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redfoxwritesstuff · 5 months ago

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A Pirate, A Wench, And Whiskey (Demon!Alastor x Reader)

CW: Closet sex, drunk sex thus murky consent, clothed sex, p n v sex, cream pies, thigh riding, biting, blood drinking Rated: Adult Requested by: @nyx-umbrakinesis Summary: Charlie decided hosting a costume party would be the best way for the residents to celebrate the season and for the hotel to get some grand publicity. Dressing up wasn't optional. Though you were proud of your bar wench costume- not too skimpy but just skimpy enough, not everyone announced their plans.

The result was a bar wench that did everything you could to avoid the red pirate, drowning your anxiety in shot after shot of whiskey only to find yourself cornered by the very man you could hardly look at when you made an attempt to retire for the night.

You danced, and you drank. You drank, and you danced. It was all in a desperate attempt to keep your mind off the one person it was most drawn to at the hotel costume party. It wasn't intended for your costume to match his,. He had told no one what he would dress up as or even if he would dress up.

Though people kept joking about your matching attire, how nicely it complemented each other, you did everything you could to avoid being even on the same side of the room as Alastor. The reality was you were far too terrified to speak to the tall demon dressed as a pirate, let alone make a game out of your unintentional stylistic matches.

The perfect complement of your outfits was nothing more than a coincidence that stroked the flames of your painfully one sided crush.

At least, you had thought it was a little, one sided crush.

That’s why you couldn’t wrap your mind around where you were right now, pressed between Alastor and the wall as he struggled to open the door next to you. His lips moved against yours, taking in the warm taste of whiskey on your lips.

The moment he turned the knob, he pulled you from the wall. Clawed fingers gripped your thigh, urging you to jump and wrap your legs around his hips.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Hell, you hardly needed to be told once.

Your sensitive core pressed against Alastor’s abdomen as he walked you both into the closet, shutting the door behind you as he went. Reaching up, you pawed through the air until you found the cord to the light, yanking it.

The bulb was old, outdated, and dim. It cast enough light for you to know you were in a closet, but that was it. The countless shots of hot whiskey that flowed through your veins, making your muscles weak and uncoordinated. The unstable feeling only got worse as you looked at Alastor, his red eyes glowing dangerously in the dark room.

Your grip failed, sending you sliding down his torso. The friction of the ruffles, belts, and clasps that covered the waistcoat and pants felt intoxicating against your sensitive skin as you worked your way down his body. Before you could realize it, you were propped up on his thigh, knee pressed into the wall behind you and keeping your toes from doing more than grazing the ground.

“Alastor,” you moaned as his teeth grazed your neck, rocking your hips as you worked your core over his thigh.

His clawed hand gripped your breast, seeking the feeling of more and more skin under his hand. He needed to touch you, hold you, taste you. He wanted everything your body offered him as he pulled the thin ruffled cotton down. The elastic gave easily.

From the moment you walked into the room, Alastor’s mind, like many of the individuals in the room, was consumed with the question of if your breasts were contained in anything beyond the thin cotton.

He had watched as they moved with your body. The way they jiggled as you danced consumed his thoughts. When you had bent over, grabbing a hat for someone who had dropped it, Alastor nearly dropped his glass. It was then that he decided you surely were braless- naughty minx.

The heavy round globes of your breasts dangled forward, pressing tighter against the soft fabric of the shirt you wore. He could see the pebbled bud of your nipples, just slightly pressing into the fabric. As the night wore on and you danced more, your nipples grew stiffer as they rubbed against the fabric.

Now he was rewarded with the confirmation. Full and heavy, they spilled over the elastic band that held the collar of your shirt up. The weight of them pinned the elastic down as Alastor tucked it under. Mindful of his sharp claws, Alastor wasted no time pushing the sleeves off your shoulder.

The under bust corset tightly laced around your waist kept your shirt pinned in place, held up to frame your breasts. This was how the costume was worn, Alastor decided. The shirt was nothing more than a suggestion, a cover until you could be gotten alone.

“Beautiful,” Alastor murmured, static popping and pumping in his voice. Warmth surrounded your breast, making you aware of something other than the pressure against your folds and the glow of his eyes in the dim room for the first time.

“Alastor?”

“Did you dress up like this for me?” He asked, too lost in the moment to remember that you hadn’t a clue what he was going to attend dressed as.

“I didn’t-” You gasped as a hand gripped your hip, pulling your pelvis up his thigh. “I didn’t know,”

“Right,” Alastor licked his lips as he watched the bud of your nipple peek out from between his fingers, “I suppose you didn’t. My mind- it’s been confused since I saw you tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” you said through the sea of whiskey in your system, trying to process what he was saying over the sensation of him squeezing and lifting your breast. Sharp eyes watched as they moved with his hand, knuckles pinching your nipples. Your back arched, pressing your chest into his hand and rocking your pelvis on his thigh.

“Perhaps you will be,” Alastor said, as he pulled your hips back along his thigh, pleasure sparking as the rough fabric of his pants scratched at your inner thighs. Your panties, painfully thin, did little to protect your cunt from the harsh sensation of his thigh between your legs. “But that is still to be seen.”

“What do you-” Your question was cut off as he worked your hips over his leg again, sensation stealing thought from you. Slowly, he lowered his leg some, allowing your feet to reach the ground.

“Do you like that?” Alastor asked, smile glowing in the darkness.

He kept his knee planted on the wall between your legs as he leaned in. There was nowhere for you to go, not that you had any thoughts of running from him. A hand on the small of your back pulled you to him as he kissed you.

The kiss was far from sweet. It was a hungry meeting of lips. Teeth clashed against teeth as Alastor devoured you. He ground his thigh into your hot cunt, taking the gasp that left your lips as an invitation to delve his long dexterous tongue into your mouth.

Hands gripped your body, greedy for the feel of you as you ground your core against his leg again and again. He was dominating your senses in the small room, leaving you unable to think of anything but Alastor.

You breathed in his air.

You drank in his essence.

You fed on his attention.

You needed him to live.

Faster and faster, you chased your orgasm as your fingers fought to work buttons and clasps free. Buckles fought back as you tried to expose any part of Alastor to your greedy hands.

The hot ridge of his cock extended down his leg, pressing up into you as you worked your cunt shamelessly over his leg. You moaned softly as his lips left yours, kissing a trail down your neck. Stinging nips from sharp teeth left red marks as he made his way to your breasts.

“Are you going to cum on my thigh?” Alastor asked, lips moving against the plump globe of your breast as he looked up at you with bright eyes. “I can feel how wet you are already. You’ve soaked through your panties.”

“Fuck, Alastor.” You had never expected to hear such things from the deer demon, yet each word he spoke urged you closer and closer.

“Should I let you cum like this?” He asked, tongue running a path around the pebbled nub of your nipple as you thrust your cunt up and down his thigh.

“Fuck. Fuck, Al-Alastor. Fuck me.” You were so close and yet there was something missing. As you drove yourself closer and closer, your core clenched around nothing. You craved being filled.

“I don’t know if I need to,” he teased. “I think you’re doing a good enough job of that already.”

“Damnit, Alastor.” You hissed as your orgasm remained just out of reach, “Fuck me.”

“Is that how you ask?” He chuckled, teeth nipping at your breasts.

“Please,” you added. “Please, Al-alastor, fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck you, get down and dirty with you in a supply closet while dressed as a pirate?” Alastor asked, laughing as the blush on your face deepened.

“Please?” you said again.

“As you wish,” Alastor pulled away, making quick work of his pants. “Take your panties off.”

You did, fumbling and unstable on your feet as you stepped out of your panties. His cock sprang free from his leather pants, curving up toward his abdomen and throbbing with every beat of his heart. He was on you in a heartbeat, pulling your leg up around his waist as he slotted the dark red head of his cock against your entrance.

“You sure?” he asked, frozen for a moment in time.

“Please,” you said, “I need you.”

“What kind of pirate would I be to deny the bar wench?” Alastor asked as he thrust into you in one quick, smoothe motion.

There was no prepping you. You were far more than wet enough to take his considerable length. There would be other times for him to taste you, to explore every part of you with his hands, fingers, and eyes. Right now, all that mattered was putting his claim deep inside of you.

“Fuck, Al!” you moaned, back arching as he stretched you to your limits without apology and then kept on stretching you. Pain and pleasure mixed as his balls nestled against you. “Fuck, you’re too big, I can’t.”

“You can,” Alastor said, pulling his cock from your body before slamming it home again, “and you will. You already are.”

Each thrust of his cock had your clit rubbing against the fur at the base of his cock. He pounded you again and again, the pace brutal as he pushed the coil inside you to wind tighter. Lips ghosted over yours as his head fell, resting against yours. Each of his sharp thrusts into you had your breasts jumping, nipples rubbing against the rough fabric of his vest, scraping against the clasps and buckles.

You were drunk and far from in condition to last long. Your walls caressed and twitched, gripping him as he pushed in and out. Alastor continued, teeth sinking first into his lip before his head shifted, mouth hitting your shoulder with stinging force.

Teeth ripped into flesh, pain dancing through the pleasure that was consuming every nerve in your body.

“Al,” you cried out his name, blood running down your chest in a trickle as he drank from you. A deep moan reverberated from his throat, through you and running straight to your clit as he shoved you violently over the edge.

Your body twitched, convulsed and gripped him as you chanted his name. The thump of your head against the wall was lost to both of you as he fucked into you with violent abandon. The pace grew sloppy as he moaned deeply, cock swelling and twitching before erupting inside you. He pulled his head back, lips painted red with your blood as he painted your walls white with his release.

Leaning forward, pulling yourself off the wall with trembling arms, you brought your face to Alastor’s neck as his head fell back. Lips caressed over the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, tasting the vibration of his deep moan as he came.

You didn’t know what this meant for you and Alastor or if this was a one-time event. You didn’t know if he would regret it come morning. Hell, you didn’t know if you would.

What you did know was that Alastor was careful to support you as he pulled his cock from your sore, twitching hole. Only once he was sure you wouldn’t fall over did he set his pants to rights again. Tender hands pulled your shirt up, carefully covering your breasts and straightening your skirts. Once all was as it should be, he opened the door for you and tucked your arm around his as he walked you to your room.

You didn’t know a lot but what you knew most of all was that you were going to be feeling Alastor’s cock in you for at least the next day.

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blackberreh-art · 5 months ago

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Old Man Yaoi AU future rambles

I never posted the full thing here, so I thought why not, since I'm struggling to get anything new down lol. Just copy and pasted from twitter, so forgive any weird formatting or errors!

I started this not knowing where I wanted to go with it, just knowing '10 years after being gone from japan, old man yaoi afomight come back because Toshinori has a bleeding heart and AfO is along for the ride' . And I didn't know what I wanted to show exactly, just the comfort and ease at which the two acted with one another.

AfO's gonna join Toshi at the railing and hold out a hand. Knowing what he wants, Toshi's gonna pull out a pack of cigarettes and let AfO take one.

"I don't know why I still carry these." Toshi says, watching as AfO lights the cigarette with a flicker of a stolen fire quirk. "

Habit." AfO says. "The lingering effects of the leash around my neck. Does it bother you?"

All Might quirks a brow. "What? The fact that I have to carry your shit for you, even now?"

AfO chuckles. That wasn't what he meant, and Toshi knows it. That's answer enough really - the experiments, the chip in his brain (even now long destroyed), the torture that AfO went through at the hands of the HPSC - of course it still bothered Toshi.

Coming back to japan…

It's weighing on Toshi. He's here to help his former students, even though he's retired officially as a hero. Vigilantism is still frowned upon, but no-one has the balls to tell All Might to keep to the sidelines, especially now that he has a few quirks on his side. And AfO. And isn't that funny? AfO has stated many times that he refuses to lend a hand. Toshi's alright with that. He's alright with the company alone. He still marvels at the fact that AfO still kept himself leashed to-

(Guilt, self hatred, Toshi still hasn't let them go. His former enemy could throw him that crooked grin that he'd hated so much in the past and Toshi would just melt these days.)

Toshi let out a heavy breath. Being back here… it was making it so much harder to rationalize his thoughts. His emotions. AfO stood by his side through all the meetings, appearing bored out of his mind and throwing in many a snide remark, and Toshi looked at him and thought 'I should hate this man.'

He didn't, though. The heroes, his former students scurried around the former demon lord like he was going to snap at any minute. Tenko refused to be in the same city as him. Izuku and Katsuki watched AfO with a single minded determination to put him down before he can even think to make a move, and only Toshi knew that AfO really had no intention to shatter the tentative truce in place.

Only Toshi knew AfO had other plans. He always had other plans. Some Toshi knew the details of, some he didn't, and there was a time when that would have terrified him. 15 years to spend together, through danger after danger…

Toshi knew AfO.

The doubts, when they appeared, didn't last.

"Does it bother you?" Toshi tossed the question back, and AfO paused, cigarette to his lips. Hazy white eyes drift to meet Toshi's, and the former hero marvels at just how easy it was to read AfO now.

AfO was disgruntled.

"Yes, and no." AfO said. "I don't care about your little students." A pause, and AfO's eyes gain a focus that has Toshi's hackles raising. "Hm. No, I suppose I do. But not because they all fear me or I feel any guilt for what I did to them."

A long time ago, Toshi would have flinched. He didn't even bat an eye now, even as he thought of Tenko and the sheer torment that All for One put that boy through.

(Guilt, guilt, guilt...)

"No, your one boy... Izuku Midoriya." AfO's gaze dropped focus again, his form relaxing when Toshi didn't bite at him defensively at the sound of his former students name. Toshi stood there, listening. "Or rather, One for All. And my brother."

Toshi hummed. His focus is intent. "Are you going to try taking it back again?"

AfO didn't look at him. Eyes unfocused again, cigarette dangling from between his fingers, burning away without being used. Toshi waited patiently. "... I said I would not." All for One finally said as he came back to himself. There's a tension to his mouth now. He's unhappy about it. "Your trust was hard enough to earn as it was. However..."

AfO is in Toshi's personal space now, a wall of heat pushing back the encroaching chill of the evening. Toshi braced a hand against the railing and shifted to face him, brow quirked. AfO always did like to crowd when he wanted to make a point or had something important to say.

"Do you remember what I said to you that last night we were here?" There's that crooked grin again, charming and threatening and so very well practiced. "When you played at hero when you didn't need to? When you were bleeding out and I had to carry you to safety?"

Toshi swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "When - yes, what are you getting at?"

AfO finally brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a lazy drag. Smoke curls through the air, and Toshi breaths it in with shiver, remembering a time when he would have doubled over, unable to breathe.

"I can't fault you for being a hero." AfO said. "It's who you are at your core. You're the perfect hero, and I so utterly adore that. You're here to help, because of course you are, you're All Might."

Even when praising him it sounds condescending.

"But I want you to remember what I told you then." AfO flicked the cigarette carelessly to the ground and crushed it under the heel of his shoe. "About what will happen if your heroism gets the best of you, and you end up killing yourself."

At that, Toshi winced. Ah.

(a preview of THAT is this)

(imagine Toshi's head in AfO's lap after being shot by the president of the HPSC lmao...)

AfO's smile is all threat. "If you let your heroism get the best of you, and you end up killing yourself, then know that there is nothing left to prevent me from completing my initial goals and taking One for All for myself."

It wasn't the healthiest of ultimatums.

But it was one Toshi remembered laughing at after hearing it for the first time. Live, because if not then AfO would turn back into the supervillain he was at heart? 'Live, or else I kill everything you hold dear?' He'd thought it was kind of sweet. Hadn't wanted to question why.

Still doesn't want to question why. Even now, he finds it kind of sweet. Knows its... messed up.

He smiles at All for One, feeling warm. "Don't worry about me. I don't plan on dying anytime soon."

"Good boy." All for One croons, and his arms snake around Toshi's waist.

They stand together in silence for a moment, and the evening sky deepens around them. AfO breaks the silence. "I feel you should know it's actually quite difficult to behave. I'm showing remarkable restraint."

Toshi snorts against AfO's neck, muffling his laughter. "Good boy."

#afomight #all might #all for one #afo #mha #my writing #berreh speaks #drabble #kinda #old man yaoi au

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shadesoflsk · 1 year ago

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MOONTALK

pairing: Leon Kennedy x GN Reader.

summary: After retiring, Leon often has nightmares about his past. Talking under the moon's gaze seems to help.

warnings: Smut MDNI, just oral (m receiving), angst to fluff to smut hehe, mentions of death, violence, and alcohol, catholic symbolism, dad bod leon hehe (x2) subby leon, reader is called spouse.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: Hello! This is very simple since I'm trying to get better at writing smut for gender neutral readers :) There's not enough content and while I improve at writing the whole sex scene I shall bring you this! (I'm open to suggestions or constructive criticism.) As always, I hope you're having a good week!

The starry night is chosen to be Leon’s witness in the middle of his stolen slumber.

It’s a common occurrence, part of himself longs for the pain-filled activity since it serves as a reminder of his own life. Night terrors scare him more than his anxiety. The first one clings to his soul and threatens him with an inability to wake up. Helpless to his own mind, he prefers to be fully awake.

However, his brain isn’t his friend. Even when awake and aware of his surroundings, his mind would recreate scenarios he has lived before. Blood dripping and sticking to his combat boots, the smell of the iron-ish liquid filling his nostrils painfully making its home in Leon’s head, messing up with his perception of the world and himself.

Somewhere in that messed up path, he had found you.

He didn’t intend to, it wasn’t in his plans to. He had locked his heart and thrown the key somewhere in the sea of his failures.

A feeling of regret brimmed in Leon’s soul. How could his name be attached to yours if the sole mention of Leon Scott Kennedy brought memories of hell on Earth? A former rookie cop, ready to risk his life on duty turned into the government's best weapon. He’s made peace with that, ever since his mission in San Francisco his life has gotten significantly better.

But that doesn’t mean it has stopped hurting.

He once heard Jesus presented his left cheek to be slapped. In the past, he’d have imagined the mere thought of being that naive was ridiculous.

“You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.”

Now, that passage has been planted in his heart like a thorn that wouldn't go away no matter how much he pinched the skin. But rather than being a bothersome feeling, it shaped him into the man he is now.

He would never be Jesus, he knows that much. Ever since he was a kid, his connection to religion was always dangling between trust and distrust; faith and doubt. Fear crossed his juvenile and innocent expression whenever he came across a statue of the people’s lord and savior.

God bad, Jesus good. People good and bad. The Old Testament was the backbone for Leon’s hatred towards God. If this supernatural being ‘loved’ his people, why would he punish them?

Sins are ambiguous. Killing is bad. But if he had killed creatures that were no longer humans, is he a sinner without redemption?

He’s still coming around that last statement. Were they really no longer humans?

That’s why he prefers the New Testament. A fresh start, a new life being born. Jesus wouldn’t judge him for the man that he was and is.

And just like him, he turned his left cheek in a mission in San Francisco years ago, when he ended Maria’s life. Bitter and revengeful for killing her father, the woman made it her mission to murder Leon. But ultimately (and ironically) she ceased to exist in Leon’s arms.

‘Revenge’ was met with a ‘Now you can be with your dad again.’ Merciful, he had granted her a last moment of peace.

The soundless night heightens Leon’s senses. As he tries to brush off his worries, some footsteps break the unnerving silence that Leon is in. His ears focus on the soft pace that he easily identifies as yours.

Recognition turned into monotone and monotone into mundane. And don’t get him wrong, God he loves feeling he has finally found his home.

Leon’s arms are resting on the balcony railway, blue eyes focused on the starry night.

“You should be sleeping.” He flatly says without turning to face you. Not out of apathy but guilt. Not being next to you has woken you up.

“Can’t sleep without my husband.”

Sensing you approaching, he opts to tease, trying to divert your attention somewhere else. “Wouldn’t be my dear spouse if you weren’t clingy.”

“I’m not clingy.” But you wouldn’t allow Leon’s usual antics. You know them by heart, lighthearted jokes instead of facing reality. “I’m just worried,”

“You worry too much.”

“But I’m always right.”

A sigh.

Teeth biting the inside of his cheek.

“It’s hard to sleep sometimes.” The phrase is not directed at you, but a response to his own thoughts. For him, safe and sound sleep is a blessing he’s not lucky enough to receive.

“I know.” And then again, your reply isn’t about yourself. A feeble smile appears on your face out of empathy and partial understanding. Standing next to him, your elbows rest on the balcony railway, the chill air sending goosebumps through your skin. “Did you dream about something?”

Leon’s eyebrows knit in concentration as he mull over her question. When he tries recalling his past moment of slumber he is met with the usual gruesome scenario and the same gut-wrenching screams.

“Same old tale.” He exhales. In the past he would have had a glass of whiskey in his hand, tilting the content to one side as he gazed over the starry sky. But he made a promise, and as much as his past comes back to haunt him, he’d keep it.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Why I don't believe you?”

He brings a calloused hand to his mouth as he registers your words. Under the moonlight, his expression gives away his exhausted state, a hint of darkness around his eyes, a permanent faint frown.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yet here I am asking.” It’s not until now that you notice Leon’s shirtless torso. Most of his scars are turning a light white color while his bruises are changing their hues. His body is not the same from a few years ago. His abdomen no longer shows off his chiseled abs but a slightly round and soft belly.

“Feels like I’m walking in circles.” He finally answers with his eyes closed. His restless mind can’t give him a break. Unable to completely live in peace, he finds himself pondering about his own humanity.

“The past is always clearer at night.” With an expression akin to resignation, he looks at you. “And the past tells me I’m a monster.”

The faint sound of the clock could be heard even when they were both gazing into the sky and letting their thoughts be consumed by the chill night. It reaches the dreaded ‘Devil’s hour,’ 3 AM.

“You aren’t a monster.” And it is the truth. While Leon is a complex man, it is not a difficult task to unravel and search through the layers he has covered himself in. His heart beats for the nation and therefore its citizens.

“If I’m not a monster then what am I?” He replies, his face growing somber. “If what I’ve done isn’t destruction what is it?”

“Salvation.”

It is far from salvation. It’s selfish to even think that way.

Sadly, Leon was the designated pawn to complete the job nobody wants to do.

Sadly, Leon is no more than a victim in the web of despair and destruction.

“Salvation.” He scoffs, a sharp ironic demonstration that your words weren’t the best. “I used to fight while the innocents kept falling at my feet.”

A glimpse of a past self appears in front of you. Chaos and loathing unfurls.

It’s been years since you last saw the man who used to drown himself in the deadly burning liquid. However, the alcohol no longer filled the empty spaces in his body and soul.

Truthfully speaking, nobody can fix or heal anyone. But you gladly took the role of being Leon’s partner in life. Not only romantically speaking. Silently, you made a home in Leon’s heart and he was too comfortable with you to ask you to leave him.

“You didn’t do it in the first place.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “The government did.”

“But I was just another bullet in a gun.” He replies softly, his gaze drifting forward. Even after all of these years, he couldn’t completely shake off the guilt that kept haunting him. “Another man with his finger on the trigger… I was just a man with a gun.”

“And you’re also a man with a heart.” You respond immediately, not giving him a chance to continue his venom-filled words toward himself.

“If you were the demon you think you are, these late-night thoughts wouldn’t be haunting you as they do. You wouldn’t be mourning every soul even after all these years.” Your words bring a sense of comfort amidst the internal battle that is occurring inside him. The weight of his burden has always been more bearable with you.

“You think I’m that much of a saint?” A faint smile tug at Leon’s lip. A troubled expression on his face tells you he is still not believing your words. Or perhaps, he feels like he shouldn’t believe you.

“I don’t think you’re a saint. Humans are much more than black or white, good or bad. We are gray.”

Your statement is true. Humans are far from being one-dimensional beings. The balance has always been there and he knows it. When he was a child and religion was still an important part of his life, he remembers when Jesus protected Mary Magdalene.

‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’

Leon had stained his hands with blood and gore, but he had also saved countless lives when the odds were against him.

“God… I’m pathetic, aren’t I?” He laughs, finally bringing you closer to him with his arm around your waist.

“No, you’re just human.” You reply, admiring the view your balcony provides, you think about the endless possibilities in life. If you hadn't met Leon, where would you be? And if Leon hadn't met you? How his life would look right now?

Universe works in mysterious ways, if you hadn't been in the right place at the right time, you wouldn't have your soulmate next to you.

A comfortable silence sets in as Leon finally relaxes and gives his mind a break. There were days and nights in which his brain was weak, but that doesn’t mean he hasn't gotten better.

“I would do laundry and taxes with you in every timeline.” You break the silence with a quote from a movie both of you had watched and Leon being the moviegoer he is, you know he’ll recognize it.

“That's not how the line goes, you silly.”

Bingo.

“Then enlighten me, Mr. I know every movie by heart.”

“It is ‘in another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.’” He states matter-of-factly which gains a laugh from you. But in a way, you’re used to his antics and almost nerdy personality only you get to see.

But your words mixed with the ones from the movie hold a glimmer of truth. Even in a timeline in which he wasn’t an agent and just a regular citizen, you’d have fallen for him. Because his past doesn’t make him the man he is now.

In another life, you’d love him over and over again.

“But I’d do all those things in this life and even in the afterlife.”

His eyes fall on you, the glimmer in them now being obvious. Just a few words from his love would pull him out from his depressive nights.

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“I’m just amazing like that.” You wrap your arms around Leon's neck while his hands rested on your middle section. “Now hug me because I’m fucking freezing.”

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Laughing, he pulls you closer in a tight embrace. “I’d hate for you to catch a cold. Besides… I need my cuddling partner every night.”

As both of you move out of the balcony and away from the cold wind of the night. Leon’s hands move painfully obvious to your rear. After his late thoughts, he only wants to feel you close to him.

“I don’t think you want to cuddle.” You remark the obvious. Leon just chuckles, nodding.

“Aside from being the perfect partner you’re also a mind reader?”

You step in your bedroom. Place that has been witness to Leon’s most vulnerable moments, from the times in which he'd come back from a mission to the ones in which both of you would get lost in each other's bodies.

His sanctuary, your heaven.

You smile at him as you motion him to sit down on the bed. Both of your eyes are locked in a gaze that says what you are feeling, love. No matter how hard his or your days could be, both of you could always come back to a partner that takes care of them. No matter the situation.

As he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, you lean closer and press a kiss to his forehead, to his nose, to his cheek, and lastly to his lips. This last one lingers more than the others, sweet and slow, like how you want to treat him tonight.

“I love you.” You whisper as you pull back from the kiss, your thumb grazing over his stubbled jaw.

“Love you more.” He responds with the same tenderness you have brought him. After saying his words, his hands traveled to where your hips were, attempting to pull you closer.

“Nuh-uh. Tonight’s about you, sir.” You have your mind set that this night is going to be all about the perfect husband you have in front of you.

With that, your lips once again found their home but this time it was on Leon’s neck.

With your lips giving some attention to Leon’s sensitive skin, you treat him like he was fragile porcelain.

After a few moments, you slowly lower yourself until you're between his thighs. Another reminder of how much his body has changed, his thighs were fuller and bit less toned than before.

He has seen you like this before, on your knees and with the sweetest of looks but dear God it gets better every day.

You press your cheek against Leon’s inner thigh, your hand rubbing the flesh that is still covered with his sweatpants. He was no longer an active agent therefore he had gained some weight which you completely love. He blames the alcohol he used to drink so much and the lack of high-impact exercise. But you always reassure him that you love him nonetheless.

Your hand creeps to his clothed crotch, you gently trace along the bulge that has already formed. Leon’s breath is starting to get heavier but nothing too scandalous, for now.

“I haven’t even touched properly and you’re already this hard.” You are trying to be gentle, but there’s something about having control over him even when you’re on your knees that just prompts you to tease him a hit.

“Might as well cum in the spot, don’t you think? Bet you’re already imagining me pulling down your boxers and stroking your cock.” The face Leon was making could send you straight to heaven.

“You’re the devil…” Leon tries, he tries to gather himself by making a joke. But his high-pitched speech comes out pathetic. A rebuttal? More like a whine.

“What? My handsome husband can’t handle the spice? I expected better.” The praise seems to hit a spot somewhere in his body because the way his hips just bucked and sought the friction of your hand was contradictory to his previous words.

“Please…” And after that whimper, you no longer want to tease the man. Especially tonight in which he deserves the best.

“Ok, ok. I gotcha…” You murmur, wasting no more time and pulling his sweatpants down. A wet spot is already formed in his gray boxers. Then again, more teasing words flood your mind but you brush them off.

With a gentle kiss on his inner thigh, your fingers hook around the fabric and slide it down. His dick springs forward, and as always, it makes your mouth water. It’s the same image as always, slightly curved lenght with veins you had memorized by now and a reddish tip that tells you how bothered and pent-up he’s been.

Marriage has always been depicted as a boring and monotonous lifestyle, in which you get bored of your spouse after a couple of years. In a sense, you understand where they come from. However, Leon and you always made sure to keep things interesting, and as corny as it sounds, both of you try to make the other fall in love again.

You press a kiss on his tip, holding back a laugh as you know how sensitive he must be. The slightest touch has him gripping the bedsheets.

“You’re teasing.” He says as his lips form a pout. His calloused hands flatten on top of your hair

“Am I?” You give his shaft a few kitten licks, not breaking eye contact while doing so.

Finally, your shenanigans are followed by your lips wrapping around his tip, sucking the area. That gains a whimper out of Leon, the ones you’re so used to.

When you first met the stoic agent, you wouldn’t have thought that he’d be so vocal in bed. Even when he was supposed to be on top, he’d let the most beautiful moans against your ears. asking for permission to continue, asking for permission to fill you up.

For a moment, your lips continue sucking off his tip. Your saliva coating the area and sloppily making out with the head of his dick. Your fingers wrap around the base of it, almost overwhelming Leon with the amount of attention he is receiving.

“Ah — Fuck…” His eyes roll back as you finally take him whole. The previous ministrations long forgotten as your mouth and part of your throat surround his sensitive cock.

You bob your head, slowly at first, controlling your breath as Leon involuntarily thrusts his hips making his tip hit the back of your throat. You place your hand on Leon’s thigh, to motion him to stand still.

“Shit — sorry, sorry…” His voice gets slightly higher, now his previous words turn into pleas or straight-up moans. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth as your tongue runs on the underside of his cock.

“Too good for me…” He’s reduced to just babbles and whines, his knuckles turn white as keeps on gripping the bedsheets, an awful attempt to drown more moans. As you continuously bob your head, Leon could feel his high coming.

Unconsciously and given his dazed out state, he brings his leg to your shoulder. You were completely focused on him and this simple action made your concentration break a bit. He’s putty in your hands, his brain no longer functioning whenever you are in control.

You’d edge him, you’d definitely tease him for that. But now, you just continue sucking him off with the inner side of his thigh brushing against your cheek.

“I’m gonna — Fuck…” It’s not a warning, but a comment, a needy announcement. As much as he denies it, there’s not a better image than seeing you covered with his cum, or watching you swallow it whole. It made him feel a sense of pride, knowing that his spouse is the one making him come undone.

And as your tongue runs along a vein, he couldn’t contain it any longer. With a high pitched whine and throwing his head back, he spills down your throat.

The warm liquid fills your mouth and some of it drips from the corner of your lips.

You stay still for a moment, collecting every last drop of Leon’s cum. When you feel Leon’s hand on your shoulder —the one that doesn’t have his leg on it— you know he was asking you for a break.

Pulling out with a pop, you gently move his leg for him to rest.

For a few seconds, you just massage your jaw as Leon tries to recover. Heavy breaths fill the dark room, allowing you to relax once again.

“You good?” You ask as you are sitting down on the floor.

“Yeah — Just… give me a second.” He laughs, closing his eyes. A loving smile forms on his face.

You laugh too, getting up from the floor, you admire the scene Leon provides you: All of his body exposed to you, his sweatpants and boxers pooling at his ankles, and his fucked out expression.

Heaven.

After a minute or so, Leon composes himself.

“I’ll make sure to wake up every night if this is the treatment I get.”

“Next time I will just tie you up to the bed.”

“Oh? I like the sound of that.”

Laughing, you slap his naked chest as he pulls you closer. Nights like this are a reminder of his humanity and his right to love and to be loved. The past can never be changed or forgotten, but he can learn from it.

💬shadesoflsk: Comments, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated.

author's note 2: I just had to mention eeaao! It's one of my favorite movies and I know Leon would love it. Sorry if it was too sappy of me but then again... I'm always like that.

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

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amuseoffyre · 1 year ago

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Since insomnia is kicking my arse of late, I naturally tilted into the thoughts about the nature of the 3-act structure and why S2 of OFMD may have felt off and incomplete to a lot of people.

I am fully in agreement that we lost a lot of valuable time with only 8 episodes and a lot of it did feel rushed, but for the amount of story and set-up and growth and development they needed to fit into 4 hours of television, they did astonishing things.

DJenks has said from the very start that this is a story that has been planned out to take 3 seasons. It's literally a 3-act play and we are currently right in the middle of the worst part of that timeline according to every traditional 3-act structure.

Act one/season one is self-explanatory. Like New Hope in the Star Wars Trilogy or Fellowship of the Ring, this is the set-up. We're introduced to our protagonists and antagonists, the relationships are given a foundation.

The beginning is Stede's journey to becoming a real boy. The inciting incident, the one that actually pushes his change beyond "playing pirates" is meeting Ed. The second thoughts come together in episode 8/9 after his confrontations with Jack and Chauncey and episode 10 is the climax.

Act 2/season 2 is never going to be as smooth and simple as act 1/s1. A big part of the A2/S2 job is set up for A3/S3 and this is what we're seeing and why a lot of story threads seem to have been left dangling.

Again, to call back to Empire Strikes Back and The Two Towers, the structure is much the same: the original batch of people are divided and scattered, the big enemy from A1/S1 is looming, new allies make themselves known. In SW, this meant the introduction of Lando and Yoda as allies plus the hint of the Emperor lurking in the background. In LotR, we have the Rohirrim, Gondor and the Ents as allies and the expansion of Sauron's forces in Helm's Deep, Osgiliath and the winged wraiths.

There's a clear trajectory following the A2/S2 structure:

obstacle 1 - the crews separated and struggling

obstacle 2 - the end of episode 2 and the repercussions of his actions

twist - just when things start to settle, the Ned Low situation happen and Stede kills for the first time

obstacle 3 - Ed's struggle with his identity leading to him leaving

disaster - Ricky's assault on the Republic

crisis - do-or-die battle because they have no other choice

climax - the last 15 minutes of ep. 8 live here.

As with SW and LotR, there's an ending, but weighted with the knowledge of a story that is meant to continue. Each of those act 2 films end with the heroes still aware of the looming threat, some of them heading out on new missions, and some of them resting and healing. There's brief pause, brief respite, a moment to take a breath.

We have all the characters in place now and the battle-lines have been drawn. Luke still needs to confront Vader (I see you, impending Ed and Hornigold confrontation), Frodo still needs to destroy the ring, Aragorn still needs to lead the army against the Black Gate, the second Death Star is still hanging in the sky.

I'm so excited to see what S3 brings because we have so many arcs ready to go: Zheng's vengeance trip, the inevitable enforced out-of-retirement arc for Ed and Stede, Hornigold, Ricky trying to maintain his tenuous control of the republic given how many of his people were killed when the crew escaped, the pirate rebellion gathering forces.

Also how often do we get shows/films where the supporting cast are given this much storyline? We have a named/speaking-role cast of upwards of 15 central characters. That is a staggering amount of people to work with, when most shows would only focus on the leads and a couple of their friends. Six is the average for most TV shows, while comedies can inch higher because ensembles, but most ensembles don't get as much as our crew did.

I know a lot of people aren't happy about Izzy's death. I know I would have liked to see him a lot more, because he's such a grumpy old bitch and I love him and him affectionately roasting Ed and Stede would have made my entire month. But I'm also aware that narratively, as a figurehead of the old ways of piracy and "we were Blackbeard", it was a symbolic death as well - a sign of the death of the old ways of piracy and of Blackbeard as was.

(Also, they Obi-Wanned him. I'm not over that. Gave him the "if you strike me down I will become more powerful" speech. I'm just... guys, your star wars nerdery is showing XD)

So while it was flawed in places and pacing, given the scale of the story they're telling, the number of pieces and characters they had in play, and the arcs they have been setting up while also still keeping the humour, I am giving a standing ovation for a remarkable piece of work.

#ofmd #ofmd s2 #ofmd meta

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fortheloveofwonderland · 8 months ago

Text

Rusty | Chapter 18 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N - this one goes back 6 months again and picks up when they move to their new ranch. Flicks through time over the previous 6 months. Part one of a two part chapter.

Summary - As the two of you get acquainted with your new ranch, Spencer’s mental state starts to decline.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - starts really fluffy but devolves rapidly, hints of oral (f receiving), medication side effects, penetrative, unprotected sex, swearing, sexual dysfunction, painful erections, withdrawals, heavy drinking, suicidal ideation, dissociation, self harm, anger, arguing, violence.

WC - 6.4k

Chapter 18 - So Little I Wanted

Six Months Ago

A soft breeze rolled out from the fields, up the hill towards the old Victorian home. The swing chair creaked a little with each back and forth motion but the sound was comforting.

Spencer tightened his grip on your shoulders, your head nuzzled against his chest and he rocked the chair with your combined weights in a rhythmic motion.

He dangled the new keys from his finger, adorned with the keychain you’d gotten him. He smiled at the disk in the middle as his eyes flitted over the constellation of stars from the night you first met.

He never expected that night to find himself here, starting over again. But as he lowered the keys and looked out across his new land, towards the horse stables which Rusty and Willow were getting acquainted with, there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

He’d blocked all GPS and location settings on his phone before you’d left Bandera so there was no way for Garcia to trace him. The two of you were going to be really happy here.

He stroked your hair and you hummed in content. Your hand reached for his free one and entwined your fingers. You drew his hand towards you and placed sleepy kisses against his knuckles.

“Are you tired, princess?” He whispered, barely audible above the sound of the swing chair.

“Hmm a little.” You replied, stifling a yawn.

Spencer chuckled and gently guided you so you were sitting up. He cupped your jaw and brushed his fingers along your chin.

“It’s been a long day. What do you say we retire to our new room?” He had a glint in his eyes and it lit a fire in your chest.

“Okay.” You nodded, letting him help you up from the chair.

It hadn’t just been a long day, it had been a long few days. You’d travelled some eight hundred miles in forty eight hours, stopping once at a cheap motel for a few hours sleep.

You’d had to do all the driving because of Spencer’s splint. You’d only arrived at your new home a few hours ago and you were so exhausted you could barely keep your eyes open.

But if Spencer had plans to christen your new bed that went beyond sleeping, you were more than happy to postpone rest in lieu of other activities.

He took your hand and let you both in the house, locking the front door behind you and hanging his keys on the hook. He took off his stetson, the one Rossi gave him, and hung it next to the keys.

He led you towards the narrow staircase by your hand and you followed dreamily. He continued gripping your hand while he took you down the landing towards the master bedroom.

You’d already hung up your clothes in the antique closet earlier today. Spencer’s books were still packed away as he had plans to buy some bookshelves and turn the dining room into a library of sorts.

The bed left by the elderly couple was made of ornate dark wood with beautiful, intricate carvings in the head and baseboards. The mattress was plush and wide and you couldn’t wait to sink down into it.

Spencer closed the bedroom door and let go of your hand, standing you in front of him. He tucked your hair behind your ears in a gentle fashion and smiled down at you.

“I love you so much.” He spoke wistfully.

“I love you too.” You smiled.

He placed his hands on your hips and guided you towards the end of the bed. He sat you down before dropping to his knees in front of you.

With a hand on each knee he pushed your legs apart. He placed kisses on the fabric of your jeans and you shuddered despite the material between you. His fingers raked up and down your thighs.

They came to a stop on your button and he looked up at you through his lashes as he toyed with it. You nodded weakly in response.

He smiled as he kissed your leg and unbuttoned your jeans. You lifted yourself off the bed a little to allow him to shimmy them over your hips and he dragged them down your legs achingly slowly.

Once he had them off your feet he tossed them aside and started peppering kisses against your flesh. He ebbed dangerously closer, feeling the heat emanating from between your legs.

He sucked in a deep breath, letting your natural scents fill his lungs. He wanted to take his time teasing you, bring you to the edge without even touching you but he wanted this just as much as you did.

He inched your panties aside, finding them soaked through already before he buried his face between your legs and you swore you saw stars.

***

Five and Half Months Ago

You rode side by side along the edge of the road towards Tombstone on your respective steeds. Spencer had the go ahead to start wearing his splint less as long as his arm didn’t cause him too much grief and he loved being back in the saddle.

Rusty and Willow were nearly inseparable now despite their rocky start. You supposed in a way they were like you and Spencer.

He would glance at you every so often as you trotted along, sending smiles your way. Every one made your heart skip a beat and fill you with a warmth you’d never felt before.

As you were nearing the town, something a little way ahead on the side of the road caught your eye.

“What is that?” You pointed towards what looked like a slightly crumpled cardboard box.

“No idea.” Spencer frowned in the direction of it as you both continued that way.

When you reached the box you halted Rusty before dismounting her and Spencer followed suit. Keeping hold of the reins you peered inside the box and gasped as ten icy blue eyes glared up at you.

“Oh my gosh!” You squealed, thrusting Rusty’s reins at Spencer before dropping to your knees next to the box. “Have you been left here?”

You reached a cautious hand inside and the five little puppies mewled and started licking you. They looked at you hungrily and one even started nibbling on your knuckle.

“I think there’s a vets in Tombstone.” Spencer spoke, looking over your shoulder.

“Who would abandon these little beauties?” You collected one of the tiny puppies up in one hand.

The dog was wide eyed as it looked at you, a large reddish splotch over its eye. It let out a little bark and licked your cheek, making you giggle.

Its ears were floppy, too big for its head. It had several other red patches mottled in its silky fur. You’d never seen a dog like it.

“Oh you’re just a cutie, aren’t you!” You cooed, holding the pup to your chest.

“We aren’t keeping the puppies.” Spencer laughed. “Come on, let's get them to the vet.”

You reluctantly placed the small dog back in the box with its siblings and cautiously lifted the box from the ground. There were sounds of disapproval from inside.

“Hey now, it’s okay. I’m helping you.” You cooed again, cradling the box gently in your arms.

Spencer mounted Willow and took hold of Rusty’s reins so he could guide her while you walked with the puppy package.

Rusty had taken a liking to Spencer since the day in the stable when he’d used her to ground himself while on the phone to the BAU. He had no idea what had softened her towards him but he didn’t question it.

The four of you continued on towards town while you balanced the box of puppies who were adamant not to sit still which only made the whole ordeal more difficult than it needed to be.

***

The puppies were approximately six week old Catahoula Leopard Dogs which explained their spotty coats. The vet deemed them all to be healthy if not a little hungry after giving them a once over.

The four girls were particularly disinterested in anything that didn’t pertain to being fed and watered but the boy, the one you had picked up out of the box when you found them, grew very fond of you.

You had to continuously be stroking or holding him otherwise he would whine for your touch. He liked it most when you held him against your chest and he would nuzzle against you. Spencer knew it was inevitable that you would not be leaving the vet surgery without that dog.

A little over an hour later the two of you exited the building where Rusty and Willow were tied up to the hitching posts outside. In one hand you had the little male puppy in a carry crate and you were beaming from ear to ear.

“We’ve been here two weeks and you’ve already acquired another animal.” Spencer laughed as he stepped onto the street.

“I couldn’t leave him! You saw how much he loved me.” You glanced at the puppy through the bars of the crate as you carefully set it on the floor.

“I was not in the market for a dog.” Spencer shook his head as you sidled closer to him.

“But he makes me very happy.” You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Hmm, I do like to make you happy.” He agreed, holding onto your waist.

“I know you do.” You laughed, getting closer so you could kiss him. “And it seems like fate, his colouring is so much like Rusty’s. They could be twins. You know, if that were at all possible.”

“So what are we calling him?” Spencer tucked your hair behind your ears as you beamed, clearly already thinking about this.

“Copper.” You spoke defiantly.

“Copper and Rusty?”

“Mmm hmm.” You hummed, kissing him again.

“I suppose I can’t argue with that logic.”

***

Five Months Ago

“Copper, heel!” You called across the enclosed field to the boisterous eight week old pup.

He spun rapidly to look at you, his tongue hanging comically out of his mouth. You shook the bag of treats in your hand.

“Copper, heel!” You repeated when he didn’t move.

Willow and Rusty ambled around the field, already accustomed to their new dog friend. They allowed him to run between them, sometimes under them, sniffing them and oftentimes licking them.

Rusty had been more wary than Willow as she was naturally. She still kept her distance more than Willow did but she was warming up to Copper slowly.

“Copper, heel!” You tried once more, giving the treat bag a firm shake.

“This is hard to watch.” Spencer sighed from his position leaning back against the fence.

“I mean, you could help.” You grumbled without taking your eyes off of Copper.

“You’re right, I could.” Spencer smirked to himself.

“But you’re not going to.” You turned to him now over your shoulder.

“It’s so much more fun to watch you struggle.” He winked at you.

“He’s your dog too.” You whined, looking back across the field at the stubborn dog.

“He most certainly is not.” Spencer folded his arms over his chest. “You wanted him, he’s your dog.”

You huffed and if he could see your face he would be willing to bet you were rolling your eyes.

“Copper, heel! Please boy, we can do this. Heel. Heel.” If he couldn’t come back when called in an enclosed space he was never going to be able to freely roam the land.

Copper barked at you before he commenced running again, right under Willow’s belly, the mare barely noticing. He started doing laps of the field again and you groaned in defeat.

“Am I doing something wrong?” You moved backwards to lean on the fence next to Spencer.

“It just takes time. You have to be patient, I’m sure he’ll get there.” Spencer offered you a sympathetic smile.

“This is harder than learning to ride a horse.” You grumbled.

“It absolutely is not.” Spencer chuckled. “You just got lucky with riding that you were a natural at it. For most people, learning to ride a horse is exponentially difficult.”

“Please can you help?” You shot him a look, your begging face. Your lip was pouted and your eyes were wide. It was the same look you’d given him when you asked to take Copper home in the first place.

And Spencer could never say no to it. He huffed and took the bag of treats from your hand, turning to face Copper while he shook them.

“Copper, heel.” He spoke in a steady and firm tone.

Copper immediately stopped in his tracks and looked over at Spencer. For a moment or two he looked as though he was considering this.

And then he took off running right at Spencer. When he reached him, he looked up at him with excited eyes, begging to be rewarded for his good behaviour.

You were staring in absolute shock at the dog's obedience. Spencer handed him a treat and Copper gobbled it up without even chewing.

“Copper, sit.” You tried.

The dog looked at you before looking back at Spencer, seemingly smiling at him.

“Copper, sit.” Spencer repeated.

Instantly the dog sat down and Spencer handed him another treat.

“Un-frigging-believable.” You shook your head in disbelief.

Spencer smirked at you with an almost cocky shrug of his shoulders.

“What can I say?” He laughed. “I’m just better at this than you.”

***

Later that night Spencer was on top of you in bed, kissing you forcefully while his cock slid teasingly between your legs.

You were bucking your hips to try and meet him, whining pathetically into his mouth. Spencer chuckled against your lips.

“Desperate, huh?” He pulled back from the kiss and looked down on you.

You whimpered in response. The stronger dose of his meds were working their magic and as such Spencer very rarely dissociated after you were intimate but still held some residual guilt.

But despite the fact you exchanged sexual favours nearly every night, you hadn’t had sex since arriving in Arizona.

So desperate was an understatement.

“P-please?” You whispered when he continued to simply move back and forth between your silken folds.

He kissed you again, still laughing at your neediness. And then he surprised you when he entered you in one swift move.

You gasped into his mouth, surprised by the sudden intrusion. But it felt so fucking good. He kissed you deeper while he fucked you, the old bed creaking with every movement.

You were moaning together, relishing in the way his heavy length filled you up so wonderfully in case it was a while before you got to experience it again.

But you wouldn’t be left wanting more as even when he came he didn’t pull out. He simply laid on top of you, kissing your neck until he started becoming erect again.

And then he fucked you three more times.

By the time you both experienced your forth orgasms you were sweaty and overstimulated. When he finally pulled out you felt so horribly empty and a rush of your combined bodily fluids trickled down your legs and into the bed sheet.

Spencer forced his trembling legs to stand and he trailed lazily through to the ensuite, returning a few moments later with a damp washcloth. You practically screamed when he ran the cloth between your legs to clean you up, whimpering at the way it touched your over sensitised skin.

He tossed the cloth on the nightstand and collapsed back onto the mattress as the door was nudged open and Copper trotted in, jumping up on the bed and nosing his way between you.

“Copper, down.” You mumbled sleepily, shuddering as his soft fur brushed against your tender flesh.

He had his own plush dog bed in the corner of the room, he was not sleeping on the bed with the humans. Copper ignored you, instead he started licking your bare shoulder.

“Copper,” Spencer grumbled. “Down.”

In an instant the pup jumped off the bed. You shook your head against the pillows.

“That dog is a traitor.” You groaned.

“Maybe he just likes me better. Can’t say I blame him.” Spencer laughed lightly, rolling onto his side to face you.

He gently guided you onto your side also so your back was to him. You whined a little at the skin to skin contact, your whole body feeling as though it was on fire. But you allowed Spencer to cage your body with his own, wrapping one arm around you and pressing his chest flush with your back. Within seconds you were both sound asleep.

***

Four Months Ago

“And then Copper ran laps up and down the stable while I was trying to clean the paddocks and hay and straw was flying everywhere and he scared the life out of Rusty when he jumped up at her. I thought we were going to have a repeat of what happened to you in the desert.”

Spencer stared out into the void, your words floating somewhere around him, reaching his ears but not quite making the journey to his brain. The sounds of glasses clinking, idle chatter and the music from the old jukebox faded away into the ether.

He felt like he was floating but not in a good way. It was a similar sensation to that of dissociation only he was still connected to his own mind, it was just his surroundings he was divorcing himself from.

It was Friday night and the Four Deuces Saloon was about as busy as it ever got, which wasn’t very. Spencer held a glass in one hand, a rag in the other while he cleaned it in absent-mindedness.

He was behind the bar while you took your spot on the other side on one of the old stools, Copper no doubt curled up at your feet. You were telling him about your day at the riding school but at some point he tuned out without meaning to do so.

For the last few weeks, Spencer started to notice a change in himself. He knew what was causing it, but he didn’t know how to stop it. His medication was camouflaging his issues, disguising them so he wasn’t crippled by them but it was by no means treating the cause.

He could feel more pieces of himself chipping away with the passing weeks, although he’d certainly seen an improvement in his mood and was dissociating far less, he felt like parts of him were now missing.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, he just knew it wasn’t right. Fundamental parts of his personality seemed to have shifted.

He was growing less compassionate, towards you and even towards his beloved horse. He was having incredibly vivid dreams all the time and even after a good night's sleep he was always so tired.

He should have just been grateful that he didn’t feel the weight of his PTSD every day. He rarely thought about what those men had done to him in prison, he was becoming something akin to normal again.

But in gaining certain facets back, he was most certainly losing others.

“Spencer!” You raised your voice and he snapped out his revere, blinking at you a few times to clear the fog.

“Huh?” He stared at you like he’d just woken up.

“You’ve been cleaning that same glass for the last twenty minutes. And I’m fairly sure you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.” You huffed, sipping on your whiskey.

“Oh.” He looked dumbly down at the glass in his hand. “Sorry.”

“Are you okay? You seem…tired?”

“Hmm, maybe a little.” He put the glass and the rag down. “What did you order?”

“Nothing.” You frowned at him, motioning to your glass. “I have a drink.”

“Oh, what were you saying then?”

“I was telling you about my day.” You huffed, downing the liquid in the glass in one. “But I think I’m gonna call it a night. Clearly my company isn’t wanted.”

He watched you slide off the stool and hook Copper’s leash to his collar. He was still blinking rapidly, his brain feeling as though it was nothing but cotton wool.

“I’m sorry.” He forced the words out. “You know I love your company.”

“Hmm.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m still gonna go, I’ve got an early group tomorrow.”

“You don’t work Saturdays.” He scratched the back of his head.

“You seriously have not been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?” You scoffed. “I just told you that Jean is out sick and asked me to cover her in the morning. Jesus Spencer, it’s like talking to a brick wall recently.”

“I’m…I’m sorry.” He whined, his brows knitted together.

“Whatever.” You shook your head. “I’ll see you later.”

He watched as you tugged Copper’s leash and headed together towards the swinging saloon doors. Once you stepped outside he shook his head at his own stupidity.

He felt like he couldn’t win. He was a wreck without the medication, dissociating and hurting himself and plagued with traumatic memories from prison. But with the medication he was becoming robotic, no longer able to feel much of anything.

Was it better to feel nothing or everything? Honestly, Spencer had no answer for that. And he hated not having answers.

***

Three Months Ago

You were exhausted by the time you arrived home from work and took Rusty to the stable. Copper as always was full of energy and raced you up to the house.

He waited patiently on the porch, his long, skinny tail smacking hard against the wood as he awaited you opening the door.

It was Spencer’s night off and you were tentative to enter the house. As of late you never knew what mood you’d find him in. It was never bad per se, but more often than not recently he’d been extremely distant, hard to reach.

When you talked you felt like you were talking at him and he barely said more than two words in response.

Physical contact of any sort had been limited. He rarely even kissed you or held your hand. When you were intimate it was perfunctory and he never seemed fully in it, as though simply going through the motions.

He never let you touch him, he would either go down on you or finger you until you came and then he would roll over and close his eyes.

On two occasions he’d seemed as though he was in physical pain when pleasuring you. He would grunt and groan and then run to the bathroom when he finished, doubled over in agony.

He never spoke about it. And little did you know it was just another side effect of his medication he wasn’t sharing with you.

Spencer had found at first as his new dosage kicked in he was able to initiate intimacy and not feel consumed with guilt after. But soon as the medicine really kicked in it started to have adverse effects.

His sex drive diminished almost entirely, just as things were starting to go well between you. He would still give you as much pleasure as he could, whether he necessarily felt like it or not. He rarely became aroused and on occasions when he did, his erections were so painful it made him nauseous.

He should talk to you about it, about all of it, but he couldn’t. So he kept it to himself and created a void between the two of you.

You found him in the library when you finally entered the house, curled up in one of the large leather arm chairs under the window, reading a book with only the setting sun for light.

You walked cautiously, Copper trailing behind you. Spencer glanced up when he heard footsteps and instantly closed the book, smiling a little wistfully at you.

“Hey you.” He whispered, his voice hoarse probably from lack of use throughout the day.

“Hey,” you padded closer.

He placed the book on the window ledge where another few books were stacked. He often had a pile next to him so he didn’t have to get up every few minutes due to his reading speed.

When you were within reach he grabbed your hand, pulling you down into his lap and wrapping his arms tightly around you.

It surprised you at first, it had been a while since he’d initiated such contact, but you didn’t argue it. You swung your legs across his so he was cradling you and you nuzzled against his chest. Copper turned in a circle a few times before laying at Spencer’s feet.

You sat silently for a while until Spencer picked up the book he’d been reading and started reciting the words out loud. It was an old poetry anthology he’d read as a child with his mother.

He held you closely with one arm, resting the book on your knees and he spoke the words softly and quietly. He read to you for hours while you drifted in and out of sleep on his lap.

When the book ended, he placed it back on the ledge and stroked your hair back off of your face. You leaned in and dared to brush your lips against his.

After a moment or two you parted his lips with your tongue, turning yourself in his lap so you were straddling him. You grinded against him, kissing him with every ounce of passion in your body.

It took no time at all for you to feel yourself getting turned on. But beneath you, nothing was happening in Spencer’s pants despite your increased rocking on his lap.

Needing to breathe you pulled back from his lips and looked at him in mild confusion. He was frowning, his eyes held an immeasurable amount of sadness.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled. “Please don’t think it’s because of you. It’s just, uh, not been particularly cooperative lately.”

“Yeah I noticed.” You shrugged sadly. “Are you sure okay? You’ve been…distant.”

Spencer forced himself to smile as he placed a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Don’t worry about me.” He wrapped his arms around you so he could conceal his face and the smile he wasn’t able to keep up.

Nothing was okay. He was losing himself to his medication. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

***

Two Months Ago

He stared at himself in the mirror, gripping the sink tightly in both hands. This wasn’t good. He’d made a drastic error in judgement.

A week ago in a fit of rage after an extremely heavy make out session in which you tried to furiously pump his flaccid cock to no avail, Spencer had flushed his meds down the toilet.

He’d started feeling the withdrawal symptoms within days, he knew that paroxetine had a very short half life and therefore the symptoms kicked in fast.

His brain was in imbalance. The chemicals he’d fought to suppress with the medication were coming back with avengence.

He’d gone from feeling very little of anything to feeling every single emotion in a matter of days. His mind was vibrating, a swarm of bees escaped their nest and were buzzing and flitting around every receptor.

He hadn’t thought this through. He’d been frustrated at the thought of losing parts of himself, of disappointing you and he’d made a rash decision.

He could have lowered his doses, spoken to a doctor and done this the right way. He was smart enough to know what kind of hell awaited him by withdrawing so carelessly. This was only the beginning, the side effects would only grow more intense over time.

Within just the span of a week he was already feeling extremely anxious, jumping at every little sound. He was agitated and depressed and he’d give anything to make it stop.

The logical thing to do would be to see a doctor post haste. But Spencer’s rationality had gone out the window the moment he decided to flush those pills. And so he decided to try and treat it another way.

He stood back from the sink and looked at the unopened bottle of whiskey he’d set on the bathroom counter. He hadn't had a drink for over six years, probably longer. If he was in his right mind he would be able to recall the exact days.

He’d self medicated with alcohol after Maeve’s death to stop himself from relapsing on dilaudid. But given his proclivity for addiction, his drinking grew out of control. And it all came full circle because when the alcohol stopped having the effect he was after, he considered relapsing again after all.

He’d managed to quit through sheer willpower, not allowing himself to fall down that rabbit hole again and hadn’t touched a drop since. But now here he was, staring at the bottle of whiskey as he fought internally with himself not to open it.

But he knew he would. He wasn’t strong enough to resist the urge to take the edge off, the promise of escape even if only momentarily.

He reached for it, his hand trembling as he gripped it around the neck. He made quick work of unscrewing the cap and raised it to his nose to smell the amber liquid.

Whiskey was always his vice when it came to alcohol. He never much enjoyed beer or wine although he would still indulge in them on occasion. Whiskey was his achilles heel. He adored the taste of it, the varying notes and tones that came with different brands.

He’d grown adept in telling the difference between brands and even sometimes bottles of the same brand which had been casked in different years.

It fascinated Rossi in particular, he often got Spencer to show off his niche skill to anyone and everyone like a party trick.

It smelt like a bottle of liquid heaven and caused him to salivate at the thought of it sliding down his throat, creating its warm blanket around his brain, stifling his intrusive thoughts. If he didn’t drink this, there was no telling what he might do. This had to be the lesser of many evils.

He drank almost half of the bottle in one fell swoop and didn’t feel at all guilty. In fact he felt something close to liberation.

He brushed his teeth to mask the smell, making a mental note to buy some gum. He already knew this wasn’t going to be his last drink.

He stashed the bottle under the sink before leaving the bathroom and heading downstairs. The whiskey pulsed through his veins, swimming around his brain and offering him a nice lightheaded sensation.

It stood to reason that after so many years of abstinence he was probably drunk off of the amount he’d consumed. It would have been a lot for anyone, let alone someone who had been sober so long.

His legs wobbled a little as he took to the stairs, he gripped the bannister to keep himself up right. He probably should have been concerned for the speed in which he was able to make the decision to give up his sobriety.

But he wasn’t.

In the living room he found Copper who was going to town on the corner of the gross old rug in the middle of the floor. His teeth sunk into the fabric, small growls leaving his mouth as he attacked it.

And for some reason, Spencer saw red.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He yelled at the young dog.

He advanced on Copper, grabbing him by the collar and forcibly pulling him back from the rug. Copper made a sound of disapproval.

“Did we not train you better than this? Bad dog! You do not chew the rug! Fucking idiot. Why the fuck did I even agree to bring you home?”

Copper looked scorned, his tail folding underneath him as Spencer screamed at him. He cowered away from him, whining under his breath.

“Yeah you should feel bad! I catch you doing something like that again and you’re out on your ass! Fucking stupid creature.” Spencer spat harshly, bearing his teeth at the already terrified dog.

“What the hell is going on?” You ran into the room from the kitchen, the sounds of Spencer yelling garnering your attention.

You found him towering over a trembling Copper, pointing an angry finger at the pup.

“This asshole was chewing the rug.” Spencer growled.

“And you screamed at him for it?” You pushed past him, lowering yourself to the floor next to Copper and stroking him between the ears. “He’s scared, Spencer.”

“Good! Maybe he’ll think twice before he does it again.”

“Spencer, he is still a puppy. He’s still learning. Cut him some slack. You don’t even like that rug.” You comforted the dog who was starting to shake a little less at your touch.

“I don’t give a shit if I like it or not! He shouldn’t have been doing it. I don’t like the fucking couch either, should I let him destroy that too?” Spencer was still yelling.

You looked up at him, shaking your head.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve never seen you like this before.” You spat as Copper nuzzled his head against your chest and you cradled him.

“With all due respect, Y/N, you don’t really know me at all.” He hissed and then turned on his heels before storming out of the room.

You let him go, staying on the floor with Copper who was in desperate need of your comfort. You had no idea what had gotten into Spencer. You’d never seen this side of him before.

But little did you know, this was only the beginning.

***

One Month, Three Weeks Ago

He was restless, unable to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was withdrawals, or perhaps it was a combination of them both.

He couldn’t stop moving, whether it be jiggling his leg when he sat still or pacing the length of rooms while his mind whirred and spiralled into a never ending stream of thoughts and emotions.

He hadn’t been to work all week. Instead he waited for you to leave the house and each day and would drink himself into a stupor. He hoped it would help him sleep, help his brain get some much needed rest. It didn’t. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than a few hours.

The headache came on yesterday and it was so encompassing it caused him to throw up. He hadn’t really been eating and so there wasn’t much to come up. He knew he’d lost weight but he just wasn’t hungry.

The headache wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he tried. Light and sound aggravated it, probably a migraine he thought in absent mindedness. His hearing seemed to be hypersensitive and every little sound was like daggers to his skull.

He yelled at Copper again when he barked which only caused the headache to worsen. It shut him up though, the dog was still scared of him and the moment Spencer raised his voice Copper cowered.

He was depressed, there was no denying it. He started to wonder if it might simply be easier if he just ended it all, the pain and suffering. He could put you both out of your misery if he was dead.

He was dissociating more frequently again and you had noticed. But his sex drive was on the rise again and he’d been able to perform almost every night this week, despite the whiskey. But each time he dissociated afterwards, just like he used to.

At least he could use it as an excuse as to why his thighs were now covered in self inflicted wounds. He blamed the dissociation and he was sure you believed him. But in reality he’d started hurting himself for the first time while conscious of his actions.

It helped, at least he thought it did. The pain was a small reprieve from the ever flowing emotions and thoughts he couldn’t quell. Prison. Luke. Maeve. Benjamin Merva. Every trauma in his life made itself known and weighed him down under a thick, stagnated mist of melancholia.

And then you found his stash of empty whiskey bottles.

He wished he could say he dissociated when he threw you against the wall and screamed in your face but his mind was sharp and he knew exactly what he was doing. He also knew it was wrong but he couldn’t cloy himself back from it.

“Are you fucking judging me? With the amount you drink, you’re judging me?” He seethed, spittal flying from his mouth as he pinned you to the wall.

“I’m just concerned. You said yourself you don’t drink because of your addiction.” You kept your composure even though he could see the hint of fear in your eyes.

“Don’t fucking talk to me about my addiction! You have no idea!” He growled louder, so close to your face you could smell the combination of whiskey and the minty gum he tried to disguise it with.

“S-Spencer, you’re scaring me.” Your bottom lip trembled, unable to hide your terror any longer.

“Shut up! This isn’t scary, you’ve not seen scary. Not yet anyway.” He took a step back and you believed it might be the worst of it.

And then he slapped you hard around the side of your face. You whimpered pathetically, hand flying to cradle your face from the impact. Tears sprung to your eyes as you looked at him. You didn’t recognise this man. This man was someone you’d never met before.

He looked like Spencer, to a degree anyway. But there was something in his eyes, some evil glint that didn’t belong. It wasn't him, it wasn’t the man you loved.

He didn’t say another word, simply pushed past and left the room. You heard the front door open and slam closed, causing Copper to bark somewhere in the house. You didn’t dare move, frozen in fear but the tears did escape your eyes now and started rolling down your face.

You weren’t sure how much time passed before you heard your car engine jump to life followed by the screeching of tyres on the gravel as Spencer sped away. And a part of you secretly hoped he may never come back.

@kalulakunundrum @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3 @prettyboyandthefangirl @zooni92802 @babyspiderling

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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sapphire-writes · 2 years ago

Text

The Campaign (modern!HOTD)

Part 2 of The Campaign

pairing: modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: You entertain a prominent retired politician at brunch and have it out with your arch-nemesis over mimosas and a garden stroll.

warnings: NSFW 18+ (explicit sex, fingering, p*ssy slapping, degrading language, oral fem receiving, choking, begging, pearl necklacing, mean!Aemond), general language

word count: 3.2k

note: you know I can't resist a part 2!

The sun warms your skin as you stand outside.

A mimosa dangles between your fingers, a sheer lace dress hugging your form. Aemond watches you from across the yard, as you’re lost in conversation with Lyonel Tyrell, the host of this elaborate brunch.

You glance over at him for a moment, letting Lyonel’s words turn to ringing in your ears. He’s been going on and on about the same story for ages and you’ve been listening. Smiling politely and indulging him, engaging with pointed questions. Retired from his political career, Lyonel Tyrell is sitting on an empire of hotels, including the one you’re currently in.

He’s been neutral with his support so far, but an endorsement from Lyonel Tyrell, along with a donation, would be a huge win for Rhaenyra’s campaign.

Still, while remaining neutral, Lyonel is a terrible gossip and one for drama. So he insisted on hosting an elaborate brunch the morning after Rhaenyra and Aegon’s first debate that would be happening later that evening.

Your lips curve into a smirk and Aemond feels his pants tighten. Floris is by his side, chattering away about gods knows what. But all he can think about is the other night. Your lips on his cock, the feel of your tight pussy holding him. It’s been all he can fucking think about.

Across the yard, Jace joins you, wrapping an arm around your waist. Luke follows an almost constant shadow of his elder brother.

“Do look through the gardens,” Lyonel tells you, bringing you back to reality, “A beautiful maze, that’s what I think of them as.”

“It might rain,” Luke says, nonchalantly looking at the sky.

“I think I’m going to walk the gardens,” you tell Jace as he begins another conversation with Lyonel, “Before it rains.”

“Better hurry,” Luke says, squinting at the sky.

Jace places a kiss on your lips, soft and chaste and sweet; just like him. Jace is a good guy. You flounce off toward the gardens planning for a quick walk. You need to get away from everything for a minute. This charade can be exhausting, pretending to be this bright-eyed little girlfriend of Jacaerys Velaryon. But its worth it.

As you walk deeper, you come across a big fountain, and pause for a moment to read the plaque.

“Where’s your dog?” Aemond’s voice calls suddenly as he joins you.

Floris is nowhere to be found. You roll your eyes as you turn to face him.

“Back for more already?” you tease, crossing your arms.

“It’s you who’s been staring all afternoon,” he tells you shrugging, “Figured you needed a second round.”

“Oh please,” you scoff, turning to face him, “As if I’d ever need any of that again.”

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” Aemond tells you, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Certainly not your dick,” you tell him, “Jace however, is a fantastic lover.”

“Oh, so you’ve fucked him?” he asks, nodding, “That why he got you that necklace? A little reward for finally putting out?”

Your cheeks flush, though you wish they didn’t and your lips curl into a snarl. He noticed the gift. And do you detect a note of jealousy in his voice?

“Keeping your eyes on my chest then, are you?” you snap back.

“That necklace is hideous,” Aemond retorts.

You smirk, bringing a hand to your chest, just where your cleavage begins and the diamond J rests. You twirl the letter between your fingers.

“Still worth more than your life,” you tell him, smiling sweetly.

Your phone buzzes and you pull it from your pocket. It’s Jace, wondering where you’ve run off to. Apparently, Lyonel is eager to resume your conversation.

“It must be killing you, playing trophy wife to Velaryon,” Aemond says suddenly.

You glance up from your phone.

“Excuse me?” you ask.

“Just saying,” he tells you, shrugging slightly.

His eyes are locked on you.

“Fuck you,” you tell him.

“Fuck you right back,” he nearly growls.

“I hate you,” you say, stepping closer.

You haven’t realized you’re right in front of him until it’s too late. At the end of your statement, your eyes widen, flickering to his lips for half a second, watching as his tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip.

It’s a millisecond, but all it takes for Aemond’s hand to grab the back of your neck, pulling your mouth to his. The shock of his lips on yours distracts you for a moment; it makes your eyes flutter shut, and warmth pool in between your legs. He deepens the kiss, soft tongue slipping into your mouth, and his free hand clings to your waist pulling you flush against him so you can feel him; hard and wanting, pressing into you.

Your eyes snap open and you push him away. Aemond’s hand reaches for his jaw, stopping before it connects with his prominent chin. He takes his lower lip in between his teeth, watching you, tasting the remnants of your lips on his.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged.

“Kissing you,” he says nonchalantly.

“Well don’t,” you tell him.

“Alright,” he agrees.

You stare at each other a moment more. You glance around, still the only ones this far into the gardens. Aemond follows your gaze.

“There’s no one here,” he tells you.

“What are you playing at?” you ask, crossing your arms.

A lazy smirk comes over his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him, “But you’re up to something, I can read it all over your stupid face.”

“Oh, I’m stupid now?”

“You’ve always been.”

“How very matu-”

He’s cut off when the sky above you both cracks with thunder. You flinch at the sound and look up, greeted by fat droplets of rain on your cheeks. Your eyes widen as lightning bursts through the sky.

Shit.

The sky fully opens then, torrential rain beating down on you and Aemond, as though you’re both nothing more than a couple of flowers in the garden. With a yelp you hold your hands above your head, abandoning Aemond, trying to make your way back to the hotel.

“There you are!” Jace says as you enter the dining room.

His face scrunches into a frown, seeing your state. Your shoes make squelching noises as you walk towards them, the air-conditioned air making goosebumps appear on your arms and legs.

“You’re soaked!” Jace comments.

“I told you it would rain,” Lucerys says, taking a sip of his drink.

You glare at him.

“Geniuses, both of you,” you tell them, “I’m going to freshen up.”

“Y/N, my dear,” Lyonel says frowning at you.

You force a smile at your host.

“Here, take this,” he says, pressing a keycard into your hand, “Master key. Go to the top floor, our penthouse suite is empty. You can freshen up there.”

You smile gratefully.

“You’re too kind, Lyonel, thank you,” you tell him, taking the key card.

The suite is huge, with three bathrooms and several adjoining rooms. You walk around for a moment, appreciating it before choosing the largest bathroom to shower and change in. You take your time, helping yourself to the expensive lotions and body gels laid out for important guests.

As you wrap a heated towel around yourself you hear something. Exiting the bathroom you walk down the hall.

“Hello?” you call, “Jace?”

To your surprise, it's not Jace, but Aemond, who exits the closest bathroom, a towel around his waist. His hair is half dry, a blowdryer in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, holding your towel tightly around yourself.

Aemond places the hairdryer down inside the bathroom before walking toward you.

“Same as you,” he tells you, “Lyonel gave me the card.”

“What the fuck?” you mumble, “Well you need to leave.”

“I need to finish drying my hair,” he tells you.

“Fucking primadonna,” you groan, annoyed with this whole scenario.

“You ever try not being a brat?” Aemond snaps, tongue poking against his cheek.

“Excuse me?” you ask, chest heaving with anger.

Aemond stalks closer until he’s an inch away from you.

“You’re fucking desperate, you know that?” Aemond tells you, “Practically begging me to fuck you right now.”

“I’m telling you to fuck off,” you tell him.

“Makes me want to fuck you more,” he tells you, bringing a hand to stroke your cheek, “And I think you know that.”

Your breathing is irregular and you can feel the hand that’s not on your cheek playing with the edge of your towel before dipping below.

“You were such a greedy little slut last time we did this,” he murmurs, dragging his long fingers through your silky folds.

Your body jerks against his touch, as his fingers tantalize your sensitive clit. Aemond grins wolfishly at your parting lips and the way your lashes flutter against your cheekbones as he rolls your clit between the pads of his fingers.

“Not so talkative now, are you?” he taunts and you push at his chest.

You need to get him away from you, your head is spinning from his scent, the feeling of his breath on your face, his hands on you. You inhale a shaky breath, leaning your head against the wall, tightening your towel around you.

Aemond smirks, standing a few feet away. Your eyes drop to the towel tied at his waist, the noticeable bulge poking through. You drag your eyes up the v-line of his hips, the planes of his chiseled abs, past his collarbones, and up to his face once more.

“If you want to fuck me, fuck me,” you spit at him, “but shut up about it.”

He glares at you a moment more, your venomous words hanging in the space between you, poisoning the air that fills his lungs. With one stride, he’s on you once more; he brings one hand to your neck and the other around your waist as he connects your lips.

Aemond’s kiss is punishing, and he drags a moan out from deep within your chest as his tongue slips into your mouth. Your hands tangle in his hair, still slightly damp from his shower, and you let your nails scratch against his scalp. He moans into your mouth at that, and you do it again, pleased with the reaction. Then his hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling your lips from his.

“Get on the bed,” Aemond tells you, nodding to the king-sized bed.

You get into position, on your hands and knees, before you feel his large hand press in between your shoulder blades, easing the front of your body to press into the mattress. Your arms give and you let them rest beside you as your cheek presses into the soft comforter. Completely vulnerable, ass in the air, Aemond trails his hand down your back slowly tracing down your spine. He brings his hands to your asscheeks, making a noise of appreciation as he squeezes the soft flesh.

You can feel his long fingers dig into your hips before he tugs roughly, pulling you effortlessly to the edge of the bed. A small whimper leaves your lips as he delivers a sharp slap to your left asscheek. You can feel his erection nudging your ass before it disappears suddenly.

Not a moment later you feel the sharp curve of Aemond’s nose press into you, his warm tongue spreading your dripping folds. A moan leaves you as he continues, lewd slurping noises filling the room. Your toes curl as Aemond teases your clit with his tongue, before diving into your clenching hole. He chuckles against you as he fucks you with his tongue, spanking you harshly once more.

“Desperate.” slap “Greedy.” slap “Slut.” slap

Your ass is bound to be covered in handprints, with each strike of his hand punctuating his cruel words. You lift your head slightly, annoyed at his language.

“Aem-” you try to hold onto any semblance of sanity, though it's an effort with the way his tongue is working its way against your spongy walls, exiting only to bring attention back to your clit.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, sinking a finger inside of you.

Your eyes roll, jaw slacks as he crooks his finger, working it against your tender inner walls.

“Shut the fuck up, yeah?” he says gently, “Gonna fuck that little attitude right out of you.”

“You’re such a dick,” you manage to hiss as a second finger joins the first.

Shit, his hands are something else. His fingers are so long. Fuck. He clearly knows what he’s doing, there’s no rough thrusting like guys you’d been with previously. Aemond’s precise with his movements, the way he curls his fingers in a fluid motion, listening to every moan, every pant you release, and zeroing in on the places he presses within you that elicit them.

The fire in your belly winds tighter and your knees shake as he slowly breaks you apart.

“Oh oh,” you moan, feeling the pleasure in your abdomen crest.

But Aemond withdraws his fingers then, slowly and the high begins to fade just out of reach. You groan, displeased as Aemond stands behind you. He brings a hand to cup your sex before slapping it harshly.

“Greedy sluts don’t get to come,” he tells you, “You’re not coming until you fucking beg me.”

You let out a sharp defiant laugh, but nervousness curls in your belly. Something about his tone tells you he’s not joking. Aemond grabs his cock, rubbing the fat head against your slit before pushing in, splitting you open. A strangled moan leaves you as he begins to fuck you from behind, fingers digging into your hips.

Bruises will have to be explained to Jace.

You don’t think about that now, not with how good he feels fucking you. Consequences don’t matter right now, the only thing that matters is the feeling of his cock sliding in and out so effortlessly. Once more you feel pleasure cresting inside of you, a coil winding tighter and tighter.

“Aemond-”

“No,” he answers, continuing to pound into you.

You whimper in frustration, and he simply laughs.

“You ready to start begging?” he taunts.

You don’t answer, drool pooling next to your cheek. Aemond grabs your hair, yanking your head up.

“Huh?” he asks, continuing his thrusts.

“No,” you whimper, feeling Jace’s necklace lightly slap against you with each thrust.

Aemond releases you, pulling out and turning you on your back. You’re panting, face red as he looks down at you. You’ve never been bare like this to him before.

“You want to come, don’t you?” he asks, tilting his head to look at your pussy.

He brings his hand to your pussy once more, teasing the entrance with two thick fingers.

“I can feel you clenching, so desperate for my fingers, huh?” he says, inserting them just enough that you’re clamping down on his digits.

“Fucking pathetic. You’re just going to lay there?” he asks, curling his fingers slightly.

Then he spits, directly on your pussy, the saliva dripping down your slit to join where his fingers disappear inside of you.

“Aem-”

“You begging, or still whining?” he asks, fully immersing his fingers, “Cause I better not hear fucking whining.”

You close your mouth, as he works his fingers inside of you, bringing his mouth to the top of your slit. His tongue rolls around your sensitive nub in tandem with the movement of his fingers. You feel tears form, dribbling out of the corners of your eyes.

Aemond glances up at you between your legs, blue and violet eyes gleaming maliciously.

“You crying?” Aemond asks, “Oh that’s good. I love that.”

“You’re sick,” you hiss, back arching as he rubs that perfect spot inside of you, “Oh gods.”

“Am I?” he asks, “Yeah?”

Aemond removes his fingers, and your orgasm is denied again. Frustrated tears blur your vision, and he’s pushing into you again, spearing you on his thick cock and pushing your legs on his shoulders. Every thrust of his hips is as calculated as his previous fingering, it's like he knows just how to fuck you.

Aemond’s eyes are locked on your chest, watching your breasts jiggle with every pound of his hips against you. He meets your eyes and you smirk slightly at his ogling. You’ve no real power in this situation, but the temptation is too hard to resist.

“Knew you were looking at my tits,” you tell him.

There’s a glint of something in Aemond’s eye, like he’s almost impressed with your bratty attitude you’ve been clinging to. Your triumph is short-lived, as he reaches a long arm down, and wraps his hand snuggly around your throat.

“I can’t stand that fucking necklace,” he tells you, and you can feel the chain digging into your skin as Aemond flexes his fingers, cutting off some of your air supply.

You’re a whimpering mess now, with the brutal pace of his cock, and the squeezing of his hand around your neck. You part your lips, attempting to speak, and Aemond relaxes his grip without removing his hand.

“Please,” you say softly, “Aemond please I need to come.”

“You call that begging?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Aemond, please,” you beg, “Please, please I need to come, please.”

“Why should I?” Aemond asks with an open-mouthed grin.

“I’ll let you come anywhere,” you tell him, “Anywhere you want.”

Aemond quirks an eyebrow.

“Tempting,” he says, pondering your offering.

“Aemond, for fucks sake-”

The grip on your throat tightens.

“I’m sorry,” you choke, “I’m sorry, please, please, just let me come I’m begging.”

Aemond smirks then brings his free hand to toy with your throbbing clit.

“Aemond,” you warn, feeling your orgasm beginning to peak, “please, please I can’t, please let me come.”

It’s smooth and gentle the way he fondles your clit as his cock slides effortlessly in and out of your soaked center. You feel like you might go crazy if he denies you your release again, a pathetic, sharp whimper escaping you. Your body trembles under him, legs spasming.

“You can come,” he tells you and you come undone with a gasp, white-hot pleasure tingling throughout your body.

Aemond pulls out a moment later, stroking himself.

“On your knees,” he tells you and you oblige as he continues to stroke his cock.

You look up at him, as he finishes, white pearly strands of his come decorating your neck and chest. He sighs with the pleasure of his release, and you lean back on your haunches, his semen still warm on your skin.

“I’m going to need another shower,” you tell him, rising to your feet, “Which gives you time to go back down.”

“Alright,” he says, eyes flickering to you as you grab the discarded towel, wiping off his release.

Your cheeks are flushed and you don’t look at him before heafing into the bathroom and turning on the shower. How the fuck did this happen again?

When you finish and dress yourself Aemond has already left the suite.

You make your way back to the brunch, and loop your arm around Jace’s.

“All cleaned up?” he asks smiling.

“Yup,” you tell him matching his grin.

“Good,” he tells you, “Mom was just telling us about a retreat she’s planned. It’s going to be some big spectacle, the whole family is invited to the Summerhall House in the Hamptons.”

“The whole family?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Jace says, “They say it’ll be good publicity for both sides. One big happy family.”

You look across the room, spotting Aemond. Jace doesn’t notice, his gaze fixed on your neck.

“Where’s your necklace?” he asks, “Did you leave it upstairs?”

Your hand jumps to your throat. You hadn’t even noticed it was missing. You meet Aemond’s eyes once more, noting his smirk.

He fucking hated that necklace.

Note: hope you liked it lovelies!! ILYSM 💖

HOTD TAGLIST GENERAL: @bluevxnuss, @thattargboy, @xlilacfrostx, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @marvelescape, @geminithrone, @deltamoon666, @i-killed-ramsey, @tempt-ress, @eddiemadmunson, @zillahvathek, @hangmanscoming, @jojoesq, @f4ll-for-you, @rwdkarla, @cc13723things, @filipiniamultifandom, @watercolorskyy @alexxavicry @sachafirebringer @polireader @jamespotterismydaddy @grv7ay9In35s @sofiaadler @sophielangdonx @doublesparrows, @sophielangdonx, @alitaar, @castellomargot, @paodemorangol1l1, @nik2blog, @arkainea @eddiemadmunson, @malfoytargaryen, @eudximoniax, @targaryen-world, @ghostheartbeat @savagemickey03, @aemondsdaemons, @candypurplebutterfly, @eddiemadmunson, @xxnaly2, @ghostheartbeat, @savagemickey03, @dieg0brandos-wife, @paodemorangol1l1, @hb8301, @padfooteyes, @valeskafics @doublesparrows, @bornbetter, @beyond-the-ashes, @clairacassidy, @aslanvez, @loglady00, @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly, @minami97, @serving-targaryen-realness, @chaotic-fangirl-blog, @possiblyafangirl, @shmexie, @winter-soldier-101, @kaelatargaryen, @urmomsgirlfriend1, @floswife, @mizfortuna, @strawberryduvet, @girlwith-thepearlearring, @arryn-nyx, @namelesslosers, @hopelesswritergall

@coldcomputerkoala, @louislouve, @alicetargaryen @fidelias, @earthangels-things, @shinypoetryface, @klara-lily, @ensnaredinwonderland, @bubblyabs, @green-lxght, @cheerbaitromanjosi, @billiesbeans, @hufflepuff1700, @asumofwords, @angelheavensblog, @natashaobo, @zavriocibrouku, @tssf-imagines, @delilah92590, @shit-posts420, @evattude, @heyykarolina, @brie-annwyl, @wondergal2001, @herondale-girl7, @teteminne, @euphoriahoesss, @mercedesdecorazon, @koreofkore, @boofy1998, @targbarbie, @beiigegalx, @lovelyy-moonlight, @achlysyen, @elissanatok, @fan-goddess

AEMOND TAGLIST: @warmfieldofgrass

BOLD MEANS I COULD NOT TAG

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veroniquesboutique · 8 months ago

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Decorated - Nanami Kento x Reader

Nanami’s favorite store at the mall is Zales. He goes what seems like an exorbitant amount, and you humor him by giving him all of your mall-based errands because you hate how many people are always there. It’s an easy trade; he does your shopping so you don’t have to, and he gets to look at all the pretty, shiny things he can decorate you in.

Almost every time you send him to the mall, he comes back with something new.

His favorite is necklaces; he loves the way the soft gems lay against your décolletage, and how you can match your collection to your outfits or to your eyes. You mix and match them together like a gemstone bouquet just to always top it off with the soft K initial necklace he got you when you first started dating, and he always ends up staring at your neckline all evening. You blush and tell him it looks like he’s staring at your tits, but he just shrugs it off, unable to ignore the way the shiny accoutrement glitter in the sunlight or the moonlight or the candlelight.

Of course, he couldn’t leave you with just that, so he started adding earrings to the mix, matching them to the overwhelming number of necklaces he’d given you. Some of the earrings are small studs that you wear every day, switching them out to change up the look. Nanami preferred the dangling ones you wore when you’d go out with him, though; he loved the way they elongated your neck and brought his eyes to your soft hairline and the gentle curvature of your shoulder. Sometimes, when you’d laugh at a joke or smile unabashedly at him, your teeth and your earrings would glint the same way, and his heart would stop a little at the beautiful display.

You have a soft tennis bracelet that matches the band on his watch, and it’s delicately engraved with your dating anniversary. He gifted it to you on a random Wednesday after you had sent him for a gift for your boss’s retirement, and it left you breathless and teary-eyed in the kitchen where he so casually placed it for you. A few weeks later, he showed up with a matching anklet. He loves the way it so delicately drapes against the skin there, catching on the bone, as your foot haphazardly hangs on his shoulder when you’re intimate. Every time he presses deep into you, it makes a soft jingling noise right by his ear that shocks his spine, and it sounds like a reminder again and again that you are his. Only his.

It was random when the routine changed. There didn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason for it. You sent him to the mall for a present for your mother, and when he came back, he handed you the bag with her gift, exactly what you asked of him. You sat at the counter, your hand outstretched and waiting for the jewelry he always always brings home.

But he just brushed past you, pulling his tie off as he walked into your shared bedroom and confirming the time of the dinner reservations he made that evening. You furrowed your brow, confused and admittedly a little hurt, but you knew making a big deal out of it would make it seem like you expected these gifts now. It wouldn’t seem very appreciative of just how much he has already spent to decorate you. It would come off very superficial and very bitchy you tell yourself, so you shake it off and call back to him that you’ll be ready for dinner within the hour.

To be honest, Nanami could have handled it better, calming the anxiety you felt at his behavior change, if he wasn’t wildly panicking himself. Of course, he had still picked you up a small, shiny gift during his short mall trip, one that had been in the planning stages for a very long time, and it was sitting, unassuming, in his pocket at that exact moment, but he was trying to keep it a secret. Unfortunately for him, he was sure that you had seen the outline of the ring box in his pocket, he was sure you were suspicious about the romantic dinner he had planned, and he was sure that he had ruined the surprise proposal he was preparing for later that night.

Any worry that you had caught onto his plan disappeared, though, when he saw the shocked shimmer in your eye as he knelt in front of you. It was immediately replaced with joy as you nodded, cutting him off with your adamant yes, yes, yes, and throwing yourself into his arms.

He was the one to remember to actually put the ring on your finger, adding it to the ever-growing collection of shiny gifts he was happy to keep giving you for the rest of your lives.

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3kockeleda · 15 days ago

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The Quiet Unraveling: Navigating Complacency, Consumerism, and the Search for Meaning in a Fractured World

Let’s begin with a confession: None of us are innocent here. We’re all tangled in the same messy web of contradictions—yearning for purpose while numbing ourselves with distractions, craving justice while clinging to comfort. This isn’t a condemnation; it’s an invitation to untangle the knots together. Because the truth is, the systems that suffocate us didn’t emerge in a vacuum. They grew from our collective fears, our exhaustion, and the very human desire to just make it through the day.

1. Complacency and Conformity: The Seduction of Safety

To understand complacency, we must first confront its seductive logic: Safety is not the absence of danger, but the illusion of control. We cling to routines, traditions, and systems not because we’re naive, but because the alternative—confronting the fragility of it all—feels paralyzing. Consider the factory worker clocking in for decades at a job that erodes their body, the student drowning in debt while chasing a degree they’re told will “guarantee stability,” or the parent who swallows their political disillusionment to avoid rocking the boat for their children. These aren’t failures of character; they’re rational responses to a world that punishes deviation.

Conformity is rarely about laziness—it’s about risk assessment. When the 2008 financial crisis wiped out pensions and homes, people didn’t suddenly rise up; they doubled down on “safe” choices. Why? Because rebellion is a luxury when you’re one missed paycheck from ruin. The gig economy epitomizes this: Workers accept exploitative conditions not because they lack ambition, but because algorithms dangle the carrot of “flexibility” while eroding labor rights. The message is clear: Play by the rules, or lose everything.

Even our language betrays this conditioning. We call nonconformists “idealists” or “radicals,” terms dripping with paternalism. Meanwhile, those who uphold the status quo are “practical” or “responsible.” This framing isn’t accidental—it’s cultural gaslighting. By equating compliance with maturity, systems ensure we police ourselves.

But safety is a mirage. For every person who “succeeds” by societal metrics, there are countless others crushed by the weight of unspoken compromises. Take the corporate ladder: Climbing it often demands silencing ethics (“Don’t ask about the offshore labor”), sacrificing health (“Sleep is for the weak”), and numbing creativity (“Follow the template”). We call this “success,” but it’s a pyrrhic victory—a life half-lived in exchange for a gold watch and a retirement plaque.

The toll isn’t just personal; it’s collective. Conformity sustains systems that harm us all. For example:

Environmental Collapse: We recycle dutifully while corporations lobby against climate policies, knowing our individual efforts are drops in an ocean of industrial waste.

Healthcare Inequity: Millions accept inadequate insurance plans because “that’s just how it is,” while pharmaceutical giants price-gouge life-saving medications.

Political Apathy: Voters settle for the “lesser evil” cycle after cycle, not because they’re apathetic, but because they’ve been conditioned to believe real change is impossible.

These aren’t signs of moral failure—they’re evidence of a rigged game. Systems thrive when we internalize their limitations as inevitabilities.

Breaking free doesn’t require grand gestures. It starts with questioning the stories we’ve been sold:

The Myth of Meritocracy: We’re told talent and grit guarantee success, yet study after study reveals wealth and connections matter most. Acknowledge this, and suddenly “laziness” looks more like exhaustion from running a race with no finish line.

The Cult of Busyness: Productivity culture equates self-worth with output. But what if we measured value in rest, creativity, or community care instead?

The Fear of “Otherness”: Conformity often masks a deeper fear—of being ostracized, of losing belonging. Yet some of history’s greatest shifts began with people who dared to be “weird”: LGBTQ+ activists, disability advocates, indigenous land defenders.

Resistance can be subtle:

A teacher who skirts standardized curricula to nurture critical thinking.

A nurse unionizing despite threats of retaliation.

A teenager rejecting hustle culture to prioritize mental health.

These acts aren’t glamorous, but they’re revolutionary because they reject the premise that this is all there is.

Complacency isn’t natural—it’s engineered. Consider:

Education Systems: Schools often prioritize obedience over curiosity, training students to memorize answers rather than ask questions.

Media Narratives: News cycles reduce complex issues to binaries (left vs. right, “woke” vs. “anti-woke”), discouraging nuance.

Corporate “Wellness”: Companies offer yoga classes and mindfulness apps to placate burnout—a Band-Aid on a bullet wound—while ignoring demands for living wages or humane hours.

To dismantle this, we must name the forces at play. For instance, the bystander effect—a psychological phenomenon where individuals are less likely to act in a crisis when others are present—explains why we tolerate societal rot. If everyone’s silent, we assume someone else will speak. But when one person steps forward, it cracks the illusion of consensus.

What if safety wasn’t about clinging to the familiar, but about building systems that actually protect us? Imagine:

Economic Safety: Universal healthcare, living wages, and affordable housing so survival isn’t a daily gamble.

Emotional Safety: Cultures that prioritize mental health over performative hustle.

Intellectual Safety: Spaces where questioning norms is encouraged, not punished.

This isn’t utopian—it’s pragmatic. Complacency persists because we’ve been convinced alternatives are unrealistic. But every workers’ rights law, environmental regulation, and social safety net began as a “radical” idea.

2. Consumerism and Distraction: The Double-Edged Comfort

Let’s be honest: We’ve all soothed ourselves with the dopamine hit of an online purchase or lost hours to the algorithmic abyss of TikTok. Consumerism isn’t some moral failing; it’s a rational response to alienation. Under late-stage capitalism, where work is precarious, communities are fractured, and futures feel foreclosed, consumption becomes a perverse form of therapy. That new pair of shoes isn’t just a product—it’s a fleeting antidote to existential dread. The problem isn’t that we crave comfort; it’s that the system offers no other language for healing.

Capitalism manufactures scarcity—not just of resources, but of meaning. It tells us we’re incomplete without the latest gadget, that self-worth is tied to productivity, and that connection can be bottled and sold as a “wellness retreat.” Consider:

Fast Fashion: We buy cheap clothes to fill voids, knowing they’re stitched by underpaid workers in sweatshops. The cycle isn’t ignorance; it’s despair dressed as distraction.

Planned Obsolescence: Phones die after two years, appliances break just past warranty—a deliberate design to keep us chasing replacements. We’re not consumers; we’re hostages.

Digital Escapism: Social media algorithms feed us rage and envy because conflict drives clicks. We doomscroll not because we’re addicted, but because the “real world” offers little refuge.

This isn’t a coincidence—it’s by design. Late-stage capitalism thrives on perpetual dissatisfaction. It can’t survive if we’re content, connected, or politically engaged. So it commodifies our loneliness, monetizes our anger, and sells us bandaids for bullet wounds.

Blaming individuals for overconsumption is like blaming a fish for drowning. The real issue isn’t personal excess; it’s a system that requires excess to function. Capitalism’s growth imperative demands we extract, produce, and discard at accelerating rates—even if it means burning the planet. Consider:

Advertising’s Psychological Warfare: Corporations spend billions to manipulate our insecurities, convincing us happiness is a product. Socialism asks: What if we redirected those resources to universal mental healthcare instead?

The Time Poverty Trap: Overworked, underpaid people have little energy to cook, create, or connect. No wonder we UberEats dinner and binge Netflix—we’re exhausted. Socialism argues for shorter workweeks and living wages so we can reclaim time for what matters.

The Myth of “Ethical Consumption”: Boycotts and reusable straws are Band-Aids on a hemorrhage. You can’t “vote with your dollar” when billionaires own the ballot box. Socialism rejects market-based solutions and demands systemic change: Why not dismantle the structures forcing us to choose between survival and ethics?

Consumerism isn’t just about stuff—it’s about stifling dissent. The more time we spend curating online personas or hunting discounts, the less we have to organize, dream, or demand better. Late capitalism turns us into micro-managers of our own oppression, too busy comparing Spotify Wrapped stats to notice our pensions evaporating.

But distraction also serves a darker purpose: It atomizes us. Social media replaces solidarity with individualism (“Here’s 10 self-care tips for surviving burnout!”), while gig apps pit workers against each other for scraps. The result? A fractured populace, too isolated to challenge the oligarchs hoarding wealth.

Socialism, in contrast, centers collective power. It asks: What if we redirected the energy spent on Black Friday stampedes toward housing cooperatives? What if viral trends promoted mutual aid instead of hyper-consumption? Movements like tenant unions, community land trusts, and worker-owned businesses offer blueprints—not just for surviving capitalism, but dismantling it.

Dismantling consumerism isn’t about austerity; it’s about abundance. Imagine:

Universal Basic Services: Free healthcare, education, transit, and housing. When survival isn’t tied to wages, consumption loses its coercive power.

Democratic Workplaces: Worker cooperatives where employees own profits and set hours. Imagine producing goods for utility, not shareholder profit—no planned obsolescence, no exploitative ads.

Cultural Shift: Public spaces that prioritize community over commerce—libraries, parks, free theaters. Art funded for expression, not clicks.

This isn’t a utopia. Spain’s Mondragon Corporation, a federation of worker co-ops, employs 80,000 people with equitable wages. Finland’s housing-first policy slashed homelessness by treating shelter as a right, not a commodity. These models prove that when people control resources, they prioritize sustainability over growth for growth’s sake.

The socialist project isn’t about depriving joy—it’s about redefining it. Late capitalism reduces human complexity to “consumer” or “laborer.” Socialism asks: What if we valued people as creators, caregivers, and collaborators?

This means:

Dismantling the Attention Economy: Tax predatory algorithms. Fund public media free from ads. Let creativity flourish without surveillance.

Embracing Degrowth: Prioritizing well-being over GDP. A four-day workweek isn’t radical—it’s a return to pre-industrial rhythms where life wasn’t monetized.

Cultivating Collective Joy: Block parties over shopping sprees. Skill-sharing networks over Amazon. Grief circles over retail therapy.

Consumerism is a symptom of a deeper sickness: a world that treats humans as inputs and outputs. Socialism, at its core, is about healing that rupture—not through moralizing, but through solidarity.

Yes, we’ll still crave comfort. But what if comfort looked like a community garden instead of a McMansion? Like guaranteed healthcare instead of a “retail therapy” splurge? Like knowing your labor benefits neighbors, not CEOs?

The path forward isn’t shame. It’s building systems where our needs are met, our time is our own, and our worth is untethered from what we buy. Dismantling capitalism isn’t about losing luxuries—it’s about gaining freedom.

After all, the most radical act of defiance isn’t burning a mall. It’s imagining a world where we no longer need one.

3. Social and Political Awareness: The Weight of Witnessing

To bear witness to history is to carry its ghosts. It demands we confront not only the brutality of oppression but also the fragility of progress. From the civil rights movement to LGBTQ+ liberation, every stride toward justice has been met with backlash, erasure, and revisionism. Yet within this tension lies a truth: Awareness is not passive—it is a battleground

Programs designed to teach racial history—like Holocaust education, slavery museums, or Indigenous truth commissions—are often hailed as societal reckonings. But too often, they sanitize the past to soothe the present. For example:

The U.S. Civil Rights Movement: School curricula reduce Dr. King to a pacifist caricature, scrubbing his critiques of capitalism and militarism. Meanwhile, figures like Malcolm X or the Black Panthers are framed as “radicals,” their demands for systemic change diluted into soundbites.

South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission: While it exposed apartheid’s horrors, it prioritized forgiveness over reparations, leaving economic apartheid intact.

These programs risk becoming performative pedagogy, offering catharsis without accountability. True historical awareness isn’t about guilt—it’s about tracing the fingerprints of oppression to their source: Who still holds power? Who profits from forgetting?

The LGBTQ+ rights movement has always been rooted in trans and queer resistance—but you wouldn’t know it from mainstream narratives. Consider:

Stonewall (1969): Marsha P. Johnson, a Black trans woman, and Sylvia Rivera, a Latina trans activist, were instrumental in the riots. Yet for decades, cisgender gay white men were centered in commemorations. Even today, states like Florida ban discussions of gender identity in schools, erasing trans contributions to history.

The AIDS Crisis: Trans activists like Miss Major Griffin-Gracy and organizations like ACT UP fought for healthcare and dignity while governments ignored the deaths of thousands. Their legacy is often reduced to a red ribbon, stripped of its radical fury.

Modern Backlash: Anti-trans laws weaponize historical amnesia, framing trans existence as a “new trend.” But trans people have always existed—from Indigenous Two-Spirit communities to 19th-century queer liberationists like Karl Heinrich Ulrichs.

There is no LGBTQ+ without the T and Q. To exclude trans and queer stories is to amputate the movement’s heart

History’s greatest leaps forward were born not from polite debate but from collective rage. Examples abound:

Stonewall Riots (1969): Sparked modern LGBTQ+ activism. The first Pride was a riot, not a parade.

Compton’s Cafeteria Riot (1966): Led by trans women and drag queens in San Francisco, predating Stonewall.

Black Lives Matter (2013–present): Global protests after George Floyd’s murder forced reckonings on policing, with Minneapolis pledging to dismantle its police department (though progress remains contested).

The Arab Spring (2010–2012): Toppled dictators but also revealed the cost of revolution—hope tempered by backlash.

Farmers’ Protests in India (2020–2021): Millions forced the repeal of corporate farming laws, proving people power can outmuscle neoliberalism.

ACT UP’s “Die-Ins” (1980s–90s): AIDS activists stormed the NIH and St. Patrick’s Cathedral, shaming institutions into action.

These movements weren’t “peaceful”—nor should they have been. Justice is rarely granted; it’s seized.

South Africa’s Anti-Apartheid Movement: International boycotts and domestic uprisings dismantled legal segregation—but economic apartheid persists.

Ireland’s Marriage Equality Referendum (2015): Grassroots campaigns, led by groups like Yes Equality, made Ireland the first country to legalize same-sex marriage by popular vote.

Argentina’s Gender Identity Law (2012): Trans activists won the world’s most progressive gender self-determination policy, including free healthcare.

Sudan’s 2019 Revolution: Women and queer youth frontlined protests that ousted dictator Omar al-Bashir, despite ongoing violence.

These movements share a thread: Those most marginalized—trans people, Black women, poor farmers—often lead the charge, only to be sidelined when victories are claimed.

The Fight Against Erasure: How to Honor (and Continue) the Work

Teach Intersectional History: Highlight figures like Bayard Rustin (a gay civil rights organizer) or Stormé DeLarverie (a Black lesbian who sparked Stonewall).

Fund Grassroots Archives: Support projects like the Transgender Archives at the University of Victoria or the African American History Museum.

Amplify Living Histories: Listen to movements like Stop Cop City (Atlanta) or Youth v. Apocalypse (climate justice).

Reject Respectability Politics: Celebrate the “unruly” — the rioters, the occupiers, the ones who refuse to be palatable.

Awareness is not a museum exhibit—it’s a call to action. Every right we have—from marriage equality to voting access—was wrested from the jaws of power by those deemed “too loud,” “too angry,” or “too radical.” The backlash we see today—anti-trans laws, voter suppression, historical bans—is not a sign of defeat. It’s proof the powerful fear our memory.

So remember: When they erase trans pioneers from textbooks, teach them. When they whitewash slavery, revolt. When they criminalize protest, organize. The weight of witnessing is heavy, but it is also a weapon. Wield it.

4. Breaking Free: The Messy Work of Awakening

Awakening is not a sudden epiphany but a slow, grinding unfurling—a reckoning with the layers of denial, distraction, and dissonance that shroud our lives. It begins in the quiet moments when the scripts we’ve been handed—work, consume, repeat—start to fray at the edges, revealing the hollow core beneath. The weight of complacency, once a familiar burden, becomes intolerable. The distractions that once numbed us—the endless scroll, the curated personas, the ritualized consumption—now feel like ill-fitting costumes. This is the ache of awakening: the visceral understanding that the safety we’ve clung to is a mirage, and the world we’ve accepted is a gilded cage.

The journey is fraught with psychological landmines. Cognitive dissonance erupts as we confront the chasm between our values and our actions. We’ve been conditioned to equate conformity with survival, to mistake busyness for purpose, and to rationalize injustice as inevitability. To question these narratives is to invite a storm of existential anxiety—What if I’m wrong? What if I lose everything? The fear is primal. Our brains, wired for pattern recognition and predictability, revolt against the uncertainty of change. We cling to the devil we know, even when it devours us. This is the paradox of awakening: To break free, we must first sit in the discomfort of knowing we’ve been complicit, that our silence funded systems we despise, that our distractions were collaborators in our own erasure.

Yet this pain is not punishment—it’s alchemy. It’s the friction required to transmute guilt into accountability, passivity into action. Consider the suffocating grip of consumerism, where every purchase is a tiny rebellion against emptiness. We’ve been taught to medicate loneliness with products, to substitute material accumulation for meaning. But awakening demands we ask: What am I truly hungry for? The answer is rarely a thing. It’s connection—to ourselves, to others, to a world beyond the transactional. It’s the longing to create rather than consume, to belong rather than perform. This shift is seismic. It requires rewiring neural pathways forged by decades of capitalist conditioning, where self-worth is tied to productivity and joy is commodified.

The process mirrors the collective struggles etched into history. The civil rights activists who faced fire hoses and jail cells, the LGBTQ+ pioneers who rioted at Stonewall, the Black Lives Matter protestors who turned grief into global mobilization—they too grappled with the terror of rupture. Their awakenings were not pristine moments of clarity but messy, iterative acts of courage. They carried the weight of knowing their fight might outlive them, that progress could be reversed, that erasure was a constant threat. Yet they chose to disrupt the trance, to risk their safety for a future they might never see. Their legacy is a testament to the unbearable cost of staying asleep—and the transformative power of refusing to look away.

Awakening, then, is both personal and collective. It’s the recognition that our individual liberation is bound to the liberation of others. The systems that profit from our complacency—the same ones that erase trans voices, exploit workers, and plunder the planet—rely on our isolation. They thrive when we internalize shame, when we believe our smallness is inevitable. But solidarity cracks this illusion. When we join movements like the Fight for $15 or the resistance against anti-trans legislation, we tap into a lineage of defiance that stretches from the suffragettes to Standing Rock. We realize our power is not in perfection but in persistence—in showing up, flawed and furious, to chip away at the edifice of oppression.

The path is neither linear nor guaranteed. There will be days when the pull of the old life is seductive, when the news cycle’s horrors tempt us to retreat into numbness. Awakening is not purity; it’s resilience. It’s the queer teen who survives conversion therapy and becomes an advocate, the burned-out worker who organizes a union despite retaliation, the privileged ally who confronts their own complicity and redistributes resources. It’s the understanding that every small act of resistance—a difficult conversation, a boycott, a vote—is a thread in the tapestry of change.

And here, in the marrow of the struggle, lies the redemption: Awakening gifts us our humanity. The numbness that once shielded us from pain also barred us from joy. The distractions that anesthetized us stifled our creativity. The conformity that promised safety suffocated our authenticity. To break free is to reclaim the full spectrum of being—to feel rage and hope, grief and solidarity, not as weaknesses, but as proof of aliveness. It’s to trade the shallow comfort of the status quo for the messy, magnificent work of building something new.

The road is long, and the dawn may seem distant. But history whispers to us: Every riot, every strike, every act of defiance mattered. They shifted the axis of the possible. Your awakening, however stumbling, is part of that lineage. It’s worth the fight—not because victory is guaranteed, but because the alternative is a life half-lived. The cage door was never locked. It only felt that way. Step out. Breathe. Join the chorus of those who refuse to let the world sleepwalk into ruin. The cost is everything. The reward is a world remade.

5. A Path Forward: Gentleness as Rebellion — And the Question That Haunts Us All

In a world that equates strength with domination and progress with relentless grind, gentleness is an act of defiance. It’s a refusal to replicate the cruelty of systems that demand we harden ourselves to survive. Gentleness is not passivity; it’s the quiet, radical work of tending to the fractures—in ourselves, in each other, in the brittle scaffolding of a society teetering on collapse. It’s the factory worker who carves out time to mentor a younger colleague despite the assembly line’s unrelenting pace. It’s the student drowning in debt who still shows up to a climate strike. It’s the exhausted parent who, instead of scrolling, asks their child, “What hurts?” and truly listens. These acts seem small against the roar of injustice, but they are the antidote to the poison of isolation that late-stage capitalism brews.

Gentleness threads through every struggle we’ve named: It’s the complacent worker who risks vulnerability to unionize, knowing retaliation looms. It’s the consumer who opts out of Black Friday to repair a frayed friendship. It’s the activist who trades performative outrage for patient community-building. It’s the awakened soul who forgives their own complicity long enough to keep fighting. This is how we dismantle the myth that change requires heroes. It doesn’t. It requires humans—messy, tender, persistent—who refuse to let the world’s callousness become their own.

History’s loudest revolutions were born from gentleness disguised as ferocity. The Black Lives Matter marchers who handed out water and masks amid tear gas. The AIDS caregivers who held the dying when governments looked away. The LGBTQ+ elders who offered spare couches to queer kids cast out by families. These were not just acts of resistance; they were acts of love, a word too often sanitized into meaninglessness. Real love is inconvenient. It demands we redistribute resources, dismantle hierarchies, and prioritize care over growth. It means seeing the migrant detained at the border, the trans teen disowned by relatives, the overworked single parent, and whispering: “Your struggle is mine.”

But love alone is not enough. Gentleness must be coupled with the unflinching question that Martin Niemöller etched into history’s conscience:

First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Communist... Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak out.

Today, the “they” is not a faceless regime but the logic of disposability that lurks in all of us. It’s the algorithms that dehumanize Palestinians as collateral, the lawmakers who erase trans lives from textbooks, the corporations that sacrifice Indigenous land for lithium mines. Every time we look away—because the news is too heavy, the guilt too sharp, the risk too great—we rehearse Niemöller’s lament.

So I leave you with this: When the algorithms scrub marginalized voices from platforms, when the laws criminalize protest, when the climate crisis swallows the Global South first—who will you fight for? And when the gears of greed and bigotry finally grind toward your door, who will be left to fight for you?

The answer lies in the gentleness we cultivate now. In the connections we nurture, the stories we preserve, the solidarity we practice before the storm arrives. Revolutions are not won in the streets alone. They’re won in the moments we choose tenderness over apathy, courage over comfort, and collective survival over solitary survival.

When they come for you—and they will—who will speak? Will it be anyone at all?

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ihatechosingnames · 2 months ago

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A few days ago, while I was walking back home from work, I started daydreaming and at one point I had a potential fanfic in the Batman fandom.

It all started with the death of the Joker by the hands of a very angry and tired and devastated civilian.

I went through a minimal backstory for this man, a retired army/navy man, who tragically lost his entire family (wife, daughter, son in law and two grandchildren) to the Joker in some sort of stupid game with the Bat (like you have tot minutes to choose who to save but the Joker is cheating and they all die) and since he already lost everything, why not making sure his family's killer tots in hell.

And I argued against myself about why it should be a civilian, a nameless one, to do the deed.

Batman cannot kill the Joker, because by doing it he stops being Batman. In UTRH he says "if I start, I will never stop" and it's kind of a disservice to the human and caring side of Bruce (which we are seeing less and less through the years) who wanted to help and care and believed about the sacrality of life (every life is precious). That man will break if he kills someone even by accident. In UTRH he sounds more like someone who is one murder away from becoming the worst serial killer in US. What the fuck. And instead of turning away from a life where the choice to kill or not is dangling in front of his life every single time, he keeps dressing up as a bat because through violence they can resolve their inner issues.

Nightwing is another one that cannot kill the Joker. First, he already did that, it's time for another to take his turn. Secondly, he is so much like Bruce but without being all dark that for him it will be twice as hard to accept that he did something like that. Yes, when he killed the Joker he was angry, he wasn't pulling his punches and the Joker kept goading him with Jason's and Tim's (supposed) death by his hands. He was devastated by Jason's death (in a more visible way than Bruce's) and the mix with grief, hate, regret and despair, knowing that another Robin died by Joker's hands again, made him snap. That will probably make him the most sympathetic to the story of the civilian who shot the Joker. Because once upon a time, for a brief moment, he felt the same fury and grief and hate against the Joker.

Jason, in my opinion, shouldn't be the one to kill the Joker. He was killed by the Joker, it's not on him to find justice or to enact revenge on him. And it also seems that half of the time, when he isn't thinking about being the Better Batman that Gotham needs, he is probably thinking that he is back from death only to get revenge on the Joker. If he kills him and survives good, if he kills him and he dies, I don't see Jason fighting to stay alive. His first plan in UTRH was prepped that or only two would walk out or none of them. It wasn't just "kill the Joker yourself or let me kill him" plus "if you want to save the Joker you have to kill me", Jason had prepared plenty of explosives to go all out. That was a test for Bruce, but also a moment of truth for Jason (please choose me) and Jason, for all his plans to be the Better Batman, to seize the criminal empire, he was more than ready to explode alongside the Joker and Batman if it was required. If this behaviour isn't slightly suicidal, I don't know. That's why I think that seeing the Joker dead by the hands of someone who did it to take revenge for his family, it's going to give a breakdown to Jason. And the brain, to metabolize that right now the only reason Jason is alive, his revenge, is dead (and it wasn't even Bruce), needs time to think so he checks out. He needs to find some other reason to explain why Jason is back from death and is still alive. Could it be able to send Jason in a dissociative state where he is still functional but also "no one is here"? I don't have a degree in psychology, but definitely will study more on the matter. It's very likely that some sort of revaluation for the brain will translate in a breakdown with lashing out.

And back to the mystery civilian I was debating around how he will be able to kill the Joker:

1. he waits until the Joker escapes again and just shoots him and then he goes to the police to get a death by cop kind of suicide.

2. it's a more collective effort since he is not the only one who lost someone to the Joker and so we have a group of civilians that all helped the mystery man to do the deed, by either helping the Joker escapes or helping the guy infiltrate Arkham and shoot the Joker in his own cell. And then he shoots himself.

Either way I don't see him alive, he already lost everything important, he lived his life and he did his job. Now, the only thing missing is going back to his family.

But what I actually wanted to focus on the fanfic, because this is just the context, is the argument that will follow between the vigilantes. How their own personal beliefs and experiences should actually weight in this matter. Who they are to judge someone. And there will be some judging.

Because Bruce will never believe that just some civilian wanted to shoot the Joker. He is so paranoid that he will not believe that it was simple for revenge. There must be a plan or something like that.

Meanwhile Jason wants to go and scream somewhere, far away from Bruce and the stupid case. And it's clear that Bruce is thinking that Jason is behind this because, in his mind, no one wants the Joker dead like Jason (there is actually a line).

#jason todd #batman #red hood #bruce wayne #dc #dick grayson #jason todd meta #maybe i will write it #needs only time and will to do it #it's a tiny bruce wayne meta #which is like the tip of the iceberg #this man has so much unresolved issues with death in general that it's affecting all of his relationships #someone else who will have trouble to accept something like that is cass #even though she nay be more sympathetic to the pain and pure grief lf the man #it wasn't a sadistic death #just literally a bullet in the head in the most cold but also grieving way

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icyfox17 · 6 months ago

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Im at a palace rn (yayayay it's so cool) and the actual castle is closed till 12 so im exploring the gardens (plural. There are so many of them) and i cant stop thinking about royalty 911 au with king and queen bathena and smol prince buck growing up running around on the castle grounds and hiding from his whatever babysitters back then were called LMAOO

The squires or whatever theyre called being like ur majesty im sorry we cant find him

And bobby Sighing and going to the gardens himself, knowing exactly where buck has run off to to hide (secret garden that only bobby and athena and like the closest guard to them know about) and finding buck whos not even trying to hide, hes distracted by making a giant pile out of the fallen leaves that he plans to jump onto, and he just watches buck for awhile, content to see his little boy having fun (hes a Softie) and eventually buck turns to him and is like "daddy look!!!" and shows him the giant pile and gives bobby puppy eyes and so bobby sighs and picks up buck and throws him onto the pile (gently) and buck laughs and asks for him to do it again and bobby listens but eventually they need to go back to the castle lest athena send a search party for them bc they have dinner soon and the two of them need to clean up before it and so he picks buck up with a swing, making buck giggle as his stomach drops, and then after walking with buck dangling over his shoulder for a bit, he readjust and places him properly sitting on his shoulders andd i justttyyjfjdjdjfjd sosbsisbsodbdjdb

Smol!buck running ahead in one of the many castle mazes being like I GOT THIS and ignoring bobbys calls to slow down and then getting lost and scared and crying until bobby finds him and picks him up in a tight hug and ensuring buck that no matter what, he'll always come to find him, he'll always find his way back to him shfdohsfndkbs sosbsosbsodbdjshfjf

And ofc when buck grows up you could have knight eddie from another kingdom whos retiring from being like in the Guard after the last battle (yknow like him being an ex soldier yayayayaya) but he doesnt want to stay retired and one of his higher ups knows that bobbys been looking for a personal knight (bodyguard) for his son whos been refusing every candidate ever, insisting he doesnt need one (ignore the threats theyve been getting from other kingdoms as tension and war is breeding) and eddies unsure but Holy Shit the pay and benefits are amazing his son will be able to be taken care of better than he could here and so he takes the gig and enemies to lovers buddie guys ddo u hear me

#Copying and pasting from the discord bc i need to share the thoughts grgrggr #i searched up royalty au on ao3 after and am Delighted to know that they do exist so i will be reading those tonight on the train #but fucjfjdjdjfjd buck and bobby make me SICK 😭😭😭#im not okay #foxie rambles #au rambles #911 royalty au #bobby nash is buck's dad #bobby nash #Athena grant nash #bathena #eddie diaz #buddie #prince!buck #knight!eddie #beloveds #foxie writes #athena grant and bobby nash are evan buckleys parents #evan buck buckley #evan buckley #911 abc #buck getting secret knight training lessons from chimney or tommy or someone before eddie even arrives #so eddie thinks like bucks gonna be some helpless spoiled prince and buck just immediately kicks his ass lol #u can either have buck hide rhe lessons from bobby or just have bobby still be like “it's not enough!! u still need a bodyguard”#rahshshs

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cringefaecompilation · 20 days ago

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something of note regarding ludinus’ fate in campaign 3 and the previous post about more privileged members of fandom (and canon material) watering the term “war criminal” or downplaying genocidal tendencies for the sake of jokes… trent ikithon’s fate, comparatively. let’s compare what they are best known for and their stories overall.

ludinus isn’t woobified as much as people complain he was at the end, but there is still a noticeable disconnect between his actions and what we’re supposed to feel for him. we see him abuse liliana in the most misogynistic way, witness him scapegoat the ruidian people to the point where bell’s hells finds dozens of dead ruidusborns locked in cages as a threat in vasselheim, and pretty much everything that began the war against the kryn in campaign 2 because he saw them as inferior monsters dangling dangerously over everything he does and his ideals. but you know the gods were shitty to him when he was little, so when they are gone then i guess he (or his clone to be precise) magically stops being a fascist and is able to improve himself?

meanwhile trent has zero backstory and zero redeeming qualities and the moment he’s out of jail he laser-focuses on one person and specifically goes out of his way to turbo-traumatize caleb as revenge. his primary crime is making various xemnian children’s teendoms a living hell. logically we can assume he still benefits from the overall fascism that ludinus introduced into the empire, but for the most part he’s just a child abuser. i wouldn't want an entire novel explaining trent's backstory in detail, but it's noticeable.

i am in no way attempting to downplay child abuse or to act as if it is something that is only a problem experienced by children in the global north. but the fact that this is simply seen as eviler because the average white american cannot grasp the sheer magnitude of losing their entire culture or being at war over your culture being seen as “not as bad” or “not as relatable”. add on trent ikithon also being fantasy racist in a way that’s so wooden and blatant as to not let anyone examine their own biases (of course a child abuser trains his lackeys to be casually dismissive of goblins and firbolgs!) and trent ends up being completely irredeemable monster that deserves to get jammed inside an egg after turning into a kaiju.

this is why the most popular ludinus criticisms/hate tends to fall flat for me, incidentally. it isn’t focused on his actions in c2 aside from them affecting the players and essek, nor does it focus on how his actions single-handedly could have led to the entire ruidusborn populace of exandria being hunted to extinction. all that matters is that he specifically went out of his way to harm keyleth and orym. less popular are those who complain he ruined imogen and fearne’s lives over his own petty wants and desires. the only time genocide or racism is brought up with him is his hatred of the gods which is treated as him being a whiny alt-righter blaming problems that don’t actually exist; another criticism/hate that falls flat because it refuses to take his rhetoric and behavior seriously or examine what could have brought him here.

a similar thing (and if you’ll pardon the usage of a long-disgraced author’s work) occurred with dolores umbridge and voldemort. you’ll see dozens upon dozens of online listicles and fandom debate insisting that voldemort “wasn’t as bad” as miss umbridge because she was a more personal evil to them as an abusive teacher who treated children awfully and used her position of power to bully people with less power than her. as if it’s fully impossible to imagine a child whose childhood was obliterated by the rise of fascism and someone seeing them and everyone like them inherently undesirable.

so maybe it is emblematic that ludinus gets to retire peacefully and away from society while the people he forced into following through with his plans get to face the full brunt of the blame if anything goes awry in the future. after all, that’s how it happens in real life. let’s wholly blame bell’s hells and force them suffer by both the world at large and fandom for “selfishly destroying the pantheon’s culture” and ignore the person that brought them here. they ignored what radicalized ludinus into fascism, after all.

maybe it’s fitting that his final outcome is described as his cottagecore fantasy given the amount of well-levied criticisms of it supporting colonial homesteading. maybe a better world and a “safe space for everyone” aren’t one and the same. maybe it’s possible to be harmed by society and not become a raging spoiled fascist.

imagine that.

#🍃#critical role #critrole #cr negative #trent ikithon #ludinus da'leth #HELLO CR TAG. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE MY ESSAY ON THE PARADOX OF TOLERANCE

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ezraholmes · 7 months ago

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pirate!schlatt x crew!nurse!reader

prologue

welcome to the beginning of whatever this turns out to be!! I have plans, weather I complete them only time will tell.

this part is a bit of background, its set when both characters are younger, around 14 in my head.

word count: 639

cw: mention of injury, twink schlatt ig?

You are obliged to let me know if you find mistakes :)

“Mind yer head” a voice called from atop a stack of barrels, you ducked as a mast swung round, narrowly missing you. The hubbub of the dock surrounded you, nose filled with the salty smell of the ocean and the sweet yet pungent smell of rum waiting to be loaded onto the awaiting ships. The hustle and bustle of the people going about their business in contrast with the seemingly quiet expanse of the ramshackle housing the island offered, the early morning sun just starting to cast its rays upon the rooftops. Carefully navigating the gangplanks and boardwalks you made it over to where a young boy was perched, legs dangling above the golden cast water, light brown hair cut short to avoid distractions, swooped to one side with copious amounts of macassar oil, brown eyes glinting in the light as he gazed out at the ever lapping waves. You joined him, carefully positioning yourself to avoid falling into the salty abyss below. He turned, giving you a once over with his eyes, acknowledging the tight corset that hugged your figure tighter than you would like and the voluminous skirt that your housemaids helped you put on before you left this morning. He gave you a friendly nod and turned back to the ocean, clearly troubled by something outside the usual. ‘Jay?’ the tone in your voice made it clear to him that you read right through him. He was your only friend on this lonely island and you his. Jonathan Schlatt, the boy who came investigating the new addition to the village, found you sitting on the side as all your belongings were unloaded off of your father's ship, watching quietly as they dropped your heavy boxes and scrambled your book collections. He sat by you, he showed you around the village, he taught you the basics of sword combat, he showed you excitedly when his father allowed him his first pistol, he was your friend, you could tell when something was up. ‘My father is setting sail again.’ Captain Schlatt, a formidable pirate forced into retirement by a horrific injury, now boasts a nasty scar across his face and a wooden leg. Your face clearly showed how surprised you were as Jonathan expanded further. ‘He spoke to your father and he thinks my dads recovered enough to be considered ocean-worthy. He took the news and immediately gathered together a crew, we set sail this afternoon.’ you took a second to process what he said then turned to face him, ‘we? You're leaving?’ he didn't want to have to tell you, he didn't want to say goodbye. He nodded sadly, avoiding eye contact and focusing instead on the bit of driftwood that floated beneath the makeshift pier. You would rather go with him than try to survive the pirate town without your friend, risking the perils of the sea instead of countless days spent alone. Just the thought of life continuing without Jonathan was enough to set your mind. ‘I'm coming with you, I will sneak on board once we are far enough away that they're not gonna bother taking me back, I'm learning medicine. I could be helpful.’ the string of words left your mouth so quickly you were surprised your friend even managed to keep up. He wanted it to work, you wanted it to work. Maybe the determination of a child is all you need to make it work.

That may be what led to a few hours later being concealed within a barrel beneath the deck, surrounded by the few items you could fit with you in your tight spot. You could hear the commotion up on deck as the crew worked to depart the docks, the occasional yell of goodbye of family being left behind. Now you suppose you wait to be found.

Ty for reading the prologue, I hope yall are just as excited as I am!!!!! Please reblog anf leave comments letting me know your thoughts so I can gage more opinions on my work and the story so far!!!

#schlatt x reader #jschlatt x reader #pirate!schlatt x crew!nurse!reader #ezraholmes #my fic #fan fic #Jschlatt #pirate!schlatt #prologue #please lmk your thoughts!!!#A pirates life for us #Ezraholmes writes

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yuujispinkhair · 2 years ago

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Separation Anxiety (Chapter 05)

Put your lips on my scars and teach me to love

When a ritual separates Sukuna from Yuuji, Sukuna is delighted to find that besides having his own body, there is also another gift handed to him: The brat has lost all his memories and is now the perfect little plaything to take home and manipulate. At least, that's the plan. But the King of Curses isn't prepared for the feelings that come along with being human again. And another complication is how cute the brat is when he has no idea who Sukuna is and, instead of hating him, treats him with genuine love and affection. So, without realizing it, Sukuna suddenly finds himself on a journey of learning how to be loved and how to love.

++ Masterpost ++

Pairing: Sukuna x Yuuji Genre: Memory Loss AU, fluff, smut, light angst Word Count: 4k Playlist: Separation Anxiety Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of violence, dub-con (Yuuji has lost his memories, and Sukuna lies to him about being boyfriends). All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

Chapter 05

This could be perfection. A venom dripping in your mouth. Singing like a siren. Love me while your wrists are bound. (Siren by Kailee Morgue)

Breakfast doesn't go the way Sukuna imagined it would. The brat sits across from him in a white shirt and grey sweatpants, looking uncomfortable and tense.

Sukuna watches him over the rim of his tea cup. What is the problem? He thought they had a good start to the day. The boy was literally drooling on him and checking him out, and his body unmistakably reacted in all the right ways to Sukuna's closeness. Hell, the brat had even cuddled him! So why is he acting so tense now?

Sukuna narrows his eyes. Itadori isn't even looking at him! A fact that makes anger surge through Sukuna. He follows the boy's gaze only to realize that, once again, his attention is on Uraume, who is standing next to the table, watching the brat with a stoic expression.

What is going on? Sukuna already explained who Uraume is and what their position is in this household. Why are they still so fascinating to the brat?

At that moment, Itadori sighs and gets up from his chair to walk to the large fridge. But before he can open it, Uraume steps in the way.

"Please sit down again, Master Yuuji. It's my job to serve you breakfast."

The boy blinks,

"Huh? I just want to check what we have in the fridge."

"Just tell me what you like to have, and I will get it for you. No need to do it yourself."

"Um, but... I don't even know what I want. I just want to have a look."

Uraume shakes their head, refusing to step out of the way.

"I can tell you what is in the fridge and then prepare a meal for you."

But the brat doesn't budge, either.

"But that's not what I mean! I just want to see what we have and see if I crave something! Get out of my way, please. Is it forbidden to open the fridge in my own house?!"

Sukuna watches in amusement. Oh, the brat is growing truly frustrated now. He stares Uraume down, towering over them, tall and strong. That stubborn fire is in his golden eyes again. It makes desire stir in Sukuna's stomach. He always likes when the brat gets angry.

Before his servant can retort anything, the boy quickly steps past them, too fast for Uraume to stop him, and yanks open the fridge.

Sukuna grins into his tea as he watches Uraume glare at the boy while Itadori grabs a container with strawberry milk.

The brat hoists himself up on the kitchen counter, sending Uraume a triumphant gaze. He tilts his head back and starts drinking the strawberry milk right out of the container while his feet dangle carelessly against the counter. But he still seems uneasy, constantly casting glances in Uraume's direction.

Sukuna can practically feel the tension in the room. He cannot have that. He cannot let Uraume ruin all of Sukuna's progress with the brat!

"Uraume, Master Yuuji and I are fine now. You can retire to your quarters. If we need anything, we will summon you."

Sukuna dismisses his servant with a wave of his hand. Uraume bows deeply, following Sukuna's order, their stoic expression not giving away if they are irritated by their Master's words.

Sukuna waits until Uraume has left before he gets up and strolls over to where Itadori is sitting on the kitchen counter.

He stops in front of the boy and grins at him while he points at the strawberry milk in his hand,

"Is it good?"

Itadori smiles at him and nods,

"Yeah, it's great."

He scrunches his nose and cocks his head, adding softly,

"Thank you for sending Uraume away. Is it horrible when I say I feel like I can finally breathe again when they aren't here?"

Sukuna laughs softly and shakes his head,

"It's fine. I noticed that you seem a bit tense when Uraume is around."

"Yeah, I don't like that they always stare at me. It's a bit creepy. Makes me wonder, did we get along before my accident? I feel like they don't like me very much."

Sukuna has to give the brat this. As dumb as he seems, he has a certain intelligence when it comes to reading people. Except for him, of course. The brat has no clue what is going on in Sukuna's head. But he is definitely right regarding his judgment of Uraume's feelings toward him. Sukuna has noticed the same.

Uraume's stance towards Itadori seems hostile. It's not surprising, though. Sukuna has seen the same thing happen in his former life. Uraume acted like that anytime someone tried to get close to Sukuna. His loyal servant never liked having other people try to invade Sukuna's life.

Maybe it is a form of jealousy. Uraume seems to be rather possessive of their Master. It's ridiculous, of course. As if they could ever be worthy of claiming Sukuna as their own.

But in the past, Sukuna chose to ignore that behavior. He liked Uraume's cooking and how devoted they were to serving him, so he let them stay without addressing their behavior. Maybe now things will have to change, though. Uraume will have to get used to Itadori staying with them. Maybe it's time that Sukuna puts them in their place.

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles at the brat,

"Uraume has been with me for many years. They can be quite overprotective. It's hard for them to accept someone by my side. It got worse when you had your accident. I was very distraught, obviously, and that affected Uraume too. But I will talk to them. Don't worry, darling."

The tension still hasn't left the brat's posture, though. Sukuna feels inclined to do more. He wants to erase those bad vibes from the kitchen. He wants to fix what Uraume ruined. He can't let the brat slip through his fingers again. And so he leans closer to the boy, cupping his cheek and stroking it with his thumb. His voice is low, almost a whisper,

"You are the man by my side, Yuuji. The most important person to me. I will do anything to make you feel comfortable again here in your home. Tell me if something isn't to your liking, and I will change it. Anything to let my darling feel at home again."

He has to suppress a laugh. He sounds like the main love interest in one of the brat's tv dramas. It feels weird to hear those words coming out of his mouth. But he can see that it's working. Itadori's gaze softens, and he leans into Sukuna's touch, smiling gratefully at him.

"Thank you."

The brat's gaze meets his. His eyes look shiny from tears gathering there, overcome by emotions. Sukuna can't help but smile, filled with pride that his little speech had the desired effect.

"Sukuna?"

"Yes?"

The boy lets out a shaky sigh. His golden eyes look deeply into Sukuna's while he continues softly,

"I'm so lucky to have you. Thank you for taking care of me. I don't remember you or our relationship, and that makes me feel very bad, but I'm really glad that I am dating someone who stayed with me through all of this. Through the accident and the memory loss. It must be so hard for you to see me like this without any memory of you or our time together. Thank you for not giving up on me."

He reaches out, and his fingers twist in the front of Sukuna's shirt. And then he tugs on it, catching Sukuna off guard.

Sukuna gets pulled closer until he is standing between Itadori's thighs. So close that their faces are only inches apart, gazes still locked. He watches the brat cautiously, surprised by his sudden boldness. What is he up to? Is this the boy's way of saying thank you?

Sukuna's heart rate has increased. Excitement flows through his veins, warm and wild, as he waits for Itadori to take the next step. It's hard to hold back, even for someone as controlled as Sukuna. He wants to close the remaining distance between them, wants to stake his claim, wants to bite and bruise.

The brat is such a big temptation. But Sukuna knows it will be worth it if he waits and lets Itadori come to him. The thought of seeing the brat willingly give himself to Sukuna is even sweeter than taking him by force. And so he waits, breath coming out in excited huffs.

Itadori's eyes close slowly, long black eyelashes fanning out sensually over his tan cheeks. He grabs Sukuna's shirt even tighter, making his fingers dance over Sukuna's pecs through the thin fabric. And then the brat leans closer.

Soft, warm lips brush over Sukuna's.

It's a tentative kiss, shy, tasting like strawberry milk and innocence. But it stirs a raging fire deep inside Sukuna, setting it ablaze in a mere second, burning hot and all-consuming.

There is no holding back anymore. Sukuna's hands dart out to cup the brat's jaw, his fingernails digging into Itadori's neck as Sukuna presses himself against him and opens his mouth to claim what's his.

Sukuna kisses him savagely, hard, as if trying to devour the brat. He pries Itadori's lips open with his tongue and licks into the warm wet softness of his mouth like a starving man.

Maybe he really is starved. Maybe that is what being locked away for a thousand years does to you. A thousand years in which he could only experience secondhand emotions through his vessel but never the real thing.

Or maybe it is because this is the brat. Sukuna's former vessel. The cage that held him captive. And this kiss proves that their roles are reversed now. Sukuna is the captor, and the brat unknowingly signs his demise with this kiss.

Itadori is taken by surprise by Sukuna's passion. A gasp escapes his lips, which gets lost on Sukuna's tongue. But the brat is brave. There is only the slightest hesitation before he moves his lips more firmly against Sukuna's.

His tongue licks clumsily into Sukuna's mouth, too fast and out of sync. A pathetic attempt at matching Sukuna's skillful kiss. Almost as if the brat never did this before.

Because he really never did this before.

Sukuna bites the brat's bottom lip as a low growl escapes his mouth.

He wants to laugh at the sudden realization. He wants to throw his head back and laugh in the brat's face and taunt him. This is the brat's first kiss! It's so pathetic!

But he should have known. He has been with Itadori for years. He has watched his every move. He has seen the brat and Fushiguro tip-toeing around each other. Obviously, both wanting more than friendship, but neither acting upon it. He has seen random girls in the street chat the brat up, obviously attracted to him, eying his tall, muscular figure and handsome face, batting their eyelashes at him, and trying to get his number. But he had turned them all down with a polite excuse and a sweet smile.

Sukuna had called him an idiot for not taking his chance to fuck. Had made fun of him about being too scared to get laid.

But he had known the real explanation. He had known that he was the reason. And it had filled him with the utmost gleeful delight.

All this time, the brat held back and denied himself all the joys of carnal desire because of him. Because he was always worried about being a danger to others. Because Sukuna was in his soul, in his body, always just one loss of control away from taking over and wreaking destruction on the world.

And that's why the brat never tried to date or find a casual fuck.

Because ever since that fateful day when he swallowed that first finger, he never was his own person again. He always came as a packaged deal which included Sukuna. And the brat didn't want to expose anyone to this potential danger. It was all because of Sukuna!

But Sukuna hadn't been aware that even before they shared a body, the brat hadn't kissed anyone.

This makes things even more erotic. Sukuna sighs into the brat's mouth, filled with satisfaction and pride.

He can see it now. It was always meant to be like this. That the brat would give his first kiss to Sukuna and no one else. That the only one to touch him would be the one he was made for.

It feels right in every way.

The brat makes a soft noise in the back of his throat as he tilts his head back and opens his mouth further to let Sukuna deepen the kiss. Such a sweet little thing. So eager to get claimed by his rightful owner.

Itadori's hands twist in Sukuna's shirt, so much that Sukuna thinks he will rip the fabric, clinging tightly to him while his lips and tongue move against Sukuna's.

Sukuna smirks into the kiss. This is what he wanted. To ravish the boy. To take everything from him and make him his little plaything. And the brat is so easy to manipulate. He kisses Sukuna back with growing urgency.

Sukuna groans softly. He doesn't know whether it's the thrill of finding out he's currently taking Itadori's first kiss or if it is the way the brat is kissing him. But something about this kiss makes his head spin. The brat is caressing Sukuna's tongue with his, hungry, needy, full of desire. He is a fast learner, already getting good at it. So eager to please and so starved for affection.

Cute.

When they part, the brat's lips are red and swollen, eyes glazed over, and an excited blush makes his cheeks glow. He looks sinful. Debauched. Like an angel that got corrupted by the devil.

Sukuna brims with pride.

He caresses the boy's cheeks, smiling at him. Golden eyes meet his gaze, and a matching smile spreads over the brat's face. "Wow... is it always like that between us?"

He sounds dazed, astounded. Making Sukuna laugh softly and lean closer to kiss the brat's cheek right next to his ear. He lets his lips linger there and whispers in a low, seductive voice,

"Why don't you find out, baby?"

After the kiss in the kitchen, Sukuna finds that the brat is more relaxed around him. He is almost a bit clingy with how he follows Sukuna around like a lost little puppy for the rest of the day, bombarding him with a thousand questions.

"How have we met?"

"You ate something that belonged to me."

"Huh? Did they mix up our orders at a restaurant?"

"Yes, something like that."

"Why do I have no tattoos?"

"You can have one, too, if you want."

"Where is my phone?"

"It got destroyed during the accident."

"Do we have friends?"

"My job doesn't allow it."

"What are my hobbies? Do we do stuff together?"

"Watching movies, working out, and cooking. We do everything together, darling."

"Which pet names do I use for you?"

That question makes Sukuna falter for a second. No one has ever called him by a pet name. It would have been an insult to him. No one would have dared. But he catches himself quickly and grins at the boy,

"Just try what feels right. I'm sure you'll find something again."

The brat cocks his head thoughtfully, watching him with those big golden eyes.

"Ok, Sukuna...um... I mean... Kuna, maybe? Oh, that sounds cute! I'll call you that!"

Sukuna cringes inwardly, but his lips lift in a benevolent smile and he nods. The blush staining the brat's cheeks is worth getting called pathetic endearments.

The brat is almost too at ease around him. They barely settled into their bed for the night when the boy rolls over onto his side and scoots closer to Sukuna until his back is pressed against Sukuna's chest, wordlessly asking for more body contact.

But Sukuna won't complain. These are the fruits of his labor. His plan is working perfectly. And so he wraps his arms around the brat and presses a soft kiss to his neck, wishing him a good night, reveling in the knowledge that the brat trusts him. That this stupid boy will happily sleep in his arms, unaware of the true nature of the man holding him.

"Did the doctors say anything about sports? I kinda feel trapped inside here. I know I'm supposed to rest, but I feel fine, really! Can we maybe go down to the park and go for a run? Or at least a walk? Please, Sukuna?"

Big golden eyes blink at Sukuna. The brat looks pathetic when he is pouting like that, begging Sukuna to please take him outside, like a dog. Ridiculous!

But Sukuna can see why that pouty expression worked on everyone else the brat used it on. On that blond guy in the business suit, Nanami. And, of course, on Fushiguro, who would have done anything for Itadori anyways. It even worked on that annoying white-haired teacher. They all ate out of Itadori's hand when he got all big-eyed and whiny. Admittedly, he looks pretty cute like that. Submissive and sweet. No wonder he had them all wrapped around his little finger in no time at all.

If you are prone to fall for things like that. Sukuna isn't one of those fools. But he thinks it's better to give in and take the brat to the park before he gets suspicious. And, after all, the prospect of going outside sounds tempting to Sukuna too. He, too, feels like a tiger trapped in a cage.

And so he smiles and ruffles soft pink hair,

"Get your jacket, darling. We're going for a stroll in the park."

It feels good to feel the soft breeze on his skin and smell the fragrance of the city. The small park is well-kept and relatively quiet. The few people they encounter all keep their distance. Maybe they subconsciously notice that something isn't quite right with the two pink-haired men coming their way. Or maybe they are scared by the tattoos on Sukuna's face. Regardless of what it is, they step to the side as if making room for the King to walk. Just like everyone did in Sukuna's past life.

Sukuna smirks contentedly. Some things never change. He is used to inspiring awe and making people and curses crawl at his feet.

One of the rare exceptions used to be Itadori. He was always rebelling against him, always being an unruly brat. But things have changed. The boy doesn't fight him anymore. Instead, he giggles as he looks at Sukuna,

"Aww, wait a moment, Kuna! You have something there..."

He leans closer and reaches out to brush some cherry blossoms off Sukuna's hair, chuckling softly as his golden eyes meet Sukuna's. His cheeks are flushed from the fresh breeze or maybe from being so close to Sukuna.

His fingers are gentle when they run through Sukuna's hair. Strong hands that are blessed with superhuman strength, and yet their touch is so careful.

It's a gesture so tender and intimate that it makes Sukuna frown. It's beyond him how naive the brat is. How can he be this casually intimate with someone he can't remember? How can he let his guard down like that and just give himself to someone? How can he show such honest affection toward someone he practically doesn't know?

It baffles Sukuna. But of course, he plays his role and thanks the brat, smiling at him and reaching out to trail a hand down the boy's back, steering him along as they continue their walk through the small park.

The brat's hand brushes against Sukuna's, and he interlaces their fingers, unknowingly holding hands with the King of Curses.

Little fool.

But Itadori doesn't pull away again. Instead, he tugs on Sukuna's hand and pulls him along, accelerating his steps as they near the small shrine, which is standing prettily on a small hill surrounded by cherry trees in full bloom.

It makes Sukuna think of a time long gone. He is hit by a sudden rush of memories. He can almost smell the incense Uraume used to burn. Can almost hear the soft murmur of the young monks who studied in Sukuna's temple before his enemies came to drive them all away.

For a moment, Sukuna feels almost nostalgic for this time before things got out of hand. A time when he was still human. A time when he was just the Master of a Buddhist temple, trying to spread this new religion in his country and practicing his powerful sorcery in an attempt to make his region prosper. A time before he had to constantly fight. A time before he was forced to die so he could be reborn more powerful again as the monster that would be known as Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses.

He hears Itadori's bright laughter and turns his head to see the boy standing amidst a rain of cherry blossoms blowing in the light breeze flowing through the trees. They drift down almost in slow motion, almost as if they are made of magic. Pink petals land on cherry-blossom-colored hair before a pastel blue sky and a red shrine.

And just like that, reality shifts for a moment, fantasy mixing with memories. And Sukuna sees Itadori dressed in a kimono, kneeling on the floor of Sukuna's temple, golden eyes wide with wonder as he listens fascinatedly to Sukuna's sermon while participating in an ancient prayer ritual.

Sukuna has to blink several times to make the image disappear again. He stares at the boy, thrown off balance for a moment. Unbidden, a series of questions floods his mind.

What would things have been like if fate had brought Sukuna and Itadori together in another way? Would there have been a life in which they met without Kenjaku deciding to make a vessel for Sukuna? And what would that life have looked like?

Would Itadori have come to Sukuna's temple as a young monk? Would they have met in peace? Would they have gotten along? Would they have lived side by side? Would Itadori have been loyal to Sukuna until the end? Something tells Sukuna that the boy wouldn't have run when the attacks came. He would have fought by Sukuna's side. Would he have died by his side, too? Would he have risen again with him? Would they have been the King and the Prince of Curses?

Sukuna huffs at the thought. Where do these foolish ideas come from? It's ridiculous!

He never wished for someone by his side. He never minded the solitude he experienced. He never looked for companionship or foolish things like friendship or, even worse, love. A great power like his always came with inevitable loneliness, and he accepted that without any second thought. He would always choose power over love.

"Are you ok, Sukuna?"

Itadori looks at him with big worried eyes. His hair is crowned by so many cherry blossoms that Sukuna feels the need to reach out and brush them off, letting his fingers glide through the soft pink strands of the brat's hair.

He schools his face into an amused expression.

"Of course, darling. Come on, let's visit the shrine."

They enter the small Shinto shrine a few minutes later, side by side.

The brat stops in front of the shelf with a vast selection of wooden plaques in different shapes and sizes that people can buy to make a wish. He takes one ema with a drawing of a tiger on it and turns to Sukuna,

"Do you have money with you? I want to make a wish."

Sukuna nods and proceeds to pay for the ema before he watches Itadori scribble his message to the deity of this shrine in his typical messy handwriting.

"What do you wish for?"

The brat shrugs and grins a bit sheepishly at him,

"To get all my memories back, of course."

He takes the finished ema and adds it to the long row of wishes already hanging in the shrine.

Some are asking for good grades, others are wishing for health or love. And amidst them is now Itadori's wish to remember who he is and what his life was like before he lost his memories.

A solemn smile spreads over the boy's face as he looks at the small tiger plaque, naively thinking the fulfillment of his wish will bring him peace.

The corners of Sukuna's lips lift in a smug smirk as his long fingers wrap around the boy's hand again to lead him out of the shrine and back toward his golden cage.

Be careful what you wish for, brat.

THEY KISSED!!! This kiss was one of the first scenes I wrote for this story, and I always see that scene so clearly in my mind. It makes me so happy to finally publish it!

But there is another scene in this chapter, which I added much later, that makes me cry anytime I read it. Can you guess which one it is? I will say it: The scene where Sukuna imagines that alternate life where he meets Yuuji without Kenjaku's involvement. It makes me so emotional. Maybe it's that little display of vulnerability that Sukuna shows here. I am always very soft for him when I think about his loneliness.

But our dear King of Curses is still very much in denial. Big bad Sukuna doesn't need anyone! He would always choose power over love. Yeah, Kuna... sure, darling. Let's talk again in a few months ;)

Thank you so much for reading this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think! Comments and reblogs make me happy!

#sukuita #sukuna x itadori #sukuna x yuuji #sukuna #jjk fanfic

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