#I needed to take a break from playing the same two measures

[theweasleytwinsownmyjuicyass]

I’ll save you a seat | L.N.

Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando Norris is just that kind of guy who would save you a seat <3

Warnings: fluff<3

Word count: ~1K

You're the new face at McLaren, a bit of an outsider in a world of high-speed machines and the intense camaraderie that comes with it. Shyness becomes your loyal companion as you navigate the bustling Formula 1 scene, trying to find your footing on this elite team.

Whenever there's a function, a meeting, or a casual gathering where the whole McLaren team needs to sit down and talk something out, you often find yourself standing next to the door. It's the one place where you feel most comfortable, the place that allows you to maintain a safe distance from the boisterous conversations and the daunting glances of your new colleagues.

You watch from the shadows, trying to absorb as much as you can while hoping not to draw too much attention to yourself.

But, unknown to you, someone has been watching you closely, someone who's intrigued by your quiet presence. Lando Norris, the talented and charismatic driver, has taken note of the newcomer who always seems to be on the periphery. He's decided that he wants to change that.

One day, as you enter the conference room and lean on the wall next to the door, Lando is there, making eye contact with you. You're caught off guard, and your heart races as you wonder why he's looking at you. Maybe he's not actually looking at you, so you quickly glance around, seeking the source of his attention.

"Y/n, come here, there's a free seat," Lando calls out, breaking your self-imposed isolation. His voice is friendly and inviting, and you're not sure how to react. Your heart flutters as you slowly make your way towards the empty chair beside him. Sitting down, you're enveloped in a whirlwind of emotions as the meeting begins, Lando's presence beside you comforting and disconcerting in equal measure.

And so, the cycle begins. You walk to lunch with your teammates, the bustling cafeteria filled with lively chatter and the clinking of utensils. But amid the noise, your eyes always find a pair of familiar blue ones on you, the ones belonging to Lando Norris. He spots you, gives a friendly wave to join him, and you can't help but smile.

The seat next to him is always saved for you, a silent promise of friendship and inclusion in a world that was once daunting. You exchange small talk and laughter during those moments, gradually growing closer through the little conversations you share sitting beside one another. As time goes by, you begin to feel more at ease within the McLaren family, thanks to Lando's warm gestures and kind heart.

Late one evening, after a particularly lengthy conference at the McLaren headquarters, Lando offers to drive you back home. It's a kind and unexpected gesture that catches you by surprise. As you both sit in his car, you work up the courage to ask him something that has been eating at your heart recently.

"Why do you always do that?" you inquire, your voice tinged with curiosity.

Lando glances at you, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Do what?"

"You always save me a seat," you explain, your eyes searching his for an answer. "I don't know... just because."

"Just because what?" you presses, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"So you wouldn't stand alone next to the door, and... yeah that" Lando hesitates to tell you the second part.

"And?" you urge, voice barely above a whisper.

His heart pounds, and he take a deep breath before continuing, "And because I like having you close to me."

"Aww, that's cute," you say with a soft, genuine smile, "I like having you close too."

Lando can't help but smile back, his feelings now exposed. He's been hoping that you'd pick up on his intentions, and your response reassures him that you feel the same way. Before you know it, you've arrived outside your house.

You're parked outside your house, the dim streetlights casting a warm glow on the two of you. Lando turns to you, his eyes filled with sincerity, your last words echoing in his mind still urges his question, "Really?"

You meet his gaze with a loving smile and a heart full of affection. "Really," you affirm, placing tender kiss on his lips, a silent promise of the love and happiness that lies ahead. After the kiss, you exit the car, your heart feeling lighter than ever, and Lando watches you with a contented smile as you walk toward your home, knowing that your relationship has just taken a wonderful new turn.

"Y/n," Lando calls out as he exits the car.

"Yes, Lando?" you respond, a sense of anticipation in your voice.

You barely have time to react before he softly pushes you against the door and kisses you passionately. It's a moment of raw emotion, the culmination of the time spent growing closer and the unspoken feelings between you.

"Will you be my girlfriend when I ask you?" Lando finally manages to say between breaths, his eyes filled with hope.

"Aren't you asking right now?" you reply with a playful smirk.

"I did not spend two months devising a plan on how to get close to you," Lando chuckles, "just to ask you to be my girlfriend at your apartment door."

You tease him, "Does this mean I'll have to wait another two months for you to come up with another brilliant plan of how to ask me to be your girlfriend?"

Lando grins and leans in, "Sweetie, you best believe I've already picked out the flowers for our wedding day. You won't wait long, I promise."

With that, he seals his promise with another sweet, heartfelt kiss, and you know that this is just the beginning of a beautiful journey together.

^^

A.N. very much inspired by the line from "Lover" by Taylor Swift, which reads "And at every table, I'll save you a seat".

P.s. Lando's race yesterday was so good! I was crying, laughing and rolling on the floor by the end of it! Glad to see him doing so well<3

[wileycap]

Beings Suffering From Extreme Sleep Deprivation Should Not Attempt Turning To The Dark Side

There he was. Anakin Skywalker, the prize jewel of the Sith... even if he did not know it yet. Sitting in the office of his friend, the Supreme Chancellor.

All the pieces were now in place, and the only thing left to do was to reveal his identity to Skywalker and let him break down. The satisfaction that permeated the form of Sheev Palpatine was so great that he nearly forgot that his parents had named him Sheev.

But not for long. Distaste prickled up his spine. Still, they were entering the glorious morning of a Sith Empire that would never see night. Or, rather more accurately, the night would be neverending. And the metaphors would be better - he would hire (and by hire, he meant enslave) the greatest poets to compose endless lamentations for the suffering he was about to unleash.

Skywalker sat in the chair, looking listless. The nightmares Palpatine had sent had done their job well - it seemed like he had hardly slept. His thoughts were sluggish, his resistance gone, and his terror absolute. Terror for his "secret" wife, who he feared would die in childbirth.

And while the "visions" were far from genuine, oh, Palpatine intended to make sure that Padmé Amidala would.

With the death of his wife, Palpatine's control over Anakin Skywalker would be perfect. And, in ten or twenty years, thirty even, the boy would become his new vessel. After all, the plans of the Sith were measured in the millenia, and Sheev Palpatine had no intention of planting trees in whose shade younger generations might sit. No. He intended to sit there himself, chasing off the whippersnappers so they might get sunburnt. (He really needed to consult a poet.)

But the creation of his Empire was a far more immediate goal, and a very worthy stepping stone indeed. And since all it would take was a push, he had better get to administering said push.

"Dear boy, I don't think I've ever seen you look quite this... disturbed," he intoned, perfectly miming the tones of a concerned grandfather. "Not - and I am terribly sorry to bring this up, but I can't help but be concerned - not even... not even when your mother died."

There. Skywalker was an easy instrument to play. A veil of concern, a dash of "you can tell me anything." A hint of his past trauma, which so neatly (almost as if by design) connected to his current fear. Even calling attention to Skywalker's sorry state served to remind him that the structures he could depend on were now shaky and unsure, ravaged by war.

Palpatine briefly entertained himself by wondering what the boy might think of the sheer amount of planning that had been put into his fall.

"Mom?" Skywalker asked, voice groggy and wide eyes betraying his shock.

And said nothing more, just gaped at Palpatine, as if he were about to pull Shmi Skywalker out from under his robes. Idiot boy.

"I'm terribly sorry for shocking you, Anakin," Palpatine said, suffusing the room with his phony concern. "I know it must be horrible to think about, especially in these... present circumstances."

Well, he'd thrown subtlety out the viewport, but that would certainly get the job done.

Skywalker did not respond. He was blearily gazing into middle distance. And Palpatine was running out of time - Skywalker needed to fall now, before Kenobi could return from Utapau and somehow pull him back from the brink, again.

So, subtlety? Subtlety would die the same death it always died in Skywalker's presence: a sudden one.

"Actually, I've called you here on an important matter," he said, injecting some urgency into his tone - no longer a grandfather, but a concerned statesman. "I now have every reason to believe that Senator Amidala and the Delegation of Two Thousand are planning a coup."

"Huh?" Skywalker said, attempting to sit up. "Padmé's planning..."

And then his train of thought appeared to slip away again, and he resumed his vacant staring.

"Yes." Palpatine gritted out. "Padmé Amidala, your wife, is planning a coup."

"Oh. Yeah, she's good at politics," Anakin mumbled, offering Palpatine a tired smile. "I'm sure she'll do a good job."

"A coup against me." When nothing more than a "hmm" was forthcoming, Palpatine continued. "And it appears she has allied with the Jedi Council."

Skywalker suddenly stood up, ramrod straight. Finally, Palpatine thought.

"What?"

"I'm sorry you have to find out this way-"

"No, no, this is great! She's finally hanging out with my work friends! Now she'll know what it feels like!" Skywalker shook his head. "Like, it's only fair, right? I've sat through a ton of formal dinners and stuff. And Bail is okay, I guess, and Mon, and Fang Zhar is kinda funny, but... they're so boring. Treaty this, agreement that, 'what do you think, Master Jedi?'"

Skywalker started pacing. "Yeah, but who's laughing now, Padmé? I hope she tries to take them out for lunch. Then she'll get to see twelve Jedi Masters meditating to discern which restaurant the Force is pulling them towards."

He turned to Palpatine, as if to explain. "And that takes hours. You wanted lunch? Sorry, it's dinnertime and also tomorrow, and the spot they picked, which, by the way, is always the one Yoda wants,-" and, to the Sith Lord's horror, he launched into an imitation, "'mmm, great darkness I sense within the Jundland Buffet, perhaps to Stewcruiser, we should instead go', but when we finally decide to go to Stewcruiser, it's closed on Taungsday, and the whole thing starts all over again!"

And at that, Skywalker sat down with a huff.

"Indeed," Palpatine said, no longer able to keep the coldness out of his voice. "The inefficiencies of the Jedi are... vexing."

"Tell me about it," Skywalker mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

"But rather more pressingly, they are planning a coup." Palpatine said, rather icily.

"Yeah, right," the boy said, looking a bit shamefaced. "Sorry."

"It is no matter," Palpatine replied, still eyeing the Jedi. Skywalker made no move. "What do you think about the coup?"

"Oh, yeah, uh. Like I said, I'm sure she'll do a great job. Sorry, I don't really... pay attention to politics."

Palpatine opened his mouth. And then closed it again. "A coup is a bad thing, Anakin."

"Uh-huh," Skywalker said, clearly paying no attention, and that was just about the limit of Palpatine's patience. He hadn't set the entire galaxy ablaze to be uh-huhed by the boy.

It was time to go for the throat.

"Anakin, I'm going to kill your wife." He said, enunciating every word as clearly as he could. He needed to provoke the boy into fear and anger, which would feed his guilt and shame, which would lead him to the Dark Si-

"Oh, okay. Good luck."

"What?!" He hissed. "I just threatened to kill your wife!"

"Yeah, but..." Skywalker scratched at the back of his neck. "I mean, she's been in like, twenty battles. She can handle herself."

"She is eight months pregnant!"

Skywalker actually shrugged. "The med droid said she can keep doing her usual activities for as long as she feels able. And no offence, but you're kind of... old."

"Old? I am the Lord of the Sith, young fool! I possess powers your feeble mind can't even comprehend!"

Something had gone blank in Skywalker's eyes, but Palpatine was far too angry to notice. "I orchestrated this entire war! All of this is my doing! I planned for your mother to die, I corrupted the Tuskens myself, I was behind Kenobi faking his death, beh-"

And that's about as far as he got, because a sky blue blade had just passed between the spot his head occupied and the spot that was occupied by his body, and had kindly suggested to the two that it was time to part ways.

"Chancellor, Sith Lords are a specialty at the Jundland Buffet," Anakin muttered, turning off his saber. He tried to hook it back on his belt, but apparently somebody had taken his usual hook, and the handle fell to the ground. Sighing, he called it up with the Force and shoved it into his boot for safekeeping, when a thought struck him. "No, that's not right. How did Obi-Wan say it..."

And then he commed Obi-Wan, because that seemed like the thing to do. After a long wait, a small, blue Obi-Wan appeared, looking harried. Before Anakin could compliment him on his new size and color, Obi-Wan was already talking way too fast, something about killing Grievous.

"Hey, Obi-Wan, uh. I killed the Sith, but I-"

"What?" Obi-Wan's voice had a lot of static in it. He should really get that checked out. "Sorry, Anakin, did you say you killed the Sith Lord?"

"Yeah, anyways, back when we were fighting Dooku, you said something about Sith Lords and a specialty, and, uh, is it a specialty dish somewhere? And can we go there next time the Council has lunch? I'm getting really sick of Stewcruiser."

"Anakin. When was the last time you slept?"

"Oh, uh, two weeks ago or something."

There was a heavy, staticy sigh from the other end of the comlink. "Alright, Anakin. Turn the comlink around and show me the Sith, and then I'll guide you through cleaning up the pieces of the duelling droid you dismantled this time, and - oh Force, is that the Chancellor?!"

"Uh-huh," Anakin nodded, forgetting that he wasn't in view of the receiver.

"Don't uh-huh me, Anakin! Did you kill the Supreme Chancellor?"

"Yeah, he was the Sith?" There weren't any more words coming through the comlink, so Anakin figured it was safe to continue. "He said that he orchestrated the whole war and he was the Sith. Also, for some reason, he moved out here to the desert, and that's weird, because I don't think it's gonna agree with his complexion."

There was more silence from the comlink. Anakin remembered to turn it so he was again visible to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan appeared to be frozen.

"Are you... disappointed?" Anakin asked, after a while.

"No more than the usual amount," Obi-Wan sighed. "Go take a nap."

"Oh, good," Anakin smiled. And then frowned. "Wait, what do you mean, 'the usual amount?'"

[danikamariewrites]

You know the whole 7 minutes in heaven thing that’s in a lot of older movies? I have been wanting to read about Az and Reader in that scenario at a little party with the inner circle. Could you write a little something with that?

7 More Minutes

Azriel x reader

Notes: I would not be able to look this man in the eyes if we were shoved into a closet together. It would be far too awkward

Warnings: not entirely proof read

Out of everyone gathered tonight Amren was the last person you thought would suggest playing such juvenile games. Her words. Exactly.

She’s just such a different person when Varian is around. And when he brings her favorite bottle of wine.

The game of the night was 7 minutes in heaven. Of course, all mated couples went in together. Even Elain went in with Lucien, coming out very flustered but happy. Besides Rhys and Feyre, only you and Azriel were left to couple up. Cassian was insistent that you two go next.

“No Cass, we don’t need to.” Your voice small as you shoot Azriel a reassuring look. You didn’t want to force the poor male to do anything. You also don’t think you could handle being that close to Azriel. Between your huge crush on him and your awkwardness you would probably die a minute in.

“But I insist.” Cassian said, only slightly tipsy. “Come, come, come,” he grabs your hand, pulling you off the floor towards the coat closet. “Cass, don’t.” Azriel said sternly. Cassian completely ignored his brother, pulling him along as well.

You couldn’t help but let Az’s stern tone get to you. It left a stinging sensation in your chest, reinforcing your thoughts that Azriel didn’t return your feelings.

Looking back at the group you found Nesta’s steel gaze, begging her for help with your eyes. All she did was shake her head no with a smirk on her face. Cauldron, she was in on this. Looking around you saw similar smirks on Feyre, Rhys, Amren, and even Lucien’s face.

You didn’t eve have time to react. Cassian was already shoving you in the small space before you could say anything. “Have fun kids!” He shouted before slamming the door. Locking it from the outside for good measure. Did coat closets even have locks?

Azriel turned the fae light on, his wings looked cramped in the small space. You grimaced for him. “Are you ok?” Az asked softly. “Yeah, it’s just Cass being Cass.” You laugh lightly. Looking up at him you saw his lips pulled in a tight smile.

“We don’t have to do anything. I know you didn’t want to be in here with me, I get it.” His voice sounded strained while trying to make light of the situation. “Of course I want to be with you.” Realizing what you just said your face immediately reddened.

Azriel looked down at you, shock setting in on his own face.

Fuck it, you thought to yourself, might as well get it out now.

Taking a deep breath, you center yourself. If your friends were looking at you like that Az has to feel the same way, right?

“Azriel I really like you. Not as just my friend. And I really do want to kiss you.” You reached for his hands, giving the scared flesh a loving squeeze.

Azriel was at a loss for words. His heart was beating rapidly against his chest, attempting to break free to smother you in all his love. You had rendered him completely speechless.

But words wouldn’t do anything. Wouldn’t convey the want and love he felt for you. That he was too scared to admit to for a long time now.

He slips his hands from yours. Your face falling at the action. Azriel’s heart broke at the look you tried to recover from. Never again would he make you look that sad. Not for a second. He held your face in his hands, tilting your face to look at him.

Azriel’s lips parted slightly, trying to say how he felt but the words caught in his throat. Shaking his head slightly he moved in, pressing his lips to yours.

You were shocked at first. Not knowing how to react. As your lips moved against his your eyes fluttered shut. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. You got lost in each other. The feel of his hands caressing you softly, his plump lips moving against yours. It was truly heaven.

It felt like hours had passed. Azriel was so intoxicating you didn’t even realize your back was pressed against the wall. His hands now resting on your hips, holding you flush to him. It felt right, fitting together like the last two pieces of a puzzle.

Without warning, Cassian whipped the door open, letting out a loud whoop. “Finally! Guys they’re kissing!” Azriel pulled away from you. You let out a small sound of protest, pulling him closer, wanting him back. Az pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. A promise that he’d come back after dealing with Cassian.

Sending his brother a death glare, Azriel’s shadows shot out, slamming the door. They enveloped you in darkness and melted away moments later to reveal your room. Smiling up at Azriel you pull his face down to yours again. He rested his forehead against yours, whispering, “Where were we?”

[mcflymemes]

ANYONE BUT YOU (2023) PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the film, adjust as necessary

you still live at 28 fuckboy lane?

there's a reason why you're alone. no one can trust you.

i still think about the night we spent together.

these last few days really made me realize how much i miss you.

that night at your place, no matter how it ended, it was still pretty amazing.

so... you gonna kiss me now?

you'll always be my rock bottom.

okay, nuzzle my neck. get in there.

we are not together. we were faking it the whole time.

we have to kick it up a notch. make it feel like we're in the ga-ga stage.

you know, i feel really bad about that.

did you catch him measuring his dick with a ruler app?

you scared the shit out of me.

we're getting pretty good at faking it.

it doesn't matter how we found out.

permission to put my left hand on your right buttock?

okay, not in circles. it's not a magic lamp.

are you not wearing underwear?

we do not inherit the earth. we just borrow it from our creatures.

i have a better idea. you just let me do everything.

thanks for being so cool about all of this.

you want a coffee? it's the best n the world.

there's only one bed, but we hung a shower curtain in the middle.

hi. where's your bathroom?

i could have done it myself, but whatever. thanks.

thanks for not stealing my coat.

is that really a two person job?

you would let me die?

they think i'm throwing my life away.

no, that was rude. i apologize to anyone that was listening.

i don't know. i'm not good at this, sorry.

i'm from a different generation.

i'm not talking about love. i'm talking about dick.

all that matters is that we're together.

that's not me anymore. i'm free now. i'm deprogrammed.

no way, that man does not have a heart.

well, that didn't take long.

if i never ask you for anything ever again, can you please just lay off of me this weekend?

let's just have a moment to calm ourselves.

no one cares. no one can see us.

we were on a break, asshole.

either way, someone's lying to someone.

i must have really gotten under your skin.

you used none of those terms properly.

i cannot believe i just said that out loud.

i'm sorry. my life is a disaster right now.

look at this place. it looks like every serial killer reenactment documentary.

no matter how broken something is, there's always a way to fix it.

this whole thing is so new to me.

i don't really like labels, but i like you a whole bunch.

so are you going to ask me out now?

so if we were getting attacked by giant spiders, you would not be able to protect us?

you two know each other?

i'm going to go grab a drink. door's that way if you're looking to sneak out. i know that's your thing.

i'm going to get a drink and toast to never seeing you again.

how crazy is it that we're on the same plane?

why do so many of us feel stuck?

you don't even play tennis.

we're fine if he just stays away from me.

you're such a romantic.

i was hoping you'd come. i wanted to message you, but i didn't know how you'd feel about hearing from me.

they're also a little worried how you're gonna react to all this.

you have a little something in your teeth.

we need to come up with a game plan.

you are so terrible at this.

it's harder than you think.

they know i would never go out with a guy like you.

we just suck face in front of everybody.

you're calling me a fuckboy like it's an insult? i own that shit.

let's just be affectionate. i know it's a foreign concept for you.

you were the one who said there's a thin line between love and hate.

i think it was more of a euphemism for crying alone.

i definitely didn't hate you.

last night was the first thing i haven't regretted in a long time.

i love the weird way you stick your hand down my pants.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Secret’s Out

[A/N: Some fluff in honor of our favorite man’s birthday 🖤]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x wife!reader

—————

You love celebrating your partner’s birthday. An excuse to pamper your favorite person more so than usual, and they can’t refuse because it’s their special day? Amazing.

Your partner, on the other hand, is less than enthusiastic about the day. “It’s just another day,” he always tries to play it off. “Another year around the sun gifting me with more grays and wrinkles to prove it.”

You’ve adjusted to his understated manner, toned down your celebratory whims to make his day special in smaller, less overt ways.

“I’m not making a big deal about it,” you’d promised your first birthday together with a smile, catching the raised eyebrow you were greeted with when he spotted the lavish breakfast spread out over the kitchen table.

“Still not making a big deal. You needed a new one,” was your excuse some birthdays later when he opened a carefully wrapped box to find a new watch with words from your wedding vows engraved on the back.

“This one is so not-a-big-deal,” you’d affirmed just last year, presenting him with two tickets to a five day island getaway. “It’s November in DC and I miss the sun, that’s all.”

And so the years have gone, keeping Aaron Hotchner’s birthday under wraps much to the chagrin of his team. Garcia, to her credit, has made a Herculean effort to keep the date quiet as requested, or perhaps she’s sworn everyone to secrecy by now. Inexplicably, Aaron finds a single cupcake waiting on his desk annually.

Aaron’s birthday was a quiet affair, that is, until this year.

The case your husband had been on had spanned many more days than expected, and you’d been forced to postpone the family trip you had planned to celebrate his birthday. So here you are, waiting in his office for the team’s return. Chatter suddenly breaks the silence of the bullpen, the unmistakable sound of Aaron’s baritone mixed with the many voices of your found family.

The kids are tearing out of the office before you even rise from the couch.

Your toddler reaches the BAU team first, and Aaron’s quick to drop his go-bag in favor of catching the pig-tailed bundle of energy midair as she squeals out an excited, “Happy birthday, Daddy!”

Aaron’s eyes widen in shock, and your stomach swoops at the FBI’s best kept secret being so blatantly revealed by the littlest Hotchner.

But then Aaron’s propping your daughter on his hip and pressing kisses to her cherubic cheeks while she giggles at the onslaught, and Jack is wrapping his arms around his dad’s waist, mumbling a “Welcome home, Dad, happy birthday,” into his dress shirt, and Aaron is squeezing both of your kids like their very presence imbues life into him, and all is right in the world. You take note of money quietly exchanging hands behind Aaron greeting your kids. Evidently, Garcia had kept the date a secret.

The team splits up to drop luggage and paperwork on their desks, and Aaron looks up to the stairs leading to his office then, his smile somehow growing wider when he spots you standing there, a blush dotting your cheeks. “You know there’s no stopping these two when their hero comes home,” you offer sheepishly, and he angles his head to beckon you closer. You’re by his side in an instant and pressing a kiss to his lips even as your children- spurred on by Uncle Derek and Uncle Spencer- protest with a chorus of ews and elaborate gagging noises.

“You were just giddy about me kissing you,” Aaron points out to your daughter whose face is screwed up in feigned disgust from her front row seat on Daddy’s hip.

“It’s not the same as you kissing Mom,” Jack huffs with the gusto of an all-knowing pre-teen, so his dad rolls his eyes and pecks your lips again for good measure.

“May I propose,” Rossi interjects, one hand on your shoulder and the other on your husband’s, “dinner at my place to celebrate?” Aaron opens his mouth to protest, but Dave lifts a hand and clarifies, “Ah- celebrate closing the case, Aaron. It’s not all about you.” He shoots you a wink and you bite your lip to hide a smile.

“Up to you, birthday boy,” you murmur, lightly running your hand across his chest, but your kids and his team are looking so hopeful that Aaron knows it’s really not up to him, after all.

“Okay,” he relents with a laugh, nodding his head. “Thank you, Dave, that’s really kind of you to offer.”

The night turns out to be an absolute blast full of good food, great drinks, and wonderful company. Your little one is currently sound asleep in her Uncle Spencer’s lap while he stumps her older brother and JJ and Will’s sons with his latest magic trick. Penelope and Derek are out on a secret mission (they’re getting a cake) that Aaron is completely in the dark about (he totally knows). The rest of you are scattered about the living room, chatting and sipping your drinks while you await the secret agents’ return, and Sinatra croons on in the background about having a love to keep him warm. Sidling up to Aaron, you rest your head on his sturdy shoulder and murmur a simple, “Hey.”

He turns to press his lips to your forehead and utters a, “Hey, you,” in return.

“Sorry the cat’s out of the bag after all these years,” you say, absentmindedly toying with the collar of his tie where he’s loosened it a bit.

“Oh, honey, don’t apologize,” Aaron admonishes lightly, shifting his position so he can snake an arm around you and you can settle more snugly into his side. “Honestly, I’m amazed we kept it under wraps for so long.”

You let your hand drift further upwards, now tracing a little heart into Aaron’s cheek with your index finger. Emily clearly used a heavy hand in her role as bartender. “Really?”

Your husband curls his hand around your wrist to guide it closer to his mouth and presses a kiss to the pad of your finger. “Really,” he affirms. “Y’know, these guys had a bet going about my birth date but…” He leans closer like he’s about to let you in on a secret, and you sit up straighter, all business. “Dave and I had a bet going about who would spill first. That little chatterbox,” he murmurs, inclining his head toward your sleeping toddler, “or her chatterbox mom.”

“I resent that.”

“I know.”

With a huff, you kiss his cheek, then his nose, and then his lips. “But I’ll let it slide since it’s your birthday.”

The lights in the living room grow dim then, and Penelope enters with a small cake in hand, her face lit up by a ring of candles. “Derek said we shouldn’t mortify you by singing, but I couldn’t resist at least getting candles, sir.” She sets the cake down on the coffee table before taking a step back as the rest of your family gathers around. Your little girl barely stirs in Spencer’s arms when he approaches, while Jack slips into the spot next to his dad and instructs, “Make a wish!”

“Oh, buddy,” Aaron laughs warmly, looking around at your big family with a smile before kissing the top of his head and affectionately squeezing your knee, “what more could I wish for?”

__________

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner @iyv-ray24 @mrs-ssa-hotch @criminalskies @callm3c0nfus3d

[tropes-and-tales]

Too Much for You

Day 3:  Collaring (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Smut (Oral, m!receiving; oblique talk of other sex acts; oblique talk of power dynamics in the bedroom); 18+ only.

Word Count:  2865

AN:  This was requested by the lovely @callsign-frostbite!

The Hard Deck is often segregated by cliques, like a high school lunch room:  the fighter pilots post up by the pool tables and piano, the fixed wing aircraft pilots claim the stretch of the bar with the dart boards and juke box.  The bar proper is the neutral zone, but the two groups rarely mix.  

Bob Floyd falls in with the fighter pilots because he’s the back-seater for one, but he feels like he might fit in better with the darts-and-jukebox crowd.  They are more sedate, seem more confident in themselves.  There’s less of a nightly dick-measuring contest.

It doesn’t hurt that you’re part of the darts-and-jukebox crowd:  the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, poured into your uniform so it fits like a glove.  You move with that same quiet assurance as your fellow fixed wing pilots, but you’re like a bright point of light, always pulling Bob’s gaze to you.  You’re fascinating to watch:  when you’re playing darts, when you’re leaning over the jukebox, when you’re dancing a smooth two-step to the songs you pick.

Hangman is the one who first notices Bob’s puppy-dog staring, follows the WSO’s blue-eyed gaze across the Hard Deck where you and the other pilots drink and converse.  Hangman nudges Nat, who whispers in Rooster’s ear, who beckons Javi over, and within minutes, the whole crew is watching Bob watching you.

Hangman is the one who first tells Bob not to bother.

“She’s not the one for you, Baby on Board,” he tells Bob while he clasps his shoulder, jostles him a little in his seat.  “You need a shy gal.  A homebody who will greet you at the door with fresh-baked cookies.  A Betty Crocker-type.”

Nat scoffs, shakes her head.  “You make him sound like a complete square.”

“Well…”  Hangman trails off, shrugs with a wide smile.  “I mean…”

“He’s not a complete square, Bagman.”  Nat crosses her arms, and she squares up to her fellow fighter pilot.  “And anyway, what’s wrong with her?  She’s cute.”  She tilts her head in your direction.

It’s Javi who has the dirt on you, which sounds like so much of the usual Navy outlandish gossip.  He leans in close and tells Bob all about you.

“Her call-sign is Nix,” he says, and he keeps his voice low, as if you might hear over the din of the crowd.  “Because she flies one of those Poseidon recon planes.  But she’s a complete freak, man.  I served on a carrier with a guy whose roommate’s brother dated her.  She’s totally into that freaky bedroom shit.  She’d eat you alive.”

Bob swallows hard, but he can’t help the flush that breaks out across his cheeks…or the faint throb of lust that drums along with his heartbeat.

“What do you mean, freaky stuff?”  It’s Nat who asks the question; his pilot turns and watches you with frank interest now.

Javi shrugs, takes a sip of his beer.  “BDSM stuff.”  He looks at Bob, gives him another shrug.  “Sorry, man.  She’s too much for you.”

-----

After the fact, Bob bristles at his teammates’ collective verdict.

Bristling leads to simmering, which leads to outright resentment.  The days pass, and Bob teems with indignation.  How dare Bagman?  How dare Javi?  How dare any of them make assumptions about him?  Sure, he’s quiet and unassuming and a back-seater, but it grates on his nerves how they act like they know him that well. 

They don’t know him at all.

Even their dumb nickname for him:  Baby on Board.  They forget that he passed the same rigorous training they did, that he graduated from Top Gun just as they did.  He’s a goddamned grown man, and they treat him like a boy.

The two cliques at the Hard Deck rarely mix, but halfway through a Friday night, Bob taps into his latent courage—the courage his teammates fail to recognize—and marches over to where you stand by the jukebox.  He can hear Hangman behind him, trying to urge him back before it’s too late, but you catch sight of Bob’s approach out of your peripherals and turn to watch him.  You neither frown nor smile; your expression is exactly neutral.  Bob digs deeper into his hidden reserve of courage, and he holds out a hand.

“I’m Lieutenant Bob Floyd,” he says, and he hopes his teammates can see how he doesn’t stutter, how he meets your gaze levelly because he’s a goddamned man and not a boy.  “I heard you fly the new P-8 Poseidon.”

“I do.”  You hold your hand out to shake his, and you gift him a smile that seems guarded.  “Though it’s a few years old now.”

“Still new by military standards.”

Your smile relaxes, and you drop your hand.  “Very true.  Are you a pilot?”

Bob shakes his head, tells you he’s a weapons specialist officer, and the conversation flows naturally to your respective aircrafts, the systems on each, and if Bob admired you from afar, he likes the obvious love you have for your airplane even more.

He spends the rest of the night with you, and the hours fly by like nothing.  He leaves with your number, and the feeling is better than even the confused look on Bagman’s smug face—that quiet, unassuming Bob Floyd pulled the number of an unattainable fellow pilot.

-----

If you’re into freaky bedroom stuff, it doesn’t make an appearance right away.  You and Bob take your time—it doesn’t help that you’re both active duty.  There’s a stretch of time, just as your burgeoning relationship is on its shaky new legs, where you’re both deployed on separate missions. 

Bob thinks it’ll be the end of the thing between you, but somehow strengthens your relationship.  Absence making the heart grow fonder, all that cliched stuff.  When you’re finally both back stateside, you make it official:  Bob Floyd the WSO and you, the pilot who flies surveillance missions—an official couple.

Your first month as a couple, it’s that awkward period where you’re just figuring each other out in the bedroom.  It’s clumsy at first but passionate, the two of you abandoning any pretense of coolness for the ardor that you have for each other. 

Bob loves all of it:  the time he spends between your thighs, coaxing orgasms from you with his mouth.  The time you spend on your knees doing the same for him.  All of the varied positions, you riding him, him riding you.  The quickies and the love-making where you spend entire hours reveling in each other’s bodies. 

BDSM stuff, Javi had said.  Bob only has an inkling what that may mean.  He imagines whips and chains, a gimp mask, tears of pain.  He is open to nearly anything you might want to do, but the idea of pain in the bedroom makes him wary.  He doesn’t want to hurt you, even consensually.  If it is something you demand, he might have to end things.

The thought tortures him.  Each day, he falls more in love with you.  Each night, he is slow to fall asleep at the unspoken fear that you may be too much for him and the inverse:  that he may not be enough for you.

Bob should have remembered that the Navy is little more than a hive of gossipers.  People tell tales, and truth get twisted in the retelling.

Javi and his buddy’s roommate’s brother.  Your alleged ex.  It was a ridiculous game of telephone.  The topic kinda comes up organically over dinner one night, talk about exes, and it leads to Bob blurting out his fears.  That he’s not adventuresome enough for you.  That when you inevitably ask him to tie you up and whip you, he won’t be able to satisfy you.

The look on your face is priceless.  You gaze over your plate at him and ask, “huh?”

He can’t turn back now.  He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry.  “BDSM stuff,” he clarifies.  “I don’t…I don’t think I’m into that.”

“Bobby—”

“But I’ll try.”  He cuts you off, and he feels sick to his stomach to have brought his silent fears to light with so little finesse.  “I’ll try, sweetheart.”

You set your fork down with a quiet clink, and you reach across the table and take his hand.  When he chances a look at your face, you don’t seem angry or disappointed.  Instead, you smile at him softly.

“You can’t believe everything you hear,” you tell him. 

-----

Javi and the gossipmongers in the Navy are half-right:  you are not into BDSM.

You are into playing with power dynamics.

Bob gets an education in an entire spectrum of sexuality he’s never even considered before.  He’d be ashamed—embarrassed, maybe, as he usually is when it came to frank discussions about sex—but you’re an amazing teacher and, well….he finds that perhaps he’s into playing with power dynamics too. 

And you’re both switches.  You’re both capable of being dominant or submissive.  The possibilities are endless.  Bob’s mind boggles at the surfeit of scenes the two of you could play out, and it boggles further to find that those scenes make him fall more and more in love with you.  It always felt hokey, talk of how sex was a way to build a connection.  Bob never had it before, but now?

Now he has it.

-----

The day goes poorly for Bob:  Hangman continues to live up to his nickname, and his rivalry with Rooster spills over to the rest of the TOPGUN pilots.  Bob and Nat get paired up with Jake during a dog-fight exercise, and they lose over and over because the man is incapable of teamwork.

Bob can’t control Jake. 

Bob can’t even control the plane.  He has to cede control to Nat, and he’s usually fine with it, but he feels extra helpless as a back-seater during exercises like this.

But Bob, if he asks nicely, can control you—so when he gets home, frustrated and irritable, he asks if he can be in charge.

You gaze at him a long moment, and your eyes get steadily darker as your pupils dilate. 

“Of course,” you tell him. 

-----

Bob in charge:  he makes you change into the sweet powder-pink lingerie he bought you.  A casual cotton dress.  He has a housewife kink, he’s found, and he likes to play around with the dynamic of pretending you’re waiting at home for him. 

Lingerie, dress.  He also helps you put on the collar, a deceptively simple silver band of metal.  Not too tight.  There’s a little hook at the end for a leash, but neither you nor Bob ever use it.  The collar is just a visual reminder of who is in charge, and who is being led.

Bob in charge:  he orders you onto all fours.  He sits on the couch, freshly showered after his shitty day.  He leans back, splays his legs wide.  He crooks his forefinger at you.

“Come here, kitten,” he says.

It’s as simple as this.  He gives you an order and you obey.  He’s in charge; he tells you to crawl to him on hands and knees and you do.  You kneel in front of him, your hands on your thighs, your eyes fixed to his face in an expression of adoration.  You wait for his next order.

There’s no frustration like with Hangman.  There’s no fickle controls like in the back seat of his and Nat’s plane.  There’s no dog-fight practice where they lose Maverick in the sun, where they have to do hundreds of push-ups on the tarmac until Bob’s arms burn and his cold fury simmers. 

“What do you want?” he asks.

“I want to make you feel good, sir,” you answer, and your voice has a deference it normally doesn’t.  Bob feels the tension of his day bleed away bit by bit, then all at once.

Bob in charge:  he orders you to put your mouth to him.  He’s already half-hard, but he loves the feeling of your warm mouth on him, coaxing him to full life with your worshipful tongue laving him, suckling against his sensitive tip until he’s hard as iron and throbbing in your mouth. 

He lays a hand on the back of your head, another tame display of dominance, but he doesn’t force you.  He shifts it to cup the side of your face as you take him to the root, your nose pressed against the sparse, coarse curls at the base of his cock.  Keeps his hand there as you bob your head, as you take deep breaths through your nose. 

You’re reverent when you’re submissive.  You always take your time.  You cup his balls lightly in one hand, and when you feel them start to draw up—a sure sign his orgasm is approaching—you back off a bit.  You release him from the warm confines of your mouth and draw the tip of your tongue over the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock.  You lick the tip of him, suckle there again until he’s breathing harsh, punched-out breaths.  Then you engulf him again, hollow your cheeks and actually hum against him, and the tip of him bumps against the back of your throat until your eyes water.

A lone tear breaks free when you blink, and Bob shifts his hand, brushes it away.  He taps you on your chin lightly.

“Eyes on me, kitten,” he orders you, and a moment later, you look up at him. 

You look beautifully wrecked:  eyes wet and liquid as you gaze at him, your eye makeup streaked and ruined.  Your lovely mouth stretched wide around his cock.

“You look pretty as a damned picture,” he tells you, and it’s true.  He holds you in this position for a beat, wants to commit the image to memory.  He wants to carry this moment with him for future frustrating days—when TOPGUN is grueling, he wants to remember that he has this to come home to. 

Not just a gorgeous woman on her knees with her lips wrapped around him, either.  You’re that, of course, but you’re more.  You’re also the woman who orders him around, who calls him a “good boy,” who cups his face the way he’s cupping yours right now.  You’re also the woman who ties him to the bed and teases him relentlessly.  You’re also the woman who spends long, lazy Sunday mornings with him, making love in a languid, sleepy way that feels like heaven.

You’re also the woman who flies a spy plane, a lieutenant in your own right, a no-nonsense aviator who commands respect with your quiet competency in a field full of blowhards and jackasses.

Bob releases his hold on your face.  He slips his hand down to your throat, and he hooks his forefinger around the metal collar, now warmed from being against your skin.

He tugs it gently.  “I’m close,” he warns you.  “You gonna take everything I give you?  Swallow it down, kitten?”

You pull your mouth away long enough to answer.  “Yes, sir,” you tell him, and you sound just as wrecked as he does.  He knows what this game does to you.  He knows your powder-pink panties are slick with your own arousal, your pretty little pussy likely twitching and clenching around nothing, waiting for him.

He nods, and you bend your head to him again.  Your mouth is wonderfully warm, surrounding him, and you pick up your pace.  Your hand on his balls squeezes him gently, and he feels his orgasm—delayed several times now—thundering towards him.  His hips judder upward, involuntary, chasing the feel of your wet, sucking mouth, and you gag lightly against the action but you never stop.

You never stop once he’s given you an order. 

A moment later, the heavy tension in his belly snaps, turns to light and heat that crackles along his spine to the base of his skull, crackles down to where his balls pull up taut in your hand as he comes.  He groans out your name, swears as he pulses in your mouth, and each throb of his cock is answered by you swallowing against him, the slim column of your throat working to take everything he gives you.

And you clean him up at his order too, your tongue shyly running over his softening cock, and then your hand tucking him back into his sweatpants before your eyes find his face.

“Thank you,” he tells you.  He hooks his finger under your collar again, gently leads you from the floor and onto his lap, and he wraps his arms around you.  He presses his head into the side of your neck and sighs out the lingering bit of his frustration from the day, but he’s completely relaxed now.  Once he’s recovered, he’ll repay you, but for now, he wants to bask in his post-orgasm glow with you on his lap and in his arms.

And he thinks back to Javi’s words, all those months ago.  She’s too much for you, he’d said.  Which turned out to be completely untrue:  you’re just enough for him.  You’re perfect for him. 

[thus-spoke-lo]

cw: gn!reader, pet name "pretty" used. yandere hisoka. referenced rough/violent sex. reference to murder. blood. refers to reader as a whore. implied dubcon. hisoka is his own content warning™. prompt from here. wc: 870 Yandere Minific Masterlist

Something feels wrong.

The music you’re listening to, the book in your hand, the way your clothes hang on your body and the way the sheets scratch at your skin—it all suddenly feels incorrect, like something is out of balance, something you can’t quite perceive but you know is there. A heaviness begins to settle on you, like weights being stacked on your chest, one by one; it’s a feeling you know all too well, and you set your headphones and novel aside, creeping your way down your hallway to confirm your suspicions.

Hisoka stands in the middle of your living room, stock still, arms hanging loosely at his side. His breathing is careful, measured, as though he is thinking through every breath—inhale, hold, exhale—to keep himself from shuddering with glee. Your eyes travel over his body, quickly taking in the blood soaking into his clothes, streaks of it drying on his alabaster skin; it’s not an unusual sight, Hisoka standing in your home, covered in blood that could be his or could be someone else’s, his body almost vibrating with a lust that he needs you to quell.

But this feels…different.

“Hello, pretty.” His golden eyes are trained on you, pupils blown, a smile creeping up the corners of his mouth.

“Hi,” you say hesitantly, pressing your back against the wall. That heaviness is growing, almost pinning you in place. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You expect the same answer you usually get—that he needs you, needs a warm body and a mostly-willing spirit. He needs to break you, needs to bruise you, needs to make you cry and bleed and beg, then wrap himself around you like a serpent until he’s had his fill of you.

“Why, I brought you a present,” he coos, slowly walking towards you and motioning for your hand.

You swallow and he drops something small and dense into your shaking palm. It’s a wallet, the faux leather covered in sticky, wet viscera. You open, just enough to see the identification inside—it belongs to your coworker, the one who had joined your department a few months back, who stopped by your desk to chat about sports and the weather, brought you coffee on Mondays and Fridays, having memorized your order in just a few short trips. He walked you to your car when you stayed late, sometimes with your group of friends, sometimes just the two of you.

There was nothing between you, not even remotely—he was young and sweet and eager to make friends, but that was all he was, a friend. Besides, you had already been claimed by someone who you knew would never let you go, not without a fight you could never win.

Hisoka stands, hands on his hips, anxiously watching and analyzing your every movement, eyes widen with every labored breath you take, his cock twitching in his pants as the horror washes over you. It’s like being in a room with a wild animal—no sudden moves, stay calm, keep your breathing steady, but it’s becoming impossible as that heaviness grows and an icy feeling ripples through your limbs. All you can muster is a quiet, “Why?”

He reaches out his hand and strokes your cheek, dragging the sharp tips of his nails across your skin. “Now, now, my pretty, you know it’s cruel to play with other people’s feelings, don’t you?”

“Hisoka, he brings me coffee, that’s all.” Brought you coffee. He brought you coffee, and he will never bring you coffee again, and you will never accept so much as a drop from anyone else, lest it fill your mouth the taste of guilt.

“It starts with coffee, doesn’t it?” Hisoka’s tone changes sharply, every word now dripping with increasing vitriol. “It starts with coffee, and continues to walking you to your car at night to protect you from awful, violent men like me, and soon you’re bent over in his barren little apartment, letting your hero make a whore of you.” He cackles, placing his hands on either side of you, leaning in to nuzzle against your neck. “It ends, my dear, with you coming home smelling like sex, and me having to fuck another man’s cum deeper into you.” He sighs and softly drags his teeth along your jugular. “We can’t have that, can we?”

You shake your head like you think he wants you to do, and place your trembling hands on his waist, like you’re sure he wants you to do. If you can appease him, it’ll be okay, it’ll all be okay, just like always—right?

“I’m so glad you understand,” he purrs, running his tongue along your jaw. You recoil at the smell of him, a saccharine sweetness mixed with drying blood, bubblegum and iron polluting your lungs. He captures your lips and kisses you, harsh and voracious, a flurry of teeth and tongue that stills you, takes your breath away. As his fingers tug at the hem of your shirt, he groan against your lips and murmurs, “I think you ought to get on your knees so you can thank me properly, hm? I’d hate to think you’re ungrateful.”

[bookishdiplodocus]

A longread on writing comedy

This is what I do to research writing comedy:

What helped me most was analyzing a lot of jokes: "It's funny. Why is it funny? How does this joke work?" Usually it's something that subverses the expectations in a specific way or an unexpected collision of two things. (Like a pun is a collision of sound and meaning.) For my analysis, I wonder: "What is the expectation after the set-up? Why do I have this expectation? How does the pay-off subverse the expectation? Why does it still make sense in relation to the set-up?"

For example: I unleashed this kind of analysis on the movie George of the Jungle. It has a surprisingly high hit rate, I think around three jokes per minute in the first one third of the movie, and it still manages to get the story going and the characters introduced. I’ve mentioned this before, but I don’t think I gave examples, and you know I’m all about the teaching.

I found at least 17 types. Heads up, this is going to be a longread.

Type 1: Puns

Narrator: “When they finally beheld the mighty Ape Mountain…” [They see a mountain shaped like a gorilla head.] Narrator, cont’d: “… they reacted with awe.” All: “Aww.” Narrator: “I said ‘awe”. A-W-E.” All: “Ooh!” Narrator: “That’s better.”

Explanation:

The pun lies in the fact that “awe” and “aww” sound the same.

There is a visual type of comedy as well that we can’t effectively reproduce in writing: the mountain is shaped like a gorilla head.

BTW: the narrator defies genre expectations by interacting with the characters, and the characters defy genre expectations by being able to hear the narrator.

Type 2: Tone of voice

Narrator, about the main characters: “Scraped and boo-booed, they searched high and low.

Explanation:

“Boo-booed” is a children’s word, not the tone you would use for a hero. Compare “tummy” and “stomach”.

Type 3: Defying genre expectations

[The guide falls off a rope bridge into a deep chasm.] Narrator: “Don’t worry—nobody dies in this story. They just get really big boo-boos.”

Explanation:

The narrator is breaking the fourth wall.

Again: tone of voice with the “boo-boos”.

Contrast between the boo-boo and the injuries one usually suffers after falling into a deep chasm.

Type 4: Not defying genre expectations

[A lion appears from the bushes. A baby monkey makes a sound like “uh-oh”.] [The baby monkey does the Tarzan call and bangs its chest.] [The lion flees.] [The monkey giggles.] [The monkey gives George a thumbs up.] [From the bushes, the lion winks at George. George winks back.]

Explanation:

Expectation: the lion is a danger to the baby monkey and George will need to fight it to save the monkey.

Defying expectations: the monkey and the lion are in on the plan.

Not defying genre expectations: George of the Jungle is clearly based on Tarzan. George doesn’t refer to that fact, but the monkey does, by doing the Tarzan call and banging its chest.

Improbable: monkeys who giggle and give thumbs up.

Impossible: lions who wink.

Type 5: Contrast

Narrator: “Meanwhile, 43 vines away, George’s kingdom is being threatened by a terrifying intruder.” [We see the adorable Leslie Mann, who plays Ursula, smiling and talking to the camera.] Ursula: “Hi! It’s me again!”

Explanation:

Contrast between what the narrator says and what we see.

The narrator isn’t lying. He refers to Lyle and the poachers who will be introduced in this scene.

There’s also humor in the phrase “43 vines away”, because of the overt specificity and because a vine is not a measure of distance.

Type 6: Oblivious character

[Lyle takes a Polaroid picture of one of the guides.] Lyle: “Do you like it? Magic picture. Yet another gift from America. Here you go. You’re welcome.” [The guide replies in Swahili. There is no translation in the subtitles.] [All the guides laugh.] [The guide continues in Swahili. Only the last few words are in English: “35 mm.” The guide takes his own camera and snaps a picture of Lyle.] [All the guides and Ursula laugh.] Lyle, not amused: “Translation, please.” Other guide: “He says he likes your magic pictures, but he prefers the resolution of the Leica 35 mm transparencies.” [Everyone but Lyle laughs.] Other guide, cont'd: “He also says your lens is dirty, but he has the equipment to clean it for you.”

Explanation:

Lyle doesn’t understand Swahili, while the guides understand everything Lyle says to them in English.

The fact that Ursula, Lyle's fianceé, understands Swahili and laughs along with the guides, is adds contrast to his obliviousness.

Lyle is the butt of the joke. He humiliates the guides and now he’s humiliated on his own turf while the guides don’t stoop down to his level.

This joke is threefold: 1. The set-up: Lyle is the arrogant asshole who thinks he’ll show the locals about technological development. 2. The guide is not only not impressed, he knows Polaroid and has a camera of his own, and is knowledgeable. 3. And he demonstrates his superiority in a (more or less) polite way.

Type 7: Slapstick

[George is swinging on the vines.] Narrator: “He is swift. He is strong. He is sure. He is smart.” [George hits a tree and falls.] Narrator, deadpan: “He is unconscious.”

Explanation:

Slapstick is another type of humor that barely translates to written fiction, when the actors behave silly, for example by falling over, hurting themselves, or others. It's often over the top. Laurel & Hardy is a well-known example of slapstick.

Type 8: Alliteration

Narrator: “The tired trekkers trudged on feverish footsies over perilous paths.”

Explanation:

If several words in each other’s vicinity start with the same letter, it’s called alliteration.

Note that "footsies" is another example of a contrast in tone of voice—it’s another children’s word.

Type 9: Improbable things

[George spins a lion over his head.] George: “George not even trying hard.”

Explanation:

While not impossible, spinning an actual lion over one’s head is improbable and thus goes against real-world expectations.

Type 10: Impossible things

[A gorilla called Ape enters George’s tree house and scares Ursula.] Ursula: “What does it want? What does it want?” Ape: [points at a big book] “It wants its Physician’s Desk Reference, if you don’t mind, unless you’d rather die of dengue fever, of course.” [Ursula faints again.]

Explanation:

Gorillas can’t talk, can’t read, and aren’t usually well-versed in curing tropical diseases.

Type 11: Breaking social norms

[Ursula is unconscious. George licks her face, clearly meaning well.]

Explanation:

In our society, it is not only considered impolite but also gross to lick the face of a stranger. The fact that George does this anyway, clearly not realizing he does something wrong, is a subversion of what we’d expect of social norms and behavior.

Type 12 and 13: Hyperbole and understatement

[Earlier, Ursula fainted when she saw Ape talk and do human things.] [Ape is reading when he sees Ursula look at him. He panics, throws the book away, starts grunting, and bangs his chest.] [Ursula faints again.] Ape: “Eh.”

Explanation:

Ursula fainting again is a hyperbole: a reaction that is stronger than expected.

Ape saying “Eh.” is an understatement: a reaction less strong than expected.

Type 14: Obvious repetitions

Ursula: “… And I didn’t want my fianc—Um, this guy I was with, to worry.” Narrator, a few moments later: “George and Ursula set out on a desperate search to find her fianc—Uh, that guy she was with.”

Type 15: Stating the obvious

[We see the guide’s hand, pointing at a really big footprint in the mud.] Narrator: “Meanwhile, back at the really big footprint in the mud, (...)”

Explanation:

Stating the obvious can be funny because the audience doesn’t expect you to do or say this because it is so very obvious.

Type 16: Adult humor

[George watches Ursula sleep.] George: “George having stirrings of special feelings right now.” Ape, drily: “I see.” George: “Good thing she same species, huh?”

Explanation:

Ape’s reply, “I see”, could be an innuendo, but it doesn’t come across as a joke (to me at least). Maybe it’s downplayed because it’s a children’s movie.

If this is an innuendo, it’s a play on words. “I see”, figuratively, for “I understand”, or literally for “Yes, I can tell from your erection.”

“Good thing she same species” because George shouldn’t have stirrings of special feelings for animals.

Type 17: Rhyme

[George is swinging on a vine.] George: “Look, like this!” Song: “He flies through the air with the greatest ease.” Song, cont’d: “Our daring young man on the flying trapeze.” [George hangs upside down from a vine.] George: “Look, no hands.” Song, cont’d: “His movements so grateful, all girls he could please.” Song, cont’d: “And with love he is swinging away…” [On the ground, gorillas frantically run back and forth with a safety net.] Song, cont’d: “He flies through the air with the greatest of ease.” Ursula: “George, watch out for that—” Song, cont’d while George yelps: “Our daring young man on the—” [Song stops abruptly.] [Thud] [George grunts.] Ursula: “… tree.”

Explanation:

When words end in the same sounds, we call it rhyme.

It’s physically impossible to hang from a vine with no hands.

The gorillas with the safety net imply that they expect George to fall.

Also, it’s improbable that gorillas would do this.

Slapstick: George hitting the tree.

Comedic timing: Ursula being just too late to warn George about the tree.

Song + Ursula: “Our daring young man on the—tree.” Because by then he is literally stuck to the tree.

Or throw everything at the audience, whatever.

[George has a pet elephant, Shep, who behaves like a happy doggy.] [Shep is chewing a humongous bone.] Narrator: “Later, they rested, while the tired tusker teethed on a… Wait a second, the dog bone is too much. Lose it.” [The dog bone disappears.] Narrator: “That’s better.” [Shep whines.]

Explanation:

Improbable: Pet elephant who behaves like a doggy.

Alliteration: “tired tusker teethed”

Fourth wall: the narrator comments on the story while it is going on, and edits it.

*** Here are some other funny situations from the movie. Try to analyze what’s going on. Usually you can spot several types.

Situation 1

Narrator: “Meanwhile, at a very big and expensive waterfall set, Ursula was amazed that she was lost in the wilderness with a jungle man.” Ursula: “And here I am, lost in the wilderness with a jungle man.”

Situation 2

Narrator: “The guides came dangerously close—” Narrator: “That is, dangerously close to shove a coconut up in Kyle’s—” Narrator: “Sleeping bag.”

Situation 3

Lyle: “I am the richest, handsomest, smartest guy here, so I get to go first!” [Lyle pushes past everyone, trips over a tree stump and lands face first in a steaming pile of elephant poop.] Lyle: “There’s an elephant here.” Guide, while looking straight into the camera: “Bad guy falls into poop. Classical element of physical comedy.” Guide, cont’d: “Now comes the element where we throw our heads back and laugh.” Guide, cont’d: “Ready?” Other guides, while also looking straight into the camera: “Ready!” [All the guides throw their heads back and laugh.] [Monkey laughs and points at Lyle.] [Off-screen, other animals make laughing sounds.] Lyle, spitting out poop: “Those are nowhere near properly digested.” Lyle, cont’d: “In case anyone is wondering, I’m okay.”

Situation 4

[Cliffhanger: it looks like Lyle has shot George from up close.] Narrator: “Whew! Okay kids, let’s settle down and review the important information. Lyle is a big doofus. Poor George was actually shot but can’t die because, let’s face it, he’s the hero. So, the naturally concerned and preternaturally wealthy Ursula Stanhope whisked George away on a private jet bound for the country of his birth—” [George has a tiny band-aid on his forehead.] Narrator, cont’d: “—where he’s gonna get the finest medical treatment available!” Ursula: “I’m gonna get you the finest medical treatment available.”

Situation 5

Narrator: “Well, Ursula […] could use a best friend now.” Best friend: “Hi!” Ursula: “He’s in the shower.” Best friend, distracted: “Not anymore.” George, naked: “Bad waterfall. First, water get hot—” [A sexy saxophone plays] George, cont’d: “Then George slips on this strange yellow rock.” [Perspective: the camera looks at the two women, seen from between George’s legs. They are clearly ogling his crotch.] [Ursula swoons.] George, noticing the friend: “Hi! George of jungle.” Friend, eager: “Charmed, I’m sure.” [Ursula hands George objects that barely cover his crotch. The camera switches back to a frontal view of George. The friend is still ogling George.] Best friend, mumbling appreciatively: “I see why they made him king of the jungle.” *** I hope this was helpful. Don’t hesitate to ask me any questions, and happy writing!

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[darling--angst]

Yan!Doa and Reader who's two faced—highschool au

Pairing: Nikolai, Fyodor, Sigma x Reader (separate)

Type: Headcanons

Genre: Yandere???

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulation, unhealthy relationship, stalking, obsession, invasion of privacy, mentions of blackmail,

Synopsis: The new semester started and a new batch of students come to Yokohama International school after JHS, that included you. However, you caught the attention of the top members of the student council

A/n: I took a break from making your oneshot requests because I'm hesitant to make one where Ranpo has an s/o who uses drugs, mind you I have no knowledge in drugs whatsoever. I literally made this a week before my semester starts.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

He is popular among all the years whether it be the seniors or the juniors.

He was what people call the perfect student.

All his grades are perfect, and he was handsome, he's also the president of the student council

Face of the council

He won many awards throughout every year.

Represents the music club with his cello

Though, he finds praises meaningless, after all they are just empty words.

He saw himself as the saviour of all the pathetic and imperfect humans.

At first he loved how when he walked in the hallways everybody would turn their attention on him and sang praises.

When he sees a new student, his first move is to make an impression(which he thinks as too easy).

He was quiet, he never got involved in trouble, he 'helped' those who asked.

He saw himself as an incarnation of an Angel, the path to salvation from their sins.

But he eventually got bored, then you came in.

He first thought to play you to 'save' you and then, he grew realize that you aren't a simple sinner but something else..

He saw you as his 'equal', and plans to have you one way or another.

Saw your true face while reading a book or smth

He'll make the first move and confront you abt it.

Will blackmail you with that information if needed only you refuse to be his.

Nikolai Gogol

He's mostly loved by the juniors but at the same is weirded out by him.

Most seniors think of him as a laughing stock

He's part of the student and always takes a seat next to Fyodor

(it means that his position is next to Fyodor's, making him the second highest in the student committee)

Which many finds shocking

He is academically gifted, when he's not paying attention and a teacher asks him to solve something, he'll joke abt it first but solves it with no struggles whatsoever.

Probably still a clown

He likes messing with Sigma.

He pranked him while sleeping one time and dear lord everybody knew what he did.

Loves to prank teachers, juniors, senior, anyone, no everyone.

Almost got expelled for a reason nobody knows

Most thinks he bribes the teacher that's why he gets top grades.

Can be smart if he wants to.

You can ALWAYS find him inside detention, the bathroom, or teacher's office.

He would go on measures just to make sure you aren't with anybody else.

Def would use the security cameras to see you.

He saw your true face because of this and he never loved you more. (He hated manipulative people but not you since you aren't manipulating them, kinda??)

Will use the information to his advantage

If you started dating someone, he'll blackmail you.

He loves the way you think and your view of the cruel people around you.

He would play along with your act.

Sigma

He's timid

Many saw him as a sweet individual who's willing to help others

He's loved by all the teachers and juniors because of how kind he is.

Loved by most of the student council.

Def has a lot of junior fangirls

He despises dislikes Nikolai Gogol. He would definitely avoid him.

Manages the complaints of the students or the internal affairs teachers are too lazy to do.

Has to clean up after Nikolai because Fyodor ordered him to.

Knows something is wrong about Fyodor but can't figure out what.

He thinks of you as an innocent angel who he has to protect.

He once saw your true face but thought that it's normal to get angry.

Hates when Nikolai touches you/is around you.

He'd be clenching his fist when monitoring things during break time.

Will never try to hurt you in anyway possible like the other two.

Nikolai's number one prank victim. Some even pity Sigma.

One time in JHS, when he was sleeping his hair had bubblegum in it(Nikolai did it) so Nikolai suggested he cut it.

...he did.. and that's the origin of his bad double bowl cut.

Would treat you to lunch on whatever you want.

Rich.

A/n: I'd make a oneshot/series about this, maybe.? Whichever you guys prefer I guess...

[nalyra-dreaming]

daniel got the journalist dream in a full archive of information about his subjects. made me giggle when he stopped listening to loumand’s love story to get a look at the files.

since 2x01 i’ve been thinking about who is buying the Bacon triptych, thought it would come back into play and it did. now i can’t shake the feeling an important character will make an introduction in present day through that acquisition, and clearly they’re not alone.

could this be lestat or marius? who knows, but i got this inkling the past coming for loumand.

my heart breaks for claudia. everyone, including louis, is withholding information from her.

she has done so much for louis, helping him survive and now even telling him what happened with bruce and he hasn’t told her about dreamstat. that’s the painful, if not also abusive(?) side of their relationship. he takes but doesn’t give back in equal measure. he loves her but not enough to save her.

The lawyer in the video call says "the buyer wants it for her husband, she probably googled what questions she should ask".

That could, of course, be a deflection.

If it isn't I do wonder who that buyer will turn out to be, because I agree it will be important.

I do not agree with your assessment of Louis and Claudia.

Claudia can literally see Lestat in Louis' mind if she so chooses, and her behavior (and remarks) towards him make me believe that she can. He does not need to tell her.

And she only told him about Bruce when she was using that experience (and, oh damn, the parallels!!) to form an origin story for the two of them. That was no opening up for them to get closer, she was using what she had experienced (which is her good right, no shade here, but it was not for Louis).

Also... she may have helped him survive, but she also dragged him onto that quest he did not want to go on, he wanted to go home (and back to Lestat). He did not want to kill Lestat in the first place.

And as per your last comment - did we watch the same show? Rewatch the sewer scene and then that kiss and the discussion after.

Because Louis is literally throwing himself into that relationship as a bargaining chip on her behalf there (and his own), because Armand almost killed him there (and he even pulled out the promise Armand had made!!) and has said quite plainly that Claudia would not be around for long.

Look at his face there before

and after the kiss

Enthusiasm is something else. And then that little exchange:

"You wanna come upstairs" "Are you inviting me in?" "Depends… are you gonna kill me?"

And then him waiting for Armand:

Look at his face (unfortunately the image itself is very small there).

Look at him. The way he holds his body. Lips pressed together, jaw clenched.

He's sooooooooooo hApPy - not. 💀

It's no wonder AMC did not promote Loumand, honestly, though I had not expected them to go this dark, this soon. Holy shit.

And, btw, this takes another spin onto the "Judas Kiss" painting and actual kiss later - because it ties it with this one, and the promise inherent in it.

Because I think when that little kiss onto Louis' cheek happens Claudia's protection... will be revoked.

[snitchcrimsonwrites]

Maybe pt. 5

Pairing: Norm MacLean X Female Reader or OC if you squint

Former friends to a relationship?

Life is pretty easy in Vault 33 until you're trying to rekindle a former friendship and Raiders attack. Now, our main characters are trying to navigate newfound feelings, all while undercovering the mysteries of Vault 33. Stay tuned. Follows the main storyline of season 1; some events may be reordered for plot.

Something seems off with these dwellers from 32, what's their deal? Time for our favorite couple to find out.

Part 1 Here Part 7 Here Part 12 Here

Part 2 Here Part 8 Here

Part 3 Here Part 9 Here

Part 4 Here Part 10 Here

Part 6 Here Part 11 Here

Norm knew why he was sitting alone at a table of mainly residents from Vault 32, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He’d much rather be conversing with his family or (Y/N). Hell, he’d take even Chet, who he was sure would go on about his infatuation with his sister. He’d prefer that level of awkwardness to the awkwardness associated with playing host because he was the Overseer’s son. He wasn’t cut out for this. 

He looks up from the table and across the atrium to see your eyes locked on him, he offers back a wave to break your concentration on him. You return the gesture with a beaming smile. His heart thumps a little quicker. You’ve had that effect on him lately. He’s not quite sure when his feelings evolved past friendship-maybe back then, maybe in the last couple of weeks- but there’s no denying them now. He was hopeful that you felt the same; some of your interactions with him seemed more than friendly, flirty even. He just couldn’t be sure he wasn’t projecting his desires onto these situations. 

His dad steps up to the stage to deliver his remarks. Thank Goodness. He was eager for any excuse to leave his assigned table. 

“Good evening, and welcome to the proud denizens of Vault 32. We are bonded not just as neighbors but by a shared duty. To keep the candle of civilization lit. While the rest of the world has been cast into darkness.”

Norm can’t help but turn his attention from his father to the Overseer at his table; her intense focus on his dad’s words seemed out of place. What was her deal? 

 “Soon, if our measurements are correct, radiation levels on the surface are dropping fast enough that the next generation, Lucy and Monty’s children, will be able to recolonize.” 

The atrium fills with cheers and applause from those in Vault 33 jumpsuits. The 32s seem less enthusiastic about the concept of recolonization. Was he reading too much into this? He feared the surface; maybe these people did, too. Perhaps he’d fit in better if he were in Vault 32. 

“After 200 years, we don’t know much about what’s up there: desperation, violence, lawlessness. These survivors will need to be shown a better way. I’ll admit sometimes I’m afraid that mean old world will change us instead. But then I look at my daughter, who’s such a beautiful bride, and her new husband. And I am not afraid. I feel hope. To Lucy MacLean. And to this marriage. And to hope!”

The actual celebration could begin with the closing of his father’s remark. The music started, and everyone was soon captivated by the sweetness of the father-daughter dance. His dad and Lucy swayed back and forth to the sounds of “Some Enchanted Evening” emitting from the jukebox on stage. After a few moments, the two broke away. Norm knew what was coming next; this was typical of his family. His dad and sister plead for him to join them on the dancefloor. He begrudgingly concedes it was his sister’s wedding day after all. 

Now, the three embraced and rocked back and forth on the dancefloor. At this moment, Norm was grateful for the bond he shared with his family. Through all the teasing between siblings and the disapproving glances from his father, they loved each other very genuinely, and moments like this one were the manifestation of that. 

As they broke apart, Lucy went to tousle his hair affectionately. He noticed her eyes widen at something across the room as she did. Lucy motioned at someone, and Norm followed her gaze. Please no. But it was already too late. Lucy was closing the distance towards (Y/N). The two excitedly embraced. Hopefully, they were just exchanging congratulations. They were friends, after all. Norm watches as Lucy whispers something to you, and suddenly, the pair is heading back in his direction. Lucy, what did you say? Norm thinks as he puts his hand up his forehead while his dad nudges him with his elbow. 

“I saw (Y/N) by herself on the edge of the dancefloor and thought someone might like to invite her to dance.” That someone was him, apparently, as Lucy offered (Y/N)’s hand to Norm. 

“I’d be happy to,” he replies. Norm was frustrated that his sister had to be one to ask you but wasn’t about to lose the opportunity to dance with you. With a surge of confidence, he takes hold of your hand to lead you onto the dance floor, making a little show of pulling you into position in his arms. He was hoping it impressed you.   

“Sorry about that,” he confesses to you after a few moments, shooting his sister a steely glance as he does. She didn’t need to confirm that he was too chicken to ask a girl to dance. “You know how she can be when she gets an idea in her head—unrelenting.” 

“I don’t mind; I was actually hoping you’d ask. Your sister just guaranteed the odds.” 

Norm smiles, looking up into your eyes. You wanted to be here with him. That was enough. He eases into the moment, focusing on his dance steps and trying to burn every aspect of this into his memory. The way your perfume lingered in his nose, how your body felt leaning into his, the beating of your heart in rhythm with the music—he wants to remember it all. 

The sound of a throat clearing behind him brings Norm back to reality. Please don’t let it be someone else wanting to cut in. Turning around, it was just his father, but he did come bringing bad news. “Sorry, I will need to steal Norm away for a second,” the Overseer states as he places a hand on Norm’s shoulder. “Just one family photo, and I’ll give him back,” he reassures (Y/N) with a wink. 

“Not a problem,” you reply. Norm believes he can detect disappointment in your tone. 

“Find you after.” Norm declares, keeping a loose grasp on your hand as the two of you pull away. He wasn’t ready to let go just yet. 

______________________________

You set up camp by the main stage to people-watch and wait for Norm to return from his family obligations. Initially, you hoped to catch some laughable moments from your neighbors of Vault 33. There was just something about weddings that brought out peoples’ impulsive natures. Still, it was the behaviors of the residents of Vault 32 you couldn’t look away from. 

Not even Norm’s presence back in the main ceremony space shifted your attention. Soon, he was slotted into the spot next to you on stage. You assumed he must have picked up on your body language and noticed precisely who you were observing because, without any prompting, he spoke up and asked, “Is it just me, or are the Vault 32 dwellers just a little  …” 

“Off?” you offer, not giving him a chance to finish. 

“I noticed it first while my dad was giving his remarks; their Overseer seemed to be picking apart every word,” he said, replaying the interactions in his mind. 

Without warning, he hops down to his feet from the stage and turns to you, offering his hand. “Come on.” 

You take hold without a second thought. “Where are we going?” 

“I think we need to explore how the other side lives.”

The two of you set off in the same direction you returned from hours ago, trying to act inconspicuously. Hopefully, the sight of two young people walking off holding hands gave a different impression than the reality of snooping around Vault 32. 

Hands still interlocked, you make your way down the vault corridor, the sounds of the party in the atrium fading into the background, faintly echoing down the metal hallway. As you approach the end of the hallway, the vault door welcoming you to 32 is still open and rolled off to the side. There are no guards; all seems completely ordinary. You look to Norm and nod, confirming your commitment to enter and cross the threshold hand in hand. 

The sight that greets you immediately sets off alarm bells. A breathless “Whoa” was all you could manage. Norm stays quiet, taking it in, only offering a squeeze of your hand as reassurance.  

 Vault 32’s primary outdoor space appears before you in stark contrast to 33’s. The Vault’s wheat crop is laid out across the atrium as a sea of decayed brown, brittle, and rotting wheat. Their Overseer mentioned a blight that had wiped out their supply, but seeing the scene before you was chilling. How did these people survive? 

Continuing further into Vault 32’s atrium, you have to watch your step to avoid pieces of furniture grouped together in small huddles. The lack of lighting makes this task more difficult. Was there no power? Norm provides a steady arm as you two navigate the miniature obstacle course before you. 

“Something isn’t right,” he vocalizes as he helps you avoid the plastic lawn chairs and bedding blocking the small opening to the remainder of the living area of the Vault. You’ve now moved both hands to grasp onto his bicep and forearm as you walked, nervous about the potential jump-scare awaiting around every corner. 

The Vault’s living area seemed worse than the atrium, with equipment and furniture strewn haphazardly into the hallways, tables overturned, and trash littering the floor. Yet you continued. Curiosity drove each step forward while the heartbeat creeping up into your throat signaled to turn back. 

“Hello?” Norm calls out as the two round a corner into one of the disheveled nursery rooms. 

Panic strikes you when you realize he was calling out to what looks to be a person occupying a chair in a room ahead of you. What are they still doing in here?  Panic then turns to horror when you get a better look at the occupant in the chair. The sight of the rotten, decayed skin leaves no room for interpretation, sending you and Norm scurrying to get back to Vault 33 in a hurry. 

“Stay close,” Norm shouted over his shoulder from his position slightly ahead of you. As you returned down the hallway to get out the way you came, you heard the distant sounds of alarms, screams, and gunshots echoing into Vault 32. Something serious had happened since the two had left. 

Norm speeds up and passes the last intersecting hallway before exiting the Vault; however, your escape becomes blocked as a knife-wielding Vault 32 dweller lunges out of the hallway junction in the space separating you from Norm. You react by putting your arms up in defense as the momentum from your body sends you crashing into your attacker, the backs of your forearms making contact with the large knife. 

Your scream stops Norm dead in his tracks. He spins around frantically to see the cause of your distress, seeing you bloodied and wrestling to escape your attacker. He starts back down the hallway to intervene, but the appearance of two more 32s stops him. 

“Get after him. I’ve got this,” your attacker encourages, causing the two newcomers to rush down the hallway after Norm. 

“Keep going. Don’t look back!” you shout, hoping to prompt Norm to flee as you writhe free, creating space between you and your assailant. Your words have the intended effect as your friend springs to action, taking the additional aggressors out of the corridor with him. 

Escaping your attacker's hold, you now need a plan to save your life. Think you need to come up with something, anything! You urge your brain in desperation. 

The man comes at you again, lunging through the space between you, trying to make contact with his weapon. You narrowly dodge in time, ungracefully slide rolling to connect with maintenance equipment piled in the hallway's corner, the contact with the floor winding you slightly. 

The clanging of metal tools falling on the floor draws your attention and will hopefully give you a chance. You pick up the nearest object, a pipe wrench, you think, and position yourself as your attacker comes at you again. From the ground, you lunge at their legs, knocking them off balance, and, using your body weight, pin them to the floor. It all happened so quickly that they had no time to react. The pipe wrench does the rest of the work. With a two-handed grip, the wrench rises over your head, comes back down, and connects. One. Two. Three. Four times. That was all it took to turn a human head into a bloody pulp.

 You breathe out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and your body relaxes as the adrenaline leaves. You wince, now realizing how bad the damage to your arms was. The gashes were deep and still oozing blood; you had enough medical knowledge to know you needed to treat these wounds ASAP lest you be able to use your arms again. One of the hallway storerooms was your best bet. 

___________________________

Norm can’t believe he took off down the hallway without a second thought. You were in trouble and needed help, but now he was in trouble sprinting down the connecting corridor with two, who he would assume were raiders hot on his tail. Maybe he could shake these guys and bring back reinforcements. At that thought, he urged his legs to give him more speed. 

Thankfully, he was quick, leaving the raiders scrambling to catch up as he exited the corridor and hid low amongst the corn stalks. Upon seeing the chaos in the atrium, that was his new plan. The raiders had descended on anyone in a Vault 33 jumpsuit, killing them indiscriminately and with a level of violence he thought was unimaginable until now. 

Norm realizes his best chance at survival is escaping the atrium and hiding somewhere deeper in the vault. He just hoped you were able to do the same. He stays low among the corn and vegetable garden, paying attention to opportunities to make a break. He makes it to the central open space, ducking for cover under a picnic table, hoping for one more chance to clear the room. He has no such luck. A female raider spies him under the table and grabs his legs, pulling him out into the open. This is how I die. The raider pulls Norm up to his knees, intending to silt his throat, and Norm fights back with all the strength he can muster. It’s not going to be enough. Then, suddenly, the raider goes limp, and he can push her body off to the side as she comes crashing down. He didn’t realize what had happened until he was embraced in his sister's arms. Lucy saved him. And now it was Lucy ushering him across the lawn and assisting him into the safety of the bunker. Norm climbs down into the claustrophobic space and turns to do the same for Lucy; at least he can save her. She simply shakes her head–no. She’s not coming down without Dad. She helps Norm shut the bunker door and heads back into the fray.

Norm dwells on one thought in the confided pitch-blackness of the bunker against the backdrop of commotion from above. I let them all down.

[gyllenhaalstories]

LEG LOCK — ELWOOD DALTON 🏆

summary: happy international women’s day! let’s celebrate by getting absolutely wrecked by this this man who was sculpted by the gods.

warnings: i know nothing about the ufc, curse words, smut (the pet name doll is used, degradation, mild nipple play, worship kink, size difference* kink, marking, dacryphilia, blowjob & throat fucking, mild CNC, throatpie, choking, 69, pussy eating, fingering). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 4465

photo credits: me @/gyllenhaalstories / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: *you do not need to be smaller than him, size kink applies to all heights & weights. when road house comes out, let’s all disregard the fact that my portrayal of dalton will most likely be so far off, okay? okay. i want to give a big shoutout to @jakegooglyeyes​ for the ideas, i had to steal them to make this fic as filthy as possible. ❤️ thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

“Come here, doll.” Dalton abandoned the magnificent view of the Vegas Strip he had from this hotel suite to turn his head in your direction. A couple of floors higher than where you were residing for the duration of the event and you would have your heads in the clouds. “I need you to show me how much you missed me.”

You walked from across the room, silk bathrobe wrapped around your body from when Dalton left to prepare for the fight and you relaxed in the tub that sat between the living and the bed rooms. Bath time was cut short, your eyes had been glued to the television screen while you watched the fight that ended incredibly quickly. In a blink of an eye, you got a text from your man indicating he was on his way (or so you assumed with the series of emojis he sent you, including an eggplant followed by droplets of sweat), then you heard knocking at the door.

The rest happened just as quickly, he replaced the hot and foamy water of the bath by cold one in which he dumped bucket after bucket of ice cubes to chill his worked up body. He hopped out of the ice bath and barely covered himself with a matching bathroom. He was still wearing the same compression shorts as from the fight, cup and all. A few glasses of electrolyte drinks, a pain killer as a safety measure and he was ready to go. His shorts were still damp. He was not playing.

You made your way to Dalton and wrapped your arms around his muscular shoulders. You had praised him enough, he could catch a break from all the ego inflation and try to get in touch with reality instead — with your help, of course. “You’re asking for a lot.” You smirked and pulled him in for a kiss. “You weren’t gone for a long time.”

“You’re so silly.” He mirrored your smirk as his tongue brushed over his teeth that had been covered by an official UFC branded mouth guard during the fight. His hands found their usual place at the small of your back. “I’m not asking, baby doll.” He rubbed his hands up and down on your back, surprising you when you felt some kind of pressure against your shoulders that was pushing you down.

You wanted to tell him he was needy, that he could enjoy the rest of his night and drop the bad boy act for an hour or two. You wanted to tell him you were still sore from a few days ago when he fucked you like it would be the last time, that he could wait a little longer. Your head wanted to tell him many things, your body, however, was only saying one thing.

His left hand was resting on top of your head, helping you go lower and lower until you dropped to your knees like the ‘good fucking girl’ you were. He gave you just enough freedom to take your time and leave a trail of kisses that started from his puffy pecs.

You traced the shape of them with your tongue before you gentle wrapped your lips around his small nipples. You flicked your tongue over the sensitive buds, drawing soft whimpers out of him. You gave his other nipple the same treatment and glanced at Dalton quickly, catching him as he was lolling his head back from the feeling of your warm mouth on his cold, hard nipples. You continued to paint his body with open mouthed kisses all the way down the small valley between his hard abs.

His eyes rolled backwards when you reached his Adonis belt — his sweet spot. His grip on your head loosened, you knew you were pushing all the right buttons. He would never get enough of you worshipping him. Whether it was with your words, your hands or your mouth; he soaked it all up and let it spark fireworks through his body. All those kisses and touches only made him even more aroused, pumping blood to his constricted cock.

Your kisses lingered on each side of his waist, making sure to suck just long enough to leave marks that were darker than his tanned skin. You gently licked over the groove of the muscle until you noticed a wet spot on his skin. You kept going until both sides looked bruised, unlike the rest of body. He left the octagon pretty much intact after the victory by knock out.

“I fucking knew it.” You raised your eye brows, looking up to meet Dalton’s darkened blue eyes. “You missed me.” He chuckled, satisfied by how you were treating him. He felt special a lot of the time, especially when cameras and spotlights followed his every movement on the stage while he threw punches at his opponents. However, nothing could compare with the way you made him feel like the king of the world.

From your position, down on the floor, he could absolutely pass as a king. He looked tall, impressive — intimidating. Dalton was towering over you and enjoying himself while he did it. You let your hands explore his toned legs, noticing how some muscles twitched under your touch. You continued to cover his lower abdomen with kisses and hickeys until you, too, got impatient enough to feel the urge to rip the shorts off his body.

Dalton’s arms moved out of the way after he let the bathrobe fall to his feet. He arched his back just enough to push his crotch impossibly closer to your face. He clicked his tongue as some imaginary clock was ticking as well. You needed to hurry up.

You squeezed your thumbs between his hips and the waist band of his shorts. You leaned your head on the hand was now caressing your cheek while you pulled down on the bottoms until he could easily step out of them. You discarded the damp fabric and let him adjust to the freedom. Your eyes widened with excitement — and hunger — as you watched his cock twitch and throb before you.

When you opened your mouth, awfully slow in his opinion, he quickly guided himself to the hole you were presenting. He barely gave you time to stick your tongue out that the tip of his cock was pushing deep in your mouth, a grunt of relief escaped his open mouth. “Been thinking of that mouth of yours all fucking day.”

You gagged around him, hands gripped on the smooth skin of his waxed legs. The trick that said to squeeze your thumb inside your hand had long stopped working for you. Dalton liked it rough — no stupid tricks could save you. You moaned around him and tried to bop your head back and forth to coat his veiny length with spit. You opened your eyes for a split second, meeting with his intense gaze while tears already started to pool and threaten to fall down your face.

“Gonna make yourself look all pretty for me, doll?” He started to thrust his hips, refusing to follow the pace you were setting. He wanted to feel you, all of you. He would not stop until he got what he wanted. His hands met on your head, he was already locking his fingers together.

Your eyes widened with fear and a small scream got stuck in your throat. You pulled away — while you still had time — to take as many deep breaths as he would let you.

“Answer me.” Dalton ordered.

“Yes. So pretty,” you obeyed, panting. “Just how you like it.”

“Just how I love it.” He corrected you with an arched brow. He guided your head to his crotch again. “Make yourself cry on my cock, baby.”

You nodded frantically and opened your mouth, jaw relaxed with your tongue out, already begging to taste more of his precum. Slowly, you took him in. Inch by inch, you adjusted to the size and weight of him against your tongue. You pushed your head as far as you could take it and pulled away. You spit on his cock and tried again and again, building speed and rhythm that made Dalton grunt of pleasure.

Whether you were moaning or whining around his cock, he did not care. He enjoyed the vibrations too much to stop and let you speak. With his hands on your head, he helped you move back and forth despite the strings of saliva that dripped down your chin and despite the tears that streamed down your face. He made you look up at him, and he could have finished right here and there in your mouth as he took in the sight.

It was messy. You looked so messy. Spit and tears had fallen down on your exposed breasts. You, too, were no longer wearing the silky bathrobe and it made him want to cover your whole body with various marks. Hickeys, spit, cum — whatever he could come up with to mark you as his, he would do it. And you would let him. Happily.

“Oh, doll,” Dalton chuckled in between moaning. “How could I not want to ruin you when you look so beautiful for me?” He gripped on your hair a bit, anchoring you down on his cock to keep you in place while he kept going with the dirty talk. “Let me hear your cute noises when you choke on me. Don’t fucking hold back.”

So, you did just that... Not that you had a choice, really. Dalton had taken over control of your strokes. All you could do was take it and let him hear how much you liked it. You reached to touch your neck and felt the size of the bulge his cock was creating in your throat. It hurt so bad. Your throat was hurting from the intense fucking, your eyes were hurting from the relentless crying and your knees were hurting from your position. You did not know what you should focus on.

Dalton figured it out for you as he made you hold his cock in your throat again. You could swear you felt him throb in your mouth, and judging by how he pulled your head away from him, he felt it too. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He laughed, his chest rising up and down from his breathing. “You’re so greedy, baby. You want me to cum already?”

“Yes, yes, please! You sounded so adorable when you begged.

“Nah,” He walked away from you, towards the bed. “You don’t deserve it yet.”

You put your palms on the floor and crawled on all fours, following him.

He fell on the bed, heavily, with a loud groan. The mattress curved under his weight and he waited until you were kneeling by his feet again. He reached his knee up to your chin — the same one he used to knock his opponent out for good — and made your head tilt up to look at him. “You good?”

You nodded and resisted the urge to wipe your face clean. It was uncomfortable. It was degrading.

He adored it. “Use your words.”

“I’m good.” You sounded confident enough to earn gentle taps of the back of his hand against your cheek.

Without losing anymore time, Dalton pushed you back down on his cock. Deeper than before. Deeper than he had done it in a long time.

You coughed and choked and gagged — a symphony of sounds that only got him craving for more. He could not move his hips a lot from this sitting position, so his expert hands did all the work for him.

The more you were fighting back, audibly yet incoherently begging for mercy, the deeper he was fucking your throat.

You could not even open your eyes, all you did was try and grab at anything you could reach to try and hold you back from running away from his cock. Not that you wanted to, it was just reflexes sending alarms to your brain to stop the torture. But it felt too good, but you wanted him too much.

He noticed you managed to slide your hands between his thick thighs and the bed, keeping you in place but also making it so that your head was at the perfect position. More back and forth, more strokes of your head on his sensitive cock and he made you stop moving.

Inside of your mouth, you twirled your tongue around his tip, while also trying to breathe as best as you could, guessing he was getting close and that the end was near. You were working hard to earn his release, to earn yours too so you could extinguish the fire burning inside of your lungs. You could have never guessed what he was about to do.

With impressive balance, Dalton leaned back and lifted his legs. First, he moved each leg on each side of your arms. He kept going, rather slowly, until his legs reached your shoulders. His feet were now hovering your back, heels pressing between your shoulder blades. Dalton crossed his feet together and erased the distance between his thighs — between his thighs and your head.

Soon enough, you felt the muscles of his thighs on each side of your face. Your eyes widened with surprise, with a hint of fear too. He stopped tightening until you were in a solid leg lock you could not escape. Well, you could, but that meant you would lose the privilege of feeling his cock in your mouth and that was much too high of a price to pay. The pressure of your position, locked between his legs and his cock, made you dizzy. That paired with the cruel lack of oxygen, it felt like you were choking without the feeling of his rough hand around your neck.

Dalton moved his feet, pushing his cock so far down your throat that you could not even physically gag around him, all that was left for you was to continue sobbing and to “Take it, take my fucking cock!” He grunt, nose scrunched and lips curled back. “The more you cry, the less I wanna let you go.”

Your eyelids started to feel heavy and your fists let go of the sheets you were strongly holding on to. Your hands travelled to the outside of his thighs were his muscles were bulging with the effort.

“You’re my perfect little doll.” He reminded you of your metaphorical position, just a toy for him to use until he unleashed all of his pleasure inside you. He also reminded you of your literal position, his feet digging against your spine to the point it started to hurt.

You gave three quick taps to his right thigh.

He smiled down at you, eyes and expression darkened with his lust. He bit on his lower lip while the pleasure was building dangerously big in his core.

You tapped him again as you started to squirm inside the fatal leg lock. You gathered all the strength you had to look up at him.

At the moment your eyes met, he shot his load of cum deep in your throat. Dalton came in many ropes of cum that you swallowed instinctively, not that you could do anything about it. He was lodged so deep inside of you that he forced you to take him and his cum until he was finished.

Boy, that first breath of fresh air felt even better than watching your man win fights after fights, belts after belts. Dalton freed you of the leg lock and pushed on your forehead to get you off him. Your knees gave in under you and you sat down with each leg caging you in. You were seeing dark spots and colours, or maybe that was the bruise on the knee he used to fly on his opponent’s face. It was hard to tell. And it was hard to think.

His chest was reddened from the force of his orgasm, his cock was a slobbery mess of spit that dripped down to his balls and the floor. Your chin was dripping too, but neither of you had it in you to clean up. If only he had thought of filming you being the best slut in this goddamn world for him. His right hand held his cock, trying to stop the twitching. His left hand stretched towards you with his fist closed. He smile when you bumped your fist against it.

“Thank you.” You whispered, more like mouthed. Your throat felt so sore that the vibrations of your voice were painful.

“You have such good manners, baby girl.” He was now cradling your head in both of his hands, not so accidentally smearing more of your spit over your face. “I trained you good.”

Your hands reached up to your jaw and you massaged each side of it lightly.

In the meantime, Dalton pushed himself further on the bed and laid down, squeezing a pillow under his head to prop himself up. He used his pointer and middle fingers in a come hither motion, ordering you to get on bed with him.

You happily obliged, definitely needing some recovery time after the roughness with which he had fucked your mouth. You both laughed when he saw just how much you were struggling to lift yourself off the floor, so he offered you a strong arm to hold on to and he pulled you up on your shaky legs.

Dalton clicked his tongue in disapproval when he understood you were trying to lay down next to him. “Who said I was done? I certainly did not.” He had you on your tired knees again, pulling you down so your faces were closer and he could kiss your swollen and spit covered lips. One of his hands travelled down your body, down to your pussy that had been left untouched this whole time.

You watched him, watching you. His eyebrows moved in funny ways and his jaw dropped while his fingers dipped between your soaked folds. You moaned softly when he smeared your wetness over your clit, the outside of your pussy and even your inner thighs that were just as messy as the rest.

“If you want us to stop...” He interrupted his sentence with a rough kiss that he ended by pulling on your bottom lip. “Why is this pretty pussy so wet for me?”

You failed to come up with any clever response, instead you let your moans and whimpers speak for themselves.

He slapped ever so lightly your pussy, making you flinch at his touch. “Come on, baby. I need to taste you.” He stretched his arm out to catch you as you tried, again, to lay down. “Not like that. I want you to sit on my face.”

You glanced at him quizzically. You were exhausted — definitely more exhausted than the man who had one of the most critical fights of his career just a few hours ago. You failed to choose between rest and pleasure.

So Dalton picked for you. He manhandled you around, helping you climb on top of his head in the position he wanted you in. You were on top of him, your core just a few inches away from his mouth and you were facing the rest of his body. His cock was still hard, throbbing with the need to be touched by you again. He wrapped his arms around your legs and forced you down on him.

At first, you felt his tongue that was poking out of his mouth. He licked over and through your folds, teasing your clit that he sucked on for a few minutes. Then, you flinched again as his tongue poked at your entrance. He switched between licking and sucking, so that you could warm up to the familiar pleasure that his mouth procured you. With goosebumps all over your skin, and his tongue abruptly entering you, you fell forward and your face met with his cock again.

He was not the smartest man, but when it came to having his way with you, Dalton would always come up with a reason or an idea to get his dick wet and preferably buried in your holes. It did not matter which one, as long as he was inside you, he felt like a champion.

You caved in to the urge of feeling his cock again, of tasting it and of worshipping him more than you already had. You leaned on your hands that were digging in the mattress of the hotel bed. You bopped your head up and down on his length, taking your time to feel every part of him. You wrapped your lips tight around his tip, feeling how it stretched you out. You licked over the bulging veins of his cock, moaning along with him when he let out noises against your core.

Dalton planted his feet on the bed, legs spread open to give you space. He would soon tip over the point of overstimulation, but you felt way too good to tell you to stop. He focused on you, on tasting you and on pulling the sweetest sounds out of you. And then, he jerked his hips forward.

You choked on his cock and coughed.

He sucked on your clit to make you forget about it. He did it again, replacing whatever reaction you had with more waves of pleasure that built up at the bottom of your tummy. He played this game for a little while until he could not stop himself anymore. He fucked your mouth, the more you drooled — the deeper and the harder he fucked it. Simultaneously, he pushed his tongue in your pussy and swallowed all of you, moaning at your taste.

You pulled your head away from him, a small scream emanated from you when you felt your hole being stretched by a thick finger. You mumbled a few curse words that earned you a second digit inside of you. Was it a reward or a punishment? You had no idea, other than it felt amazing and it made the whole night worth it, from the sobbing to the lack of breathing. When you adjusted to the blissful pain of the stretching, you continued to suck him off, focusing on the swollen, red tip of his cock.

He was not having any of it. Dalton clenched his abs, fought his own tiredness and sensitivity and fucked your mouth hard. His fingers matched the pace, pushing in and out of you fast and deep. “Attagirl,” He grunted. “ So damn hot.” he praised you and stilled his hips so that his cock was hitting the back of your throat and you struggled around him. “Love the way you clench around me when you’re choking on my cock.” You gagged as an answer. “Makes you tighter.”

Sounds of protest failed to provide you with any mercy, he was fucking your mouth and your pussy like he owned them. Which he did, and he was making sure you would remember that you belonged to him for many days to come.

He felt you coming. He felt you clenching even tighter on his fingers to the point he struggled to move them at all. He kissed and nibbled some more on the skin of your inner thighs that were squeezing his head just like his own thighs had squeezed yours. Quickly he focused on sucking your swollen clit into his mouth and moaning against it.

And you felt him cumming in your mouth for the second time that night. Your orgasms lingered together, grunts and moans melted into each other as you both tried to drag the wave of euphoria for as long as you could ride it.

Much to your surprise, Dalton was the one to tap out. He was squirming under you before you had time to swallow every drop of his seed.

You carefully licked what had fallen on his abs and pelvis until you cleaned him up. At the same time, he stopped sucking on your clit to lick you clean with a flat tongue and wait as you released his fingers from your grip. He sucked them in his mouth and released them with an audible pop.

He granted you with the permission to, finally, lay down on the comfortable bed. Your head rested by his hip as his rested by your thighs. His fingertips gently caressed your skin, not even minding that you were sweaty just like him. “Doll?”

You hummed in response, too tired to lift your head and look at him. Instead, you admired the view that you had from your spot, all cozied up against his body. Your eyes were not close, but not wide open either. You appreciated the quite blurry appearance of his puffy abs and v-line, of the curve of his hips, and of how his torso was rising and falling down to the rhythm of his breathing. You tried to match his deep breaths and slow releases.  

“You’re fucking amazing.” He turned his head to plant a few kisses on your thighs, smoothing over the spots where he had been gripping hard on you.

“I know.” You chuckled along with him.

You both agreed you would clean up later. The rest could wait, not everything though — Dalton was already looking forward to wreak havoc with room service.

“Sounds like a good plan to me.” You let him take a power nap next to you while you replayed the events of the night in your head. “El’?”

He leaned on his elbows so that he could look at you. You were so beautiful, fucked out of your mind like that. No wonder why his phone lock screen was a picture of your post orgasm glow. He noticed you were smirking. He carried the reputation of being a straight up pain in the ass. You helped with keeping him balanced and somewhat sound of mind. But he loved the way you matched his crazy just as well as you kept him grounded. That push and pull game of feeding into his unhinged antics and keeping his feet not too far up from the ground was one of his favourite things.

“That was so much fun.” You let out a sigh. He responded with a content “Yeah, I know”.

“I was thinking of something...” You refrained from pointing out it was an usual event for him to use his brain to do the thinking rather than his fists — or his cock. “What other battle moves can I practice on you next time?”

[creative-crybaby]

Birds of a Feather (Flock Together)

PAIRING: yan!timeskip!Kageyama Tobio x fem!reader

GENRE: smut | dark content (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: yandere themes, toxic friendship, nipple play, light manhandling, semi-public sex, creampie

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 6.6k

SUMMARY: What was supposed to be a helping hand became an unhealthy relationship when Kageyama mistakes your kindness for something more. All characters are 18+

@creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

Now that you think about it, you’ve always been too nice for your own good. 

Not that it’s your fault. Your parents raised you that way; show kindness to others whenever the opportunity presented itself. The limit of knowing when to stop never came up, opting to believe that your positive behaviour would be contagious. Wishful thinking, of course. You don’t blame your parents for those drawbacks—their boundless optimism, perhaps, but that’s all. 

You wished reality showed some mercy when slapping you across the face. Sooner, too, maybe. 

When you especially wished for a backbone, you were in your first year of high school, standing before your anxious friend after offering your help. You know her pretty well, having gone to the same middle school; your brain saw no reason to process possible consequences. (Not like you could ever predict your current outcome, anyway.) If anything, the muscle was too busy thinking about how the blonde’s spine would break eventually. No ill feelings behind the idea, but it doesn’t stop your brows from furrowing in guilt. 

You worried for Yachi, that’s all. And with her bent over at a 90° angle before you, a position you both seem familiar with, you couldn’t help but sigh. 

“Hey,” you began softly. The sheepish blonde didn’t budge, and it wasn’t until you said her name a bit louder did she tilt her head to peer up at you. “It’s no problem, okay? I’d be happy to help. Besides,” you quipped with a smile for good measure, and your classmate rose from her deep bow, though kept her position so you remained above her, “this could look good on a resumé, no?”

By now, Yachi’s posture returned to normal as she offered a nervous chuckle. “I guess you’re right. It’s just that those two can be a handful sometimes, especially with each other. I don’t want to put any stress on you.”

Your arms crossed as you arched a brow, considering the new volleyball manager’s words. “Then, how about I take care of one of them and you keep the other? It’ll be easier to help if you focus on one person’s struggles, and that way they won’t bicker all the time.” A small smile graced her lips as she pondered your idea, and you leaned forward curiously. “You make them sound like an old married couple. There’s no way they’re that bad, are they?”

Yachi’s eyes widened ever so slightly before she frantically shook her hands in front of her. 

“No, no, no!” she insisted, voice raising a bit more than probably intended. A few classmates paused their conversations to glance at you two; you waved them off apologetically. “I don’t mean to make them sound terrible or anything! It’s just that they care so much about their club that,” she paused, searching for the right words, “they can’t seem to focus on anything else.”

You hummed, head tilting in thought. A valid concern, but it was a drawback most teens had with studying. Not that you needed to remind Yachi: with keeping up with a team where she somewhat understands the sport, tutoring her teammates and keeping up with her schoolwork, stating the obvious may not put her at ease.

Instead, you grinned reassuringly, and light pink dusted across the blonde’s cheeks. “Nothing I can’t handle. I got this.”

It didn’t take long to find your tutee upon entering Class 1-3. Based on Yachi’s description, you were sure you’d seen him a few times in the hallway, a scowl seemingly stuck on his face. That expression remained as he stared at whatever was in his notebook. And with other students in the room tiptoeing as they passed his desk, you were even more sure that was who you were looking for. 

“Kageyama.” Despite your voice’s volume as you attempted to gain his attention, your tone carried its usual gentleness. It did the trick, his frown softening as his brows lowered to a neutral expression. Not as intimidating as his previous look, but you understood where Yachi’s hesitance came from as she tried to describe him. 

“You’re Yachi’s friend?” It sounded more like a statement than a question, but you nodded. He hummed. “What’s your name again?”

You are–were–kind, not a saint. The question irked you, having put effort into knowing who he is and how he worked to help him raise his grades. He can’t bother to remember your name? Surely, Yachi gave it to him.

There’s no need to get mad, you remembered. Reminded. Wired. It was just introductions; give him a chance. Give him as many as he’ll need to open up in his own way. Yachi said he wasn’t the best at communication. He’s trying. You were both trying.

You gave him your name with a smile.

The first lesson had more to do with diving deeper into his brain than helping him study. With only a summarized description to go by, you needed more information. 

Kageyama understood onomatopoeias better than imagery. Tone flew over his head while clear instructions prepared him for the journey ahead. Studying English and Japanese had their wins and losses. (Mostly the latter, though some battles must be lost to win the war.)

The next couple of sessions weren’t any different. You wondered if the environment distracted the setter, and while it didn’t appear that way, you suggested meeting up at the library. A minor improvement, though his brain’s wiring still wasn’t completely translated to you. 

Whenever you and Yachi sat together for lunch to update each other on the tutoring, you tossed in some enthusiasm in your tone as you promised her you were getting there. Following up was a back-and-forth of the blonde insisting that you could back out of the deal whenever and you assuring her that everything was going smoothly. (Can’t say “fine.” No one believes in fine anymore.)

Now, you observed the twitch of Kageyama’s eye as he glared at the graphs, angles and equations in his notebook. You didn’t blame him: not when you were slowly running out of methods to help him. 

As time passed, so did his patience. The ravenette slammed his notebook onto his desk with a groan, hands flying to slap his face, making you jump in your seat across from him. Other students flinched as they turned to face the commotion, whispering to one another before trying to look away. 

“This is a waste of my time,” Kageyama muttered. 

That makes two of us, a fleeting thought grumbled. You swatted it away, ignoring the tightening of your chest.

His glare trailed toward the window to his left, muttering about how he could be improving his technique—or rather, something more about a certain pipsqueak needing to work on his spikes. 

You hummed. “Tell me about volleyball.”

His gaze snapped to you, brows still furrowed, though curiosity replaced the aggression in his eyes. “What about it?”

“Whatever you want,” you shrugged, placing your pencil on the desk. “I only really know the basics of the sport, but there’s no use stressing yourself out over something you’re stuck on. Consider this a little break.”

A slight pout formed on his lips, either from hesitation or pondering where to begin. 

Kageyama lived and breathed volleyball. Not his words verbatim, but his rambling told you as such. He knew his strengths and his weaknesses (even if he’d rather not discuss them), and his irritation toward his teammate sounded like complaints on the surface. Still, it came from high expectations and confidence in the ginger’s potential, and it wasn’t until he rambled on about A passes and C passes did a light flick in your brain. 

“There it is!” you exclaimed, a grin tugging the corners of your lips. You slid the notebook closer to the setter. “Try what you were just explaining to me and add it into these questions.”

It took him a few seconds to process the order, his head tilting to the side as that pout returned. A cute look on him, but that wasn’t relevant then, nor now. 

“What, my passes?” Kageyama blinked, and it seemed to click. 

You nodded. “You’re so precise with your sets. Just apply all the knowledge to these situations. It may not be exactly the same thing, but it’s possible.”

Kageyama looked at you for a bit before returning his attention to his notebook, taking his time looking over the written words before skating his pencil across the paper. You figured Yachi was exaggerating when she told you about his passion for the sport, but that assumption went out the window soon enough. But weaknesses can be strengths if you view them from a different angle, and soon the setter’s distraction became his motivation.

Not all the questions he answered were correct, but the improvement was impossible to miss. You beamed, praising him for finding his way. Despite his resting face, Kageyama’s eyes shined from the encouragement, his posture straightening ever so slightly. The baby pink dusting his cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by you, either, and you had to refrain from cooing. Holding back a chuckle as he stammered an invitation to his team’s next practice match wasn’t possible, and you agreed should he continue to work hard.

The study session ended early, with you wishing the ravenette good luck at practice and his upcoming quiz. You slouched while walking in the opposite direction, pride washing over you like a warm shower. An accomplishment, a job well done. Completed.

You remembered thinking how you could only go uphill from there, academically speaking. What else was there? Aside from volleyball, there wouldn’t be anything else to worry about, and you weren’t even responsible for that department. All you could do was observe the sport and those who play it, learning bit by bit as you cheered for your school’s volleyball club. 

You didn’t know the opposing team or their capabilities, though you could only assume they were a challenge. Yachi sat beside you, scribbling notes and occasionally explaining whatever she learned herself. 

“I heard you found a way to help Kageyama,” she said between sets. “How’d that go?”

As if he heard you, the setter trailed his gaze toward you two, giving you a curt nod before drinking from his water bottle. You returned a small smile before giving your attention to your blonde friend.

“Figured things out a few sessions in,” you responded as the remnants of pride from that day of discovery still swirling in your chest. “He should get the hang of it soon enough. I’m sure getting to stay in this club is more than enough motivation for him.”

Yachi perked up at the news. “That’s great! Thanks again for helping out. I owe you bigtime.”

“Don’t say that.” You shook your head with a giggle. “How’s your tutoring process coming along?”

Movement teased the corner of your eye, but the shriek that echoed throughout the gym was impossible to ignore. Your attention went to the source, and the new manager almost dropped her notebook at the sound.

Kageyama held a death grip on a ginger teammate–Hinata’s–hair, roughly tugging the locks as he glared at the shorter teen. The latter continued to beg, though aside from who you could only assume to be the team captain, no one paid them any mind. As the senior student handled the situation, the setter caught your gaze. His glare faltered, but his frown didn’t disappear as he seemingly analyzed your expression. He walked away with a huff, and soon enough, the second set began.

It was normal, apparently. You got to interact with a few of the other teammates, one of which–Tanaka, if you remembered correctly–barked out a laugh as he assured that Kageyama and Hinata fought like an old married couple all the time. You weren’t sure what kind of elders he’s been around, but so long as the explanation put you at ease, you’d take it. 

You eventually got used to the random quarrels as well. A deal was made between the setter and you that you’d see his games should he continue to work hard academically. Or rather, he’d let you know when his upcoming practice matches would be like you’d already planned on showing up. Not that it bothered you; it was probably his way of connecting with you outside of tutoring, and with your first impressions of him, you assumed making friends wasn’t his forte.

The only downside is that you also had your own club to go to. The boys’ volleyball team didn’t have practice matches too often, so you had yet to miss any, at most showing up a bit late as you’d wrap up your club’s meeting for the day. You’d catch Kageyama with his usual frown until he found you’d shown up, and his expression would soften as he straightened his posture. Having already been in the game, he couldn’t say anything about your tardiness, so you’d sneak to the balcony and observe from above, cheering on a little harder to make up for it. After the game, he’d approach you with a pout, though he’d only discuss the match with you.

It was late fall when you first missed a match. Kageyama informed you a few days prior, as you helped him with Modern Japanese, that a practice game would partake. You thought nothing of it until that day arrived, and you had yet to dismount your seat in your own clubroom. The calligraphy club was pretty straightforward, though that day, there was a meeting, one you barely recalled as your eyes continuously glanced at the clock. Along with cleaning up the classroom, you lost more time than expected, and rushing to the gymnasium did little to fix the issue. 

The game was in its second set by the time you arrived. The first thing you noticed upon entering the gym was the starting setter’s head whipping toward your direction. His alertness subsided, but his gaze stayed on you for a few seconds too many before he served the ball. You assumed things would go as usual, with you sneaking to your designated spot and watching the match until it was over. 

It wasn’t until the opponents requested a time-out did you discover how wrong you were. While the other boys went to fetch water and towels, Kageyama stomped over to you, his sweat-slicked bangs hovering over his eyes in a way that made his glare all the more intimidating.

“Where were you?” His voice was of normal volume, but his tone matched his furious expression perfectly. Your body froze.

“I had this thing,” you stammered. “My club meeting took longer than I thought, and—”

“I was waiting for you,” he seethed, stepping closer. “I even asked Coach to wait a bit so you could make it. I shouldn’t even have to make excuses for tardiness. You couldn’t have told your club that you had places to be?”

Your mouth went dry as he got louder, and by now, most of his teammates were watching the commotion. You’ve seen him frustrated, sure, angry on bad days, too. At least he’d take it out on his homework. 

Still, your habit of patience was second nature, even when it wasn’t called for. “I’m sorry—”

“Kageyama.” Daichi was behind the ravenette with a hand on his shoulder before you could further explain yourself. His tone was stern, sharp even, but nowhere near as intimidating as what you received. A warning. “Go take a breather, why don’t you?”

The setter’s gaze stayed on you a little longer than necessary. He scoffed before walking away, his back facing you as he sipped from his water bottle. You politely dismissed the captain’s apology on his junior’s behalf, assuring him you were all right.

“His Majesty’s probably just upset his girlfriend couldn’t watch him show off,” you heard Tsukishima mutter to Yamaguchi. You weren’t sure if he intended for you to catch his comment, but he wasn’t exactly out of earshot, only a couple of feet away. Regardless, you didn’t bother responding. It didn’t take long for everyone else to leave the little incident in the past, and the tall blonde’s snarky words lingered in your brain for the remainder of the match.

No one else showed up to watch these games. You were there for the tournaments, too; aside from Tanaka’s older sister and a few of the coach’s old friends, the boys’ volleyball club didn’t have much moral support. Much less Kageyama, from what you could tell. You’ve heard about his behaviour back in middle school from Hinata and Tsukishima, the latter with taunts, and the new fragments of information added pieces to the puzzle. 

Kageyama was trying. He didn’t always succeed, but it didn’t stop him from attempting to steer away from the tyrannical path he was heading. You’ve seen him reach for Tanaka’s high-fives, albeit with a confused expression, but it didn’t falter his senior’s enthusiasm. His compliments (if you could even call them that) came out as awkward and forced when he gave them to Hinata after the ginger won a point, and he wasn’t afraid to ask Azumane if he needed to adjust his sets to suit the Ace. 

Maybe you were supposed to be his tutor and nothing more. Maybe it would’ve been better that way. But with very little assistance and even lesser options, Kageyama might have considered your listening to his ramblings as a sign of friendship. You supported him in staying on the team, and now you’re watching him flourish as a result. That’s what friends do—it was only fair for him to ask you to stay as such. You’d ask yourself why not indulge, though you were probably in too deep to call it that anymore.

The following morning, you find Kageyama waiting by the school entrance, two milk cartons in each hand and a strained apology on the tip of his tongue. You smiled, the two of you sipping on your refreshments as you waited for the first bell to ring.

Your calligraphy club disbanded at the beginning of your second year. You weren’t all that surprised at the time: there were barely enough students for it to exist in the first place. Why certain members decided to leave was beyond you, but you saw no point in pushing them to stay if they didn’t want to. Still, you missed your club: you were left to your own devices, the black ink dancing across paper lulling you to a place of comfort.

It was Yachi who suggested you joined the boys’ volleyball club as another manager. She figured you learned some things from Kageyama here and there while tutoring him, and she has no problem helping you catch up. 

“Besides,” the blonde smiled, handing you the sign-up sheet, “it’s pretty lonely now that Shimizu graduated. It’d be nice to have a friend around.” You take the paper from her, staring at it somewhat skeptically. You didn’t voice your hesitance, and after a few seconds of silence, your friend added, “I’m sure the others will be happy to have you around, too.”

With how often you dropped by to watch the team practice and compete, the club members have grown to know you. It didn’t take too long for you to warm up to them, too, usually sitting with Ennoshita, Kinoshita and Narita and having them explain the gameplay whenever you were lost. Otherwise, it was mainly Kageyama who kept you to himself either because you had time to assist him in his studies or simply because he wanted your attention. 

You later found out it was his idea to have you join the team as another manager, and Yachi agreed immediately. Who would complain about that? Another sweet and pretty girl to help and cheer them on was a dream come true for most. You were the only one that had yet to vocalize content, and you handed in the application sheet soon after receiving it. 

Even with the progress, you still tutored Kageyama. Seeing him more often after classes only gave you more opportunity to support him, especially when Coach Ukai would remind certain members to keep their grades up. 

Not that any of this bothered the setter. He had no problem having you continue helping him with his schoolwork. He’d listen to your instructions, try out new learning techniques whenever he struggled on a particular unit and remained patient (by his standards, anyway) with you when things didn’t work out.

You had no issue continuing your support. You knew Kageyama was trying his best, even when his brain could only focus on volleyball, and you figured you could still learn more about how he interacted with others as he tried to come out of his shell. 

His one-track mind came to a disadvantage at times. When Hinata suggested studying as a group, Kageyama quickly shut the idea down. He’d sometimes go on tangents about strategies and new techniques for the sport while you tried to help him. Tanaka and Nishinoya would quip that the setter had a crush on you and didn’t know how to express it, though you knew better than to take those two seriously. Kageyama told you that becoming a manager would be more suitable for your future than your previous club. He’s grown used to your routine of getting all your attention for tutoring, and having others there would throw him off his game. As for his rants, he’s merely passionate about the sport—you don’t need a reminder.

So, you became a manager for the boys’ volleyball club, continued your one-on-one tutoring sessions and instructed him to only speak of team strategies in English as practice. And you do so until you graduate. 

It’s where the connection between you and Kageyama seemingly disappeared, set ablaze before dwindling into disintegration. He didn’t even give you the time to say goodbye to your friends outside the club before asking them if he could steal you away. (It was more of a declaration—the questioning tone was a mere formality.)

“Ready to take your volleyball career to the next level?” You didn’t know what else to say: not after the abrupt isolation. He’s brought you one of the many hidden corners the school had to offer, away from all the other graduates and their loved ones. Sakura petals fluttered through their descent, softening an otherwise overwhelming atmosphere full of completed chapters and new beginnings. You read manga: it felt like prince charming would swoop in with a confession, second gakuran button in hand. Having blueberry eyes boring into your awaiting frame in such an environment should make the butterflies in your stomach perform their very own acrobatics number, the anticipation eating you from the inside out. And it did, the churning in your belly boiling your face as you tried to meet his gaze. Kageyama’s resting face was always a disadvantage regarding his approachability, but with three years of getting to know him under your belt, you still felt a ghost’s kisses up your spine. 

“Obviously,” he answered. You would have chuckled at the comment in your first year of high school. But even the smile you’ve managed to muster no longer seemed convincing. Part of you wondered if you could find your friends once more to keep in touch before you all left. “I should be asking you that, though.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, yet you kept the corners of your lips upwards. “I don’t know if being a manager for a volleyball team counts as a volleyball career.”

Kageyama didn’t laugh at your quip. You didn’t expect him to, but his response caught you off-guard.

“When will you be joining me?”

Your tiring performance of halo and white wings evaporated at his question, brows further creasing as your smile dropped. A clear indication of confusion, though a hint of offence found its way into the mix. 

“What are you talking about?” Your body instinctively inched closer to your corner. The setter noticed. 

“One of the biggest reasons I’ve managed to get as far as I am with volleyball is because of you,” he stated. “From helping me keep my grades up to becoming manager. I can grow to adjust to any team I become a part of, but I need someone who gets me to be by my side if I want to continue to prosper in my career.” 

The butterflies once performing in your belly dropped dead before they had the chance to bow. The love confession you dismissively thought of boomed with laughter as it slapped you across the back. Your lungs were empty as your brain progressed his words, your face slowly morphing from one expression to another. 

Did you do this?

“Kageyama,” you began, barely knowing where to go without a map, “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but that’s not the path I’m taking.” His resting face grew sour. You forced yourself to continue. “I’m flattered, but really, you did most of the work. I just gave you a little push.” Kind words didn’t weaken the blow—his staredown didn’t falter. “I have a life outside of the sport. I’m no prodigy. I don’t work anywhere near as hard as you do. I don’t feel the same about volleyball the way you do—”

“Bullshit.”

The snap from harsh lips forced yours shut. You shrank back once more, a scolded child fearing further punishment. 

You dared to glance at him. Kegayama was seething, leaning forward with clenched fists and jaw. You didn’t want to peer out to the crowd; had anyone heard him? They either didn’t or were too afraid to jump in. You knew you would be, too. 

“You think some sweet talk is going to make any of this okay?” His voice grew in volume, and you flinched. “You learned past the basics, you understand strategy better than the average player. You’re throwing it all out the window for what? That damn club you were in before had nothing to offer. I can vouch for you if you just follow me.”

There he was: King of the Court. You always thought Tsukishima would exaggerate to gain a reaction, but that title came to be for a reason. You just never thought you’d fall victim to it. 

“Look, I’m sorry if I led you on,” even in a situation like this, your feelings seemed to fall to a second priority, “but I’m telling you now that I don’t love the sport as much as you think I do. It’s not in my future.”

“I showed you opportunity and you throw it back in my face,” he sneered, getting closer. 

“I joined because of Yachi and my old club disbanding,” you defended, voice quivering. “I don’t understand why you’re yelling at me.”

A petal landed on your cheek, and you went to brush it away until you discovered the soft touch was a stray tear. It seemed enough to silence him, if only momentarily, though his glare remained just as deadly.

He wanted to say something; you knew he did. More words of anger, most likely, but he tightened his jaw instead, opting to walk away after giving you a final look of disdain.

You didn’t hear the hopeful and cheerful banter between graduates, nor did you catch Yachi calling your name until she laid a hand on your shoulder, snapping you out of your daze. Kageyama lingered in your head for the remainder of that day; no harsh words in particular—mainly the darkening of his blue eyes as his tone became aggressive. Part of you thought you also heard a twinge of betrayal, but after such a whiplash of a confrontation, you weren’t sure you could recall that moment in your state.

Wherever he was during the remainder of graduation, you didn’t see him.

To be more precise, you didn’t see him afterwards, either. With moving to another prefecture for school and time passing by, you eventually put that memory behind you. That isn’t to say it didn’t make your body temperature drop; on the rare occasions Kageyama would be brought up, the daggers his eyes threw your way would flash in your mind. Of course, you saw no reason to voice the issue—you only ever heard about him from Yachi whenever you’d catch up, which isn’t as often as you’d like. From what you know, he’s out of the country, furthering his career like you assumed he would. And while the setter was right about how being manager brought more skills and opportunities, your studies had nothing to do with volleyball. 

Neither does your career.

You never thought you’d set foot in Italy, much less work there after university. Your parents told you that your kindness paid off, much to your irritation. (Was school not already enough of a hassle? And the extracurriculars? The people?)

Even though the conversation was over the phone, you found yourself putting on a smile as you told them about taking the opportunity, your tone hopeful as if you still needed their permission. 

It took you who knows how long to realize you didn’t. And as soon as it hit you, you packed your bags and flew halfway across the world with barely the basics of the Italian language in your brain and newfound perseverance in your heart.

Whatever bits and pieces made you a doormat evaporated into the air as that airplane took off to your new home, and you planned on making what should be the next chapter of your life a completely different book.

Easier said than done, of course.

The last person you’d expect to see at this pub meets your gaze, and your eyes widen from instant recognition. 

Kageyama hasn’t changed all that much. His resting face is hard to miss, the light crease in his brows making him appear far angrier than he is. And with his increase in height and muscle, his intimidation goes up, too. His hair is also somewhat shorter, though that’s all regarding his changes. 

You continue to gawk at him, though his expression remains calm like you two were back in high school and you showed up to one of his games. You should be there.

He’s wearing his jersey, you realize, and grouped up with other men in the same attire. You don’t recognize the team; you haven’t been keeping track of the setter’s career. 

One of his teammates follows his stare, and Kageyama mumbles something before approaching you. You don’t hear what the other man says in return, your attention stuck on your old high school friend. (Can you still call him that? Could you ever have called him that?)

He says your name; your feet plant themselves on the ground. “It’s been a while.”

You blink away the myriad of emotions before nodding. “Still playing volleyball.”

It wasn’t a question, but it doesn’t make you feel any less stupid for bringing it up. Kageyama tilts his head back a bit, motioning to his team with a hum. “Yeah.”

“Can’t say I’m all that surprised,” you try to quip, your fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. Even if the ravenette’s height wasn’t a prominent factor, he’d still tower over you with how his eyes bore into your frame.“Last I heard, you joined Schweiden Adlers.”

His frown deepens. “I’m part of Ali Roma now.”

You bite your lip, your face growing warm. Kageyama appears offended, what with how he slightly tilts his head back for his eyes to look down on you. His brows furrow more, and you’re surprised you still remember his quirks even after all these years.

“An Italian team? Congratulations!” You don’t mention living in the same country, working on the same soil where he now lives and breathes his beloved sport. In fact, you don’t say anything for a little too long, and your eyes glance behind him. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your team. It was nice seeing—”

“Don’t worry about them,” he says, moving towards you. “I plan on catching up with you. They’ll understand.”

He’s making you approach a corner booth, and neither your feet nor your voice can protest. Even once you’ve sat down, all you do is shift in your seat, seemingly never comfortable. And whatever you originally planned on ordering is replaced with a glass of water. If Kageyama noticed, he doesn’t comment. He sips his beer occasionally; you’re halfway with your drink in a minute. 

“So,” you hum, “you like your new team?”

The setter looks at you for a few seconds before responding. “Yeah. Full of great players.”

He sounds more like he’s being interviewed than catching up with someone from high school. You try not to deadpan at his short answer. Your habit comes back crawling, keeping up performances and your back straight, head forward and heart thumping.

Your glass is almost empty when Kageyama speaks once more. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in Italy?”

He didn’t sound offended or hurt. The question came out as curious and casual like you two were going on about your day. But you know that’s not what’s happening, and his eerie calmness makes you nearly choke on your drink.

“We kinda lost touch,” you answer steadily, briefly. “It was a pretty quick decision, too. Only a handful of people knew.”

Not a complete lie, but you consider it necessary for now.

“Had to find out from Yachi that you were here last time I played in Japan,” the setter grunts, eyes glued to his drink. Your hold on your glass tightens at his words as your head snaps up to face him, a mix of confusion and a twinge of fear making your expression. You don’t get to ask him anything, not that you’re sure you can, and he continues. “Kind of a hassle not being able to reconnect with you whenever I had time back home. Switching teams was a good call, especially with my previous contract coming to an end. And it’s not like I wouldn’t have made it into Ali Roma anyway. I guess you leaving was a blessing in disguise.”

Whatever he says afterwards, if anything, drowns out as you stare past his shoulder, and your stomach drops. The strength you gained found its cowardice as the old you that disappeared into the clouds crashes down on you like a rainstorm, soaking you to the bone and making you shiver.

You rise from your seat a little too abruptly for your liking. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Also not a complete lie, but who’s keeping track? Not a drop of alcohol touched your tongue, yet you stumble down the hall towards the sign with a female stick figure in a dress and clumsily push the door below it open. You’re unsure if you should hunch over the toilet or splash water on your face, but you aren’t rewarded with a choice, nor the time, to make it.

A knock rinses the blood out of your ears, and you can hear the cheerful and far-from-sober banter back in the bar.

“Occupied,” you stammer hurriedly, carrying yourself to the sink. The creak of the door opening has you inhaling sharply, and who you see in the reflection keeps the air in your lungs.

Kageyama stands a couple of meters from you, his brows lightly furrowed. “Why do you keep doing that?”

You don’t answer him. The ravenette takes a step forward. You flinch.

“I was right, you know,” he begins, strangely calm. “That old club of yours–the calligraphy one–it was a waste of time.” His movements are slow as he approaches you. “It’s a good thing everyone left. Even if your new job has nothing to do with volleyball, your manager position definitely brought you to where you are now.” As vague as he may be, you can’t help but move back every time he gets closer, your fist tightening near your chest. “It would’ve been better if you’d just joined me, though.”

Your back hits the wall, and you don’t register what happens afterwards as your jumbled thoughts decipher possibility after possibility over the athlete’s implications. You don’t realize he’s kissing you or grabbing hold of your face to make you return the forced affection. You’re elsewhere as he lifts your top over your breasts and your skirt past your hips. Your mind is groggy as he gropes you through your bra, soon sliding past the material to tweak your nipples. 

It isn’t until his hand slides down your body and into your panties do you awake to a nightmare. 

Your front presses up against the tile wall; you don’t recall when he turned you around, the dead end’s coolness painting goosebumps all over your body and juxtaposing the warm fresh tears cascading down your squished cheek. Kageyama’s fingers languidly glide across your lower lips before he clicks his tongue. You can hear the irritation; you always could.

Not as wet as he’d like you to be. But the setter only has so much patience. He’s human, after all. He’s human.

The thought barely registers when you hear a faint zipping sound behind you, and suddenly his hard-on presses into the small of your back. Your breathing picks up as he spreads your legs with little effort, further pushing you into the wall before doing the same with your panties, revealing your entrance to him.

He doesn’t grace you with sweet nothings and mercy: just a blob of spit in his hand to pump his cock followed by heavy panting. And when he finally enters, the silence deafens you as he chokes on a gasp. 

That’s the moment that felt never-ending; he went in and never stopped, it seems, dragging himself into your insides until he was everywhere. He is everywhere. He is inside and behind and looming and crushing.

The nicest he was to you was when he waited to let you adjust, and you hate yourself for being the sweet little high school girl who tried to see the best in people. He doesn’t deserve it. You don’t deserve this.

Kageyama makes his first few strokes slow, but they’re still deep enough to have you gritting your teeth. It isn’t long until he gasps your name and picks up speed. 

“All this way,” he rasps in your ear, almost masking the slapping noises his hips would make when colliding with your ass. “All this way to another part of the world, joining a new team, starting over and getting better, all to see you again.” You don’t hear him when he speaks, nor as he grunts extra loudly as you tighten around him. “I should’ve done this sooner.”

A large hand slides back into your bra, squeezing your breast, calloused fingers tugging at the hardened bud, while the other one further shoves your panties aside to hastily rub your clit. The dry friction does little to soothe you, and with his lack of patience, the nub receives no pattern except whatever it's offered. Still, the added stimulation makes you tighten and the ravenette more restless. Even in your position, he finds a way to slam his lips against yours again. His tongue makes its way into your cavern as his thrusts get sloppier. You can’t breathe.

Not when he pulls away from the kiss. 

Not when his hips sputter as hot ropes paint your insides white. 

And certainly not when your high follows soon after.

It wasn’t strong, and it didn’t last long, but the shame that creeps into your stomach lasts an eternity. 

Your heavy breathing syncs with his as everything finally settles into your slowly-sobering mind. Kageyama’s still inside you, his hot breath fanning the back of your neck as his hands find your wrists to grab hold of. 

You’re in high school all over again. His actions have evolved to more dangerous heights, but you’re back in that gymnasium watching him practice. Even when he finally pulls out, even when he pulls you close, even when he snuggles into the junction of your shoulder. 

Kageyama hasn’t changed one bit.

@creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

[diaryofanidiot]

The Neverland Curse

Summary: MC is on the receiving end of a strong curse. They've been reverted back to a child until they can earn a meaningful memory from each of those they care about. It's up to the Demon Brothers & co. to care for them until then.

Cw: de-aging, demon bros being demons, MC being a Chaotic child lol

Chapter List: Prologue 1 <2> 3 4 5

Taglist: @avatarofstars @letsblazewolf @your-next-daydream

Not proofread, feel free to lmk of any mistakes

Diavolo was, in fact, not scary. Just... reeaally loud. I covered my ears as his laugh boomed for the 100th time since he arrived. Lucifer was trying to explain everything despite Diavolo's intrigue at my "current state"... whatever that was.

After a few more minutes of this going on, his face finally got serious.

"As amusing as this is, cursed books are meant to be in a separate room in the library. Very few have a key. I'll have to figure out who's negligence caused this..." He patted Lucifer's shoulder and smiled. "I'll trust they will remain safe in your care?"

"My Lord," Barbatos, who I was introduced to earlier, cut in. "Is it wise to let them continue attending RAD in this state? A grown human is one thing, but a child is another. Not even mentioning the subject matter is well above their mental capacity right now."

Diavolo stopped in thought. The brothers seemed to wait anxiously for his verdict. I looked around in confusion, hoping anyone would would give an explanation. It quickly became clear this conversation was 𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦 rather than 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦.

I played with the tassels on my clothes while Diavolo motioned Levi over. Quietly listening but not fully interested in the adult conversation.

"Leviathan, there are days you take online classes rather than attend, correct? Is there anyway we could set that up with the elementary level classes as well?"

Levi nodded and glanced over to me. "I mean, that's simple. Will their grades still affect them though? I mean, with the curse in effect we won't know how they'll do."

Diavolo pondered this. "Slack will definitely be alloted for their mental age right now but I read that structure is essential in human children. More so than Demon Younglings."

With that, Lucifer began assigning tasks to each of his brothers. I felt myself lifted into the air and looked behind me to see who it was.

"Bee!" I grinned and hugged him tight, kicking my feet lightly. His twin moved behind him and tapped my nose.

"Looks like we got babysitting duty, Beel." Beelzebub nodded at his brother's words.

I heard Asmo shriek for them to wait as the duo carried me up the stairs.

"I need their measurements. Lucifer's sending me shopping for clothes. You can't possibly expect them to stay in that uniform the whole time. " he scoffed, holding my arm out next to some measuring tape.

"Already? I mean, we'll likely break the curse soon. Is a shopping spree really necessary?" Belphie rolled an eye, receiving a glare from the queen of fashion himself.

Besides the dirty look, Asmo ignored him and began fussing over me. Beel stubbornly refused to put me down, making the whole process ten times harder. It was all too much.

Asmo finally finished his task after a few agonizing moments of being measured and quizzed on my favorite colors. I squirmed in Beel's hold to be let down.

"Bee, down please..." I asked, finally being released. Once we got to the top of the stairs, I took off as fast as my legs can carry me. Finally I could explore!

"No ya don't." Belphie grabbed my arm, keeping me next to the two.

"No faiiiir," I whined. He flicked the back of my head playfully, causing me to give him the biggest meanie look I could muster.

"This place is big. You could get lost."

Beel nodded in agreement and knelt down to my level. "We can give you a tour, but you gotta at least stay in the same room as us. No running off until you get a feel for this place."

I grinned and wiggled my way out of Belphie's grasp. "I won't! I promise!"

The tour was fun, but the twins had a way of hovering over me that soured my mood. My every step was directed as if I'd get hurt if their eyes were off of me for a single second.

"There's a lot of stairs here? Think you can make it?" Beel asked, offering to carry me. I leaned over and looked up the winding staircase before pointing up.

"Where we going?"

"Up there's the attic. It's where we... er, Beel and I usually hang out." Belphie chimed in. "Last stop on the tour, then we'll show you your room."

I nodded and reached up to be carried by Beel. Stairs are hard.

The attic looked like the coziest room ever. My eyes flicked around the room before landing on the massive-

"PILLOW FORT!" I shrieked, kicking my legs til Bee put me down. I sprinted towards it and flopped down onto the pillow fort bed. I feel a weight on the mattress and look up, grinning at the twins.

"You like it?"

"Mhm!" I nodded eagerly. Belphie rested his hand on top of my head, holding the other behind his back.

I peered around him curiously before leaning back due to a soft object placed over my face. My expression made the two laugh as it took me a moment to realize what happened.

In Belphie's hand was a fluffy stuffed bear, with purple fur and galaxy ears.

"You wanna borrow this?"

I nodded eagerly and reached out for it. Belphie gave a shit eating grin and held it above my head.

"Hmmm..." He contemplated in mock thought. "Still not sure if you should."

Frustrated at the object of my desire being held up too high, my eyes began to well up, and I gave the biggest pleading look I could muster. While Belphie wasn't as easily swayed from his teasing attitude, Beel certainly was.

He reached up and took it from his twin. "Just let them have it. No need to taunt them."

Belphie rolled his eyes and flopped back onto a pile of pillows with a yawn. "Alright, Beel. Ya softie."

I hugged the plush tightly, happy with the first toy I've seen in this big house. Beel smiled at me after looking away from his brother.

"You know, I got that for Belphie but I don't think he ever gave it a name..."

Belphie, with his eyes closed, let out a "nope" popping the "p".

"So do you want do name it?"

I looked at the bear in deep thought. This was a very important job of the highest honor.

Taking a deep breath, I made my proclamation. "His name is Bloo!"

I heard a snort from Belphie but couldn't tell if it was an asleep or awake noise. Beel seemed to approve, though, much to my happiness.

"It's fitting." He leaned over to shake Belphie, who was now letting out quiet snores. "We should probably go show them their room."

Belphie huffed and turned over in a stubborn manner. I scooted closer and poked his cheek.

"Wake uuuppp! It's not bedtime!" I said before glancing at the window. Just then, did I realize how dark it was outside. "Wait, is it?"

Beel took a moment to sort through why I was confused. He seemed to have realized as he took my hand and guided me to the window. "Nope. It's not night yet. It's just always dark here."

I blinked in confusion. Always dark? Sounds scary.

"It gets darker, though later on."

"Darker? But it's already nighttime!" I struggled to wrap my head around what he was saying. How is there a place with no daytime? It sounded silly.

He cracked a smile and scratched his head, seemingly wondering about something.

"Don't laugh!" I huffed. Now he was just being a meanie by teasing me.

"...He's not lying." A new voice sounded behind me. I turned around to see Lucifer in the doorway. "I figured you two would bring them here."

"Don't make fun of me toooo" I whined, upset he was joining in on the joke.

"I'm not." he assured, kneeling next to me. "I guess it'll be harder to walk you through it this way."

He pinched the bridge of his nose in concentration. "The place we live in doesn't have a sun. I guess only remembering the human wor-"

He stopped himself short and scanned my face with his eyes. "I mean, where you come from has a sun and moon cycle. This place doesn't."

Instead of trying to understand, I focused on his fumble. "Human world?" I giggled. "You mean earth, silly. I thought grown-ups were smart."

Lucifer looked up at Beel before sighing. "I'll explain later. Have they shown you to your room?"

I shook my head. "Bee said we can go there last."

Beel reached under my arms and lifted me to his hip. He always seemed to want to carry me. Not that I minded... until he took forever to let me down again.

Lucifer looked at the sleeping Belphie in the pile of pillows and rolled his eyes. "Figured that might happen."

He sounded irritated, but his expression betrayed him, showing he wasn't really all that bothered. We started down the stairs and down a long hallway. This place seemed like a maze to me. It's no wonder the twins didn't want me running off alone yet.

"This room is yours. If you forget, you can ask anyone here, " He said, opening the door. "Hell knows it's become the new common room since your arrival"

He muttered the second part under his breath and I didn't catch much of it, not that I cared once I saw my room.

I took a deep breath and shrieked. "THERE'S A TREE IN MY ROOM!"

Beel winced at my volume, considering I was right next to his ear. I wiggled out of his grasp for the umpteenth time and ran up to it, touching it to see if it was real. My jaw dropped once I realized it was. I bet nobody else in the whole world got to have a real tree in the middle of their room.

I heard Lucifer huff a tiny laugh at my reaction while Beel smiled and sat on the plush bed.

"It was actually put in here specifically for you. You're used to more oxygen." Lucifer explained, "We weren't sure how you would adapt to here. Plus, it's native where you're from, so we figured it'd be a reminder of home."

His big words only confused me more, so I tuned them out and cradled Bloo to my chest with one arm while the other picked a leaf off the tree. This was the coolest room ever.

"Hungry." Beel mumbled, glancing up at Lucifer. The latter dismissed him.

"Asmodeus should be home soon. Do you have any more questions?" Lucifer asked, walking up behind me and placing a hand on my shoulder.

I racked my brain. I had a lot of questions, but there were too many to choose from. Where was my family? How did I get lost in the library? And why did I now have a room here?

Lucifer's gaze was too analytical of my expression for me to feel okay with asking all of them. My thumb prodded at my mouth while I shook my head.

"Nu uh."

The door swung open once the words left my mouth.

"Oh (MC)!" Asmo flitted into the room, multiple bags on his arms. He placed the bags down on the floor and reached in, holding up a shirt my size. "Ready for your fashion show?"

Uh oh...

I'm officially in for it.

[silent-raven13]

Hey Miles! What's your type?

Miles looks at his friends, "Hmm?"

"What's your type?" Gwen asked, "Like what do you see yourself with?"

Pavtri nodded, "Yeah, what kind of boy or girl you like?" Hobie stood listening them, his whole body turning into a curious colors; like soft green, bright yellow and gray with magazine and newspaper prints all over with symbols of curiosity fonts, and imagery.

"Hmm, I always did like girls like Gwen; smart, funny, serious, and vulnerable like good way. Like shows her sensitive side, I guess..." Miles explains about the girls he dated being similar to his old crush, Gwen. This got Gwen blushing so hard her face turns tomato red.

"Awe, love you too, man!" She plays off her blushing as she pats harshly on her friend's back. The two did like each other at one point, but it was at the wrong time. She needed to heal herself before getting involved in a serious relationship. Miles needs to deal with his own traumas and wanted the Spider people he was close to, to gain back his trust. So, they never went for it and slowly became close friends instead of lovers. It's safer like that.

"Ow!" Miles rubs his arms feeling pain on his back being nervous.

"What about guys! You said your into guys too!" Pavtri got close to his friend's face while holding his hand, even Hobie got close to listen.

"Well... umm... never really thought about it. I guess, the same thing as Gwen- um..." His honey-brown eyes started to drift away from eye contact being flustered. "I kinda like tall guys! Like really tall."

Gwen saw Hobie being pink, then stood next to Miles with his hand measuring Miles' height against his own. Hobie is a freakin' tall dude, being six foot and four inches while Miles only six foot. This made the teenager girl giggle.

"What else?" Pavtri asked.

Miles wasn't paying attention to Hobie and Gwen assuming they were being goofy with each other. "Umm... I always saw myself being with a guy that's edgy, likes music..." Hobie did a happy pose, showing off his outfit being punk and his guitar being, "romantic." The punker pulled out a rose being the romantic type.

"Funny, smart, not afraid to be sensitive, sweet with kids!" Hobie putting on a goofy glasses with mustache, then a book by Albert Einstein and pulls out Mayday from the blue while holding her. Mayday giggles at the punker being surprised he grab her out of home from a portal!

"Kids? You want kids!"

"No, I mean... i dunno a guy that's nice with kids is a green flag for me." Miles rubs his chin unaware of Peter 616 coming out of the portal to take back his daughter from the punker and wag his finger. Mayday merely laughs agains before waving the punker goodbye. The two went back to their world. "Oh, I always saw myself being with a black man, someone Jamaican or Caribbean but I wouldn't mind an Afro Latino or African or just black." He rub his neck.

Hobie happily stood showing off his tattoo of a Jamaican and Haitian pride alongside his West African flag to represent his descendants. Gwen snickers seeing how clueless Miles is being with his type. "What else? No Indian or brown love, Miles." Pavtri pouts.

"Oh, I don't mind that! I'm down for anyone." Miles shyly said, "I do like guys like you, Pav. Like sweet, funny and always putting a positive attitude!"

"Ohh, Miles! You make me wanna date you!" Pavtri hugs him having to nuzzle his cheek, "Hehehe, if I wasn't dating my Gayatri, you'll be my bae!"

That made Hobie jealous, turning grey with newspaper labels with prints, "Do not touch! Warning!"

"Hahaha, awe Pav, you're too nice." Miles giggles, then he said, "Oh, I like guys that are kinda bad boys... like they break the rules."

Hobie turns pink again, that is him. "Oh, and he cares about social views like Black Lives Matter, Women's Rights, LGBTQ plus umm... you know people's rights, heh. I guess, that kind of guy is unrealistic, huh?"

The punker looks surprised and exaggerated his pose into a big WHAT, with hands in the air and squatting. Gwen burst out laughing seeing how this is the perfect description of Hobie Brown.

"Awe, really?" Pavtri's brown eyes glance over at Hobie looking confused and lost. "I mean, I feel like someone already exists."

"I dunno... the guys I meet always be bums, then again I haven't dated much." Miles explains, "Oh, maybe this being a stretched but a guy with a nice accent is hot, y'know."

Hobie threw his hands in the air, Miles' man is right here. Pavtri giggles, "Miles..."

"You describe Hobie?" Gwen hums.

Miles looking flustered at his crush but the sixteen year old look so lost, "I did! Oh..." He glances over at the punker, "It's because you're so amazing! Anyone would be so happy to be with you, man!"

Hobie had hearts with his grey pop into a blooms of pinks being so happy, he picks up his friend with a nuzzle, "Awe, I love you, too, Sunflower!"

"Huh! Where did that come from?" Miles felt his face so warm, he cover his face being embarrassed by all this.

Gwen said to Pavtri seeing Hobie happily carrying around Miles like a couple. "You know... they are taking their sweet ass time to date!"

"You know, Miles... our sweet Miles is too shy and naive!" Pavtri giggles.

[evita-shelby]

Hi,

I want to ask if you can make a story when the reader wants to break up with Thomas Shelby, but Tommy is really against it and is more possessive toward the reader🤭 adding some smut will be hot😍 thank you so much💝

So sorry for how this turned out.

I know you wanted sexy and manipulative, but i don't really write smut and this took a very dark turn that i personally adored

Cw: suidcial tendencies, infidelity, child death, murder

Gif by @brody75

Death shall set you free

In the beginning everything had been great. He was the best man you could have ever thought of building a life with and not a single thing he did could ever change your mind about it.

Then Grace showed up and he broke your heart by fucking her while you waited at home to tell him he was going to be a father.

You weren’t supposed to find out, not until Polly confronted him about it, not until Grace asked him to run away with her only to be rejected by him. She told you herself, stabbed and twisted the knife in your heart by showing Tommy was just like the rest of them.

Only thinking with his cock and only caring about himself.

You tried to leave, you packed your things and decided if he didn’t respect you enough to be as loyal to you as you were to him, then fuck him.

But then he chased you down to the train station, having repented from his sin and begging you not to leave. Begged and pleased with genuine guilt and sorrow in his inhumanly beautiful eyes and like the fool you were, you forgave him.

For a while he kept his promise. He was the man you married and never gave you cause to doubt him again.

Then May Carelton with her sad doe eyes and loads of money showed up and he fucked her.

Not only her, Lizzie too and then Grace came back and he fucked her at a party he had been promising to take you.

This time you made damn sure no one knew where you were going, with who’d you stay for good measure.

You were done with Thomas Shelby. You were done for good.

But he found you, clothes torn, head bloody and covered in graveyard dirt.

He couldn’t believe you’d take your boy and leave.

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” You said as you rejected his pleas for a third chance.

“Y/N, please. I need you.” He begged with a quiver in his voice that told he did. “They were just whores, nothing serious, you are the only one I love, the only one I need. You’re the mother of my son, you’re my wife until you die, you said it yourself.”

But the thing is, if he needed you and loved so much then why weren’t you enough?

“It’s over, Tom.” You said and turned to leave only for him to pull out his gun and aim it at his own head.

“If you get on that train, I’ll pull the trigger.” He said and you knew he meant it.

So you stayed.

Tommy lulls you into a false sense of security like last time. You have two children now, sweet little Diane had come nine months after her manipulated you into staying.

He tries to make you love him again, but it doesn’t return.

The house, the gifts, the parties and now the sapphire, weren’t enough to forget the pain he caused you.

You still let him in your bed, but only because as his wife you couldn’t belong to anyone else, not even yourself. And if you stopped fucking him, you’d know he’d take up his old habits again.

And yet, when the Russian Duchess appears the story plays out the same as before.

You don’t even try to leave, not when you know he will do anything to stop you.

Instead you give him a taste of his own medicine.

Angel Changretta sure knows how to make a woman forget Tommy, a shame Lizzie had to be hurt. Actually no, fuck her, she fucked your husband too.

Its all fun and games until Tommy tells you he killed him for daring to take what was his.

“Oh, so I am only yours, but you belong to every whore that crosses your path, honey?” you say venomously as he dares to call you out on your betrayal.

“You’re my property, y/n, don’t fucking forget that.” He seethed and locked you in your golden cage.

It’s 1929 when Tommy’s business comes crashing down, years after he managed to rid himself of the Changretta Family and after you served him his karma.

The marriage is strained to say the least. He has his whores, you have whatever man you can think of and so far the children you have with him are his.

10 years ago you loved him, now you can’t even call it love.

Its not hatred, not yet anyways.

A divorce might be nice. Linda is getting one, escaping her husband because she too didn’t know the monster she married.

You entertain the idea, get the lawyers you need, the generous alimony and enough time for the children to see him.

All you need is his signature and its all over.

You never get that signature, of course you wouldn’t.

Freedom is a dream out of your reach and hell is ruled by your fucking husband.

“You’re going to regret not leaving with her,”Polly says lighting up her cigarette. “Tommy’s not the man you married.”

I know you say as you watch him take the stage with Oswald Mosley.

And she was right.

On December 1934, your sweet Diane dies of tuberculosis because a scorned woman wanted to make you pay for staying.

Your daughter dies in your arms and he seeks comfort in the arms of Diana Mitford the night her little body is burned.

“If Michael ever did that to me, I’d kill him.” Gina says as the two of you share drinks after you fuck her in the same bed you share with your beloathed husband.

“I should shouldn’t I.” you fond yourself joining Mosley on his quest of making Thomas Shelby kill himself.

The day he plans it opens his eyes to a new him, one that wants to fix the mess he made.

Only this time, he can’t. He had his chance and he squandered it.

“Goodbye, Tom. Its over.” You say as you fire his gun into his head.