#Compassion Idle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

esote-rika · 2 months ago

Text

𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: Bringing your boyfriend to a lingerie sale causes some big problems to arise. Luckily, you’re always down to take care of him, regardless of when and where. Content: 3.3k words, established relationship, Spencer is so so so down bad, reader is a menace, lots of banter, semi-public sex, hand job, improvised gags, unprotected p in v, needy sub!Spencer, kinda switch? Idk they’re both horny for each other, size kink, reader wears lingerie and is shorter than Spencer. a/n: not proofread + am sick, pls forgive mistakes. I just needed something light and stupid after reading THG prequels and rewatching all the movies back to back so here we are. Same girlfriend reader as the last fic. Based on my darling lover’s request.

He’s not sure how he got here.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly how he got here, why he’s here, and it’s because every single atom in his body seems to become irrationally unable to say no to you. It’s pathetic, really. You don’t even have to plead anymore—though you still do, of course, pretty eyes widening just so, lower lip pushing out into a slight pout, and it makes his heart clench and his heart swell in ways that distress him. (You’re dangerous for his health, he’s sure of it, but it doesn’t even matter. If his life is cut short, he can’t think of a better way to go than being loved by you.)

Today, you hadn’t even done that. Just words spoken in a soft little whine, “My favorite store has an ongoing sale.”

How is he to deny you? The boutique isn’t too far away, and while he’d had plans to read for his day off, he can put those off for you. He can read anywhere, at any time. In pockets of vacancy at work, idle minutes during his commute. Time with you is precious, and if you want him to accompany you to a store, then that’s precisely what he’ll do.

There’s just one problem: you hadn’t really specified what kind of store.

Would he have been able to say no if you told him from the beginning that he’d be accompanying you into a lingerie store? Survey says no, probably not, but still, the heads up would have been nice. Kind, actually, because now he’s trailing behind you like a lost puppy, surrounded on all sides by flouncy, see through fabric in suggestive cuts. Lingerie. You brought him along as you went lingerie shopping.

Here’s the thing: Spencer Reid is no prude. He has studied the human body and anatomy extensively as a young boy, and has such a vivid, graphic memory of them from his time working at the BAU. But those had always been under the guise of science, where he could step back and assess things objectively. Often, the human parts are injured, devastatingly mangled. Viewing them requires compassion and intelligence, not lust.

He has no idea what to do with the thought of bodies in this way—scantily covered by pretty patterns and thin fabric. Your body specifically. The very idea causes a shudder through him, the familiar heat. Focus, he tells himself, hands shoved deep in his pockets, balled into tight fists. His nails bite into his palm, and he welcomes the sting, focusing on that instead of the image of you in that navy silk slip… or in the pretty purple lace set… or—

“Spence?”

“Yes?”

“I’m gonna try these on, okay?”

A panicked look must cross his face, because you laugh, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek.

“I won’t be long, baby. None of these clothes can hurt you, and the sales people don’t bite.”

He’d feign offense if he were in a better state of mind, but he’s a little too panicked to come up with a response. You don’t understand. The very idea of you trying on lingerie is sending some very dangerous images to his brain. Images that, in turn, are causing very physical problems. Specifically in his crotch area. Still, he’s in public. He’s a grown man with working functions and impulse control. So he nods, forces a smile on his lips.

Satisfied, you press a quick kiss to his jaw, and hurry off to the corridor on the far corner of the boutique, where a line of fitting rooms await. He watches the bundle of lingerie in your hands. He hadn’t even noticed what you were choosing, but Spencer decides that’s for the best. It’s easier to fight his imagination if he doesn’t know the details of your choices. Easier to sit on one of the lounge chairs and fiddle with his hands, gnawing on his lip anxiously, patiently, waiting for you to reemerge with a smile that tells him you’ve made your choice.

Still, being alone while other women mill about is making him restless. He stands, wandering over to the fitting rooms, “Angel?”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t like being impatient, he doesn’t even mind waiting for you but god he can’t get his mind to focus. “You almost done?”

“Not yet!”

He nods, before realizing you can’t see him. “All right, I’ll be right here then.” he answers, leaning on the wall and staring at his feet so he doesn’t seem like a random creep. But then you’re calling out to him again.

“I want to show you.”

Oh, you really are bad for his health.

“Don’t come out!” he says quickly, looking around. The store isn’t busy, but still, the idea of other people catching sight of you makes something in his chest tighten.

A giggle, and then your head pokes through the heavy curtains, “Okay, then you come in.”

Once again, he is powerless to say no. His feet move, one in front of the other, even though his mind is telling him no, this is a bad idea, turn back. Still, he finds himself in the enclosed space with you. A full length mirror greets him, and that’s where he sees you first. Swathes of artfully arranged black lace and soft mesh fabric that barely cover your body, fastened only by thin straps over your shoulders.

So very dangerous.

“What do you think?” your eyes meet his in the mirror, deceptively, infuriatingly innocent.

“It’s-uh-pretty.”

“Just pretty?” your head cocks to the side, lips pulled into that pout and Spencer swears the room has no more oxygen. He’s about to pass out.

“Gorgeous,” he manages to say, “Stunning, radiant, angel it fits you perfectly.” his eyes drop to your chest and the words stop abruptly, though his mouth remains slack.

You twist to the side, examining your reflection. The fabric floats around your body, giving him a view of your perfect ass underneath. The panties you have on are a baby blue, not matching the sultry, inky ivory of the slip you’re wearing, and he wants to ask why don’t they match, but no words come from his open mouth.

“Spence, baby, you’re gonna catch flies.” your teasing remark wrenches him from his reverie. You whirl around to face him, half naked and mused, the loveliest creature he’s ever seen. He manages to tear his gaze away from the mirror and focus on the real thing, and how did he ever get so lucky with you?

“No flies anywhere.” he replies, hands finding your waist. His grip is shaky, but firm. Your eyes flash with mischief and he knows he’s a goner.

“It’s just a saying.”

“I know.” he dips his head, unable to help himself. Soft lips latch onto your jaw, open and warm, “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“In this slip?” Your giggle goes straight to his groin.

“In anything,” he pulls back, trying to reign in his desire, “In nothing.”

Your brow raises, and he lets out a soft sheepish laugh.

“Sorry, it’s just…” he trails off, his hands rubbing your hips through the flimsy dress. Mind absolutely devoid of any thought except for how beautiful you look in this tiny piece, how it clings to your breasts and shows teasing hints of your nipples through the thin lace.

“What was that, Spence?” you murmur teasingly, stepping into his personal space. Bodies flush. The lack of distance between you, the familiar softness of your body melting into him brings his attention to the growing tightness at his crotch.

“Mhm? N-nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.” There’s that sparkle in your eyes again, devious as you sway your hips against his carefully. The action makes his steadily swelling cock twitch with even more want.

He has to swallow a moan, but the warning still comes out strangled, “Angel.” Really, you’re closer to the devil right now, tempting him like this. He tightens his hold on your hips to steady you, brows furrowed as he tries to calm down.

It’s too late though. You’re both well aware of the growing tent in his pants.

“All right,” you step back, wearing a mask of mock surrender, “Fine, no more teasing. You can go back out now, I’m gonna change again.”

“What?”

One corner of your mouth lifts into a smirk, “I was being naughty, I’m sorry. You can go back out, I just wanted to show you this slip.”

Evil. You’re evil and dangerous and Spencer Reid is so utterly in love with you. And a little turned on by it.

“Angel, I can’t go back out there!” he whispers, tugging his tight pants. It’s no use. He’s so worked up his cock is beginning to ache in its confines.

(Okay, so more than a little turned on.)

Your eyes fall to his crotch, widening comically as though you’re seeing it for the first time, “Oh, would you look at that!” You step back into his space, hands coming up to cradle his jaw. He leans into your touch, welcoming your sweet mockery with his usual, eager docility. “Got worked up for me, hmm? All from seeing me in this slip?”

He nods, hands finding your hips again, holding you to him. “You knew what you were doing.” There’s absolutely no hint of accusation in his voice. You both know it’s true anyway.

“Mhm. And I can’t let you walk back out there like this, can I?” you lift yourself to your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Not after you’ve been so patient with me.”

A sharp inhale as he feels your hands on his belt. What he would give to just be completely buried in you right now, to lose his mind in your tight heat, but— “We’re in public.”

“We’re in a room.”

“A fitting room.”

“Still a room.” you’ve pushed his pants just enough to free his cock. Even being out of his pants eases some of the tension, the length springing out and jutting from his body. Long and embarrassingly red. Your hands close around it, one hand at the base and stroking up and down, the other at the tip, squeezing gently, thumb running over his slit and spreading his leaking pre cum.

He fights back a moan and promptly loses.

“Spence.” Your voice is low, but stern, “Keep quiet.”

He nods, teeth sinking into his lower lip to contain his moans. He squeezes his eyes shut, too overwhelmed by the vision of you in nothing but a flimsy slip and panties, in this well lit, public room, giving him a hand job. No, he can’t watch, he’ll bust then and there, but he knows you’re only getting started.

Your hands work up and down his length, twisting just the way he likes, all while continuing to thumb at the tip. Unable to help it, his hips buck into your hands, shamelessly fucking your palms while his cock twitches in them.

“Look at me,” you croon, breath hot against his neck. Once again, as though his body is wired to obey your every command, his eyes fly open. He moans immediately at the sight of you, which makes you tut disapprovingly. With a shake of your head, you stop, and he can’t help but let out a whine in protest.

“Why’d you—” “You’re too loud, baby, they’ll catch us.”

He watches with a dazed, glassy eyed confusion as you hook your fingers through the waistband of your panties and tug the lacy blue material down your legs. Crumpled between your lovely hands, it turns into a small ball of fabric which you hold up to his mouth, “Bite down on this.”

His brain seems to snap at attention. “I-I can’t, isn’t that store property?” Leave it to his mind to worry about logistics and practicality.

You chuckle, pulling his collar down for a kiss. When his lips meet yours, he wonders why he ever questioned you.

“It’s mine,” you mumble against his mouth. A nibble at his lower lip sends tremors whispering down his spine, “We’re not allowed to try on panties in this store. Something about sanitation.”

Sanitation. The very thought makes him chuckle. It seems so insignificant now, with what they’re about to do.

Still, he accepts the explanation, and allows you to slip the crumpled panties into his mouth. He bites down, tasting hints of your arousal as the fabric meets his tongue. It becomes very clear that he needs this gag, because he immediately moans at the taste.

You giggle soundlessly, the effort to keep silent making your shoulders quiver from your laughter. “You just can’t help yourself huh?” You give his cock a few more strokes, lazy and playful, before walking over to the mirror and bracing yourself against it by your elbows. The panties nearly fall from his mouth as he watches you push your hips back, the slip riding up to expose your ass and the wet, swollen folds beneath.

Is this heaven? It must be. Just him and his angel, who’s offering herself up and watching him intently through the reflection in the mirror.

“Come on, baby, before the sales people get suspicious.” you murmur. Your eyes flash dangerously in the mirror, but he knows it’s not a mere trick of the light. You’re getting a kick out of this too, the same way he is.

With a choked sound, muffled by the lace, Spencer steps up behind you. Cock in hand, he lets the blunt tip glide across your soaked folds, letting your arousal mingle with his precum and coat his length. Normally, he’d use his fingers first, coax your walls into a more relaxed state, but you’re right. There’s no time for that. Someone could check up on the two of you any time. The thought makes his cock twitch, and he finally eases into your entrance, slowly pushing into the familiar warmth of your pussy.

He sees your mouth fall open from the stretch. It never gets old, this initial penetration, the way your body always seems to yield to the sheer size of him, no matter how long it has been. He knows he’s moving on borrowed time, only moments to bring you ecstasy, but still he allows himself to savor this first entrance, the tight grip of your pussy around his cock.

And then he moves, rocking his hips back and forth, watching the mirror for your reactions, trying to make sure he’s not hurting you. But the mirror only reflects pleasure on both your faces. Your face lax, a vision of bleary eyed bliss. His own brows are furrowed with concentration as he shifts his hips, trying to hit the spot from this new angle, one where you’re upright, but bent slightly and anchored by your arms against a wall.

One of his hands grip your thigh, lifting it up so that your knee is braced on the mirror as well, opening you up to him a little more. His cock sinks another inch deeper, teeth biting down on the panties as he feels you clench.

“Fuck!” you groan, and he knows he’s found the spot. He moves both hands on your waist, holding you steady, marveling at the way he towers over you in this position. A sense of power fills him, warm and glowing from the trust you’ve put upon him. His thrusts grow firmer, steadier, as he feels your tight pussy fluttering and clenching around him. Spencer has to fight the urge to bury his entire length in you; you’ve never done that before and he doesn’t want it to happen on some random quickie.

Still, even though he’s not all the way in, he knows he’s doing a good job, judging by the increasing gasps that leave your perfect mouth. The looming threat of being found, the promise of people beyond the heavy curtains excites him, alarmingly so. And it seems like you’re on the same boat, as you keep glancing over your shoulder, half keeping watch, half daring people to yank those curtains back and expose the debauchery happening within the tiny space of this dressing room.

He shudders at the thought, thrusting into you more roughly than before. It sends him deep inside your walls, and a cry escapes your lips. Your gazes meet in the mirror, equally mortified, nervous, and excited.

Spencer continues to move, fucking you in this position. If someone heard, they must have opted to ignore the sound instead, and he’s going to take advantage of that fact, bending his body over yours so that his chest is flush against your back. You clench around him in response, your body greedily eating up every inch he’s allowing himself to give you.

“God, you’re in so deep.” you gasp, “So, so deep, feels so good.”

He recognizes this state, mindless and vocal from pleasure and he knows you're close.

“Spence, oh my god baby, so big, you’re - oh fuck, yes!”

It makes him proud, his chest filling with a warmth only you can seem to produce, the very act of reducing you to this babbling, nearly incoherent mess but it also poses a problem. You’re becoming too loud. Too risky. In the heat of the moment, and without stopping the rhythm of his thrusts, Spencer yanks your panties out of his mouth and transfers the fabric into your own. Crumpled up, damp with his saliva, they stop the silly, pleasure drunk stream of words that have been spilling from your lips.

Your eyes meet in the mirror again, his own amused and slightly apologetic, yours barely comprehending.

“Gotta keep quiet, angel.” he murmurs, voice gravelly from disuse, “We wouldn’t want an audience.”

A whimper, smothered by your own panties, perks up his ears and goes straight to his cock. “God baby, you’re so good, letting me have you like this.” he gasps, dropping his head to the crook of your neck.

His cock feels sensitive, ready to burst at any given moment. His thrusts become sloppy, erratic, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you tethered to him because he can feel your legs and thighs quivering under his weight. Spencer uses his other hand to brace against the mirror, staining the once clear glass with sweat and condensation.

“Angel, ah!” he’s aware his volume is increasing as the pleasure intensifies, so he bites down on the closest possible thing—your shoulder. As teeth sink into flesh, your pussy tightens around his cock in response, and he’s done for, unraveled, spilling his cum deep into your being. He continues to thrust, recognizing the way you’re squirming against him, the nearly vice like grip of your walls on his thick length.

“That’s it,” he gasps soothing the bite with his lips and tongue, talking and fucking you through your own orgasm, “That’s it angel, come for me, please, need to feel you, that’s it, there you go.”

Normally, he’d bask in the afterglow, hold you to him until neither of you can breath and the lack of space becomes claustrophobic. But not right now. He has to remind himself you’re still in a public store, separated from people by mere fabric—heavy, curtains, sure, but still fabric. So he holds out his hand in front of your mouth, allowing you to spit out the wad of lace into his palm, and pulls out of your fluttering cunt carefully. His cock still throbs but is slowly softening. He helps you stand up.

“God, that was—I can’t believe we did that.” Spencer whispers. Unable to withhold his affection, he peppers your temple and forehead with kisses, relishing in the sweet sighs of contentment that leave your lips, now no longer cushioned by the panties.

“‘Twas so good,” you bury your face in his chest, and he holds you, supports your weight by wrapping his arms around your waist, “‘M so sweaty.”

He laughs, “Yeah, this fitting room got a little heated.”

“Ruined the slip.” you peek up at him, eyes no longer flashing with mischief but cloudy with pleasure.

“Good thing I’m buying it for you then,” he presses his lips to your sweat stained forehead, “There’s no way you’re leaving without it.”

Thank you for reading! Part of the big useless dick chronicles collection.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you smut #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction smut #sub!spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #big useless dick chronicles #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #erika after midnight #criminal minds fan fiction #criminal minds x you

2K notes · View notes

writers-potion · 1 year ago

Text

Writing Female Fighters

The Heroine Must. Fight.

Today's female protagonists cannot sit on the side crying and breaking down or whimpering as the battle ensues.

Readers want to see autonomous female fighters who can at least defense themselves with courage and adequate skill.

Not all women are the same, but the heroine should get her butt moving.

Less Muscle, but More Flexibilty

The average woman is shorter than the average man, which makes it more difficult to wield a long sword or slam something down on the opponent's head.

A woman who works out can plausibly be stronger than a male couch potato, but if her male counterpart works out as much as her, the man is going to be much stronger.

On the other hand, the center of gravity in a woman's body is lower than a man's which makes it harder to knock her off her feet.

She is also more flexible, which gives her advantage in grappling fights, making use of complex landscapes, or deflecting blows.

A woman's small size can also be an advantage if her opponent has only ever trained with male opponents. His big hands might not get a good grip on her slender limbs.

In historical fiction, giving your heroine good muscule build can be tricky as exercise was generally considered harmful for women, with some exceptions for horseriding any maybe archery at best.

In such cases, make your heroine an accomplished dancer or an eager horsewoman, or the only girl whose father considered to be son replacement and thus, gave her a boy's education.

Women of lower classes who couldn't afford to be fashionably weak will be plausibly stronger, perhaps even more than an idle gentleman.

More Room for Negotiation, but Prolonged Ruthlessness

In the Suspense part of your fight scene, females are more likely to negotiate and talk more, strategically trying to descalate the situation rather than attacking on a momentary impulse.

Generally, women are less aggressive than men and remain level-headed longer than her male counterparts, opting for non-violent methods first before using force.

Exceptions apply if she is trying to protect her children (or someone who she cares for as a child). Mothers can be tigresses.

A female pre-fight conversation may be: "If you had not done so-and-so and betrayed me with so-and-so, we could have been good friends as I thought we would be." "What do you mean? It was in fact you who brought bad blood between us. I can still hear you laughing with so-and-so, taunting me, purposefully making me look bad -" "But that was so long ago! If you want me to say sorry about something so insignificant, you should have just said so: I'm sorry. There. Satisfied?" "Ha! I can't believe you say that so easily. You still don't get it, do you?" "Who's being petty and unreasonable now?"

A male pre-fight conversation will be shorter: "Who's the coward now?" "You're wrong." "Prove it." "Bastard."

Compared to men, it will take more time for a woman's fight hormones (adrenaline, neurotransmitters and such) to kick in.

She would be slower to engage initially, throwing reluctant punches and thinking, but she'll grow more and more violent and lose all rational thought and compassion, and once she's in full flow, may not stop even when her opponent begs for mercy.

When writing a male-female duo, you can show him going for the first blow while she observes and strategizes first. When he's past his peak and panting, she is flying about left and right. Later when the tension wears off and she becomes wobbly and teary, she can rely on him to have recovered faster and distract other teammates so that they won't see her cry.

Plausible Skills and Backstory

In many cultures and time periods, the general attitude of society towards girls is that they have no place in fist fights or martial arts, unlike how it is encouraged for boys of the same age. So if your heroine has physical prowess that surpasses typical 'fitness' or is hidden, build a backstory of how she's obtained it.

For modern heroines, it can be as simple as signing her up for martial arts classes or yearly membership at the local gym. For historical fiction or girls with strict 'feminine' upbringing, it can be trickier.

It can be related to profession: maybe she was an erotic wrestler, catfighter, or an assasin who thought killing was more honorable than prostitution. They may have dabbles with it for a short time and is now trying to hide their past from their respectable employer or fiance.

It can be family backstory: Perhaps her mother was an accomplished martial artist or she had to fend for younger siblings on the streets from an early age. Maybe she was the only girl in a family of many boys who refused to be the punching bag.

Inexperienced Female Fighters

A woman with no fighting experience or training is likely to resort to one of these on instinct:

Try to talk herself out of the situation, attempting to persuade or negotiate for her life.

Grab something to use as a weapon. This instinct seems to be stronger for women than it is in men.

Use her hands to try and break free, or kick (often wth little success)

Pull hair

Scratch.

In a serious fight, pulling hair and scratching won't be helpful, except when the police come to find her body, they would find the opponent's DNA under her fingernails.

Plausible Weapons and Clothing

All of the above applies to scenes where both parties have no weapons, or has the bare minimum (like one dagger each).

Weapons are equalizers, and if your heroine is pointing a gun at her opponent she will definitely NOT hesitate to be the one to shoot first.

When giving your female character a weapon, choose one she can plausibly use. It would take an unusually brawny woman to wield a great medieval longsword.

For historical fiction, give your heroine something she'll plausibly own. Swords and firearm were a no-go for women, but archery was borderline acceptable.

For clothing starters, you definitely CAN NOT dress her in a tight miniskirt and chainmail bra with long, flowy hair and multiple silver chockers. Unless she's trying to seduce her way into her opponent's bedroom, and he has a chainmail bra fetish.

A practical heroine will have her thighs covered, preferably with leather but at least with fabric, since a lot of blood flows through the thighs and a slash would be critical.

She'll keep her hair tied, tucked under a helmet, braided back, etc. so that it won't impede her vision.

She'll support her breasts with a strong sport bra. In a historical eprioid, she'll either tie her breasts tight with a fabric bandage or support them with some kind of leather corset.

Invent a female version of male fighter clothing of the time you are writing about if it doesn't exist.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

3K notes · View notes

writingoddess1125 · 2 months ago

Text

Annoying Shit They Do

COD Men X GN Reader

Price, Simon, Johnny, Kyle, König, Horangi + Bonus

NOT PROOF READ

This is all tongue and cheek. Enjoy!

Simon

Simon was a very.. Well thought out man.

He was always prepared-

Painfully prepared.. for every situation and some situations that weren't even possible.

You knew Simon loved knowing what he was going into at all times. However it can be a bit much at the best of times.

Ever had 2 different types of navigation tools including a compass while going to the post office?

You have-

Ever had hiking gear loaded into your car cause you where going to a local park to jog?

You sure as fuck have!

Thanks to Mr. Always Prepared Skull Man!

You swore this man was prepared for a Mutant zombie apocalypse with the amount of supplies and preparations he had constantly.

Sure while it wasn't something you thought about often and it was clearly in a loving way, He wanted to make sure you were always safe and you appreciated it deeply-

However when you go into your kitchen and see MRE's and emergency dried food to last 30 years next to your chips-

It can get a bit much..

It was always a bit power struggle with the broody man. You'd have a better time fist fighting a brick wall or bringing a rock to a orgasm then winning over the Lieutenant when it came to stuff like this.

Which lead you to staring at the hard black suitcase that was being loaded into the back of the SUV along with your guys few shared soft luggage bags.

You rub your temple, perfectly in between the two emotions of either crying or laughing at your partner.

"Simon-.. I love you. So so much. However I don't think, We need a literal military grade survival kit.. on a couples get away to a private resort"

He looked to you calmly-

"Never know.."

You look up to the sky, Begging whoever is up there that he leaves the kit in the car the whole vacation- and that he doesn't bring a tactical knife into the resort..

Price

John, the love of your life. The apple of your eye..

A good man and a Captain of a special Ops team...

Also..

The bastard that leaves one God damn bit left of whatever he touches and tells no one!

From toothpaste where there is only a bead sized amount left.

To even leaving four chips in the family size bag you'd gotten.

Leaves a single bite of ice cream in the pint and puts it back like it's still full.

Ever opened a box of what used to be Chinese takeout and seen literally 6 noodles, 12 grains of rice and a single piece of meat with a perfect green onion on top?

You sure as fuck had.

You knew it started out as something he genuinely did naturally. However once he figured out it annoyed you- It was on.. he now did it cause he knew it annoyed you.

The fucker-

Just how now you stared at the empty jug of what used to be white grape juice. Now with maybe a shot glass worth in the bottom.

You supress the demonic feeling of wanting to Hex your spouse.

Walking upstairs to his office area where you knew he was both smoking a cigar and drinking from his private stash while watching football (soccer).

Opening the door slowly you make direct eye contact with him. Price slowly raising an eyebrow at the serious look on your face.

"Yes Dear?"

You hold up the empty jug of juice and shake it a little showing the literal trinkle of juice left in it.

"Couldn't just kill it off could you?-"

John gives a smile at you as he takes a sip of his scotch.

"Well, Wanted to save ya some-"

John laughed loudly when you threw the empty juice jug at his head after that.

Kyle

Kyle likes to mess with stuff...

Always moving stuff around, always touching stuff, messing or bending things.

If it's in reach his hands seem to find it-

He's like those children you used to see that had to have their hands on the cart at all times or in their parents pockets cause they would always touch stuff.

Kyle was one of those people in adult form- You'd even heard his mother yell at him saying 'Idle hands are the devils workshop' when he visits and continues the practice.

While in most cases you didn't mind, it was a bit irritating when things got moved from where you'd left them or things just appearing out of thin air.

Your tube of chapstick? Suddenly in the Livingroom.

Phone charger? Now sitting on a random shelf.

You knew it wasn't on purpose but damn, Hell he didn't even seem to realize it himself.

He'd be sitting there, shaking his knee as he rolled something between his hands casually. The two of you talking about something random in the livingroom.

You can't help but narrow your eyes a bit as you see something silver in his palm which he was rolling like playdough.

"Sweetie, What are you messing with?"

He also looks confused for a second, not even realizing he had been messing with something. He looks over whatever had been in his hands.

"Uhh Looks like a oat bar-"

You scrunch up your face a bit.

"We don't even have any granola bars in the house? Where did you get that?"

He shrugs having no idea himself.

Johnny

He buys bulk in everything...

Once he realized that it was a thing he could just do-

He did it with everything..

Bulk Paper towels, Bulk Soy Sauce, 45lb tub of Nut Butter? He got all of it, Leading you to staring up at what was equivalent to a Military food storage in your downstairs pantry.

Leaving you currently staring up at the 25lb cloth bag of table salt on the top of the easy 10ft tall pantry shelf wondering if this was worth the possible 80% death rate trying to fill up the salt shaker.

As you stare up at it, the man of the hour pokes his head in. Seeing you staring at the bag of salt.

"Love?-"

"Johnny My Dear- We have essentially a bunker of Bulk everything. I don't think we need anything else.. I cant even get the salt without risking a skull fracture"

Johnny chuckles at this. Setting down a box to grab the hefty stool kept in the pantry and pulling down the bag, Setting it next to you on the floor.

"Well just saves us the hassle"

He chimed with a chuckle. However you silently disagreed.. Before looking to the large box hed set down.

"What is that?.."

Johnny gives a shy chuckle as you move over opening it quickly you see a massive mountain of 250 individual bags of Welch's Fruit Snacks.

"Johnny.. Why is there enough fruit snacks to kill a small child?"

Hong-Jin (Horangi)

So you're darling husband, He has a wonderful terrible habit of just disappearing..

Walking through a store?

Going to a Restaurant?

Hell going down the hallway of your house!?

The Poof-

He's just gone.

Which always leaves you stranded looking around like a crazy person.. Currently in a giant ass world grocery store he had been the one to drag you to- Aka you knew nothing!

"God Damnit-"

You mumble looking around the aisles trying to see if you could spot him. The place was like a maze, each aisle was a different part of the world it seemed and had at least 60 people crammed in each section.

It was hell! Why did he leave you here!? Now rushing around to just find a spot that wasn't being occupied or in anyone's way.

Aisles 43!? You thought you where at 12!? Where is the Exit!?

Standing there confused by what seemed to be some sort of brooms, you feel a small tap and see Hong-Jin standing there calmly.

"Found you. Got what I needed, We can go now"

He holds up a single small package of a seasoning mix he liked.

...

There was a small tick in the back of your brain that said to shove that packet up his ass.

König-

One word-

ONE GOD DAMN WORD

Lüften...

While sure, it's good to air out the room..

However not when there is 4ft of snow outside and the heater is off because of König wanting to 'Save Gas'.

Bullshit to save gas, He just likes the cold. Correction.. He Loves the cold.

More then most around you or anyone probably in this country. He will happily have the window open and let the house freeze like the arctic saying its refreshing new air.

Ever seen those weirdos that walk in a blizzard in shorts, sandals and a shirt?-

That's him.. damn near skips when a snow storm hits.

However he drags that brand of cold enthusiasm into the house. Leading you huddled under 4 blankets as you have to turn the heater onto Max.

"I swear- If you open that God damn window.."

You mumble to you're spouse as you look up from the blankets of your guys shared bed hiding from the cold that was already in the room as the heater works hard to make the room livable.

Seeing König standing by the large window ready to open it- His hands on the little handle as he stared wide eyed at you.

"But-"

"There is a snow storm going on. The house does not by any means- 'need to be aired out'"

"It feels nice Liebling and it's goo-"

"Felix- I will turn the heat on during peak summer and leave you here... to melt"

And Bonus!

Nikto

This man will eat anywhere at anytime..

You leave him alone for .24 milliseconds?

He's munching on something in record time.

Sure he seemed to burn it off but it was the amount he could eat, what he ate and then if it was close to dinner. He would eat again-

You where honestly starting to worry about his health.. He was concerned about the scars on his face but not the amount of sodium he just drank from the pickle jar.

It made it so when you left to grab one of his prescriptions from the pharmacy which you swore was 15 minutes tops you walk in and see Nikto there with a mountain of food on your coffee table watching TV.

A opened pickled onion jar which was now empty- juice gone too, Some sort of packaged meat that seemed was mostly gone and what seemed to be a rolled newspaper filled with the shells of sunflower seeds and seemingly walnut shells (You hadn't even bought either of them-) And now he was cutting up an apple with a knife and using it to eat the slices.

"H-How, Its been 15 minutes... We don't even have walnuts in the house?"

Nikto looked to you eating another slice of apple and shrugged.

"We got hungry-"

He said plainly before looking back at the TV you standing there both worried and frustrated.

"How we just had dinner? There are leftovers!"

"Not anymore. I ate it-"

868 notes · View notes

apis-vergilii · 4 months ago

Text

The study of the humanities is a training ground for the mind and the development of critical thought, self-knowledge, a deeper understanding of one’s own ethical values, and an appreciation of the shared humanity of those removed from oneself by either temporal or geographical distance. These are not idle theoretical fripperies: they are the foundation of curiosity, compassion, and responsible citizenship.

<piss on the poor>There are indeed many pathways to this knowledge. Yes, go to the library and the museum. No, not everyone needs to get a degree in medieval literature. Everyone SHOULD study at least some history and literature in high school and college.</piss on the poor>

The fact that the serious pursuit of humanist studies has been deliberately made *economically inaccessible* to something like 95% of the human population, and entirely generations of people have been deliberately trained to consider these subjects laughable and worthy only of mockery and disdain (and the first subjects to remove from formal curricula) is a catastrophic injustice on a planetary scale.

#humanism #liberal arts #i will probably be fifty years old by the time i manage to become a teacher but god fucking damnit i will do it #because i want to leave a legacy of opening and training minds not just selling shit or buying shit

304 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

Squeaky Clean 5

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you’re not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU – plus!reader)

Note: damn, boy.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“So, if you terminate contract without two weeks’ notice, terms state you owe the agency an admin fee.” Jan explains over the phone.

You sit in your car with her on speaker, idling behind the store, shellshocked.

“How much?” You ask.

“Based on how long you’ve been with us, four-fifty.”

“That-- four hundred and fifty? That’s a week’s pay,” you exclaim.

“Yes, well, we’d have to overextend other staff and then there would be training and recruiting. Seeing as you’ve not completed your probation period, we would be taking a loss.”

“A loss? I’d still work, just for another client.”

“There’s a lot of cleaners with seniority, they get preference. I’m sorry, but those are your options,” she says. She has no compassion, it’s all just money to her.

You stare at the brick wall ahead of your car. Never mind about going inside. You’ll make your boxed macaroni with water tonight. Maybe as you scroll the job boards. If you get something quick, you’ll be able to cover the fee.

Or.

Or...

Or you’ll have to face him again.

You grip the wheel tight. It isn’t even your car. The fee comes out of your pay too. This whole thing is a grift. You lean forward and rest your head on the vinyl ridges.

You see him, standing in front of the door, in his body armour and helmet. A man who could snap you like a twig. You exhale with a quake and roll your eyes back against the swell of heat. You have no choice. Not unless a miracle comes and you don’t believe in those.

You drive home. Your apartment is small. Especially compared to his townhouse. How rotten. Look at you. Living at the bare minimum, living off his scraps based on how well you clean his floors. It’s not fair. And he can just do whatever he wants. Because what, because he wears that costume?

You’re not hungry. You scroll through job boards. It’s all this bullshit AI training. You know it’s garbage. $100 an hour, yeah, you’re sure it will hit your bank account smoothly. Oh and Jan didn’t miss the non-compete clause. If you quit, you can work for another cleaning agency or even freelance for at least a year.

Sleep is fractured by your anxiety. Every time you close your eyes, he’s there. Each time you move, you feel his hands on you. Your skin crawls and your insides burn. Why? Why you? Would it be the same if it was anyone else who’d taken that job?

You stare at the ceiling as the sun rises outside your window. As the light shifts, your nerves flurry. You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to go back.

You flinch as a soft click comes from the kitchen. There’s a length of wall between the rest of your apartment and it. A bachelor with nothing more than a clunky radiator and scratched floorboards. Another click and the grind of the coffee machine.

You sit up, chest thumping furiously. You’re dreaming. Your frail human condition finally forced you into submission. It’s a nightmare. It has to be. You're sure of it as he appears from behind the wall, leaning on the plaster with smirk.

Steve’s hair is slightly askew. His cowl is gone but the rest of his suit is still in place. All but his gloves, tucked into his belt.

“You know, I was always taught not to give up. Why do you think I am who I am,” he grips his hips as he pushes away from the wall and approaches you with decisive steps. “You don’t just roll over and let the world win.”

You blink. It’s not a dream. You’ve never felt anything more real.

“When you get a no, you don’t stop until you hear yes,” he stops at the foot of your bed, “or until they can’t say anything.”

“Steve,” you bend your legs and push yourself back against the metal headboard. “What...”

“You know, it’s funny. They didn’t tell me all the side effects.” He turns and sits on the side of the bed. “Nope. They said ‘it’ll make you strong. And big.’ That’s about all they told me,” he bends his leg and brings his foot onto his knee. He unlaces his boots, the ends of the laces snapping on the leather. “They don’t tell you how much you can hear. How much you can feel. Or not feel.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, “either they didn’t care or they didn’t know. I can’t say which is worse.” He wiggles the boot off and switches boots. “Don’t tell you that your body turns into this callous shell. The caffeine in a cup of coffee does nothing. Nope. You’re body’s on overdrive. You get nothing. You only give.”

He rips his other boot off and drops it. He sighs and leans forward, his elbows on his thighs as he bends his head. He smooths his blond hair.

“I can hear through a car. Even from a block away. Even through the brick wall. And I can hear your heart beating from ground level,” he sniffs and rolls his shoulders, holding his head. “I can hear it right now too.”

You’re silent. Paralysed. It’s all a game to him. He’s been following, watching. Even if the thought crossed your mind, you wouldn’t have caught him. He shows himself when he wants to be seen. Exactly as he does at his place.

“I just want to feel one fucking thing that makes me feel alive,” he sits up.

You stare at him. He slowly looks over his shoulder and meets your gaze. “I put the coffee on. Your head’s throbbing. Migraine. The cells in your brain are compressed. Lack of seratonin due to lack of sleep.”

Your mouth falls open. He can tell all that. No, another job was never an option. Quitting, like he says, isn’t a choice. Why doesn’t matter. Why is a stupid question. Why won’t change what is about to happen.

“Have a cup, take a shower, relax,” he commands. “I want you to feel it too.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #squeaky clean #drabble #maid au #captain america #avengers #mcu #marvel

260 notes · View notes

mysteryshoptls · 1 year ago

Text

SSR Jade Leech - Club Wear Voice Lines

Club Wear Jade does not have a vignette.

When Summoned: The mountains; a place that stimulates all five senses― Come, you should revel in this sensation as well.

Summon Line: I have my canteen, compass, and flashlight... That's everything. Fufu, I seem to have become quite accustomed to climbing mountains..

Groooovy!!: Even when visiting the same location a second time, the scenery always presents something new. The mountains are truly fascinating.

Home: Well now, time to head into the mountains.

Home Idle 1: Rainy days in the mountains are just as wondrous. Take moss, for example. There is a vast difference between the ambiance of wet and dry moss.

Home Idle 2: This coming weekend, I plan on heading into the mountains before the sun rises. There are some flowers I wish to see that only bloom in the early hours of the morning. Fufu, I must make sure I don't oversleep.

Home Idle 3: I think I've been able to have a better understanding of how humans use their legs to carry themselves ever since I started hiking. As they say, what one likes, one will learn to do well.

Home Idle - Login: From singing birds to chirping insects; from the crisp fresh air of nature to the flora each distinctive in their own way... [sighs] The mountains are superb. No matter how many times I go, I am always in for a new, surprising treat.

Home Idle - Groovy: I'm ecstatic to have you listen to my mountaineering tales. Here, have another cup of tea. I still have much to tell you.

Home Tap 1: I always make sure to wear a hat while sketching in the wild. Last time, I became so single-minded in my sketches I contracted a sunburn so strong my skin chafed terribly.

Home Tap 2: I attempted to regale Floyd on my climbing exploits, but he feel right asleep within a minute of my telling my story. What a shame we cannot enjoy this hobby together.

Home Tap 3: I've heard the Gargoyle Research Club only has one member. I fear it truly is difficult for those of us with more refined hobbies to find like-minded individuals.

Home Tap 4: I have been keeping minutes in my journal of all club activities ever since its establishment. You wish to read it? Go right ahead... But please promise you won't be startled no matter what you read within its pages.

Home Tap 5: The weather in the mountains are prone to change rapidly. When venturing into the mountains, I wholeheartedly recommend an outfit such as this that is easy to remove or put back on.

Home Tap - Groovy: I smell like dirt? It must be because I was studying some vegetation earlier. I was laying flat on the ground, after all.

Duo: [JADE]: I'm honored to have this time together, Malleus-san. [MALLEUS]: It's much too soon to be impressed, Leech

Requested by @pomefiwhore.

#twisted wonderland #twst #jade leech #malleus draconia #twst jade #twst malleus #twst translation #twst club wear #mention: floyd

576 notes · View notes

jjwolves · 11 days ago

Text

BIT FLIP ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

What: 5 Yandere ENA X Reader Headcanons

Who: ENA from ENA by Joel G

How Much: ~1100 words, ~6 mins

Credits: Image Banner → Joel G

Warnings: Threats, Mention of Suicide, Toxic Behavior

Everyone that you talk to always assumes that you and ENA are dating. Sometimes it’s emotionless statements, sometimes it’s mild disgust at your incorrigible life choices. And yeah, you and ENA are really close friends, but you aren’t dating. At least, you don’t think so. Sure, ENA is pretty touchy with you in a way that she doesn’t display with anyone else, always making sure to link arms with you whenever you go out, or lean into you when sitting nearby. But you thought that maybe she was just really, really comfortable with you. You like her for who she is instead of the convenience she brings you, which you’ve come to learn is rare for her. She’s probably just really happy that she has someone she can call a friend, and her behavior is being misinterpreted. You could see why other beings would think that you’re an item, though–ENA’s affection is constant. And you doubt it’ll change anytime soon; it’s just how she is!

ENA’s your best companion and always will be, but you have other friends that you like to spend time with as well. You let ENA know. Usually she just tags along with whatever you’re doing, but you don’t want her to be out of her element with a lot of people who don’t know her. Her chipper side dulls a little and takes a moment to load before speaking quietly, more quietly than you’re used to. She stops her idle dancing and opts to fidget with her fingers instead, doing her best to seem contemplative instead of… this other feeling she was experiencing. A feeling she hadn’t learned the name of. “I see. Your incoming absence is… (ding!) recognized. Well, since you’re unable to eliminate your bindings, I must inquire: What should I do?” You shot her a quizzical look and asked what she meant by that. Wouldn’t she just do what she does normally, when she’s not hanging out with you? “Yes, well, it’s hard to postulate, isn’t it?” Huh? It was only a few moments before ENA was upon you with static tears. “Please please please don’t leave me! Don’t leave me for them!! I know they’re better but just don’t!” You try to calm her down and reassure her that nobody’s taking you from her. She hugs back, hard, but you’re not sure that the message is getting through.

You start trying to distance yourself from ENA a little bit. You think that she might be a becoming a little codependent on you, and while it’s hard to say for sure if relationships in this world even work the way you think they do, ENA’s obsession has been made clear. Sometimes, when you try to get a little personal space, she throws a fit. “No-hooo! You’re leaving me! You’re leaving me!” Other times, she ignores the attempt for distance and closes in tighter, this time placing a possessive yellow hand around a cheek or a hip. “Oh, what joy it is to be in your company. Don’t mind my presence. Conduct yourself as you would, as if I wasn’t even here!” After saying this, she starts hovering around you, watching you with a curious, open-mouthed smile wherever you go, whatever you do. Using the microwave? ENA is watching. Tuning the despair compass? ENA has her head on your shoulder. You are constantly admired by your observer. It’s a little weird and creepy, even for her. Even simply asking her why gets her gloomy. “Ohhh, I should have known you wouldn’t even let me watch… Wretched, horrible me…” Weirdo or not, though, you can’t stand to hear her say stuff like that about herself. You shake her out of it and say that she’s not wretched or horrible or anything; she just needs to learn boundaries. Her yellow side responds with an almost academic flair. “Now that is a word I’m simply unable to learn. How curious! May I resume documentation?”

Eventually, you find out why people think you and ENA are dating, and it’s not because of her overly-intimate touch or constant following. It’s because she walks to your friends’ houses and tells your companions that you’re taken. Well, in so few words. “I understand that the one close to my heart is close to yours as well, but it’s important for you to know that someone already loves them very much. And that certain someone can be a vexing variable when left in a state of lacking. Do you understand what I’m communicating?” A stutter. A tearing of the world and a sky-shivering wail. A white face and flashing eye. “Just leave them alone!! If you don’t-If you don’t-If you don’t (ERROR) I’LL END MY EXISTENCE AND MELT YOU INTO COLORS!!” Your freshly-accosted friends quickly learn to back off when you have plans with ENA. She is completely unpredictable and they’d rather keep their distance from the bi-colored madwoman.

ENA does some work behind the scenes. After running up on your other friends and menacing them with her unpredictability, they stop spending time with you after a while. At one point, they don’t even pick up your talksignals anymore. ENA lingers in the doorway of your home when you ask her why your pals don’t want to hang out with you anymore—why they all left, just like that. Maybe you don’t understand how relationships work in this place, after all. ENA shushes you, her voice soft, feminine and on the verge of tears. “It’s not your fault… You’re so beautiful and wonderful. I’m sorry that I had to go and ruin it all for you…” She gently takes your hand and strokes a cold thumb over it. In the meantime, you feel like you should be appalled at her admission, but you’ve started suspecting it by now. “But it was for you. I’m yours, a-and you’re mine. And I’m not gonna let anything change that! I’m not gonna give you up!” ENA grabs you up in a frigid hug, like the cold wind that comes with rain, but you feel a change of temperature halfway through. “I do hate showing such tears in front of you. Maybe I’ll cut out the blue and put you inside. You’d fill me to bursting!” A low chuckle. You feel a lot of affection for her, but for the first time, you think you understand why your friends were so scared of this blockhead.

#ena x reader #ena #ena fandom #yandere x reader #ena headcanon #imagine blog #imagines #yandere imagines #x reader #writeblogging #writers on tumblr #writeblr

83 notes · View notes

cyberclouddream · 9 months ago

Text

How to Spot: Water Signs Edition

Cancer Rising

- emotionally reactive and take everything personally; their sensitivity is off the charts so they approach new people cautiously

- appear maternal, caring, and empathetic but their mood swings are noticeable; if you make them feel disrespected or unsafe they withdraw and shut down

- expensive spenders, investing in flashy things to feel better about themselves; their need to appear wealthy can lead to financial stability, as their self-worth is tied to how much they have

- constantly worry that they’re being misunderstood or that they’re words are imperfect; their siblings or neighbors might feel like they’re overly analytical or nitpicky

- obsessed with creating the perfect home, and their need for balance can cause them to avoid confrontation at home, leading to passive-aggression there

- easily jealous and need to feel emotionally secure in romantic relationships, and tend to take their desires too far

- hate being tied down to schedules, craving flexibility so much in their day-to-day life that can lead to a chaotic lifestyle l

- tend to attract partners who are older or more established, drawn to those who are stable and dependable

- distant yet controlling, justifying it by saying they’re just being responsible

- intellectualize things too much when it comes to intimacy and deep emotional transformations, avoiding getting too emotional

- come off spacey or unrealistic when they discuss their beliefs or travel plans, rarely committing to concepts or places

- bold and assertive in their career but may rub people the wrong way; they push hard for the top but their impatience can sabotage them

- social life is usually built around people they’ve known for years, and they don’t adapt well to changes in social dynamics; they have a knack for getting in with the right people

- emotional escapist, intellectualizing their emotions in an almost clinical way but the emotional truth remains untouched

- fill their head with noise and distractions to avoid dealing with the raw emotional pain, which can cause them to be prisoners of their own mind; this can lead to insomnia and anxiety

Scorpio Rising

- magnetic and intimidating at the same time, drawing people in with an impenetrable boundary

- often go through major life upheavals, handling it with an icy resolve

- their moral compass is shaped by experience and their gut instincts rather than tradition

- aren’t afraid to task risks with their finances, usually because they believe they will always bounce back

- people may find them too intense or driven, but they’re on a mission to win, even in mundane areas of life

- they hate idle gossip or shallow talk and would rether have deep, meaningful conversations; they prefer to have control over thoughts and words, wanting to be understood on their own terms

- often feel alienated at home, even if it’s self-imposed; they prioritize mental freedom over family ties

- attract odd living situations or have an abnormal family dynamic

- get lost in their creative pursuits and when they fall in love with someone, it’s all-consuming

- at work they’re fiercely competitive, even if they don’t make it obvious; if you’re slacking at work they may call you out mercilessly

- often push themselves to the point of burnout, and may expect the same intensity from others

- can be possessive and overly demanding in love, preferring those who offers stability without making them feel vulnerable; jealousy is always lurking underneath the surface

- ask a lot of questions in sensitive topics, but don’t expect them to answer any in return

- retreat into their shell if their beliefs are challenged or if they feel insecure about their knowledge

- often obtain high positions or become well-known in their field; their career success is frequently linked to their ability to project confidence and control

- have a small, tight-knit group of friends who serve specific roles or purposes

- they want their inner world to be aesthetically-pleasing and orderly, which can cause them to face challenges with reconciling their idealistic and emotional needs with reality

Pisces Rising

- they have a vague, dreamy demeanor and a tendency to blend in rather than stand out; they’ll end up being whatever you want them to be without realizing it

- people either feel drawn to their seemingly compassionate nature or find them frustratingly inconsistent

- they act fast to make money but just as quickly blow through it; they may struggle with jobs that require any real focus or consistency

- they prefer slow, comfortable conversations that don’t rock the boat, withdrawing when things get too deep or challenging for their idealistic world

- they’re not the most articulate, preferring to convey emotions through art, music, or some indirect form of communication

- likely to live in several places over their lifetime, since they can’t settle one what an open and free home feels like

- they are sentimental and often romanticize the past, partners, or projects, which can lead to melodrama and disappointment

- prone to neglecting themselves until a dramatic situation forced them to pay attention; desire to be the center of attention without putting in real effort in their routines

- attract partners who want to “fix” them, which can feel patronizing or irritating; they may end up in codependent relationships where their partner micromanages them

- prefer to avoid responsibility in financial or intimate matters; they can feel dependent or even resentful in shared financial matters

- end up with complex, unspoken beliefs that are hard to share with anyone, and they can get lost in the quest for these hidden truths

- they may inspire others with their idealism but struggle with consistency and discipline; they just want their work to feel meaningful and expansive

- they carefully choose friendships that benefit them on the long-run, and may came off cold or distant when maintaining these relationships

- may idealize being a “lone wolf” but won’t admit it outright, even to themselves

- they’re chaotic and detached from emotional expectations, prone to sudden and erratic shifts in their mental state that makes them hard to understand

#astrology #astrology observations #sidereal astrology #cancer rising #scorpio rising #pisces rising #water signs

367 notes · View notes

moons-and-mobility-aids · 2 months ago

Text

Spoil Me Gently: Prologue - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 7.4k words.

Chapter Summary: A quiet evening, a glowing screen, and a profile that stops everything. What begins as idle scrolling shifts into stillness, focus, gravity. Three men, each with their own ghosts and rhythms, pause for something—or someone—that doesn’t feel like coincidence. This isn’t the start of a love story. It’s the moment before the fall.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, sugar baby!reader, meet-cute-via-app, insta-fixation, reader has depth not just beauty, sugar daddy!marauders, famous!marauders, first contact, voyeuristic intrigue, protective!marauders, reader is poor, trauma history implied, social media sleuthing, emotional tension, longing-before-love, aesthetic obsession, chronic pain, ptsd recovery, reader was in an abusive relationship

James is the one who finds it first—half by accident, half by fate. He's sprawled across the oversized velvet sectional in their living room, his long legs stretched out and one arm draped over the backrest. Sirius' legs are tossed casually over his lap, a testament to their easy comfort with each other. The room is a blend of opulence and warmth, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed view of the sea.

A glass of wine sits in James' hand, the rich red liquid casting faint shadows on his fingers as he lifts it to his lips. His other hand holds his phone, the screen glowing softly in the dim light. He's been scrolling through the sugar dating app for a while now, eyes half-focused, half-distracted as he skims through profiles. The app's hidden profile system means most people can't see them unless they message first, but they've got a short list of potential sugar babies marked for soft vetting.

His thumb pauses mid-scroll, hovering over the screen. It's not the usual reaction—the quick swipe left or right, the dismissive flick of his finger. No, this is different. This is—

He blinks, leans forward slightly, and the wine glass nearly tips from his hand. It's a small shift, barely noticeable, but it signals a change in the air. The casual indifference that marked his previous actions has evaporated, replaced by a keen interest that sharpens his gaze and slows his breathing.

Because there you are.

The photo on the screen holds him captive: a beach at sunset, where the golden light bleeds into the sky, casting everything in warm hues. There's no pose, no forced smile or calculated angle. Just you, standing against the backdrop of the sea, your silhouette outlined by the fading sun. The wind plays through your hair, tousling it like an old friend, and a cigarette glows between your fingers—a small, rebellious flare punctuating the scene.

The coat you wear is long, vintage, evoking images of old French films where every detail matters. It billows slightly in the breeze, creating a sense of movement even in stillness. Your hand rests lightly on a mobility scooter, its presence not diminishing but enhancing the picture. It's as much a part of you as the coat, the cigarette, the way you stand against the dying light.

James lets out a low whistle, the sound slipping past his lips before he can catch it. It's an involuntary reaction, a testament to the impact of the image on the screen. "Guys," he calls, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying weight. "Come look at this."

Sirius is the first to move, a panther's grace in his limbs as he leans closer to the screen. His eyes narrow—not with suspicion but with a kind of hunger, an artistic appreciation for beauty and chaos that has always been his compass. He's drawn to the image like a moth to a flame, unable to look away.

"She's—" he starts, but words fail him. Instead, he gestures wildly, fingers tracing an outline in the air before hitting the profile to delve deeper.

Remus doesn't react immediately. He's always been the observer, the one who sees things others miss. His eyes flicker over the screen, taking in the details—the subtle lines of your face, the way your eyes hold a story even in stillness. Then he shifts, his body language betraying a keen interest as he reads your profile, absorbing each line with a silent intensity.

There's the faintest sound of skin against fabric as Sirius's fingers drum lightly on the armrest. It's a nervous habit, one he's never quite shaken, even in moments like these when he should feel anything but anxious. Yet here he is, caught off guard by the words on the screen.

"I plan wild nights out like it's a heist and schedule recovery like it's sacred ritual," he repeats, eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something deeper—a recognition of kindred spirits. "I like her already."

James, still sprawled on the couch, runs a hand through his hair. The gesture is slow, almost thoughtful, as if he's trying to process what he's just read. His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in focus, as if he's looking at something rare and precious. This isn't just another profile; it's a manifesto written in poetry and prose, each line a brushstroke painting a picture of someone who refuses to be anything less than authentic.

Remus's reaction is more subtle but no less telling. His fingers graze the edge of the screen, not quite touching it, as if he's hesitant to break the spell your words have woven around them. He reads each line carefully, eyes flicking back and forth as he takes in the depth of your self-description. When he reaches the end, he leans back slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

It's Sirius who speaks first, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He throws his head back, eyes gleaming with amusement and something else—admiration, perhaps? "She's not just clever; she's... real."

James leans back, his hand running through his hair as he rereads the lines. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, but it's not a smile—it's a moment of clarity, a connection made. "Fucking hell," he mutters, his voice barely audible over the faint hum of the sea outside.

Remus doesn't speak immediately. Instead, his eyes trace the lines of text, absorbing each word like a sponge. His fingers graze the screen, lingering on the phrases that stand out—'softness like a challenge,' 'sarcasm like armor,' 'loyalty like religion.' They're not just words; they're declarations, each one pulling at his heartstrings in ways he can't quite explain.

The room is quiet save for the faint hum of the sea outside and the soft clink of glass as James sets his wine down. Your words hang in the air between them, each sentence echoing with a truth that resonates deeply. It's not just that you're beautiful or interesting; it's that you are... you.

James runs a hand through his hair; the gesture is slow, almost thoughtful, as if he's trying to process what he's just read. His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in focus, as if he's looking at something rare and precious.

This isn't just another profile; it's a manifesto written in poetry and prose, each line a brushstroke painting a picture of someone who refuses to be anything less than authentic.

They look at each other, and in that moment, something unspoken passes between them. It's more than just attraction—it's understanding, shared and deepened by years of knowing each other's thoughts before they're spoken aloud. Sirius is the first to break the silence, his voice low and steady.

"She's not asking for anything we wouldn't already give."

James's thumb taps against his lips as he considers this. "No fragile egos, no saviours, no liars," he recites, each word a beat in the rhythm of their thoughts. "It's not just a list; it's a gauntlet thrown."

Remus's eyes flicker, a spark igniting within their depths. "And we're the ones who've picked it up."

Your words paint a picture of someone who understands the complexity of human connection—someone who seeks depth without drowning, intimacy without obligation. You want emotional intensity without the pressure of conventional labels, a relationship built on mutual respect and understanding. They can give you that, and more.

This isn't about saving you or fixing you. It's about meeting you where you are, understanding your boundaries, and giving you the space to grow. The list of requirements you've laid out isn't a mere checklist; it's a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at the feet of anyone daring enough to pick it up. And they? They're more than ready.

Sirius's gaze shifts from the screen to his partners, a silent question hanging in the air between them. James meets his eyes first, then Remus, and something passes among them—an understanding, unspoken yet palpable. They're all thinking the same thing: this could be her.

They scroll through your photos, each one a snapshot of a life lived on your own terms. There's a duality to them that's hard to ignore—chaos and calm, beauty and rebellion, all wrapped up in one compelling package.

The first is a glitter-laced rooftop party, city lights flickering like stars against the night sky. You're there, crutches by your sides, standing defiant amidst the revelry. The energy is palpable, a beat that thrums through the screen and into their chests. It's not just a party—it's a statement, a dare to anyone who thinks they can define you by your limitations.

Then comes a quieter moment, captured mid-action. You're in bed, legs tangled in sheets, hands moving deftly over an embroidery hoop. The threads weave together under your fingers, creating something beautiful out of nothing but fabric and time. There's a fire there, too—not the loud blaze of a wildfire, but a steady burn that refuses to be extinguished. It's a different kind of rebellion—a silent one, waged in the small hours of the night when the world is asleep and you are awake, creating.

And then there's the mirror selfie. You're in your wheelchair, fairy lights strung across the handles, casting a soft glow over the room. It's like a personal rave, your own universe where you hold court. The defiance in your gaze is unmistakable, a challenge thrown at anyone who dares to look away.

Sirius's gaze lingers on each photo, his fingers twitching slightly as if already imagining how he would frame the shot, capture the light. There's a spark in his grey eyes, something that wasn't there before—an artist recognising a muse, a firebrand seeing another who burns just as brightly. He can see you through his lens, your rebellion and grace captured in every frame.

James is quieter, his brow furrowed as he studies the images. His thoughts are far away, caught on the edges of a dream. He's not just seeing you—he's imagining the moments in between. The way you'd laugh at one of his jokes, the softness in your eyes when you speak about something you love. How you take your coffee, whether you're a morning person or if you need a few moments to wake up properly. It's not just about the photos—it's about the stories they tell.

Remus watches, his own eyes tracing the lines of your body, the curve of a smile here, the defiant tilt of your chin there. He sees more than just a collection of pretty pictures; he sees a narrative woven through each frame, a story told in the language of light and shadow. Your intelligence, your passion, your fire—they're all there, captured in still life. And Remus, who has always loved stories, finds himself drawn to yours.

They don't say it out loud—not yet—but they all know it. It's that stillness-before-the-storm kind of moment, like something cosmic just clicked into place. You're not just beautiful. You're right. The vibe, the values, the attitude, the honesty. You feel like someone who could split them open in the best way, someone who doesn't want saving but might just change everything. And for the first time in a long time, they all feel it at once: this could be her. This could be ours.

For a moment, they don't move. It's as if the air in the room has changed, becoming heavier, sharper—like the world has shifted just slightly on its axis. They sit there, caught in the silence, hearts beating in time with the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore outside.

But they are not naïve men, prone to flights of fancy without grounding themselves first. Not even Sirius, for all his wild heart and impulsive nature. They know better than to act on a whim, especially when it comes to something—or rather, someone—as significant as you.

Remus shifts first, his voice a quiet anchor amidst the storm brewing in their minds. "Let's find her socials," he murmurs, the words cutting through the silence like a knife through butter.

James is already moving, lifting his phone from where it rests on the arm of the couch. The screen's glow casts a soft light on his features, highlighting the determination etched into every line of his face. "I'll start with this photo," he says, fingers flying over the device as he initiates a reverse image search.

The tension in the room grows, the rhythmic sound of the sea outside a counterpoint to their anticipation. Sirius is still caught in the moment, his eyes reflecting the same artistic hunger that drew him to you in the first place. He's always been a collector of beauty, of chaos, and it seems he's just found his next muse.

Remus leans back slightly, his gaze distant yet focused. He's already thinking through the possibilities, cataloguing every detail they've gleaned from your profile. His mind works in tandem with James's hands, a well-oiled machine grinding out the answers they seek.

It takes less than a minute.

"Got it," James says, triumph threading through his voice. He turns the phone towards them, the screen displaying your Instagram profile. The handle is different, but there's no mistaking the face that greets them.

Your Instagram is public. So is your Twitter, linked conveniently in your bio. And from there, it takes only moments to find your TikTok as well.

Everything is public. Everything is real. Everything is... you.

The room's energy shifts again, now charged with an intensity that mirrors the storm outside. They have you—an even clearer picture of who you are, painted not just by words on a screen but by the moments you choose to share with the world.

The Instagram grid hits like a punch wrapped in velvet. It's a curated chaos, each square a testament to your existence—a striking mix of glamour and rawness that defies easy categorization. You're magnetic, yes, but there's something more beneath the surface, something that calls to them on a level beyond simple attraction.

The selfies are a study in contrast and cohesion. Lace peeking out from under a vintage blouse, lipstick bold against your pale skin, legs draped over the side of your wheelchair as if you were a queen holding court. Every image captures you in moments of defiant beauty, your gaze meeting the camera with an intensity that demands attention. But it's not just the visuals that draw them in; it's the captions beneath each photo crack the surface—rage disguised as poetry, survival as subtext.

One reads, "romanticising survival because it's the only kind of romance I get these days," and James's thumb freezes mid-scroll. Another: "He used to choke me awake. Now I just wake up screaming and stitch through it." The words aren't dramatic. They're clinical. Quiet. Like confession dressed up in thrift-store lace.

There's pain there, etched into the lines of your words like scars on a battlefield. The rage is palpable too—sharp, unyielding, and aimed at the injustices that have shaped your world. And then there's the intelligence, not just in what you say but in how you say it, each sentence crafted with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.

Sirius swipes through the grid slowly, almost reverent as he takes in each image. His usual bravado is stripped away, leaving only the raw edges of a man who understands too well what it means to live a life on fire. He pauses at a photo of you, eyes closed and head tilted back, lost in a moment of peace that seems almost fragile against the backdrop of your existence.

"She makes rage look like religion," he says, voice barely above a whisper.

James breathes out, his eyes still fixed on the screen. He's absorbing the captions, too, feeling their weight settle into his chest. Each one is a story in itself—brief, poignant, and laced with the kind of honesty that leaves a mark. There's no pretense here, no attempt to soften the edges for anyone's comfort. Just you, as you are.

"She makes survival look like art," he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

There's a silence then, not uncomfortable but filled with the weight of shared understanding. Sirius shifts, his gaze still fixed on the screen. He doesn't need to look at James or Remus to know they're thinking the same thing—about how rare it is to find someone who understands what it means to live on the edge, to be both creator and destroyer in a world that doesn't always make room for either.

And yet, here you are. A woman who turns rage into religion and survival into art. A woman who lives her life unapologetically, defying the constraints placed upon her by society and circumstance alike.

The Instagram story highlights next, and it's like stepping into another world—unfiltered, raw. The videos are taken from your bed, the camera propped up on a nightstand or held in a trembling hand. The lighting is soft, ambient, casting long shadows that dance across the walls. Outside your window, the city hums—a distant, muted symphony of life continuing beyond the confines of your room.

In one, your voice is hoarse as you whisper, "My ex said I'd never survive without him. Joke's on him—I'm still here. And he's still blocked. Mostly."

There's laughter at the end, but it's the kind that hides something sharp underneath. Remus winces. Not visibly. Just a slight shift in his jaw.

In another, you're lying back against a mountain of pillows, your face pale and eyes hooded but still sharp. The camera catches every detail: the curve of your lips as they form words, the slight twitch of your brow when you pause to think.

"Today I managed to get down the stairs without blacking out," you say in one video, your voice a soft rasp against the silence. "That's the win. That's it."

Remus's eyes flutter closed as he listens, the tension in his jaw easing into something softer, almost tender. He doesn't need to see the screen to know what's there—to know you.

Because now it's not just about intrigue or fascination; it's about understanding. It's about seeing you not as a concept or a profile but as a person—someone who's been through hell and back, someone who fights battles they can't even begin to imagine.

"She doesn't want saving," he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath against the stillness. "But God, she deserves relief."

Sirius and James exchange a look, a silent conversation that passes between them like lightning—quick, bright, and full of unspoken words. They know what Remus is thinking because it's written all over his face, in the slight furrow of his brow and the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the sofa.

But then again, they don't need to see his face to know it. They feel it too, this pull towards you—not just because you're beautiful or interesting but because you are real, raw, and unfiltered in a world that often demands otherwise.

The air hangs heavy between them, not with tension but something else—something that feels like understanding and heartbreak all rolled into one. They don't speak for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts, each feeling the weight of your words settle into the depths of his mind.

It's Sirius who loads your Twitter page. The username alone has him smirking, something feral and intrigued sparking in his grey eyes; he's always had a soft spot for rebellion, a weakness for those who refuse to play by the rules. And you? You seem to have taken the rulebook, shredded it, and set the pieces ablaze.

The link loads, and they're plunged into a world that's equal parts righteous, hilarious, and feral. Your feed is a tapestry of thoughts and emotions, each thread woven with precision and intent. It's a chaotic symphony of brilliance—a place where intellect meets gallows humour, where anger is an art form, and truth is served unfiltered.

Sirius's fingers scroll through your tweets. Each one is a testament to your wit, your intelligence, your refusal to be anything less than unapologetically you. He pauses on a tweet from earlier in the week, the words sharp and elegant against the stark white background.

The way you dissect complex issues with such clarity and elegance reminds him of a poet's hand, each word chosen with care, each line a brushstroke in a larger picture. Sirius can almost hear your voice in his head, each word punctuated by the quiet intensity that seems to define you.

He scrolls further, his grin widening as he reads a tweet that memes a recent event with biting humour. The image accompanying the tweet is a low-res screengrab of a politician mid-speech, mouth open in what looks like a particularly unflattering yawn. Below it, you've added the caption: "When you realise you've been talking for ten minutes and still haven't said anything coherent."

Sirius chuckles, the sound low and warm as it vibrates through his chest. He's always appreciated those who can find humour amidst chaos, who can laugh in the face of adversity. And you? You're practically a beacon, lighting up the darkness with your sharp wit and unapologetic truth.

James leans closer, peering over Sirius's shoulder. His eyes flicker over the screen, taking in each tweet with a growing sense of admiration. "She's brilliant," he murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "And funny. God, I love a girl who can meme."

But it's not just the humour that draws them in—it's the way you wield your words like weapons, cutting through the noise with a precision that leaves no room for doubt. They find themselves captivated by a series of tweets—some witty, some brutal.

One sticks out to Remus, stark against the rest: "When you report stalking and the police ask if you're sure it's not a misunderstanding, you learn very quickly how loud you have to scream before anyone listens." Another reads: "The word 'slut' only started healing when I used it like armor instead of letting him use it like a blade."

James leans closer, his eyes scanning the screen with a mixture of amusement and respect. "She's got a way with words, doesn't she?" he says, his voice low and warm. "Like she's carving her thoughts out of stone."

Remus's fingers hover over the keys, not pressing but close enough to feel the heat of the moment. He's been following the thread, his brows knitting together with each new piece of information. These are not the tweets of someone looking for applause or validation—these are the words of someone who has lived through hell and come out the other side, scarred but unbroken.

"It's not just her words," Remus says quietly, his gaze fixed on the screen. "It's the way she uses them. She doesn't just speak—she communicates. She understands the power of language, how it can be both weapon and shield."

The room falls silent as they absorb this new layer of complexity. Your tweets are more than just words on a screen—they're pieces of you, fragmented thoughts stitched together into a tapestry of raw emotion and unfiltered truth. You don't just exist online; you inhabit the space, making it your own with every post, every interaction.

And it's not just Sirius who's captivated—James feels it too, the pull of your intelligence and humour like gravity. He's always been drawn to those who can match his wit, who can keep up with the constant barrage of thoughts and ideas that race through his mind. And you? You seem to not only keep pace but set it, your tweets a symphony of sharp edges and soft undertones that resonate with something deep within him.

Remus, ever the observer, watches the interplay between his partners and the screen. He sees the way Sirius's eyes light up with each tweet, the way James's fingers twitch as if itching to respond. But more than that, he feels the undercurrent of something stronger—a connection that goes beyond words, beyond the digital realm.

Because your tweets aren't just clever quips or biting retorts—they're pieces of you, fragmented thoughts stitched together into a tapestry of raw emotion and unfiltered truth. You don't just exist online; you inhabit the space, making it your own with every post, every interaction.

And as they sit there, phones in hand, eyes scanning the screen for more pieces of you, they realise something else—something that tightens around their hearts like a vice.

You're not just a pretty face or a clever mind. You're real, raw, unfiltered in a way that makes their carefully curated lives feel almost... hollow. They've seen enough fake smiles and rehearsed lines to last a lifetime, but you? You're different. You're genuine.

And that? That's what draws them in. That's what makes them want to know more, to see if the woman behind the screen is as captivating in person as she is online.

Their world is about to change, and they know it. Because this isn't just a passing interest or a fleeting fancy—they're drawn to you, pulled into your orbit by a force they can't quite explain.

And as they sit there, phones in hand, eyes scanning the screen for more pieces of you, they realise something else—something that tightens around their hearts like a vice.

They're already falling, and they haven't even spoken to you yet.

Remus finally loads the TikTok app, the soft glow from his phone casting delicate shadows across their faces, and he scrolls through your videos, pausing at one that catches his eye. James leans forward, his gaze sharp as he watches you on the screen. Your hands move with deft precision, the needle catching the light as it dips and weaves through the fabric. Each stitch is a testament to your skill, deliberate and confident.

But it's not just your hands that hold their attention—it's your voice. Your words flow smoothly, dismantling systemic ableism with a calm confidence that leaves no room for doubt. You speak as though you're delivering a well-rehearsed monologue, each point hitting its mark with surgical precision.

James's jaw tightens with each of your incisive comments, the lines of his face hardening in a way that speaks volumes about his deepening interest. He's always been drawn to intelligence, to those who can challenge him and hold their own in a battle of wits. And you? You're doing more than that—you're eviscerating ignorance with a grace that leaves him breathless.

Sirius nudges him gently, drawing him back from the brink of his intense focus. It's a small gesture, but one that speaks to their bond—a shared admiration, an unspoken understanding.

"Look at her hands," Sirius whispers, his eyes never leaving the screen. "She's not just talking—she's creating. Every stitch, every word... it's art."

James follows Sirius's gaze, watching as your hands move with practiced ease. The needle dips and weaves, each stitch precise and deliberate. It's a dance of sorts, one that speaks volumes about your skill and dedication.

And then there's your voice—steady, confident, laced with a hint of mirth as you dismantle systemic ableism with an ease that suggests this is far from your first rodeo. Your words cut through the silence, each point landing with the force of a well-aimed strike.

"Systemic ableism isn't just about physical barriers," you say, your tone measured yet intense. "It's the policies that ignore us, the societal norms that exclude us, the everyday interactions that remind us we're 'other.'"

Your commentary is sharp, each word carrying the weight of lived experience and hard-earned knowledge. It's a stark contrast to the delicate embroidery in your hands, yet somehow, it fits perfectly—a testament to the duality that defines you.

Sirius's voice cuts through the silence, a note of genuine awe threading through his words. "That's a goddamn monologue," he says, his usual bravado tempered by something softer, more reverent.

Remus watches you with a soft-eyed gaze, his expression one of quiet admiration. He's seen many people speak their minds, but few who do so with the same conviction, the same raw honesty that you display. It's as if he's seeing beyond the surface, understanding not just the words you say but the weight they carry.

"She's brilliant," he murmurs, almost to himself. But the words hang in the air, a testament to the impact you've made.

And you are—brilliant, that is. Your intelligence, your skill, your ability to weave threads into stories and stories into threads—it's all there, on display for anyone willing to look.

But it's more than that. It's the way you hold their attention, the way your words resonate with each of them in different ways. Sirius, drawn to your fire and passion. James, captivated by your intellect and skill. Remus, seeing the depth beneath your defiance.

Then, in the next TikTok stitched from a trending sound, you're sitting cross-legged in bed, saying quietly, "POV: dating a man twice your age at 16 and thinking he loved you. Plot twist: it was a hostage situation." The comments are filled with people writing "I see you," and "same." Sirius scrolls back to watch it again, face unreadable.

The living room falls silent after that, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the shore. Sirius leans into Remus, allowing the steady rhythm of his partner's breath to ground him. His usual vivacity is tempered, replaced by a quiet intensity that mirrors the gravity of the moment. James moves to stand by the window, his gaze fixed on the expanse of sea beyond. The soft light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of concentration etched into his features.

The air feels charged, as though their collective decision has settled into the space around them, solid and unyielding. They don't need to speak to know what the others are thinking—it's there in the tension of Sirius's shoulders, the furrow in James's brow, the way Remus's hand rests on Sirius's back, fingers tracing idle patterns.

Remus breaks the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of their shared understanding. "We have to be careful," he says, his eyes never leaving the screen. "She's been through hell." His words are a gentle reminder, an echo of the caution that has guided them through so many storms. There's no accusation in his tone, only a deep-seated concern that's as much a part of him as the scars that mark his skin.

James nods, his gaze still fixed on the vast expanse of sea outside the window. His fingers drum a silent rhythm against the glass, each tap a testament to the thoughts swirling in his mind. "Then we walk through fire if we have to," he says simply, turning to face them. His eyes meet Remus's, then Sirius's, and there's a spark there—a promise, a challenge, a commitment. "Whatever it takes."

Because it's already decided, hasn't it? Not by logic or plan, but by something older, deeper. Something that recognises kindred spirits and calls them home.

For the first time in what feels like forever, they feel like all this time searching wasn't a wait. They don't know you yet—not really—but they already know they'll do this right. They'll earn you.

---

The living room is a study in contrasts—soft light filtering through gauzy curtains, casting a warm glow over plush furnishings and sleek, modern lines. It's a space that feels lived-in despite its extravagance, filled with the quiet hum of existence. James, Sirius, and Remus sit around a laptop, its screen illuminating their faces as they lean in, each man wearing a different expression but sharing the same focus.

James is the first to speak, breaking the silence with a low murmur. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving the screen. His glasses reflect the soft light of the laptop, hiding the intensity in his eyes but not the determination etched into his features.

"We should start casual, like we're not trying to sweep her off her feet, just stand in front of her honestly." He runs a hand through his already tousled hair, the gesture more habit than necessity. He's always been the one to take charge, to lead with his heart as much as his head. This is no different.

Remus's fingers move steadily over the keyboard, each tap deliberate and measured. His brow furrows slightly in concentration, but there's a softness around his eyes, a calm that belies the storm of thoughts swirling within. He's the anchor, grounding them in reality even as they navigate these uncharted waters.

Across from him, Sirius lounges back in his chair, one leg draped over the armrest. His usual smirk plays at the corners of his lips, but it's tempered by something more serious—a glint in his grey eyes that speaks of thoughtfulness beneath the bravado. He leans over Remus's shoulder, tossing in jokes that are immediately deleted, the light-hearted banter a shield against the vulnerability of their task.

James insists on confirming their names straight off the bat, cutting through the potential fog of disbelief with a clear, straightforward approach. "Clarity before charm," he mutters, his voice low but firm. He's always been one for honesty, even when it's uncomfortable.

Remus follows suit, his calm demeanor never wavering as he types out the next line. His eyes flicker back and forth, reading the words on the screen, making sure they convey the right message. It's a delicate balance, one he's determined to master. We keep a low profile on here for obvious reasons, but everything's ID-verified, and we promise we're not catfishing.

Sirius, half-joking, half-serious, suggests offering video proof. His smirk fades into a thoughtful expression, reflective of his understanding of the importance of transparency. "She deserves to know who she's dealing with," he says, his voice dropping an octave.

The next paragraph is trickier, a minefield of implications and unspoken truths. Remus insists on honesty, his voice a steady anchor amidst the rising tide of their emotions. "If we don't tell her we looked, she'll find out anyway because one of us will let it slip. Better she hears it right away—unapologetic, but respectful."

His fingers hover over the keyboard, a pause in the rhythmic tapping that has filled the room. It's a small gesture, but it speaks volumes—of the care he takes with his words, the weight of each sentence as it forms under his command. The air is thick with anticipation, charged by the electricity of shared purpose.

Which brings us to the part where we're honest with you: we did a bit of digging. A reverse image search led us to your socials—and we looked. Remus types, the words appearing on the screen with soft taps. His brow furrows slightly, each line etched deeper by the weight of their task. Not to invade, but to protect ourselves.

James sits back, his fingers steepled under his chin as he watches the words take shape. His eyes, usually so full of mischief, are serious now. "She'll understand that part," he murmurs, almost to himself. "She has to protect herself too."

Sirius leans forward, his gaze flicking between the screen and Remus's face. There's a tension in his posture, a stillness that belies the usual fluidity of his movements. His finger taps against the edge of the table, a rhythm that mirrors the beat of their hearts. "With you?" he adds, his voice low but clear. "It didn't feel like surveillance. It felt like getting lost in someone we weren't expecting to find."

The room falls silent, the only sound the soft hum of the laptop. James's head tilts slightly, his brow furrowing as he considers Sirius's words. Remus's fingers pause mid-air, hovering over the keys like a pianist about to strike the final chord of a masterpiece. Even Sirius, usually so quick to fill the void with his own voice, remains still, his gaze fixed on the screen.

Remus's fingers resume their dance across the keyboard, the rhythm steady and sure. James's gaze softens, the hard lines of his face easing into a thoughtful frown. Sirius's eyes flicker with a spark of understanding, his smirk returning, but tempered now with a hint of something deeper.

They know the line is too good to cut. They know because it's the kind of truth that sticks, that refuses to be ignored. And as they watch the words appear on the screen, they can't help but feel a sense of anticipation, of waiting for the moment when the rest of the world will catch up to what they already know.

Because it's true—and because none of them had expected to be unravelled by someone they hadn't even met yet.

James leans forward again, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies the screen. His eyes flicker with a light that's half determination, half something softer—an earnestness that cuts through the usual bravado. "We're not reaching out because she's beautiful—though, she really is." He pauses, the words hanging in the air like a confession. "It's more than that."

Sirius begins pacing, unable to sit still. His movements are fluid, almost feline, but there's a tension in the set of his shoulders that belies his outward calm. "It can't be pity. Or rescue," he says, voice low but firm. The lines of his face are sharp in the dim light, casting shadows that dance with the flicker of his intensity. "She'd see through that in a heartbeat." His eyes meet James's, then Remus's, each glance a silent plea for understanding.

Remus's gaze shifts, his eyes unfocusing as if he's looking at something only he can see. "She's... electric," he says, the word almost a whisper. His hand halts on the keyboard, fingers stilling as he searches for the right way to convey the connection they all feel. "It's not just about what we see. It's about who she is, how she makes us feel, even just through her posts." A soft smile touches his lips, and he leans back slightly, the lines of his face softening in the dim light. "Her duality. That's what draws us in."

The way you write, the way you see the world, the way you hold space for both softness and fury—we felt it in our chests. He types with slow precision, each word a brushstroke on the canvas of their truth. The screen glows with the soft light of understanding, casting shadows that dance across the planes of Remus's face.

James's eyes widen slightly, and he straightens up, his body a line of tension. "You don't just survive fire, you match it," he says, his voice carrying the weight of the words. He turns to Remus, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That's the line."

Sirius's head tilts slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. His fingers drum against the edge of the table, creating a soft, irregular beat. "Say something about the fact our love doesn't get diluted. It just expands." He looks at the screen, where the words hang in the air between them, unspoken but understood. A small smile curves his lips, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "We need that to be clear."

James nods, his gaze softening as he watches Sirius. "And say we just knew from the minute we saw her profile," he echoes, his voice low but firm. He leans back slightly, the tension in his posture easing as he processes the significance of their words.

The fourth paragraph takes the longest.

They write, and rewrite, and write again—each version a delicate balance between openness and caution. Words are deleted, sentences restructured, meaning distilled to its purest form. The cursor blinks impatiently, waiting for a decision that feels monumental in its simplicity. They want to be clear, not coy; honest, not harsh. And above all, they want to make sure you understand: this isn't about rushing in or overwhelming you.

It's Sirius who breaks the silence, his voice low and measured. "She's had people come in like hurricanes before. If we come in, it has to be like rain—soft, needed, welcome."

James nods, his eyes never leaving the screen. "We're not here to rush or overwhelm."

And then, the offer: If you're curious—about us, about what this could be—we'd love to talk.

The words hang in the air, a testament to their intent. James leans back, his expression thoughtful but not anxious. His gaze is steady, meeting each of theirs in turn. "We need to be clear. This isn't about winning someone over or sweeping them off their feet. It's about connection, and that only happens if she wants it too."

His words are met with a silence that feels heavier than before, each of them absorbing the weight of what they've just agreed to. The final line James suggests hangs in the air, unspoken but understood: And if not, we'll disappear as quietly as we came in.

It's an offer, not a demand. A door, gently cracked open, waiting for you to decide whether to step through.

The room falls silent, the air heavy with the weight of the unspoken. No one moves, no one speaks—a stark contrast to the flurry of activity just moments before. Sirius leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his usual bravado replaced by a tension that radiates from his posture. His eyes are fixed on the laptop screen, the cursor blinking back at him as if it too is holding its breath.

James runs a hand through his hair for the fifth time in as many minutes, each pass a testament to the restless energy coursing through him. His gaze is distant, lost somewhere beyond the glass, but his body remains tethered to the here and now, a line of tension drawing him back.

Remus is the first to move, his fingers hovering over the trackpad. He clicks once—clean, quiet, certain—and the message is sent. Out there, somewhere in the ether, it lands gently in your inbox, waiting to be seen.

There's no dramatic exhale, no whoops of triumph or high-fives exchanged. Just the thick, warm weight of having done something that matters. The soft, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the room, illuminating the lines of their faces and the subtle shifts in their expressions. Shadows play across Remus's features as he watches the screen, his eyes reflecting the quiet intensity of the moment.

The room feels quieter now, not expectant but full. Like whatever this is, it's already changed something, filled a space they didn't know was empty. The silence presses in, not uncomfortable but dense, laden with the significance of what they've just done.

It's Sirius who breaks it, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he leans back into the cushions. His eyes are still on the screen, but the tension in his shoulders has eased, replaced by a different kind of anticipation. He doesn't say anything, doesn't need to; the set of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, speaks volumes.

James leans against the window frame, his fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh. His gaze flickers between the laptop and the view outside, a silent sentinel keeping watch over both worlds. He's still for once, the usual restlessness replaced by a quiet patience that belies the storm brewing beneath.

Remus remains seated, his posture relaxed but alert. His hand rests on the arm of his chair, fingers tracing the worn fabric in an absent-minded caress. His expression is calm, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth—a stark contrast to the tension radiating from his partners.

The air feels thick, charged with the weight of their collective hope. No one speaks, the silence more telling than words could ever be. Each man is lost in his own thoughts, but their minds are aligned, circling back to the same point over and over again.

God, I hope she writes back.

#Poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #Sirius black x reader #Sirius black x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter x you #james potter x reader #marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfic #the sugar baby au #chantelle writes fic

82 notes · View notes

ckret2 · 9 months ago

Note

idk if you've ever answered this before (probably, the answer is always probably) but is Bill, like... capable of empathy? Of sympathy? Of love (any kind) or compassion? I guess what I'm asking is how does he relate to other people? Are they all just tools and idle amusements, or does he develop any actual genuine (positive??) attachment to them?

Everything I know about him comes from 8+ year old memories of a cartoon I haven't rewatched since, and discourse I see through your blog, so I'm not sure what the canon consensus is but your word is god enough to me on at least your specific interpretation of Bill.

(I guess it would be moot to ask why he's so fucked up. Feel free to ignore any and all of this ask, it's 12 AM and I'm trawling the web before bed)

for my specific interpretation of Bill? Have this post about empathy and a couple of posts about romantic love. (Okay—three about romance.)

But now let's forget about my interpretation and talk canon.

Empathy! You can roughly split empathy into two categories: "I can logically identify and understand what you're feeling" empathy, and "when you're sad i feel sad and when you're happy I feel happy" empathy.

We absolutely know that Bill has "I understand what you're feeling" empathy, because he uses it again and again to manipulate his victims. He has VERY good emotional intelligence. He understands his victims' insecurities, their desires, how to make them feel happy, angry, ashamed, trustful, mistrustful; he knows when and how to manipulate them based on their mood to maximum effect; etc. We see it in how he manipulates Dipper & Mabel in the show; we see it in how he turns Ford against Fiddleford in Journal 3; we see it in TBOB and on thisisnotawebsitedotcom in the way he talks about how and why he manipulated Ford.

We have no evidence he experiences "I feel what you feel" empathy. That doesn't necessarily mean he DOESN'T, but there's no evidence for it. Never see him get excited just because someone else is excited, never see him cringe sympathetically when someone else is hurt. You could say "maybe on top of being a manipulation tactic, when Bill relates to Ford's estrangement from his family by talking about his destroyed universe, he's also feeling empathy for his situation," but you could also just as easily say "nah it's just manipulation."

Common sense would say well, if he feels other people's pain, it would be harder for him to manipulate, betray, and hurt people so blithely. But we're not talking about common sense, we're talking about canon evidence! It's possible for empathetic people to hurt other people; they can just... learn not to care about that person's feelings. Which is particularly easy to do if the target is someone the person sees as "less important" or dehumanizes them. Bill sees everyone as less important than him. We can't rule either way on whether or not he's got a capacity for emotional empathy we just never see. All we can say for sure is he doesn't appear to turn it on for anyone we see.

Though we see him come close. Although he doesn't feel with any of the Pines, we can see him relate to Ford (during Weirdmageddon, throughout TBOB), to Stan (on TINAWDC), and to Mabel (in TBOB and the Dipper & Mabel's Guide book) via projecting his struggles and beliefs on to them. But in a way this is sort of, reverse empathy?; it doesn't let him feel how they feel, but it makes him assume they feel the way he does.

Sympathy! The definitions of empathy vs sympathy vs compassion are contested so I'm gonna present the definitions I'm using for this post: empathy is "i [feel/understand] what you feel" and sympathy is "i care about how you feel." There's a couple of moments in his interactions with Ford in TBOB that are blatantly manipulative (when he shows Ford what's left of his dimension; to a lesser extent, when he "helps" Ford celebrate his birthday) that might also secondarily be fleeting displays of sympathy. It's ambiguous.

Compassion! Compassion is "i'm moved to help because of how you feel." There's a moment in TBOB when he gets so irritated at Puritan misogyny that he teaches a bunch of Puritan wives how to be witches and has a girls' night burning men at the stake with them. He apparently gets no benefits from this himself, aside from funsies. Is he motivated by compassion for the ladies or ONLY by irritation at how boring the men are? Again, ambiguous.

In TBOB when discussing his exploits in the Nightmare Realm, he mentions freeing patients from insane asylums and criminals from prisons. He also repeatedly mentions disliking captivity. He might be motivated by compassion derived from empathy for prisoners. He doesn't present his motives.

Love! He calls the Henchmaniacs his "family," repeatedly brings up their worries about being erased from reality, and says he takes his party hosting duties to them very seriously. We don't know whether he actually cared about them, or merely called them a family in recognition of their consistent loyalty and obedience. He's pretty disrespectful/violent toward them but that isn't incompatible with being emotionally invested in them beyond their utility. We don't have confirmation he cares for them, or confirmation he doesn't.

Hidden in TBOB and absolutely riddled through TINAWDC are references to his parents caring about him and tender quotes. When he's so blind drunk he doesn't know where he is, he tries to call his mom and asks her to make him a sandwich after school. We know he resents how they pathologized a mutation he was born with; beyond that we can't confirm whether or not he loved them; but just beneath the surface, he's unceasingly haunted by how they loved him.

Romantic love! I wrote a post about the evidence for/against romantic attraction in TBOB. He's confirmed to have at least two ex girlfriends; in the book, he mentions missing them both. He mentions having "seduced" galaxies; we don't know whether these seductions were sexual, sexual+romantic, or metaphorical. He denies having in the exes in the same book where he discusses them, and claims that love is the pupa for hate.

You can choose to interpret this multiple ways. To me it reads most strongly as "he's been in love but sucks at maintaining a relationship because he's an asshole, and he's got sour grapes about it"; but you could read it as "he wants love but his relationships fall apart because he can't feel it and he doesn't examine why" or "the relationships were based on something other than romantic love" and not technically be wrong based on the evidence we have. What we know for sure: he's had multiple relationships; he misses them; he tries to deny they happened; he claims love's dumb.

Genuine attachment to his tools! Bill claims torturing Ford was normal Henchmaniac hazing and he wanted him to join the gang. (Dubious evidence of emotional attachment.) He goes on a raging bender when Ford refuses to join him and escapes before Bill can torture him into joining. (Stronger evidence of emotional attachment.) In Weirdmageddon, seconds after Ford tried to murder Bill, he asks Ford to join him and then turns him into a statue he carries around everywhere when Ford refuses—and this is BEFORE he discovers Ford might still have a practical use for him.

On TINAWDC, he has an exchange that boils down to "Ford was just a tool?" "You say that like it's a bad thing!" "So you never cared about him?" "I didn't say that." He goes on to refer to Ford as his pet and henchman. Demeaning—but, people do feel positively toward their pets.

(It may be worth noting he also calls Teeth the Henchmaniacs' pet. Maybe this is a consistent element to how Bill relates to sentient people.)

There's evidence in TBOB that he felt similarly about his first human henchman, the shaman—at minimum, he's very bitter when the shaman turns on him and he says he's gonna find a "new best friend."

Summary: There's evidence that Bill develops facets of positive attachments to the people around him; but we don't have any evidence that any of these attachments ever added up to a positive & healthy relationship. In all the relationships we see in depth, the toxic aspects outweighed the positive ones.

Summary of the summary: Bill has the capacity for healthy relationships but is too big a douchebag to utilize it.

#absoluteminimum #ask #bill cipher #gravity falls #the book of bill #meta

197 notes · View notes

theelfsongbard · 1 year ago

Text

Jealous Astarion Drabbles

Cw: brief mention of breeding

Word count: 1235 words

Astarion glares daggers through the canvas of his tent in your general direction. He hated the way you made him feel weak and uneasy. Every reassurance, each offer extended to him to drink from you, the way your kindness weaves its way into little unnecessary niceties that you give your companions. He couldn’t understand why your actions threatened to make him fall for an illusion of trust. There must be a catch to all of this. There always is, he just hasn’t found it yet. You are an unexpected problem because despite his racing mind telling him otherwise, he can feel himself slipping into complacency around you. He finds himself enjoying your company beyond what is needed for a mere travelling companion and he *burns* with a feral desire that he doesn’t understand. He wants to claim you as his own, to fill you and be the only one who can know the whole of you inside and out. Every draw of blood that he takes is a battle to temper his own imaginations before he loses control of his carefully crafted facade.

He wants to act quickly and secure you to him as soon as possible, for he sees the lingering affection in the wizard’s eyes when you draw near. *Competition* is all that repeats in his mind like a resounding threat of a challenge. He doesn’t like Gale, and Gale doesn’t seem to like him, even if it’s not for the same reason. He chooses to believe it is though, only because it fuels his want for you, even in the unsteady waters of his burgeoning emotions.

For now though, he has more pressing urges to attend to and the straining in his trousers just will *not* do.

~~~

The days pass with ever increasing tension for Astarion. Despite the unusually sunny weather they were experiencing that he usually adored, Astarion was feeling absolutely wretched. Wretched and angry. And on top of that, his campmates thought he was jealous. He scoffed as he sat on the ground beside you and Gale, dressing his kill just as you instructed and taught him. Jealousy? It could not be further from the truth.

He was not jealous when he came back from his hunt with his prize only to find you dancing with Wyll. He was not jealous when he saw the way he pulled you close enough for your lips to brush and he was certainly not jealous when The Blade invited you to *practice his swordplay* later on. If he were being honest, Wyll was a man worthy of making anyone swoon, even Astarion. If only his moral compass were less of an impediment, he may have thrown himself at Wyll. But this was the hand he was dealt, and the Blade was threatening his little bid for protection from you. After all, how could he win his favour if he wasn't *The Favourite* in your eyes?

But the way Wyll’s eyes trailed after you as you sauntered over to assess his kill and the way he had put his hands around your waist just moments before made him want to rend the monster hunter to pieces and to announce to him that you were *his* territory. When you weren't looking, he made sure to send what he hoped was a frightening enough message to the warlock, baring his fangs for good measure.

Now, sandwiched between the idle conversation you shared with Gale, he couldn't see how his life could get any worse. His list of competitors was growing and given your warm reception to both, it would only be a matter of time before someone initiated a romantic relationship with you. Astarion was a seducer and had no idea what to do to romance someone. But clearly, it was time for him to start learning if he wanted to make things work. Either that, or it was high time that he started disposing of some of his less savoury companions. The sound of your laughter, genuine and untamed as Gale recounts his shenanigans with his cat is enough to convince him of it.

As his hands work mindlessly, his thoughts drift to something more fun. The smell of you sitting so close beside him sends a pang of familiarity down to his gut and at the same time fills him with arousal and passionate imagination. He thinks of how you might look stretched around his manhood, keening with pleasure as he thrusts into you, filling you full until you're overflowing, over and over until your mess becomes the proof to the entire camp that you are spoken for.

He imagines you below him and on top and all the delicious ways he might have you, wants to nuzzle into your breasts and drink from you as he loses himself in the pleasures of your flesh. And for the first time in an eternity, he even wants to lie with you, holding you close to him your back to his chest, keeping your safe and tucked against him for all eternity. Something stirs in him and he isn't sure if he likes it. This is too tender, too vulnerable and another weakness that he doesn't need.

He's only doing this for protection. Nothing more and nothing less. These are just part of his plans to seduce you, he’s only sorting out the details to make sure everything is perfect.

Mildly, he’s aware of the twitching in his trousers and the slight wetness dribbling from within. Excusing himself rapidly, he stalks off to the forest, away from prying eyes to indulge himself a little. All these thoughts are so distracting and it would do him no good if his campmates saw him in such an unbecoming state.

He needs to be alone for a little while. Yes, he just needs to clear his head because he doesn't need to be thinking about you when he has Cazador, a tadpole and his protection to contend with. But trying times call for trying measures and when he makes sure that he’s far away enough to not be heard or seen, he loosens the ties of his trousers just enough to slip himself free. Already, he knows that he’s going to need a trip down to the river to wash his undergarments, soaked with his arousal as it is. But he can't seem to find himself annoyed by his predicament.

Leaning against a tree, he closes his eyes, wrapping his hand around his length and stroking himself to the thought of you. Imagines you taking him in hand or into your mouth. But his hand is corpse cold, so void of the flush of life you have in you that it brings him back to reality with a growl of frustration. This is nothing compared to how you would feel around him.

And so with increasing vigour he rubs one out, alone and cold in the forest, watching as his seed dribbles and spurts out, landing in the dirt. Wasted. How he would love to stuff you full with it, right up to the brim, keeping it inside you until your belly starts to swell with the evidence of what he has done to you.

If only you knew what kind of effect you had on him. Maybe you would take pity and indulge him.

#astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader #astarion x female tav #astarion x female reader #astarion smut #astarion x reader

575 notes · View notes

littlefireball · 7 months ago

Text

ʜᴊ|ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴜꜱ (ᴍ/ᴀ)

Happy Birthday to Hongjoong~

ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ (ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴛᴇᴇᴢ ᴀꜱ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ɢᴏᴅꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ~ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴏᴛ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ)

ᴋɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ɢᴏᴅꜱ ʜᴏɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴɢ x ᴀɴɢᴇʟ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 4.8ᴋ

other members

Summary: He initially aimed to wield Cupid's arrow to ensnare your heart, hoping you would devote yourself entirely to him. Little did he realize that he would end up being the one to give up everything.

Hongjoong reclined on his majestic throne, his fingers interlaced as he scrutinized the list of angels before him, his gaze sharp and predatory. Whispers of insurrection had begun to ripple through the celestial realm, murmurs of discontent brewing against his iron-fisted rule. Tsk, just a bunch of tiresome guys. Perhaps the abundance of idle time in heaven had led them to entertain such foolish notions of rebellion. Hongjoong, with his towering arrogance and self-obsession, saw no flaw in his reign. Clearly, a firmer hand was required to govern these lesser beings; any hint of compassion would only serve to deepen their moral decay.

Naturally, he couldn't simply brush aside the swirling rumors, yet he needed someone to handle the grim tasks for him─eliminate anyone who crossed his path. With their help, he could reclaim his lost reputation under the guise of delivering justice. How perfect the plan is! But, who would he find?

A sudden knock echoed through the room. "Come in," he commanded, setting aside the documents that had occupied his lap. In walked Cupid, the God of love, his gaze fixed on the ground as he approached the throne. "Your Majesty," he murmured, kneeling on the plush carpet, his wings gracefully draping beside him.

"Is it true that your arrows possess the power to make people fall in love with me?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty," Cupid replied.

"Good," he said with a nod, turning to descend the stairs, his hands clasped behind him. "The throne of the queen has remained unoccupied for quite some time. Now is time to consider it," he murmured softly, though this was far from the truth. Deep down, he was unwilling to let anyone encroach upon his authority. Yet, he knew he must feign concern to keep everyone in the dark.

"Of course I know everyone loves me but I need someone willing to sacrifice themselves for me." He bent closer, a sinister grin curling at the corners of his mouth, making Cupid not dare to meet his gaze. "Am I right?"

"Ye-yes…"

Hongjoong straightened up, striding over to Cupid to grab his bow and arrow, fiddling with them playfully. "Okay. It's none of your business now. Get out."

Cupid slowly backed away, his steps echoing in the vast chamber. As he reached the door, he paused, hesitating before turning to face Hongjoong once more. "Your Majesty, be warned. The consequences of such an act may not be as simple as you think."

Hongjoong's expression did not change, and his voice was cold as ever when he replied, "Do you understand the meaning of 'none of your business?" He shifted his gaze from the weapons to him, said "I said Get Out. Don't make me twice."

Cupid nodded and apologized, slipping out of the room and leaving Hongjoong alone with his thoughts and the arrow in his hands. Now here's the problem─who should he shoot? The room fell silent as he scanned over the list of angels before him. He knew that Cupid's power was not infinite, and he would need to find a suitable target to use the arrow on. The idea of someone falling in love with him was abhorrent to him, but he saw it as a means to an end. He would use this power to quell any further whispers of rebellion and strengthen this grip on the celestial realm.

He needed someone who would be both powerful enough to be a threat and vulnerable enough to be manipulated.

But is it enough? The answer is No.

Obviously.

"What's on your mind, Joong?" The gentle caress on his cheek brought him back from his thoughts as you leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his lips, your smile lighting up the moment. "You space out."

"I'm just wondering how I'm so lucky to have you by my side" he replied, his hold on your shoulder firm as he drew you nearer, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. You laughed softly at his sentiment, nestling your face into the warmth of his neck.

"Don't lying~"

"I could never. I'm the King of Gods, Y/N."

You lifted your chin to catch his eyes, which wandered to your lips. With a silent understanding, you shut your eyes, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. The kisses grew more intense as he hovered above you, the warmth of your body igniting as your nipples pressed against his chest. There was nothing but only your kissing sound rang in your ears, bringing both of you to pleasure.

An addictive pleasure.

Yes, the King of Gods. How could he fall in love with you? Though he never openly confessed it, his body revealed the truth. Each time his gaze fell upon you, a deep-seated desire awakened within him. He found it impossible to resist the urge to possess you, to make you his own. Physically. What began as a stare soon escalated into a touch, a peck, a hug, and finally sex. It was the work of Cupid's arrow; he accidentally wounded himself when he shot you. And that's how this tale unfolds. Actually he could eliminate the effect of Cupid's arrow, as long as he healed the wound, but he never did it. Maybe he got used to it, to you being there beside him, fulfilling his every whim.

He chose you for a reason. It's simple; you are strong, loyal, and above all, you love with a passion that defies logic. He spent lots of time gathering information on the various angles and their strengths and weaknesses. You were the most perfect one, fulfilling all the requirements he needed.

"Y/N?" he murmured, pulling away from the kisses, his voice a gentle whisper.

"Hmm?" you replied, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, feeling the warmth radiate from him.

"I need you to do something for me," he said, taking your hand and bringing it to his soft, pink lips, where he pressed a tender kiss against your palm.

"What is that?"

"The angels." His voice was resolute as he tightened his grip on your hand. "Kill them all."

You frowned for a moment, but it quickly transformed into a smile. "Yes, my lord."

"You're not asking why?"

"I'll do everything for you, no matter how hard, as long as you ask, "

"Oh my dear. You're really my good girl." He leaned down to kiss you again, prompting a delighted giggle from you.

"So can I get some reward?" You tilted your head, pulling him closer.

"Of course you can. My lovely girl."

You both drew closer, lost in a fervent kiss that ignited the air around you. His hands eagerly sought yours, intertwining fingers with a firm grip as he buried his face into the curve of your neck. His lips brushed against your skin, tracing the delicate patterns of pink and purple hickeys that adorned you. Each caress sent waves of warmth through you, making you feel as if you were melting away, surrendering completely to the moment. Breathy moaning flew from your tongue as something solid rubbed against your sensitive clit, the excitement built up within your body.

Your legs climbed up to his waist, encircling him to pull him nearer. Each subtle movement of his cock sent waves of sensation through you, teasing you until you found yourself pleading for more. He won't do anything even if he has an impatient temper. He needed you to beg, begging for his alms, his mercy. His proud spirit would never allow him to fulfill the desires of others without a sense of triumph. He would only grant his "gifts" when he could relish the power that came from your desperate pleas.

"Please…please…joong. I need you." You let out a small whimper as everything was too gentle for your liking, the emptiness almost driving you to lose control. An evil-like smirk came out from his body as one of his hands reached down to grip his cock, moving up and down to rub your clit with its tip. He made sure you could feel every hard press, every movement, every vibration when he let out a low growl.

"Oh baby, see how beautiful you are." He stared at your reddened clit covered with his pre-cum, flattening his thumb to press against your bud. You tumbled as the sudden pleasure rushed through your mind, feeling your bottom lip begin to shake as he kept brushing. "Tell me baby, do you want my cock, huh?"

"Ye-yes. Please fill me up with your seeds, my lord. I need you." "Good slave." Your broken voice stopped as he shoved his cock into your cunt without warning, making you hold your breath. Shutting your eyes tightly, you let him to batter your sweet spot to chase his high and enjoyment.

Not knowing why. Your heart twisted painfully at the sound of the word 'slave.' It wasn't the first time he had labeled you this way, yet the sting felt fresh. Was it merely a dirty word used on the bed, or did it reflect the reality of how he perceived you? Memories flooded your mind, taking you back to the beginning. When did your feelings for him begin to blossom? And when did he start to see you in a different light? What could possibly draw a King of Gods to a mere angel, one without power or the strength of the other goddesses?

It seems like everything suddenly changed overnight.

"You space out." A commanding tone escaped his lips, prompting a startled gasp from you. His hand moved to clutch your cheeks, applying a firm pressure that stung. As you blinked open your eyes, you found his gaze locked onto yours, brimming with fury and envy. He squinted, scrutinizing you like a predator assessing its next target.

"Are you thinking about other men?"

"No. My lord. I could never do that."

He leaned down, his hot breath pooling against your skin,sending shivers down your spine. "You can only think about me, understand?You're mine, only mine."

You were hesitant for a while but you soon brushed aside the doubtness within your mind, wearing a smile and repeating what he liked to hear.

"Yes, my lord. I'm yours, forever yours."

"You better remember this." Before he finished his words, he shoved back with all his might, plunging your spot over dead on. "Joong!!" Your back painfully arched at the way his hard tip battered your ruined cunt; his fat cock rubbed along the curve of your wall harshly to ensure you feel every vein of that. A powerful push after a powerful push. He suddenly stopped thrusting and got off the bed, clenching your ankles to tug you to the side until your ass hung in the air. His cock pushed back to your cunt once his fists clenched around your wrists for balance, plunging your depth again.

You let out a broken moan as his ball slapped your ass and his thighs hit yours, producing a loud skin slapping sound. The jolt of the impact radiated from your thighs, enveloping your entire body in a wave of pain that left you breathless. Tears streamed down your face, spilling over and soaking the crumpled sheets that bore the marks of your tumultuous struggle. Watching you in this state, he felt an unexpected pang of sorrow, though he quickly dismissed it. It was just that damned injury, he reasoned, not any deeper feelings for you. Gradually, he eased his pace and intensity, allowing you a moment of respite. With a firm grip, he lifted you and settled back onto the bed, positioning you on top of him.

"Ride me."

Almost without thinking twice, you started swaying your hips in a circle, rubbing each other's pelvis at a steady pace. His cock went so deep in this position, let alone the way he pressed you lower by gripping firmly on your waist. "Joong…it's too much…" "Oh dear, don't you want my seed?Huh?" "Ye…yes…" "Then fuck yourself harder and make me cum or I'll fuck you until you pass out." It wasn't a decision you could make; it was an order, and you had no option but to obey him. A quiet whimper escaped your trembling form as you started to move rhythmically, letting him penetrate as deeply as possible.

"Oh fuck, Y/N. That's so good." He leaned his head against the pillow, a deep moan escaping his lips, enjoying how your velvet wall was tightening around his cock. There was something intoxicating about witnessing his blissed-out expression; it felt like you had finally brought him joy. Yet, this moment felt altered. A nagging sensation crept in, making you feel like nothing more than an object, a plaything. Why?What happened to your mind?

"Baby, cum for me. I need to feel you."

But you couldn't as the pain had already replaced the pleasure. He sensed your uneasiness so he pulled you down without a word, making you laid on him completely.

"What's wrong?"

"No-nothing."

"You worry about the mission?"

"Huh?" You raised your eyebrow but soon nodded. But you knew that's a lie.

"Don't fret, darling." He brushed his lips against your forehead, a playful smile dancing across his face. "It's a piece of cake. I'll lend my power to you, and you'll take them down effortlessly. After that, no one will disturb us, and you'll be my wife, my queen."

He vowed once more, fully aware of your longing, your weakness. You craved more than just a physical connection; you yearned to be his true partner, his other half. Yet, he kept your bond a secret from the world, merely whispering that he would marry you someday. Each time, you found yourself softening, placing your trust in him. Perhaps love truly was blind.

"You promise?"

"Of course, sweetheart. I would never deceive you. He wriggled you to the bed, his lips capturing yours in a passionate embrace. "Let's finish what we started," he murmured between kisses, effortlessly erasing any lingering uncertainty from your mind.

—-----

Y/N, what are you doing?!” your partner yelled, agony etched across his face as he pressed his hand against the gaping wound, desperately trying to halt the blood that seeped through his fingers. “Are you…trying to kill…us?!” His sword fell from his grasp, clattering to the ground as he gasped for air.

With your blade, stained with his blood, you pointed menacingly at him. “Just following orders.” In a swift motion, you lunged forward, your sword gleaming in the sunlight as you aimed to strike.

Just as you were about to slice through his throat, a massive beam struck you from the side. “Damn it!” There was no time to evade the blow. An earth-shattering explosion erupted the instant the beam made contact, engulfing you in a cloud of smoke that choked the air with its acrid stench.

“Did I do it…?” your partner whispered, the glow at his fingertip dimming as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless. The smoke gradually cleared, revealing the heartbreaking scene before you, yet you stood there, unmoved. The recent assault had been devastating, but Hongjoong's strength had mended your wounds and lifted the "curse" that had plagued you.

"What have I done...?" you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of your thoughts. A rush of memories surged through your mind like a relentless wave, momentarily paralyzing you in its wake.

“Hands up!Put down the weapon!” You spun around in terror, your heart racing as you beheld a squad of angels, their weapons drawn and aimed directly at you in perfect synchrony. You recognized the armor they wear and their roles─the army of the King of Gods.

“Get her!” Before you could react, darkness enveloped you as they pulled the triggers and stole your power.

—----

Hongjoong stared out the window, savoring a sip of wine while he awaited your return. Once you completed the last elimination, he could leverage your involvement to restore his tarnished reputation in court. By shifting all the blame onto you, he believed everything would finally revert to the way it once was: The archangel's strength had diminished with the departure of his followers, leaving him unchallenged; soon, he would gain renown for his pursuit of justice.

And the wound left by Cupid's arrow….?Well, he would heal it. Maybe. His understanding of his own heart was murky, clouded by the belief that everything stemmed from that fateful shot. True love seemed an impossibility for him; to him, you were merely a means to an end, a plaything. As long as you served his needs and followed his lead, he would reciprocate. This was the narrative he spun for himself, blind to the way his heart ached at the mere thought of your leaving.

"Finally, no one can bother me anymore." An evil-like laugh echoed in the chamber.

—---

Upon discovering the massacre of countless angels at your hands, he feigned outrage, wrongfully charged you with insurrection, and swiftly took you into custody. As you knelt before the temple, your wings draping beside you, you lowered your head in submission to Hongjoong's decree.

"Do you know what you have done?" Hongjoong asked.

You lifted your chin, locking eyes with him. There was no warmth in his expression, just the thrill of imminent victory. As you averted your gaze, a weight settled in your chest under his stare. You knew you had to utter the words Hongjoong longed to hear. "I sacrificed the lives of soldiers to eliminate the demons," you declared coolly, betraying no hint of regret.

"They were not just soldiers, but your brethren, your fellow warriors!" The archangel on the judgment seat curses loudly, heartbroken for the companions you sacrificed.

"I apologize for being direct. Angels chosen to defeat demons are destined to become martyrs. From the moment we were created, we have been ready for a noble death in combat..." You followed all the words Hongjoong taught you before.

"Absurd!" The archangel's booming voice interrupts your explanation. "Y/N! As an angel, you are meant to hold life sacred and not justify such careless disregard for it with false reasoning! Merely being born as warriors does not give you the right to treat life so frivolously!"

"Silence!" Hongjoong's cold voice cut through the archangel's roar. "Y/N, I once saw you as a loyal and formidable angel. Your unorthodox methods were accepted by me. But I never anticipated that you would overstep boundaries and disregard life for your own ambitions."

"No…I…" "Y/N, for betraying the divine, you shall be stripped of your angelic status and condemned to live on Earth until you reform yourself."

"No!!" Your cries fell on deaf ears as no one heeded your pleas. "Take her away to prison and set a date for her execution," the heartless judgment sealed your fate, and despite your frantic denials, it was all for naught.

—---

Hongjoong returned to his chamber with a heart full of joy, having finally achieved his dream. Yet, as he swung the door open, he was met with an empty room, devoid of any warm welcomes or affectionate kisses. How could he have overlooked your absence? You were supposed to be there, weren't you? He shed his clothes and sank into the sofa, yearning to pull you close, to feel your presence beside him. But all he grasped was the emptiness of the air. No one was there.

"Tsk…"He sighed softly, glancing at the cut on his finger with a hint of irritation. Flopping onto the sofa, he tried to shake off the nagging thought. Yet, a chill crept over him, and instinctively, he called out for you, "Y/N. Cuddle." He longed for your comforting presence, just like always. He soon realized he missed your existence again, feeling more annoyed. Why? He shouldn't behave that way. The truth is, he didn't have feelings for you. Or did he? If that's the case, why did he long for your presence and feel a deep ache in your absence?

He straightened his posture, his fingers weaving through his hair as he pondered for a moment. Perhaps it wasn't so painful to have you close by. After all, having a compliant angel by his side wasn't a bad thing at all. He could still rely on you to fulfill his desires. Yes, it was perfectly fine that he wished for you to remain.

As he made his way to your cell, a sense of conviction washed over him. He dismissed everyone else, feeling a thrill of anticipation at the thought of being embraced by you once more, just like before.

The door creaked open but you didn't come out.

"Y/N?" He felt a twinge of disappointment when you didn't envelop him in kisses. Little did he know just how deeply he had missed you.

You reclined in the cell, your eyes fixed on the moon's glow. Upon seeing him, you sank to your knees, the sharp clatter of metal resonating through the space.

"Your Majesty." Your tone was icy, sending a shiver through the air. Hongjoong's brow furrowed, struggling to adapt to the chill in your demeanor.

"We're alone here, my dear."

"No. Your Majesty. I beg you, don't address me that way."

Hongjoong's heart sank as he realized the change. He stepped closer, trying to read the emotions in your eyes. "Y/N, what's wrong?Why are you so distant from me?"

You looked up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of sadness and resignation. "Your Majesty, I cannot bear the weight of your expectations any longer. I'm not the obedient angel you seek."

"What're you talking about?"

"I've wanted to be more than just a pawn in your game. But I was wrong. No matter what I did, you just saw me as a tool."

"Who told you that?" He let out a nervous chuckle, looking guilty.

"Cupid's arrow."

"What?You…?" Hongjoong's heart contracted as he took in your words. He didn't expect you to know the truth.

"How did I know that? Do you want to ask?" Your eyes filled with pain and a hint of defiance, tears streaming down your face. "Thanks to your power. It heals the wound left by the arrow."

"No, I…Y/N…don't be like this." Hongjoong stumbled over his words, his voice a mere breath against the silence. His heart twisted painfully, overshadowing any joy he felt upon achieving his aim. Could a mere scratch evoke such torment? Certainly not. He had been captivated by you for ages, yet he had been too oblivious to see it.

"You don't have to pretend to love me anymore. It's over."

"That's not acting." Hongjoong took a step forward, his hand reaching out to you but you flinching away.

"Yeah, you're right. You're not acting as it's what you want to do." You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head and your tears falling faster. ""You manipulated me to eliminate anyone who stood in your way. You made endless promises to earn my trust, yet not a single one has been fulfilled because you never intended to let them into your heart."

"No, Y/N." He pulled your hands into his, gripping tightly as if he feared you might slip away. "I can make you my queen, my wife. I haven't forgotten any of the promises we made. Just please, don't act like this, alright?"

"Why can't you understand?Hongjoong?" You took your hands back, letting out a heavy sigh. "I can't be with you the way you want me to be. I can't be your obedient angel anymore."

Hongjoong's heart sank as he realized that you were leaving him. He had never felt this way before─the fear of losing you was consuming him.

"Y/N, please stay with me. I need you."

"You just need a slave, not me."

Hongjoong watched you sit down on the chair with your eyes closed. His heart was heavy with loss. He had never realized how much he needed you until now. "I understand." He stepped backward, tears filling his eyes. His sad voice made your heart sink, you shouldn't though.

"I know what I need to do now." He let out a bitter smirk before walking away from you, leaving you alone in the cell.

—----

From that moment on, Hongjoong slipped away from your world. Even after mending the ache left by Cupid's arrow, he struggled to let go. His days blurred into a monotonous routine within the confines of his room, where he gazed at the familiar walls, lost in memories of the moments you shared. He sought someone to fill the void you left behind, but no one could ever occupy the special place you held in his heart. He longed for your presence, for your touch, for your warmth. But all he had was the memory of your final words and the emptiness of his chamber.

It pushed him to the brink of madness, leaving him in a constant state of irritation. He felt utterly misunderstood, with no one to offer him solace. Despite the pleas for compassion from those around him, he stood unmoved. The once-familiar feelings of superiority and joy he had derived from this situation had long since faded away.

There was only one way to deal with this problem─Make everything go back to the past.

The moment of reckoning has finally come, and you find yourself bound to a pillar at the heart of the execution ground, staring at Hongjoong, who presides over the judgment from his elevated seat, flanked by angels and deities who harbor a deep loathing for you.

A chilling breeze caresses your cheeks, making the hem of your white skirt flutter softly; your disheveled hair obscures part of your face, yet it cannot shield you from Hongjoong's piercing gaze. Perhaps the pain has dulled your senses, and while fear should grip your heart, you feel nothing but a profound stillness. All you desire is to escape this torment and leave the haunting memories behind.

The judge's voice echoed in the courtroom as he started to deliver the verdict. You shut your eyes tightly, indifferent to the portrayal of you as a monster, a devil steeped in vile deeds, with some even daring to claim you were in league with the devil himself. Meanwhile, Hongjoong, perched on the elevated platform, gripped his fists in silence, each word striking at his composure. Though his expression remained impassive, the tension in his hands betrayed him, veins standing out starkly against his skin.

"Y/N has committed a heinous crime and should be executed upon questioning!"

Hongjoong rose from his seat, striding purposefully toward the execution platform. The gods gazed at him, their expressions a mix of reverence and disbelief. Wasn't this he yearned for so long? Yet, it felt wrong. Instead of triumph, his heart ached as if it were being ripped apart, and no amount of admiration could fill the void of sorrow within him. Especially when he met your calm gaze; it was as if his heart was ensnared by thorny vines, leaving him breathless. Perhaps he didn't truly understand love; all he knew was that the agony of loss eclipsed any pain he had endured before.

Thus, he yearned for your return, for you to stay by his side forever.

With a fierce determination, he raised the long sword, its blade crackling with the energy of lightning, pointing it skyward. Dark clouds gathered ominously overhead, and a thunderous roar echoed through the air. Lightning danced across the heavens, illuminating the swirling storm, causing gasps of terror to erupt from the onlookers.

His eyes blazed with a brilliant light as he felt every ounce of his power converge at the sword's tip. With a swift motion, he brought the sword down, unleashing a torrent of lightning that struck the unsuspecting gods around him. The explosive force sent shockwaves through the air, and you could only watch in horror as the once-sacred temple transformed into a nightmarish battleground.

Paralyzed by fear, words escaped you. Before you stood a figure descending slowly, a bloodied bow and arrow in his grasp—Cupid's arrow.

"Y/N," he murmured your name softly, but it sent a shiver down your spine. He advanced toward you, each step drawing closer, and you could only stand frozen as his shadow enveloped you, tightening its grip.

"I said I never forgot my promise."

"What're…you doing…?"

"I can make you my queen now." He pressed the arrow firmly against your chest. As you gazed into his eyes, reason slipped away, leaving only confusion. Yes, you felt utterly foolish. How could he possibly let you escape? He was determined to seize everything and everyone he valued, regardless of the cost.

"Hongjoong…"

He ignored your words.

"You belong to me, now and always. You know you love me, and there's no escaping this." His voice was a soft whisper against your ear, punctuated by a tender kiss.

"And no one will bother us anymore." He struck at your heart like an arrow, causing a sharp gasp to escape your lips. His arms enveloped you, his touch a soothing balm against the ache.

"Will you stay with me forever, Y/N?"

With a slow, deliberate motion, your hands found their way to his waist as Hongjoong broke your handcuffs, pulling you closer.

"Yes, my lord."

A warm smile spread across his face as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down to caress your cheek before resting gently under your chin.

"That's my good girl."

You were his, again.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez x female reader #ateez oneshot #ateez x y/n #ateez smut #hongjoong #kim hongjoong #ateez hongjoong #hongjoong smut #hongjoong ateez #ateez reaction #ateez reactions

100 notes · View notes