#Now you’re acting like you own the place?? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hjvi · 1 day ago

Text

𝙋𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙮 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙈𝙮 𝘼𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨

Pairing: Hockey!Chris x Fem!Reader

Summary: Chris promised no more fights, but when a cocky opponent crosses the line and touches you, he can’t hold back.

Warnings: Smut. MDNI. Violence. Make-up sex, fingering, oral, all that good stuff.

Word Count: 7k

The arena hums with anticipation, the sound of skates slicing across the ice filling the space, mingling with the roar of the crowd. You pull your hoodie tighter around you, your breath visible in the chilly air as you glance down at the rink. Chris stands at center ice, his stick resting on his gloved hands, his dark brown hair tucked beneath his helmet but still somehow messy and perfectly him. His blue eyes dart toward you for a fleeting second, and even from this distance, you can see the unspoken promise in them—a reminder of the one he made to you last night.

“No more fights,” you had said firmly, clutching his bruised hands in yours. His knuckles were still raw from his last outburst on the ice, and you couldn’t bear to see him like that again. “You’re getting hurt, Chris. You’ve got to stop. For me.”

He’d hesitated, his jaw tightening, the stubborn defiance you knew so well flashing in his eyes. But then, as always, he softened under your gaze. “M’kay,” he murmured, his voice low but sincere. “I’ll try, for real. No more fights. Promise.”

And now, as you sit on the cold bench near the glass, watching him skate with that effortless confidence, you hope he’ll keep his word. He’s always had a temper, quick to boil over when someone crosses a line, and hockey only seems to amplify it. But tonight, you just want him to play. To stay out of trouble.

The game begins, and Chris is electric, weaving in and out of defenders like they’re nothing. He’s fast, almost too fast, and you can tell he’s showing off a little, especially when he scores the first goal and immediately glances toward you, a smirk tugging at his lips. You can’t help but smile back, your heart swelling with pride and affection.

But as the game wears on, your focus is drawn away from the ice.

It starts innocently enough—a guy from the opposing team, number 27, walking past during a break and tossing you a casual, “Hey, you’re way too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your seat. “Not alone. My boyfriend’s playing.”

He laughs, a cocky sound that grates on your nerves. “Oh, the bad boy on your team? Figures. Bet he doesn’t treat you half as good as I would.”

You glance toward the rink, where Chris is waiting for the puck to drop, his posture tense. He must have seen the interaction because his jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed as they flicker between you and number 27.

“Just leave me alone,” you say firmly, turning your attention back to the game.

But the guy doesn’t take the hint. Between plays, he keeps finding excuses to walk by, flashing you a grin or making some snide comment. Each time, you can feel Chris’s gaze burning into you, his grip on his stick tightening. He’s trying to hold back, you can tell, but the strain is visible in every line of his body.

When the second period ends, the guy takes it a step further.

He walks over to your bench, leaning casually against the barrier like he owns the place.

“So, what do you say? One date? I’ll even let your boyfriend keep his teeth—if he behaves.”

You stand up, your hands curling into fists. “I said no. Now get lost.”

But instead of backing off, he steps closer. His tone darkens, his words dripping with venom.

“You know, I think you’re the type who likes it rough. Does he even know what to do with you? I’d bet anything you’d be screaming for me in minutes.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to sound firm, but your voice trembles.

He grabs your wrist, pulling you closer, his grip tight and unrelenting. “Don’t act like you don’t like the attention. Your boyfriend’s too busy trying to show off to even notice.”

“Let go of me,” you say, your voice rising in panic.

But instead of releasing you, he shoves you against the cold plexiglass. One hand pins your wrists above your head, his breath hot and sickening on your cheek. “You scream, and I’ll just make it worse,” he murmurs, his tone dripping with malice.

Tears sting your eyes as you struggle against his grip, but he’s too strong. The cold air bites at your exposed skin as his free hand yanks your hoodie upward, exposing your chest. The chill makes you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the humiliation burning in your chest.

“See? That’s better,” he sneers, his eyes roaming over you. “Betcha Chris love these titties.”

“Stop it!” you cry, your voice breaking, but he presses a hand over your mouth.

“We’ll save that screaming for later,” he whispers, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek.

“Let me go!” you shout, your voice trembling, but he only presses closer.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice sickly sweet. “I just want a little peek.”

You thrash against him, but his hold is too strong. Red circles form on your wrists from his crushing grip.

“Get off me!” you scream, tears streaming down your cheeks.

The sound of someone shouting your name cuts through your panic, and suddenly, the weight is gone.

Chris’s teammate, Ryan, shoves the guy off you, yelling, “What the hell are you doing, man?!” Another teammate quickly steps in, throwing his jacket over your shoulders to shield you from view as you collapse to the bench, shaking.

Chris, meanwhile, is oblivious, focused entirely on the game. He scores again and turns toward you, expecting your usual wink of encouragement. But instead, his eyes land on the commotion.

His face pales.

One glance at you, disheveled and trembling, and at the guy being restrained by his teammates, is all it takes for Chris to understand.

Chris throws off his helmet and skates full speed toward the bench. He leaps over the boards in one fluid motion, his entire body radiating fury.

“Chris, no—” Ryan starts, but it’s too late.

Chris grabs the guy by the collar, yanking him to his feet. “You sick piece of shit,” he growls, his voice low and menacing.

Before the guy can respond, Chris’s fist connects with his jaw, sending him staggering.

The sound of the punch echoes through the arena, silencing the remaining murmurs of the crowd. The guy stumbles back, his smirk replaced by a look of shock as he tries to regain his balance. Chris doesn’t give him the chance. He grabs the guy’s jersey, yanking him forward, and lands another punch—this one to the cheekbone.

“You think you can put your hands on her?” Chris snarls, shoving him against the boards. “You think that’s okay?”

The guy smirks through the pain, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “What are you gonna do about it, lover boy? Hit me again?”

Chris obliges, landing another punch square in the guy’s face. Blood sprays from his nose, and he lets out a pained grunt, but Chris doesn’t stop.

“Chris, stop it!” you cry, but he’s too far gone.

His teammates try to intervene, trying to pull Chris back, but he shoves them off with a force that surprises everyone. His focus locked on the man before him. “You’re gonna learn real quick that you don’t mess with her,” he growls, landing another punch.

The guy struggles, trying to shove Chris off, but it’s like trying to stop a storm. Chris delivers a series of blows, each one harder than the last, the sound of bone meeting bone echoing in the arena.

“You don’t touch her!” Chris yells, his voice hoarse. His knuckles are split open now, blood staining his gloves and smearing across the guy’s face. “You don’t fucking look at her!”

The guy finally fights back, swinging a weak punch that barely grazes Chris’s shoulder. Chris laughs darkly, his eyes wild. “That all you got? Hit me, you coward! Come on, hit me!”

When the guy hesitates, Chris slaps him hard across the face, leaving a visible handprint on his cheek. “What’s the matter? Scared? Hit me!” he yells, his voice echoing through the arena.

The guy takes a shaky swing, but Chris dodges easily, retaliating with a brutal uppercut that sends him crumpling to the ground.

“Hit me back, you pussy!” Chris roars, slapping his own cheek hard enough to leave a red mark. “Come on! Hit me! Show me what kind of man you think you are!”

The guy tries to crawl away, his hands raised in surrender, but Chris grabs him by the collar and lifts him off the ground. “You were so confident before,” Chris spits, his face inches from the guy’s. “Where’s all that big talk now?”

“Chris, stop!” you scream, your voice breaking through the chaos.

But Chris doesn’t stop. He slams the guy against the boards, the plexiglass rattling with the force. The guy’s head snaps back, his eyes dazed, but Chris isn’t done. He raises his fist again, his knuckles raw and bleeding, ready to deliver another blow.

Chris looms over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles split open and bleeding. His jersey is torn, and a bruise is already forming on his cheekbone. He looks more animal than man, his rage consuming him entirely.

“Chris!” you cry again, louder this time, tears streaming down your face.

This time, he hears you. He freezes, his fist hovering in the air, his chest heaving as he glares down at the guy. Slowly, he lowers his hand, his fingers trembling.

The refs finally manage to pull him away, but Chris doesn’t resist. His gaze shifts to you, and the fury in his eyes softens, replaced by something else—guilt.

He starts toward you, his steps unsteady, his face a mess of bruises and blood.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice raw.

But you’re not okay. You’re shaking, your wrists throbbing from the earlier assault, tears streaming down your face. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” you sob, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear.

Chris steps toward you, his hands outstretched, You flinch as he reaches for you, the memory of his violent outburst too fresh.

The reaction cuts him deeper than any punch ever could.

“I’m fine,” you manage to say, though your voice is shaky. You clutch the jacket tighter around you, your wrists still aching where the guy had pinned them.

Chris’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he’s about to explode again. But then he takes a step back, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I should’ve been paying attention,” he mutters. “I should’ve—”

“You promised me,” you interrupt, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain. “You promised no more fights.”

“He fucking deserved it!” Chris shouts, the anger bubbling back to the surface. “You think I’m just gonna stand there while some asshole puts his hands on you?”

“You didn’t have to beat him like that!” you shout, your voice rising. “You didn’t have to lose control!”

“I lost control because of him!” Chris snaps, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to see him touching you, hurting you?”

“I told you I could handle it!” you yell, your voice echoing in the now-quiet arena.

“Handle it? He had his hands all over you!” Chris fires back, his voice rising. “Do you even understand what that looked like? What he was doing?”

“You think I don’t know?” you snap, tears streaming down your face. “You think I wasn’t terrified? But you losing control doesn’t make it better, Chris! It just makes it worse!

Chris stares at you, his chest heaving, his face a mixture of anger and anguish. “I can’t just stand by,” he says finally, his voice quieter but no less intense. “I can’t. Not when it’s you.”

“I didn’t need you to protect me like that!” you yell, your tears coming harder now. “I needed you to be the person you promised me you’d be!”

Chris looks away, his jaw tightening. “You don’t understand,” he mutters.

“No, you don’t understand!” you fire back, your voice shaking with emotion. “Every time you do this, every time you let your anger get the better of you, you hurt yourself—and you hurt me! Do you even see what you’ve done to yourself?”

Chris glances down at his hands, his knuckles bloody and swollen, his jersey smeared with blood that isn’t entirely his. For a moment, he looks lost, like a boy caught doing something he knows is wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

But it’s not enough. “Sorry doesn’t fix this, Chris,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry doesn’t undo the promises you’ve broken.”

His shoulders slump, and for a moment, he looks like he might cry. But then his stubbornness flares up again. “You’re mad at me for protecting you?” he asks, his voice rising. “For doing what he deserved?”

“I’m mad at you for not listening to me!” you shout. “For putting yourself in danger and making me watch you destroy yourself!”

“I don’t care about me!” Chris yells, his voice raw. “I care about you! I care about making sure no one ever touches you like that again!”

“That’s not your choice to make!” you scream, your voice breaking completely. “You don’t get to decide how to protect me, Chris. That’s my choice. Not yours.”

Chris stares at you, his chest heaving, his face a mess of emotions—anger, guilt, pain. Slowly, he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides.

“I don’t know how to be what you want me to be,” he says softly, his voice barely audible. “I’m trying, but… I don’t know how.”

Your heart aches at his words, but you can’t let yourself soften—not yet. “Figure it out, Chris,” you say, your voice trembling. “Because I can’t do this anymore.”

Chris flinches like you’ve struck him, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“I can’t lose you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t lose me by letting me fight my own battles,” you say, your voice trembling. “You lose me by breaking your promises. By scaring me.”

The words hit him like a blow, and for the first time, Chris looks truly defeated. He nods slowly, his shoulders slumping, and turns away, leaving you standing there with tears in your eyes and your heart aching in your chest.

Leaving the rink felt like walking through a fog of tension so thick it pressed against your chest. Chris followed closely behind you, his skates swapped for sneakers, his bruised and bloodied face a painful reminder of the chaos earlier.

“Just get in the car,” he said, his voice hoarse but soft as if he was scared of pushing you further away.

You hesitated by the passenger door, your fingers twitching on the handle but unable to pull it open.

“I can’t,” you muttered, refusing to look at him. The sight of his swollen knuckles and the cut on his cheek only deepened the ache in your chest. “I can’t sit there and look at you right now, Chris.”

The words hit him visibly, his shoulders sagging. He stepped back, giving you space, but his hand hovered by the door handle of the driver’s side.

“I’ll park nearby. We don’t… we don’t have to talk about it yet. I just need to get you home safe.”

Reluctantly, you climbed into the passenger seat, folding into yourself as far away from him as you could manage. The silence in the car was suffocating, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional, barely audible hiss of Chris’s sharp inhales every time he moved his bruised body.

You sat stiffly, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, refusing to look his way. Chris’s knuckles gripped the steering wheel so tightly that they turned white, though it was hard to tell under the dried blood. His lip was split, the swelling on his cheekbone casting a shadow over his face.

At a red light, you finally spoke. “Pull over.”

Chris’s head whipped toward you. “What? Why?”

“Just do it, Chris. Please.” Your voice was steady, but the tremor underneath was unmistakable.

He obeyed without another word, pulling into an empty lot. You got out, slamming the door behind you, the sound reverberating through the quiet night. Chris followed, watching as you rummaged through the trunk and pulled out a first-aid kit you always kept there—ironically, because of him.

“Sit,” you ordered, pointing to the curb.

He hesitated but sat down, his shoulders hunched as he stared at the ground. You crouched in front of him, your hands trembling as you opened the kit. The sight of his face up close made your stomach twist. His bruises were angry and purple, a stark contrast against his pale skin. Dried blood clung stubbornly to his knuckles.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly as you opened his hockey bag and fished out a small first-aid kit.

“I don’t want to,” you replied sharply, your hands trembling as you grabbed antiseptic wipes and gauze. “But someone has to, because you clearly don’t care what happens to you.”

The sting in your words made him flinch, but he didn’t argue. He let you dab at the cuts on his face, wincing now and then but staying still. Your hands shook the entire time, a mix of anger and worry making your chest feel tight.

You cleaned his knuckles with practiced care, though your hands shook so much that you nearly dropped the alcohol wipes.

“You promised me, Chris,” you whispered, the words heavy with hurt. “And look at you now.”

His blue eyes, usually so confident, were full of guilt as he looked at you. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make it right, but I’m sorry.”

Chris’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I…couldn’t… I saw him…”

“Stop.” You cut him off, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “Just stop. I can’t hear it right now.”

He nodded, biting down on his lower lip so hard you worried he’d split it further. The silence between you stretched thin, filled only by the faint rustle of bandages and the distant hum of traffic.

When you finished, you stood abruptly, stuffing the used wipes back into the kit. “Let’s go.”

The drive home was no better. You stared out the window, your arms crossed, while Chris kept stealing glances at you, his jaw tight. As soon as you reached the house, you were out of the car and inside before he could say a word. You slammed the bedroom door behind you, locking it for good measure.

Chris knocked once, twice, but you ignored him, curling up on the bed with tears streaming silently down your cheeks.

Hours passed. The silence in the house was heavy, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the floorboards as Chris paced the living room. You lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, your chest tight and your eyes burning from unshed tears. When a soft knock came at your door, you didn’t answer, expecting him to give up again. But instead, his voice broke the silence.

“Hey,” Chris’s voice was muffled through the door. “Can I… Can we talk? Please?”

You didn’t respond. He sighed, the sound heavy with guilt.

“I was thinking… maybe we could go get McDonald’s fries. You love those, right? It’ll… it’ll help. Please. Just let me do something for you.”

Your stomach churned, torn between your anger and the small, stubborn part of you that missed him—that wanted to believe he could fix this. Finally, you got up and unlocked the door. Chris stood there, looking more broken than ever.

Chris standing there, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. His face was even more bruised now, the swelling setting in, and you hated the pang of concern it caused.

Wordlessly, you grabbed your jacket and followed him to the car. The drive to McDonald’s was silent, but less tense than before. When Chris ordered, he only got fries for you and a drink for himself.

“You’re not eating?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

He shook his head. “My stomach…” His leg bounced nervously as he added, “I’m just… not hungry right now.”

When the food came, you barely touched it. You sipped on your Pepsi while Chris picked at the fries, holding one up to you.

“You should eat something,” he said softly.

“I’m not hungry either,” you replied, looking out the window.

“Eat,” he urged gently.

“No,” you said firmly, turning your head away.

His hand faltered, You noticed then that his hands looked different—bare.

“You… took off your rings?” you asked, your voice soft as your eyes lingered on his bruised knuckles.

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the steering wheel, his fingers tightening on it briefly before relaxing. “Yeah,” he said, almost a whisper. “They have cracks in them now. And… I know little things like that can… trigger stuff. I just…” He trailed off, his leg bouncing erratically. “I didn’t want to make it worse. Even seeing me like this…” His voice cracked, his words faltering as he turned to you, raw and exposed. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

The sincerity in his voice broke something inside you. You turned to look at him fully, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the bruises, and the raw guilt etched into every line of his face. Without thinking, you leaned across the console and kissed him.

The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative—it was desperate, almost frantic, a collision of emotions you’d both been holding back for too long. Chris responded immediately, a quiet, surprised sound escaping him as he slid a hand to your jaw, his rough thumb brushing against your cheek. The other hand tangled in your hair, anchoring you to him as if letting go wasn’t an option.

His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours with a passion that left no room for doubt. He kissed you like he was trying to pour every ounce of remorse, every unspoken word, every promise of love into you. Your fingers gripped his hoodie tightly, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solidity of him, the proof that he was here and not slipping away.

You didn’t realize you’d climbed into his lap until you felt the firm press of his thighs beneath you, your knees brushing the worn fabric of the seat. The steering wheel was digging into your back slightly, but it didn’t matter. You needed this closeness, this raw, unfiltered connection.

Chris’s hands slid down your sides, pausing at your waist as if he was afraid to hold on too tightly. His breath hitched when your thumb brushed over the bruise on his cheek, and he winced slightly but didn’t pull back. Instead, he kissed you harder, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, but Chris didn’t let you go far. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured against your lips, his voice shaky. He kissed you again, harder this time, his fingers slipping under your shirt to rest against your bare skin.

You gasped at the contact, the warmth of his touch contrasting with the rough texture of his bruised knuckles. It sent a shiver through you, making you grip his hoodie tightly.

“Chris,” you breathed between kisses, your voice trembling with a mix of emotions.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours with every word. “I’m here, and I’m so sorry.”

His hand moved slowly, reverently, tracing small circles on your skin. The tenderness in his touch was almost overwhelming, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of his kisses. You could feel the faint cuts on his fingers, each one a reminder of the night’s events, but it didn’t make you pull away. If anything, it made you kiss him harder, needing to feel connected to him in a way that words couldn’t achieve.

“I love you,” he said between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. “So much.”

When you finally pulled back for air, you stayed close, your forehead resting against his. His breath was warm against your lips, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound the faint hum of the engine and the soft rain tapping against the windows.

Your gaze drifted downward, and that’s when you noticed the faint discoloration peeking out from the neckline of his hoodie. Your fingers reached out instinctively, brushing against the bruise on his collarbone. Chris flinched, a quiet hiss escaping him, but he didn’t stop you.

“Does it hurt?” you asked softly, your voice trembling with concern.

“A little,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced down at your hand, his gaze following the slow movement of your thumb over the bruise.

You felt the faintest tremor in his body, and then his leg started bouncing beneath you again. His hands, which had been resting lightly on your hips, moved hesitantly. He began playing with your fingers, his rough, calloused hands dwarfing yours as he twirled them gently, almost absentmindedly.

Your breath caught as you noticed the details of his hands—the rawness of his knuckles, the faint streaks of dried blood around the small cuts, the way his nails were uneven from nervous chewing or a hasty attempt to clean them. His hands had always been rough, worn from years of work and fights, and yet they moved over your fingers so delicately, as if afraid they might break.

“Chris,” you said softly, tilting your head to look at him. His leg stilled for a moment before starting up again.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice gentle but insistent.

He hesitated, his jaw working as he avoided your gaze. His hands tightened slightly around yours, his thumbs tracing circles on the backs of your palms. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost shy. “M’so sensitive,” he murmured, his accent thicker than usual. His eyes flickered up to meet yours for a fleeting second before dropping again. “Can I… make you feel better?”

Mere moments had passed before you were both clamoring into the back of the van, limbs bumping into limbs, soft laughter echoing inside the vehicle as Chris reached over your middle to pull the door shut. As soon as the door had shut, your lips were on his, your hands blindly fumbling with the front of his jeans.

You'd just gotten the button undone when his hands wrapped around your wrists, pulling them back as he pulled away from your kiss. You were left pouting, the sight adorable and pitiful enough to pull a laugh from Chris as he set your hands down in your lap.

Elated laughter bubbled in your chest as his hands slid up and underneath your skirt, the fabric bunching up around your hips. You helped him with a gentle lift of your hips, allowing him to hook his fingers around the waistband of your underwear, before slinking the fabric down your legs.

"You're going to cum on my tongue." He stated, tone full of nonchalance as he tossed your underwear toward the front of the car. "And, I want you over me when you do."

"You want me to sit on your face?" You asked, lips quirking up into a smile as you bit back laughter, truly believing he was joking. "Is that what you're asking me?"

Chris only nodded, and only then did the realization of his request register in your mind. Heat prickled at the nape of your neck, spreading forward until it encompassed your chest in a deep blush. Sensing your nerves, Chris's thumbs rubbed gentle circles above your hip bones, his head ducking down to meet your avoidant gaze.

"Hey," he whispered. " Nothin' I haven't seen before. It'll feel good, doll, promise."

So, you allowed him to help you into a position that didn't have both of you groaning in discomfort. Maneuvering into a position where you straddled his shoulders, in the back of an already narrow car, wasn't exactly the easiest to accomplish. Somehow, you both managed, mostly thanks to Chris's hands keeping you steady as you moved over him.

The chill of his scarred fingers bit into your thighs, keeping you sunk in the present, hovered over him as he looked up at you from below. There was nothing other than pure, unadulterated lust pouring from his eyes, pupils blown so heavily there was only a crescent of color visible. His fingers tapped, once and then again, a nonverbal request for you to lower yourself.

So you did.

He met you halfway, tongue licking a fat stripe up your cunt, delving between your folds to collect your essence against his tastebuds. He wanted to savor you, that much was readily apparent by his hardened grasp on your thighs, all but cementing you atop his face. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as a plethora of broken-off moans tumbled past your lips.

You begged for him, murmuring his name between praises lost on your ears, but not his. Each word, no matter how garbled by pleasure, left his hips rutting up into the air as he circled his tongue around your clit. Your hips moved in synchrony with his tongue, adjacent swirls, and he let you. He had always favored dominance, being in control of the situation, but having you atop him had him praising every divine figure he could conjure in his lust-riddled mind.

“Chris-“ You crooned, the noise so sweet it pulled a moan from his chest, the vibration left directly against your aching cunt. You smiled, a mixture of a laugh and moan leaving you as your hands raked through his hair, tugging at the short strands. “So good, Baby.”

With an open-mouthed kiss to your clit, he pulled away. It was for a fraction of a second, needed to slip his right hand between your thighs, but you were left whining and pouting. He tutted from between your thighs, lips, and chin glistening with your cum.

“C’mon, doll.” He whispered as his middle and ring fingers pushed inside of you, delicately curling to brush against a spot that had your thighs clamping down around him. “It'll feel good, I promise.”

His left hand squeezed your hip, guiding you just as he would if you were riding him. You unconsciously followed his guidance, sliding down onto his fingers, before raising yourself, only to repeat the motion over, and over. Lewd squelches sounded from between your thighs, your cunt dripping a mixture of cum and saliva down onto his palm.

“See?” He asked through a breathy laugh, quickly resuming his position between your thighs. “Told ‘ya I’d make you feel better.”

You wanted to berate him for his cockiness, you truly did, but the feeling of his lips encircling your clit left you breathless. If anything, any ridicule would’ve turned into a garbled mess of his name.

A groan of a laugh reverberated in Chris’s chest, yet he never pulled away. His tongue lapped at your clit, intervals of swirls and sucks following each grunt he managed to sound out. The sounds were carnal, stoking the steadily building flame in your lower stomach. Your fingers tightened their hold on his hair, pulling him closer, yourself closer. In truth, you weren’t sure if he could breathe, but neither of you moved from where you were.

“That’s it, Baby.” He rasped, words hardly audible, muffled from your cunt. You managed a sighed moan in response, your hips rolling, sliding your cunt against his tongue. His fingers thrusted into you, mimicking the tempo of his eager tongue, each lap and circle of the muscle pushing you closer to the edge.

The uptake of an octave, your head rolling back as your eyes squeezed shut; Chris knew each instinctual move of your body by heart. His eyes stayed locked on you, memorizing the sight of you coming undone above him, riding his face like a woman starved. His free hand lifted from your hip, curving around the plush of your ass, knowing he needed a tight hold on you to keep you steady.

“Chri-“

There it was, the familiar beckon of his name. His cock strained against the confines of his boxers, tip leaking precum, smearing against the now dampened fabric. His thighs tensed as his hips rolled, desperately seeking some form of reprieve as your cunt twitched around his fingers. Instead of verbalizing his reply, he squeezed the swell of your ass, wordlessly urging you to cum.

White-hot pleasure seared your veins, unconsciously twitching your limbs, tightening your hold on his hair. Your cunt spasmed, clit throbbing against his circling tongue. You cursed under your breath, eyes squeezed shut, mind solely focused on the ecstasy overtaking your body. Chris grounded you with slow brushes of his hand along your thigh, fingers still inside of you, lips placing gentle kisses on your oversensitive clit.

“Alright?” He asked, tone rough enough to pull a surprised laugh from you. You nodded, threading your fingers through his hair.

“More than alright.” You replied. “Way more.”

Instead of hovering over his face for another second with wobbly legs, you moved yourself back, giving Chris enough time to situate himself upright. His hands found your hips quickly after, gently guiding you back to his lap.

In an almost instinctive move, you lowered yourself to place your lips on his. His hands slid around your back, fingers absentmindedly grabbing at the fabric of your hoodie as his lips moved with yours.

You braced yourself against the rear windshield, the slick condensation gathering in the palm of your hands, smearing your fingerprints down the pane as your lips moved against his. If anyone had passed by, anyone at all, they would've gathered what you both had gotten up to.

Neither of you could bring yourself to care, not when Chris slipped his hands underneath the back of your shirt, his fingernails scraping along the curve of your back to have you closer as he sucked your tongue.

Your lips curved into a smile at the move, the lucrative, nearly addictive slide of his tongue against your own. He knew you, knew your body and how to make it tick. Your hips rocked against his lap, causing his already hard cock to twitch and pulse against the confines of his jeans.

"You're still hard," you rasped into the kiss, "I can make you feel good, too."

He groaned, his eyebrows knitting together as his hips bucked up into you. You bit at your bottom lip as you moved your hands from the rear windshield, letting your now cool skin slide down his front, keeping your eyes locked with his as you unzipped his jeans.

His lips parted in a silent moan as your hand slipped underneath the hem of his boxers, your fingers curling around the thick base of his cock. You could feel each twitch of his cock beneath your palm, the skin slick and warm, coated in his precum. You slid your hand up, leisurely pumping him, the act enough to have him grunting out your name.

You savored each lecherous moan that fell from his lips. With a shift of your hips, you centered yourself over his thigh, rolling your hips down in tandem with each stroke of his cock. You knew you were dampening the denim, soiling it, yet all you saw reflected in Chris's eyes was the same debauchery you held heavy in your mind.

“Fuck me.” You begged, tired of the hassle, of denying yourself the most innate of pleasures. He relented with a lift of your body, allowing his hard cock to slide along your folds, catching against you. You watched as he lowered you onto him, his cock sliding into you deliciously slow.

Thin, red lines followed his nails as they dragged up the skin of your thighs, coming to a halt at your hips where he steadied you. You could feel his cock pulse inside of you, twitching just before your cervix. You watched him with bated breath, allowing him to guide each movement of your hips, and he did so with precision.

"So tight," he murmured, eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of pure lust and concentration, as though the mere sight of you atop him would undo him if he gave into it. "So fuckin' good."

All you could muster was a moan in response, your hips rolling forward, each forward motion brushing your clit against his lower stomach. Your thighs strained, muscles burning, yet you paid them no mind in favor of the persistent push of Chris's cock, the way his tip brushed against your g-spot with each shift of his hips.

His eyes flitted, sight torn between your breasts and the needy, desperate look in your eyes. He shifted beneath you, planting his feet against the floorboard, giving himself enough stability to thrust upward, pushing himself deeper than before.

The shift in position forced the air from your lungs, a pitiful, broken-off mess of a moan passing your parted lips as you grasped his shoulders. He whispered something to you, but whatever it was had been lost on your muddled mind in favor of the budding feeling of ecstasy coiling in your lower stomach.

"Chris-" You whined, the urgency in your call not lost on him. He nodded, wetting his lips as he rolled his hips upward. You could feel your arousal dripping between your thighs, smearing along your skin as well as his, coating his lower stomach in your cum.

"That's it, doll." He whispered, his left hand moving between your thighs to circle his thumb around your clit, rhythm syncing with each pump of his hips. "C'mon, cum for me."

Ecstasy coiled tight in your stomach, and with each swirl of his thumb and pump of his cock, you felt it twist tighter and tighter. Your hands moved from his shoulders, fingers threading through the back of his hair where you pulled. His mouth fell open, eyebrows lifting as an expression of shock-induced euphoria crossed his face.

So, you pulled harder, the harshness of your hold mirrored in the desperate way you fucked yourself on his cock, movements so frenzied you felt your muscles burning beneath your skin.

A deep, almost sinful moan rumbled in his chest. You swallowed it with a kiss to his lips, hands moving to his jaw as your tongue moved with his. His thumb was slick against your clit, and with a gasp of his name, your cunt spasmed around his cock.

"Fuck, that's it." He groaned, words strained as he teetered on the edge of his orgasm. "Let it out, doll."

Your lips moved from his, kisses trailing down his cheek, onto his jaw, before you settled your cheek to his shoulder, simply choosing to give yourself over to the onslaught of pleasure Chris had you wrapped up in. Chris's hold on your hip tightened as his head fell back, his eyes screwed shut, jaw clenched as his cock twitched inside of you, each pulse filling you with his cum.

You both shared the blissful silence that came afterward, the only noises being the occasional breath and whispered praise, the brush of his hands against your skin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, words muffled by the press of his lips against your throat. "I'm sorry."

You nodded, leaning into his touch, his lips, with a thread of your fingers through his hair. He continued murmuring into your skin, you drank in each word, heart slowing in your chest, calming with the promises he spoke only to you.

His hand moved from your hip, thumb, and forefinger resting against your chin, tipping your head up to meet his eyes. His eyebrows were furrowed together, skin coated in a thin veneer of sweat. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, yet his eyes never left yours.

"You're my girl." He whispered, and you nodded. "I'd never do anything to hurt you."

You placed a kiss on the pad of his thumb, the sincerity in his words causing you to smile. He smiled in return, fingers splaying against your cheek where he held you gently.

"It won't happen again, alright?"

His voice was gentle, his eyes reflecting the same tenderness. You leaned in, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and pressing your face into the crook of it. As your head rested there, the faint bruise on his skin seemed to fade under the warmth of your touch. He pulled you closer, his arms encircling your waist, and his hands softly brushing between your shoulder blades, meeting your embrace with a soothing comfort.

"Good apology, been workin' on it for a while?" You joked, placing a kiss on his jaw with a soft bout of laughter. You felt him laugh, the vibration of his chest against yours.

"Nope." He admitted, turning his head to press a kiss to your temple. "You're worth a genuine apology."

"Sap." You teased, but your tone gave way to your true feelings, how much you appreciated his honesty, his words. He caught on, but never made it known, instead choosing to reply with another kiss to your skin.

"Yeah, guess I am."

A/N: I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to post a fic about Chris playing hockey. The idea of him being so competitive, passionate, and, let’s face it, a little too quick to throw punches has been living rent-free in my mind forever. Thank you so much for reading! It means the world to me that you took the time to dive into this story any interactions are appreciated 😊

tags- tags - : @swagalicious260 @watercolorskyy @coquettechris @lovesturni0l0s @christmastreecake @ellbowmacaroni @blog-luvdance @sophand4n4 @meg4-matt44

#matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo smut #matt stuniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo edit #matt sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fluff #sturniolo

162 notes · View notes

messrsrarchives · 2 days ago

Note

You’re starting to act just like your fascist Reggie—censoring others and trying to dictate what can and cannot be discussed in fandom. Telling people they can’t talk about politics because you, living in a first-world country, can’t handle it? You’re the one using real-world politics to justify a fictional ship with a fascist. Have you thought about how people who are genuinely anti-fascist might also dislike it in fiction? You can’t control fandom. If you want to like fascist characters, then just own it. While fiction might not feel like reality to you, for many, it is reality. Have you considered that the characters and headcanons you enjoy might reflect deeply personal experiences for others? Not everyone has the privilege to separate fiction from reality like you do.

hi feed, this message was brought to you by someone who has clearly never interacted with me ever !

WDYMMM "telling people they can't talk about politics" 😭😭 i fear that's my ENTIRE niche across two social media platforms. i fear my entire thing is politics in a fandom space + the real world. i fear that's literally what i'm known for. what 😖

i was gonna ignore this but i have so many receipts that i thought okay ! finna answer ! why not, let's entertain this <3 (below the cut because it's long)

assuming that this is a response to this post where, after watching elon perform two nazi salutes on stage, i said "hey! maybe you should stop calling people in fandom nazis for reading about a fictional character!"

what i alsooo said on that post is that it's important to discuss politics in literature (see here: doing a masters degree in english literature + politics <3). because absolutely! the DEs are crafted in a way that reflects historic events and absolutely, that's something we can discuss!

what we should also discuss is that whilst art imitiates life and life imitates art, the two do not directly reflect one another - if i read about wizards, i am not a wizard. if i read a crime book, i am not a detective. and if i read fanfic about regulus black? i am not a facist.

in regards to the censorship comment: this here is an entireeee video i made about censorship and puritanical views in fandom spaces and why this is a Bad Thing To Do (though i fear you will disagree with it because i am saying that people can read and write whatever but alas, no censorship here x)

using real world politics to justify a ship? no, not at all. i do not think ships in fandom need to be "justified" because, again, they are fiction. can they be discussed? absolutely! my tiktok is @/messrsrobyn and you will find countless videos where i dissect fandom, characters and ships. again, this is kind of my whole thing <33 nice to meet you <33 but rather for me? that post was made as a building up of (1) the mass of people in fandom during the tiktok ban saying that words have meaning when american writers say british words "wrong", but throw buzzwords around like it's nothing and (2) this is a place for escapism and safety, which is needed now more than ever and whilst discussions about politics are important, this? this ask? this is not a discussion. this is hostility, much like people just commenting "nazi" with nothing else on a jegulus post.

discussions can be had! absolutely! my entire thing is discussions in fandom. but right now i'm trying to discuss this when you have given me nothing to work with but false claims and hostility - see how this doesn't work? but alas, i'll try :)

do people read jegulus and think "wow i love voldemort and the death eaters!!! i agree with what the did here :D" or do they read jegulus and enjoy the complexity that comes with a character like him? do they enjoy how, with a character with such little canon lore, people explore things? or yk what, do they sometimes read him as a muggle where none of this matter because there's do DEs? yeah, because it's fiction. and liking a fictional character does not have repercussions on the real world.

calling someone a facist/nazi only for teading about fictional characters does - it is so incredibly important that we read immoral literature. i'm rambling now but i'm not even talking just about fandom. we NEED books that discuss these topics and we need to explore the characters within them. we NEED politics and immorality and everything like that in books because that is how we learn, understand, and prevent. reading them does make you immoral - see here: queer books being banned in the us for containing "immoral themes" and main characters doing things they deem had and awful alongside INCREDIBLYYYY important books like the handmaids tale, to kill a mockingbird, 1984, fahrenheit 451 etc etc.

we need to read these. we need to engage with them.

but in a fandom space, we also need to acknowledge that these are not real people. these are fictional characters and there's a big difference between engaging with a character because you are justifying their actions, and engaging with a character because you enjoy Exploring their character and Understanding them in as many ways as possible 🙂↕️

but we agree!! whilst fiction may not feel like reality to some people, to many it is! so have we considered that when people come to escape from the real world for a bit, or people have family members lost to past regimes; are about to enter 4 years of another regime or are holding their breath waiting for european elections to see if another far-right populist party gets in, it might sucklk to have this thrown around?

imagine dealing with alllll of that in reality, not knowing what on earth is going to happen tomorrow or what the future holds for you and the people you love, and then being called a facist online because you read about Fictional Character Regulus Black. whilst your life literally crumbles apart because of it. you are now being called the same thing that the man oppressing you and everyone you love is, because you read FanFiction.

and then finally ahem:

"not everyone has the privilege to separate fiction from reality like you do"

if you click here, you will find a tumblr post i made about this exact thing :D about how we can't separate fiction from reality

see here also: a post about the books jkr publishes under the robert galbraith pseudonym and about how we, again, cannot separate fiction from reality.

if you click here you will find my jkr playlist on tiktok which has videos in about how, again, we cannot separate fiction from reality.

what we also can't do, mind you is call someone a facist for reading a fictional character.

there is big difference between "hey! this character has facist undertones if applied irl, we could discuss this!" and "You Are A Facist For Reading It"

instead of coming and ranting to someone who has spoken extensivelyyyy about politics in this fandom space - both with fandom material and with elections, gaza, the uk riots etc etc - and is a huge advocate of dicussions and debates, put this energy into something productive.

like actual facists. real world politics and what you could be doing at a local level to help reduce the harm of Actual Facists that are in power right now. not people taking a break from Actual Facism to read fanfiction.

ta x

(p.s i'm a homeless, chronically-ill, gay, trans man. what privilege do i have in THISSS fandom space of JK ROWLINGSSSSS worlds, to separate reality from fiction? 😭)

#asks #this is such a WILD ask i probably shouldnt have answered it #but this has been a shite few days and it's 5:30am #and you annoyed me x #anyway! have some receipts. sorry this is so long!#would love to stay and talk but (completely random fun fact) i'm actually guest lecturing today at 8 :/#yeahhhh it's about book bans and censorship because yk. politics and english student #plsplspls anon 🥺🥺 do you have any notes 😖😖 i'm just so uneducated #sorry im getting mean i promise im not mean you just annoyed me x #can confirm messrsrarchives on tumblr is not a facist #incase any of yall were wondering x #byebye this was fun lets not do this again actually

96 notes · View notes

mixingandmelting · 2 days ago

Note

Hii,

I'm not sure if your requests are open but I wanted to ask you if you could write a Dick Grayson x reader one where the reader is the daughter of one of Bruce's business partners and they meet at some sort of charity gala and he's instantly smitten with her.

Feel free to ignore this if you have too much to do.

Thanks ❤️

Witty, charming, and someone who matches his humor. He didn’t think he’d hit the jackpot tonight. Initially he had simply wanted to keep you company after seeing you all alone at your table. He expected either shy and sheltered or spoiled and flirty.

“A table for one at a gala?”

“What do you mean? Can’t you see I’m actually with three others?”

“Oh really? And they are…?”

“Me, myself and I.”

It comes with a pleasant surprise how the roles reverse and it’s him getting entertained by you. He lost track of how long he stayed at your table, unable to stop himself from chatting with you. You’re where the party’s at in this boring event and it confuses him how no one else has attempted to strike up a conversation with you for this long. Not that he’s complaining; he’s plenty satisfied to have you to himself. Your jokes draw genuine laughter from him while your laughter is just as infectious. The way your eyes sparkle and crinkle as you do- he rests his head onto his hand, admiring it and not wanting it to disappear. He can’t get enough.

There’s no barrier or rich people’s behavior seen despite you introducing yourself as the daughter of one of Bruce’s many business partners and him as Bruce Wayne’s adoptive son not too long ago. Not even an hour in and you both are acting as friends that haven’t seen each other in ages. Perhaps even more if he plays his cards right tonight. Take you out for a nice walk. Grab something to eat. If you’re into it, watch a movie. All of the ideas that come from him jesting about rich people never imagining or having no knowledge of what the common people do for fun only for you to snort about how else were you to learn to talk and behave like them then.

“Earth to Dick?”

Oops. He flushes under the smirk that dances on your lips, caught red-handed for day-dreaming his date with you. Not that you’d know the last part, but still.

“Am I starting to bore you yet?”

Yet? This whole time you were trying to get rid of him? The grin you give as you take a sip of whatever’s in your flute tells him otherwise. Returning one of his own, he’s about to respond before someone behind him calls your name.

Turning around are your parents, walking side-by-side with none other than Bruce who raises an eyebrow at him. Ugh. Great. He most definitely won’t hear the end of this one. Looking back at you, he catches a spark of wistfulness in your eyes that quickly disappears as you give him one last smile.

“Seems like that’s my cue.”

“Wait.” He’s conscious with his grip on your arm, gentle yet firm to grab your attention. “If you’re into it, mind giving me your number and we can hang out later?”

You bite your lip when you’re thinking. Good to know; definitely something that won’t leave his mind for a while. He tries not to show how giddy he is when you extend your phone out towards him. Giving him a tiny wave, you leave while telling him you would text him. The rest of the night goes uneventful as he mingles with others, half paying attention to what they say as he continues to think about you. Others including his family who wouldn’t stop giving him crap.

It’s once he reaches back to his place and comes out of the showers, he gets a text. Drying his hair with a towel in one hand, he looks to see your name with a sunglasses emoji under your number. His heart somersaults and he fist pumps the air. He can regret not sleeping tomorrow morning, for now all he wants is to talk to you and make the date between you and him a reality.

#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #nightwing #nightwing x reader

80 notes · View notes

andromeda-pleiades · 2 days ago

Text

Just Trust Me

WORD COUNT: 1,747

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Part- 1 | Part 3

The ride home is quieter than usual. Simon, who typically fills the silence with small talk or offhand comments, stays focused on the road. You can feel the absence of his usual chatter, and the space between you both grows.

You bite your lip, trying to decide whether to bring it up. The missing phone. The app. Simon’s reaction could tell you more than anything, but you're not sure what you're hoping to hear.

"So, I think I lost my phone today," you say, casually, trying to gauge his response.

Simon’s hands tighten around the steering wheel, though his expression doesn’t change. “Lost it? That’s a shame. Where?”

You hesitate, thinking back to the sandwich shop. The moment you realized your phone was gone, it felt like it happened in slow motion. “In the sandwich shop, I guess. It was just... gone.”

Simon glances at you briefly, his eyes cool, before returning to the road. “That’s annoying.”

He says it with a certain calmness, almost as if he's dismissing it without making a big deal out of it. You can’t quite place it, but something about his reaction makes you feel... uneasy.

"I’ll get you a new one," he adds, as if he’s solving the problem for you. “No point in you going without one.”

You almost want to argue, but something holds you back. The way he offers to replace it feels like it should be reassuring, but it only adds to the sense that you're losing control over things you once took for granted. You nod, unsure of what else to say.

"Thanks," you murmur. But the words feel hollow.

The silence stretches on, the low hum of the car filling the space between you. You keep wondering if he knows. About the app. About the things you haven’t figured out yet.

You glance at him, but his face is unreadable, his focus entirely on driving. It's as if the missing phone is nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and you can't decide if that should reassure you—or if it should worry you.

The car pulls into the driveway, and you feel the weight of the day pressing down on you. You know Simon’s going to act like everything is fine, that the missing phone is just another small thing to be dealt with. But a small voice inside you whispers that it's more than that.

You can't put your finger on it yet. But something feels...

You sit on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, while Simon moves around the kitchen, humming a soft tune as he cleans up after dinner. The evening feels deceptively normal, his attentiveness wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He checks in with you often—bringing you water, asking if you’re comfortable—all while wearing the calm, steady expression you’ve always admired.

It’s what you should want, isn’t it? A partner who cares, who notices even the smallest things.

And yet, you feel… off. Not because of anything he’s doing, but because of you. Because of your own thoughts.

You glance at him as he wipes down the counter, his movements smooth and precise. Memories of his stories about his time in the special forces flash through your mind—missions in dangerous places, the constant threat of danger, the toll it must’ve taken on him. You’ve seen glimpses of it in the night terrors that wake him up, in the way he’s always scanning his surroundings when you’re out in public, in the way he can’t fully relax even here, at home.

You understand why he might have done it. The app, you mean.

It feels foolish now, the way you reacted earlier when you found it. Simon has always been a good boyfriend, patient and attentive even when you’ve struggled to keep up with his complexities. It makes sense that he would want to keep you safe, that he might need the reassurance of knowing where you are.

He’s been through so much—things you can’t begin to comprehend. After everything he’s seen, after all the chaos he’s lived through, is it so wrong that he wants control? That he wants to protect you in the only way he knows how?

You press your lips together, fighting back a wave of guilt. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe the app really is just his way of looking out for you.

But there’s something else, something you can’t quite name. A feeling deep in your gut that won’t go away, no matter how much you try to rationalize it.

Because if it was just about safety, just about protection, why didn’t he tell you about it?

The question twists in your mind, and you hate yourself for it. You hate that you’re doubting him when he’s never given you a real reason to. He’s been nothing but wonderful to you. Understanding. Patient. The perfect partner in every way.

And yet, the unease lingers, curling low in your stomach like a warning.

Simon turns to you then, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle, concerned.

You force a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

He studies you for a moment, his eyes searching yours, and you feel your pulse quicken. But then he nods, accepting your answer without pushing further.

“You should get some rest,” he says, walking over to press a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll finish up here.”

You murmur your thanks, leaning into his touch despite the knot tightening in your chest.

As you retreat to the bedroom, you try to shake the feeling, to convince yourself that you’re overthinking it. Simon loves you. He’s always loved you. And he’s been through more than anyone should ever have to endure.

But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s fine, you can’t ignore the small voice whispering in the back of your mind. The one telling you there’s more to this than he’s letting on.

And the more you try to silence it, the louder it becomes.

The room is dark and still when you wake, the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. You blink a few times, disoriented, before realizing Simon isn’t beside you.

You sit up slowly, the silence pressing against your ears. Through the bedroom window, you catch a glimpse of him standing on the porch, his silhouette faintly illuminated by the cherry-red glow of his cigarette.

Simon doesn’t smoke often—only when he’s stressed. You watch him for a moment, his posture rigid, his shoulders tense as he stares out into the darkness.

A sense of unease washes over you, but you push it aside, convincing yourself it’s nothing. He’s probably just thinking, you tell yourself. Processing whatever ghosts still haunt him.

But you can’t shake the restlessness in your chest.

Sliding out of bed, you move quietly across the room. Your bare feet make no sound as they touch the cool floor. You don’t know what compels you to move toward the closet, but something in the back of your mind whispers for you to check.

The closet is orderly, as always—Simon’s precision extending to even the smallest details of his life. You scan the shelves and the small duffel bag tucked into the corner. It’s zipped shut, but not fully.

Your heart pounds as you crouch down, pulling it open. At first, you don’t see anything out of the ordinary: folded clothes, a shaving kit. But then your hand brushes against something hard and rectangular.

Your phone.

For a moment, you just stare at it, your breath caught in your throat. You pull it out slowly, your fingers trembling. The screen lights up as you press the button, and the app you found earlier stares back at you like a damning accusation.

You’re about to set it down when a notification pops up.

A message.

From Gaz

Your stomach drops. You hesitate for only a moment before swiping to unlock the screen. The message thread opens, and your pulse races as you scroll through it.

Gaz: She doesn’t suspect anything, does she?

Soap: Not a chance. Simon’s too good for that.

Simon: Just keep your end clear. I don’t want any loose ends.

Gaz: Relax. She’s not like that.

Your vision blurs as you stare at the screen, your brain struggling to piece together what you’re seeing.

She’s not like that. Are they talking about you?

You scroll further, catching bits and pieces of their conversation.

Gaz: How’s she holding up?

Simon: Doesn’t matter. Everything’s under control.

Soap: Yeah, but for how long?

The words feel like a punch to the gut. You don’t understand the full context, but you know enough to realize that this isn’t normal. This isn’t right.

And then it hits you.

Gaz

Kyle.

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Kyle—the same Kyle you’d known for years, your childhood friend. He’d always been part of Simon’s stories, but you never knew he was the same person. You never knew that Gaz—the elusive, almost mythical figure in Simon’s past—was your old friend.

Your childhood friend. The same Kyle you ran into at the sandwich shop. The same Kyle who was part of Simon’s special forces team, whose codename you’d heard in passing but never connected until now.

Your mind races as the truth sinks in. This wasn’t a coincidence. None of this was. Simon had been watching you from the start, and Kyle had been helping him. Every move you made, every step you took—it had all been calculated.

You feel like the floor has been ripped out from under you.

You force yourself to put the phone back exactly as you found it, zipping up the duffel bag and closing the closet door. Your hands are shaking, your breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

When you glance out the window again, Simon is still there, his cigarette burned down to the filter. He crushes it under his boot, the movement precise, deliberate.

In that moment, he doesn’t look like the man you thought you knew.

He doesn’t look like the comforting, loving boyfriend who holds you when you’re upset or makes you laugh when you’ve had a bad day.

He looks like a soldier. A man trained to control every situation, to anticipate every threat, to eliminate every weakness.

And suddenly, you realize: you’re not his partner. You’re just another piece on the board.

#call of duty #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #cod #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #ghost #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish #andromeda pleiades

71 notes · View notes

aeth-eris · 20 hours ago

Text

★ pac : call out/roast edition ★

★ decks used : rider waite + rebel deck ★

★ pile 1 : guy laying in snow ★

★ cards pulled ★

★ “take a shot” & “get the f*ck outside. move your ass.” [rebel deck] ★ 3 of pentacles rv, king of cups, & 7 of cups rv [rider waite]

★ interpretation ★

★ first of all, the rebel deck said it loud and clear: you’ve been way too cozy wallowing in your little snowdrift of procrastination and self-pity. the universe isn’t asking politely anymore. it’s basically throwing a shoe at your head, screaming, “stop making excuses and do something already.” you’re stuck in a rut because you refuse to pull yourself out, not because the world is conspiring against you. also, "take a shot"? yeah, that’s your reminder to loosen up. whether it’s a literal drink or just taking a leap of faith, stop overthinking and start doing. ★ 3 of pentacles rv: teamwork makes the dream work—unless you’re out here playing the lone wolf and ignoring everyone’s advice. are you being stubborn and dismissing people who are trying to help? newsflash: you’re not an expert in everything, and pretending like you don’t need anyone is why nothing is getting off the ground. humble yourself, ask for help, and actually listen when they give it. ★ king of cups: you’re out here flexing like you’ve got your emotions in check, but let’s be real—are you using that emotional intelligence for anything productive? or are you just bottling everything up and hoping it magically works itself out? spoiler alert: it won’t. tap into that maturity you claim to have and channel your feelings into something that actually moves you forward. ★ 7 of cups rv: the rose-colored glasses are off, but instead of taking action now that you see the truth, you’re just standing there like, “oh no, what do I do?” pick a direction. any direction. clarity means nothing if you don’t use it. stop fantasizing about all the things you could do and just do one of them. ★ you’re like that guy in the snow, lying there waiting for someone to rescue you while the answer is literally right there. stop playing the victim and get up. the universe isn’t going to hand you success on a silver platter, especially when you’re out here acting like you’ve already tried everything (spoiler: you haven’t). it’s time to ditch the pity party, stop crying over what could’ve been, and start creating what will be.

also, go outside. you’re starting to smell like the inside of your own excuses.

★ pile 2 : guy skating on top of beverage case ★

★ cards pulled ★

★ “be f*cking grateful” & “don't believe every shitty thought you have” [rebel deck] ★ the devil rv, two of wands rv, temperance [rider waite]

★ interpretation ★

★ first things first, your inner monologue? it’s not the motivational pep talk you think it is—it’s more like a heckler in the back row of your own life. stop letting every self-deprecating thought rent space in your head. you’re smarter, more capable, and honestly cooler than you’re giving yourself credit for. also, the rebel deck isn’t mincing words: be grateful. stop acting like the universe owes you more when you haven’t even acknowledged the good stuff you already have. skating past your blessings isn’t the flex you think it is.

★ the devil rv: congrats, you’ve started freeing yourself from something toxic—whether it’s a bad habit, a bad mindset, or a bad situationship (you know exactly which one). but here’s the catch: you’re still lingering in the doorway, hesitating like you don’t know how to leave. spoiler alert: you do know. the real question is, are you brave enough to actually move forward?

★ two of wands rv: speaking of moving forward… why are you so scared of planning for your future? you’re clinging to the familiar, even though you know deep down it’s not where you want to stay. stop sabotaging yourself with indecision and the “what ifs.” dream bigger, plan smarter, and stop waiting for someone to hand you permission.

★ temperance: balance, baby. you’re all over the place—one day you’re ready to conquer the world, and the next you’re spiraling. temperance is telling you to chill, find your flow, and start pacing yourself. there’s no prize for rushing to the finish line when you’re burning out halfway there. ★ you’re basically that chaotic skater dude on the beverage case—thinking you’re pulling off something epic, but really you’re one wobble away from a faceplant. stop letting fear, doubt, and overthinking control your moves. the devil rv says you’ve already started breaking free, but the two of wands rv says you’re too scared to claim the freedom. temperance is the friend yelling, “bro, slow down, or you’re gonna break your metaphorical neck.”

also, stop whining about what you don’t have. the universe has given you plenty to work with, but you’re out here acting like you’re skating with broken wheels when you’ve got a brand-new board. be grateful for the progress, even if it’s messy, and get your balance before you wipe out entirely.

★ pile 3 : girl mid-slip near wet floor sign ★

★ cards pulled ★

★ “get some f*cking sleep” & “don't f*cking force it” [rebel deck] ★ the empress, knight of swords rv, the chariot

★ interpretation ★

★ the rebel deck is tired of your overachieving nonsense. you’re running on fumes, caffeine, and vibes, but guess what? your body and mind are screaming, “can we not?” you can’t hustle your way out of exhaustion, and forcing things to work isn’t going to magically make them fall into place. sometimes, the best move is to just take a nap, regroup, and let things flow naturally. no one’s handing out medals for being a sleep-deprived mess. ★ the empress: you’ve got big creative energy and the potential to nurture something amazing, but here’s the thing—you can’t birth a masterpiece when you’re too busy running around like a headless chicken. slow down, embrace your inner empress, and let your ideas grow organically. also, self-care? it’s not a luxury; it’s a requirement.

★ knight of swords rv: this is you, barreling into situations without thinking, full of chaotic energy and zero patience. you’re rushing so fast you’re missing the wet floor signs in your life. impulsiveness might feel exciting, but it’s not sustainable. pause, breathe, and stop trying to bulldoze your way through every challenge.

★ the chariot: the good news? you’ve got determination for days. the bad news? you’re trying to drive a chariot with one wheel in the ditch. success is yours, but only if you balance that ambition with strategy and self-control. remember, winning the race doesn’t mean sprinting until you collapse—it’s about maintaining your focus and pace.

★ girl, you’re out here mid-slip, ignoring all the signs, thinking sheer willpower will stop you from face-planting. spoiler: it won’t. the empress is screaming “rest and recharge!” while the knight of swords rv is dragging you for acting like a chaotic tornado. the chariot knows you’ve got what it takes, but not if you keep pushing yourself into burnout mode.

so here’s the deal: slow. the. f*ck. down. let things unfold naturally instead of forcing them. take a nap, hydrate, and stop pretending you’re a superhero who can function on zero rest and pure adrenaline. the wet floor sign isn’t lying—you’re slipping because you’re doing too much. trust the process, and give yourself permission to just exist for a hot second. the world isn’t going anywhere.

★ book a reading ★ ★ masterlist 1 ★ ★ masterlist 2 ★

#tarotcommunity #tarotblr #tarot reading #tarot cards #tarot #pick a card #pick a pile #pac reading

69 notes · View notes

darlingdaisyfarm · 2 days ago

Text

───୨ৎ praise that old man, girl!

a/n: i adore Stanley Pines and apparently im not alone because the amount of asks i got for nsfw with this man?? who am i to deny the people what they want?? also one anon asked for public sex with Stanley sooo here you go angel!

tags: nsfw, smut, vaginal and oral sex (f receiving), age gap, dirty talk, older man/younger woman, degradation + praise, size kink, dumbification, public sex, rough sex, breeding kink

You hadn’t exactly walked into the Mystery Shack with dreams of employment. Stan had hired you on the spot, half-serious when he said he couldn’t afford to be picky. “you got a pulse? can count to ten? good, you’re in,” while shoving a broom into your hands.

You’d been working here for a while now and Stanley Pines had somehow, against all reason, taken a liking to you. You weren’t like the other employees, you were sarcastic and always ready with a quick comeback. It didn’t take long for Stan to notice and he loved the fact that you didn’t take his shit. He loved how you could dish it out just as good as he could.

You genuinely liked your work. The old place had its charm and Stan, despite his grumpy act, was actually funny in his own way.

You were sharp, quick with the same kind of deadpan humor Stan wielded like a weapon. when tourists asked the weirdest and dumbest questions as “how does this yeti paw feel so real?”, you’d shrug and go, “oh, Mr. Pines wrestled the guy for it last spring! you should’ve seen him in the ring.”

And somehow, your nonsense never grated on him.

He’d grumble about you “driving him crazy,” but the truth was, he admired how you handled people, how you could spin up a lie on the spot and sell it with a sly smirk. Even when you worked him up, you had a knack for knowing how to make him laugh before he could stay mad.

Like the time you’d swapped the “do not touch” signs in the gift shop with ones reading “please steal this.” When Stan stormed out of his office, you barely flinched. “don’t blame me. Soos did it,” you’d said again and he’d folded his arms, sighing.

“Kid, you’re gonna give me an ulcer.”

“Then you’ll get to take a vacation, Mr. Pines.”

You had a way of making him feel younger, somehow. Not just the old man with a bad back and a million regrets. Around you, he felt like the guy who still had a chance to make someone smile. And god, he loved that.

Because, god, you talk back, crack jokes, get in his face with that stupid grin of yours. And he knows you know how to get under his skin. It’s annoying and hilarious at the same time.

You’re a disaster of a worker. He’ll admit that to anyone, but for some reason, Stan forgives you. every time. “who did this? who messed up the brochures?” and you always say the same thing “Soos.”

And fuck, he adores it, the way you lie so easily and confidently. He's not mad, but charmed by it. And maybe a little turned on too, but he’ll never admit that out loud.

“You know, i should fire you, right?”

“Yeah, but you won’t, cause i’m too cute, Mr. Pines.”

Stan had wanted to stay mad, but how could he? Every time you messed up, he found a way to let it slide, not because you were good at covering your tracks, but because you always knew just what to say, how to make him forget the shit you’d done. You made it all worth it.

The pick-up lines started a few weeks in. At first, they were awful, so bad that you’d nearly die of secondhand embarrassment. “you must be tired, ‘cause you’ve been running through my mind all day, doll,” he'd say with a lazy wink. and, of course, you’d always have something ready: “you should probably take a nap then, Mr. Mystery, you’re getting old.”

The first time Stanley tried to flirt with you, he didn’t know how it’d feel. He was always smooth, always had a line ready, but it always went wrong with you. “you know, i must be a snowflake ‘cause i’m falling for you.” but before he could even get the whole line out, you shot back, “snowflakes melt. Is that really how you want to end up?”

He’d blink, caught off guard, then chuckle. “smartass.”

But Stan, the bastard, he loved that about you.

He loved how you never pretended to be anything you weren’t. No frilly nonsense or sugar-coating, just honest humor that reminded him of his own shitty jokes. You didn’t back down, never tiptoed around him, and he couldn’t even be mad when you lied about the mess-ups.

His flirts were always the same, predictable, corny, but somehow, Stan delivered them with the precision of a seasoned performer. He would laugh at your attempts to flirt back what made you want to punch him and kiss him all at once. “you’re cute when you’re trying to be a romantic,” you say as you lean against the counter with a teasing grin. “but i’m still gonna need a drink to believe you.”

Stanley grew bolder though. “if I were a few years younger. . .”

“You’d still be a pervert?”

“Nah, just a smooth talker, toots,” he’d grin, trailing his fingers over a stack of papers as you walked past, brown eyes never leaving you

The more you two exchanged these ridiculous lines, the more the tension built. The fake flirting, the dumb compliments, it was a game to both of you and neither of you could stop playing.

The shack is empty, just for now. It's an early morning in Gravity Falls, the aroma of coffee that Stan insisted on brewing too strong fills the air. He was at the counter, organising some brochures for the tours, his usual tourist-trap grin nowhere to be found yet.

Tourists haven’t arrived yet.

You were running a little late today, again. Not that Stanley really cared, but he always pretended to. The man was predictable like that. By now, you’d learned that his bark was worse than his bite, though sometimes, you didn’t mind the idea of getting a little bitten.

You walk into the Shack with coffee in one hand and bag slung over your shoulder, the creak of the floorboards greeting you. Stan was leaning against the counter when you came, scribbling something on his clipboard, his back turned to you. And that’s when you saw it.

He wasn’t wearing his girdle and it was impossible not to notice the soft swell of his stomach beneath his shirt.

Fuck. You swallow hard, trying to act normal, but there’s no stopping the heat pooling low in your belly. Mr. Pines, all thick and broad, strong arms, messy morning hair, his belly curving under his chest, that's just too much

And while anyone else might have held back, might’ve thought better of sneaking up on their boss, you didn’t hesitate. The moment you saw him, your lips curled into a smirk.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

Stepping closer, your let your hands slide over his clothes until your palms rested against the warm curve of his belly. He jumps immediately, his hand jerking across the paper, leaving a thick, jagged line of ink.

“What the— hey! what’re you doin’, kid?!”

“Just admiring my boss?” you grin wider, leaning into him.

Another grumpy “pfft. yeah, right.” comes your way when Stan moves to brush your hands away, but you just dig your fingers in harder, letting your breasts press against his back.

“You’ve been hiding this from me all this time? What a shame.”

His face burns instantly, bright red flushing up his neck. “dammit, don’t go grabbin’ me like that! i’m too old for—”

“Oh, come on,” you cut him off, crowding him against the counter. “you’re not too anything. in fact,” your fingers dip just slightly below his beltline, teasing. “i think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Perfect? hah, are you outta your damn mind? Look at me! I’m no spring chicken, alright? i’ve got—”

“Got what, Mr. Pines?” you interrupt. “nice body?” your nails scrape lightly against your boss, earning a shaky exhale from him. “i like it. a lot.”

“Cut it out, kid, this ain’t the kinda body women go crazy for. You’re wastin’ your time”

You frown. “says who?”

He huffs in embarrassment. “C’mon, you've seen it. I'm too old and- and uh, rough around the edges?”

“Damn, exactly what i like,” his whole body stiffens under your touch. “big strong hands, broad chest and this belly, i want all of it, Mr. Pines.”

“You got a filthy mouth, y’know.”

“Oh, i had a good teacher.” you giggle, feeling him already getting hard. “you ever been touched like this, Mr. Pines?”

Stan exhales hard, irritated and flustered. “‘course I have, don’t talk like I’m some goddamn virgin.”

“Thats not what i meant.” your nails scrape, dragging slow over his belly, over the dips and curves.

He tries to change the tactics then. “listen, sweetie, i’m too old for this shit, alright? you- you deserve some young, pretty guy who—“

“Who what? who doesn’t look half as good as you? who can’t make me laugh the way you do? who doesn’t make me want to do this? i like it thick, broad, strong. You could just throw me around and have your way with me, Mr. Pines.”

Stanley fucking stops breathing. Hes hesitating because he doesn’t want to admit he’s just as fucking hungry for this as you are.

He runs a hand over his face, trying and failing to keep his composure. “You- you’re crazy, y’know that?” but you always knew how to get under his skin.

“Admit it, you’d miss me if i wasn’t here to keep you on your toes.” your fingertips graze his bulge once more and that's it. Stan’s breath stutters in his throat.

“Hot belgium waffles, you better be serious, sweetheart.” he’s already turning, crowding you against the counter, gripping your waist, your hips, your ass.

“Why wouldn’t i be?” you gasp after you say the last word when he palms your tits, kneads them roughly.

“You wanna be fucked like that? like a real man oughta do it?” he leans closer to your face. You nod too eagerly and Stan doesn’t waste a second “we better make this quick,” while his fingers already yanking at your clothes, dragging you onto the counter, pressing his mouth to yours.

Quick. Ha.

Stan kisses like he’s trying to eat you alive, pushing his tongue into your mouth. You moan, grinding against him, feeling the hard length of his cock pressing into your stomach

You should have known better. Should’ve known better than to touch him like that, to let your fingers linger on the soft curve of his belly as he stood there, all unbuttoned and exposed. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because the moment your hands landed there, the pull was too strong, and you knew that if you didn’t take it now, you’d burn up inside.

“You sure you want this, baby? ‘cause once i start, i’m not stoppin.” you nod, gasping for breath, and that’s all he needs. “good, i’ve been holding back long enough.” he gropes you, touches you everywhere, his hands roaming over your back, squeezing your ass.

“Fuck, these are perfect,” your bra is barely on you before he’s palming your tits, squeezing rough, thumbing your nipples, watching them peak.

He licks his lips, then leans down and latches on. Wet, sucking, pulling noises fill the Shack. You arch, whimper, push into his mouth and he groans. “needy little thing, ain’t ya?” he switches breasts, drags his tongue over the swell, teeth scraping before sucking your nipple into his mouth, rolling it, flicking it.

Stanley Pines, despite his gruff exterior, is a sweaty mess in front of you. A man that had given up, probably, on ever being seen as sexy. That’s what made it so deliciously easy to shatter him. To break that cold shell. Because he didn’t see it, did he? He didn’t see how much his body, his age, even his wrinkles, didn’t matter to you. You just want him to feel it. You want him to feel desired, so badly.

“Fucking hell, yer driving me insane, toots.”

You laugh breathlessly. “don’t be so dramatic, old man. You’re tougher than you look.”

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that one,” he growls as he pushes you back against the counter, gripping your thighs.

His mouth is on you again, kissing down your neck, biting, his tongue leaving hot scorching wet trails that fill your stomach with butterflies. You grind against him, feeling the press of his cock through his pants.

“You want this, huh? want me to fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in?”

“Yes, i need you, Mr. Pines.” your hands grip his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Stanley presses his thick fingers against your underwear, circling your throbbing clit through your panties, drawing soft sounds from your lips.

“Already so wet. Hell, you’re gonna take me so good, aren’t ya? this tight little pussy’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good around my cock.”

You moan, your head falling back, your body arching against him as he works you with his fingers faster, harder.

“Please, please, please, need you!” then, out of the blue, or maybe because you're too lost to even care so you'd mumble everything that comes out of your mouth, you quietly admit. “Mr. Pines, f-fuck, ive touched myself to the thought of you—”

Stanley looks at you. “say that again.”

“I've thought about you, i fingered myself imagining it was your cock.” you say quietly, looking at him with little hearts in your puppy eyes.

“Jesus christ, you filthy little thing.”

“Stan—”

“Mr. Pines.” fuck. the way he corrects you, heat coils in your stomach, between your legs. “You wanna get fucked good, you use the right name.”

“M-Mr. Pines—fuck, please—” his fingers press harder, rubbing slow, teasing circles over your clothed clit.

“Soaked. And i ain’t even touched you yet.” you whine, pressing into his hands, your hips twitching. And that bastard laughs. “poor thing, you really need it, huh? sweetie, you’re lucky i’m not makin’ you beg for it.” yet, he forgot to add.

You’re about to retort, but then his fingers slide your panties to the side, spreading your folds, dragging through your wet slit.

“Fuck, baby, dripping all over my fingers.”

“N-need you—”

“Aw, yeah? that so?” he pushes a finger in your pussy so fucking slow, savouring the way your little cunt takes his thick digit, already imagining how perfect it'd be with his cock instead. “tight angel, fuck, so tight.” Stan manhandles you roughly, spreading your legs with his hands, kneeling in front of you, about to devour you whole. You feel his hot breath against your core and when he leans in and his tongue finally licks a long, slow stripe through your folds, you swear you see stars.

“Taste even better than i thought,” he groans, voice muffled against your pussy. His big hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking like a man starved.

“Mr. Pines—oh my g-god—” Stanley keeps grunting and moaning, the vibration sending shocks through your body.

“Fuck, keep sayin’ my name like that. Can’t get enough of you, doll.” his warm tongue flicks your swollen clit and he slides two fingers into you, curling them, scissoring. Your hips buck against his face, but he holds you down with one arm across your stomach. “Stay still, princess, let me take care of you.”

You’re already close and he knows it, his fingers pumping into you faster, his mouth relentless on your clit. You fall over the edge with a cry, your thighs trembling as he works you through it, fingers still moving, tongue still teasing, until you’re begging him to stop from overstimulation, tugging his hair. Stanley pulls back, lips and chin glistening and grins like the filthy bastard he is. “cant believe i’ve been missin’ out on this.”

He stands, towering over you and you reach for him, fumbling with his belt. When the metal buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the Shack, Stanley impatiently shoves his pants down to free himself.

Your gaze drops and your eyes widen. Jesus christ.

“Like what you see?”

“I’d be stupid not to,” you grin, reaching out to wrap your fingers around him, making him curse under his breath, his hips jerking into your hand as he grabs your wrist, guiding you to pump his hard length slowly.

But you two don't have much time so he holds your panties aside with one hand, lining himself up with the other and with a single thrust, Stan buries himself inside you, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision blur.

“Fuck,” his hands grip your hips so hard you were sure there will be bruises. “you’re so fuckin’ tight and warm. Goddamn, sweetheart.”

Your response breaks off into a whimper as he starts moving, slow at first to let you get used, his hips rolling into yours smoothly.

“That’s it, take it, baby, all of me.” you let out a soft moan, looking down where you both connected and he grins, pressing his hand against your stomach, where the outline of him bulged beneath your skin. “look at that, i’m so fuckin’ deep, i can feel myself here. You feel it, baby? feel me stretchin’ ya open?”

You nod frantically, your head spinning with every relentless thrust as he stretches you in ways you didn’t think possible. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, your body arching against him as he sets a brutal pace, driving into you over and over again.

“Such a pretty little thing, lettin' an old bastard like me ruin ya.”

You can only nod, your needy voice lost to the pleasure as youre getting fucked that good, right here in the Shack, where anyone could walk in.

He’s watching you, watching your pussy stretch around his fat cock, watching the way you tremble. His big hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, forcing you to take all of him.

“Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this before, huh?” he slams into you again, making the counter creak beneath you. Using his strong hands he keeps you in place as his cock drives in and out of your dripping, swollen cunt.

“C'mon, answer me, baby,” he growls, his hand sliding up to grab your jaw, forcing your glazed-over eyes to meet his. His cock buries deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble. ”didn’t ask for silence. you ever been fucked like this before?”

Your eyes are closed as you shake your head, whimpering. “n-no.”

“No, what?”

"N-no one’s ever fucked me like this, Mr. Pines—”

“Good girl, use your words,” Stan grips your chin and forces you to meet his gaze. “tell me how much you love this cock.”

“S-so much,” you manage to choke out between pathetic whines and mewls, your brain turning into useless mess. “i love it, i love you, Mr. Pines, don’t stop!” tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“Poor thing, all those boys before me and none of ‘em knew how to stretch this perfect cunt open right.” he shifts his hips, grindings his cock against your walls, making you sob. “bet they didn’t even know how to fuck you proper, huh? didn’t know how to make ya beg?”

You shake your head and gasp, clinging to him.

His hand slides down your body, rough fingers rubbing over your swollen, sensitive clit. “owwh, they never even made ya cum, did they, sweetheart?”

“No, they didn’t, Mr. Pines.”

“Fuckin’ shame. all those useless boys, never knew what they were missin’.” his thumb circles your clit. “but don't worry, this pussy’s mine now, ya hear me? No one else’s. I’m the only one who can fuck ya like this, make ya feel this good.”

“Mr. Pines, ple-please. . .’

“Please what, sugar?” he pants, fucking you so deep you swear you feel him rearranging your insides.

You sob, tears spilling from your pretty eyes. “p-please, make me cum—” Stan doesn’t let up, not even for a second. His cock is buried so deep inside you that you can barely breathe and think, barely do anything but moan and take it like the filthy little thing you are.

“Aw, baby, you gonna cum already? just from my cock stretchin’ ya open like this?” you nod, your body tightening around him. “fuck, that’s right, sweetheart, squeeze me just like that. Never thought i’d get to ruin somethin’ so perfect.” his pace picks up, his cock pounding into you so hard you’re sure the counter’s going to break.

You were supposed to keep it quick. just a little pre-tour fuck as you both said.

But thirty minutes turned into sixty and sixty turned into absolute depravity.

The counter was first, but then Stan couldn’t stop. His cock is buried deep inside your soaked, needy cunt as his hands hold you while he thrusts into you.

"Fuckin’ christ, doll, this pussy’s gonna be the death of me."

You had your legs around his waist, arms locked around his neck, Stanley fucking into you so deep you felt like you’d pass out. But then he lifted you up, didn’t even bother pulling out, just carried you like you weighed nothing, still fucking up into you, and took you across the shack like a man possessed.

“Mr. Pines!” and “so good!” were the only words you knew.

“Thought we were keepin’ this quick, huh?” he grunts. “then why the fuck can’t i stop?”

You can’t even answer because your mouth is too busy moaning, gasping, babbling absolute nonsense while he splits you open, every inch pushing against your soft, sensitive walls, stuffing your tight pussy full.

You arch your back, sobbing, because you need it fast again, rough again, animalistic again. And he fucking gives it to you, by grabbing your thighs, folding you in half and absolutely destroying you.

“Fuckin’ filthy girl, letting an old bastard like me ruin this tight little pussy. Even dreamed about this, ugh, layin’ awake at night, fingers buried in that needy little cunt, wishin’ it was me.”

What can you say except loud “yesyesyes!” gasps? However, Stanley is satisfied with that.

“Yeah? bet you’re never gonna want anyone else fuckin’ you again.”

He doesn’t stop. Every display case. Every fake cryptid setup. Even the damn vending machine.

“You're so fuckin’ wet, doll, i could slide into this little cunt with no effort at all.”

Fake exhibits? fucked over them. That fake monster cage? Bent over it. That dusty-ass animatronic Stan managed to steal? yeah, he fucked you right in front of it, hands gripping your ass, hips slamming into yours so hard the damn thing started moving

Stan literally punched it to shut it up.

But did he stop? no.

“Shut the hell up, buddy,” he muttered to the machine, before shoving his cock back inside you and making you scream.

but the final round?

Staff room.

Both of you panting, sweaty, while he takes you from behind, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the slick sound of skin on skin echoing through the empty Shack.

Or, well, not so empty anymore, because suddenly you hear the honk of a tourist bus outside.

Stan’s head snaps up. “oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me—”

His eyes dart to the stupid clock on the wall and he actually freezes for a second.

“We— we were supposed to open, like—shit, twenty minutes ago.”

“So? keep going.” you say lazily under him.

“Oh, you’re gonna get me in trouble.” but does he stop? does he fucking stop?

No, no he does not. Instead, he fucks you harder.

“I'm gonna make this quick, baby, gonna fill you up real nice, then i gotta—fuck—gotta get to work—“

But then— “uh, Mr. Mystery?”

fuck.

Stan’s body locks up and you both freeze. The voice is right outside the door. Stanley lets out the deepest, most exhausted sigh. “Uh, yeah?”

The tourist hums. “sooo i was wondering, when does the tour start? we’ve been waiting outside for a while.”

Stan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “yeah, yeah, uh, give me five minutes, kid, i got, uh, got a bad back today, y'know? just need a second to—uhhh—” you clench around him, tight, so fucking tight and his words cut off in a groan.

He glares at you. you just smirk.

“You okay in there, Mr. Mystery?”

Stan forces his voice steady. “yeah, yeah, just—” he grits his teeth. “just need a minute to stretch it out.” he snaps his hips forward, stuffing his cock back into your cunt, deep and slow, forcing you to feel every thick, throbbing inch

You whimper, just to fuck with him because this old man is so funny when annoyed.

“Fuckin’ hell, stop that.” he growls under his breath at you.

But the tourist won’t leave.

“So, uh, what’s the official policy on taking pictures of the fake exhibits?”

Stan’s eye twitches, his hips jerk forward involuntarily and you let out a choked gasp.

The tourist pauses.

“Mr. Mystery? are you sure you're okay?”

Stan immediately shoves a hand over your mouth. “Told you, just back’s actin’ up, kid.”

The tourist keeps talking.

“What do you think the likelihood is of alien activity in oregon? because personally, i think—”

You clench around him again. Stan chokes on a groan, his cock throbbing inside you as he tries to keep his voice normal.

“Listen, kid, why don’t you, uh, go look at the gift shop or somethin’, huh?”

“Oh, but i wanted to ask about—”

Stan loses it

“NOT NOW, KID. TOUR STARTS IN TEN MINUTES. LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE.”

“Ohh. . . Okay?” fucking finally, you hear footsteps and door creaking, that idiot leaving

Stanley slumps forward, forehead against your shoulder.

“Poor Mr. Mystery,” you tease, moving your hips. “just trying to do his job, but this damn girl won’t stop teasing him—”

“Ohhh, you thought you were so fuckin’ cute, huh?” the deep rasp of his voice sends shivers down your spine. His chest is pressed against your back, his weight holding you down while his cock still stuffed inside your ruined cunt. “moanin’ all pretty while i was tryna talk? teasin’ me in front of that dumbass tourist. Makin’ those fuckin’ sounds on purpose. Thought i wouldn’t do somethin’ about it?”

You yelp when his hand grips your hair, yanking your head back just enough to whisper against your ear. “you wanna act like a dumb little slut? then i’m gonna fuck you like one.” after that, Stan pulls out slowly, torturously just to slam back in.

You cry out. No, the sound you make would be better described as pathetic loud whine.

But Stan slaps a hand over your mouth, pressing you into the couch. “uh-uh, pretty, you don’t get to be loud now. you lost that privilege.”

His cock is so deep, stretching your cunt open, filling you completely. Every thrust is hard, brutal, messy, wet. Your pussy clenches around him, sucking him in, greedy for more as you whimper into his big palm. The couch creaks under you, the whole room still eerily silent except for the filthy, wet sounds of him using you.

“Aw, what’s wrong, baby? thought you liked teasin’ me. now you can’t even take my cock?” as you nearly fall from the fast rhythm. Stan laughs against your ear. “thought you wanted me to fuckin’ ruin you, huh? turn this sloppy little cunt into my personal fuckhole?”

You can't even moan as Stan snaps his hips up, hitting so deep it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“What’s the matter, princess? feelin’ a little too full?” his belly presses against your back, his size overwhelming you, his weight pinning you down, making sure you can’t run from him as he grabs your waist, pulls you back onto him, forces you to take every inch. “ this little cunt’s gonna take every last drop, huh? ‘cause that’s what you are, ain’tcha?”

His fingers grip your jaw, turning your head so he can look in your glassy eyes.

“Say it, sweetie. Tell me what you are.”

Your brows knit together. “m’ your dumb little slut, Mr. Pines. . .m’ made to take your cock—” words come out barely coherent through the lewd slap of skin-on-skin filling the room.

Damn right. His hand slides down, finding your clit, rubbing it fast. Your body jerks, overstimulated.

“Too much?” his voice is mocking. “too fuckin’ bad, baby. Shoulda thought of that before you started actin’ like a brat.”

You’re already close again, what is it now, your sixth orgasm? Eighth? You shake too hard in his hands as your cunt spasms around his cock.

“Gonna fill you up, doll. make you fuckin’ mine. you want that? lemme hear you beg.”

”P-please. . . ple, mhm. . .hhng . .” your words muffled against his palm.

“Please what?”

“Please—please breed my messy cunt, Mr. Pines—please, please—”

“Holy shit, baby, you want me to breed this little pussy? want me to fill you so full you’ll be drippin’ down your thighs all day?”

You nod frantically and Stanley feels you smile widely against his skin what makes him laugh. Such a dumb slut you are.

“Greedy little thing. y'know i gotta work today, right?” his cock throbs inside you, stuffing you so full you can feel him in your stomach. ”but fuck- fuck, baby, can’t help it.” his hips snap forward, burying himself completely as he cums, making you feel every pulse, every throbbing rope of his hot seed spilling inside you, flooding your pussy.

Your own orgasm hits so hard your vision whites out, your cunt clenching tight, squeezing him, milking him dry.

“Oh, that's it, baby, there it is. Good little slut.” you collapse, trembling, fucked-out and absolutely ruined.

Stan stays inside you, catching his breath, watching as his cum spills out, dripping down your thighs. He leans down, kisses your neck. “gonna clean you up, sweetheart.”

You blink up at him through tired eyes, dizzy. “with what?”

He smirks. “my fuckin’ tongue.” uh oh, you guess Mystery Shack is gonna open late today because even though Stanley Pines has a job to do, first he’s gotta make sure his messy girl is properly taken care of.

#gravity falls #gravity falls stanley #stan pines #stan pines x reader smut #stan pines x oc #stan pines x you #stan pines x reader #stanley pines smut #stanley pines x you #stanley pines x reader #stanley pines #stan pines smut #gravity falls headcanons #gravity falls smut #gravity falls fanfic #gravity falls x you #gravity falls x reader #x reader #stan pines headcanons

125 notes · View notes

kazuhahalol · 2 days ago

Text

▹ Jeff the Killer Headcanons

Basic NSFW & SFW headcanons of my favorite creep! I’m so sorry I’ve been out for so long, I’ll try to post more!

Warnings: kidnapping, murder, nsfw content

Disclaimer: Everyone is welcome on my page and I will not turn you away. However, it is your fault if you’re uncomfortable or peeved with my writing because I give multiple warnings prior to my content. thanks!

Appearance

⇀ I will not lie and say I grew up seeing Jeff as an accurate representation of what a burn victim would look like. I grew up with the skinny anime looking boy that most of us know as “Jeff the Killer”. Here are a few ways that I see Jeff different than how I used to see him when I was younger.

⇀ I honestly see him standing at around 5’7-5’9. I don’t expect him to be super tall like LJ, but not super short like BEN.

⇀ His skin is less of a white pigment and more pink since his skin has been burnt off and exposed. His skin has healed over time, making it look more like shitty patchwork over what a good recovery should look like.

⇀ I doubt he’d have hair but for the sake of fan service, if he did, it would probably be greasy. If he’s not living at the Wisconsin Sanctum for Wayward Boys (slendermansion) he’s not able to shower so he’d look dirty. No shower = no washing hair = greasy hair, scalp buildup and hair loss. In reality, Jeff would looked chopped AF.

⇀ His style hasn’t changed much from when he was 13. White hoodie and his black dress pants. He wears what’s practical and what he can get his hands on. If he did take the time to actually find clothing he approves of, I’d see him mostly being into something edgy.

⇀ Would have piercings but it would hurt like a bitch because his skin and tissues didn’t heal normally. He doesn’t mind because he likes the pain.

⇀ His glasgow smile heals overtime and he doesn’t mind it, but will occasionally carve it back open if he feels like it since it’s his signature look.

Personality

⇀ Edgelord.

⇀ People may say this is overdone, but I also see him as an arrogant asshole. There’s just something about him that screams, “I have a big ego and I’m going to make it everyone’s problem”.

⇀ Gets really pissed off when you call him his government or first name, “Jeffrey”, “Jeffrey Alan Woods”. He would tell you to shut the fuck up and to never say it again.

⇀ His sense of humor is twisted AF. He could be chatting with you and he’s suddenly bringing up how he tortured this poor school girl he kidnapped a few days ago and how much she was screaming, then laughs about it obnoxiously. The topic of the conversation was strawberries.

⇀ Doesn’t matter if it’s a person, place, or thing, Jeff is going to be obsessed with it if it catches his attention because he can’t like something like a normal person. One night he had ran into a girl that had managed to escape him, so he decided to stalk her to entertain himself, and now she’s all you hear about. “I can’t wait to sink my blade into her throat”, “I can’t wait to kill that fucking bitch. She kicked me in the balls”.

⇀ Has street smarts but is really dumb academically because he went crazy during 7th grade. He also mainly works off of impulse and never thinks before he speaks. All bite and bark.

⇀ Has a big ego. He’s obsessed with his own appearance and it’s hard for him to find anyone he deems attractive because his ideal type is basically himself.

⇀ Being completely serious, his type would be someone feisty and strong. Someone who can put up with his shit. He doesn’t like timid people or pushovers. He likes it even more if they can come up with run-on insults on the fly. He might save one of those for later.

⇀ Thick thighs, boobs > ass

Relationships

⇀ He’s toxic as hell and don’t even think for a second he’s not.

⇀ Gaslighter and manipulator.

⇀ Would never outright say that he “loves you”. His love language is acts of service, so he’d do small things for you like pick up something from one of his kills that reminded him of you and leave it at your door. He’d never willingly show the affection he has for you.

⇀ While we’re on that topic, he can be quite…different when it comes to romantic gestures. Gift giving was one thing, but he might even go the extra mile by carving your name into his own skin or random objects.

⇀ If you’re one of the creeps, he’d most likely loathe you at first but become attracted to your power. If you’re a normal person, he might’ve found interest for you while he was out on one of his kills and stalked you enough to feel something for you.

⇀ He is extremely obsessive and protective, often “marking you” so none of the other creeps lay a hand on you if you’re also a proxy living in the mansion. If you’re a normal person, he’s often stalking you. If he witnesses you getting bullied or harassed, the attacker ends up dead later that night.

⇀ Gets very jealous very easily. Be careful with him because it can get really ugly.

⇀ Platonic or romantic, everyone has to be careful around him. Jeff can go from being chill to being hotheaded in only a few seconds. Arguments often happen because of his low patience, leading to wavering trust and security in the relationship.

NSFW Beyond this point

⇀ Doesn’t usually call you pet names, but when he does it’s usually “Babe”, “Doll”, “Sweet Cheeks”, “My Girl”, “My Bitch”. (Girls, if your man is calling you “his bitch”, leave him immediately!!!)

⇀ Very rough in bed. He doesn’t hold back when it comes to marking you, leaving any spot untouched bruised and covered with hickeys.

⇀ His kinks are rather…questionable. You guessed he’d be into bondage, choking, and role play, but you weren’t expecting him to hold a gun or knife to your head or throat mid blowjob. He thrives on seeing your scared and confused expression while you suck him off.

⇀ Doesn’t care for aftercare. He cleans you up with a towel then slumps for the rest of the night. He could blow your back out, have you screaming all night then leave you shivering on the side of the bed with no blanket, snoring obnoxiously.

⇀ Before he met you, he would usually find one lucky girl whenever he’s in the mood to fuck. He wouldn’t force her, obviously. He’s a killer, not a monster. He would then leave without another trace, not caring enough to go back to her. It depends whether or not he’s in a good mood if he’ll kill her right after or spare her. He’s probably gotten someone pregnant and is unknowingly a deadbeat dad.

⇀ Six inches is all I’m going to say.

#x reader #headcanon #jeffery woods x reader #jeff the killer x reader #jeff the killer #jeff the killer x reader smut #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta #creepypasta proxy #marble hornets #slender proxy #proxy

65 notes · View notes

torchship-rpg · 13 hours ago

Text

Dev Diary 19 - State of the Union Part 1

It’s been a while, cosmonauts, but we’re back at it. This last week has been an incredibly productive one for Torchship, solving a ton of longstanding issues holding up the Alpha, and digging back into the art.

But you’re here for the mechanics, and boy, we have some pretty cool ones for you this Diary. Today we’re going to be talking about the meta-campaign and the core of what drives a multi-episode run of Torchship; playing not just to encounter little morality plays out in the stars, but to find out how the resolution of those issues changes things back home.

To be clear; this is campaign mechanics, and long campaign mechanics at that. You can play short campaigns and one-shots too, but we want to write a game that’ll hold up to truly epic campaigns, or sequential campaigns if you ever wanted to do Torchship: The Next Generation.

Your campaign can take you a great many places, but all of them revolve around one question:

The Star Union & Representative Agents

As we’ve mentioned before, the players are not just playing the crew of their spacecraft as they go trekking around the stars. That crew is the product of a society, and when the players are out making decisions in the stars, we assume that similar choices with similar reasoning are being made by the people back home.

For that reason, players get to have a lot of influence over the direction of the Star Union both through their actions in the actual episodes, and through decisions and votes they hold over what the Star Union does. This isn’t actually their characters deciding what’s happening unilaterally; it’s the assumption that your crew are, in a sense, the median voter. When the players decide to invest the Union’s resources into a certain upgrade path or project, this represents the Union’s population settling on that course of action for all the same reasons the characters would make that decision in their place.

For this reason, while you can be many things in Torchship, you can’t really be a rebel. If you try, you will be part of an enormous rebellious movement that will very quickly become the new authority and now you’re right back to your day job as a government employee, looking wistfully at your old leather jacket as you file a T-18 Use Of Telemat Report.

I can already hear your protests that you want to be a bold iconoclast that strikes out in defiance of the norms of society. I regret to inform you that you want this because it is a norm of your society to be a bold iconoclast striking out in defiance of things.

It’s The Economy, Stupid

The Star Union is mechanically represented with its own character sheet and its own stats; changing that sheet over time is your job. It’s relatively simple, with stats primarily acting as ways of gating your access to the cool upgrades that improve your capabilities, make your rocket better, and get you shiny new toys, but it matters a lot.

At the end of every Episode, you go into a mode of the game called Resupply. This quite literally represents the time passing as your rocket flies from one star to another, usually taking about one week before arriving at the next planet/on the television sets of households across the nation.

Resupply is a portion of the game which can be resolved immediately after the start of one episode or before the start of another, but one of the best ways to do it is during the time between your play sessions; it’s designed to be something easily hashed out over chat programs and the like. We’ll go into more detail about what you do there and how in the future, but the important part is knowing that this is when the Union’s economy starts mattering.

The Union has two sets of Economic stats. The first contains just a single stat, Productivity. This is how many Credits the Star Union generates at the end of each Episode because it has a bunch of factories and farms and stuff. Productivity is difficult and costly to increase; you can do so by starting Projects, with the amount of time and Credits required varying depending on what kind of Project it is.

Getting infrastructure in place to exploit a rich belt of Very High Rotation asteroids for the valuable quark nuggets inside is a relatively quick and cheap project; it just requires you the players to find and secure such a resource. By contrast, building up Production through modernization and expansion of existing industrial capability is slow, hard work that will take multiple episodes to complete.

The second set of stats is the Infrastructure stats, covering all the stuff that production is used to maintain. These are Social, Technological, Military, and Redundant Infrastructure. Respectively, this is the Union’s standard of living, how shiny and new its stuff is, how big Star Force has gotten, and how many warehouses you have. You increase all of the stats by paying into funds for them, investing your Credits when you have a surplus until you’ve paid them off.

For the most part, these are used to gate access to upgrades; if you want that shiny new laser, you need to get Technology and Military Infrastructure to a certain point first. Redundant Infrastructure is the odd-man out; it doesn’t really give you access to many new Upgrades, but it has a vital function we’ll get to in a second.

Every point of Infrastructure costs 1 Credit per Episode to run, and at the start of the Campaign, the Star Union is overextended; it’s trying to take on all the costs and responsibilities of being the leading power of Local Space while simultaneously managing an enormous humanitarian crisis partially of its own making, and integrating a large number of refugees from the aforementioned enormous humanitarian crisis. Infrastructure will be higher than Production, and that means the balance has to be paid by none other than the Star Union’s exploration, diplomacy, and prospecting service.

That’s you.

This difference is called your Union Dues, and it's very important that you pay them. If you fail to pay, you’ll have to roll on the WHOOPS I FORGOT TO PAY THE POWER BILL table. Regrettably, this is not its final name, but it is what’s in the document right now.

You might think that this isn’t too big a threat; you’ll just always make sure to save up enough Credits to pay your Union Dues even if you have a bad Episode. That’s where we smile maliciously and tell you that you can’t. Societies don’t typically like sitting on huge amounts of surplus production and not using it on things that people want and need, so for that reason, the amount of Credits you can store between Episodes is limited by your Redundant Infrastructure. You know, Infrastructure you also have to pay for.

If your Dues aren’t out of control, you aren’t running too many Projects that you don’t want to fail, and you’re not burning your expensive consumables, then yes, you can usually meet your Union Dues no problem using the banked Credits from Redundancy. But a streak of bad episodes or out of control spending can send your campaign into a death spiral. The good news is that eventually, the Star Union will contract until it reaches equilibrium, either voluntarily or through terrible rolls.

The bad news is that the Star Union will contract until it reaches equilibrium, and you live in the Star Union! And so do a great many people who are going to have opinions about that.

Speaking of…

Getting Political

The Star Union is more than just a series of economic stats. All the people those stats represent have hopes and dreams, and more importantly, they have voting power on local councils. Being a direct democracy, the Star Union has a tendency to undergo pretty seismic political shifts very quickly when circumstances change, and any good campaign is going to have a lot of Circumstances.

To represent this, we use a series of Movements. You may remember us talking about these way back, or rather an earlier version of them; we’ve since expanded how they work and set up a system which allows them to exist alongside others.

So… let’s meet a Movement.

The Centralists are the Leading Movement at the start of your Campaign; they’ll be largely unopposed for the moment, but the Civil Anarchists and the Neo-Trotskyites are waiting in the wings and can join them in a coalition fairly easily.

What that means in practical terms is that they have the highest Power Rank at 5. As both a Major Power and the Leading Power, the Centralists give you two passive effects. Their Major Power bonus relates to Stability, which we’ll talk about in a moment, while their Leading Movement Effect is the benefit you get for being at 10-12 Unity on the Unity track. You’ll remember that from Dev Diary 15; that universal rule is actually just the default you get from these guys being in charge!

They also have a Taboo, which represents a value of this Movement, the violation of which discredits their influence; it’s stuff that makes them look hypocritical or disgusts their followers. For the Centralists, that’s failing to keep Promises made to groups in negotiation; their reputation is built around being the trustworthy and reliable ones that follow through on their deals.

Here’s some examples of other Movements’ Major Power Effect, Leading Movement Effect, and Taboo:

Progress Triggers

Movements advance in Power Rank by gaining Progress; that’s what is tracked on that neat little circular dial. At the end of each Episode, you go through the Triggers for all the active Movements and add Progress based on which ones got done. As a Movement rises in Power Rank, the Triggers are reduced in strength proportionally; at Rank 5, the only Trigger which actually gives the Centralists Progress is bringing new Members into the Union. Don’t worry, though; they have another means of keeping power.

You’ll notice that the 4 Progress trigger, Focus on Fundamentals, triggers when you miss Union Dues. A lot of Movements have triggers like this; this is where we put the stuff that the Movement specifically believes they’d do better. So when the Centralists are out of power, they get a boost from the economic mismanagement of whoever is, but once they have influence in government, failing to balance the budget isn’t going to work in their favour.

By extension, lower-value triggers tend to be things that drive or revitalise a weak Movement, while high-value triggers are triumphs or threats that validate them, either mobilizing a weak movement with a victory, or cementing the authority of a strong one.

For another example, here are the Neo-Trot Triggers. You can see how their lower triggers, the first ones to fade, are the relatively small fundamental issues that form the emotional foundation of the Movement; the Neo-Trots won’t be irrelevant so long as we keep finding planets ruled by jerks and evil computers, and their quest for increased military spending grows more pressing every time a Star Patrol rocket limps back full of holes.

The #4 trigger here ceases to help the Neo-Trots once they take power; it’s expected of them. Both the Centralists and Civil Anarchists get this trigger at 5 instead, which creates an interesting contradiction; once they’re in power, winning battles empowers their rivals because, through victory, they are making themselves obsolete. If they keep winning their fights, why do we need to shovel more resources into Star Force?

That’s why their highest triggers are stuff that give them more material power directly instead. Producing and distributing weapons increases the size of those sectors in the Union’s economy and bureaucracy, increasing their influence, while a war breaking out mobilizes the economy and places all their experts in positions of authority. This also, of course, gives them an incentive to keep arming people and fighting wars once they’re in power…

Stability

Each time an Opposition Movement (that’s any Movement which isn’t the Leading Movement) goes up by a Power Rank, it prompts a Stability Check. You also have to roll Stability Checks if you fail to pay your Union Dues. This is pretty simple; Stability is a number from 0-6 representing people’s faith in the current leadership of the Star Union. You roll 1d6 for each Stability Check; if the result is less than your current Stability, the Leading Movement loses 1d6 Progress, potentially sliding back to lower Power Levels. If that happens enough, they’ll be displaced as the Leading Power.

Note that passing Stability Checks has an effect; each test you pass lowers Stability by 1. Fortunately, restoring Stability is pretty easy; every Credit put into the Social Infrastructure fund raises Stability by 1, and incidentally also gives the Leading Movement 3 Progress.

So basically, the Leading Movement can have whatever ideologically it wants, but once it's actually in power, it only stays in power by raising people’s standards of living, though it does benefit from a slow decay of everyone else’s Progress. If the Centralists spend the entire budget on giant golden statues of Yuri Gagarin, then they won’t be in power for very long, and if they really screw it up… well, that’s what Crises are for.

Endgames

Each Movement has a number of Endgames; the five major movements all have a sort of soft ‘win’ condition that cements their power in some way and makes a lasting change on your game. For example, Federation-Builders basically cements the Centralists’ power for the foreseeable future by having them make good on their promises, and in the process gain a new and fiercely loyal following.

Well, I say soft win condition; they aren’t always.

A ‘lose’ condition deactivates or disempowers a Movement, representing the movement breaking apart, being thoroughly discredited, or otherwise losing their ability to carry on. For the Centralists, the only thing that’ll knock them out of the game is the Cybernetic Democrats actually getting their wild experiment off the ground and fully implemented, which is a huge and expensive Project.

How severe these lose conditions are will vary. Some movements will be outright destroyed, either instantly or by fading out, but others are more resilient.

Finally, we have the Crisis. Crises are triggered if Stability hits 0, and they’re bad. The most survivable ones prompt multi-episode arcs in a mad scramble to save the Union; the worst functionally end the campaign. The Centralists being in charge when the state they build fails means that it all comes apart in their scramble to save it; the cordial competition for the future of the Union becomes a shooting war. This might be where you end your campaign, or it might be where you throw in with another Movement and try to win it for them!

Many Crises will be internal…

… but not all of them.

Expanded Movements

The five core movements we mentioned before are all primary Movements, with a full set of triggers, effects, and endgames. Each of them represents a potentially valid direction for the Union that you, as players, can choose to back or suppress.

However, the nature of this system makes it very easy for us to add new Movements to the game. Most of these Movements are Minor Movements, with reduced triggers and rules which are usually single-issue and whose Endgames are simplified and easier to hit. Minor Movements don’t cause Stability hits when they gain Power Ranks and can’t take the Leading Faction slot, they can slot easily into a ruling coalition without breaking things, or fade once their purpose is achieved.

For an example, if you integrate the Nariene into the Star Union (either by defeating its current government or making an alliance that bypasses that; we’ll be talking about them in the next Dev Diary), you get the very pressing Minor Movement “Nariene Green Movement”, which is clamouring, quite reasonably, to have their planet saved from the runaway greenhouse effect they’re under. They’ll gain power quite quickly with triggers firing based on the Union’s economy growing, and once they hit Major they’ll mandate the funding of their Project. Once their homeworld is saved, their endgame is triggered and the Movement fades, leaving you with a nice permanent bonus as everyone in the Star Union gets a bit better at reducing, reusing, and recycling.

Not all late-joining Movements are Minors, though; some of them can very much become the Leading Power and change your game accordingly.

Finally… not all the Movements are intended to be viable paths forward. Movements can emerge in dire circumstances, reflecting adverse pressures, but they can also come out of your actions as Star Patrol, if you feed the worst impulses of the Union and give material power to bad actors.

Which is why you don’t start your campaign with five moments. You start with six.

#rpg #torchship ttrpg #torchship #dev diary #ttrpg

62 notes · View notes

thesilvertheorist · 2 days ago

Text

• Simp!Carl drabble •

Masterlist

carl grimes is a simp confirmed

⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

Okay so I feel like carl is always super attentive to you, he never lets you go without – even in times of extreme hardship in the group. He’ll always give you the bigger share of snacks he finds, running over to find you when he finds an untouched chocolate bar that the two of you can split then and there, your little ritual when on runs. He’ll offer you that infectious smile of his and turn what was supposed to be a serious supply run into a giggle fest that has you thanking your stars you have him.

I feel like Carl’s default ways to show his love are through acts of service and physical affection. He’s constantly handling things for you, without you asking. He’ll clean the mud and mulch off your boots, fold your laundry, peel and cut fruit up for you (in a wonky fashion), he’ll clean your weapons – taking extra care to get into the crevices and mechanisms (regardless of struggling with a slightly [unintentional] heavy hand). He wants to spend his time making your life easier.

He always keeps his eye out for you when on runs, picking up things he knows you can use. He knows how much you value having a shower, especially after being covered in walker blood or muck more often than not. He’ll search for toiletries and shampoos for you (hoping you’ll invite him to shower with you so he can share the products and smell like you).

I know that Carl adores physical touch. When the two of you were younger, you’d hook your pinky fingers together before progressing to holding hands – a silent promise to stay close and stay alive. He’ll nudge you for love all the time, prompting you with his own. He’s definitely all for distracting you with kisses so that you break concentration and shower him with love. He loves to be in your space and definitely likes to be close enough to whisper stupid inside jokes to you, jumping on any available opportunity to make you laugh.

He likes to keep the details of your relationship mostly private (excluding Michonne), but is hellbent on solidifying to anyone and everyone that he’s yours and you’re his. He’s not particularly possessive, but he is jealous – in the ‘they don’t deserve to lay eyes on you’ way. He gets pissed when he sees other people looking at you with intent, and he is not quiet or reserved about those feelings.

Carl loves to think of himself as yours, he’ll do anything you ask of him first time:

“Carl, sweetheart, can you open this for me?” you’d ask your boyfriend who was sat at the kitchen table, feeding Judith some apple slices. “Do you even need to ask?” he’d smile back over to you, taking the jar from your hands. [Carl would struggle to open the jar but pretend as if he were joking, the second you turned your back he’d give the lid a quick tap on the counter and open it up immediately afterwards – pretending that he had it open all along] [Carl, presenting you with a now opened jar, proud smirk on his face] “Here” “Thank you, pretty boy” you’d reply, refusing to admit that you’d already had that jar opened and closed it again to let this scene play out.

[3am, stormy night in Alexandria] “Carl,” you’d nudge your boyfriend, checking to see if he’s awake. “Mm?” he’d respond all groggy, still half asleep. “I think I left my boots on the porch,” you’d begin, unable to finish your sentence because Carl had already kissed you on the forehead and gone downstairs to bring your boots inside. [Carl, coming back into bed, wet through] “Don’t worry about it, angel, I’ve sorted it”

You’d come back home for your break between a double shift on watch and accidentally fall asleep on the sofa after placing your weapons on the coffee table in front of you. You’d wake up after hearing small rumblings and clicks, wondering what on earth could be going on, you’d reach for your gun which…isn’t there. You’d look around before noticing Carl sat in the armchair to the side of you, cleaning your gun with an immense amount of concentration. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you” he’d whisper, concentration broken. “No no, I’m glad you’re here,” you assure, readjusting to get comfortable, “I can finish that up if you’re busy.” [Wounded puppy Carl, softly] “But...I like doing this for you…” “I like when you do too, carry on, pretty boy.”

Carl is eagerly desperate for any attention that you’ll give him. He hates when your thoughts don’t involve him, he wants to be the object of your affection all the time. He adores you, he wants to be the source of your happiness, to be the one to make your life worth living – just as you have done for him. Essentially, I’m definitely of the opinion that he feels equally indebted to and enamoured with you as he’s forever grateful for the time you share with him. He thinks of you as the person who brought him back from the worst place imaginable, the only one who could, his angel – his lifeline.

⛧─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───⛧

and that's on carl being raised right - ty aunt carol and aunt maggie

#carl grimes #carl grimes fluff #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes headcannons #thesilvertheorist #the walking dead #twd #la jiggy jar jar doo #sfw #fluffy #simp!carl #raised right

58 notes · View notes

sunstone-smiles · 3 days ago

Text

There Are Other Ways to Put On a Brave Face

Author’s note: Wooo!!! My first EPIC: The Musical fic! And my first fic of 2025! I was inspired by the rest of the fandom and their wonderful fics, so I wanted to add on with one of my own! I feel like Circe and Odysseus would be friends after the events of the Circe saga since he poured his heart out to her about being away from home and she assisted him on his journey. Plus, they share some things in common about being a leader. I hope you enjoy!

Series: EPIC: The Musical

Characters: Odysseus and Circe (when they’re friends Lol)

Word count: 3,015

Summary: Odysseus is about to meet his crew, but Circe sees that he has a low-spirited appearance that could drag anyone’s mood down. She doesn’t want him to leave unless he puts on a brave face!

---

Odysseus and his crew know firsthand how powerful of a sorceress Circe can be. But, after a tense battle and a little negotiation and sympathy, Odysseus is fortunate to have earned her trust as an ally. Especially since the next step in his journey is towards the dreaded Underworld, it’s reassuring to know that he doesn’t have to add Circe’s name to his ever growing list of enemies that he has, somehow, gained over the course of his journey.

Circe, with her long hair hanging at her back and tied with ribbons, stands over her desk and swipes a quill across a long sheet of parchment. Odysseus waits patiently and silently in the middle of her room, staring down at the rug and leaning back and forth on his heels. The sorceress adds a few more strokes of ink and a refined scribble or two across the page before laying the quill to the side.

“There. Done,” she proudly states. With a twirl of her finger, the parchment rises from the desk. It rolls up neatly into a bundle and a red ribbon materializes around to wrap it. The now tied parchment drifts into Circe’s palm. She turns around, walks over, and presents it to Odysseus.

“Here you are. A map with instructions to the Underworld. Keep it safe.” She hands the map to the king. He clutches it tightly.

“Thank you again for your help, Circe. And thank you for returning my men back to humans,” his voice is grateful. “How can I repay you?”

Circe shakes her head. “You don’t need to repay me. I only ask that you get back home safe. Allow your love to prevail that you so desperately miss.”

Odysseus nods, glancing back down at the carpet as he’s reminded of those he lacks by his side. His wife and son. Penelope and Telemachus.

The captain lifts up his head as much as he can with the images of home pushing down on him. His eyes make contact with Circe’s, though his gaze is fragile and a step out of reality.

“I will do my best.” His eyes drop to the floor as he turns to leave; his head angles towards his feet. Circe’s expression shifts to concern as she watches his shoulders hunch like a bolder was wedged between his shoulder blades, and every step he takes is like crushing his own, already low spirit.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Circe speaks up. She catches up with him. “Now where do you think you’re going?”

Odysseus lifts a brow towards her. “Back to my crew?” his eyes glance to the doorway like it was obvious.

“Not like that you’re not!” She snatches the map from his hands and spins before placing it on a nearby table.

“What?” Odysseus stands there bewildered.

“Look at you! All hunched over and slouched,” she taps his shoulder with the back of her hand. “You haven’t even been to the Underworld, but you’re acting like you’ve already sailed to hell and back!”

“Well, you’re not too far off…” Odysseus shifts his gaze to the side.

Circe sighs with strained air. “Regardless… A captain should be the face of their crew. Put on a brave face! Stand strong!” The sorceress demonstrates by straightening her posture. She begins posing the king like a doll, “So shoulders back, chin up, chest out, and let me see a smile!” She steps in front of him and points to her own cheeks that are holding a smile.

Odysseus’s head tilts towards the comfort of the ground. “It’s hard to do so when everyone has already been through so much.”

Circe’s concerned, almost motherly look returns on her face, although this time with a twinge of heartbreak as the captain’s words strike true. Circe gently lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I understand,” she says softly. Odysseus’s pained eyes meet hers. “But I bet your crew feels the same way. That’s why they need someone, more than ever, to put on a brave face and guide them.”

Odysseus pulls his eyes from Circe’s.

When Circe felt like his crew were strangers, she did what she thought was necessary to protect her nymphs, the ones she cares for as if they were her daughters. She was stabbed in the back once before when kindness made her heart vulnerable, and in turn, a scar of cautiousness formed in the wound. Odysseus doesn’t blame her. Her cautiousness came from fear, and fear, like lightning and water, creates a chain reaction that courses through waves of people unless the two elements are ever prevented from touching. Circe, standing tall and like a warrior to her nymphs in the face of any unknown visitors, is that barrier.

Odysseus finally nods. “You make a fair point…” he says, allowing Circe’s words to take effect. He lifts up his head to face her with a little more strength than before. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“Good!” Circe steps in front of him like a captain who is about to give orders (or like Athena who is about to go over a lesson). She positions him again as she speaks, “Now roll back those shoulders, look straight ahead, flatten out that spine…” She pauses and Odysseus remains still so he doesn’t mess with her progress. Circe scans the king from head to toe to check her work. “And while we’re at it, let’s straighten out your stance,” Circe grabs Odysseus’s sides. Suddenly Odysseus yelps and scrambles away as fast as he can, nearly tripping in the process. He whips around, hugging his arms close to his torso.

“Circe! A little warning next–”

“What was that?” the sorceress cuts him off.

Odysseus clears his throat and his posture shoots up like a tree that sprouted from the ground. His eyes are a bit wider, more alert, than they were before. “Nothing– It was nothing,” he says with his eyes darting to the side to avoid any eye contact whatsoever. “Just an old battle wound that I got from Troy.”

“Odysseus, please. I can see right through your lies,” she says as a matter of fact. “It wasn’t nothing. A battle wound wouldn’t make you jump away like that with a faint hint of a smile,” she leans forward with a subtle curl to her lips, like a lioness closing in on prey.

Odysseus grumbles, trying to stand his ground. “Okay, fine! It just…” he trails off as the confidence leaves him and the butterflies surface in his stomach.

Circe smirks, “Go on.”

Odysseus glares back at her, his fire as an impenetrable leader bursting through. “It just tickled! Okay? There!” He crosses his arms like a child who was forced to comply.

“Oh, is that all?” Circe shrugs and she strides up to him. Odysseus watches her movements like a hawk as she approaches by his side.

“Well, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Circe says.

Odysseus loosens his battle-ready stance, taken by surprise by her response. “Well, good,” he stands up straight, like the interaction never occurred. His eyes dart to the side, “Okay then–”

Circe continues, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about because you should be happy. Happy because now I know a way to get you to smile.” She leans forward on her toes with her hands behind her back and that same mischievous curl to her lips. Odysseus gulps and steps backwards, further into the room. Circe takes a step forward and reveals her fingers that are slowly wiggling in the air.

“Circe, you can’t be serious,” the captain's voice remains calm, but his wide eyes that are unwavering from the sorceress reveal his frantic thoughts.

Circe takes another step forward, as poised as ever. “I’m as serious as Poseidon is to get his revenge on you.”

“Wow, okay. Harsh,” the king says with a bit of sass, but he immediately regrets getting distracted when Circe suddenly charges at him. Odysseus, with panicked yelp, turns on his heels and runs.

Circe quickly closes the gap thanks to her head start. The captain rushes to the other side of the room, ready to make a tight turn before crashing into the pink cushioned sofa, but he feels a sharp tug at his cloak. He spins around to yank the fabric from Circe’s hand, only to be startled by the fact that Circe was right on his heels. He flaps his arms as he loses his balance, toppling backwards onto the sofa and wedging himself near the arm of the chair. Circe waltzes up to the opposite side of the couch and hovers over the captain with a grin.

Odysseus regains his bearings and sees Circe standing above him. Wasting no time, he scrambles to vault himself over the arm of the couch, but Circe lunges forward, catches his leg, then yanks him towards her as she takes a seat beside him. Clawing at the cushions, Odysseus flips onto his back and presses his spine against the arm of the couch.

“Circe–!” is all he can exclaim before a shout escapes from his lips when Circe’s hands strike and scratch at his sides before he could set up his defenses. A wave of giggles immediately follow, spilling from the king as he curls forward and digs his heels into the cushions.

“My goodness, Odysseus. I’m barely even touching you, yet you’re already giggling up a storm that even Poseidon would be jealous about. Are you really this ticklish?” Circe asks with a smile that won’t leave her face.

“Nohoho! I’m nohohot!” Odysseus shakes his head, trying to contain his reactions to uphold at least some sense of his dignity, though failing miserably.

The sorceress lets out a long sigh. “Lying to me again, I see. For once, can’t you tell the truth?”

“Fihihihine! Yohohou’re tickling me! Now get ohohoff mehehehe!” he playfully snaps back. He kicks his leg at Circe. Circe dodges and looks appalled at his attempt.

She exaggerates a huff. “Good, but we can do better. And we need to work on that attitude of yours! You just tried to kick me!” she adds a bit more pressure to her wiggling fingers at his sides.

Odysseus barks out another laugh and throws his head back in the middle of his giggling that’s growing louder. “Yohohohou tried to kill mehehehe!”

Circe rolls her eyes. “That was before we were allies. Now we are allies and you still just tried to kick me!” She repeats herself to the captain like siblings squabbling between each other. She scribbles her fingers a little higher towards his ribs. Odysseus wraps his arms tighter around his giggling torso and sinks further down the arm of the sofa. As he slides down, he paddles his legs in the air as if he was swimming.

“Ahahahand I’ll dohoho it again!” Odysseus sasses, following through with his claim with another kick at Circe. The sorceress catches his leg in the air. With another smirk, she flutters her fingers into the back of his knee, causing the captain to let out a screech of laughter as he tries to sit himself up and grab at Circe’s hands, only to tumble back down and remain in a giggling, squirmy heep in the cushions.

“Really? Well, you can’t do much kicking while your knees are being ticked, can you?” Circe teases, adding a few squeezes right above the top of his knee.

Odysseus, being the stubborn and witty leader that he is, refuses to stand down and instead decides to taunt her, “Yohohohou call thahahat tickling?!”

Circe scoffs as if she just heard the most offensive thing.

“Oho, that’s it!” she exclaims. She yanks Odysseus’s leg forward and his back to plops completely flat onto the cushions. She pounces a hand towards his stomach, then claws at his belly like her chimera playing with a ball of string. Odysseus shrieks and kicks out his legs as a reflex; his laughter nearly hits another octave as he tries to shove at Circe’s hands digging at his sensitive tummy.

“WAHAHAIT! CIRCEEEEEhehehehe! I’m sohohohorryyyy!” Odysseus finally caves in and drops the sassy act.

“Oh no, Odysseus. You had plenty of chances to cooperate! Sorry isn’t going to cut it now! You asked for this!” Circe declares with a stern tone but through a wide smile. She starts scribbling her hands around his torso, like she is trying to find a specific spot that holds buried treasure. “Now, where are you the most ticklish?” she asks not Odysseus, but out loud to herself.

Maneuvering around the king’s widely giggling frame, she crawls her hands over his ribs, pausing momentarily between some of his bones to test for larger giggles. When she moves her hands higher, the king absolutely squeals when a pair of her fingers graze across the upper half of his ribs that curve near his back. Odysseus quickly shoves her hand away.

Circe stops in her tracks, almost stunned by the reaction. Odysseus releases his backed up giggles before glancing up at Circe. His eyes widen and his laughter ceases from a gasp once he realizes what Circe discovered.

A devilish smirk grows on Circe’s face. “Well, that’s convenient,” her teasing words pair with her wicked expression.

Circe makes a move towards his ribs. Odysseus immediately wrestles her hands away and grabs her wrists.

“C-Circe! Hohold on! Dohohon’t!” Odysseus nervously giggles. Circe attempts another attack at his ribs. Odysseus re-grapples her hands and holds them away from him, keeping them both at a giggly standstill.

Circe chuckles at the game. “Looks like you’ve cornered yourself, Odysseus.” She leans forward and looms over him with a laughter-hungry smirk gracing her features. “If you make one wrong move, then you’re done for.”

Odysseus’s giggles already bubble over from the anticipation. Circe tugs and slips her hands from the captain’s grasp. Odysseus frantically slaps and shields away any of Circe’s tickle attempts like they were blades in the midst of a battle. She’s persistent, he’ll give her that.

“Circe! Wa—AHAIT!” he jolts forward when Circe finally digs into his ribs, finding just the right opening through his defenses. He throws his arms across his chest and boisterous laughter rumbles from his belly all the way into the room. Occasional high-pitched bounces of squeaks and squeals pair with his melody of hysterics. He rolls from side to side and tosses his head around, sometimes huddling his head up near his shoulder then giggling towards the ceiling. In the midst of her attack, Circe climbs her hands towards his underarms before quickly sliding them back down to his ribs, causing Odysseus to reel forward and a snort to emanate from the king.

“Huh. It seems I didn’t even have to turn you into a pig to hear you squeal and snort,” Circe quips, greatly amused by Odysseus’s reactions.

He would try to counter her remark, especially after she so rudely teased him like that, but in his immobilized state of laughter, where words want to come out as clusters of giggles, surrendering to the sorceress is the smarter move.

“Ohohokahahay!!! CIRCEHEHEHE! Mercy! Plehehehease!” Odysseus manages through his rush of laughter.

“All right, all right,” Circe yields and pulls away her hands while retaining a smile. Odysseus plops onto his back and coughs out his remaining giggles that he was nearly drowning in. He’s thankful that Circe doesn’t have Poseidon’s version of mercy.

The sorceress places her hands on her hips, staring down at the heep that is the captain. “So, when you leave this room, will you put on a brave face for your crew?”

Odysseus heaves himself up on his arms to sit up like he had just awoken from being knocked out. With his hair tousled about and his clothes all askew, he looks at Circe directly in the eyes, as sharp as an arrow landing in the center of its target.

“Yes.” The captain replies with a tone that means business. After he answers though, his face eases into a soft, lingering smile.

“Good,” Circe nods. “Now that’s the captain I remember when he first strided into my palace with unmatched confidence.”

Circe gracefully stands from the cushions as if she was lifted by a gust of air. Odysseus watches her walk past him before he swings his legs off the couch for his toes to touch the ground. He runs a hand through his hair, then stands so he can smooth out his clothes to tidy his appearance. When he looks up, Circe is in front of him, handing him the map to the Underworld. Odysseus takes it from her.

Circe provides him with another warm smile. “So then, let me see it. Let me see how you’ll stand tall when you meet with your crew.”

Odysseus releases a short breath of laughter. Even after all their roughhousing, she’s still not letting him off the hook about putting on a brave face just yet.

The captain straightens out his back, holds his head up high, widens his stance, and smiles. For good measure, he even places a hand on his hip.

“How’s this? Is this brave enough for you?” the captain says with his regular whip of sass.

“Ha, I could do without the attitude,” Circe responds. “But it’s much better,” her voice turns soft and caring. “Now go out there and be with your crew,” she nods to the door.

Odysseus bows. He’s, once more, appreciative of all the help the sorceress has provided him. “Thank you, Circe.”

He takes his leave from her room, eventually reaching the great halls of the palace where his men await. Some sit on benches, while others stand, but all look to Odysseus for guidance when he enters the room.

His crew greets him with smiles on their faces.

Because they see their captain adorning one too.

As Odysseus converses with his crew, he sees Circe off to the side, leaning her back on a pillar as she watches. She gives him a wink. Just one brave face, like a boulder thrown into the sea, is all it takes to create a ripple amongst the waves.

48 notes · View notes