bright. He was pleasant enough, if a little strange, and seemed to enjoy making idle conversation while his horse grazed.

You, for your part, didn't get many visitors (none at all actually), so you were more than happy to indulge the strangeness of your large guest in exchange for tidbits of news from the outside world.

"Stocks are down, you know," he would often muse whilst rummaging through a drawer beside his head in search of a cigar.

"Which ones?" was always your question in response.

Then the rumbling, mischievous chuckle. "All of them except mine, my dear."

He styled himself as a merchant of some kind, occasionally showing you odd trinkets with a fair amount of pride. He never explained his acquisitions and you never asked, too enamored by the clearly-arcane objects to be inquisitive of their origin.

You made the mistake of joking once, "hope you don't sell these to the Hobby Lobby."

He had blinked at you, obviously confused, bloated fingers cradling the midsection of a carved goat. A smile tugged at one side of his mouth abruptly, and he was laughing when he replied, "my dear, they could not afford my wares."

Neither could you, of course! But the Duke didn't seem to mind overmuch that you were strapped for lei, the man clearly content to entertain his audience of one.

There were rare occasions where the Duke brought what he called "guests" to your property. Injured animals seemed to trust him infinitely more than you did and you would soon find yourself bemusedly following the Duke's instructions to mend fractured wings or free tangled limbs. And if the animals were a bit more…monstrous than you were used to, well, it may just be a quirk of specialized evolution in this specific neck of the woods.

You tried not to dwell on the topic while you foraged alone on your property, and you made a conscious effort to not venture past your front door after nightfall. The howling and snarling you heard in the night kept you safe behind your locked door, comforted only by the strange charms the Duke hung on your fenceline. "Free of charge, part of our first class customer service," he had said without a hint of irony.

Everything was normal (or as normal as you were used to) until one particular, stormy evening…

…

You had been rushing most of the day just to get the firewood cut and stacked. That's what you got for procrastinating, you supposed! The logs had been seasoned for ages, you really should have gotten to it beforehand. But now here you were, sky rapidly darkening while you lugged armfuls of wood into your home to place them in the firebox beside the door. The smaller pieces you relegated to the kindling basket, where they resided with the pitch-rich pinecones.

The sky finally opened up as you were stoking your evening fire, another early spring deluge drenching your home and the surrounding woods. It was shaping up to be a quiet night.

You had just your dinner and settled into a chair beside the fire to get some reading done when a forceful knock at your door pulled you from your reverie. You blinked owlishly at the door. Nobody ever came to visit, and the Duke had never deigned to venture so far onto your property. Even if he did, however, he never visited on rainy nights in the first place.

Slowly you reached down beside the kindling basket, your fingers grazing the handle of your shaving knife. Before you could pick it up though, a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

"My dear, I understand it is far past calling hours, but would you be so kind as to humor me?" The Duke queried through the door.

You bolted out of your chair, stumbling into your shoes and then rushing to the door. A million thoughts ran through your mind as you undid the lock, most of them concerning whether the large man had been injured by the shadowy creatures that lurked in the woods. He seemed unharmed when you jerked open the door though he looked a touch perturbed, rainwater dripping from his pale forelock. Somehow he had managed to get his cart practically inside your meager porch, his nearness more startling than anything else.

At the sight of you, his broad face split into a grin. "Ah, there you are! I saw the smoke from your chimney and hoped I wouldn't be dragging you from your bed. How are you this evening?"

"G…Good?" You answered hesitantly, realizing as you did that this was stupid of you. This guy was huge and knew from previous conversation that you were very, obviously alone. He hadn't given you any reason to distrust him before, but-

"Excellent to hear, my dear. I've come to you with a bit of a conundrum, I'm afraid." The Duke leaned down and you steeled yourself from recoiling, trying to keep your fear at bay. The merchant studied you for an eternal moment, swollen hands clattering together absently with the metallic jangle of jewelry. "I have a request, my dear."

Oh gods, here it comes. You kept your tone civil. "How can I help you, Duke?"

"You may, of course, feel free to decline this request." He continued, a furrow creasing his brow. "A request is only a request, I assure you. I have a gentleman here who is very, very ill. Indeed, he is on the brink of death."

You felt like the air had been sucked from your lungs. "Oh?" You managed weakly.

The Duke nodded. "I will not impose upon you, but I must ask for your assistance. If you could, er, be my hands in this endeavor." He gave you a helpless little shrug. "I'm afraid I'm not quite as maneuverable as I ought to be."

Your stomach flip-flopped. The enormous man simply continued to wait, seeming preemptively resigned to whatever your answer would be. "Where is he?"

…

The process was not simple. Not that it ever was, of course. The Duke spent more time rummaging through the drawers of his cart than actually instructing you, coming up with various jars bearing smudged labels. "Salves and balms, for the soul of course." He chortled while you tried to decipher the writing on the labels, "Don't concern yourself with that, my dear! Simply put the green salve onto the open wounds."

"On them?" You asked incredulously, twisting off the lid and then snorting as an overpowering odor of rosemary wafted past your nose. "Normally you try to keep wounds clean, not season them like an Italian dinner."

The Duke glanced at the braids of garlic hanging by his head, almost as if he was pondering their application in this endeavor. "No, no, too spicy." He muttered, half to himself.

The man in the Duke's cart, whoever he was, was in a bad way. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and his clothes were tattered and filthy with a combination of sweat, blood and rainwater. You were directed to peel fabric back where you could, exposing the broken skin so you could liberally coat it in that strange salve and then wrap it with cloth bandages.

"I am uncertain of its efficacy, my dear, but we must remain optimistic." The gargantuan man encouraged you once you settled onto your knees for a moment.

You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, squinting up at the Duke. "Who is this guy, anyway?"

"Ah, well that is an interesting tale. Suffice to say, he doesn't know. I'm afraid all he can recall is his name." The Duke leaned in, first glancing around as if he was concerned someone was listening nearby. His voice was nothing but a whisper when he stated, "Karl Heisenberg."

Part One

#prelude #karl heisenberg #eventual romance #the duke #fix it fic #AU #see you all next wednesday!#resident evil #resident evil village #resident evil karl heisenberg #lord karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg imagine

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songbirdseung · 8 months

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love knows no distance / jeon jungkook

happy birthday to jk!

The Longing Heart

Y/N had been studying abroad in a foreign land for nearly a year. She and her boyfriend, Jungkook, were inseparable before she left for her studies, and the distance between them had been a challenging test of their love. They had tried to make the most of video calls, exchanging heartfelt messages, and sharing their lives through screens, but nothing could replace the warmth of being in each other's presence.

Jungkook's birthday was fast approaching, and Y/N had been planning a surprise for him for months. She wanted to make his special day unforgettable, even from thousands of miles away. She knew how much he missed her, and she missed him just as much.

The Surprise Plan

Y/N had been meticulously planning her surprise for weeks. She had secretly contacted Jungkook's closest friends in Seoul, arranging for them to help with the big reveal. She also purchased a ticket to Seoul for herself, keeping her travel plans a well-guarded secret.

On the eve of Jungkook's birthday, Y/N sent him a video message, wishing him a happy birthday and apologizing for not being there in person. Tears welled up in her eyes as she expressed her love and longing. Little did Jungkook know that this heartfelt message was just the beginning of her surprise.

The Midnight Surprise

Jungkook's birthday arrived, and he woke up to a deluge of birthday messages and calls from friends and family. He appreciated the love and warmth he received from everyone but couldn't shake the feeling of Y/N's absence. He missed her more than ever on this special day.

As evening fell and the clock neared midnight, Jungkook received another video message from Y/N, this time asking him to go to their favorite spot in Seoul, the Han River Park, at midnight. She told him it was her way of being with him in spirit on his birthday.

Jungkook, feeling a mixture of excitement and sadness, made his way to the park. He arrived a few minutes before midnight and sat by the river, looking out at the city lights reflected in the water. The night breeze carried a hint of nostalgia as he watched the clock, counting down the minutes to the start of his birthday.

The Midnight Reunion

As the clock struck midnight, Jungkook felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned around, his heart leaping in his chest. Standing before him, in the soft glow of moonlight, was Y/N, her eyes shimmering with tears of joy.

"Surprise!" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

Jungkook's eyes widened, and then he grinned ear to ear. He pulled her into a tight embrace, feeling her warmth, her scent, and the beating of her heart against his. It was a moment he had been dreaming of for months, and it had finally come true.

Y/N had flown halfway across the world to be with him on his birthday, and it was the most incredible surprise he could have ever imagined. They spent the rest of the night talking, laughing, and relishing in the simple joy of being together.

The Gift of Love

As the night turned into dawn, Y/N and Jungkook watched the sunrise together, their fingers intertwined. Y/N gave Jungkook a birthday gift she had been carrying with her all along – a scrapbook filled with memories of their time together, from the day they first met to their most cherished moments as a couple.

Jungkook was deeply moved by the thoughtful gift, flipping through the pages with tears in his eyes. "This is the best birthday gift ever," he said, his voice filled with love.

Y/N smiled, her heart overflowing with happiness. "Being with you on your birthday is the best gift for me, Jungkook."

As they watched the sun rise over the Han River, they knew that their love was stronger than any distance, and that no matter where life took them, they would always find their way back to each other's arms.

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silversnowblossom · 2 months

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hmm been thinking about an izuleo god au where leo is a god, and izumi his priest/most faithful follower

leo is perfectly happy being a minor god, with the smallest of followings - just the village. he’s the god of the flickering flame, the spark of inspiration that turns designs alight, the hearth in winter, the summer breeze. But izumi wants to be more, wants more than the village can offer. and so for Izumi, leo presses forward, higher and higher and eventually he becomes a major god, Music and Fire, bright as the sun, but—

leo is kind, is the thing. as a major god, he’s flooded with prayers and requests for assistance and he works hard at answering them but it wears him thin—especially the deluge of requests he can’t grant. and he finally breaks under the weight of all the prayers he can’t grant, all the people he can’t help, the suffering of the world. and the realization that izumi is human, that he will suffer, that sooner or later he will be gone. (maybe sparked by the war?)

izumi, meanwhile is flourishing - leo’s chief priest maybe? And he doesn’t realize the price until leo breaks. he comes across ritsu, another minor god for all that his brother is the mighty tsukiyomi, and asks him for help, but there’s nothing much ritsu can do. ritsu is, after all, just the moonlight reflecting off a pond at night, the calm of the quiet breeze. he’s not powerful enough to save a god who does not want to be saved. but ritsu likes izumi, because izumi is one of the first not to recognize him for his brother, and what happened to izumi and leo is a tragic thing, and besides—mao is too busy these days to tend to a needy god, he knows how short a human’s life is and he can’t infringe upon his human so much. so ritsu hangs around for a bit.

hmm I think arashi would be human. she grows up in the same village as izumi, and she's there for some of it.

presently, some years down the line, tsukasa comes to existence, a young, fledgling god, but with the same hints of something more, of being greater, like leo once upon a time. he is Honor and Courage and Honesty. and he knows something has happened to leo, this god who was once so great, but no one in takamagahara really knows what happened, just that he broke. or if they do, they won’t tell him about it. (because no one was closer to leo than izumi, and for all that leo is charismatic and friendly, the other gods weren’t really his friends)

hmm not sure how it'll end though. maybe tsukasa finds leo, and he's just a flickering flame, and ends up revitalizing him somehow. leo and izumi finally (don't) talk it out. maybe it ends with izumi becoming a god, too.

#enstars #izuleo #sena izumi #tsukinaga leo #sakuma ritsu #narukami arashi #suou tsukasa #fic ideas

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definitely-not-a-lucifer-clone · 24 days

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How should i kit out a HA Tokugawa? I mean besides the fuel rod gun, how do i really give @reactor-tech-ermine and @lancersafetysigns heart attacks by maxing out my reactor as a way to spread the deluge of nuclear flames?

SOMETHING LIKE THIS WOULD BE MY RECOMMENDATION FOR SUCH A TASK:

» Test Pilot // TEST « LL6 [ SKILL TRIGGERS ] Apply Fists to Faces (+2), Assault (+2), Blow Something Up (+6), Hack or Fix (+6), Invent or Create (+2), Threaten (+2) [ GEAR ] Heavy Hardsuit, Heavy Signature, Heavy A/C, Frag Grenades, Stims, Thermite Charge

[ TALENTS ] Grease Monkey 3, Nuclear Cavalier 3, Ace 3 [ LICENSES ] HA Tokugawa 3, IPS-N Nelson 3 [ CORE BONUSES ] Superior by Design, Sloped Plating [ MECH ] « DANCE WITH THE DEVIL IN THE PALE MOONLIGHT » HA Tokugawa H:2 A:0 S:2 E:4 SIZE:1 STRUCTURE:4 HP:15 ARMOR:2 STRESS:4 HEAT:0 REPAIR:5 ATK BONUS:3 TECH ATK:1 LTD BONUS:2 SPD:4 EVA:8 EDEF:8 SENS:10 SAVE:14 [ WEAPONS ] INTEGRATED MOUNT: Fuel Rod Gun FLEX MOUNT: Torch MAIN MOUNT: Torch MAIN MOUNT: Annihilator [ SYSTEMS ] Type-I Flight System, Ramjet, Plasma Gauntlet, External Batteries

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mitochondriencocktail · 3 months

Text

Cowboy Tryst

Bojan bites down the dopey smile on his face as he stumbles out the barn doors and into the moonlight with a giggle. The air tonight is mild, one of those June evenings where the crickets are singing and the stars are bright enough to shimmer like the trinkets in his Mama’s jewelry box growing up. He swings his arms around as he pivots on his heel, the dewy air caressing his body like a lover. Save for the hat atop his head, the handkerchief around his neck, and the boots on his feet, Bojan’s stripped himself to enjoy the pleasures of this brief freedom.

This life hasn’t always been easy. The hardships have piled up; losing his mother after immigrating from far away, taking on more jobs to support his younger sister, the toll of farmwork on his body, the way he’s had to hide those burning parts of himself just to ensure his safety.

But, here, he can breathe easy — even if only temporarily. Here, on Riverbend Ranch, he’d met Jere. Another farmhand hired for the summer, this one from Finland. Slicked back ashy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a grin that made even plucking the weeds around crops seem like a worthwhile task.

It’d started as most of their evenings do now: underneath the stars, a beating heart, bitten down giggles in between kisses. Bojan’s fear had quickly slid into lust, and soon that became a bigger emotion he never knew he’d experience — love.

Jere saunters out after Bojan, playing it up to elicit laughter, the heels of his boots kicking up dirt with every step. His shirt’s already off, his jeans unbuttoned, and Bojan settles himself against the side of a shed as he waits for Jere to approach.

He shimmers underneath the moonlight and soon enough, a scruffy beard is nosing at the side of Bojan’s face, calloused hands caressing Bojan’s torso. Rough thumbs pluck and tease at his nipples and the laughter from before quickly becomes a drawn out moan.

“You’d make handsome cowboy,” Jere says in between kisses, tongue licking along the inside of Bojan’s mouth. “Maybe, one day, we can ride off together. Have our own farm.” He kisses up along the column of Bojan’s neck.

“Yeah? Raise our own cattle, maybe have a pig or two.”

“Maybe three,” Jere breathes and the fantastical promise of that is enough to make Bojan’s heart race.

It doesn’t take long before Bojan’s getting down on his knees, leaning over across the dirt. He slides the cowboy hat off his head, covering his face to hide the creeping blush as Jere slides in behind him. It’d taken him a while to get used to this, to push past the embarrassment of needing someone so badly. To feel brave enough to ask to be filled up, manhandled, fucked into the ground until he was incoherent and then put back together with gentle kisses.

He groans, loud and shameless, as Jere fucks him, the scrape of denim against the flanks of his legs. He bites down on his hat, elbows scraping into the ground, his own cock in Jere’s grasp; stroking, a thumb over the slit. Faster as the pace behind him builds. A heat hotter than the summer sun at noon coiling in his stomach until he can’t take it anymore and he’s coming with a shout, jaw going slack as he clenches around Jere behind him and soon enough he’s being filled.

Bojan drapes a flannel over Jere who’s made himself comfortable on a pile of hay back in the barn.

“I mean it,” Jere says once Bojan’s settled in beside him. They have to return to their bunks eventually, but for now, they revel in the afterglow.

“What?”

“Maybe one day we have our own farm.”

Bojan doesn’t dare move. Doesn’t let the deluge of ‘what ifs’ wash over him like it normally would during the day. Instead, he slowly nods and pulls Jere even tighter against his chest.

“Three pigs,” he says.

“Three pigs,” Jere beams.

#mito writes #bojere #short drabble

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vendetta-if · 1 year

Note

Oh author, it's been a while. i've come back from the depths of hell to check up on my lawyer-looking-human-lie-detector thomas, hope he's doing well (or not, trauma builds character)

So, how is he, dear author? Is he thriving, what's his full name, how is he as a husband, where is his parents (doesn't matter if they're dead, im a good in-law i'll follow them there) How angsty is it if he's on the romance options and more relevant to the story?

I NEED to know or maybe you can just drown me in holy water and pretend this never happend (and yes, once in a while i WILL come back)

The fact that this ask came in the middle of the whole deluge of hickey asks is still so funny to me 😂

Well, he’s still a side character, so I don’t have anything too fleshed out for him yet. His full name is Thomas Wright and I think right now, he’s just chilling right now in the story, I guess? 😂

Oh, wait. Not really that chill because Luka told him to relay his order to the DA 😆 But, yeah, other than that, he doesn’t really have anything going on right now.

If it wasn’t clear, he works in the DA office and also moonlights as the Morozov’s liaison there and as their truthseer if needed (or maybe more of the reverse, honestly).

His parents are still alive, he just doesn’t have the best relationship with them (more with his father than with his mother). He’s still single and unmarried.

As a husband/partner, he’s not really the lovey-dovey type and is not really someone who would do a lot of little physical affections stuff, like holding hands, hugs, or kisses outside of the bedroom. He’s also a more emotionally guarded person, although overtime, he can be more open.

As for the angstyness if he were an RO… 🤔 I don’t think a lot. For him, getting to be with MC is like hitting a jackpot. Suddenly, he gets up the social ladder by miles, gets to live like a socialite if he wants to, and gets to buy almost anything he desires. So, MC for sure won’t get a no or hesitation from him 😂

But Luka and Grandpa tho… They’ll probably let MC get with him but they’re not exactly happy and they’ll keep their eyes on Thomas at all times. Once he does something that hurts MC, he’s done for 💀

Luka staring at Thomas whenever he’s around with MC:

#asks #anon ask #if: vendetta #vendetta if #if vendetta #char: thomas #char: luka #if game #if wip #dashingdon #choicescript #choice of games #hosted games #cyoa #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive games #interactive story

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o-wyrmlight · 1 month

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In which Harry Du Bois says and does things that he suffers immediate regret over. He also moonlights as a para-natural investigator and tries to show off.

This is art, you say—a reflection of my soul’s inner turbulence. It’s mostly true, Art Cop. You didn’t intend for this to be a conceptualized piece—or a piece at all, for that matter. This is where the finale of your deluge took place, where you drank yourself so stupid silly that you forgot who you were. Until you thought, “Oh my god, it worked,” and then you remembered. But it is art, because art is in everything. This is where Kim realizes: You are a pig living in your pigsty. He sees the door on the floor. The porcelain pieces you’ve ripped from the sink. He hears the broken faucet in the bathroom. He sees the bottles and feels the cold breeze from outside. This is where he snaps. This is where you prove to yourself that you are beyond saving. He will leave you alone to simmer and rot—just like Vic did. (Just like you told him to, Harry. Why would you do that? You love Jean and he loves you. He is your brother-soul.) Kim is smart. If you are a hopeless basket case, then he will leave. He looks around. There is conflict on his face. He comes to a decision and he calls it abstract. You pause. You look around. “Yeah,” you say, “I guess it is.” But it isn’t. It’s only a mess. Like you.

“It’s just.” Harrier shrugged, pulling his ledger from the bag to bundle up beneath his jacket. “You know. It’s so wet, it’s hard to take notes. You like to take notes. It’s, like. Your thing. I think it’s how you think—writing notes and shit, surfing the waves of a singular consciousness.”

It was hard to tell what was and what wasn’t a part of sign language with Harrier. He just liked to move his hands, it seemed. Liked to coast his hands into the air to punctuate his words, add weight to the meaning.

“Which is super cool, actually,” he added after a moment, looking down at his feet and tamping the growing puddle around him. “Super clean. Super efficient.”

“And you very much don’t, I’ve noticed,” Kim pointed out succinctly. “Do you tend to write most of your notes as part of your debrief, or is it a habit of you to not write notes at all?”

“Honeybunches, if I even began to tell you how my brain worked, you’d call me psychotic.” He barked out a laugh, spinning on his heel with a dim wince, arm flared out into the rain. He looked like he wanted to be one of those dancing Revacholians on the raincoat wrapping. When he turned to face Kim fully, he sobered up, straightening. “That’s not a joke, by the way. I’m literally psychotic or something.”

#this chapter makes me nervous #disco elysium #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #a toast to the pigs #wyrm writes

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bloodblanks · 2 years

Text

solace [masky / hoodie x reader] — prologue.

As Tim watched the light fade and dim from your eyes, you wistfully wondered to yourself—how in the world did things turn out this way? You thought back to the unseen expression on Brian’s face; he had nothing to say to you. He was just watching, spectating. A bystander to the end of your life. Your face was numbing, so much so that you barely felt the tears that rolled down your skin. And you were crying, you were crying so dearly, mourning the loss of not just your own life, but also the two others that you had once cherished so much. Brian, kind sweet Brian who in grade school always held out his hand when you fell down, always helping you get back to your feet, now stranger to you as he reduced himself to a mere onlooker in your presence. Tim, sarcastic, funny Tim who liked to banter with and tease you in high school, the one person to always make you laugh, now with his hands gripping your throat, arms steady, eyes unflinching. And lastly there was you, you who was so deeply infatuated with the both of them, finally allowing the spark of hope in your chest to burn out and be extinguished, finally allowing your eyes to close in a somber acceptance of your death.

author's note: this fanfiction will contain explicit content, including rape/non-con, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

What does love feel like?

Does it feel like the whisper of a blade, gleaming under the moonlight?

Amidst the pouring rain, the deluge of water that hailed down upon your shaking form, you heard the soft crunch of the fallen autumn leaves under his feet. The usually crisp sound was muffled, the leaves likely to be drenched and muddied under the downpour, but it mattered not. You had no doubt that he could've muted the sounds of his footsteps if he so desired, and only chose not to because you weren't worth the effort. After all, you were crouched down, sunken upon the ground in a barren state, void of any hope. You only giggled in despair, pitying yourself for being in such a situation.

Does it feel like the scintilla of glowing light, sparkling from a predator's eyes?

He was nearing you, closing the distance between the two of you and you could now see the twinkle of his eyes shimmering in reflection of the moonlight. His usual olive eyes emitted an amber glow, resembling a cat's stare as he locked his gaze upon you, the helpless mouse that he was hungry to devour. You could only watch as he treaded through the open field that you were knelt down in, hoping desperately that perhaps someone would see you, but knowing you were alone. It was a vacant, remote location. Knowing that it likely wouldn't have made a difference, this man was of the same occupation as your friends. He did the same grisly work as them. You were fighting a lost duel.

Does it feel like the edges of untended rocks, cutting into tender skin?

You weren't completely paralyzed when he threw the hatchet at you, as you managed to scramble to your feet, leaping to the side before disgracefully falling to the ground. Jagged ends of broken tree branches and sharp, serrated rocks cutting into your skin, you felt the ground brutally scrape against the elbows and palms you had held out in attempt to pad your landing. You cried out in pain, uncaring as to whether he'd hear you or not, knowing that your struggle was a hopeless one. The man was playing a game of cat and mouse with you, hunter and hunted as his wrist violently twitched, twirling the other hatchet in the open air. He had missed intentionally.

Does it feel like the agony of crushed bone, shattered under someone's heel?

You only noticed that you had sprained your ankle when you made an attempt to get back up. When you managed to bring yourself to your feet, you could only limp away in a pathetic manner, rendered almost as immobile as your fear paralyzed state. You were unsure as to why you were even trying to save yourself anymore, it would be quicker to simply accept your fate and pray that he'd be merciful, that he'd be quick. The second hatchet whirled through the air, digging itself into the tender flesh of your upper thigh. Your body registered it before your mind had understood what occurred; you were on the ground, hands clutching your upper thigh, the proxy's boot on your knee. You heard it when your kneecap was dislocated, the force striking a current of electricity up through your entire leg. The adrenaline did nothing to shield you from the pain, and you screamed, feeling the entirety of the agony.

Does it feel like the end of your life, unwittingly signed away yourself?

He spun the second hatchet around with his fingers, the movement of the weapon one of a macabre ballet dance after he had picked it up from where it stood, buried into the ground next to your thigh, embellished with a gaping laceration. When he brought it up to hold it above and behind his head, the sheen of the moonlight illuminated the sharp edge of the blade, glistening with your own blood. A singular drop of scarlet fell down, dripping upon and splattering against your dirtied cheek, sticky and wet. You had no time to wonder why, you only closed your eyes as he gripped the handle tight, turning the blade around before the dull side of the tool smashed into your skull, leaving you nothing but darkness.

next chapter ->

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dr-occam · 9 months

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Leviathan

There she was. Sleek. Elegant. Alluring. A siren in the shimmering water. Calling you closer with her curves, beckoning you with her beauty. Like iron to a magnet you drew nearer. Your head spinning, temptation and morality swirling and spinning like two schools of silvery fish till they melded into one mass of turmoil. Flashes of guilt and disgust floated up: "it's wrong to cheat", "good people stay loyal" "Hyewon will be shattered". All snuffed out by her shapely chest, flowing into her thin waist and down into her full thighs and legs.

You were now right in front of her. Shirtless and in budgie smugglers. Close enough any illusion that the two of you were "just friends" would be shattered, it's fragments sure so slice your beloved Hyewon.

As you stood there drinking in here beauty like the water drank the moonlight, she spoke. Lilting in her husky, sultry voice "She's not good enough for you is she? She can't satisfy you... Can she?". As you looked into her eyes you remained quiet, the silence speaking a thousand words.

Leaning in she wrapped her slender arms around your back she pulled you into a passionate kiss, her luscious lips eviscerating the last vestiges of your self control. You fell into her, one hand around her shoulders, the other gripping her ass ;eliciting a breathy moan. Your chest presses against her breasts, your erect cock, barely contained by the swimwear pressing against her bikini bottoms. The two of you writhing and grinding in an obscene display.

Breaking off from your lips, reaching one petite hand to stroke your erection through the straining bottoms- while whispering "come to my room I'll show you how a girls meant to treat her man. How she should treat you, how she wishes could treat you ".

As she slinks off, hips swaying. You are enthralled, swept from the rocks into the sea, pulled into pursuit. Only metres behind, tracing her steps as two pairs of feet splash then damply patter on the rough concrete.

Click. A door swings open, inviting you into the temptresses domain. Atmosphere electric, your blood whizzes through your veins like cars on a freeway as you remain frozen with indicision. Images of [insert names] tearful face bubbling up. Images of her screaming, shouting, demanding why amongst a deluge of tears. But she called... Presenting herself on the bed mocking you with a faux expression of thought. Goading you to come claim her, to allow her to welcome you to a world of pleasure- the likes of which Hyewon had proven she couldn't do. Piercing eyes demanding to know whether you loved Hyewon more than you hungered to be satisfied.

And you answered. Stepping into the room and closing the door with a thunk. The sound of everything you'd built up with Hyewon crashing to the ground. A flash of emotion swiftly quashed by her gravity, as she stripped off the swimsuit. Her pull tugging your legs like a marionette. Left strap off, a step closer. Right strap off another step closer. The wet black material peeling off her smooth skin. Breasts freed and bouncing. Her smooth, milky midriff exposed. Pretty pink pussy bared to you.

Dainty hands yanked your swimwear down. A petite hand grasping your cock, stroking the base as her tongue flicked around the head, a serpent tasting her prey. "I bet Hyewon can't do this", rasped out in a saccharine voice. As she opened wide and welcomed your dick, like a serpent devouring its pray. Bobbing and slurping and gagging and gargling as she ate up every last inch of you. Displaying a fervor Hyewon would never. To Hyewon a blowjob was an unecessary chore to Ning Ning it was a delectable desert.

As you swam in a sea of pleasure, she filled the dam in your core as her throat squeezed and slid and pulsed. Resolve and loyalty holding back primal desire and lust. The dam groaned and trembled, concrete crunching and cracking, fractures racing to spin a perverse web.

And then the dam broke… A fortified barrier eviscerated by an unforgiving force. Primordial power carving ruin into your future. But a drowning man doesn't worry about where his next meal might come from. The sea of pleasure spinning into a storm, pummeling beneath its titanic waves as you released spurt after spurt of semen past her luscious lips into her mouth. Beautiful brown orbs locked with your own she opened wide revealing a pool of milky white. Slowly closing her mouth. A sole index finger pressed against her closed lips. A symbol of hush? No, a guide. As she audibly gulped and traced her finger down her throat, sliding down her sternum to rest on her stomach. Flashing you a haughty smirk she then slowly opened her mouth, tongue sliding out to demonstrate every last drop had been devoured. To establish her superiority to Hyewon. All while you stood there enraptured in her lewd display.

That cocky grin graced her face again as she lillted "I'm sure that was soooo much better than anything she can do, bet she doesn't have you raring to go for a second round... don't worry your silence tells me all I need to know" in a singsongy voice.

"I know you want another round and I'll give your as many as you want"

All the while you stood there stunned, you may as well been made of stone.

--------------------------------------------------------

Thanks to branwrites and ggidolsmuts for reading and giving me feedback!

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blog-name-idk · 2 years

Text

Everything Falls (Into Place) | 12

*Banner by the incredible @bangtansmauyeondan

Pairing: OT7 x Fem Reader

Genre: College!AU, Roommate!AU, Fluff, Humor, Smut

Summary: Your new roommates are unbearably nice and unbearably hot. Good thing you're an adult who is fully capable of platonic friendships with the opposite sex, right?

Word Count: 2713

~~~~~

Yoongi groaned as he massaged his right hand, annoyed with the ache in both of his arms. He supposed he had been overdoing it in the practice room the past couple weeks, but his technique was fine, so he wasn't worried about tendonitis or other injuries. His body was just tired.

There had been an unprecedented deluge of music students asking him to accompany their final juries, and he certainly wasn't in a place to turn down the extra money. Part of him was a little smug that he was the most requested pianist in his studio, but it definitely came with its own complications.

Between learning their pieces and his own projects, he just didn't have time for breaks. So here he was, back from the practice rooms at the healthy hour of two am on a Wednesday night (Thursday morning?), face down on the couch and hoping the stiffness in his arms would be gone by morning.

"Yoongi?" your soft voice made him look up to where you were eyeing him, worried expression just barely visible in the moonlight. You were adorned in an old t-shirt, baggy sweatpants, and a mug of what was probably tea. He didn't bother to ask why you were still awake. He didn't really care at the moment. "What's wrong?"

"Just tired," he grunted, still rubbing his arm, hoping you'd go away so he could get back to brooding. In his present mood he didn't feel like talking to anyone, no matter how much concern was in your sleepy eyes. Instead of leaving him alone, you set your mug on the coffee table and sat down rudely on the couch, forcing him to sit up.

He gave you his best scowl, the one he knew had an efficacy rate of 90%. Namjoon had actually tested it with a decent sample size and everything. Unfortunately you seemed to be one of the outliers, because you were completely unfazed. Ignoring his raised hackles, you took his right hand in both of yours, and he felt irritation swell at the invasion of his personal space. What the fuck were you were doing? He opened his mouth to give you a piece of his mind.

And then you dug your thumbs into the heel of his palm and dragged them down toward his fingers, eliciting a mortifying moan that surprised the both of you. You stilled, looking at him with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt? I just wanted to help-"

"Don't stop," he cut you off gruffly, glad that it was too dark for you to see that his face had gone bright red in embarrassment. That also meant that he missed the way your cheeks went pink as you obeyed, returning your attention to his right hand.

He determinedly kept his mouth shut as you pressed his forearm between thumb and forefinger, working your way up to his elbow, then back to his palm. It felt so, so good, and he found his eyelids drooping as the tension in his bones began to dissipate.

"You have nice hands," you mumbled with admiration in your voice. You took a break from the massage to trace his veins with light, feathery touches that left tingles in their wake.

"I know," he said sleepily. And he did, they were one of things he liked most about himself. You chuckled at his self-assurance. He lazily opened his eyes to observe you. "Yours are nice too."

You looked a little doubtful, but he was telling the truth. They were smaller than his own, but delicate, with graceful fingers that were working what had to be magic on his tired joints.

He let his gaze wander up your arms and to your face. Perhaps it was his tired state, or the late hour, but the moonlight bathed your skin with an ethereal glow. He hazily wondered if you were some ghostly goddess who had deigned to descend to the earth for a night.

The angelic effect was a little hampered by the way your eyes were crinkled in concentration, but in a way it made you more captivating. All of your focus was on him and him only, as if you were the only two people who existed in the world. The ache in his arm lessened, but it found a new home in his chest.

"Left," you whispered, as if afraid to break whatever spell had wrapped itself around the two of you. Mutely, he complied, presenting his other arm and feeling like he was offering his soul. No further words were exchanged, and a comfortable blanket of silence settled over the room. Ensnared by your gentle touch and the soft edges of your silhouette, he let himself be lulled to sleep.

Yoongi awoke with a start at the clatter of one of his housemates bouncing down the stairs. He must have passed out on the couch. Had last night been a dream? Then he realized that someone had tucked a blanket around him and that his arms felt decidedly light and pain-free. Relieved for reasons he wasn't quite ready to identify, he checked his phone for the time. His heart gave a tiny leap when he saw a text notification from you, and he quickly opened it.

You

Besides raspberry danishes, I also like red velvet cupcakes :)

Received 3:02am

His eyes widened. If you had sent that message right after you had left him, that meant you had spent an entire hour giving him the best (well, only) hand massage of his life. At two am, when you had clearly been on your way to bed. His heart fluttered again, and he was torn between scowling at its antics and grinning at your sass. It seemed he would be stopping by the bakery again today.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Yoongi

hey

You blinked at your phone in surprise. You could count on one hand the amount of times the pianist had reached out to you first, mostly because that number was a big fat zero.

You

Hey yourself

To what do I owe the pleasure of a text from the illustrious Min Yoongi?

You watched as dots appeared on your screen, disappeared, then appeared again. Finally, you got a response.

Yoongi

are you busy?

You raised your eyebrows and snickered. That was all he sent after all that build up?

You

Depends

Yoongi

on?

You

How many pastries I'll get out of whatever favor you're about to ask for ;)

Yoongi

you're going to drive me to bankruptcy

can you do that thing for me

the one you did the other night

You

That sounded dirty lol

You gonna start calling it a hand job now?

Yoongi

so what are your hand job rates

i'm not made of money

You

Hmmm I think we can come up with an alternate method of payment…

Yoongi

see that actually sounded dirty

oh i get it

finally gonna ask for that orgasm, huh

You

Omg no you dumbass

I was gonna ask if you would play piano for me

Jfc

Yoongi

you know you're curious

You

Keep talking and the only time these hands come near you will be to strangle you

Yoongi

yes daddy

You

I could've sworn I was talking to Yoongi, not Jungkook

Yoongi

rude

i am way more clever

You

Clearly

Yoongi

my tongue technology is vastly superior in all ways

You

Bye

Yoongi

fine i'm done

i'll play you something

please come

You

Ugh fine

Only because you said please

Where are you?

Yoongi

fine arts building basement

practice room 4

If that horrible game of Never Have I Ever had one positive outcome, it was that Yoongi was much more at ease around you. Or at the very least, he now seemed to delight in giving you shit. The boy was surprisingly snarky and did actually have a way with words - or rather his "tongue technology," you thought with a snort. It was hard to get a good read on him, despite having been cohabitating for several months at this point.

At first you had thought he was just hiding a soft and squishy interior with that stoic demeanor. While that was partially true, as evidenced by his cute giggles and the way his entire face went warm and adorable when he smiled, you were learning that there were hidden depths yet to discover.

Did you really want to uncover them, though? The pervasive memory of his beautiful hands in yours was already doing enough damage to your psyche. And that was without reminders of the night he had looked right at you with that cocky grin and straight up told you he could blow your mind.

At least he only did it to get a rise out of you. That knowledge made it easier to ward off intrusive thoughts. You were more than satisfied to have a reason to admire those gorgeous hands without looking like a total creep. If you sometimes wondered what his touch might feel like elsewhere, well, that had to do with his physical features and not any other more troubling reasons.

You couldn't wait to hear him play. You were sure he was good. It being piano also had the added safety of not blindsiding you with husky croons like Namjoon's voice. It wasn't like you were cheesy enough to get swept off your feet by someone pressing keys on an instrument.

~~~~~

"Wow, at least buy a girl dinner first."

As soon as you entered the cramped practice room, Yoongi thrust his arm towards you. At your statement, he just waved his hand impatiently, eager for the relief only your touch could provide. He didn't really need it, but one taste had been enough to get him hooked.

"Fine, fine," you said with a chuckle. "But move over, there aren't any chairs in here and I'm not gonna stand while being your hand slave."

Yoongi complied with a grumble, shifting to make room on the narrow piano bench. Deep down, he was pleased that it was so small you would have to sit right next to him. As soon as you sat down, he held out his right hand again. You obediently took it in your smaller digits, eyes dancing in amusement.

"Such a baby," you teased, and he gave you a scowl he didn't really feel.

"Less talking, more - fuuuck."

You snickered at his borderline pornographic moan as you dug your thumbs into the meat of his palm, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. It just felt so fucking good.

The two of you fell into an amiable silence while you worked. While the stale air of the practice room didn't lend itself to the same mystical air as before, it was still comfortable. He liked that you didn't feel the need to fill the space with empty chatter. He was unfortunately noticing a lot of things he liked about you.

There was the crooked way you grinned when he made a joke that you wanted to disapprove of but still found amusing. Or how you always put a blanket over him if you found him napping and gave him a head pat when you thought he was still asleep.

And then there were more dangerous, insidious observations. Like the way your whispers caressed his ears when you felt guilty about waking him up, or how he had begun to wish you would cuddle and cling to him the same way you did with the younger boys.

He closed his eyes. There was something unsettlingly intimate about the way he trusted you. His hands were his life, and yet he willingly gave you control with barely any misgivings.

How would it feel if you stroked his hair the same loving way you did Taehyung's? If he ever became shameless enough to plant kisses on your cheeks like Jimin, would you also giggle and pretend not to blush? If one day he came home and dumped his head on your lap like Jungkook, would you give him that fond little smile?

This was a dangerous path for his mind to tread, and yet he couldn't stop. Not with you so close to him, treating his hands like they were the most precious objects in the world.

"Are you gonna fall asleep every time I do this?"

Yoongi opened his eyes with a start, realizing you had gone through both hands already.

"I wasn't sleeping."

He tried to glower, but the soft smile on your face made it impossible. He had essentially annoyed you into taking time out of your day to give him a hand massage. Why did you have to look so damn sweet and happy?

"Sooo, what are you going to play for me?"

You gazed at him earnestly, expression eager. God, it was both relieving and maddening that you had no idea just how much you enraptured him.

He decided on Debussy's Girl With the Flaxen Hair. It wasn't technically difficult, but it was one of his favorites. It was a dreamy composition that reminded him of the pleasant yearning plaguing him since that strange, bewitching night. Without a word, he set his now relaxed fingers on the keys and began to play.

~~~~~

When the final note's vibrations finally faded from the air, Yoongi set his hands in his lap. All you could do was stare in wonder. You thought you were going to be safe because it was "just piano?" What had you been smoking? You were a fucking idiot.

"Yoongi, wow," you breathed, unable to look away from him. It wasn't that he became a different person when he played. If anything, it was more like he truly became himself.

The way he had pulled emotion from what was essentially a machine created to make vibrations was incredible. Sitting so close to him while he played for you alone was heart-wrenchingly intimate, and you had been helpless against the way he twisted and tugged at your heart with each sigh of the piano.

You realized you had been staring for too long when he blushed and coughed.

"Any thoughts in particular?" He asked, clearly uncomfortable with your gaze. You tore your eyes away, embarrassed at your lack of control. You cast your mind back to the impressions you had felt when his notes had swept you away.

"It sounded gentle," you mused. "Admiring… maybe a little wistful? I'm not sure how to put it into words."

It was his turn to stare at you, and you felt another flare of self-consciousness. What a stupid answer, he probably thought you were an idiot who didn't know anything about classical music. Well, you were, but you didn't want him to be disappointed.

You had no way of knowing that he was just shocked (and secretly pleased) at your observation. And that he was praying to hell and back that you had no idea why he had chosen to play this particular work.

"I knew you had to be good considering you're a piano major, but I was blown away, really."

"It's a simple piece, not technically challenging at all," he said simply, uncharacteristically bashful at your praise. He was usually one to own all of his talents, so it was odd to hear him say something humble. It wasn't that he bragged or talked about himself, he just knew he walked the walk and owned it. It was an unfortunately attractive quality.

"Hm, I guess it is impressive to play a lot of notes, but isn't it more important for the music to breathe?" There was another stare, and you internally cringed. Why did you keep making stupid comments? You missed the pleased gleam in his eyes.

"Well luckily for you I can do both."

Ah, there was the Yoongi you knew and loved admired.

"Well you can show me next time you require my services."

You grinned shakily at him, hating yourself for being such a fucking simp. Why were you doing this to yourself? You should be running for the hills and putting as much distance between the two of you as possible.

His full lips parted into that bright, gummy smile and any thought of protecting your heart and sanity vanished.

Oh god. You were so fucked.

~~~~~

Next | Masterlist

Tags: @singukieee @persphonesorchid @xmochiloverx @taestefully-in-luv @meavie @silscintilla @forpunishers @jnghs

#bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts ot7 x reader #kim namjoon x reader #kim seokjin x reader #park jimin x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #min yoongi x reader #kim taehyung x reader #jung hoseok x reader

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ineffable-opinions · 4 months

Text

Sahara Sensei to Toki-kun (2023) ep. 4

Ongoing Review: It keeps getting better. Ongoing Rating: 8/10

Summary: Yanki remakes himself after falling for his class teacher. Yanki’s senpai and senpai’s adoptive brother have strained relationship thanks to love.

Pairing: Class teacher X Yanki Side-pairing: Senpai X Kouhai adoptive-brothers

What I liked:

# Two classic BL tropes at once: sensei X student & adoptive brothers

I didn’t expect these tropes to come-up in these times - when BL is getting so much attention from non-fu(腐) people [not that all fu people enjoy these tropes equally] with their different sensitivities and sensibilities. It helps that the source is shonen ai.

There is no escaping the shonen ai wave, I guess.

I love the entanglement between the pairings. I love how sport and pain are entwining the characters. Todo senpai and Icchan sensei share this bond that feels so warm. Todo stops Sahara from completely brushing off Toki’s advances by always bringing it up. He even apologized to Sahara for being rude to Toki. Sahara too is maintaining his closeness with Todo while advising him. I also enjoyed how yandere-ish Toku-chan (Todo kouhai) is. Loved how he enlisted Toki to talk to Todo senpai by bribing him with a photo. What I liked the best was how Toki employed his yanki repute to save Todo senpai from guilt about wanting to back-off from the match.

I am happy that it was Todo senpai’s romantic interest and words that made Toku-chan run away from home. Such a perfect storm in the making. I am awaiting the thundershower and the rainbow.

# Sahara sensei

The actor is excellent. He got those fleeting expressions which are priceless. It is a haven of hope in the deluge of not-so-great acting and idol acting in a lot of Japanese BL.

Two most eye-catchy moments:

His little eye twitch when Toki-kun brings up the swimming past.

Sahara’s expression right before Toki-kun headbutts Todo.

# Delinquent moments

I thought since Toki-kun is reforming himself, we won’t get anymore yanki moments. I am so happy the narrative didn’t set that aside. That headbutt scene was sooo good. I also liked Toki confronting Todo senpai. While I really want a sarashi bearing yanki spirits like Honda in a BL, I’ll take what I get and be grateful.

# Forgotten past

Another classic BL trope. I am somehow glad this popped up. Sensei semes (I assume) are complicated by power-imbalance which if not balanced by warmth and vulnerability would not suit the breezy style of this BL.

# White moonlight* who brought Sahara to his knees and Toki-kun who would scoop him up, probably

Now that I have seen previews of Sahara on his knees (while white moonlight walks on), I am very excited for his past. I was super queasy about Sahara’s white moonlight, but now that I have Toki-kun’s punch to look forward to I am all in. I am also eagerly looking forward to the mirroring of that scene with Sahara kneeling in rainwater in the past and Sahara kneeling in lake water in the present with Toki right behind him. Toki probably have to grovel hard after punching his sensei.

The bloody sweet kiss being Sahara's first helped too.

# Wardrobe choice and colors

The basketball match day costumes are particularly good, imo. Sahara is softened without his physical education teacher outfit meanwhile Toki-kun dresses up in blue. Blue hue is used to tone the frames that day. While the coloring leaves much to be desired, it is not overtly moody. Just enough to step away from the brightness that permeated the frames so far.

# Location exploitation

So many locations in and around the school. It feels open and enjoyable. The delinquent sure knows all the nook and corner and his sensei (who is also his senpai) knows how to get their faster. A lot of BL have very tight feel in terms of ambience thanks to under exploitation of available space. This one is a blessing.

What I didn’t like:

# This shot

I know I am nitpicking, but what were they thinking. They gave us so many exquisite shots in this episode. They clearly know how to do a good job.

___

White moonlight – in Chinese, Tamil and Malayali cultures (among other probably), white moonlight refers to love-interest. It is frequently in reference to someone you don’t end up with but has had profound impact on you.

#Sahara-sensei to Toki-kun #佐原先生と土岐くん #sahara sensei to toki kun #japanese bl #jdrama #japanese series #boys love #shonen ai #japanese dorama #bl jdrama #鳥谷コウ #Sahara Sensei to Toki-kun (2023)

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