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calebrity · 27 days ago

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omg I saw your post about frontman!sylus in a squid game au! now the rot is taking over my brain

does sylus have a heartbreaking moment with the reader where he fake dies like the real frontman does in the show? I can imagine it so clearly where reader is devastated that someone she's become so close with is taken from her in one of the last few rounds of the game... until she wins and is escorted to the office where he unmasks and her heart drops in relief that he's alive! but wait... why are you up here, all cleaned up and in a similar uniform to the guards?.. until it finally clicks and the relief morphs into horror...

would love to hear your thoughts!

frontman! sylus

cw. squidgame! au, manipulation, being held hostage, yandere themes, 1.5k

an. nonnie i loooove the way you think!! 😣sorry i was sitting on this but im actually obsessed & just wanted to give it some extra thought bc your idea is 🔥🔥 MWAH sorry its a lil long im insane and sleepy lol :,)

Frontman! Sylus is unreachable to most guards.

With the attention the games require of him and other related matters (communication, keeping the place under wraps, organizing meetings, just to name a few), it’s gonna take a little more than just a red mask to score a conversation with him. He’s worked for. Not worked with. To most, he’s just a deep, mechanical voice who stands tall behind a wall of television screens, and someone in so much power that it’s implicitly understood that he is not to be fucked or toyed with. So all obey him.

He expects nothing but order and blind loyalty and even though it brings a certain monotony he can’t quite shake, he gets exactly what he demands.

Frontman! Sylus is disgustingly wealthy through underhanded means, but he’s oddly classy for someone who holds a mantle earned entirely through blood and violence. This is one big dirty game he oversees, but the contestants know what they’re signing up for, so he can’t really will himself into guilt when they’re all the same— different faces and names but identical minds and hearts. Corrupted. Selfish.

Sylus values a purity that cannot be found within the massive walls of red light green light as players push and step over each other; dalgona, as idiotic sheep use contraband lighters and sweat as a ticket to the next game; mingle, as the more irredeemable of the men yank women from their rooms and lock the door behind them. Sylus also values a purity that does not exist within himself, or not anymore: whatever he had of that is beaten to a pulp as hours pass behind an obsidian mask and he grows colder for it.

Richer, too, so powerful it’s scary— but that’s beside the point.

With every match he witnesses, he loses another scrap of faith he had in humanity. To be fair, he knows he’s no saint, he would never claim to be, but—

But when you come along— a bungling girl who’s landed herself in a debt she can’t hope to climb out of, surprisingly kind to the others but a bit too naive- resourceful, though, enough to inspire the success of several other contestants— his world tilts. A hand reaches through the static of his screen and dares to lift his mask. He sees your pretty face staring agog at the floating piggybank when he closes his eyes: the aquamarine jersey, the white label 109, seared into his conscience and there to stay.

And at first, he’s intrigued more than anything. It’s just curiosity. Maybe a little bit of mean amusement too, okay sure- he’ll admit it’s a whit hard to not chuckle when you cutely plead for the bathroom to a stoic guard(— it’s alright, let 109 in— ) who’s just not hearing you or nearly fall off your bunk amidst a very fitful sleep.

But those feelings that develop within the span of a couple days are nothing too crazy, nothing he can’t manage and process.

For a short time.

You seem a silly, clumsy girl at face value, your trembling hands, clear as day through the monitor, a blatant sign of the fear you do a damn bad job at hiding- yet it’s not enough to cloud your mind. You prevail through the games and pull some unexpected, winning move right when he’s convinced you’ll succumb to stupidity, a mistake (either yours or another’s), or the malicious will of someone you’d looked at as a friend mere moments before the timer started.

You’re clever. Adaptive. He’s reminded of bunnies and how even the smallest, fairest of creatures have the base survival instinct in them; you’ll do what you must to make it out of here.

Your half-baked plan of going along with the flow and later adjusting to it is as unreliable as it is unable to be helped- you don’t have much better options in such an unpredictable environment. It goes surprisingly well, though, and earns both the respect and attention of an otherwise unfeeling frontman.

Well, it goes well up until it doesn’t. It goes well until it’s nighttime and the lights go out and Sylus braces for utter chaos to unloose itself between the bunks— unexpectedly stiff behind his screen as he searches for your figure amidst a collage of thermal shapes. Your ragtag group of misfits (the unwanted: elderly folk, females and the disabled) is attacked and takes an impressive stand, but you’re just a girl at the end of the day, and your foes are more numbered, so much bigger and infinitely more cruel—

Sylus rushes out the viewing room, briskly replacing his ominous, black garb for a teal-blue tracksuit. There’s no questions asked; the guards carry on with their jobs quietly, noting their boss’s strange behavior with a little jerk of their heads but no outward shock is risked beyond that.

They give him a wide berth because the look smoldering in ruby-red eyes is frightening.

Sylus decides right then, in the unfurling havoc, that he’s sure as hell no saint but he can play the part for a few games if it means saving your ass now.

And eventually, when it’s dwindled down to just a few players, he’ll even be a martyr. He’s not entirely sure why he does what he does where your presence is involved, the measures he goes to— all Sylus knows is that he needs to protect you from the fucked-up, dog-eat-dog world (and maybe the consequences of your own financial actions), and maybe endear yourself to him in the process.

…What better way to endear yourself to him than to watch as he consistently puts his life on the line for you throughout the course of the next few games-? snarling in the faces of other hostile, foolish players while you’re cowering behind his broad back, guarding you like a hound as you rest, suggesting his arms as your ulitimate safehouse and whispering shh, sweetie, I won’t let anything get close tonight, so sleep.

To hell with all that— what better way to endear yourself to him than to die in your place?

So he does. Or, you’re all but convinced he does, and that’s all that matters.

In the last round, more or less the grand finale of the whole game, he goes out like a hero, sacrificing himself for you with a few dying words and a gentle command ‘to remain true to yourself’ as you cup his face for as long as you’re allowed before the red-suited figures almost hesitantly step over and drag him away. Sylus knows telling you his name is risky- even making a short cameo in the activities is life-threatening- but he can’t find it in him to regret it when you’re howling it over the speakers, knelt to the ground and ugly-crying as you shake your fists. No doubt you’re blaming yourself, deciding in your heart that it should’ve been you instead of him.

No, it should’ve been everybody else, kitten, and he made damned sure it was.

Sylus is charmed by it, readying himself by the door as a muffled hubbub of boots echo on the other side, committing your each and every kindness to memory. It wounds him, again to his own surprise, to see you so devastated and know he’s the catalyst for it, but a part of him preens when you’re so wrapped up in your own heartbreak over his supposed death that you forget your handsome cash prize entirely.

Unselfish girl. Beautiful girl. His chest puffs with pride. You really are his girl.

And in the end, all of these rotten games were worth it, the time and violence and the better part of his humanity. Even if you don’t quite realize that yet, stumbling through his door with wobbling knees and a ruddy face that quickly warps with a plethora of emotions- confusion, relief, and then a brilliant look of mortification that steals the breath from his lungs- even if it takes time and patience on his end to work you through it. He’ll gently assure that he won’t hurt you, that you’ll never end up as an insignificant player in those childish killing fields again.

He’ll scoop your broken pieces up in his strong arms and tuck you under his chin, to his breast, murmuring sweet nothings as he sends his watchful unit of guards a quiet look to leave the room. And of course they do because they value their heads.

“You did well, Sweetie- but don’t forget about your prize, hm? Tonight, I’ll give you more than you could possibly imagine,” he plants a kiss to your forehead, sickeningly tender, and knuckles aside the hair matted there, damp from all your needless sobbing.

He chuckles lightly, voice velvety soft. “I think some… thanks are in order, don’t you?”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin #lads x reader #yandere #l&ds #l&ds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #calebrity #sorry nonnie i know its a lil long #frontman sylus is sooooo sexy tho i do think #on the topic of squidgame lads tho… i feel like rafayel could really fit the role of a VIP #calebs the brother that tries to find and bust mc out after she disappears 💀💀#anyway 💖

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rcvcgers · 2 months ago

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Hello, I wanted to tell you that I love your writing. Rotten Apples has been my favorite. I was wondering if you could write something with a super caring Caleb?

I had a rough night with lots of tears and self doubt, lots of feelings of self hate and a lot of ugly feeling I’ve targeted myself with and I wish I had Caleb to soothe me. My heart aches and I need a hug from him.

i'm so sorry you had a rough night darling :( i hope you were able to feel better! i wrote this for you as soon as i saw your request. i hope it helps you feel better <3

Here For You

pairing: caleb x reader

synopsis: you've isolated yourself from the world and your boyfriend comes to comfort you.

word count: 3.08k words

content warnings: self deprecation, self doubt, bad/negative thoughts

author's note: i hope this request can help whoever reads this feel better <3 just know that you are so, so, so loved and deserve all of the good things in the world!

For the past few days, you’ve unintentionally isolated yourself from from the world. The first day the negative thoughts entered your brain, you acted as if everything was okay, that you were on top of the world. But seeing everybody else’s smiles and hearing their joyous laughter began to weigh down on you.

You wanted to be supportive of your friends and celebrate their achievements, but it was so hard to put a fake smile on your face and pretend to be excited. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t help but feel so…dull. To feel so dead inside that at moments you doubted that your existence was real. You want to be so happy, to bask in the joy of positive emotions and affirmations, and yet whenever you try, your stupid mind had to drag you back into the darkness.

You used the excuse of being sick to get out of dinner parties and hanging out. You even used a few of your sick days to get off from work, leaving your team scrambling to fill the void of you being gone.

Had life always been so hard? Why couldn’t it give you a break? Even just for one day, you wish to have some kind of release from the depression that has sunk into your body.

It’s not your fault that life is so unforgiving. Things happen, many of which are out of your control, but why did it have to affect you so badly? Did it really need to cause such chaos that uplifts you from acting like a normal person? Fuck, you haven’t even managed to shed a single tear since the negative thoughts hit your mind.

You stare at your bedroom’s blank ceiling. The sun had disappeared from the sky, its once vibrant oranges and pinks decorated your walls and ceiling, but now you were left with a deep gray color with only moonlight illuminating your room.

This had been your routine for the past week. You’d rot in bed, staring out the window as life passed you by. You watched birds flying, their freedom making you even more depressed, and watched as the sun and moon played a game of cat and mouse with each other, chasing after the other as the sky changes colors. Was it a routine you have grown bored of? Yes. Of course. But you couldn’t bring yourself to change out of it.

You wished your boyfriend was here. Caleb always knew what to do and say to help you feel better. You can’t even put some of the blame on him for not being here. His job yanked him away for a last minute patrol in the Deepspace Tunnel.

According to Caleb, it was the Fleet’s first time exploring this part of the Tunnel. You were so proud of him! The Fleet finally recognized his amazing talent and put him as the new supervising Colonel of Deepspace Exploration. He deserved it! He’s worked so hard for an opportunity like this to show up.

Yes, you knew that it would take him away for weeks at a time. If not from the actual exploring itself, Caleb will be buried in paperwork, meetings, and flight schedules.

You should have taken him up on his offer to stay in his apartment in Skyhaven. Maybe then you would have been able to see him during your dark days and he can be the hand that pulls you into safety from the storm. Instead, you opted to stay behind in Linkon, claiming that your friends and work will keep you busy!

If only you knew that the day after he left things would go oh so wrong.

Linkon wasn’t so bad, though. The sunlight was good for your mood instead of the gloomy days that Skyhaven has. The sunlight helped motivate you to get out of bed to brush your teeth and shower, but that was about it.

A sigh leaves your lips. You roll onto your side, your gaze falling back outside the window. Planes fly by in the night sky, leaving off-white trails of exhaust behind them. A wave of sadness hits your stomach while you watch the planes.

A part of you wishes that Caleb is on one of those planes…that he’s coming home to see you.

No. Why would he? He has his new promotion with the Fleet. He can’t waste any time on trivial things…including you.

You flinch from the thought. Squeezing your eyes shut, you curl up into a ball, your knees pulling up to your chest. Why did these thoughts have to torment you? You know that Caleb would give up everything to come see you, so why do you always have to be so anxious that he’s going to leave you?

You know it’s the imposter syndrome talking, but you know that you’re counting the seconds until Caleb realizes that you aren’t worthy of his time, adoration, and love. You’re a semblance of a girlfriend, someone who snuck into such a prestigious position in his life. He deserves so much better than you. Hell, he deserves someone who is just as high of a rank he is! Another Colonel, maybe, or perhaps someone who he works with so he can see her everyday.

“Pipsqueak?” You freeze. The sweet nickname he has for you sends chills down your spine. The bedroom door creaks and the sound of faint footsteps draws near. You are quick to pull the bed’s sheets over your body and head, covering the sight of moonlight and the dark night sky.

The mattress dips and you feel a large hand rest on your side. It travels up and down, cascading the side of your covered body. You shudder from the touch, knowing that you’re unworthy of such affection.

“Baby? Are you okay?” Caleb asks. He reaches for the top of the sheets, drawing them away from your face. You feel the chilled air of the bedroom hit your face. You flinch and grab the sheets back from him, covering your face once again. “Hey…what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“I’m fine…I’m just really tired,” while it isn’t necessarily a lie, you know it’s simply an excuse that he’ll see right through as he usually does. You listen to his slow exhale,, heart pounding inside your chest.

This is it. This is the moment where he finally realizes how much of a loser your are. You can’t even bring yourself to fully greet him when he comes home from work, what kind of partner are you?

“I’m,” you fake a cough, “I’m sick.”

“You’re sick?” Caleb repeats. Your heart twists inside your chest. Your eyes sting from the turmoil that bubbles inside your stomach.

“Y-Yeah…you should go back to Skyhaven so you don’t catch anything.”

You hated how easy it is to lie to him. To push him away from you.

Caleb doesn’t respond. Goosebumps spread across your body, suddenly feeling cold as you sick and twisted imagination slowly turns into a reality.

Did he finally realize that you’re nothing more than a nuisance to him?

“Hey…look at me,” Caleb coos. Your grip weakens on the sheets. The fabric slips through your fingers, eyes watching as the moonlight returns to your gaze, your handsome boyfriend sitting beside you with a look of worry, brows knitted together, bottom lip slightly pouted out.

Your heart breaks. It shatters into a million little pieces. It’s because if you that he looks this way, that he’s probably worried over nothing. Tears brim your eyes. Caleb sighs and his shoulders relax, watching as you slowly sit up in bed.

You sniffle and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. Your bottom lip trembles. The man reaches out and cups your face.

His touch is so gentle against your skin. Warmth seeps into your skin but it only makes you feel worse. Your body begins to shake. Caleb’s violet eyes scan your body, gently wrapping his free arm around your back. He pulls you into his lap with such ease, guiding your legs to rest on his sides, placing your full weight onto him.

Your melt into his touch, arms wrapping around sides, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging on the material. You bury your face into his neck, the tears finally leaving your eyes.

“It’s okay…I’m here now, let it all out.”

And you do. Sobs escape your body. Your body shakes and you push into him, the man gently running his hand up and down your back, soothing you. He holds the back of your head, securing you to his body. Your tears stain his t-shirt, soaking it with your salty tears.

You shake your head, unable to control how tight you hold onto him. His scent is so comforting to you, your nose burying into the warm skin of his neck to get more of it. It calms your nerves alongside his light and comforting touch.

“I’m so sorry,” you choke the words out, “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Never apologize for how you feel, my love,” Caleb gives you a gentle and reassuring squeeze. You sigh and peel your face from his neck, finally getting a good look of him.

He wears the biggest frown on his face as he pushes stray hairs out of your face. Your cheeks are stained form your tears, eyes red and swollen form the onslaught of sibs that overtook your body. Caleb runs his fingers up and down your sides.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Caleb asks. You nod in sync with him. He places his hand over your chest, feeling your heart pounding from inside your ribcage.

The two of you inhale for a couple seconds then hold the breath, your lungs full of oxygen, then slowly exhale. Under Caleb’s touch, he can feel your heart come to a slow and steady beat. A small smile spreads across his face, his purple eyes meeting yours.

“I’m so proud of you,” Caleb whispers. He leans in and presses a light kiss to your forehead. You sigh and rest your hands on his chest, flattening out some of the wrinkles in the fabric. You stare at the wet spot on his clothes and frown, feeling absolutely horrible that you ruined his clothes. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Your gaze floats back to his, his hands firmly holding onto your waist. You sigh and look away, unable to weave words together to form a rational sentence that doesn’t make you look, well, crazy.

How can you explain to your boyfriend that your mind has caused so much chaos and turmoil? That it has you believing that you aren’t good enough for anyone in the world, especially him. That he deserves so much better than what you have to offer him.

“Hey,” Caleb’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. He cups your cheek and swipes away a single tear that rolls down your cheek. “Stop thinking. Clear your mind.”

You nod and slowly inhale, needing to calm down your fast beating heart. Your mind doesn’t clear, though, and only becomes more and more loud as the thoughts of self doubt and negativity scream at you.

“What are five things you see?” Caleb asks.

“What?” You’re taken aback by his question. He squeezes your hips.

“Tell me five things you see. Be descriptive.”

“Um…okay,” you breathe out. Your eyes leave his as you scan the room. You turn in his grip, looking out the window behind you. “I see the moon. It’s big and yellow tonight. Looks like cheese.”

“That’s one.” You feel Caleb press a gentle kiss to your shoulder. You turn back around, heart fluttering.

“I see my desk. It’s…really messy. I should clean it up.”

“That’s two…and I’ll clean it for you tomorrow. What else?”

“Through the bedroom door, I can see the kitchen light is still on. I see…I see bags on the counter, too.” You look at Caleb, his thumbs slowly rubbing small circles into your skin under your shirt. “I see the most beautiful purple eyes, too.”

“Oh?” Caleb raises his eyebrows, smiling at you. You nod. He kisses your cheek and you melt into him yet again. “Ready to tell me what’s wrong now?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong, Caleb,” you breathe out, slowly growing frustrated. You press your forehead against his and squeeze his shoulders. “My mind just…hates me. I don’t know what happened, but an overwhelming sense of dread came over me and…and I began to hate myself,” your voice cracks.

Tears return to your eyes and Caleb is quick to wipe them away. You manage to keep your breathing in check, making sure to not lose the sense of calm that soothes your aching body. Your glaze flickers back to Caleb’s and you sigh, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” your voice is just above a whisper. “You don’t deserve to go through this…you deserve someone who’s normal and good enough.”

“No,” Caleb immediately shakes his head. His own eyes become glossy from your admission. “Don’t you ever say those words ever again, do you understand?”

Your brows furrow, meeting in the center. Your hands slip from his body but he takes them back, placing them back onto his chest. He moves his head to meet your fleeting gaze, capturing your attention. He places his finger under your chin, turning your face back forward.

“I love you…I love you so much more than you can ever imagine. If anyone here isn’t deserving, it’s me. I don’t deserve to be in a relationship with you because you, my love, are lightyears better than I will ever be.”

“Caleb…” you breathe his name out. You hang onto every word he says, heart swelling.

“You are the most beautiful woman to ever exist. I love your smile, your laugh, and the way you always make me happy. I also love you when you aren’t feeling good. I love you and your frown and the way you manage to look so beautiful while crying…you’re the one for me. Nobody else,” he pulls your hand over his heart. You can feel just how hard and fast it pumps inside his chest.

“You don’t mean that…”

“Of course I do. From the first moment I met you, I knew that you were the one for me. On that day, I swore to myself that I would do everything in my power to protect you, to keep you safe…it pains me to know that I couldn’t protect you from yourself. I’m so sorry,” his voice cracks.

His grip on you tightens. His touch and words are so reassuring that you manage to push away the dark thoughts that linger in your mind.

Caleb loves you. He loves you so much. It is evident in the way he holds you, the way he kisses your tears away. You can feel it in the warmth that radiates from his body. Caleb makes you feel so worthy of his love, his adoration.

“Everyone has bad days,” he tilts his head to the side, his gaze deepening, “and that’s okay. It’s normal to have a bad week. It’s normal to want to crawl away and disappear. It’s okay to cry and to ask for help when it feels like you’re drowning,” Caleb coos. “Please…please tell me when you need help. I will always be here to pick you up off your feet. I will always be here to carry the weight that forms on your shoulders. I will do anything for you if it means that I get to see you smile again…that I get to live under the sunlight of your beautiful soul. I love you.”

“I love you too, Caleb,” tears roll down your cheeks. They’re bittersweet, formed from both sadness and joy.

The darkness that settled in the back of your mind vanishes. You can feel the weight leave your chest, opening up your lungs for more air to get in, to nourish your body. Caleb pulls you close to him, burying his face into your neck. His lips scrape across your skin, leaving a trail of sweet and gentle kisses in his wake.

His fingers slip under your shirt. The sensation of his skin against yours leaves you feeling so fulfilled. You love the way he treats you, how he always makes for sure that you know just how loved you are. He takes care of you. It’s so much more than you could have ever asked for.

What did you do to deserve a man like Caleb?

“Have you eaten yet today?” Caleb asks. You shake your head no, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer into your embrace. “Come on, I stopped at the store on the way here. Let me make you some dinner.”

Caleb picks you up with ease. You gasp and cling to him, a quiet laugh escaping your lips. His head shoots out from your neck, eyes wide as a big smile flashes across his face.

“You laughed!” He swoons, leaning back in to attack your face in more kisses, leaving no part of your face untouched. You close your eyes and shriek, more and more giggles fleeing from your lips while he carries you to the kitchen. “My pip-squeak is laughing! She’s happy again! My babygirl has come back to me!”

“Stop being do dramatic, Caleb!” Your laughter melts away the sadness in your heart and mind. You feel light again, ready to take on the world with Caleb at your side.

“Okay! Okay!” He laughs and pulls his face out from your neck. Caleb beams at you, setting you down on the cold countertop. You gasp and he’s quick to pull you up, resting his hands underneath your legs to protect you from the icy counter.

“What?” You ask, waving your hand in front of his face. He shifts his weight between his feet and leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips. You lean into him and kiss him back, butterflies erupting your chest. He slightly pulls away, lips grazing over yours, foreheads pressed together.

“I love you, pip-squeak, but I am going to need my hands for cooking,” he chuckles.

“I love you too...can I be your sous chef?”

“Are you kidding? Of course you can be my sous chef! Who else would I want by my side?”

masterlist of works

#lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace #rcvcgers requests #rcvcgers writings

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ourdawnishotterthanourday · 25 days ago

Text

Catch Me — Xu Minghao

✧ Let's bring out the beast, shall we? ✧

Plot: Picture this… you join an exclusive sex club and meet a mysterious man who helps you embrace your darker tastes.

🎥 Starring: fem!reader x mystery man!Xu Minghao 🎥 Genre: dark romance; suggestive [+18], light angst 🎥 Word count: 0.9k+ 🎥 Warnings: swearing, primal kink (I explain it a bit but feel free to look it up if you’re unsure), light knife play (no blood) 🎥 Notes: alright, so this is a little different from my usual writing but I recently read the Legacy of Gods series by Rina Kent and let me tell you I AM OBSSESSED!! so ofc I had to incorporate it into a fic hehe. hope you will like it 🤭 🎥 Shout out: thanks again to bestie @nothoughtsjustfic for reading over this as always 💜

♡ REBLOGGING AND/OR FEEDBACK WOULD BE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED — DON'T BE A STRANGER PLS ♡

Set The Scene Masterlist — Masterlist

Crazy.

That was the only word you could think of to describe the situation you’d gotten yourself into on this dark and gloomy Friday evening.

If anyone were to see you right now, running frantically through the forest in the middle of nowhere, they’d think you were in immediate danger.

But that was just the thing. Your life wasn’t in jeopardy… not really. In fact, you had very much agreed to partake in this sick and twisted game.

It all started with Rose Haven, an exclusive sex club you’d signed up for in an attempt to find something that was more your taste, so to say.

Although you were by no means a virgin, you’d never really found sex enjoyable, unlike your friends, who swore it was the best thing on earth. Of the few guys you’d been with, none had managed to make you cum, nor had they bothered with anything more than missionary or doggy to get themselves off before taking their leave.

You’d then turned to porn, hoping that it would be better without a useless, self-centered guy getting in between you and your orgasm. But that didn’t do it for you either. It was all so anticlimactic and fake, you felt like you needed something more, even though you weren’t sure what that something was supposed to be.

It had gotten to the point where you were starting to believe that maybe you were the problem — abnormal, defect, whatever you wanted to call it.

But then you’d come across Rose Haven, and you learned about a whole list of sex kinks you didn’t even know existed. That’s how you eventually discovered the world of primal play, aka a type of predator–prey dynamic in which both parties let their primal instincts come out during sex.

You‘d been intrigued from the start, wondering how something so raw and animalistic could be considered elating and pleasurable. However, the more you read through the club’s primal play forum, the more you began to realize that perhaps this was exactly what you needed. Maybe giving into your instincts for once would finally give you what you were looking for.

And what better way than to do it with a random stranger, someone who didn’t know you at all, someone who wouldn’t judge you for indulging in something like that, someone who — just like you — was trying out new kinks because regular, boring vanilla sex was not cutting it for them either?

Yes, you knew it sounded totally crazy and you were pretty sure that none of your friends would understand, but you still signed up that same evening, filling out all the required information and your preferences and submitting the form before you had a chance to back out.

And now here you were, being chased through a dark forest by a hot guy whom you’d been matched with less than a week after sending in your application.

You didn’t even know his name. All you knew about the guy was that he’d engaged in primal play before, and his member ID, which was mentioned in the attendance invitation you’d received earlier this evening — it also stated the safeword and the off-site location you were currently at.

When you arrived at the eerie-looking cabin, you’d been alone. And when he still hadn’t shown up ten minutes after the original meetup time, you started to second-guess your choice to come.

But then he was suddenly there, scaring the living daylights out of you when you felt his warm breath hit the back of your neck. It was only when you turned around and he showed you the card displaying a member ID that matched the one you received, you felt yourself start to relax.

Next thing you knew he told you to run as his lips curled into a devilish smirk, one that was enough to get you moving.

Where, you didn’t know. You could barely see anything in the dark, the trees all looking similar and your vision slightly blurring the longer you ran. So you stopped behind a big tree for a moment to catch your breath, keeping your ears open for any sign of the guy.

A twig snapping on your right caught your attention and your heartbeat sped up instantly as you waited, your body shaking with adrenaline.

“Oh, thank god.” You breathed a sigh of relief when you realized it was just an innocent bunny. You slowly pushed yourself away from the tree and turned around before taking a step, only to freeze when a piece of metal was suddenly pressed against your throat.

“Gotcha, little rabbit. You really have to work on your technique,” he mumbled against your ear.

You swallowed nervously, too afraid to move but at the same time curious to see what would happen if you did.

“Don’t even think about moving. I won’t be so nice next time.” His voice was harsh this time, sending tingles down your spine and to your pussy as he increased the pressure on your throat.

Fuck, how was he having this effect on you already? You don’t think you’d ever gotten that wet this fast. But here this stranger was, doing just that while manhandling you like a freaking psycho.

Within the blink of an eye, he removed the knife and forcefully pushed your back against the large tree, leaving you with nowhere to go as he trapped you with his larger form.

Then the knife was back on your skin, right below your throat, sliding down slowly and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

A loud ripping sound echoed through the empty woods, and you watched with big eyes as your dress fell to the ground in tatters.

A terrifying smile overtook the man's features as his hungry gaze moved over your trembling form.

“Now, little rabbit, where do we start?”

**BONUS CONTENT**

Dear Ms. L/N,

Due to unforeseen circumstances that we cannot disclose, member 234448 is unfortunately unable to attend today's appointment that was supposed to take place at 10pm.

If you wish to reschedule the appointment, please fill out the attached form as soon as possible and we will do our best to arrange something.

Thank you for your understanding and as always, stay safe.

🌹 Rose Haven

Your breath caught in your throat as you read over the club message you'd received over two hours ago.

“Something wrong, little rabbit?”

Your gaze shot up instantly, locking with mystery man's dark orbs as you tried to keep your cool.

If your supposed ‘date’ had canceled on you, then who the hell was the man that had just ravaged you in the best possible way in the forest?

To be continued…

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jd-loves-fiction · 3 months ago

Note

For your event, may I request Idia and first time together (as in making love)

idk how to word that better. sounded more romantic in my head. Lowkey love how you write Idia BSKEBEJ

💐oh honey thank you🥺you worded that fine hun, making it romantic is my job :3 also this smut is gonna have a heckin lot of plot so sit tight. Also HEAVILY inspired by the Hades game cuz i just love that version of the underworld❤ also couldn't resist adding some angst teehee

❧ Like mortals do

❧ Word count: 4k

❧ Contains: explicit sexual descriptions, handjob, unprotected sex (you're dead but... yknow), penetrative sex, afab!reader, inexperienced!Idia, the floweriest of languages

❧ Idia hates himself for thinking so, but he despises the way your heart remains guarded. No matter what. No matter how much you want to let him in.

He can tell, with the way you get so close to him when delivering documents, how your touch lingers when you hand them over.

And most of all, the way your eyes linger on his form when he is forced out of his office for one reason or another, before you look down bashfully. He can almost see red over your cheeks, were you capable of such a human feat after passing.

But still, you close yourself off to him, allowing him only an arm's length of proximity and nothing more.

He feels so selfish for thinking it, but oh, how he wishes he could take comfort from having you by his side during his necessary ventures outside of his chambers. Or better yet, to have you keep him company in his office. Perhaps then he'd actually feel motivated to get work done.

After some time and research, he surmises that your attachment to the Overworld is to blame.

And by that, he means he heard you mumbling about it and sighing wistfully while looking up at the cavernous sky of the Underworld.

Idia decides that something must be done. Not only for his sake, no, mostly for yours, he reasons. Longing for a home no longer accessible will do you no good.

"H-Hey," he greets you, stepping into the now lush garden, "I hope I'm not interrupting."

He seems to say this a lot nowadays, after having realized how much this place matters to you – your own sanctuary. Much like his office; Idia doesn't like when people enter his office without his permission.

"Not at all. What do you need?"

"I need you to come with me. There's something I want to show you."

You stand before the door to the Temple of Styx, gulping down your nerves (or trying to) as Idia waits for your signal to open the massive gates.

“I must warn you, it’s only a temporary visit. One way or another, once your time is up, you will return to the Underworld.” The strangely serious tone makes you nod.

"Do you usually do this? For other people, I mean." Perhaps mindless small talk will help calm your nerves. Your ghostly heart is beating so hard you can barely hear Idia over the sound.

"Of course not. Plus I don't believe the other Shades would want this." His answer raises many questions about how the Underworld works exactly, but you keep back from them. Not now, perhaps later.

"Ready?" You don't know the answer to his question, but you nod anyway. If not now, never.

Wind strong enough to knock you on your ass, were you still alive, blows past you as the gates open with a wave of Idia’s hand. Golden sunlight shines upon your skin, though you can no longer feel its heat.

Stepping forward, away from the massive doors, your feet land on soft snow.

The view from above is breathtaking, like something out of a painting... Without color. This simply because of what you're missing.

You cannot feel the heat of the sun or the cold of the snow and chilly wind nor the softness of the snow beneath your feet and so it all feels... Distant. Hollow. Fake, even.

You sit by a small stream, a thin layer of ice over it. Placing your feet over it doesn't even move it. Seems you really have no effect on this plane of existence.

You feel as if you should cry, but no tears come forth, though you know they can, given how much you screamed and cried in agony on your first night of your new 'life'.

Idia approaches you, you can hear the crunching of the snow beneath his feet, feel his presence behind you. But he doesn't say a word, perhaps not knowing what you need to hear. Nor what you want to hear.

But there are none such words. For now, all you need is silence, the sound of rustling leaves and birds taking flight.

“Your time is almost over. I’m sorry, but we must return now of our own will. Otherwise the Underworld will take us forcibly, and that won’t be pleasant.” Idia says gently, knowing he’s already pushing it and warning you too late.

"I just never thought–" Idia leans towards you curiously, waiting for you to continue speaking, "Nevermind."

A sudden tightening appears within your chest, perhaps it's emotion welling up from the knowledge that your original home is no more and all that's left is the desolate land of Death.

But it's not all so bad. Despite how much you resisted in the beginning, now, in this quiet moment, you realize that Idia is not nearly as terrible as you'd initially thought.

He gave you a home, a purpose, despite how much you insulted him to his face, not that you knew it was him then. And after so much pestering, he showed you something that someone dead would never have the chance to see, the Overworld.

You get up from your seat suddenly, hoping to thank him for all he’s done, to face the feelings that have been brewing in your chest for a while now. But dizziness hits you like the cold mountain wind and your legs nearly give out, “W-What’s happening?”

"I warned you. Time's up. But don't worry, it'll be over quickly." Idia speaks softly, hands on your shoulders as you start feeling even more faint.

Your breathing speeds up in a panic, even though you no longer need it, legs shaking under your own weight. Falling backwards, you land upon his chest as your eyelids fall slowly. And then, you're gone.

Waking up your eyelids feel far too heavy to lift, so they remain shut as you feel something lap at you, wet and cold. You realize it’s the blood pool back at the House of Shroud just as Idia takes your body into his arms.

He’s cold but you snuggle closer to his body, seeking not warmth but comfort.

Even as soft, unfamiliar, sheets press against your back, you cling to him. "...don't leave."

Idia blinks down at you, between your droopy eyes and the hands that cling to his clothing.

"I-I shouldn't." You groan at his response, hands crawling upwards and behind his neck to pull him closer. “You should. Because I said so.”

He chuckles before sighing, relaxing beneath your hands and laying beside you.

Idia smells of smoke and... snow. An odd combination to be sure but not wholly unpleasant.

“I wanted… ugh…” You begin, attempting to thank him at least, but your mouth feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton and your head feels both floaty and heavy. It’s as if your body demands sleep despite not needing it.

“Shh… we’ll talk later.” Idia whispers, seemingly cool and collected… if not for the shaking of the pale hand running through your hair. But the effect is the same, in what feels like a second, you’re out like a light, enjoying the luxury that is sleep in the Underworld.

“I see. Well, tell them to hurry it up, I’ve already given them plenty of time to finish it. I get that we have all eternity to get things done but still, I get rather impatient.” Idia’s voice sounds from somewhere distant as you come to, blinking blearily and wondering if you’re still dreaming with how stern he sounds.

No light stings your eyes as they open, finally taking in the dark, lavish room around you. Idia’s room… You’re in Idia’s room still… in his bed, no less.

You sit up so fast you feel dizzy out of human habit. It’s one thing to consider forgiving him, another still to think about confessing about the feelings you’ve kept so well hidden… but to sleep in his bed? You would never!

But… it’s so soft… and cool… and it smells just like him… Focus!

From the balcony beyond the dark curtains comes a grumble, followed by furious clicking and clacking. The long cloth parts just enough for a glimpse of his blue fire mane and for a moment you wonder; could you run your fingers through it like hair? Would it burn you?

Before you know it, your feet take you towards his half-hunched figure, fingers reaching out to sate your curiosities. Just as you get close Idia seems to send your presence behind himself, turning around to greet you, entirely unaware of the mental downpour going inside your head, “Oh! You’re up.”

His expression tells you he’s pleased with this, unlike his tone. He always did seem to have better control over his voice rather than his features.

“Is all that… normal?” Your voice sounds weaker than expected.

“It’s not common for mortals to visit the Overworld after passing but, from the few examples I’ve seen, yes. Very much so.” His voice sounds… oddly stable? Almost confident?

Strange. Very strange.

Sure, in the tales told of his attitude by the other shades he was always cold and stern, but the Idia you now know is anything but.

“T-There’s something I must tell you.” You’re now the one stuttering nervously, but admitting that you misjudged someone so badly would sting anyone’s ego.

Idia tilts his head curiously like a puppy and the thought makes you want to yell in confusion and frustration.

“I… forgive… you.” Getting the words out feels like walking through quicksand but it feels necessary. Despite him being the reason why you ended up here in the first place, Idia’s been nothing but downright indulgent with you in a way that he really didn't have to be and probably shouldn't be.

“I see now all that you’ve done to ease my sorrows. And I understand that I should not have expected to be given more time for being pious. Death comes for us all and I’m no different.” You finally raise you head, just catching the change in his expression, from bashful to somewhat anxious.

“I must be honest with you as well. Your death… was not entirely natural.” Idia looks off into the dark distance, brows furrowed thoughtfully, flame-hair moving rapidly, “I’m not s-sure if this is… something you want to hear about.”

“Yes!” You respond before he’s even done speaking, “I need to know the truth of it. Please,“ The desperation in your voice convinces him, clearing his throat to speak clearly, eyes conveniently averted.

“You were meant to have a much more… tragic death. One I felt was not befitting of your worth.”

“My worth?”

Idia’s wide shoulders drop, hair losing much of its brightness as a gloomy cloud forms over him, “Not many mortals worship my mother. Perhaps her deeds, but never her name… I felt you were worthy of some consideration because you are one of the few who did.”

Processing the information, you remain silent as he continues, “Our relationship’s never been very good but, us immortals, we can't just cut ties. A part of me will never forgive them both for what they did, or what they didn't. But another part of me will always be their son, so I felt I should… I don't know. This must make no sense to you… forget it.” His confidence runs out quickly as his eyes meet yours, cheeks flushing blue upon the pale canvas of his face, before he hides it behind his large hands.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what…”

“Hide your face. I never imagined the gods… bashful.” The mere thought makes you chuckle.

The amusement is cut short upon seeing Idia's face fall, “I'm not like them.”

“Well, sure you're not.” His frown turns into a pout before you continue, “From what I know, you're much more pleasant to be around.”

“I- I appreciate that… but that's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” You ask innocently, watching as he curls in on himself, dark blue upon his cheeks.

“I'm just not– I don't– I'm not that handsome, beautiful, whatever you call it. People think I look strange.” He looks away from you, down at the dour grounds of his estate. You think to yourself that such a thing must not be true, not with what you see before you…

Your face flushes at the thought. Could it be that… your forgiveness of his actions… has turned to infatuation? Could it perhaps be that… it was always there beneath the scorn?

But you concede – he is indeed nothing like how you picture the gods to be. No skin of bronze stretched over absurd muscles like in the statues, no absurd posing and posturing at every turn…

“Since now is a time for honesty… No, you’re nothing like them.” The curiosity shining in his irises turns to resigned acceptance at your words, already imagining the worst of what you’ll say next.

“You’re not extroverted, rowdy or entertaining. You don't walk around like everyone owes you something just because they get to look upon your splendorous visage.” Making a silly pose gets a low chuckle out of him.

“But you know what? I’m glad. Who can stand people– gods? Like that anyway? Not me… if that means anything.” Your face gets so warm so quickly while trying to make your feelings less obvious that you’re worried you might be cursed. That can't be normal.

“You’re…” Words fail you, so much you can and wish to say. How you’d much rather his bashfulness over their boldness, his attentiveness over their supposedly good natured obliviousness, the hesitant stutter of his purely honest words over their confident, practiced speeches. “No words would suffice to tell you just how starkly different you are from them.”

The candidness of your tone gives him pause, it’s as if all that you wish to say but are unable to somehow makes itself known to him anyway. Perhaps he can read minds? You wouldn't put it past him.

His gaze changes, softening to a gentle yellow like the first rays of sunlight peeking out over the horizon – you’re caught in it, unable and unwilling to resist the urge to draw closer and closer to his blue lips.

Idia hesitates at the last second, brows furrowed in frustration, no doubt overthinking the whole ordeal, but your emotions are just about ready to boil over so you heed their order and connect your lips decidedly, hesitation be damned. He’s tense for only a second, before eagerly grabbing at your shoulder as well as the balustrade; his attempt to remain chaste with his touches is adorable, even if all you want to do is devour him, let out all your frustrations along with your fondness for him in one go.

“Idia…” You whisper against his lips, feeling the immense heat of him against your face. The expression he makes is almost painful… delightfully so.

“Please don't do that… I can’t–” He pinches his eyes closed, but makes no move away from you. He’s flushed down to his chest just thinking about how badly he wants you – the thought fills you with a dangerous boldness.

“Why not? Aren’t you the king? You can do as you please… no?” Your hands trail down his arms teasingly, delighting in the way he shivers and twitches.

“I-It’s not so simple. There are rules and r-responsibilities…” It’s to you his consciousness is making up excuses for some reason. You loathe to think it could be the fault of the solitary life he’s lived, full of people who hate him just as you once did… without even knowing him at all.

“There is nothing… There is just you and me here. And I. Want. You.” He gulps loudly.

“If you’ll have me, of course.” The look on his face is hard to describe – it’s like you’ve given him all that he’s ever wanted in life and yet was never allowed to have, and told him that he can have it.

He hastily grabs your hand to pull you into his bedroom again, his grip remaining surprisingly gentle. Once you make it to his bed, he tenses up, unsure of where to look, where to put his hands, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Momentarily, a flash of annoyance crosses his face as if he wants to disagree, before he realises you’re right, “Not the best place to… fall in love.”

“Sounds like someone didn't try hard enough,” you edge closer to where he sits at the edge of the bed – he refuses to meet your eyes still but seems to be more at ease than before, hands relaxed in his lap and hair slowly returning to its natural blue.

“Hey,” you croon, grasping his chin gently, “I can guide you, if you’d like. I’m no expert but I do know a bit about… worldly pleasures.”

“A bit more than me, I’m sure.” He replies bashfully, eyes glued to your lips as you draw close once more. You give him only a peck before pulling back, then going back in at the downright desperate look in his eye. Who knew a god would be so easy to bend.

Your hands grasp his in his distraction, pulling them to the edge of your robes. Lost in your kiss, which keeps getting hotter, he pulls the cloth away as you wordlessly command. The robes part easily, fluttering away from your body.

Once his eyes open, he finds himself staring at your bare form, flushing a deeper blue in response. A string of saliva hangs from his slack bottom lip, eyes roaming all of you appreciatively – though he seems much too flustered to admit it aloud.

“Now you.” You whisper, hands delicately placed at the edge of his ornate robes, before he gives a twitchy nod, closing his eyes as you lay him bare to your eyes.

Hands held you pull him to sit against the carved wooden headboard, observing his naked figure as you do. He sure looks godly.

Idia’s eyes dart in every direction like corner prey, hands clenched around his silk sheets in what you suspect is more excitement than trepidation. You crawl to where he sits, kisses placed in what milky skin you pass by, delighting in his adorable twitching, “You’re a god, right? All you need to do is let me worship you.”

Not a second wasted, you start with his flushed neck, kisses laid against it like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings and still he flinches as if you’ve struck him with a leather whip. Descending to his pale chest, you do the same along with a gentle nibble close to his nipple, soothed quickly with a pass of your warm tongue.

He calls out your name like a prayer – desperate and vulnerable. If you were yourself a god, you think you’d not be too bad at it, since you’d never dare refuse such a humble request.

Your mouth moves almost on its own, your very soul utterly entranced by him and his delicious reactions to the touch of a mere mortal, kissing and licking his chest and abdomen more firmly now, as if it were possible to nibble your way through to the very soul of him and settle yourself there.

Drawing back to allow him to catch his breath, your gaze crawls over the way his features shift from the pleasure, dark blue over his features like watercolor paint. Your hand cradles the side of his face to grab his attention, before your other hand lowers itself to his cock – hard and darkened already, gleaming a faint silver at the tip. It’s beautiful and otherworldly, same as the rest of him and you ache to tug on it until he’s crumbling in your arms as mortals do.

Asking for silent permission with your gaze, you wrap your cool fingers around him once he nods, receiving an instant reaction when his back tenses up as if electricity just passed through him, a moan trapped in the back of his bashful throat. You’re suddenly filled with a need to get those sounds out of him.

Your hands move gently, up and down, grip steady but delicate. His breath is beyond uneven, hitching and exhaling in a rush at the slightest movement. Only a sliver of his eyes is open, watching you shyly, “You’re so beautiful, Idia.”

The face he makes makes it seems as if you’ve stabbed him, so gorgeously stunned for a moment before his head falls back with a breathy whimper, “Don’t– Gods, I–”

Movements continue, a rhythm established; when your thumb ghosts over his tip his whole body twitches. Who but the Fates could’ve foreseen that the man you so despised would end up putty at your feet.

By the way he reacts, Idia is undoubtedly close and so you slowly, carefully, pull your hand away – meeting his befuddled gaze head on as he finally looks you in your lust-darkened eyes, “Not yet,” you tell him.

His breathing is ragged as you place yourself on his lap, feeling the heat of him from the proximity. Hands around his face, you observe the frankly pitiful expression he sports – head lowered as he gazes up at you from beneath dark lashes, blue bottom lip poking outward slightly, “Please…”

You think for a moment that not spoiling this man might just be impossible.

“I’ve got you, my dear.” you whisper tenderly, kissing him sweetly. There’s something in his glowing gaze, an intensity you’ve never seen – he wants this as much as you, even if his mouth refuses to let him admit it.

Wordlessly, you grasp his cock again, moving it towards your drenched center, foreheads touching as he waits for you to move. You do when he’s not expecting it, tearing a sudden moan from deep within his chest as you insert the very tip of him into you.

His face immediately moved to the crook of your neck, hands gripping onto your side with a vice, entire body trembling at the warmth of you. Inch by delicious bitter inch, you sit yourself fully atop his milky lap, listening closely to his ruined breathing and quickened heartbeat. There are moans hiding behind his teeth and they escape him slowly and quietly when he cannot hold them within.

Your name falls from his lovely lips ceaselessly now, on every exhale as you start moving up and down on him, tenderly but firmly. He feels extraordinary inside you, stretching at every sensitive spot perfectly with unknowing precision. Despite how loud he is, you yourself cannot deny the effect he has on your body without even meaning to – you’re losing your mind as you ride him faster and faster without realizing it.

His mouth seals itself upon your neck suddenly, sharp teeth digging into your flesh in a way that would’ve hurt were you still alive, burying his sounds in your skin as you both grow closer and closer, “Almost there, I’ve got y-you, Idia. I’ve g-got you…”

The weakness in your reassurance makes it less convincing, not that Idia notices with how lost in the moment he is, high so close he can taste it on the back of his tongue along with the lingering taste of your skin.

The very air around you seems to vibrate with undeniable power as Idia finally comes, heaving against your shoulder, noises finally unrestrained.

Your own end catches you off guard, so lost are you in his pleasure, punching the air from your lungs as you slam down on him one last time.

Breaths mingling, you sit for what could be minutes or hours, staring into each other’s heady gazes. His face seems to now be permanently tainted a dark flustered blue, though his eyes hold nothing but bare admiration and affection – a look you’d previously thought him incapable of possessing. You're sure you must look similar.

“I–”

“You don't need to speak–”

“No,” he replies firmly, hand grasping yours against his cheek, nose digging into the softness of your palm tenderly, “I must apologize for the situation I put you in. I had no right to make that decision for you. Even if it all turned out alright in the end.”

“It is the way of the gods, is it not?” You answer dismissively, looking off to the side once the reality of who you’re speaking to crashes down on you.

Just how different from them can he really be?

You completely miss the dejected look on his face.

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ccrisntok · 6 months ago

Text

Your Masterminds, Whit Young, and Ace Markey! (mm! whace au)

(Spoilers lol)

what normal fellas ahahahahaha (I have poured my entire soul into these two there is nothing left of me)

A basic summary of their relationship:

Whit has spent like, over a year manipulating Ace into being complacent in his plans. In his own eyes, Ace is a sorta-stupid lacky, who he's constantly love-bombing to keep obedient. Although, he is a bit glad for the company... it was sorta empty when Ace was "dead" and they couldn't really talk. And maybe Ace almost dying from his fake execution was a bit disturbing. But he's sure its nothing! (He fell in love with him like a moron.)

Ace has fully fallen in love with Whit. He's not happy about it, but it happened. As a result, he's basically ruined any semblance of his own morality, just so he doesn't lose Whit, or the affection he knows is mostly performative. He's more than happy to kill his fuck-face classmates, after a... bit of prodding, and honestly, he'd do anything Whit asked at this point, even die. He'll still complain about it, though.

i tried to be as original as humanly possible, but I'm def giving credit to @talkativeanonymous, @acethehorseishere, and @a-blog-for-kat all for inspiring these two in one way or another (esp. a-blog-for-kat lol).

anyway there's the art, here's the promised lore. warning for like a million words. I'm serious. It's 1,400 words. you can stop here i don't blame you.

also sorry for the odd looking bullet points, didn't realize you couldn't have gaps lol!

This au operates on a probably un-canon assumption that I pulled out of my ass. That is that Mai Akasaki is both a student in the class of 27, and that she is the "time loop" student. She is usually a part of the killing game, but she isn't this time, for reasons I'll explain in a sec.

This specific loop, Mai is attempting to dissuade the (usual) mastermind from wanting to start a killing game in the first place. That mastermind is Whit Young.

She goes about this by trying to curb Whit's main reason for his descent into despair, his resounding loneliness, by giving him championship. Charles hasn't softened up to the others in any regard yet. But that wasn't the main reason, unbenouced to Mai.

In this loop, and this loop alone, Mai sets Whit and Ace up to be friends. She hopes they can help each other, since they usually end up more or less alone in their school life.

Surprisingly, it works. They get along decently well, although a codependency starts to develop on Ace's side.

Around this time, Whit takes up an internship at XF Future, which Mai doesn't realize. He innocently wants to explore other job options, "Matchmaking" not really being a stable career forever.

Obviously FX Future isn't a normal Tech Company. Whit starts to change, in a barely noticeable fashion, the longer he works there.

Ace notices Whit's contacts start looking a lot more vibrant after Whit takes a couple weeks off school for a "company trip." He thinks it's... sort of pretty.

(Whit's time at XF Future showed him a side of humanity he didn't realize existed. Insane levels of greed, using the concepts of "ultimates" to guide a stupid pubic where the Government wanted them, generally a dystopia. It feeds into his existing detachment from humanity, until he hits a breaking point, setting his sights on ending the "Ultimates" concept by killing the newest class in the public eye, including himself.)

(XF Future develops a new sort of technology, prosthetic "eyes" that basically turn you into a living remote control, able to connect to an entire building if its connected via a computer system. Security cameras, doors, fucking air conditioning- everything.

(Whit offers himself as the test dummy, and it goes perfectly.)

Anyway, Mai decides to talk to Ace, since she's starting to realize he's becoming a bit... softer after hanging out with Whit so much? And hopes like, for once, he'll actually accept help for his mountain of problems.

He doesn't take this conversation very well.

Mai, with knowledge from dozens of loops, accidentally brings up an extremely traumatic event, simply mentioning the name "Tyler" once.

In a blinding mix of rage and horror at Mai's knowledge of the event, that Ace has literally never even spoken about in this timeline, Ace shoves her away from him.

She falls backwards, and splits her head on a desk, killing her instantly.

Ace, in a horrified frenzy, calls Whit, literally his only friend.

Whit shows up. Ace expects him to freak the fuck out, call the cops, or something like that... But he doesn't.

Whit simply tells him they were going to hide the body together, not even remotely caring about Mai's death.

yeah that's a little fucking weird, and its terrifying, but going to jail is scarier sooo Ace goes along with it!

After this, Whit wraps Ace into uncharacteristically cruel pranks against some of their classmates and others at Hopes Peak, oftentimes resulting in physical injury.

He acts like these are completely normal and funny, while Ace is both freaked out by it, and sort of enjoys enacting pain on people he didn't like.

Along the way, Whit notices Ace starting to fall for him. Horrible news for Ace, since Whit plays into those emotions by becoming much more physically and emotionally affectionate. Which he doesn't enjoy, like, at all... not a bit...

Whit convinces Ace to assist him in greater and greater acts of violence until Whit just straight up kills someone (not a classmate, a stranger.)

Ace is of course tied into everything way too deep to stop now, and after all this... he doesn't really want to. So he stays as Whit's accomplice for months, up until Whit's weirdo behavior arrives at the idea of the killing game. He references the "First Killing Game", which Ace had never heard of.

The idea is a bit intense for Ace, but at that point, he didn't have anything beyond Whit. If it took this to stay with him... He'd do it. Even if in the end, they both were going to die.

So they get to work!

Ace had been taking engineering classes at Hope's Peak in hopes of getting out of jockeying, and he'd helped his family build sheds and shit since he was a kid, so he focused on the construction and executions.

Whit wired the building an all-encompassing computer system he could control, as well as stealing "Mono-TV" from XF Future, a robot he can fully control to be the "host" of the game.

He also steals the "mind wiping" technology from XF Future. It's weirdly easy to steal stuff from this company, hm? It's almost like they aren't protecting it...

Whit also uses another piece of experimental biological technology... on Ace.

A screen connected to his brain, a lottt less invasive than Whit's eye surgery. It doesn't impact Ace mentally, it just gives him the ability to produce visible projections for easy construction, communicate with Whit remotely, (and give Whit a way to always know what Ace's condition.)

The screen is unclipped when the game starts, but the brain implant is still connected to Whit, so he can detect Ace's condition.

After kidnapping the class of 27 and wiping their memories... It all starts. A killing game, streamed live to the entire nation.

Whit and Ace start off as a part of the class, interacting with the others like normal, a pretty decent show. Things go roughly as planned, putting everyone in the positions Whit wanted them. Untilll... chapter 2.

Ace gets his ass jumped, and almost dies prematurely. This is fine, Whit privately makes sure the wounds properly cleaned, but it does fill Whit with an... ominous feeling.

Ace still kills Arei, a part of the plan, and gets "executed", so he can more easily upkeep the executions and such behind the scenes.

After the screen playing the fake execution turns off, Whit checks to make sure Ace didn't get injured in his running around... but can't detect anything.

At all.

Ace's heart wasn't beating.

He actually, seriously, had a fucking heart attack.

(Ace's heart attack was for a combination of reasons. Firstly, his heart was actually in pretty bad condition as a result of his eating disorder, something Whit had figured was "over" by now. It wasn't!)

(Second, in that moment, the idea that maybe, just maybe, Whit could have been double-crossing him came to Ace. What if Whit loaded the guns? What if Ace's use was done, and Whit was finally getting rid of him? It was terrifying because he could die, and terrifying because... It'd make sense. It was all that ever happened to him.)

So he had a heart attackkk lameeeeee

This makes Whit tweak the fuck out, internally. (lol pretend his spooky ass sprite happens AFTER the execution, not before. shh its all made up its all pretend)

After Levi gets taken to the infirmary, Whit drops Charles off at his room as quickly as he can, then fucking BOLTS IT to a hidden passageway in his room to the like... Mastermind area, with the execution chamber.

Whit manages to resuscitate Ace in time, barely. And even after that, he's in pretty bad condition. But he's conscious and mobile.

Whit gets him as comfortable as he can, and after spending the night, he sort of... has to leave. He does some tweaks to Ace's brain screen thing, creating a functional heart monitor that Ace (and he) can watch.

As often as he can, Whit sneaks off to the Mastermind area at night to make sure Ace doesn't fucking die in his sleep. But Ace gets... decently better quickly, and returns to his duties overseeing the killing game.

Whit still visits almost every night to make sure Ace wakes up, which he can't really explain to himself. Ace was... supposed to be disposable anyway. Why would it matter if he died?

Anyway yeah the rest of the game happens. No clue there.

In the end, Whit and Ace come out as masterminds (happy pride).

I have a comic planned for how the end goes, soooo... that's it!

holy fuck! my fingers! hi the whole 2 people who made it down this far... uh... did you like my lore.....? do you want me dead now for having you read 1,400 words of two evil homsexuals...? 😅 love you thank you im sorry.

#drdt spoilers #whit young #ace markey #drdt fanart #drdt #danganronpa despair time #gooddd this took forever #drdt au #mm whace au #whace

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cripplecharacters · 1 month ago

Note

Hi, I hope you're having a good day! I have a schizophrenic OC and have some questions about psychosis:

What are moments of clarity in the middle of an episode like, as in realizing a delusion isn't true? Can a moment of clarity fully take you out of an episode on its own, or would you just spiral again without intervention?

If you get closer to where a hallucination is "coming from" in physical space, does the sound get closer?

What would it be like if you tried to physically interact with a visual hallucination? -Anon 🐝

Anon 🐝 here again with more questions about psychosis: How common is it to hallucinate (visually or auditorily) people you know in real life? Can you have consistently positive experiences with a recurring hallucination? Thanks so much for everything you do!

Hey!

I have psychosis but not schizophrenia, so please keep this in mind. I'll also say that psychotic symptoms and experiences are extremely individualized, and these answers are based on my own experience, they're by no means universal.

Can a moment of clarity fully take you out of an episode on its own, or would you just spiral again without intervention?

This will depend on a few factors, I think. If someone is in general aware that they have a psychosis spectrum disorder, go into a psychotic episode, and realize "oh I'm Actively Having a Psychotic Episode" then that might take them right out of it, or do so gradually, or at least help them stop freaking out. If someone has the insight of knowing what is happening to them, there's a higher chance they will go back to "normal" faster.

On the other hand, if someone is unaware that they are in psychosis, or what is going on, there's a higher chance they will go back to it. But there are no hard rules - someone who is normally extremely self-aware of their psychotic episodes might spiral into it over and over if they're under more stress than usual, for example.

Another thing is whether the hallucination/delusion is "bizarre" (fantastical, literally couldn't happen, not understandable even in the person's religious/cultural context) or "non-bizarre" (possible, even if highly unusual/improbable). If someone is aware they could be in psychosis, it's much easier to clock something as fake if it's of the bizarre variety (since having an alien in your bedroom is weirder and raises more questions than someone knocking at your doors a lot). That can provide that moment of clarity if you have enough self awareness to go "but aliens aren't real, I must be in psychosis" - though it's not a guarantee by any means ("what if I'm the first person to discover aliens?" -> starts spiraling all over again).

The same above goes for "simple"/"complex" visual hallucinations - if you realize that the "person" is actually just a vaguely person-shaped blob of color, it could just take you out of it, since well, that's not very convincing after you notice that.

There are also ways to "solidify" that clarity. A really common trick I know is to take a photo of the hallucination; if it's not here then you know it's not there either. Some people also take off their glasses and check if there's a mismatch in how the hallucination should look like if it was real vs if it's made up by the brain (if it suddenly looks like an interactive object in a 2000s video game or looks weirdly HD, it's probably a hallucination), though this one never worked for me personally.

What would it be like if you tried to physically interact with a visual hallucination?

I only ever tried to do this while I was fully unaware that I was in a psychotic episode, so keep that in mind.

Looking at it now, I didn't "feel the hallucination" at all. I was hallucinating thing A, and touching real existing thing B (that I thought A was on/under), and I felt exactly what I would if it was just the real physical object B. But because I was hallucinating, I didn't pay attention to that fact, and it certainly didn't "take me out of the hallucination" that the hallucination didn't feel how it should. It obviously depends on the person, but if someone is trying to touch the hallucination and expecting it to feel like the thing, they probably won't notice even if it doesn't feel like it at all. You could be hallucinating a dog and be touching a chair, and it wouldn't feel out of the ordinary.

As for the hallucination touching the person - again, can only speak for myself - tactile hallucinations can be extremely real. Mine felt 100% how they would (if they could logically happen, since mine were of the "bizarre" variety), even looking back at it now.

If you get closer to where a hallucination is "coming from" in physical space, does the sound get closer?

A lot of the points from the answer above will be true for this one too. If someone is completely "in" that hallucination, they might not notice/care even if the sound doesn't get any closer despite them getting closer. But yes, some people can have very realistic hallucinations and be able to tell exactly where its sounds are coming from according to them. If it's a static hallucination that e.g. only shows up in a specific area, they might avoid going anywhere near there.

Also: not all hallucinations that should logically produce sounds actually do. Another thing that the brain might ignore and not question for some people, and take someone else out of the hallucination entirely.

How common is it to hallucinate (visually or auditorily) people you know in real life?

I think media makes it seem way more common than it actually is, but it does happen. This could also be affected by the person's life events, e.g. if a psychotic person has recently experienced something major regarding a certain person, there's a higher chance they could be hallucinating them - because it's Recent and Traumatic. Some people will be hallucinating people they know 24/7 nonstop, others will literally never have it, and a big portion will have a few of those throughout their life.

It is also fairly common to hallucinate recently lost loved ones after their death for people who aren't (long-term) psychotic as well. It's basically a trauma response to high stress, and can happen to anyone.

I'll say, you can hallucinate all sorts of real people: they sure could be your closest loved ones, but they could also be your classmates, your annoying coworker, the cashier at your local grocery store, a religious figure, etc.

Can you have consistently positive experiences with a recurring hallucination?

You can, though I personally never did. I'll leave this question to mods who have more experience with it, though I'll say that you can especially have a positive hallucination if it's a hallucination of something you already like (like a friend, for example).

For the end I'll also mention that there are many more types of hallucinations than just visual and auditory; olfactory (smell), tactile, sexual, somatic (e.g. pain, or feeling like you're moving when you aren't), and command ("the voices telling you to do something", it's usually categorized differently from auditory ones).

Hope this helps,

mod Sasza

Hello!

I have schizoaffective with depression and only have a few things to add because Sasza put everything so well! :)

There's a concept in psychosis you'll hear a lot called double bookkeeping. It's the idea that you both know something is delusional or part of psychosis but believe it anyways. This is something that I experience during early episodes or in the beginning that goes away as my episode gets longer. Some people do not have this at all, some people this is the only way their psychosis shows up. But a lot of how strong a hallucination or delusion is will depend on if you're truly believing it without question or double bookkeeping, or how "in" the hallucination or delusion you are, as Sasza said.

Personally, it's harder to have a "moment of insight" when I am double bookkeeping because I already know what I'm believing or doing is unrealistic or bizarre but I still keep doing it. When I am fully in the delusion, it's easier for something to pull me out (one time a very well timed text message from a friend made me start to question a very dangerous delusion) and for me to go to the double bookkeeping mindset.

As for hallucinations and where they are physically located, I've mainly had hallucinations that feel like they are anchored in place but the opposite is also possible!

I sometimes hallucinate real people, but those times have often been related to strong emotion or trauma, like mentioned. I more often see strangers.

It is possible to have a positive hallucination or delusion, or to have a hallucination that is regularly positive! I have a British voice that brought me a lot of comfort in my last serious episode. He would say very positive things compared to the other meaner voices. I actually miss him sometimes, although I am glad to no longer be hearing voices.

Last little bit I'll add is please remember schizophrenia and schizoaffective involve at least 2 of 5 components, only one of which have to be hallucinations, disorganized speech, or delusions! The others are abnormal movements/catatonia and negative symptoms (asociality, anhedonia, avolition, alogia, and (blunt) affect, the beautiful five As).

Happy writing!

Mod Bert

#mod sasza #Anon 🐝#anonymous #psychosis spectrum representation #mod bert

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misshoneyimhome · 4 days ago

Text

What's up buttercups 💕

Lucky number thirteen is here—and it’s time for our Ice King, the Golden boy, to really prove what he's made of. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to bring Auston Matthews home to meet your mother… well, this is my (very shameless) take on that fantasy 🙈 Not saying I’ve imagined this scene for years… but also, not not saying that 😉

As always, I hope you enjoy every messy, steamy, awkward moment. Happy reading, babes—and sending you all the love ❤️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ smut: semi-public dry-touching, oral sex (m receiving), orgasm denial/edging, slight sub/dom-act, fingering, unprotected vag sexual intercourse (no cum inside), oral sex (m receiving), cum swallowing

Word count: 6.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven ; Chapter twelve

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter thirteen - A king can move one space at the time…*

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

The game continues. Last night, the Queen did not surrender. She rose—flushed, glorious, and kissed by fire—and the King, ever unpredictable, played a move no one saw coming. But if chess has taught us anything, it’s this: each piece has a purpose. And some, when pushed to their limit, become more dangerous than ever.

So, what now?

They’ve shared the battlefield. They’ve blurred the lines. And if last night’s performance was any indication, the Ice King is no longer playing to protect the crown—he’s playing to win her.

And yet, every kingdom has its knights.

Did anyone even recognise Lorentz or Knies on the ice? Each move made by our Queen and King is being watched—studied—by the court they keep.

But at what cost?

We move one space at a time, dear readers. And sometimes, the most powerful move is the one you don’t see coming.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

—

You woke up alone.

The November rain was steady against the windows, soft and relentless, painting streaks across the glass like the sky couldn’t make up its mind about being gentle or cruel. The light was grey and muted, seeping into the room in thin, silvery layers. Almost romantic if it weren’t so dull. If your chest didn’t feel like it had been pinned in place by something, you couldn’t quite name.

Auston was gone.

The sheets were still tangled around your legs, warm from where your bodies had been. You shifted slightly, the dull ache between your thighs blooming back to life with the movement. It was the kind of soreness that lingered, clinging to your skin like memory—tender hips, stiff neck, the faintest tremble in your limbs that told the full story of how he’d handled you. The inside of your elbows bore light pressure marks—imprints of where he’d held you down. You didn’t mind.

There was no trace of sunlight—only the soft hum of rain and the distant creak of old pipes in the walls. But the scent still lingered, curling around you like a second duvet. Auston. That familiar blend of cedar, fresh air, and the heat of skin against skin. Faint traces of your perfume, too. And the salt-sweet aftermath of everything he’d done to you. With you.

Your hand reached blindly for the other side of the bed, finding nothing but cool fabric and the ghost of his weight in the mattress.

He hadn’t even asked to stay.

And you’d let him.

There had been no cuddling. No whispered promises or tangled limbs. Just his presence, steady and firm beside you until sometime in the early hours. You remembered waking once—briefly—to the sensation of his back to you, the soft sound of his breath steady and slow. He hadn’t touched you. Just existed beside you. And somehow… that had been enough.

But now? Now he was gone, and you were left with your thoughts and the echo of last night.

You reached for your phone, half-buried in the tangle of covers, your fingers fumbling over the charger cord. The screen lit up immediately, a single message waiting for you:

Auston: See you later, boss. Just tell me when and where.

You stared at it for a long moment, your lips twitching in a quiet, disbelieving smile. It was classic him—short, cocky, a little smug—but it landed like a stone in your chest. Not because it hurt. But because it felt… certain. Like a promise.

He was still in this.

Whatever this was.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, rereading it once. Twice. Then again, like the words might shift or reveal something deeper if you looked hard enough. But they didn’t change.

And yet, they grounded you.

You sank back against the pillows, head tipping to the side, breathing in the scent of him one more time. Your skin still tingled in places—especially the ones he’d marked with his mouth, his teeth, his hands.

Last night had cracked you open.

Not just physically—though that had certainly been part of it. But emotionally. Viscerally.

You hadn’t expected to want what he gave you. You didn’t think you’d enjoy being touched like that, commanded like that. But God, the way he had looked at you—like you were made to be ruined by him, the way he’d coaxed every cry and curse out of you like it was a melody he’d memorised—he made you melt.

And the worst part?

You wanted more.

You wanted him to push further. Take more. Say the things he said with that voice that went dark and low just before he lost control. You wanted to know what else he could unlock inside you.

You weren’t scared of it anymore. You were curious.

Your phone buzzed again—this time with a message from your mother—and the real world came crashing back like a wave.

Right. Tonight.

You swung your legs out of bed, feet touching the cool floor, and tried to find your centre. To stay in control. But the second your eyes caught the soft pink bruises at your inner thigh as you passed the mirror, your stomach fluttered again.

He hadn’t just fucked you. He’d changed something in you.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, tying your robe around your waist with a sharp tug. “No spiralling. Just… dinner.”

Dinner with your family.

Dinner with Auston.

The sheer absurdity of it made you want to laugh. Or hide. Or crawl back into bed and pretend you didn’t just spend the night giving Auston Matthews control of your body in ways you never thought possible.

But you didn’t do any of those things.

You headed to the shower. Let the steam clear your head or try to. You washed him off your skin but not from your thoughts.

And you tried—really, truly tried—not to overthink.

It wouldn’t be easy. Not for you. And certainly not for him.

Meeting your family never was.

You’d grown up in a house where expectations were tucked beneath the placemats and poured into the wine glasses. Where your mother loved you loudly but judged you louder. Where your siblings always knew the right thing to say, and you were still learning how to speak without apology.

So, bringing Auston into that? Even fake Auston?

It felt like standing in front of a firing squad.

You towelled off and stared into the mirror again, this time really looking. At your still-slightly-swollen lips. At the faint love bite near your collarbone. At your eyes—wide, uncertain, and yet… excited?

You sighed.

“Get it together,” you muttered, reaching for your moisturiser. “It’s just one dinner. With your fake boyfriend. Who gave you two or three orgasms last night. No big deal.”

Totally normal.

Completely fine.

You weren’t spiralling at all.

But the nervous flutter in your chest? It didn’t lie.

Something had changed. And tonight, you’d find out just how much.

Auston had gone home to walk Felix. He needed the fresh air—the quiet grounding of early morning rain against concrete, the leash loose in his hand, the familiar click of claws on pavement. But more than anything, he just needed to breathe.

Your apartment still clung to him. Your scent. Your skin. The sounds you made. The softness in your voice when you said his name like it meant something real.

He hadn’t meant to stay last night. He really hadn’t. But after everything—after the game, the hallway, the car park—walking away had felt impossible. So he hadn’t. He’d stayed. Watched the curve of your back rise and fall with each breath beside him, his own heart hammering beneath ribs that had never felt so breakable.

No cuddling. No tangled limbs or whispered promises. Just presence. And yet it had felt louder than anything else.

Auston adjusted his grip on the leash as Felix paused to sniff at a streetlamp, tail wagging.

He’d crossed boundaries with you. Pushed you to your limits. And he’d loved every second of it. The way you melted beneath him, the way you begged without shame, the way your body gave in and gave back like it had always belonged to him. He’d learned something about you last night. Something about himself, too.

And he wanted more.

Not just more of your body—though fuck, that haunted him—but more of you. The you who teased and challenged and met him toe to toe. The you who looked at him like he wasn’t just the Ice King, but a man worth melting for.

His phone buzzed. A message lit up from a number he sort of recognised - Brunette #4 (or maybe it was #3, he didn’t really know):

“Hope you’ll be happy with her. Jk. You’re a dick. Hate u!”

Auston snorted under his breath. Swiped it away without replying. He didn’t care. Not anymore. Not about girls who knew his schedule better than they knew his laugh. Not about pretty distractions with perfect lips and no substance.

He pulled up your last message instead.

You: Dinner’s at 6. I’ll send the address. Be on time.

He smirked. His thumb hovered briefly before he typed:

Auston: Yes boss. I’ll be there. Game face on.

Back at your place, your nerves were fraying at the edges like the hem of a dress you hadn’t had time to mend. You sat cross-legged in front of your vanity, trying not to look like you were about to implode, while Jess hovered behind you like a glam squad with a grudge.

“Jess,” you snapped, batting her hand away as she reached for your face again, “if you touch my eyebrows one more time—”

“Oh my god, calm down,” Jess groaned, rolling her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. “I’m not carving them off with a butter knife. I’m literally brushing them. You act like I’m trying to steal your identity.”

“I’m meeting my mum,” you hissed, eyes wide in the mirror. “With Auston. For dinner. Do you have any idea how deeply not okay I am?”

Jess’s face softened, just slightly. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair. But, babe—look at you. You’re gorgeous. Like scary, don’t-make-eye-contact-on-the-subway gorgeous. She’s gonna take one look at you two and assume he’s already picked out a ring.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to show how those words made your stomach twist. “Sure. Because nothing screams eternal love like emotionally repressed NHL captains and dinner with overbearing mothers.”

Jess gave you a look. “You joke, but seriously? What you said he said last night? To that girl - If that’s not real, then I need to see my therapist again.”

You froze. Just a little. Just enough for her to notice.

She plopped down beside you on the bed, lipstick in hand, legs crossed like she had all the time in the world. “Like, do we need to start brainstorming engagement hashtags? Because #MapleMatrimony kinda slaps.”

You laughed—too loud, too sharp. “Please stop. I can’t breathe in this blouse, let alone process a fictional wedding.”

Jess just grinned, unbothered. “I’m only half-joking. He looks at you like he’d move mountains. Or at least miss a morning skate, which for him? Basically the same thing.”

You didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, you focused on your eyeliner, smudging it just enough to look like you weren’t trying too hard. “He’s just good at playing the part,” you said, voice breezy. “We’ve had to… navigate a lot lately.”

Jess leaned in, peering at you. “Yeah, and most guys don’t navigate their way into your bed and your family dinner in the same weekend. Just saying.”

You grabbed the pillow next to you and whacked her with it. She yelped, laughing.

“Okay, okay!” she said through giggles. “Fine, I’ll shut up. But I’m not blind, and neither is your mum. And I swear, if he pulls the whole ‘let me help with the dishes’ move after dinner? I’m starting a Pinterest board.”

You shook your head, but the smile tugging at your lips was reluctant. “You’re impossible.”

Jess shrugged. “And you’re in denial.”

There was a pause. Then, casually, she added, “Oh—and guess who asked about you again?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Ryan,” she sing-songed. “Mr. ‘Just One Date’ is now Mr. ‘Persistent Since Wednesday.’ He’s clearly not over it.”

You groaned, tossing the pillow at her again. “Don’t start.”

Jess caught it this time. “What? You’ve got options, babe. Even if one of them is currently playing doting boyfriend and giving your mum grandkid fever.”

You stared down at your phone. Fingers hovering. Thinking.

“I should text him what wine she likes,” you muttered.

Jess grinned, satisfied. “Oh yeah. Nothing to see here at all.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the truth? You weren’t sure where the performance ended anymore either.

“Our Queen has left the palace gates. Destination? Home turf. But family dinners are rarely just that, especially when love—or the illusion of it—is on the menu.

Tonight, the Ice King faces a far more dangerous opponent than any rival team: the Queen’s mother. A woman known to wield passive-aggression with the skill of a seasoned general. And while our King might be fluent in post-game interviews and press charm, is he ready for the battlefield of Sunday roasts and sibling shade?

One wrong answer and the royal illusion could come crashing down. - The Benchwarmer”

The drive to your mother’s house—just over an hour outside of Toronto—felt longer than usual, even with the November dusk softening the edges of the highway in moody streaks of grey and fading gold. The rain had stopped earlier, but the clouds still hung low, like they were waiting for an excuse to open up again.

Auston was behind the wheel, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other lazily tapping against the gearshift to the rhythm of a song you barely heard. He looked frustratingly relaxed, like he was driving to a pre-game skate and not straight into the lion’s den of your family dinner.

You, on the other hand, were wound so tight your fingers had gone numb from fidgeting with the seam of your skirt.

It wasn’t Auston you were nervous about.

It was everything else.

Your mother wasn’t cruel. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t throw tantrums or make scenes. But she could disarm a person with a single look, a question phrased too politely to be anything but loaded. Her wine glass was her weapon, her smile the misdirection. And Auston—cocky, confident Auston—wouldn’t see it coming until he was already bleeding out on the dining room floor.

You could practically hear her now:

“And what exactly is your long-term plan?” “Do you think professional hockey is a real career?” “What does a man with no stability offer my daughter?”

All delivered with silk-gloved precision while she passed the roasted vegetables and offered seconds like it was all completely civil.

Your older brothers weren’t much better. Two walking LinkedIn profiles with perfectly pressed collars and curated families, ready to pounce under the guise of protectiveness. They’d test Auston’s patience, push his buttons, try to make him squirm just enough to feel like they’d done their big-brotherly duty.

And the twins? Seventeen and already halfway viral on TikTok. They’d either flirt shamelessly or roast him within an inch of his life—maybe both. If they weren’t already drafting a group chat called Matthews Watch 2025, you’d be shocked.

You exhaled sharply and glanced over.

Auston was focused on the road, one hand casually adjusting the volume. His jaw was relaxed, his leg bouncing lightly to the beat. If he was nervous, he sure as hell didn’t show it.

“You good?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

He glanced your way and smirked. “Game face on.”

You let out a humourless laugh, nerves bubbling just beneath the surface. “This isn’t a game.”

Auston shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond. You just turned your face back toward the window, watching as the city slipped away behind you and suburbia crept closer with every mile. Your heart pounded louder than the bass in the car, every street sign a countdown.

Tonight, you weren’t just pretending to be Auston’s girlfriend.

You were pretending that you could handle the weight of all this. The chaos. The closeness. The quiet questions clawing their way up your throat.

Because deep down, you weren’t sure if this was still about pretending anymore.

You pulled into the driveway a few minutes before six. The sun was already beginning to dip behind the neighbour’s maple trees, casting long shadows across the familiar brick path that led to the front door. Auston shifted beside you in the driver's seat, gaze fixed on the modest two-storey house that had been home for most of your life. It wasn’t extravagant, not like some of the places he knew, but it was warm, lived-in—paint slightly chipped around the doorframe, wind chimes clinking lazily near the porch light.

“This it?” he asked, a touch of amusement in his voice.

“This is it,” you replied, inhaling deeply. “The arena of maternal judgment.”

He smirked, one brow rising. “Can’t wait.”

Inside, it was everything you remembered—faintly scented with lemon polish and lavender, the hum of an old dishwasher in the background, the faint creak of floorboards under soft slippers. Your mother appeared in the hallway almost instantly, all smiles and carefully curated cheer.

“Auston, welcome,” she said with a tone that could only be described as formal hospitality laced with subtle suspicion. She extended her hand—her grip was firm, brief.

“Thank you, Mrs—”

“Oh, none of that. Call me Janice,” she interrupted. “We’re not so formal here.”

You exchanged a look with Auston. Oh yes, she was in performance mode.

The introductions followed in rapid succession. Your eldest brother, Daniel, shook Auston’s hand with a nod that barely concealed his “I’m watching you” energy. His wife, Samira, was sweet, if a little wide-eyed. Your second brother, Thomas, had his baby on one hip and didn’t even try to hide his smirk as he muttered, “So this is the guy,” before disappearing into the living room.

The twins—Chloe and Claire—barely looked up from their phones, though Chloe offered a distracted, “We’ve seen you on TikTok,” and Claire added with a smirk, “We liked you better without the moustache. Makes you look like a creep.”

Auston took it all in stride, unbothered and smiling just enough. He gave each person just the right amount of charm, nodded at the right moments, and even asked about the dog that no longer lived there.

Your mother ushered you both down the hallway like a tour guide, pointing out where the new wallpaper had gone up, how the fireplace had finally been repaired. And then, just before dinner, she opened the door to your old bedroom.

“This used to be hers,” she said with a fond glance at you. “Now it’s where the kids keep all their toys. Can’t let any space go to waste.”

You blinked at the bright foam alphabet tiles covering your once carefully curated posters and polaroids. Auston stepped inside, smiling faintly at the worn-out Beatrix Potter books and abandoned LEGO sets.

“So this is where the magic happened?” he teased under his breath, glancing at you.

“Don’t,” you warned, shooting him a look—but your lips twitched.

Your mother appeared behind you with a perfectly timed glass of white wine. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said. “Now don’t drink it all at once.”

You accepted the glass gratefully, only for her to add with a slightly raised brow, “Though I do hope it’s not a nightly habit now that you’re dating a professional athlete.”

You didn’t answer. Just took a very long sip.

Auston bit back a grin.

Game on.

Dinner had started surprisingly well. Your brothers, of course, couldn’t resist giving Auston a hard time—sarcastic questions about his “hobby” turned career, jabs about his skating, jokes about his salary. But Auston, to your complete lack of surprise, took it all in stride. He handled them with the same cool detachment he gave reporters in scrums—smiling when appropriate, firing off one-liners that made even your stiffest sibling crack a grin.

And somehow, you were right there with him.

Trading barbs. Meeting teasing with sass. You weren’t just surviving the family dinner—tonight, you were thriving in it. For once, you felt calm, composed. Powerful, even. Like something about Auston’s presence grounded you, amplified you.

Or maybe it was the wine.

Or the fact that you still hadn’t fully shaken the memory of him last night—his mouth, his hands, the way he’d made you feel like the only woman in the world.

Your skin buzzed with that memory as you passed the potatoes and laughed at something Thomas said. But then—then—you felt it.

Auston’s hand.

Low and steady, it landed gently on your thigh beneath the table. His pinky brushed against the hem of your skirt. Innocent enough. Until it wasn’t.

His fingertips dragged upward, slow and deliberate, until they slipped under the fabric entirely. He didn’t go far—just grazed the edge of your inner thigh, barely there, before retreating and starting again. Lazy circles. Featherlight teasing.

Your fork paused mid-air. You didn’t even blink.

You pressed your legs together instinctively, but it only made it worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

So you retaliated.

You mimicked his motions, letting your hand drop onto his knee under the table, soft and casual. His thigh was warm beneath your touch. Solid. You traced light patterns there, fingertips dancing higher and higher, until you reached the seam of his trousers. You gave the inside of his leg a slight squeeze.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a beat as he answered Daniel’s question about locker room politics.

But you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The tight clench of his jaw.

Oh, so this was how he wanted to play it.

His hand moved again, bolder this time, sliding further up your thigh. Your breath hitched when his fingers pressed against the heat between your legs—just for a second. Just enough to remind you that he could ruin you with a single move. Then he pulled back like nothing had happened.

“Tell me, Auston,” your mother chimed in from across the table, setting her wine glass down with a faint clink. “Do you ever think about what comes after hockey? I mean, it’s not exactly… a sustainable lifestyle, is it?”

You rolled your eyes. Here we go.

Auston didn’t even blink. “That’s fair. I’ve started thinking about long-term investments, actually. Property. Some charity initiatives, too.”

“Oh?” your mother pressed, eyebrows raised. “And how do you plan to balance that with… family?”

And that’s when you did it.

Your palm slid slowly over his crotch under the table. He was slowly hardening beneath your touch.

You kept your expression neutral as you sipped your wine.

Auston coughed once. Covered it as a laugh. “I guess it comes down to good support systems. And priorities.”

You watched your mother nod, unimpressed. Your brothers had already lost interest and launched into some story about a neighbour’s divorce.

You turned toward Auston slightly, lips barely parted, voice just low enough to vibrate beneath the buzz of conversation. “You’re doing great.”

His eyes slid to yours. Dangerous. Hungry.

“You’re playing with fire, boss,” he murmured, leaning in like he was adjusting his chair. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You smiled sweetly, brushing your hand just a little firmer across him, enough to draw a subtle breath from his lips.

“Maybe I want to finish it,” you whispered back. Then, after a pause, “Maybe I want to finish you… with my mouth.”

He exhaled slowly. Closed his eyes for half a second.

You felt him swell fully against your hand. Felt the tension in his thigh. The deliberate stillness in his posture.

And you—well, you sat there like nothing was happening at all.

Just a woman. At dinner. With her mother and siblings.

And the man whose self-control you were absolutely annihilating under a perfectly ironed tablecloth.

The opportunity came when your eldest brother launched into his third monologue of the evening—something about a new executive title, a cross-border investment, or his firm’s sixth-figure quarterly bonus. You didn’t really catch the details. You just saw Auston’s gaze flick to yours, jaw tight, pulse visible in his neck, and you knew. It was time.

You leaned toward your mother with a polite excuse, murmuring something about needing the bathroom. And Auston followed less than a minute later, slipping away while the table erupted into a discussion about mortgage rates.

The hallway was narrow. Quiet. You led him toward the guest bathroom at the back of the house—furthest from the dining room, furthest from voices. And you barely managed to click the door shut before Auston’s mouth crashed into yours.

It was heat. Desperation. Tongues tangled. Teeth clashed. His hands found your hips and pushed you against the wall with a groan that vibrated through your spine.

“You think you can get away with that?” he rasped against your mouth. “Touching me like that while your mum talked about fatherhood?”

You didn’t answer. You just dropped to your knees instead.

And oh, the look on his face—shock melting into pure, ravenous hunger—burned itself into your memory.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands, unfastening it with a confidence you rarely felt. The second you freed him from the constraints of his trousers, he was already hard—So thick, flushed, desperate, it made your mouth water.

You wanted to taste him so badly. To show him you could unravel him just like he could you.

You took him in, slow at first, your lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling in a soft, maddening tease. His groan cracked in his throat. One hand slapped to the door behind you. The other found your hair, fingers tightening just enough to remind you he wasn’t in the mood for slow and sweet.

You stroked him with one hand while your mouth worked the rest—hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, bobbing your head in an unrelenting rhythm that had his knees locking.

“Fuck—” he hissed, biting down on the inside of his fist.

You glanced up at him through your lashes. He was flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as he stared down at you with something that looked dangerously close to reverence.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

But you did. For just a second. Just to drag your tongue along the underside of his cock and blow softly against the tip. The way he twitched in your hand made you smirk.

He groaned—louder this time—and you had to reach up with your free hand, press a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” you whispered, licking a drop of precome off your bottom lip. “You want your ‘future mother-in-law’ to hear?”

“Jesus,” he growled, his hips bucking forward.

You took him deeper this time. All the way down. Gagged around him. Drooled messily down your chin as your throat tightened and your fingers dug into the meat of his thighs.

Auston’s head tipped back. His fingers fisted in your hair, dragging you closer, harder, until you could barely breathe. You didn’t care. You wanted to ruin him. You wanted him undone and breathless and at your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the tremble of his thighs. The twitch of his cock against your tongue. The broken sounds falling from his lips.

And then—

“Dessert, anyone?” your mother’s voice called out faintly from the kitchen.

You froze.

Auston’s breath hitched.

And then you pulled back. Slowly and gently. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“What the fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth. His hand was still braced against the door. His cock, swollen and red, was still slick with your spit. His jaw was clenched like he could crack a tooth.

You stood, adjusted your skirt with a wicked smirk, and leaned in close to whisper against his jaw, ”what? Dessert’s ready.”

And just like that you left him to himself. Hard and needy. Completely blue balled.

You walked back into the dining room like you hadn’t just left Auston Matthews on the verge of orgasm in your childhood bathroom. Sat back in your chair, reached for your wine, and smiled at your sisters like nothing had happened at all.

But Auston?

He sat beside you moments later, composed only in appearance. His eyes were dark. His body was still wound tight with frustration. And you could feel the fury in the way he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he murmured.

You sipped your wine. “Promises, promises.”

His hand slid beneath the table again, but this time it wasn’t playful.

It was a warning.

The silence in the car was thick.

Not the kind that begged to be broken, but the kind that said more than any words could. Auston hadn’t spoken since the moment your mother waved goodbye from the porch, a slice of pie in one hand and suspicion still stitched into her parting smile. You hadn’t expected warmth from her—not really—but the tension she brought to the table had taken its toll.

Still, it hadn’t been your mother’s scrutiny that turned Auston cold. You knew exactly what it was. The tease. The touch. The look on his face when your mother had called from the kitchen just before he could unravel completely in your mouth.

He was furious. You could feel it in every rigid turn of the steering wheel, every calculated blink in your direction that never quite landed. And you… well, you couldn’t decide if you were sorry or smug.

The highway stretched out in a blur of taillights and twilight. You sat with your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying not to squirm under the weight of his silence. Until, without warning, Auston took a sharp exit—one you didn’t recognise.

“Aus?” you said, voice hesitant.

He didn’t answer. Just kept driving—off the main road, down a gravel path that led to nowhere in particular. Trees lined the edge of the clearing, the sky above now dipped in deep navy, only the dashboard casting a faint glow between you.

The car slowed to a stop, and you turned to him, your heart already in your throat. “Where are we—?”

“I’m not done with you,” he said.

His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous in the way it coiled around your spine.

“I had to sit through dinner with your entire family,” he continued, still not looking at you. “Had to smile while your mum called me irresponsible, while your brothers grilled me about my future, and your sisters tried to trip me up with questions like it was a game.”

You swallowed hard. “You handled it like a pro.”

His jaw ticked. “I always do.”

And then he turned to you, finally—his gaze like a live wire sparking against your skin.

“But what I can’t handle,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “is being left hanging with a hard-on the size of my ego and a mother asking me if I want whipped cream on my pie.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed.

His hand was on your jaw in an instant. Firm. Possessive. “You think that’s funny?”

“No,” you whispered, biting your lip.

“Because you’ve been playing games all night, boss. But I don’t think you really understand what it means to play with fire.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Until he said, “Back seat. Now.”

And something inside you snapped like a live wire—sharp, electric, alive. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just… heat. Thrumming low in your belly, rising like a tide you had no desire to stop.

Because the version of you that might’ve once laughed nervously, who would’ve deflected or joked her way out of something this intense? She was gone. Left behind somewhere between last night’s hallway, this morning’s sheets, and the exact moment Auston’s fingers slid up your thigh under your mother’s dinner table. In her place was someone braver. Bolder. Someone who wanted to see what happened when you let yourself burn.

You climbed over the centre console without a word, heart hammering, breath shallow. The seat was cool against the backs of your thighs, the leather creaking softly as you adjusted yourself, skirt riding high. Your legs spread, just slightly, as if inviting him. Daring him.

The passenger door clicked shut behind him, followed by the low sound of the lock sliding into place.

And then he was on you.

No warning. No sweet nothings. Just heat and hands and hunger.

Auston’s body crowded you instantly, the weight of him pressing you into the leather as if he needed to stake a claim. His mouth brushed the line of your jaw, not quite a kiss—more a threat, soft and searing. One hand palmed your hip, dragging your skirt higher until the cool air kissed the backs of your thighs. The other pressed to the seat beside your head, anchoring him above you, his breath skating across your lips.

“You don’t get to start something like that,” he growled, low and sharp, “and not finish it.”

You met his eyes—dark, wild, furious with want—and whispered, “Then finish it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His mouth crashed to yours, and it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was possession, full and messy and open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that swallowed sound and left nothing untouched. His tongue slid against yours with practiced intent, tasting you, claiming you.

Auston didn’t undress you, not fully. He didn’t need to. His fingers worked with fast, controlled precision—skirt pushed up, blouse tugged open at the buttons, bra shifted just enough for him to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple like it was instinct.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

Every move he made was calculated. Every shift of his hips, every scrape of his fingers—deliberate and punishing. He had something to prove, and your body was the battleground.

You barely noticed your legs spreading wider to accommodate the press of his knee. All you could focus on was the press of his fingers between your thighs, dragging through your folds like he already knew exactly how wet you were. How ready. And he groaned when he found you—low and primal, the kind of sound that made your spine arch and your hands fist in his jacket.

He teased you first, because of course he did. Auston was many things, but merciful was not one of them—not when you’d left him hard and needy and furious in your mother’s bathroom.

His fingers slid through you with maddening control. Circles. Pressure. Just enough to make your hips lift off the seat. Just enough to make your lips part around a silent plea.

“Already soaked,” he murmured against your throat, voice thick. “Knew you’d be like this.”

You whimpered. He chuckled, dark and dangerous, before slipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right—making your eyes slam shut and your walls clench.

“You gonna beg now, boss?” he whispered, dragging his mouth to your collarbone. “Or you still think you’re in charge?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your mouth had gone slack, your body arching into his like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. And when he pulled his fingers away—leaving you empty, aching—you almost sobbed.

He made you wait. Just long enough to drive you mad.

And then, finally, he undid his trousers with one hand, shoved them low enough to free himself, and lined up without ceremony—just the heat of him pressing at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your folds like a warning.

When he finally thrust inside, it was with one, deep, devastating stroke.

You cried out—high and sharp, the sound muffled by the crook of his shoulder as your body split around him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t soft.

It was punishment. And it was perfect.

His pace was relentless. The windows fogged instantly, your moans caught in the thick, humid air, your fingers scrabbling against the car door, the seatbelt strap, his shoulders—anything to ground yourself. But he didn’t give you a moment to adjust. He just took. Again and again, until your mind blurred and your muscles locked and you couldn’t remember a world that didn’t have him inside you.

“You like pushing me?” he rasped, snapping his hips forward so hard your breath caught. “This what you wanted?”

You could barely nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

But he felt it. The way your body clenched around him, the way your legs wrapped tighter, your cries becoming desperate now.

And he rewarded you.

One hand snaked between you, pressing to your clit with just the right pressure, and your vision went white.

You came with a shudder, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and a curse all at once. But Auston didn’t stop. Not until your orgasm had rippled through every inch of your body. Not until you sagged beneath him, boneless and shaking.

Only then did he pull out.

And the way he looked at you—hair a mess, sweat at his temples, eyes blown wide with control and something almost… tender?

That was almost more intimate than anything else.

Almost.

Because he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

You were breathless, dazed, legs still wrapped loosely around his hips when he sat back, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“Not done,” he said simply.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He reached down, tugging gently at your chin until you were sitting upright, your body still humming. His other hand slipped into your hair.

“On your knees,” he murmured. “And finish what you started.”

And so, you did.

With no hesitation. No shame. Just pure lust.

You took him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, eyes locked with his as you teased the sensitive tip with your tongue. The moment he moaned—low and broken, fingers tangling in your hair—you gave him more. Let him feel the shift from control to surrender, inch by inch, until there was nothing left between you but want.

You gagged as he hit the back of your throat, drool dripping and your lips slick with spit, your jaw aching from the stretch. But you didn’t stop. You focused—breathing through your nose, relaxing your throat, working him with every ounce of skill you had.

And the sounds he made—deep, raw, shameless—only spurred you on. Each moan felt like a reward. Each choked whisper of your name a spark down your spine. You’d never known giving pleasure could feel like this. Like power. Like intimacy.

His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his body tightening as he fought the losing battle for composure. His grip in your hair was desperate.

And when he finally came, it was with your name torn from his lips and a full-body shudder that seemed to ripple all the way through his chest.

“Fuuuck….”

Then silence returned, but it felt different now. Calmer and sated.

And slowly, Auston tucked himself back into his jeans and reached for your hand. “Back up front,” he said softly, a touch of humour finally returning to his voice. “Before we both end up sleeping in the parking lot.”

You couldn't help but laugh, breathless. “Not the worst night I’ve ever had.”

He smirked. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

There are games, and then there are matches. And make no mistake—what we witnessed tonight was no mere exhibition. It was war. It was seduction. It was strategy wrapped in silk sheets and served with a side of family dysfunction.

The Queen has led the King into her past—into the trenches of old bedrooms, relentless siblings, and mothers who wield judgement sharper than any hockey blade. But it was he who took the upper hand, responding not with charm alone, but with heat, with control, with a level of desire that could scorch through even the most carefully built walls.

And the Queen? She did not falter. She flirted with fire, then begged to be burned.

But readers… beware. Because the Ice King is melting, and if we’ve learned anything from the great chess masters of history, it’s this: when the most reserved piece begins to feel, the board is never the same.

One space at a time, remember?

But after tonight, we wonder—who’s really making the moves?

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

#The Benchwarmer #inexperienced!reader x Auston #auston matthews fanfic #Toronto maple leafs fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl romance #nhl imagines

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realtapiocafan · 18 days ago

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Top 5 Joe’Marr pics and / or moments ??! I just got into the fandoms and you have been one of my go blogs for them love your tags by the way 😭😁

ok, first of all TYSM 🫶🫶🫶 this made my weekend actually! 'go-to blogs for joemarr' highest form of compliment right there! and ik i yap a lot in my tags so thanks for that too!

ALSO! before i start! welcome to the fandom! we live purely on delusion here (both for a sb and for more joemarr crumbs)

so, *cracks fingers* top 5 joemarr moments!

1. joe wearing ja'marr's jersey. GAME-WORN jersey, mind you. actually. like this is THEEEE joemarr moment imo. i can never put into words just how insane this makes me feel, because it was in their old stadium and everyone was watching and he was wearing the jersey and just arghhhhhh

look at this man. he knows what he's doing.

and this is practically the same moment so i'll just add the very fond postgame interview here where joe gushes on about ja'marr and ja'marr is looking very giddy about it

2. THE LAKERS-SUNS GAME!!!! ja'marr with the oh-so-casual arm around the shoulder and joe's face not even changing (BC YEA THIS IS NORMAL BEHAVIOR SURE- I FELT LIKE I WAS BEING GASLIT WHEN I FIRST SAW THIS) (and ja'marr you are a fake idgaf! i can see you gaf!)

3. postgame donuts! it's literally EVERYTHING TO ME

first of all, the game itself... when i say i was on my knees, like the stresssss (although this was not as stressful as the broncos one -THAT one took years off my life) but! we finally had some luck swing our way and we won in the best possible way with that freaking insane touchdown (which is one of the best examples of joemarr's connection all by itself imo) (and i'm not forgetting that hug too!)

referring to this video in particular -> it has everything! ja'marr SMEARING that donut across joe's face! ja'marr flinching (which we've all took it as confirmation that joe does practice ufc moves on ja'marr)! 'ja'marr with the 'get me with one back' and joe already with the donut in his hand LMAOOO!!! and ofc you can't forget joe with the (very) quiet 'bitch'!

4. 'i thought he was dropping everything' (i can only have one video sadddd 😔💔) but! the protective vibes! the sassy and even bitchy tone! the pinky shake! it's everything you could ever ask for!

5. the last one was SOOOO hard bc all of the rest just immediately came to mind, but in the end, i chose the GQ Bowl! I'll never forget my awe when i saw this pic, bc everything about this is INSANEEEE. both of them looking at each other like nothing else exists, ja'marr with that SMILE and joe with his squinted eyes... very special, never forget. entire fucking essays (by yours truly) have been written about this photo 🙂

HMs: (bc i might as well take the chance to keep all my favorite joemarr posts in one place so i can find them again instead of hunting through tumblr)

championship ball lore (if this was a top six it would be in there, but the gq pic is very near and dear to me so i had to make a few cuts)

compilation of all the insane MY QUARTERBACK quotes + he's like a god to me

you're such a good girl bro (and part 2) (VERY crucial parts of the tumblr fandom)

you see that big blue thing

hugging after clinching the afc north -> hugging after Signing Day

the only thing that happened in the chiefs game (aka what drew me to this orange and black team in the first place)

uno standing patiently for the helmet bonk (the first win that i watched as a bengals fan! i was scared shitless that we were going to go down 0-4 and i'd never ever watch my baby team win)

joe not cursing much feat. their usual mind-reading bs (i hope to GOD ja'marr's press conferences continue next season!)

joe doing the griddy! (+ this amazing amazing edit)

ja'marr apparently seeing joe everywhere (it's the quiet moments that really get it for me)

2023 lsu spring game (i adore this one actually)

mini-fridge teasing

the utterly insane clothing saga (which technically does not fall under one moment but it's too special to NOT mention) (also feat. the bottega bag)

'no, dad, i’m staying with joe. i’m not going nowhere else' (everything with their parents screams in-laws btw)

me noticing some shit at the nfl honor, which could mean nothing

and honestly you could probably just watch this compilation that the Official Bengals TM account posted

#ja'marr chase #joe burrow #joemarr #my asks #i'll finish here bc i could actually continue for ages #sooo many links i apologize #hope you enjoyed anon!

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siggiedraws · 2 months ago

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I'd love to hear more about your view on Sonic too! What do you like (and dislike, if you want) most about him?🍀

There are so many things I love about him it's hard to choose! But a few things do come to mind:

1) Sonic's willingness to help others no matter what, like when Sonic decides to help rescue a girl's village from a dragon in Black Knight despite the fact that this would cause him to run out of time to do Nimue's tasks (luckily, that was actually a test that Sonic passed!) The fact that Sonic just wants to save people who need saving, no matter if that's an inconvenience to him, shows how compassionate and selfless he is. Not to mention his line to Chip where he says "Do I need a reason to want to help out a friend?" makes me emotional every time. He helps people simply because he wants to!

2) Sonic's thrill-seeking nature. He'll do crazy shit just because it's fun and dangerous and you can tell he just lives for it. He sounds so happy and excited whenever it happens that it's really cute. This is very much highlighted in the Storybook games, where Sonic's companion characters often express their chagrin at how reckless Sonic is. This moment in Pirate Storm and this moment in Molten Mine are my favourite examples.

I would say Sonic's thrill-seeking is emboldened by the fact that he faces death head-on and isn't afraid. When he's about to die in Sonic Adventure 2, he keeps his cool and he calmly holds the fake Chaos Emerald, wondering if he can make it through. In Secret Rings, at the realization that the Flame of Judgment's time limit is almost up, he chuckles to himself and apologizes to Shahra for worrying her. This is extremely telling of his selfless character and his lack of self-preservation. Even in death he's not thinking about himself. He's focused on cheering up his friend.

It's something I find very fascinating, for someone who enjoys living so much to lack a fear of death. Though, I would argue that it does bother him on the inside, if even a little bit, going by the lyrics of Unawakening Float: Must I float away? / Will I ever wake?

3) Sonic's love for life and the world around him. Sonic's always fighting to preserve and protect nature from Dr. Eggman's industrialization, and environmental awareness is a prominent theme in the Sonic franchise, so it makes sense that's what Sonic's all about! He remarks in Heroes that he loves Grand Metropolis, for instance, which is a huge eco-friendly city with no pollution. Also, in a 2022 Q&A, Sonic says that restoring all the levels in Generations reminded him of how great the world is, which is genuinely so sweet! 💙

As for Sonic's love for life, the thing with Sonic is that he doesn't have any ultimate goals in life or any dream to achieve. When it comes to living life to the fullest, he exists in the moment and enjoys the present day. He does what makes him happy right here and right now. In other words, he's content without a destination, and he enjoys the never-ending journey. There is a lot I can learn from him!

4) His mystery! What is Christmas Island like? How did he and Eggman first meet? Just who the hell is this guy? No one knows, but Sonic will tell you he's just a normal hedgehog, which may very well be true. There are little hints here and there that point towards the symbolism of his origins, like his folded boots being inspired by Santa Claus, which is why they're red and white with a buckle! I find that such a cool detail. I love the vagueness of his past and I hope it stays that way.

Speaking of Sonic and mystery, did you know that there's a character called Uhu the Wind Genie in Sonic and the Secret Rings, who is known for his speed, and we never see his true form? I wonder who that could be an analogue to...

As for what I dislike about Sonic, that's much harder to answer because I love him so much. Every aspect about him is perfect to me! I suppose if I had to choose one thing… he can just leave without notice for an extended period of time, as seen in the end of Sonic Advance, and that can be very worrying. He's an independent guy and he likes alone time, but I can imagine how his behaviour could frustrate the people around him. Tails flying in the Tornado trying to look for him in the sky breaks my heart.

anyways... I love Sonic so much as you could tell. Thanks so much for your ask! 💙

#sonic characterization #ask

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seijorhi · 1 year ago

Text

invidia ii

a (very belated) christmas present for my beloved wife @iwaasfairy who has, for two years straight, begged me for more shinnosuke content. i hope you like it bby! kuroo tetsurou x female reader, kuroo shinnosuke (oc) x female reader part i w.c 3.1k tw: noncon/dubcon, slight daddy kink, (forced) infidelity, yandere themes, nsfw, smut, age gap, i guess hints of breeding kink, dilf kuroo

“Why did your parents split up?”

Mid-way through pulling on a pair of old, grey sweatpants, mopping at beads of water from his shower still rolling down his bare chest, Shinnosuke throws you a curious look, but shrugs easily enough.

“They weren’t ever really ‘together’ to begin with. They tried the whole co-parenting thing to start with but mom… they never loved each other. Hell, I don’t even think they liked each other most of the time beyond–” he breaks off, his nose wrinkling in distaste. It almost makes you laugh. “Anyway, dad always said she had one foot out the door from the start. Dad was the one who stuck around to raise me.” There’s no animosity in his tone, he says it like it’s the simple truth. You’ve never met the woman, never having shown up to any of the Nekoma games, his graduation, any of it. You’ve seen a picture or two, overheard the odd phone call, but for as long as you’ve known him, the only real parent in Shin’s life has always been his dad.

If there’s anyone he idolises, it’s his father.

Which is why the words that he says next – casting aside the damp towel in the general direction of the laundry basket (boys) and sauntering on over to join you in bed – take you entirely by surprise. “We’ll go visit her in Golden Week. I want her to meet you.”

And again, the words are just that; words. Shin kisses you, a sweet peck on your lips, and wastes no time in scooping you back into his arms and settling back with a contented sigh. They’re just words, but there’s this look in his eyes when he says it that makes you think he means something more.

Your stomach flutters.

—

‘You really wanna break his heart like that, kitten?’

—

“Still not feeling any better?” Shin asks, brushing your hair back to feel your forehead. The beginnings of a frown start to take shape, teeth gently burrowing into his bottom lip, but he straightens and sighs, and that hint of discontent smoothes over like it had never existed in the first place. He strokes your hair again and offers a small, sympathetic smile. “No temperature, that’s gotta be a good sign, right?”

You’re a coward.

“It’s not my head, I just…” don’t have any visible, plausible symptoms for the fake illness that’s currently keeping you curled up in Shin’s bed. Away from the creep who’d smiled and fucking winked at you Christmas morning. “I just feel off.”

“Poor baby,” he coos, laughing when your face screws up and you swat at him.

Right now, swaddled in his hoodie, his fingers carding through your hair and that stupid, impish, almost believable grin beaming down at you, you want to forget. To pretend.

Because there’s a pit in your stomach. A bitter, gnarled, seething mass. This moment right now, in Shin’s bed, it’s like glass, paper thin and already cracked, it can’t possibly last, and yet you’re clinging to it so desperately, head buried in the sand, willing yourself to pretend, from one heartbeat to the next, that what’s happened won’t break the two of you.

That your stomach doesn’t threaten to upend when you catch sight of those hazel eyes peering down at you – the same shape and shade as his father’s.

You shudder out a breath, and what little levity there was between you two gets sucked out with it. Shin’s expression gutters.

Yeah.

His fingers don’t leave your hair, though. Playing idly with the strands as though the suffocating tension in the room doesn’t exist at all. “Dad’s taking us out to dinner tonight,” he tells you. Reminds you, because you knew all of this beforehand. Everything but the party. “Do you want me to run by the pharmacy to get you something?”

Another tap at the fractured glass.

That’s Shinnosuke all over, isn’t it? You might’ve been the manager back in the day, but it was always Shin who kept an eye on his team, on you, to make sure everyone was good.

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll–” the words get stuck in your throat. “I’ll see how I feel in an hour or so. ‘m still a little tired.”

“You want some tea, sweetheart?”

‘Shh, sweetheart, you gotta keep it down.’

A cold sweat breaks out on the nape of your neck. No. No, no, no, no–

“Baby?”

You flinch like he’s slapped you, jerking away from the hand he’s wound in your hair. The startled look he shoots you borders on wounded, but you’re already squirming towards the edge of the bed, stumbling to your feet like a newborn foal. “Bathroom,” you manage to eke out, your voice sounding far too strangled and hoarse to pass as anywhere near the realm of fine.

Shin doesn’t follow, doesn’t so much as utter a word – all kicked puppy confused – as you throw the door closed behind you and collapse back against it, a sweaty, ashen mess.

He usually calls you love. Baby. Princess when he’s being a little shit.

Sweetheart’s a rare one.

Your heart races, a runaway train pounding in your chest. His eyes, his touch, sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.

Another shuddering breath in. Out.

Fuck.

There’s a knock – not at the ensuite door, the sound’s too muffled for that, and you didn’t hear Shin’s footsteps (though you’re not sure you would, over the pounding in your ribs) meaning that the knocking’s at his door.

There’s only one other occupant in the house. Though you try your damndest to fight it, there’s no stopping the wave of panic that stabs through you. Shin’s door creaks open, soft voices barely creeping through the gap in the door, and your fingers go rigid, nails clawing at the black and white flooring as though you can ground yourself by breaking through it instead.

You don’t realise you’re crying.

Not until the droplets splatter on the tiles by your feet.

—

You should’ve left days ago.

After Christmas, when you’d ducked out from under Shin’s arm and lurched for the nearest bathroom, when it’d finally clicked for him that you violently hurling your guts up wasn’t the result of a simple hangover, you’d tried. Short of admitting the truth – and swinging a bat at the bees’ nest – convincing Shin to leave his dad’s place goes about as well as drawing blood from a stone.

He’s even less thrilled about the prospect of you going back by yourself, leaving him to spend what’s left of the week with his dad like they’d planned.

There’s only so far you can push without breaking something. You, probably. You and Shin, almost definitely.

Even so, you might’ve had more of a backbone if he hadn’t been so… Shin. All coaxing and concerned. Logical to a damn fault.

‘You don’t wanna be stuck in a car driving for hours when you’re feeling shitty, love, and besides, dad’s place is bigger than ours. Comfier. You’ll probably be on the mend by tomorrow anyway, so there’s no point in us heading back.’

If you weren’t trying to salvage what’s left, or maybe clinging to the idea that you can – and want to – then it would’ve been easier just to go.

You wouldn’t still be here, stuck in the house of the man who’d– who’d raped you.

You wouldn’t be avoiding your boyfriend’s eye.

You would’ve screamed the whole house down before Kuroo Tetsurou ever bent you over the kitchen counter.

But the gentle extrication in the early hours of the morning, Shinnosuke’s lips brushing against your cheek, the sleepy rasp of his voice as he mumbles a quiet, “Love you,” before slipping away – you barely stir, cozy and safe and content.

He loves you. Shin loves you.

A while later – minutes, maybe, or hours, it’s hard to tell when you’re still in the grips of sleep – the mattress dips under Shin’s weight, and those strong, sculpted arms seek your warmth again, you only sigh and lean back against him.

“I love you,” you whisper, not yet willing to open your eyes and face another day of lying to him.

The arm slung over your waist curls tighter, his face nuzzling into your neck. The kisses he leaves there aren’t affectionate, exactly, they’re not gentle, when teeth catch, nipping sharply at your skin, only to be soothed by a lave of his tongue.

And the laugh that rumbles at your back – a shade off your boyfriend’s – is anything but nice.

“Yeah? Fuck, you’re sweet in the morning.”

This time, you don’t hold back. You shriek, kicking out like a wild thing – or you would have, if Kuroo’s hand hadn’t clamped down on your mouth, if his weight hadn’t shifted so that rather than lying curled up behind you, he’s half on top of you, pinning you down to the mattress with a thigh lodged between yours.

“Uh-uh-uh, we were doing so good, kitten. Don’t you wanna be daddy’s good girl?”

Your only answer is a ragged noise, torn from somewhere deep inside of you. He chuckles again, grinds against you, his cock a thick, unignorable presence pressed at your ass. There’s nothing but the thin cotton of your sleep shorts separating it from you, and from past experience, that barrier won’t do much to deter him for long.

Kuroo rolls you onto your back and slots himself nicely between your legs. Naked, you realise with a fresh stab of fear.

You scream the moment his palm leaves your lips to capture your wrists, scream for Shinnosuke – for anyone – so loudly that it feels like you’ll bleed for it. Let him come running, find you pinned and squirming, terrified beneath the man who raised him.

Let it be the final crack that obliterates everything.

If Shin sees you like this, utterly petrified, on the verge of being raped again and still thinks it some kind of a betrayal, let him choke on it. You don’t care anymore, you just want someone to stop this.

(Shin wouldn’t, would he?)

But Kuroo only snickers. Leans over to lick along the edge of your lashes, where hot, glistening tears are already spilling over, trickling down to disappear in your hairline. “Your boy’s not here, but we don’t have long ‘til he gets back. You’ll forgive me if we bypass the foreplay this morning, right, sweetheart?” You shudder, goosebumps prickling where his breath washes over you, and you squeeze your eyes shut and violently – pointlessly – shake your head. “We’ll have to save eating your pretty little cunt for next time.”

All too eager, he hungrily captures your lips again and yanks down your shorts, taking your panties along with them.

Christmas morning, you’d been shoved face down over the kitchen counter while he’d fucked you from behind. You’d give anything for that distance right now. At least then you hadn’t had to endure his suffocating warmth, having him squeeze and grope at your tits over your old, threadbare tee.

You wouldn’t have to writhe away from his mouth while he rucks your bare thighs up either side of his hips, dragging you closer.

Even with your eyes screwed tightly shut, you can’t pretend that this isn’t happening as Kuroo spits and a heartbeat later the thick head of his cock slowly – agonisingly slowly – splits you apart.

You forget how to breathe.

Eyes popping open and back arching up into his chest, your fists clutch desperately at the sheets of Shin’s bed, trying to squirm away, only the grip he has on you makes sure there’s nowhere for you to escape to. He’s big, long, mostly, and you’re too tight to take him easily, especially without any prep. The spit doesn’t help any, and Kuroo doesn’t care, groaning out in pleasure as inch by inch he pushes himself deeper, until at last he’s seated firmly inside of you. “Good fucking giiiirl,” he purrs, a kiss pressed to the tip of your nose.

A tiny, drawn out whine is all you can manage when your lower half radiates pain.

“Gonna fuck this perfect pussy nice ‘n full,” he tells you. “Give you everything you need, sweet girl. You can take it. I know you can, you just gotta breathe for me.”

But unlike last time, he doesn’t allow you the luxury of a minute to adjust. His hips draw back and punch forward, jolting another mewling gasp from your lips. And again. And again. The pace isn’t violent so much as intense, like each thrust ignites something inside of him that burns for more.

He clasps your wrists in one hand, pants into your open mouth between frenetic kisses, groans out your name in that shuddering gasp.

“Mine,” he pants, beads of sweat dripping from his chest, his chin, rolling down onto you. “You’re daddy’s girl– fuck!”

Your cunt reacts accordingly, flexing around his cock, easing its passage so that the wet, lurid sounds of him fucking you quickly fill the air. A betrayal that has your cheeks flaming.

The muscles in your thighs burn, Kuroo all but forcing them back towards the bed, his weight driving into you with fervour. A quick adjustment to the angle of your hip and his cock hits a spot deep inside of you that has you choking on a moan of your own, a burst of bright, sizzling pleasure bleeding through the pain.

Kuroo grins ferally at the sound of it. Drops his weight on an elbow and bucks into you, hitting it again. Your inner walls twitch, squeezing and slick, dragging noises from you that make you wanna burn with shame – that, or cut yourself loose entirely. You can’t muster resistance when he swallows them down, sucking on your tongue, moaning into your mouth. His momentum turns rabid, his hand no longer encircling your wrists, but entangled with them, pressing them down to the mattress. “Almost… there…” he grunts, gasping as he curls over you, abs flexing.

A shudder rolls through him, his hips faltering just as something vital shatters inside of you, toes curling, white hot pleasure exploding from your core, rippling through your whole body like the aftershocks of an earthquake. With your pussy spasming around his cock, your body taut and locked with pleasure, Kuroo hurtles off that cliff right alongside you, a strangled noise somewhere between a moan and a growl escaping him as he pumps your cunt full of his seed, all but collapsing atop of you afterwards.

It takes a minute before he peels himself off of you; pushing himself up, braced on elbow so that he’s not crushing you entirely, Kuroo waits, buried inside your warmth, for you to stop trembling with the after effects of your orgasm, for his cock to soften and both of your breathing to even out.

Waits for those glazed over eyes to focus back on him and once again fill with tears, stroking a hand through your sweat-dampened hair as he does so.

“You should go take a shower before Shin gets home,” he says after a minute or two, his voice a low purr. “He can’t be far off.”

But aside from rolling off you to allow you up, Kuroo makes no moves to follow you, or so much as get up off the bed. Naked, his cock soft and glistening with your juices, one knee propped up, he watches you stumble like a newborn foal into the bathroom (only half managing to close the door behind you) with damn near predatory intent, a smirk teasing at his lips.

It’s where Shin finds you a short while later, curled up on the floor of the shower, shaking through silent sobs.

—

Shin doesn’t let go of your hand the entire trip home.

Uncharacteristically sober, he says little aside from the occasional murmur to check in with you – always unanswered – and keeps you tucked close, as though a fraction of distance between you might pry you from his side entirely.

The hours pass in a haze of… nothing. Your tears dry. Numbness takes over. You move like a robot, Shin guiding you every step of the way until you cross the threshold of your apartment.

He never asks what happened. You suppose the smell of sex in his bedroom and the bruises and love bites scattered over your body tell the tale well enough. Shinnosuke’s never been stupid. He’s not dense.

He’s not heartless, either.

In the sanctity of your tiny, shitty bathroom, you shower again. A proper shower this time, with the water turned up full blast, scrubbing viciously at your skin– or at least, you do until he steps in and takes over. You’ve never thought of your boyfriend as particularly gentle, but he pries the loofah from your hand with a delicacy you didn’t know him capable of and takes care of you, cleaning you up with a tenderness that borders on reverence.

You pretend not to notice how his eyes (so like his, sharp and hazel) narrow into a scowl every time he spots another bruise, another mark left by his father. Once or twice his fingers begin to ghost over them, burgundy fingerprints on your thigh, a love bite sucked into the delicate skin above your collarbone, only to catch himself, swallowing tightly and resuming his task like he’d never faltered in the first place.

When you’re done, he dries you both off and helps you into fresh clothes – a pair of comfy sweatpants and an old hoodie of his and guides you back to the living room, setting you down into his lap on the couch.

“I–” his voice is hoarse. Quiet, especially in the stillness of the apartment, and when you glance his way, he awkwardly clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I went to the pharmacy. I thought– I thought…” he trails off again, dropping his gaze. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Your heart twists, and it’s your turn to comfort him. Or maybe you’re comforting each other, shifting slightly in his lap so that you can wrap your arms around him and draw him in close, burying your face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the fresh, clean scent of him. “No. I– it wasn’t…” but the words don’t come. You flounder.

What are you supposed to say? It wasn’t his fault? Wasn’t yours?

You should’ve said something earlier? Should’ve fought back harder – against both of them, should’ve grown a spine?

A beat passes in the tense, thick silence, and when it becomes clear that you’ve got nothing for him, he makes an odd sort of huff that sounds almost irritated. You frown a little, but you don’t fight it when his arms pull tighter around you, when his cheek comes to a rest against your hair and his hands seek yours, curling around your wrists and stroking at the skin there.

“We’ll get through this,” he vows. “I love you, this doesn’t change anything. It won’t change anything.” His lips meet the crown of your head in a soft kiss. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo #yandere kuroo x reader #yandere kuroo tetsurou #yandere kuroo tetsurou x reader #oc: kuroo shinnosuke #tw: noncon

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caligvlasaqvarivm · 2 months ago

Note

if youre still doing classpect discussion im curious as to what you think a Rogue of Rage would do { i have some ideas already but wanna hear from more people }

class = character arc and starting circumstances, aspect = base personality traits and what's considered heroic/unheroic for this character

Rogues are rebels - they feel injustice deep in their bones, and start the game with a sense of discomfort towards the status quo, an innate understanding of the flaws in the system. Nepeta is the only troll to outright say that blood color shouldn't matter, and Roxy is the most vengeful towards the batterwitch, and characterized by going out of her way to support her community of oppressed carapacians. Rufioh, too, was motivated to defect from society entirely, taking up with the Lost Weeaboos out in the woods.

However, this rebelliousness is unfocused. The Rogue knows that something must be changed, but not specifically what; they know they must rebel, but not specifically how. This is reflected in their abilities: while Rogues do have generic abilities from their aspect, like Nepeta's ability to sniff out motivations and romantic feelings amongst her team, or Roxy's ability to turn invisible and wink out of existence, they have difficulty understanding how to tap into even that much, not to mention the greater abilities of their classpect. Rogues often suffer from failure to start, as Nepeta never really got to learn about Heart, Rufioh never really seemed to figure out Breath, and Roxy's arc featured a very long struggle to make Void usable.

Worse than that, however, is that Rogues often become rebels without a cause - they'll break taboos and stick it to "the man" in ways that become actively detrimental to themselves and the team, purely because their sheer rebellious energy must find some sort of outlet. Rufioh cheated on his girlfriend for an extended period of time, Nepeta refusing to listen to Equius's orders to stay hidden and safe leads directly to her death, and Roxy nearly blows Jane up with a fake copy of SBURB in an attempt to make her not play the game, and stick it to the Condy.

However, if their team is able to provide them with direction and clarity, Rogues become a powerful tool in their arsenal. The passive counterpart to Thieves, they excel at allowing others to utilize their aspect, and the specific way they interact with their aspect is to "steal" it. Where a Thief's theft leaves its target debuffed in that aspect - Vriska stealing luck from an underling makes it fall off a cliff to its presumable death - a Rogue's theft actually leaves its target buffed - Roxy stealing the nonexistence from things allows them to spontaneously come into existence.

This powerset is complicated and subversive, just like the Rogue's natural tendency toward rebellion, and requires a helpful party to guide the Rogue's intentions. If they're able to master their abilities, and gain clarity on how to change the systems they know are injust, they become incomparably flexible - possessing an infinite toolbox at their disposal, capable of cracking any lock, solving any puzzle, fixing any problem.

Rage, meanwhile, is perhaps the most enigmatic ability, with secrets and riddles literally being a part of its domain. Void is something of a red herring, in that regard; though the comic often calls it difficult to understand, we see it in use quite often, and can pretty easily derive the shared traits among its players. Void's domain, then, is actually simplicity, pleasure, vice, and sexuality - it deals with many taboos and unspoken things, like substance use and abuse, fetishes, so on and so on - but not really with secrets.

No, secrets are the domain of Rage, as they're practically Kurloz's whole schtick. Moreover, Rage is the opposite of Hope, something a little more well-explored, and between the heroes of all three, and Hussie's words from the book commentary, an understanding of Rage can emerge from the ether.

Something interesting to note about aspect is that the character being at a low point in their character arc practically always concides with them exhibiting inverted aspect character traits. Rose at her lowest is a dumb, sloppy drunk - with intellect being associated with Light, and vice being associated with Void. It isn't that their aspect flips, but that the aspects are set up to be yin and yang, equals and opposites along the same axis, and the dereliction of one comes to resemble the other at its worst. Thus, you can derive some understanding of Rage by knowing that its opposite is Hope, and also, by knowing that Hope players at their worst will often resemble Rage players and its worst traits.

Hope players are, as a rule, shameless. Eridan literally seems incapable of noticing how stupid and embarrassing he comes across as, and phrases his requests as demands, including, at times, to date him. Eridan's our most Hope-y Hope player, being a Prince, and therefore running at an overabundance of his aspect. Cronus is more lowkey, but he's shameless too, hitting on Mituna and Meenah without an iota of self-respect. Jake is a Page, and therefore running at a deficit of some of his aspect's better traits (he's wishy-washy, compared to Hope's usual focus on conviction and faith), but one of its worse traits that he has in excess is shamelessness - shamelessly ghosting Dirk, asking Erisolsprite for advice, whining at Jane over and over, on her damn birthday.

This naked and shameless sincerity - often to the point of embarrassment, and paired with unwavering faith and conviction - suits Hope very well, as Hope is described by Hussie in the book commentary as "a force that defines reality, used to snatch personal meaning from the jaws of a cynical reality". Hope, he explains, literally makes fake things real; Eridan's "white science" is literally just magic given a name he's more comfortable with, and his belief in it turns it into something very real, and very deadly, and Jake makes Brain Ghost Dirk real, which baffles Aranea - a Light player. According to Hussie, it's also "framed as the most fundamentally powerful aspect", and it's consistently seen in the comic as being able to completely no-sell any greater forces of reality - Eridan overcoming Sollux's eye beams, which even the Ahab's Crosshairs, described as the strongest weapon his specibus will allow, couldn't do, or Jake's turbohealed Hope field completely no-selling Jade's Green Sun powers and later, really fucking up a god tiered Caliborn.

Thus, it stands to reason that Rage players are secretive and self-conscious, and this holds true for both of them. Kurloz is noted multiple times to have a deep fondness for riddles and secrets, and Gamzee, too, has a penchant for being sneaky. Gamzee has always been more lucid than he lets on, his internal narration during his introduction showcasing an awareness that his friends don't really like him much, and he lies twice about being "scared" of someone in order to suit his own purposes - one time to keep Eridan from providing Karkat with emotional support after Sollux dies, because it's implied that Gamzee has a palecrush on Karkat, and one time to keep Vriska out of his horn pile, because he doesn't like her.

Shame, in fact, seems to be a defining attribute of Rage - the main thing we get to hear about Kurloz before his Prince meltdown - so, presumably, while he's at an overabundance of Rage - is being so ashamed of deafening Meulin that he takes the drastic action of sewing his own mouth shut and taking a vow of silence. Moreover, Gamzee's crisis of faith is ultimately shadowed by the emotion of shame, as Hussie explains in the book commentary that the reason he reacted so poorly to the ICP Miracles video was that it confronted him with the realization that his entire existence and religion were basically one big joke, an embarrassing parody, and he couldn't deal with the shame. Ultimately, his way of taking revenge is also via totems of fear and shame, with the jester plush in John's dreams causing him to scribble self-loathing, self-shaming comments across his walls. Thus we can derive that Rage encompasses not just shame, but that which is shameful - fear, loathing, embarrassment, and, of course, rage itself. If Void is the domain of that which can't be seen, of taboos and nonexistence, then Rage is the aspect governing that which we don't want others to know about - our fears, our insecurities, our anxieties, our embarrassment.

Both Kurloz and Gamzee later come to be defined by their religious faith and conviction, with Karkat claiming their breakup was due to how unbelievably pious Gamzee became, and Kurloz's faith being paired with shamelessly mind-controlling his girlfriend (and it's implied he's doing the same to Mituna). As characters at their lowest come to resemble the opposite aspect, we can assume that this is a reflection of how they've Raged so hard that they've wrapped around.

In fact, Hussie describes Gamzee's ability to always show up at the right (wrong) time to do the right (wrong) thing in the plot and enforce the worst outcome, "bespoiling" every part of the narrative he touches, as a dark mastery over Rage, the same way that Eridan's fall into hopelessness and his white science is a dark mastery of Hope. He describes Gamzee after his crisis of faith as "taking revenge against the narrative itself". Therefore, we can assume that Rage is an aspect that similarly works directly on the narrative, a force that shapes reality.

Therefore, let me posit that Hope is a transformative ability - it pens in something new, it makes fake things real, it imposes an impossible new status quo over the old. Rage, then, is an interpretive ability - it acts on existing reality, picking out what to emphasize and what to deemphasize, what to bring to the forefront, and what options to close out forever.

These kinds of far-reaching abilities imposed directly on reality itself are not unheard of. The ultimate expression of John's Breath abilities - Breath being the aspect governing freedom and indepenence - is his retcon powers, allowing him to unstick from the control of the alpha timeline, and grant that boon to others. Mages, as a class, act directly on causality itself, predetermining which futures will definitely come to pass.

Rage is a force that defines reality by defining which parts of it we keep, by deciding which parts are "true," by deciding what the past means to us. Both Cronus and Gamzee are bards, meaning they have arcs of religious belief and crises of faiths (with Cronus's Harry Potter prophecy being framed as a religious belief while Meenah and Aranea discuss it). Cronus's faith is some bogus story about an evil wizard he's destined to defeat. Knowing what we do about Hope, it stands to reason that his arc, had he properly completed it, would've ultimately been about using Hope to make the bogus prophecy true.

Gamzee's religious belief, meanwhile, is incredibly open to interpretation - and this is by design. Hussie outright says that who the mirthful messiahs are, and what Gamzee's beliefs correspond to, change over the course of the story, to reflect whatever's convenient for both him and Gamzee. Its initial description in Gamzee's introduction makes it sound like a factual description of SBURB: a band of rowdy minstrels (the players) will usher in an apocalyptic vast honk (the reckoning meteor shower), but will then give rise to a paradise planet that doesn't yet exist (the Ultimate Reward). When Gamzee raps about it to Tavros, which is the first chronological time he ever talks about it, there's an aspect to it that's quite hopeful, specifically that he believes it will equalize the blood castes, as he says "I peeped six trillion hemos, bleeding as equals".

However, after his turn, he describes the mirthful messiahs as "me" and "me," and fully embraces his heritage as a casteist highblood, spewing slurs and casteism as he commands Equius to kneel and calls Karkat a "punchline blooded motherfucker". Later on, it seems the mirthful messiahs become Caliborn and Calliope.

This is, I believe, a reflection of how Rage is interpretive. If Hope can be described as the power of fanfiction - of imposing something fake and new onto reality - then Rage is the power of literary criticism - choosing which version of existing reality you want to be real, and closing out other options.

Thus, to pull it all together, Rage governs shame and shameful things: anger, embarrassment, loathing, hatred, and fear. Its players tend to be secretive and self-conscious, prone to feeling ashamed and embarrassed of themselves, hiding who they really are. They possess an innate, instinctive understanding of how to bend reality to their whims, and their powers work by closing off possibilities, bringing forth a single "true" version of existence. This sounds volatile and dangerous, and it is - Rage players are prone to hopelessness, cynicism, and an overpowering belief that everything must burn. We see this in both Gamzee and Kurloz, who begin to campaign for oblivion, destruction, and death. This utter despair can come with it a faith-like zen, a Hope-esque religious conviction - Rage at its nadir.

It stands to reason, then, that our Hope players at their worst are similarly displaying Rage-esque traits. Jake, I think, makes his the most obvious - after having his self-esteem shattered by Dirk's Prince tirade, Jake takes a very firm stance of "I don't want to do that". He becomes so ashamed of himself and his actions that he can't even bring himself to talk to Jane or Dirk, and his following conversations with Jane and Aranea basically consist of him saying he doesn't WANT to do any of the things they're trying to make him do. Rage and shame, closing possibilities.

Eridan, meanwhile, becomes an angry, vengeful, destructive force of hopelessness, killing Feferi and destroying the matriorb - Rage, hatred, and closing possibilities. Cronus becomes self-conscious, seeking some personal to fill the void left behind by the "massive disappointing fraud" that magic turned out to be - Rage, shame, self-consciousness.

But we must also remember that these emotions are vital sources of energy, wellsprings of power from which revolutions are born. When Princes have their meltdowns, they take their aspect down with them, rendering it inaccessible for the rest of the team; Kurloz nuking rage from his team is likely why they've stagnated, become fixed in place, unable to access hatred (notice how they have no blackroms?), or even be shamed out of bad behavior.

Thus, Rage at its best is revolution. If Rage can pick out a shitty version of reality to endorse, it can pick out a beautiful and kind one. If it can decide that misery, pain, and suffering are deserved and all we're allowed to have, it can also decide that they're injust, and we must fight for a world where they no longer exist. If Rage can perpetuate harm, then it can also safeguard kindness.

And so, a Rogue of Rage takes shape. Between the Rogue's rebelliousness and Rage's dynamic upturning of reality, this is going to be an incredibly volatile individual. This character is likely going to be A Problem for their team. Rogues start out unfocused, and Rage players inflict massive, far-reaching consequences when they act; a Rogue of Rage is going to lash out at the oppressive forces they see - whether those forces deserve it or not - and give them all a Very Bad Time.

However, the balance for this is the Rage player's natural tendency for self-consciousness. While this does get overridden to some extent by the Rogue's rebellious energy, they'll likely be very aware that they don't have all the answers, and don't know what to do, who to fight, how to go about their revolution. What happens from here will depend greatly on if the team is able to offer proper advice.

A Rogue of Rage who receives no guidance will never unlock the greater abilities of their Rogue powerset, and eventually, their natural penchant for rebellion will leave a trail of destruction and closed possibilities in their wake. Again, this character has a high chance of being A Problem for their team.

However, if the Rogue of Rage IS able to get their shit together, then they're going to be one of the greatest classpect combinations at putting a finger on the scales of causality. Possessing Rage abilities by default, they'll be able to steal Rage from others in a manner that buffs them - for example, removing fear, shame, or hesitation from a teammate that needs a forward push, or removing a narrative blockage of some sort. The soft magic system of Homestuck, and especially the way Hope/Rage work directly on the narrative, makes specific expressions of these abilities difficult to describe, but that should give you an idea of what a Rogue of Rage can do.

#actually tagging this one because i think i figured out rage finally #ive been discussing it in dms with a friend for DAYS and PORING through the book commentafy #homestuck #classpecting #classpects #classpect #gamzee makara #kurloz makara #eridan ampora #cronus ampora #jake english

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