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forkingandcountry-if · 6 months ago

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For King and Country is an 18+ period immersion fantasy fic which seeks to combine the extensive background work and history associated with high fantasy titles such as LOTR with more ‘realistic’ storytelling and settings. It may contain distressing content like depiction of regressive attitudes (sexism, misogyny and prejudice), major injury to the characters, character deaths, blood, gore, abuse and optional sexual content. More specific warnings will be given at the beginning of each chapter.

Chapter 1 Out Now! (277k words)

Remember those long summer days when the countryside was green and life was still young, when you were but a little culver and all the world was promised for you.

But summer has ended. Amidst the furore and tumult, autumn crept in unnoticed, finding you unprepared, still a greenhorn.

Now, the old order is dead, yet the Empire endures. In this new and uncertain world, what are you willing to do for your King and Country, O little culver?

Ah little tragedies, that you could not remain in the safety of your family's country manor, that they could not shield you once again from this world.

You must take to the capital at once, like all men and women of good birth, for king and country and the glory of the commonwealth! The spirit of progress and change has swept through the nation. The heady days of revolution are long over, and the streets have been washed clean of blood and filth. Invited to serve in the King's Army and attend university as a ward of the king, you must answer the King’s call. Navigate and become increasingly entangled in the web of intrigue, gossip, violence, and ideas that swirl around the nation. Enter a society radically different from the one you were raised to expect. These are the years that will decide your fate and that of your fellow countrymen. Act wisely, for it is not often that the world is within your grasp.

Features

Fully customize your MC. Choose your pronouns, sexuality, appearance and more. Assume the identity of a citizen of noble birth and experience the story through their eyes.

Romance one of eight ROs or engage in a polyamorous relationship with a pre-selected two of them. The only possible poly route is the Young King and the Queen Ruler.

Practice and specialise in the skills of the King's Army with the option for swordplay, marksmanship, offensive galderquid and diplomacy.

Define your political leanings on the leading issues of your time.

Debate, engage and make allies and enemies with the various competing factions and interests that flock to the city.

Study at Azma University, earning your lecturers admiration for your diligence, intellect, ambition or adventurousness or cruise through relying on your wealth and ability to hide.

Help to stabilize or sabotage the Empire.

Don't lose your head.

Critical Lore*

Talent

Galder denotes the practice of magic within our nation, a discipline requiring extensive study and mastery. The ability to manipulate Galderquid, the fundamental essence of magic, is a rare and intricate skill, demanding years of rigorous training to achieve even moderate proficiency.

Every individual possesses a basic affinity for Galderquid, but those with exceptional potential are identified through comprehensive evaluations conducted by village or city physicians around the ages of 12 or 13. These assessments determine the individual's capacity for advanced magical education.

Upon evaluation, candidates are assigned a national rank based on their proficiency. Those demonstrating exceptional aptitude are offered state-sponsored education at the Azma Univetsity at the age of 18. Others are placed in various other institutions or may pursue private tutelage.

Galder is often referred to as the "fifth philosophy," characterized by its non-intuitive nature. Mastery requires adherence to rigorous methodologies grounded in reason, first principles, and established precedents. The study of Galder encompasses several specialized fields, each with distinct applications and techniques:

Sympathetic Galder: This field focuses on influencing the minds of individuals or animals. It includes practices such as illusion creation, language translation, emotional manipulation, and sleep inducement.

Transmutative Galder: Involves altering the intrinsic nature or form of objects. This process generally relies on the principle that the original and transformed items must possess equivalent 'worth.' The approximate worth of common subjects of transmutation can be found in any good transmutation book.

Invocation Galder: Pertains to the summoning and manipulation of natural elements, including water, earth, fire, and wind.

Clerical Galder: Associated with the Church, this field is predominantly closed practice. However, educational institutions provide instruction in healing and charming, which are also fundamental aspects of clerical magic.

Archery: Involves the use of Galder to manifest a bow and arrows composed of energy. These projectiles deliver significant blunt damage upon impact but they have more varied usage and techniques as taught by bow-masters.

Blade-Use: Similar to Archery, this field focuses on creating blades, swords, or daggers from Galder. These weapons inflict substantial blunt damage but they have more varied usage and techniques as taught by blade-masters.

The Second Civil War

The Second Civil War, also known as the Revolution, erupted ten years ago and lasted for two years, reshaping the political landscape of the realm. The conflict ended with the ascension of King Edmund I of House Wynd, following a tumultuous period of unrest and upheaval. The war’s roots lay in years of widespread discontent under King Wulfric I Wynd, whose governance was marked by controversial policies and growing resentment among the populace.

The immediate trigger for the war was King Wulfric's deathbed decision to legitimize his illegitimate son and name him heir presumptive, bypassing his eldest daughter, who was widely expected to ascend the throne. This unprecedented act enraged both the nobility and commoners, particularly in Redeemist regions, where it was seen as an affront to both justice and religious teachings. Protests erupted across the empire, with laborers and yeomanry deposing officials loyal to the usurper in a series of violent uprisings. Martial law was declared as the disinherited princess rallied loyal houses and nobility to her cause.

The rebellion gained a critical leader in Marshal Walthe Courtney, a veteran of the unpopular Eleven Years’ War. Courtney’s military acumen and strategic alliances with peasant uprisings turned the tide of the conflict. Alongside the Princess’s royal forces, his army executed a series of decisive sieges, culminating in the Siege of the King's Seat, where the usurper was overthrown.

The war concluded with a great council of the great houses instituting sweeping reforms. Though the monarchy was retained, it was bound by a codified constitution, the Grand East Code, ensuring limits to royal power. Tragically, the Princess died on the battlefield, leaving behind a will that named her youngest brother, Edmund, as the rightful heir. She bypassed their older brother, Cassian, whom she described as “too choleric and red-blooded in his aspect for the duties of kingship,” appointing him as regent until Edmund came of age at 18.

The post-war reforms sought to balance power and placate the revolutionary factions led then by Courtney:

Parliamentary Restructuring: The previous weak bicameral parliament that had been unable to prevent the amendment of the Act of Succession was replaced by a unicameral National Assembly with expanded suffrage for yeomanry and laborers owning sufficient land. Eligibility criteria were simplified, and elections were set to occur every eight years.

Military and Noble Oversight: Nobles' heirs were required to serve as wards of the king for 24 months upon reaching the age of 18, receiving military training and living in the capital. This was framed as a means to unite the realm but also served to prevent rebellion and strengthen Edmund's legitimacy.

Expanded Education: Azma University, previously exclusive to the nobility, was opened to all individuals of suitable skill, broadening access to education and opportunity.

General Walthe Courtney, hailed as a war hero, was appointed Lord Protector with sweeping powers to some extent by the demand of the peasant army he'd led. He served as Commander of the Armies and a critical stabilizing force throughout Edmund’s reign and Cassian’s regency. The King’s Council was restructured to include the elected Premier, who could recommend cabinet appointments, although the King retained the final decision. Early in his reign, King Edmund has established a precedent of accepting the recommendations of both the Premier and the Lord Protector, balancing the demands of reformists and royalists alike.

The King's Army and Azma University

The King's Army, colloquially known among the common folk as the Small Army or King's Life Guard, serves as a voluntary armed force in peacetime within the Empire. Its primary role is to function as a national guard, maintaining peace and order across the extensive and diverse territories of the Empire and swear loyalty solely to the King.

During periods of peace, the King's Guard is comprised of volunteers who contribute to the stability of the nation. However, in times of war, the monarch is vested with the authority to implement conscription, thereby obligating the great houses to raise men to fight for their king.

Following the Great Council of 421, significant reforms were introduced regarding service in the King's Guard. Those heirs of great houses are now required to complete two years service and training within the King's Army as wards of the king although this time can be commuted upon ascension as Lord/Lady Paramount of their house. This training is relatively light compared to full military training, designed to balance the economic and educational responsibilities of these citizens with their military duties.

Azma University is a theological university founded in the year 262AR by Trista of Azma, a master of theology and galder and was recognized by the King as a royal college in 289AR. It's Faculty of Theology is unrivaled across the entirety of the world and is considered one of the foremost institutions for education in galder, theology and philosophy.

Azma admits its students on the basis of the national ranking system and the census taken each year, those students with a sufficiently high natural affinity for the study of galder are offered a place in which to study it beyond the common extent offered by tutors and hedge-witches.

Azma has in recent years, following the second civil war and the increase in punishment by religious courts for physicians who attribute false rankings, with an increased student cohort particularly from the yeomanry and international scholars though the large majority of the general cohort remains largely consisted of the children of nobility.

Beyond its Faculty of Theology, Azma University is one of the foremost institutions driving forward the development of innovations regarding farming and building, mechanics and the engine'ering class that has developed in major cities across the Empire.

Situated in the capital city, Azma University benefits from its central location in what is often regarded as a hub of youthful energy and societal activity. Its reputation as a center for young nobles and genteel individuals enhances the college's role as a key venue for social introduction. It is frequently heralded as a place where the most advantageous social and matrimonial matches are made, positioning it as a pivotal institution in shaping the elite's social landscape.

The Empire

The Empire, as it is commonly known, is a vast realm governed by the Nine Paramountcies and the Imperial Household, all of whom rule from the King's Seat. This grand structure of power was forged between the years 23 ANU (Anno Non Unitus, or Year of the Ununified) and 1 AR (Anno Rex, or Year of the King) through the conquests of King Adan I, who earned the title "the Unifier."

From its inception, the Empire adopted an expansionist stance, which has characterized much of its history. This policy of territorial growth has been met with widespread approval among its citizens, largely due to the substantial wealth and resources it has brought to the nation. As the largest empire in the world and the unifier of the continent, it has established itself as the dominant lingua franca of common, further solidifying its influence and stature.

Throughout the Empire's history, the Imperial Household and the title of King have primarily been held by House Galagar, reigning from 1 AR to 399 AR, and later by House Wynd, from 399 AR to 438 AR. There have been instances where other houses acted as regents, temporarily holding the title on behalf of House Galagar, such as House Champion (348 AR-352 AR) and House Abbey (9 AR-13 AR & 154AR-155AR).

Despite its vast wealth and dominance, the Empire has faced relatively frequent rebellions in its paramountcies where calls for independence have persisted. Historically, these uprisings have been met with swift and overwhelming military responses. However, recently in 399AR during the Wyndham Rebellion, King Hendrick the Conqueror succeeded in overthrowing House Galagar and replacing it with his own house who have led the empire since.

*The lore detailed here is accurate but also only extends as far as the protagonist's knowledge of these subjects at the present time of the fic, some detail will be lost or may have been withheld from the MC and they may have misconceptions.

Romances

When the advisors are not praising his good sense, nor the bards his mirth, the church his piety or the poor his generosity, the question emerges just who is King Edmund I Wynd?

The young king thrust into a position of power who uses it as well as he knows how, having learnt from the mistakes of his grandfather and father and the long shadow of war that is still cast over the continent?

Or is he merely the figurehead, installed after a turbulent civil war, a king whose true authority has been surrendered to the councilors around him, contenting himself with the trappings of kingship rather than its substance?

Alas who is to know?

Name: King Edmund I Wynd

Age: 21

Height: 6'5

Appearance: Edmund stands at a 6'5, noticeably lanky although his seemingly permanent jaunty posture appears to cut an inch or two of him. He possesses short bronde hair styled in such a fashion that it appears wind-swept and fashionably ruffled with various products used to achieve the effect. He possesses a lean athletic physique although it is evidently achieved through some sort of diet or exercise for aesthetic rather than being muscles created by years of work. He nearly always has a relaxed expression with a smile and his pale face is framed by his grey eyes.

(he/him) poly-route, solo-route

Tropes: Life of the Party, Commitment Issues

Could it be that she, the queen consort, wields the true power behind the throne, acting as a surrogate for her kind lord, who never could bring himself to grasp the reins of authority?

She possesses the strength and allure of a king in her own right. Under her vigilant oversight, the king’s armies have routed the empire's foes, and now her gaze turns inward, determined to root out the treacherous elements within the realm.

Yet, amid her march towards peace at the end of a sword, there are those who seek to see her order destroyed. How long can it last? A queen consort without an heir, without children, lacking a direct claim to the throne, aging, and some even question her bond with the king himself.

Name: Veronica Abbey-Wynd

Age: 36

Height: 5'9

Appearance: Veronica stands straight at a tall 5'9 although her heels often push her to 5'11 or even 6'0. She has long wavy chestnut brown hair although more often than not it is in an updo of some sort for practicality. She has a healthy physique with faint lines and wrinkles, with an olive skin as well as doe-shaped deep brown eyes. Somehow a picture of beauty and severity, all the soft lines of her body somehow harsh.

(she/her) poly-route, solo-route

Tropes: scary hot, masc women

Walthe Courtney, Commander of the King’s Armies and Protector of the Realm, emerged as a formidable figure in the Second Civil War. Leading the rebels with unmatched martial prowess, he earned the acclaim of being the finest swordsman in the land. His valor and leadership were instrumental in overthrowing the usurper-king and restoring order to the fractured realm.

In the aftermath of the bloody conflict, he was celebrated as a folk hero—a commoner who rose to lead his people to victory and bring about a semblance of peace. His contributions were rewarded with knighthood and elevation to nobility, an ode to his honour.

Now, as Protector of the Realm, Walthe ensures the continuation of stability with a steady hand. Yet, despite his efforts, a persistent thorn remains, a challenge beyond even his considerable grasp, casting a shadow over his otherwise successful stewardship.

Name: Walthe Courtney

Age: 43

Height: 5'11

Appearance: Walthe has short, practical wavy black hair streaked with grey throughout, reflecting years of experience and hardship. their muscled, well-built stature is a testament to their years of service. He has warm tanned skin, indicative of his heritage being from the centre of the continent. His light green eyes stand out against his rugged features, with a determined, piercing gaze.

(he/him/they) solo-route

Tropes: The Stoic, No Sense of Humour, Heroic BSoD

From the day his family and house declared for the usurper-king, it was clear that Lorn Greenspan, the youngest of seven brothers, would be sent away as a ward.

Only eight years old, he had to play his part, leaving behind the familiar chill of his home—its cold peaks and harsh landscape fading from sight. He was a pawn in a conflict he could scarcely comprehend

His father had told him plainly that he must be strong—because until the day their house bent the knee, Lorn would remain a ward, and his father had no intention of surrendering.

Forced to adapt, Lorn became useful, talented, indispensable—not out of love for those his family would call captors, but out of necessity. Now, he stands as your closest advisor and a member of your house in all but name—cool, calculating, indifferent. Yet beneath that icy exterior burns a quiet resolve. Though he never expects his father to yield, he is determined to see his homeland again, even if it means waging war to bring it to heel.

Name: Lorn of Greenspan

Age: 18

Height: 6'0

Appearance: Lorn has a thick head of dark chestnut hair, gently wavy, it is always styled fashionably with pomade and volume. He has a tawny complexion and almost amber, brown eyes that if you didn't know him you'd think were perpetually concerned and caring rather than probing and scanning. Though under his stylish clothes you couldn't tell it, his body is lean and athletic from harsh training.

(he/him) solo-route

Tropes: advisor-turned-lover, secretly-in-love, black cat

The unbroken line of Galagar Kings may have fractured at Kirston Wall, but the proud Highland rulers never truly relinquished their claim. To them, Hendrick the Conqueror and his descendants are nothing more than traitors. Yet, they understand that a king's throne is grounded in the right of conquest, and so they bide their time, quietly assembling their forces, tempering their men, and honing their blades.

Preparing for the inevitable clash, they drill relentlessly through lashing rain and violent gales, each generation more convinced of their righteousness and the frailty of their enemies. The realm may slumber in uneasy peace, but in the Highlands, war is always on the horizon.

Kent Galagar, the young Lord of Kirston, was shaped by this belief from childhood. His father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather—all were kings in their own eyes, their thrones stolen by usurpers. To Kent, acknowledging this truth makes you an ally, a friend. To deny it brands you an enemy, destined to be crushed when the time comes.

For Kent, proud, arrogant, and stubborn as he may seem, the world is divided by a simple truth: those who support the Galagar claim, and those who will fall before it.

Name: Kent Galagar

Age: 18

Height: 5'9

Appearance: Kent possesses a mane of thick, raven-black hair, often left loose or tied back with a leather strap. His skin is scattered with freckling, with a pale complexion. He has piercing blue eyes and a gaze that can shift from arrogant levity to fiery determination in an instant. His powerful frame is unmistakable, with broad shoulders and a chest that strains against the fabric of his tunics. His physique is defined—broad-shouldered and muscular, but not overly so, with a build that suggests both agility and power. His movements carry the confidence of someone who knows his strength and is unafraid to use it.

(he/him) solo-route

Tropes: Intense, enemies to lovers, jerk with a heart of gold

The nobility are arrogant, cruel, greedy, scheming, and foolish—qualities Arfryn has learned all too well through her peripheral access to them. Her current place among them is no accident but the product of the sweat, blood and tears of her entire family.

Born to a guildman father and a common mother from the east continent, Arfryn witnessed firsthand how the shifting tides of national conflict mirrored the fortunes of her own family. Every struggle either bolstered their wealth or teetered them on the brink of ruin, a fate shared by the yeomanry at large.

Her father, Jasper Caldwell, is the first Premier elected from the Small Parliament, a yeoman elevated by the newly enfranchised class. He has—in no uncertain terms—made it clear that his own position hinges on the peace of the realm.

Arfryn, understanding these dynamics, sees through the superficial grandeur of the nobility. Though she finds them to be the very embodiment of arrogance and folly, she is determined to bend them to her will. For now, she plays the game—offering smiles, be gracious, and dance while they are watching.

Name: Arfryn Caldwell

Age: 20

Height: 5'11

Appearance: Arfryn has a striking presence with her rich, deep brown skin and loose, jet-black braids that cascade down her back. Her eyes are a penetrating dark brown, revealing a sharp intelligence behind a charming, amiable demeanor. She dresses in elegantly simple fabrics that highlight her natural grace—always muted and refined to suit her surroundings but always at the very forefront of courtly fashions. At 5'11 her movements are deliberate, blending seamlessly into the nobility’s world, designed to make her easy to like and hard to hold grudges against.

(she/her) solo-route

Tropes: Steel Magnolia, Dark Feminine

In public Dean Champion is everything a Lady-Knight should be, prodigiously skilled with both galder and weapons, valiant, chivalrous and extremely popular amongst all who meet her or have the chance to witness her in action.

She like many knights is also spoiled to a fault, her suits of armour gleaming and her squire-boys tasked with keeping them so, as they are expensive and extravagant. Indeed she wears them because all people like a performance.

In private, Dean has dedicated herself entirely to her studies at Azma University, determined to learn all there is about the study and practice of galder and perhaps indeed the deeper secrets that only the great masters know—all the better to become both loved and indispensable to the state.

As the younger sibling of a line with many children, she does not expect to ever inherit and nor does she ever want to, she is entirely content with her career as a tourney knight and the life she's lead in the King's Seat thus far. Indeed Dean has long been utterly convinced that she'd make an awful Lady Paramount, she is convinced utterly that all those like her that revel in the spectacle, the fervor of battle and tourney alike are utterly unsuitable for such position.

Name: Dean Champion

Age: 19

Height: 5'9

Appearance: Dean has long deep auburn hair, typically braided for both practicalities sake and fashion, with strands often escaping to frame her face. Her skin is fair as if she'd somehow escaped the sun of both her home and the tourney. Her hazel eyes are bright and framed by dark eyelashes. Dean's build is athletic and commanding, showing off the results of rigorous training and combat practice, yet she carries herself with a grace that befits her status as a renowned Lady-Knight. Her entire demeanor projects a sort of graceful confidence, like that you'd expect of a Prince of ages past.

(she/her) solo-route

Tropes: The Lady and Knight, Knight in Sour Armour

Fran has long understood that she commands little respect at court—indeed, as a bastard, she finds herself dismissed even within her own family. Yet there is one, a young Lord who is but a child, who gave her legitimacy, who looks up to her, and has earned her unwavering loyalty. Her beloved little brother.

It is for him that she accepted the king's invitation to the King's Seat, to train in the King's Army. She wants to be his eyes, his ears, and his sword.

True loyalty is a rare commodity among the highborn, for what do they owe anyone but themselves and their own appetites?

She is content to endure their scorn and wear the title "Loyal Hound" with pride. After all, what insult lies therein? A good hound is strong, lethal, obedient, loved, loyal, and free to roam so long as it always returns. And return to him she will.

Name: Fran Radwell-Cadderly

Age: 18

Height: 5'7

Appearance: Fran's dirty-blonde hair is cut short, falling just above her shoulders—a length chosen for practicality rather than fashion. Her complexion is fair, lightly sun-kissed from time spent outdoors, with a few sun-spots across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes are a dull blue-green, carrying an intensity that contrasts with her otherwise unassuming features. Her build is lean and wiry, reflecting a life of rigorous training, with a strength that belies her slender frame. Though she dresses simply, her presence is commanding, a blend of quiet confidence and restrained power and it makes her feel much bigger than the 5'7 she stands at.

(she/her) solo-route

Tropes: Guard Dog, Loyal Companion, Golden Retriever

Additional

Dashingdon Demo: out now!

Cogdemos Demo: out now!

Pinterest: not yet available

Art: not yet available

Feedback Survey: not yet available

All Asks and Reposts are appreciated, work will be slow but steady and a demo should be ready shortly!

ask me lore questions please, I have far too many notes on this.

#current wip #interactive fiction #status: wip #choicescript #for king and country #forkingandcountry-if #if demo

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satinroses · 8 months ago

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how Yan! harbingers would react to you cheating (separate)

Gn! Reader

A/N: i regret to inform you but there’s no Pulcinella, Pierro, Arlecchino or Sandrone :[ i’m sorry i just don’t know their charas well enough yet/i don’t feel qualified to guess (i haven’t finished fontaine archon quest yet :0) also im sorry scara's is so long... hes my fav :]

Warnings: dark content ahead, if you aren’t comfortable with dark themes please don’t read!! delusions, infantilisation, minor character death, torture, THINLY veiled threats, explicit violence, obsessive behaviour, murder, vaguely implied non-con, financial manipulation

Capitano:

Throughout all the harbingers Il Capitano was the sole member who adhered to a strict code of honour. Despite his obsession with you he had always tried to treat you with chivalry and honour - even if his heart desperately lusted for him to steal you away for himself. It was well known among his fellow harbingers just how deeply Capitano idolises his beloved spouse, seeing you as his own personal beacon of light.

Naturally when the news reaches his ears he refuses to believe such vile insults being levied against you. Instead he has the rumour monger brought towards him so that he may personally administer a punishment for daring to speak against his beloved.

Capitano refuses to believe you would betray him in such a matter unless you decide to tell him yourself or he catches you in the act. He would need a moment to collect himself, his mind racing with thousands of different explanations and reasons. He had never once raised a hand towards you, he brought you gifts from his travels around Teyvat, he never allowed anyone to speak against you and yet you still betrayed him… Then he realises - clearly your supposed ‘lover’ has led you astray. That’s the only logical explanation. That filthy low life had whispered honeyed lies in your ear and in your naivety you had believed them. That wretch has sullied your honour and as your spouse it's his solemn duty to shield you from such vile brutes.

When someone as sweet and virtuous as you exists within such a tainted land it’s only natural that greedy grasping hands will try to stray you away from Il Capitano’s benevolent gaze. It’s not your fault. You clearly didn’t know better. He should have held you much closer to his chest. This was all his own fault.

Alas he cannot turn back time but he can ensure justice is fulfilled. He won't allow the miscreant that sullied his beloved’s honour to parade about without any consequences, so he does as any respectable man would and challenges your new lover to a duel for your honour.

When the first harbinger challenges a man to a duel it’s commonly regarded to be a death sentence and this is no different. Capitano truly tells himself that he is doing this entirely for your own good but the rage in the way his claymore swings down on your beloved’s head tells an entirely different story. Capitano had killed the man with the first swing of his claymore yet the blows kept raining down upon their body until all that remained was a pulverised mass of flesh. Capitano hadn’t killed them, he had butchered them. It’s clear this duel was not as selfless as he would lead you to believe. Despite his vehement denial, this was not for your honour but rather for his own twisted vengeance.

Tears stream softly down your cheeks as you watch Capitano slaughter your lover but once the fight is over he rushes over to you. His hands cup your face as he shushes you gently, cradling you softly as he tucks your head into his chest. Because of his penchant for darker clothing you couldn’t see your lover’s blood staining him but as your face was buried against Capitano’s chest you could feel the crimson ichor staining your face as you inhaled the coppery scent.

Childe:

Tartaglia relished in challenges, exhilarated by new chances to prove his strength and test his power yet somehow this new obstacle was not as enjoyable as he might have predicted - perhaps because he now realised he was losing. All those dreams of marrying you, raising children with you, growing old together felt like mere delusions when he realised that your heart now lies with another.

Tartaglia is commonly regarded as one of the more level headed harbingers, sure he had an inhumane amount of strength and the combat prowess to match yet that was a given to climb as high in the Fatui as he had. In spite of his usual friendly demeanour Tartaglia felt a bitter emotion brewing in his heart.

Upon learning of your infidelity the eleventh harbinger can’t help but laugh. He truly believed everything had been going so well between you two - I mean sure sometimes he got a little possessive and maybe his feelings for you were so intense he felt like they were going to burst out of his chest, splitting him clean open - but he was human! He had flaws too! He just couldn’t understand what this other guy possibly had. Well it’s not like he’ll need to either.

Tartaglia sets down his bow, instead settling on a blade. He wouldn’t use half his strength to murder the rival for your affections, besides he wanted this fight to be close and personal. He wanted them to see him coming.

He marches straight for your lover, challenging them for your hand in a public setting so they can’t help but feel honorbound to accept. He makes an entire spectacle out of the duel and he ensures you’re there too so you can see just how utterly pathetic and out-classed your supposed lover is, so you can realise he is clearly the better choice. Ultimately your lover stands little chance against the mighty harbinger, struck down with unmatched brutality, the glint in Tartaglia’s eye showing just how much he’s enjoying massacring his rival.

He looks confused when he looks aside from the bloodied corpse left behind to see you struggling against the two Fatui agents restraining you to keep you from interfering with their master’s duel. “Why are you upset? You were clearly conflicted between us but now your pretty little head doesn’t have to worry about it! You couldn’t decide so I decided for you.” he says before leaning in closer, his hot breath tickling your ear as he whispers “and if you ever feel conflicted again, come straight to me and I'll be sure to decide for you again.”

Columbina:

You had always felt… unnerved by Columbina. She was always so delicate with you, caressing your hair sweetly, holding you tenderly, brushing soft kisses against your lips and cheeks and yet - something about her felt off, unnatural even. There was something about her that was not entirely human and perhaps that’s what led you to seek comfort in the arms of another.

When you decided to tell her of this you had expected the saccharine facade to melt, to be met with the monstrosity you feared was hiding behind her angelic demeanour. Instead she simply smiled gently, almost knowingly. Her grin never once falters when she arises from her spot on the floor, patting your head as she skips out the door of the room. You stand in the foyer utterly perplexed by her behaviour but terrified she might inflict her wrath upon you if you lingered. You ran back upstairs to your own chambers, your head buried beneath the blankets as you tried to steady your breathing. You stayed there until the sun began to rise, having half expected Columbina to creep into your bedroom in the night and inflict some bloody vengeance on you. Instead the morning came without incident.

You crept down to the dining room where breakfast was being laid out by the maids. It was utterly silent and Columbina still hadn’t arrived with the only noise being the gentle clattering of porcelain and your own breathing as the table was set. There sat the morning paper in your usual spot, you didn’t feel inclined to read, far too on edge about Columbina’s surprisingly docile reaction to your infidelity. You were about to move the paper aside entirely until your eyes brushed across the headline

“12 FOUND DEAD LAST NIGHT: AUTHORITIES PERPLEXED”

You all but collapsed into your chair as you opened the paper. Vomit bubbling up your throat as you continue reading. 12 people of similar physical appearances were found slaughtered in their homes with no signs of breaking and entering, no witnesses and no sign of a struggle. It's likely the victims hadn’t even known their assailant was in the room until they were already dead. A terrifying tale no doubt but what truly unnerved you was the very clear resemblance the victims held to you. From skin colour, to hair colour, to eye colour, height and weight, you and the victims were near identical with only minimal differences. You couldn’t breathe. Your heart was hammering so violently you swore you could feel it against your very ribcage. They didn't even know their attacker had entered the room until they were already dead… how did you know that she hadn’t crept into your room last night, standing there, deciding whether she would do it or not…

Hot tears welled in your eyes as you heard the soft patter of bare feet wander into the dining room. She sat down in the seat directly across from you, still beaming at you. This smile was different however, her grin was tight against her face and very clearly forced, far too big to look natural on the woman. This smile was not a smile, it was a warning.

Il Dottore:

Quite possibly the worst outcome for both you and your lover. Il dottore is not a man to be trifled with, even his fellow harbingers could acknowledge that. You don't even need to tell him about your affair, he already knew. He could tell from the way you shied away from his touch, how easily startled you were nowadays, how your pupils dilated and breath quickened when you stared at your new beau.

However Il Dottore is an eternally proud man, his genius and academic revelations had single handedly transformed Snezhnaya into the Military power house of Teyvat. By turning to another for love and affection you had inadvertently snubbed the second harbinger and by your new lover daring to set their sights on something that so clearly belonged to Il Dottore… he wouldn’t accept it.

Dottore’s cruelty was almost as revered as his genius. To think someone had tried to steal away the affections of the one person he found worthy enough to love. Your lover will suffer a fate worse than death, that much is certain. Dottore is never against fresh meat to experiment on, perhaps he’ll see how many parts the human body can lose before dying, or maybe he’ll discover just how much skin he can flay off a man until he eventually dies. Don’t worry Dottore has always strove for perfection in all matters, particularly academic endeavours. He will find a way to keep your lover alive through his experiments for as long as humanly possible if only to ensure his results are accurate.

Now the moment he hears of your affair his mind is rife with ideas for your lover yet don't worry, he has plenty of ideas left for you too. From here on out you will never be without one of his segments watching over you. He will have constant eyes on you. You will never know a moment of freedom from Il Dottore but please don't fret my love, in his cold, twisted heart he does have a soft spot even if you refuse to believe it, so go ahead and dry your tears and be his agreeable little darling again or else he may leave you in the care of some of his other segments who are much less knowledgeable on how to love, on how to be tender with their darling and are far more inclined to simply take what they want rather than ask nicely.

If you still haven’t begun to return to doting upon him, or worse you take another lover… lets just say some of the younger segments have several questions about human biology that even the ingenious Il Dottore would struggle to answer without an example. So shape up or you might wake up strapped to his operating table so his segments can get a good look at how the interior of the human body functions and well… while he’s already gone to the trouble of cutting you open, wouldn't it be a shame if his name just so happened to be carved onto your heart. Don't worry! for that procedure, he'll give you some anaesthesia. After all, he doesn't want your squirming to make him hit anything important.

La Signora:

La Signora has lost and loved before she met you. After her husband's death she encased herself within an icy shell but whether intentionally or not you warmed her bleak broken heart and returned her fire and passion for life. With you she was Rosalyne not the crimson witch and for that she treasured and adored you above all else.

Rosalyne was all too familiar with the sting of losing a loved one but she had never had her lover willingly stray from her side. To know you would leave her after all she did for you? That you would betray her after she protected you time and time again, sheltered you from the cruel realities of this world and let you live in the lap of luxury… it was clear she had spoiled you far too much.

First she would start with the wretch who dared compete with her for your affections. She plucks his heart out as she did to that pathetic Anemo archon before charring it before his very eyes. Let his last sight be his own scorched heart falling from her hands and into the dust, where filth like him deserved to stay. To think he even thought he could compare with the illustrious 8th harbinger for your love… the wretched fool deserved far worse than what she gave him. Now that she thought of the man again, she could feel the crimson flame in her chest rising as she turned back to the man's twitching corpse. They’d be lucky if even ashes remained once she was done venting her rage on what was left of the man.

As for the matter of punishing her beloved… La Signora had always been a firm woman but for the sake of you and your happiness she had given you certain allowances and privileges such as walks in the garden, visiting Snezhnayan boutiques with her, having your favourite treats imported. That stops now. In her 500 years of life her ire had never once been turned towards you but now, with such a blatant betrayal… even her patience can run out. Perhaps a more permanent reminder of your status as hers is needed. How about we start with searing her name into your flesh with her flame?

Pantalone:

Having grown up in absolute poverty, Pantalone had fought tooth and nail for everything he had, crawling from the slums of Liyue to the very apex of the Tsaritsa’s court was no small feat. The thing is when growing up in poverty one quickly learns to cling onto what they value so it was no surprise that upon falling in love for the first time Pantalone was quick to assert himself into every aspect of your life. He wouldn’t be able to rest easily unless he knew for absolute certain that you were firmly grasped within the palm of his hand.

You were his most prized possession. So when he got news that someone else had spirited away your affections he was filled with the same raw, red hatred he had felt as a boy. The feeling of seeing another have what you rightfully deserve. Since he was a boy he had vowed that whenever someone took something from him he would reap the value of it tenfold. Upon learning of your infidelity you are immediately confined to his estate, all exits heavily guarded by Fatui agents. He encages you within his elaborate mansion not even allowing you to wander into the illustrious gardens. Each door is bolted and every curtain drawn tight as Pantalone refuses to allow the outside world to gain even a passing glance of his darling. The people outside clearly don't understand how to stay away from what is not theirs.

Don’t fear precious one, he doesn’t hold this against you… you’ve always been so weak willed, so vulnerable. It’s no surprise that sooner or later some brute would come and take advantage of your delicate demeanour. It’s really his own failing as a husband but don’t worry, you don’t climb as high as he has without learning from your mistakes and he will make certain that there will never be a repeat of this little incident. From here on out you will be kept firmly in his grasp. No one will see or speak to you without his explicit permission.

If you thought his gift giving was rather excessive before, now it's become suffocating. You're drowning in trinkets and presents. Everyday you're presented with rare delicacies, decorated with precious gems from head to toe and dressed in the finest silk garments imported all across Teyvat with his particular preferences in mind. He will do whatever it takes to keep you with him even if he has to clasp your hands in solid gold shackles to keep you close or weigh your pockets down with rubies and sapphires to keep his little treasure from flying away.

Oh don't worry he hasn't forgotten about that pesky little ‘lover’ of yours. Within an hour of learning of your infidelity Pantalone has the man’s full name, medical records, ancestry and blood type sitting in his hands. You’d be surprised at how eager people are to get in the good graces of the head of the Northland bank and the ninth harbinger. Your affair partner has been blacklisted from almost any job and anywhere that does hire him is immediately bought out or its owner suddenly has Fatui knocking on their door demanding exorbitant amounts of money in “debts” to the Northland bank. Your lover will be financially ruined, any family or friends who try to reach out and support him will similarly be suddenly met with financial ruin. Only once Pantalone has stripped every part of joy from your lover’s life and isolated them from all they love will he be finally satisfied to send them off to Dottore as a little present, after all the Doctor is always enthused by new test subjects.

Scaramouche:

Scaramouche is a naturally covetous man, even in normal circumstances he is undoubtedly the most possessive of the Harbingers. Everyone he has ever treasured has slipped through his fingers, now that he once again feels love he refuses to allow it slide through his grasp again.

Scaramouche would already keep you primarily confined to his estate with only very rare outings. On the occasions he is summoned to the tsaritsa’s side he makes sure to have several handmaidens and guards watching over you and If he must travel from his residence in Snezhnaya he will take you with him for fear of you falling ill or fleeing while he is away but even then you’re confined either to your carriage or the bedroom where Scaramouche is staying.

Despite his confident and cruel demeanour Scaramouche is a deeply insecure man who truly believes himself to be unworthy of your love however he cannot help himself from craving your sweet affections and doting all for himself. He dresses you in identical colours as himself, he hand paints his signature red eyeliner under your eyes every day, he ensures you smell of his favourite things and that you are dressed in traditional Inazuman fashions.

If you somehow managed to cheat on him Scaramouche would go utterly ballistic. You thought you had seen the sixth harbinger angry but the outburst you had seen couldn’t even compare to the tempest he would unleash upon you or any other person who dared to seek your affections. His estate would be a mess, shattered vases, broken chairs, torn clothing thrown about the rooms. Nothing survived his enraged outburst as curses and insults were thrown towards the man who dared steal away his beloved’s affection and adoration.

Scaramouche was restrictive before but now its unbearable. When he returns home after hearing the news he finds you waiting by the door for him, bowing politely as he had commanded you but instead of greeting you with a kiss or throwing off his elaborate hat he instead practically leaps towards you, his hand enclosing around your throat bringing your face to his as he hisses out

“You ungrateful whore. Do you really think I don't know about you and them? Did you really think you could hide it?”

He watches for a moment as your eyes widen as you realise what he's insinuating: he knows about your infidelity. Your eyes instantly flood with hot tears as you realise the torment that's about to be inflicted upon you. Unlike usual he takes no amusement in your distress, too overcome with the conflicting emotions bubbling inside him to even focus on how pretty you look with tears in your eyes.

His grip moves from your throat to your hair as he threads his fingers in it to grab you by the scalp before he drags you up the staircase of his estate. Too overcome with terror to be able to walk properly instead you allow him to drag you along by the hair as your trembling legs attempt to hobble after him.

Upon reaching your chambers he throws you down on the ground. You try not to take notice of the clump of your hair entwined in his fingers. Instead of punishing you however he instead turns back around, not even sparing you a glance as he storms out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind him. You lay splayed on the floor as he left you cradling your aching scalp as you wait for him to return with some device manufactured to inflict as much pain as possible.

Scaramouche does not return for many hours. It isn’t until the moon is high in the sky that the bedroom door opens and you see the balladeer return. The room fills with the coppery scent of blood, you’re certain if you had a lamp on you would see Scaramouche painted crimson. After several seconds of simply staring at your form the balladeer finally approaches you. Your whole body tenses as he bends down to lay himself on top of you, his head burrowed in your neck… was he about to rip your throat out with his very teeth? He could probably feel how hard your pulse was hammering under his cheek.

You waited for pain but it never came. Instead you felt the harbinger begin to softly shake, gentle sniffles being buried in your neck as his whole body curled in closer to yours. Your neck grows damp as Scaramouche tightens one arm around your waist and the other behind your head as he straddles your lying form. He uses his arm positions to pull you even closer to himself, his grip is verging on pain as he pushes your bodies together like he’s attempting to merge you together, to ensure you could never stray from his side. You half think you’ve imagined it when you hear the harbinger whisper in a hoarse tone

“Why can't you just love me?”

Maybe it was a sense of pity or you simply wanted him to calm down and get off you but regardless you wrapped your arms around him, cradling him softly. The harbinger’s cries ceased for a moment and you thought perhaps you had somehow managed to ignite his rage again but instead his shoulders began to shake violently as the intensity of his sobs picked up, wails coming out of him like a wounded animal as he clutched you close to him.

Only as the sun began to rise did Scaramouche manage to clamber out of your embrace, staggering out of the room. You stayed on the ground for another hour, trying to ignore the tacky, dried blood encrusted on your kimono. You changed your kimono before going downstairs for breakfast, hoping to gain an understanding of Scaramouche's mood, however as you went to push the doors open they wouldn’t budge an inch. He had locked the door tight behind him.

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carionto · 1 year ago

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Humans really like space wildlife

As Humanity integrates itself within the Galactic Coalition ever further, trade and travel between Sol and neighboring member systems is growing at exponential rates. In particular, their interest in the native wildlife of other planets is the most widely expanding sector for tourism and commerce.

Even though it is also the most heavily regulated and restricted one, Humans, who typically display a desire to subvert the normal procedures to expedite any process they can, for this they are surprisingly willing and eager to fill in all the necessary paperwork and spend hours upon days making sure they follow and adhere to all the requirements to import some of these creatures.

While such level of determination is not uncommon for new member species who discover a certain non-native creature or something that to the respective natives is commonplace but for them is the pinnacle of exotic, the variety of requests made by Humans is nearly as great as the entire list of known fauna species. And the reasons listed on the forms are even more diverse:

"That's a unicorn! I've always dreamed of having a unicorn and you're telling me there's a dozen subspecies?! Yes, please!!!"

"After reviewing their behavior, this bear-sized fluff-ball is the perfect cat I've always wanted, but couldn't because of allergies. I'll treat them with love and care, my life is incomplete without this fella."

"Tiny. Elephant-duck. Want."

"Our company was looking for a mascot, and these six-legged spindly beaver-crabs are perfect. Here's our mission statement and prepared accommodations for a flock."

"They all said I hallucinated the lizard sasquatch when I was on that acid trip, but now I'll show 'em. It's real. I knew it all along!"

"Aww, these baby puppies are so adorable (referring to the four meter, 800kg Fanged Widowmaker of Abyss Valley predator). My kids were looking through your alien picture books and instantly fell in love with these ones."

And so on. At first we had to reject quite a few, mainly because half of them were deadly beasts from Deathworlds that are almost impossible to capture in the first place. Then the Human officials informed us that, while they will try to stop it from happening, if we don't make importing and adopting even the most dangerous animals in the known Galaxy reasonably possible for them with Human help and expertise in the field, some Humans will set up illegal smuggling rings to "fill the market gap" as they said. Historically, they explained, that causes more problems and expenses than just handling it through official channels.

Reluctantly we were persuaded and have set up a new organization to quell this, apparently, unquenchable Human pack bonding condition. Even if said pet can kill them. We think, as horrible as it may be, that for some that is part of the appeal. Even the ones that breathe out literal poison.

"We'll wear a mask around them. This wendigo-like one is too cute to not get belly rubs."

Said the OFFICIAL Human Representative of a monstrosity that can only be described as the living incarnation of countless teeth, fangs, claws, vivid seizure inducing iridescent feathers, and a body that extends from a inconspicuous ambush pose to a fully 8 meter tall six limbed nightmare machine of Death!

#humans are space orcs #humanity fuck yeah #humans are deathworlders #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #carionto #aliens are cute #pet the predator

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letsgoletsgetit08 · 1 month ago

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ruined

warnings/tags: MDNI!, dubious consent, degradation, praise, corruption, home invasion, unprotected sex (no glove no love, folks!), pet names, name calling, spanking, punishment, ruined orgasm

pairing: stalker!dom!yeosang x f!reader

summary: Kang Yeosang has had his eyes on you for a month now. He decides it's time for you to meet.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: Heyyyyy so this is... something!

Someone (not naming names) requested this and you know what, this is our lord and savior Meg Thee Stallion's internet, I don't have to explain myself.

Kang Yeosang is a stalker and reader doesn't hate it.

If borderline non-con/degradation bother you, turn around and read something else. Thanks! Also, as always, the characters in this story are purely fictional and do not represent the people they are based upon. This is just for fun. I don't think Yeosang is truly a stalker.

ao3 link: ruined

ruined

Yeosang was starting to get annoyed. You were running late. He was nothing if not patient. A quiet man, mild mannered and gentle, at least as far as anyone knew from what he shared of his personality. However, everyone had their limits. It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, sure. But he had chosen you partially because of your strict adherence to your schedule. In the month of getting to know you, he had only had to deal with you being late twice. Both of which were accounted for by well-known delays in the public transport system, and the other a thunderstorm.

The memory of how cute you looked, mascara running down your face, damp hair clinging to your cheeks, stamping your feet outside your door in your loose, high-neck dress and tights - he had to resist palming his length through his trousers. That was another reason he had chosen you. He never saw you bring home sexual partners, nor friends. And you were always dressed so modestly. It had surprised him the first time he watched you finger yourself from his position outside your window. Someone so pure, so otherwise untouched and innocent, doing something so deliciously human.

It drove him crazy. In his mind, you were still a virgin, even if he knew you to be in your mid-twenties and it was highly unlikely.

After you had left the next morning, he had jiggled your window like he had learned to do weeks ago, unlatching it and allowing himself inside, his daily routine at that point, greeting your cat as was his habit, before searching through your laundry for the pair of lacy pink underwear which you had been wearing the night before during your scandalous activities. He had taken his shoes off and crawled on top of your comforter, bringing your panties up to his nose for a long, luxuriating, deep sniff. Your scent had gone straight to his already throbbing cock. He had grabbed the pillow you slept on, moving it down by his hips before rolling on top of it, stuffing your underwear into his mouth, and humped the pillow until he came in his pants. Your cat had judged him from the corner of the room. He had gotten up, put your bed back like he had found it, reveling in the idea that his scent would be on it when you went to sleep that night, but you would never know. Corrupting you already, and you would be none the wiser.

He had pocketed your underwear before making his way back outside.

This time, it was time for you to meet him. He had been planning it all week, and you dared to be late. It’s okay, though. He would teach you not to be tardy ever again, and you would thank him for it.

He glanced at his watch once again, a force of habit at that point. Twelve minutes late. Twelve was a good number. Thirteen would be even better. And he got his wish, because as the clock striked 6:15pm, there you were, in a rush, lip stuck out in a pout, tears streaking down your face, clearly having had a bad day at work. Yeosang rounded the corner exactly when he knew you would be there, coffee cups in hand, thankfully still warm enough to be believable.

“Ah, God!” He exclaimed as he bumped into you, coffee pouring down his front.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry.” You sobbed, “I can’t do anything right today. Are you okay? Let me buy you another coffee.”

“No, no, it’s fine, I promise. I just… nevermind. It’s okay.” He fixed you with his big, soulful eyes.

“No, what is it? I swear I don’t mind buying you more coffee.” You offered, wiping your eyes, trying to become composed.

“It’s not that, I just really like this sweater. It’s stupid.” He blushed, his pink skin shining against his creamy white sweater, “I just live nearly half an hour away, was on my way to my mom’s to help her out. And I just don’t want this to stain is all.”

“Oh, well…” You studied him. He was strikingly handsome, round cheekbones, jaw cut from marble, wavy black hair tucked under a light pink beret, adorable smile, and a soothing deep voice with a slight lisp. Plus, he said he was going to help his mom. You hardly could imagine him posing a threat. “Why don’t you just come inside and let me wash it real quick. I have a big t-shirt you can wear in the meantime. And I can make you coffee to-go.”

“Oh, no, I could never intrude-” Yeosang started.

“No, please.” You started walking up the steps to your door, “Let me do one thing right today at the very least.”

Yeosang pretended to consider it, “Well, I guess if you insist…”

“I do.” You assured him

“Thank you. I’m Yeosang, by the way.” He extended his hand - well-manicured fingernails on long, lithe fingers - grasping yours lightly as he shook it. The first touch of your soft, pale, flawless skin sent lightning bolts up his spine.

“I’m y/n.” You smiled at him before letting go of his hand and letting both of you inside your townhouse.

Yeosang had to remind himself he wasn’t supposed to know his way around, following you hesitantly, breath hitching as your cat wound its way through his legs as he stood in the doorway to your bedroom, watching you rustle through your drawer for a t-shirt big enough to fit him. He wasn’t large per se but you could tell he was well-muscled underneath his sweater.

“Oh, that’s so funny,” You commented, watching your cat greet him like he knew him, “He usually doesn’t like strangers.” You handed him the t-shirt of your choice.

“Ah, cats just always like me.” He explained.

“Well, Haku is a great judge of character.” You smiled, watching Yeosang kneel to pet your cat behind his ears, right where he liked it most.

Yeosang rose to his feet, “I’ll just change in…-”

“Oh!” You stammered, “Um, yeah, the bathroom is over here. Sorry, I forgot you’ve never been here.”

Yeosang couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at how wrong you were as he followed you to your bathroom.

He left the door open a crack as he changed and you couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of his glorious form as he changed into your shirt, your feet suddenly glued to the floor, unable to tear your eyes away. Abs like a bar of white chocolate, sinewy muscle packed tight under velvety smooth skin. A pretty birthmark by his eye that you noticed only when he was pulling his head out of his sweater. You could have watched him for hours.

He emerged, breaking your trance, “Fuck, sorry, I wasn’t staring, I promise.”

He laughed, a melodic baritone, “It’s okay. I worked hard for my body, it’s nice to know someone besides me appreciates it.”

You felt heat creep up your neck, “So you don’t have… anyone else?”

He smiled, cocking an eyebrow at you inquisitively, “I don’t.”

“I. Um. I don’t either.” You admitted, though you didn’t know why. He was hot and he was just half naked in your bathroom and you hadn’t had any action in around two years since your breakup.

He looked you up and down, a pleased smile crossing his face, “Hm. I’ll keep that in mind.”

You led him to the kitchen where you left him to go treat his sweater and throw it in the washing machine before returning to warm up your espresso machine.

He stood up as soon as you were pulling the first shot, “Sorry, gotta take this call.” He said quickly as he left the room and went into the hallway.

You could faintly hear his voice, “You’re already over there?” Pause. “Oh, okay. Are you sure?” Pause. “Well I can still come over if-” Pause. “Okay, that works. Tell her I’ll see her Thursday then.” Pause. “Okay.” Pause. “Alright. Love you, too. Tell mom I love her as well. Bye!”

He walked back into the kitchen, pocketing his phone.

You turned to him, “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s all good.” He smiled at you reassuringly, “My sister got her days mixed up, she’s already over at my mom’s. I’ll just go on Thursday for her instead. Sorry, I guess this means all of this was for no reason.”

“No.” You smiled, handing him his coffee, “I think I met you for a reason, Yeosang.”

It wasn’t every day an attractive man - with character references from a mom and sister - stumbled into your apartment. You might as well try to make the most of it.

The sweetest smile spread across his face, “Really? I was just thinking the same thing.” If only you knew.

You walked back over to the espresso machine, “I guess I’ll just make the second coffee for myself, since it will be a minute before your sweater is done, can I offer you anything to eat or-”

Crack.

The coffee mug in your hand fell to the ground, shattering into several pieces. Yeosang was there in a flash, “Oh, no! Here.” He knelt down, picking up each piece gingerly before placing them on the countertop beside the espresso machine, “No small pieces. You should be able to glue it easily.”

The two of you were standing sinfully close together. He reached up slowly, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ear, holding his breath, worried it might be the wrong move.

“Yeosang-” You whispered, leaning in close.

“You’re very beautiful.” He whispered back, thumb trailing over your cheekbone, “I don’t want to be too forward but-”

“Please kiss me.” You all but whimpered.

He obeyed, much to your relief, his lips achingly soft on yours as they explored you, his hand finding your waist, pulling you in close. You could feel him grow hard as the kiss intensified, due to how tightly your bodies were pressed together. He was half tempted to take you right there in the kitchen, but he refrained.

You moaned as his tongue found its way inside your mouth, exploring every inch inside of it. You wanted him.

“Yeosang, please.” You broke off just enough to beg.

“Please what, angel?” He whispered in your ear as his lips made their way across your jawline.

“I want you.” You whined. You gasped as his hands grabbed your ass under your dress, kneading the plush flesh there before bending further down to grasp the backside of your thighs, hoisting you around his waist.

“Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?” He mumbled into your skin as he carried you to your bedroom, placing you carefully onto your bed.

“It’s just…” You swallowed, “It’s been a while, okay?” You admitted, feeling exposed.

“That’s okay, little lamb.” Yeosang consoled as he began stripping his clothes before reaching for your tights and underwear, removing them in one go, “It’s been a while for me, too. Almost like this is both of our first times again, hm?”

A little odd, but the sentiment went straight to your core at the thought of it, “Yes, fuck. All for you.”

He stroked his considerable length as he situated himself between your legs, kissing up your thighs, “All for me.”

You started reaching for the back zipper of your dress but he stopped you, looking at the Peter Pan collar buttoned all the way to your throat, “No, you look so pretty in it. Leave it on for me.”

Before you could respond, he was diving between your legs, tongue expertly teasing your drenched core, sucking and kissing everywhere except your clit, making you grip the sheets in anticipation. He laughed straight into your folds, the vibrations of it sending shockwaves through you, “Oh, sweetheart. You’re going to have to learn to be patient.”

You whined but accepted your fate, back arching off the bed as his tongue fucked your soaking wet hole, his nose barely skimming your throbbing clit, just enough to make your hips buck, seeking friction. Even with the lack of stimulation where you wanted it, you were soon reaching your release, “Fuck, Sangie-” You gasped in shock as he pulled away at the last second.

“I told you to be patient.” Something dark flashed across his eyes. He cupped your throbbing pussy, holding it in his hand like he owned it. You were a little ashamed as your core clenched pathetically around nothing at the sight and sensation of it.

“Sorry.” You apologized, “I can be good, I promise.”

“I’ll make sure of it.” He asserted before surprising you by plunging two fingers deep inside, fucking you with them at an urgent pace, quickly working you back up to the edge.

“You have to tell me when you’re about to come, okay darling?”

“Okay, yes sir.” You whimpered. He was relentless. Your core ached for more, pulsing around him before you knew you were nearly there again, “I’m close.” You whined.

He pulled his fingers out, bringing them to your mouth. You sucked them clean obediently, resisting the urge to bite them in frustration as they probed the back of your throat and taunted your tongue.

“Such a good little slut.” He praised you, “Here I was thinking you were so innocent, but you’re dirty, aren’t you?”

“Hmmph.” You tried to speak around his fingers. He removed them from your mouth with a slick pop, allowing you to speak, “Yes, sir. I want you so bad.” You begged.

He laughed errantly at you, trailing his fingers down your dress slowly before finally circling your angrily pulsing clit, “I’m sorry, honey. But you were late today and I have to teach you a lesson.”

He moved his fingers down your dripping cunt, gliding some of your essence up to use as lubrication.

“I was-” You were startled at his words, “What do you mean, ‘late?’ How did you-”

“Christ, you really are a slut, aren’t you? I felt how you clenched at that. You like that I’ve been watching you.” He smiled, the dark glint returning to his eyes, his fingers pushing inside of you once more.

“You’ve been- what?” You couldn’t lie. You were getting wetter as the realization hit you and as his fingers beckoned inside of you, hitting your sweet spot repeatedly.

“Watching you, yes. You were right. We were supposed to meet, because I planned it. I’ve been waiting to ruin my gorgeous little lamb for a month now. It was finally time. And you were thirteen minutes late.”

“A month?” You started to panic now, trying to sit up, but he was on you faster than you could react, pinning your arms down above your head, moving them to one hand.

You squirmed under his grip and he slapped the inside of your thigh, “Stop acting like you don’t fucking like it.” He gripped himself in his hand and lined his large cock up with your drenched entrance.

Shame coursed over you as he pressed slowly inside. He was right. You were more turned on than you ever had been before.

“Fuck, Yeosang, it’s not gonna fit, please-” You begged as you realized how full you felt, how stretched out you were and he was only three quarters of the way inside, despite how wet you were for him.

“It’s going to fit, angel.” He growled as he snapped his hips, forcing you to take the rest of him in one go.

“Yeosang!” You called out, half in pain, half in pleasure.

“Hush,” He instructed, reaching into the pocket of his pants he had discarded next to himself on the bed and pulled out a pair of underwear that you thought you had lost a week or so ago, stuffing it inside your mouth. The smell of him hit your nose, mixed with your own and you realized you recognized his scent. From your bedding.

A tear escaped your eye as he slammed into you mercilessly. You didn’t know if it was from fear or pleasure, but what you did know was that all of this was hotter than your wildest dreams. Maybe Yeosang wasn’t the only mentally unstable one in the room. It occurred to you, he would probably like it if you struggled. Or at the very least, it would get a reaction from him. And there was nothing you craved more in that moment than this stranger - this imposter’s attention.

You pulled against his grip, trying to scoot away from him as your orgasm built once more, moaning and crying out in vain, voice muffled with your own stolen underwear.

“What’s that, angel?” He mocked you, “About to come again?” He waited for you to nod “Aw, too bad.” He pulled out once more, flipping you over and pulling your hips up in the air, hand patting your upper back gently as if to indicate you should keep it pinned to the bed.

He had one hand holding your hips, the other rubbed your bare ass cheek softly, “Three ruined orgasms and ten lashes should do it, don’t you agree?”

You tried to move out of his grip, resulting in him reaching down to pin your arm behind your back, “We’ve been over this, princess. You’re not going anywhere.”

Smack.

He reached down and removed the makeshift gag from your mouth, “Count for me like a good little slut. I know ten is a high number for someone as brainless as you. I mean really, what kind of idiotic prey animal lets a predator right into her home just so he can fuck her pretty brains out?”

Another sharp slap, “That was a question.”

“I don’t know!” You sobbed, “I don’t know, I’m sorry. I’m stupid.”

“Aw, no, sweetheart. You’re perfect.” Another slap. “Now how many was that?”

“Three.” You choked out.

He let go of your wrist, trusting you wouldn’t move again, swiping your slit to gather some of your arousal, circling the tight ring of muscle right above your aching cunt. “Good girl.”

He pressed one finger inside. Your pussy clenched at the sensation.

Another slap.

“Four.”

“Relax for me or this won’t be pleasant for you, little lamb.” Yeosang instructed as he readied his second finger at your entrance.

“Yes, sir.” You replied, concentrating hard on relaxing as you felt his digit begin to slip in.

Smack.

“Five.”

He spit onto your hole, adding more lubrication as he began thrusting his fingers.

Smack. Smack.

Both ass cheeks stung but you felt your slick dripping out of you onto the bed.

“Seven.”

He scissored his fingers before adding a third.

Smack.

“Eight.” You gasped at how full you felt.

Pressure at your drenched core had your hips canting back towards the man behind you.

Smack.

“Nine.”

He pressed inside, “Mmh, this sweet, tight little cunt takes me so well now that I’ve trained it.”

Smack.

“Ten!” You sobbed as he began thrusting again, this time painstakingly slowly.

“What a good little whore. There may just be hope for you after all.”

You wouldn’t last long, your walls were already fluttering around him spastically.

“Sangie, gonna come.” You managed, voice weak.

His hips snapped harder, “You can come when I do. Gonna fill you up so full.”

“No, please, I’m not on birth control-”

“Oh, hush, I know very well you keep emergency contraceptives in your bathroom cabinet.” He growled as he gripped your hip almost painfully hard, fingers thrusting in time with his cock.

“Please, Yeosang, no-” You protested, despite the fact that you very much wanted nothing more than for him to fill you with his seed.

His hips stuttered at your outcry, one final buck before he was spilling deep inside you. That was all you needed to finish as well, clenching hard around his fingers and twitching cock.

“There we go, I knew you could wait.”

He worked you through your orgasm before pulling out, collecting all that had leaked out of you onto his clean hand, flipping you back over before depositing your mixed excretions onto your tongue.

“So obedient now, aren’t you? All it took was me to put you in your place, hm?”

You swallowed, “Yes, Yeosang. Thank you for training me.”

“Mmh.” He laid down behind you, pulling your ass to his front so you could feel how fast he was recovering, “Wait to thank me until I’ve corrupted both of your pretty little holes.”

And you did thank him afterwards, insides painted with his cum, feeling sated and content as he cleaned you gingerly with a damp towel - one he had gotten from where he knew you kept them in your hall closet.

He kissed you on your forehead after he got dressed, “You know you’ll be ruined for anyone else from here on out, right, angel?”

You nodded sleepily.

“Mmh, that’s what I thought. I’ll see you again soon.” He called as he left through his typical exit of your bedroom window, a new pair of stolen underwear - the ones you had been wearing that day - stuffed in his pocket.

It really was always the quiet ones you had to look out for.

#ateez #ateez smut #ateez unholy hours #ateez yeosang #kang yeosang #kang yeosang is a stalker #corruption kink #praise and degradation #ateez fanfic #alternate universe #kang yeosang has a corruption kink

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slugsby-pt3 · 8 months ago

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zero day headcannons

- andre is always bruised the fuck up from assholes at school because cal always has some smart shit to say and andre has to whiteknight him

- cal does not cut but andre….yall aren’t ready for that

- cal is depressed in the way that he is dissatisfied with the world and not the type where he feels the need to punish himself

- cal’s surprisingly a really good big brother and was really excited to get a baby brother

- andre and his older brother fight like dogs, andre has definitely chased his brother around the kitchen with a knife as siblings do

- andre isn’t a wall puncher because he’s so anal about his room looking a certain way so he goes down to his basement and breaks shit

- andre doesn’t listen to music, like he doesn’t have a favorite band at all. He listens to whatever’s on the radio that isn’t ear piercing and whatever cal listens to

- andre is a secret hopeless romantic, i.e keeping that note from a girl in eighth grade

- cal knows Rachel likes him and just see it as a non factory (plus a secret thing of liking how reactive andre gets where cal brings her up)

- andre unknowingly is in love with cal and just sees them as best friends that really care for each other (in a I just wanna kiss him in a bro way) and doesn’t understand his parents telling him they are “codependent”

- andre’s internalized homophobia is the reason him and cal died virgins

- even if they ended up realizing it, cal wouldn’t be able to get it up (hiii dylan)

- andre’s room is insanely tidy, like has the layout and an organizer so everything goes where it should

- cal’s room is dirty as all fuck, clean/dirty clothes on the floor, growing cultures in all the dirty moldy bowls on his bed side table and around his bed

- cal smells like applesauce and cheap weed

- andre is accidentally straightedge, not because he like believes in that ideology. He’s just very particular in the things he allows himself to do. (Plus cal got him high one time in tenth grade and andre hella greened out and it ruined it for him forever of it)

- people at school don’t know andre is jewish and just think he’s obsessed with German shit in a edgy nazi teenage boy way

- cal hates school functions, and even skips assemblies, but always comes to Andre’s cross country and track meets

- andre is very protective over mel and uses his money from his pizza job to buy her toys and clothes

- when andre and cal have sleepovers at Andre’s house, cal’s expected to adhere to mel having a specific spot on Andre’s bed since she was “here first”

- andre was known as the angry kid in elementary after throwing a printer towards a teacher in the second grade (giving Connor realness)

- andre has fun saying shit in French/german to confuse cal

- andre is that fucking irritating kid that plays devil advocate in history/government class

- andre took lineleader crazily serious in elementary school, fully letting that small sense of superiority completely control him

- he also took kahoot and dodgeball to the next level (andre was one of those shitty teenage boys that would throw it as hard as he could and then be a dick saying ‘I didn’t even throw it that hard’ as if he didn’t nearly pull a goddamn muscle doing that shit)

#zero day 2003 #zero day #cal gabriel #andre kriegman #cal and andre #caldre #hey I posted some of these on my prev account and I added some new ones #I wanna put Andre in my pocket and carry him around

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fieldofheathers-stuff · 1 month ago

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The Silco Saga, Part Two*: Vander and Silco haunt the narrative (and are kinda gay for each other)

*This is the second (well, actually third) post in a series I’ve lovingly dubbed “The Silco Saga, a retrospective after Season 2”. It’s halfway between flow of conscience, meta, headcanon and review, spawned from my Arcane brainrot (and recent S1 rewatch) and vaguely aimed at trying to reevaluate the entirety of Arcane with a focus on my Main Man™ Silco. Here is Part 1 (on how S2 handled Silco and Jinx’s relationship) and Part 1.5 (miscellaneous thoughts regarding timeline issues and Silco’s actions towards the kids in S1ep3).

Please feel free to comment! I love hearing different perspectives on this show.

Also, quick disclaimer (just in case it wasn’t clear from the title of this post): I ship them. Don’t like, don’t read. And I swear to God, if I hear anyone say “but they’re brothers!!!1!”, know that I’m going to curse your entire genome until the thermal death of the Universe. Bye.

——————————————————

Vander’s original sin

The portrayal of Vander that emerges from S1 and S2 is that of a man who is trying to do good by his people, but is plagued by guilt and shame due to the horrific acts of violence he committed in the past. S2 clearly shows us that the events of the Day of Ash and the subsequent attempted murder of his best friend/comrade/homoerotic situationship (I’m looking at you, Brokeback Mountain jackets) were intensely traumatic not just for Silco, but for Vander as well. I’ll admit I didn’t much care for him in S1 (mostly because of his goody-two-shoes aura which most of the fandom seemed to latch on to), but I think the elements S2 added to his backstory turned him into a wonderfully complex and contradictory character. It cements something I already kind of sensed about him in S1: that there’s a distinct layer of hypocrisy in Vander’s strict adherence to pacifism (to the point of inaction), which is not really a byproduct of a deeply held personal belief about the ethics of non-violence, but instead a way to cope with his guilt about Silco and the other victims of the Day of Ash revolt. Vander chooses to “atone” for his sins by suppressing all forms of violence, both internal and external, thus generating a safe but stifling environment in which the Lanes survive, but arguably cannot thrive long-term. And in line with Arcane’s tragic narrative, he gets ultimately punished for it: he’s forced to loose all that he holds dear (Silco, the kids and his peaceful little world) and to ultimately embody what he hates and fears most about himself (being a violent monster only capable of destruction).

During my first watch of S2 I couldn’t really figure out whether I liked or not the fact that Felicia’s death was the reason for Vander’s “betrayal” of Silco (it felt a bit contrived and love-triangle-y), but after giving it much thought I have decided that, in fact, I quite like it. It plays heavily into the theme of guilt being central to Vander’s character, and how this guilt really ends up snowballing into something completely unmanageable. Guilt about Felicia (and probably many others that died on that day) leads him to turn on Silco; and later, guilt about Silco ultimately makes him give up all violent means of revolution because he’s too afraid to harm the people he loves. Guilt also becomes a motivating factor for his adoption of Vi and Powder, since we now know he’s not just selflessly picking up two strays, but acting on a promise done to a dear friend who’s just died because of him. The fact that the details of his “betrayal” of Silco are kept pretty much a secret also reeks of guilt and shame. There’s this layer of selfishness and cowardice to his actions that I find very refreshing for a character that’s introduced to us as the closest thing to a paragon of virtue in all of Arcane.

It’s deeply tragic how his inability to properly deal with his past impacts the rest of the narrative; perhaps, had he told Vi the real reason for his unwillingness to rise against Piltover, and not the wishy-washy “violence bad, be responsible” speech, she would have been less rash and black-and-white in her thinking.

I wish S2 spend more time on the two sisters reflecting on Vander and Silco’s relationship. While it’s natural for us to draw parallels between the dyads Vi-Jinx and Vander-Silco, in reality their situations are quite different. There was no ‘betrayal’ between Vi and Jinx, just two grief-stricken children unable to handle an immensely tragic situation; but, due to the ‘lessons’ imparted to them from their ‘parents’ (lessons which themselves were distorted due to their own inability to deal with their past), they are led to believe their situation is as hopelessly unsolvable as it was for Vander and Silco.

The letter

I still haven’t decided on whether the letter would have worked on Silco or not. I think timing plays a big factor. The Silco we meet in arc 1 of S1 probably wouldn’t have been swayed; he’s already too set in his “rebirth” mentality, and the new man he has become doesn’t care about Vander’s sentimental platitudes. A younger Silco, with less time to crystallize into his new identity… maybe. I think the Best Timeline of S2ep7 (yes, that’s what I’m calling it) sort of implies that Silco got the letter almost immediately, given the state of his wound (and the absence of Shimmer).

I wonder if we are also meant to implicitly understand that his use of Shimmer in the Worst Timeline (a.k.a. Arcane, the Netflix show) had some kind of negative influence on his psyche. After all, Shimmer does seem to impact the emotions of its users; if it did influence Silco’s radicalization, it would make his story doubly tragic. I’ve always found his use of Shimmer an interesting tidbit in S1, and the fact that the show doesn’t explain it very much beyond using it to show the amount of trust between him and Jinx has always been very intriguing to me.

Anyway. I think that, in any case, the letter would have been only the first step in Silco and Vander’s trajectory towards reconciliation. They both have a lot of issues to unpack; I love the headcanon going around that one of Silco’s prerequisites to their “peace treaty” is for Vander to rejoin the political fight for Zaun. It sounds just so… in character for Silco to demand something like that; it acts as both a justification and a shield, preventing him to expose himself too much at the beginning, while ensuring that he and Vander remain close.

I think it was already clear in S1 that they both secretly craved to be close again, especially Silco, given how hard he still tried to convince Vander to work with him in S1ep3. (Which is kind of insane of him, if you think about it, but I guess working closely with the man who tried to murder you — and almost succeeded — kinda fits into his whole “almost dying turned me into an Übermensch” philosophy?) Now, with Vander’s letter in S2, we know for a fact the feeling was mutual. Which is, again, horribly tragic for them both, because they’re both so set in their respective ways that actual reconciliation is made impossible.

And they were miners (oh my God they were miners)

Since we’re already kind of on the topic of whether or not Zaundads is real (or just the fruit of our collective hallucination), let’s give to Caesar wha belongs to Caesar: I don’t think the writers meant for them to turn out that way. Their dialogue doesn’t particularly strike me as hinting to anything beyond a very close friendship.

… The animators, however? Those French fucks (affectionate) knew what they were doing. The imagery of the jackets stored one inside the other cannot be a coincidence. There’s really no other cinematic parallel I can think of that doesn’t ultimately lead back to Brokeback Mountain. They were insane for that, and I’m deeply thankful to their perverted French minds (extremely affectionate) that they had the balls to just… put it there. No further comment. Just a glaring nod to the gayest movie ever.

(Also, Brokeback Mountain’s most iconic quote — “I wish I knew how to quit you” — perfectly applies to Vander and Silco. They just can’t seem to let each other go. Silco is still harping on about Vander years after he died. Vander can’t even bear to mention Silco in S1, and the moment they meet again the first thing he blurts out is “I’m sorry”, right after Silco murdered his friend — RIP king Benzo, you didn’t deserve it — in front of him. They match each other’s freak so well, I tell you.)

And then Silco’s scene in the Best Timeline. Just… the touching. The tenderness. The affection. Benzo going “ack!” at them while they gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes. It’s just… chef’s kiss. No further comment. Is it, perhaps, self indulgent? Yes. Is Silco’s line about forgiveness cheesy and a bit out of left field? Yes. Do I wish Ekko had more time to ask him what he meant by that, and get in on their backstory (since it would have been deeply meaningful for him too, given how much he idolizes Vander)? Yes.

(Someone please write me fanfiction of this scene. I beg you. I would do it myself but I lack the talent.)

Would I also watch 10 seasons of them being gay married and doing the most irrelevant domestic nonsense? Shamelessly. My poor blorbos deserve it.

#heather's ramblings #silco #vander #zaundads #meta #vanco #arcane #arcane season 2

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eevees-hobbies · 3 months ago

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Predator - NSFW (Fem!Reader x Kyojuro Rengoku)

Synopsis: What’s hotter than making your boyfriend chase you in the woods while dressed in a spooky costume? Nothing.

Author’s Note: It has been a while since I’ve written for the love of my life, so here we are. This is 100% self-indulgent and OOC for Kyojuro and is also not an accurate portrayal of the time period, but I am aware. Let a girl lust, yeah? This is for the "No, You Hang Up" Kinktober Ghostface Collab event. Reblogs & comments always appreciated.

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Kyojuro Rengoku. Degradation, dirty talk, cat-and-mouse, roleplaying, mention of claiming and marking, chasing in the woods, threatening to kill you, but pookie doesn’t mean it, choking/breath play, and ghost-face costume loosely implied but not explicitly mentioned. Tis Smut. Minors Do Not Interact. || Word Count: 2.2K

Banner by me. Divider by @sister-lucifer

“This is not an activity befitting of a Hashira,” Kyojuro grumbles, his voice uncharacteristically gruff and displeased, as he holds a plastic mask and black ankle-length cloak before him. He’s trying his damnest to appeal to your sense of sympathy and reasoning, but as he looks into your bright, lust-filled eyes, he knows your unwavering ability to reason is gone.

“Kyo! It’s fine. This is fine. Nothing you can do can hurt me, and I promise I can handle it.”

Your voice drips with reassurance, but you’re practically salivating at the sight of the cloak he’s pulling over his head and now adhering to his muscular figure–the garment might be a tight fit, but you’re certainly not complaining.

Out of all of the Hashira, it wouldn’t hurt for Kyojuro to be a little less modest, you think, as the fabric strains against his muscles.

And even as you claim he can’t hurt you, you both mentally think about how that isn’t true. You, almost with reverence, and him with disheartenment of your fragility at the top of mind.

Kyojuro can’t even begin to fathom who has been corrupting you in such a way that you get aroused at the idea of being chased through the woods by someone who wants to harm you. Don’t you get that enough in your profession as a Hashira with the ever-present threat that demons provide? But he can’t deny that he’s always ready to fulfill any request you may have, no matter how outrageous. He simply adores you far too much to disappoint you–some would call it love, but Tengen calls it being whipped.

“Ok, but we should have a safe word.” His remarks are muffled now that the mask is securely in place. It already annoys him how it tunnels his vision, but he can still see you clearly enough–so clearly that he’s watching you turn your back and dart into the woods.

“No safe word then,” Kyojuro mutters, resigned yet still watching you with interest.

As he leans against a tree, he can’t help but admire your retreating form. The way your hips sway with each measured stomp of your foot, your thighs flexing as you maneuver around fallen tree branches. It all stirs something in him, some base instinct to claim and mark you, something he would never admit aloud to anyone.

And as he watches you, he kind of understands why you’re into this cat-and-mouse thing. It’s a way for you to live out this base desire to be chased in a no-pressure, non-life-threatening way he can provide.

He figures he’ll give you a few more seconds before he catches you. You’re fast, but he’s much, much faster. Nonetheless, he wants to reward your apparent effort by allowing you to think you have a chance. But you’re naive if you think you can outrun, outmaneuver or outpower him.

He has to shake his head in disbelief—this mask makes him sound–and feel–like a predator.

If you weren’t a Hashira, there’s no way you’d be as far out into the forest as you are right now. Years of training allow you to feel the expansion and deflation of your lungs as they move oxygen in and out of your body. You’re moving so fast that you feel like you’re soaring—you’re not even sure if your feet are touching the ground at this point.

Fuck.

But then you see it. You see a flicker of light subtly bouncing off the trees–if you were anyone else, you’d miss it, but you’re not anyone else, and you know when your other half is approaching, so quick on your heels that you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

But then it becomes so bright that it’s almost like the sun is starting to rise behind you. Despite that, you know better than to look over your shoulder. Looking behind you would mean getting caught. You’ve made that mistake before during sparring sessions, and each time, it resulted in him on top of you, breathing in your ear from behind and asking if you want to yield in a husky voice that never failed to make you shiver.

As you feel the unmistakable sensation of heat on your clothed back, you make a sudden turn. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a hand shooting past your face.

For an instant, you think you might have tricked him, and you let out a barely restrained, triumphant laugh, but then the upright trees are not upright anymore, and neither are you.

As Kyojuro’s body collides with yours, his hands reflexively moving under you to break your fall, you can’t help but be excited that you’ve lost because, truthfully, you’re about to win in all the ways that matter.

“Is this what you wanted, my flame? To feel like you’re in danger? Do you feel like your life is on the line?” He’s hovering over you, mask muffling his usual booming voice, but you can hear him quite clearly despite the sound of your heavy breathing and blood rushing in your ears.

You’d answer him honestly—tell him it’s impossible to ever feel genuinely in danger with him—but you’re too busy trying to recoup all that oxygen from running for your–theoretical–life, so give him a head shake instead.

Under the mask, Kyojuro chews his lip, wondering what you need to feel or hear to make this experience worthwhile. But deep down, he knows, and he’s willing to give in to yours and his base desires, even if that means he has to act less like a Hashira and more like someone he would and could never be.

He moves his hand to your neck, his fingers pressing against the pulse point that’s drumming erratically. He watches the corner of your lip twitch upward into an almost smirk that he all but wipes away when the entirety of his fingers wrap around your throat with the pressure that elicits a gasp from you.

“I don’t have to do much to snuff out your life,” he informs you, his voice low and gravely, which is a far cry from his usual jovial tone. The way he says snuff is punctuated with the tightening of his grip as it threatens the air you just worked hard to recuperate.

Yet you somehow manage a “you’d snuff a cute girl like me out?”

“You? I think I’d keep you around for a bit. You look like you might be good for something—scratching an itch, perhaps.”

Use me!

Let me scratch your itch, Kyo, your brain all but screams as he presses himself between your thighs. He doesn’t need much to convince you to spread yourself for him; the motion is almost automatic for you as his hands push up your skirt and pull the seat of your panties to the side.

“No foreplay?” You inquire with a purr as he moves the cloak out of the way enough to grab his hardening cock and press it against your heated cunt. He can feel how desperate you are with the way your sex is clenching in anticipation and the heat radiating from your core; it makes him smirk as he teases the entrance by dragging the fat head of his cock against her that only makes her weep your arousal and coat the forest floor.

You reach up and snatch the mask off his face, and your breath catches in your throat at the sheer intensity of his gaze–it’s dark and hungry, which is a far cry from the usual reverent look he holds when he looks upon you. But this dark and hungry look? It makes you ache.

He looks down at you, eyes cold—a look you’ve only seen him wear a handful of times for the most troublesome of demons. As you stare up at him with bated breath, you can’t help that his look is appropriate because surely you’re haunting him with your little fucked up fantasy.

“Are you the type of girl who likes to be fucked on the dirty forest floor with leaves in her hair and her cunt exposed to the elements?”

Before you can answer, he’s bottoming out inside of you, and you didn’t need foreplay, but the lack of checking in from him–something you’ve certainly grown accustomed to–is jarring.

You arch your back, expecting him to wait and allow you the chance to breathe, but his hand finds purchase on the column of your neck once again as he holds you down while starting the quick propelling of his hips, stretching you out as his pelvis connects with yours but then pulling out until the tip so much so that your cunt barely has time to grip him.

But Kyojuro can feel how she desperately tries to squeeze him like a vice, how she flutters and tries to embrace his cock in warm and wet blanket of velvet flesh. You feel like heaven and sin all in the same filthy stroke.

You reach up, your hands wrapping around his wrists in an attempt to get a grip on the situation, him, anything because you’re not used to this side of him, and he can see the shock and disbelief in your eyes.

Fuck, he likes it.

He leans down, lips brushing against yours, words coming out sickly sweet as he taunts you.

“Don’t tell me you bit off more than you can chew, my flame. You thought you’d be in control here? You thought I wouldn’t savor the opportunity to split you open on my cock right here when you’re offering yourself up to me so nicely?”

As he speaks, his grip on your throat tightens, cutting off airflow to the point that you can feel yourself growing lightheaded; the only sensation that becomes apparent to you is the way his cock feels plundering into your cunt.

His lips remain skimming yours, occasionally opening as he lets out gasps–because even though Kyojuro is committed to the bit, he’s still so deeply affected by you and how you feel wrapped around his cock.

“So wet for me, pretty girl. Well, if you want to act like a bitch in heat offering yourself up to me until I mount you on the ground and sheathe myself inside of you, I’m going to act like a dog and take it,” he grunts with another exaggerated jut of his hips.

Kyojuro’s half-lidded eyes meet yours as he looks down at you. The leaves that have turned a rusty brown during the Fall season create a halo around your head, framing your magnificence in a way that feels justified to Kyojuro.

Fuck, you look so beautiful, especially when you’re taking his cock.

Tears are starting to prick at the corner of your eyes as he bullies your g-spot unrelentingly. Your mouth is opening and closing with only shattered moans and whimpers escaping from your parted lips as his hand squeezes the life out of you.

You look so perfect like this, but, fuck, he realizes, you might pass out. He loosens his grip around your throat, and the way you gasp for air makes his cock throb because, honestly, the power he could hold over you is intoxicating.

“Thank me for not snapping your neck,” he whispers in your ear through gritted teeth. Oh, he’s close, so fucking close that he can feel his balls clench where they smack the curve of your ass.

He’s not usually very comfortable with dirty talk, often fumbling the words as he speaks, his cheeks heating up as you reassure him that he’s doing just fine, but at this moment? In this moment, it feels right.

“Thank me for taking your cunt and not your life.”

“T-thank you, K-kyo!” A harshly punctuated thrust of his hips, thick-cock head driving into the sensitive ridges of your pussy serves as an unspoken warning for you to get it fucking right.

So you correct yourself, tilting your head back and practically screaming it for the entire forest to hear, “T-thank you, Kyojuro, for not snapping my neck and taking my cunt!”

Quicker than the last syllable can leave your lips, he’s crashing his mouth down onto yours, swallowing your moans and gasps, drinking them up like wine in an open-mouthed, messy kiss. He’s pouring into you as much as you’re pouring into him with a kiss that speaks to your deep connection and intimacy.

His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing as he holds it over above your head and rolls his hips deeper. The only sounds you’re privy to are the sounds of the leaves crushing under your bodies, your muffled moans as you exchange them mouth-to-mouth, and the obscene squelches coming for your cunt as he pushes deeper into you.

You’re so deliciously close–until you aren't, because you’re falling into a torrent of intense orgasmic waves, Kyojuro quickly following after you with a guttural moan released into your mouth.

After the ripples of your pleasure pass, he rolls off of you, the mask forgotten along with the roleplay as you both attempt to catch your breath again.

“Was that good, my flame? I’m sorry for the filthy things I said.” He looks at you with bright eyes, like he did all of this simply to please you, but you know better.

“Nah, you liked it.”

“I liked it.” he concedes with a chuckle as he brings your knuckles to his lips to place kisses laced with another unspoken apology for committing to the bit far too well.

@hayatoseyepatch @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyojuro rengoku #rengoku kyojuro x reader #rengoku kyoujuro #rengoku kyojuro #rengoku kyojuro smut

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sharp-silver4795 · 2 months ago

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“Rules” of the Mansion

Be warned: this is a long one. Idk if you would call this over thinking the reality of this stuff, but I guess I like to see this as more of a reality. Unless i get some asks, this is probably gonna be the majority of the stuff I post.

There are 3 sets of rules and 2 restrictions:

The Pieces, The Will, Freedoms, The Contract of Death, and The Safety Clauses

The Pieces

The Pieces are for the proxies. Failure to comply with any of them results in death.

Rules for proxies since each is a piece of yourself that you give up to the operator.

Piece of Identity

No Names, No Faces, No Games

A proxy’s identity is supposed to remain confidential at all times.

If someone finds out a proxy’s name they are to be killed immediately

If someone sees a proxy’s face, one of them is dying and it doesn’t matter if it’s the proxy or the witness.

“Bargaining” or “bets” aren’t allowed whatsoever and lead to the immediate death (decapitation) of the proxy

Piece of Automomy

When they proxies “agreed” most of them were forced to agree to being a proxy, they no longer have complete say in what happens with their bodies.

Sex, (new) tattoos/piercings, changes in the body that are not necessary/nonessential (vasectomies, plastic surgery, etc) are all not allowed under any circumstance.

Piece of Alignment

They have a hierarchy that they need to adhere to.

High Proxy > Median Proxy > Others

Piece of Authority

If they don’t assert they’re authority over non-proxies, they can get in trouble and most likely adjusted

Piece of Submission

If a proxy is “misbehaving” (remembering their past, having sympathy/empathy, feeling attraction to anyone, etc) then they may be “adjusted”

This is basically when a proxy is put into a room with nothing but a speaker that repeats the same thing over and over again.

Sometimes there’s a TV, sometimes they’re being tortured as well, it all depends on why they’re getting adjusted.

Piece of Truth and Lies

If you lie to the operator, you get injected with Ne/Spk-0063 aka Cx-0432 which makes you feel like your body is burning from the inside out until you croak

The Will

Set for the non-proxies since they are not directly a part of the mansion, they still have to do the will of Slenderman. There really isn’t a punishment.

To Follow

The proxies are in charge

To Struggle

They will always be put through more than the proxies

To Conquer

There is no surrender for them. If they get caught in a tight spot- too bad.

To Die

When push comes to shove, non-proxies die first

Freedoms

Kind of like “passes” in the other rules that are very strict.

Freedom of Necessity

After EJ joined the mansion, he got pissed about some of the restrictions because it was making him starve himself. He also noticed proxies ended up in the infirmary far more often with non-proxies despite them being more protected. After a bit of analysis, he started to argue that life comes first. If proxies or non proxies die for no reason, The Operator has no real strength. That hit Slenderman’s ego hard.

The Freedom of Necessity was added with 3 parts:

It allows EJ to eat as needed and it not contribute to the capital maximum

The Proxies can take off the lower portions of their masks to breathe

Self defense doesn’t count toward the capital maximum. -> this portion will eventually turn into one of the safety clauses.

Freedom to Appeal

When Jane joined the Mansion, proxies always pushed her around despite her advising against things that would easily get them killed. This did eventually end in the death of a proxy (will not be named). So, Jane stopped obeying the proxies. She basically say that, if they want to die they can but she wont participate.

Slenderman ended up giving The Freedom to Appeal with 2 parts:

If a non-proxy knows more about a specific situation they can speak out and refuse to obey them. They can advise the proxy on what to do and a sort of plan.

However, the proxy doesn’t have to listen to them. If the proxy ignores them, they can’t go off to do their own thing, but they don’t have to help.

Safety Clauses

After EJ’s argument about life, Ann made a comment on how unpredictable both Proxies and Non-Proxies are. After some thought, The Operator decided that there were no safety regulations and that would be an issue.

So, we have the Safety Clauses- often referred to as “The Calls.” There are 9 of them!! These all apply to both proxies and non proxies.

Against friendly fire: Basically says that if anyone hurts another member of the mansion, they are going to face equal or worse punishment to what they gave.

Against abuse of power by proxies: the non proxies can call them out on taking advantage of their “Proxy Privileges.”

Against interference: if there is an interpersonal dispute, no one can get in the middle of it to cause more trouble or chaos between the two.

Against allowing death: Jane is almost guilty of this. Once Jeff got near-fatally injured, she left him there on purpose. That’s basically what this is prohibiting.

Against Vulgarity: basically doesn’t allow for hate speech. Slurs, homophobia, racism, transphobia, etc. This is punishable by death.

Against Encouraging Harm: basically saying to not promote self harm or the harm of others in the mansion. This is punishable by adjustment (yes, even for non proxies)

Against Incriminatination: prohibits selling out other members of the mansion.

Against Invasion of Privacy: Proxies used to be allowed to do whatever whenever. Even looking into other people’s stuff. So, non proxies felt they could do it too. It led to a lot of conflict and scarred memories. So, now, no one is allowed to. This includes asking invasive questions about anything then other person considers “too far.”

Against Destruction: prohibition of destroying other people’s stuff.

The Contract of Death

Despite being such a death-filled place, there is a maximum amount of damage they can do. Each Area of the Mansion has a “Capital Maximum” of how many people they can kill every month.

Inner Mansion: 7/month

Mid-Mansion: 30/month (this includes ALL parts of the mid mansion)

Outer Mansion: 40/month

The numbers I just gave are the worst case scenario. In reality the entire mansion isn’t supposed to take out more than 15 people every month.

To anyone who made it this far, thank you SO so much!!

Life has been a real pain in the ass, and I’ve been kinda slow.

Divider Creds: Sister Lucifer

Header Creds: MEEE!!

#creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #crp fandom #creepypasta headcanon #crp headcanon #crp #long ass post #slender mansion #slender man #slender proxy #slenderman #slenderman mansion #creepypasta proxy #proxy #proxy creepypasta #slenderman proxy #whole bunch of word vomit ngl #take my hyperfixation #I know I haven’t posted in a while hush!

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tamamita · 4 months ago

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hello, i really hope this doesn't sound bad but like, does salafist just mean sunni? like, are there sunnis who would claim just as much that salafist is a slur used against sunni? or is there, like, a clear divide between salafists and the sunni population at large? i intend this as a genuine question and i hope it doesn't sound provocatory or like im trying to muddy the waters

Not all Sunnis are Salafists, but all Salafists are Sunnis.

Salafism s a movement consisting of Sunni Muslims who believe that a layman should determine the legality of various Islamic opinions through Ijtihad (independent reasoning) rather than adhering exclusively to the opinions of the four major schools of Sunni Islam. They assert that the best of Muslims were the Salaf al-Salih, the first three generation of Muslims, and thus, a Muslim should derive various Islamic opinions through them. Their qualm with other Sunnis is that they reject the idea of Taqlid (to follow one of the fours schools of thought) in favour of a traditionalist approach to scripture and the Sunnah.

Salafists see themselves as revivalists or reformists in the sense that they aim to purify Islam from within by shunning practices that are considered innovations, heresies or idolatrous. Shi'a Muslims and other non-Sunni branches are considered heresies, and are declared disbelievers by these merits.

Keep in mind that Salafists are pretty split among themselves as a result of their various interpretations of scriptures, leading to the formation of various Salafi groups, such as Wahhabism, Jihadism, Madkhalism, Qutbism and etc. It should be noted that Hamas and the Talibans are not Salafist groups and are generally opposed to them.

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jintaka-hane · 11 months ago

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Laundry in Kuraigana (x f!reader)

Masterlist

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x f!reader Summary: Living in Kuraigana comes with its own set of rules, and with a master as inflexible as Mihawk, they must be strictly adhered to. Frustrated by his lack of attention, you craft a plan to exact revenge through household chores. Word count: 600

Circumstances have brought you to call Kuraigana your home. And it appears you'll be staying there for quite some time until the situation you've found yourself in is resolved.

It's been three months since you arrived and during this time, Mihawk has set up rules and a household routine, creating a semblance of family life with his apprentice swordsman, the ghost girl, and yourself.

Mihawk doesn't employ domestic staff in the castle, it would compromise his privacy, tranquility and security (already quite compromised considering the castle's new occupants). Therefore, you must organize yourselves very strictly following a schedule of tasks that he has assigned to each of you.

Everything must be neat and tidy, nothing can be left for the next day, and unnecessary items must be discarded to avoid clutter.

Like everyone else, he must also contribute to maintaining the castle: the garden, the orchard, meal planning, cleaning the rooms, washing the dishes and cutlery... and doing the laundry.

Laundry is done three times a week. Once with black clothes, another with colored clothes, and another with white and light-colored clothes. Mihawk will not tolerate, under any circumstances, mixing colors or washing delicate fabrics like silk in a non-gentle cycle. Everything must be carefully planned and each week it's someone's turn, expected to separate the clothes by color, select the appropriate wash cycle, hang the clothes, and fold them, dividing them into four different piles, one for each owner. Each person will collect their own pile, clean and dry.

A few weeks after arriving at Kuraigana, you realized that you were starting to feel attracted to the castle's master. His fierce appearance and strength in combat contrasted with the delicacy and perfection with which he organized something as mundane as household chores.

Without daring to confess your attraction, you have been trying to be subtle, taking small steps like lightly brushing fingers when passing the salt, trying to hold his gaze for a few seconds longer than usual when you spoke, or making comments that you thought he might find amusing or intellectual. Nothing seems to work, always so serious, so stoic, completely focused on whatever task he was doing. It is hard to get his attention. Very hard.

For this reason, you begin to feel frustrated. Is this man simply too difficult? Or are you not attractive enough? In any case, this frustration turns into anger... until you devise a plan to teach him a lesson and get revenge.

Knowing that it is his turn to do the laundry this week, you select your most scandalous and provocative lingerie to place in the laundry basket.

And, to be honest, you have quite a collection.

So, you choose shameless bras of several colors and transparencies, daring black stockings and garters, suggestive thongs, and exciting lace bodysuits. If this man isn't willing to pay attention to you, he will realize what he could have had and didn't. The opportunity he missed.

Throughout the week, you watch as your clothes appear hanging in the sun in the garden, alongside those of Mihawk, Zoro, and Perona. Thus, next to a pair of training pants, a simple white shirt and some socks, there is a sultry red lace bodysuit with transparencies.

As your clothes dry, they appear in your pile carefully folded, smelling clean and ready for you to pick up.

"Don't you think Mihawk is more grumpy than usual?" Perona asks one night, watching as Mihawk tries to concentrate on reading a newspaper, with a furrowed brow.

"Grumpy and... distracted?" Zoro adds, also observing him from afar.

"Yeah? I wonder why," you smile.

-> Alternative ending I -> Alternative ending II

#dracule mihawk #mihawk #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk fanfic #dracule mihawk fanfiction #one piece mihawk #roronoa zoro #zoro #perona #ghost princess perona #jintaka stuff

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peachetteprice · 4 months ago

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heya, can I please request hc’s of how 141 boys would react to their s/o finding out they(141) cheated on their s/o (reader) . im in need of some angst 😭

Oh, boy.

Long disclaimer: this has been in my ask box since July, and I am well aware that it's unlikely you're still in need for angst. I quickly came to the realisation after working on it for a few days that I misread the entire prompt and had written for Price and Soap with YOU being the one to cheat on THEM (141). In my perfectionist state, I abandoned the whole thing, choosing to forgo the whole prompt even if it meant denying someone who was clearly interested in my work something that they'd asked for that I could (reasonably) provide. Nobody should have to wait this long for their ask to be answered, and I'm incredibly apologetic that I was so selfish as to leave it go stale in my inbox. Anon, sweetheart, I highly recommend that you search for another writer to fulfill this, because I'm sure they would gladly dive into the idea that the 141 are cheating on YOU, and not the other way around like I misunderstood. It is entirely uncouth for me to make someone wait this long for a simple ask – don't even get me started that it isn't even in HC format – and I can only apologise that even when it is 'out', now, it is not what you asked for and is my initial interpretation of your ask. I did not do it justice. You deserve better, anon. I sincerely aplogise.

Some of the Boys with Cheating S/Os

TW: General angst, adultery, mild aggression, mention of arson (mild)...

Captain John Price

Anyone knew it wasn't easy being married to a man such as John Price, himself included. He would have traded the life he had if he could, but he couldn't, nor wouldn't, because that wasn't the man he knew himself to be. Sure, in some perverted timeline, a thousand light years away wherein he didn't feel a sense of pride, responsibility, or accountability over the people with whom he shared his country, might he have taken that job as head of accounting he would have been promised, had he gone to university, or simply devoted his life to the blues and twos of the constabulary. None of it would have been harder work that he currently undertook, but it was honest work. And that was the sort of man he was: honest, dependable, and loyal.

That being said, much like the aforementioned, neither of those exclusive three things were easy to achieve. Nor adhere to. But when he stood at that altar in his pin-striped suit, pink and red corsage on chest, and spoke his vows to love you in sickness and in health - and, Christ, he didn't take them lightly - and you returned them, he hoped that you meant it.

And that wasn't to imply that you didn't. You did. Most ardently.

But the nights were long, cold, and unbearable without John. When he was back, he was often distant for a week or two, reeling from whatever madness he saw in the field. If he did make it back into his own mind, he was unlike the man who left beforehand. In fact, he would only return a few days prior to leaving, and then the cycle spun again. And again. And again.

He never spoke about it – the field. Never took a moment to cry in front of you – you heard him, of course you did, in the shower, when he thought you were doing the laundry – and if you did press him on the matter, he simply washed it away with a dismissive hand and a non-committal 'I'm fine, love'.

That might have been when it started. The distance. When the nights become longer, colder, and so unbearable that you needed something to warm the space beside you when he was away. That was all it was ever supposed to be.

John found the men's razor in the bin in the bathroom. It was your colleague, Mark's. He'd come over one evening to comfort you when John was away. It was supposed to be a bottle of wine and a walk home for him, but he woke up in your bed, and there was no stopping what had started, then.

There was no moment of doubt in John.

He knew it immediately; you had another man by your side.

He most expected it. That might have been the most devastating part of all. That, in sickness, he knew you might have longed for the warmth of a man to the point of committing adultery, even if you professed that your heart still lay with him. Even if he knew, himself, that it still did.

You knew he knew it, too, when he sidled into the kitchen with a hand palming his beard, and he placed the razor beside the pot of bolognese you were monitoring as it bubbled away.

"Got something to say?" He asked.

For some god-forsaken reason, there was no malice in his tone. He should have been near-boiling over the thought of another man with his hands on you – the body that he had sworn to cherish and to hold until the day he died.

But, as was the case when he took his vows, he did not take them lightly.

And though you sobbed, pitifully, and asked him to be quick with the divorce papers, so that you might quit your job and move somewhere else - somewhere less suffocating from the lies and the deception – John did not give up.

He threw the razor back into the bin. He sat you at the dining room table. He asked you to explain. Everything. From the very beginning – not since Mark, not since that bloody bottle of red wine, not since the gentle hand he placed on your knee when he should have been out the door – the complete, unabashed beginning when you first lost a modicum of care for him.

When you did finish speaking, the sun had come up. It must have been seven in the morning, but your eyes were so bloated, your words had torn such a scratch into your throat that you couldn't ask what time it was, nor even be able to see the clock on your kitchen wall.

It wasn’t pretty, the things you both spoke about, of the late nights spent texting John, asking if he was doing alright – to utter radio silence on the other end – as another man lay between your legs, suckling against your sopping cunt, and dragging every droplet of cum and sinful moan your voice had to offer, of the dissolved shared affection and broken trust that lined every sentence, of the nervousness as you walked into the pharmacy to ask for a morning-after pill, just to quell the shame you felt about having another man's uncloaked cock in your cunt, even though you were up-to-date on birth control that month.

But if anything permeated throughout the entire conversation, that cemented the idea that, if he hadn't asked you to be his wife, that someone else would have surely filled the role better than you – it was that he was not going to give up on you.

He'd given those vows as a promise, not as a suggestion. In sickness and in health. Till death do you both part. And you could have – and had – moped about how terrible a wife you were, how he should leave at the soonest possible moment and never look back, but that wasn't going to happen, so long as John Price was your husband.

Because if there was one thing he would do, in every facet of life, perverted timeline or not, it was try.

For John Price would never give up on his lawfully-wedded wife.

John "Soap" MacTavish

There's a pair of underwear in the wash that doesn't fit him. He knows because he tried them on. They're initial-ed in sharpie on the inside label. JR. They're not his initials, that��s for certain. They're not his favoured design. They're not in the shade he wears. They're a lot of things that they aren’t and shouldn't be, like in the wash at all, beside your panties, one of your special weekend bras, and old bedsheets.

James Robinson, your pilates instructor.

It takes him too long to rack his brain before he happens upon the name, arriving at it after consulting your calendar magnet-ed to the fridge, spending the rest of the time thinking with them on the kitchen counter. He nurses a glass of milk as he does. It isn't right for alcohol at the time. It's only five in the morning, though if it were five in the afternoon he would have already taken the next bus to the White Rabbit pub and burnt them in the trash out in the alleyway, just to send a message to you to never give them back to the man who took you from him, when they better suited being strapped to one of his homemade explosives and thrown through the bastard’s office window.

The cereal you munch as he stares at you that same morning tastes sour. Seems like it’s gone off, but Johnny's drinking a glass – his third that morning – so you surmise it’s just about ready to turn. His eyes won't leave you. They often never did, particularly in the mornings, but not like this. Not with such intensity that your stomach draws bile from your liver.

The boxers are in the knife drawer.

You don’t know that the boxers are in the knife drawer, and if you did, you might have even fessed up before he had the opportunity to confront you about it. You’re a coward. You know it. He knows it, too. That’s why he’s waiting for the right time.

And when it is – the right time, that is – he digs them out from between the cutlery and throws them in your lap. It’s silly, really, the thought that takes the place of confusion in your brain. It’s stupid. Naive. Idiotic. Perverted.

"What was that for?" You chuckle, holding them up. Sure, if he wants that now, you're quite ready for it–

"–They're not mine."

All prior concern is embellished with fear. A gall builds in your stomach – you’re about to throw up, and a dry heave makes it to the base of your throat, a quick gulp forcing anything bitter back down. It’s simply foolish, how easily it makes complete sense. The nervous drinking all morning, the gaze that wouldn’t leave yours, the smell of cigarette ash on his fingers when he handed you the carton of milk for your cereal. And you think, oh-so naively, that there may be a chance to refuse his insinuation.

“They're not yours? Who else could these belong to, Johnny? They fit you, don't they?"

"Really? Seriously?" He bites back a disgusted scowl, you see it in his cupid’s bow, hunched up towards his nostrils exactly how it manifests in his nightmares, the scent of rotting bodies, dirty blood, unfinished business. "J.R."

You go blank. There’s nothing at all. You’ve never thought about nothing at all before. It’s a desolate place, the emptiness of your mind. It ruminates in your soul like footprints in a field at night. Who they belong to, why they’re there, why they’re no longer. There’s nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, nothing to be felt – the trees are too far drawn into the night to be real; tangible.

"Johnny–" it spills out suddenly.

"–Don't you go sayin' my name with those dirty fuckin' lips!” He growls.

"We can – we'll talk about it.” Some things are coming to mind. Not many. Self-preservation related, mostly. “Sit down.” You wave your hands wildly. “I can explain everything, I promise–”

"–Oh," there was almost amusement in his voice, edging on the maniacal, certainly psychotic, "You take me for a fuckin' bampot, don't ye?"

"Johnny, please!"

He nears. He’s animalistic, right now, the way he's stalking you like a tiger who can’t pounce because you haven’t yet turned your back to him, and it wouldn’t be fun until you did. You've never seen that look on him. You never want to again, if he can help it, though you’re not sure he can. It's better suited to the field, staring down an enemy from close range, just before he sets a bullet straight through his head. A sharp fear rises behind the upset. It’s cold. It lingers like a needle beneath skin. It hurts.

"Get out of my house."

"What? Johnny?"

"I said, get out of my fuckin' house!" He swells with an uncanny rage.

Only when you do leave, retreating into the hallway wearing your pyjamas only, does he heave a breath or two that turn solidly into anguished pants, choked sobs and lonely wails. It isn’t supposed to turn out like this, sitting before the lift of your apartment complex, covering the guilt with the ruse of having lost your keys if anyone stops to ask if everything is okay, though everything is most certainly not okay.

James was a nice man. Johnny was a nicer one. But the quell in your throbbing, begging cunt from months of being apart from Johnny was even nicer when James indulged, tongue lapping over your folds like a dog wishing to please its owner. You told him you enjoyed it, even left him with a kiss on his cheek, and he left as soon as it ended, though you hid from him the fact that you threw up in the toilet as soon as you locked the door, sobbing into the same sheets he had you dribble your cum, wishing you could reverse time.

Johnny will never forgive you. That much is true. No matter how much you plead at his doorstep for him to reconsider the relationship – his mind is not so weak, and he finds it endearing that you seem to be convinced otherwise. Though, he does regret one thing – not taking your things, too, along with James’, to the empty lot behind the correctional youth centre and paying the kids there to watch it burn.

BONUS: Phillip Graves

Totally not because I feel bad about letting down anon... no way...

It's three weeks after the fact of your adultery that a text pops up on your phone, unattended, that reads something to the effect of feeling guilty about your time spent with a man for the benefit of revenge, suspecting that Graves, too, has been cheating, as you delicately lament to your best friend, Emily.

Naturally, he confronts you, and you know better than to lie to a man with an arsenal of juggernauts at his disposal, so you confirm his suspicions, and explain that it was by no fault but your own that you slept with Adam.

He’s furious, ardently so – justly so – and you explain that it was undeserved on both sides, to which he seems inexplicably confused, until landing on the understanding that you thought a woman you saw at a hotel with Adam was his lover. And you realise… he wasn’t cheating on you.

And the confusion compounds in your mind, realising his naivité of your illicit relationship was fueled only by the fact that you’d been attending book club at such ridiculous times in the night. He’s pacing, gasping for air as you rightfully say;

“I can’t believe you thought I was going to book club this whole time.”

And he stills, like a lamb, crouches against the dresser, and exclaims with such anguish that you wish you’d never said anything about it at all:

“There’s no book club?!”

| Masterlist |

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