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strunger · 3 months ago

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FREE USE WHORE! ♡

synopsis . a free use whore in the office for hire?

ft . jjk (gojo satoru, geto suguru, choso, & sukuna)

tw . free use (obviously) , size kink , consensual dub-con? , overstimulation , degradation , legit filth , fingering, squirting , uh rough sex? , deepthroat/blowjob , big boobs (jjk) , unrealistic job stuff , fear play (choso) , spit mention (choso) , weird geto lol

note . this is NOT for 100% dominant woman, your feelings might get hurt! i got a hand cramp writing this wtf!! idk if you can tell this is free use but that’s what it was intended for. happy reading, weirdos.

JJK most of them show up on the job sexually frustrated because of how much work is put upon their shoulders so when the office starts hiring pornstars for that specific problem — their dicks start jumping inside their slacks. and you, a broke woman, finds this out — you jump on! (their dicks)

sukuna is definitely the roughest out of all the other men. he may not have the highest sex drive (but it’s super high icl) but he dicks you down every-time he can. sometimes he fucks you too long to the point he forgets about his work and you have to be banned from walking to his cubicle for a set amount of time til he finishes everything. and after that… oh boy does he fucks you mad.

“f-fuck!” he pants through gritted teeth when his thick, angry cock finally gets to be plunged in your warm pussy. he’s been waiting too long for this, stupid job didn’t allow his pussy to get near him til he was done with his assignments. “kuna! w-wait! s��too sensitive!” you wail when he pushes your face on the desk, your cries fall on deaf ears because he keeps fucking going. it hurts when he drills his dick into your gummy walls but it still feels so good you can’t help but whimper for more. but it’s too good you start trying to push him away but when you’re bent over a desk with a head being squished on a desk, it’s hard. plus, he’s so much bigger, so much stronger than you, it’s absolutely pointless. he notices this and starts laughing while grunting. “the fuck are you tryin’ to do? aren’t ‘ya supposed to be a free use whore?” he says when he gets fed up with your pathetic movements, grabbing both your arms and crushing them with only one hand. great, now you’re restrained and can’t do anything now. you’ll have to endure this pleasurable torture until he’s done with you. maybe one day he’ll quit this stupid job and make you quit as well.

satoru is the one with the highest sex drive. but what sets him apart from his coworker, sukuna, he’s able to get things done while also satisfying his needs. how? making you suck him off under the table while he’s trying his best to keep it down!

“hmp-! angel! fuckk…” your mouth was deadly to him. it was warm and soft just how your pussy feels but the thought of you looking at him with doe eyes while literally sucking his soul from his dick turned him on too much. but he couldn’t get distracted just yet, he still had a job to do. so while you were busy wrapping your tongue around his cock, his phone rings and with the amount of noise he’s restraining, he’d probably just ignore but a business part is on the other side so he’s obligated to pick up. “hello.. uhhg… sir fushiguro!” he says loudly to his phone. while he’s doing that, you’re thinking of the times he’s been mean to you. obviously not as mean as sukuna but mean enough to hurt your feelings. you decide to make him pay for his little stunts. sure, you could keep using only your mouth but a big boy such as him could handle it, so why not add your hands? maybe be his own personal sex toy. your hand snakes up his thigh and wraps tightly around the base of his cock, earning a deathly glare from him, begging you not to do what you’re about to do. it makes you wanna do it even more. you stack your other hand on top and start twisting them in opposite directions, successfully earning a whole moan from him. “agh-!” he clears his throat “sorry i spilt water on myself. mind if i call you back?” he hung up. shit — he grabbed a fistful of your hair and forced you to take his full length into your mouth. it hit the back of your throat and you gagged. “don’t do that..”

suguru, he wasn’t a stoic man. not really, but he gave you the heebie jeebies. he barely even fucked you with his cock. but that’s okay, his finger game is fire.

you’re being sprawled out on his lap, legs lazily draping over his own. he’s writing with his right hand while his other dangerously roams around your most sensitive parts. he fiddles with your erect nipples like they’re.. fidget toys..? whatever. but now he’s crawling closer to the waist band of your trousers. he caresses his arms back and forth on your womb before he dips his whole hand inside, practically cupping your sweet pussy with his large hand. the warmth of your lower area was disrupted by his impossible cold hand, you shivered. he never stops scribbling on that stupid notebook, even when he massaging your pretty clit. “more..” you need more. he gives you more. without warning, he adds two fingers into your dripping cunt, making you gasp in pleasure. he starts pumping them vigorously, the palm of his hand scissoring your cunt. your knees felt weak from the action. immense pleasure rippling in you. “hagh! please!” squelching noises could be heard because at this point, you feel like you just pissed yourself. no you didn’t, you squirted. it stained your grey trousers. “did you just squirt?” he asks, finally stopping to look at your soaked half. you embarrassingly nodded, trying to hide your face from him but he squishes your face in place to look at him. “no. don’t look away, you’re a whore. it’s okay, that’s what you do.” he says with the littlest bit of empathy before he starts fingering you again. wow, back to scribbling you thought. wait. what the fuck. he wasn’t even hard yet.

choso, finally. the office’s new hire! he’s just so cute. he’s even cuter when all his coworkers introduce you, the free use whore. you’re dressed up all cute, tits literally spilling out of your tight tank top. standing in the middle of all the men, smiling directly at him with lustful eyes.

after that night, whenever you pass by his cubicle, he drags you in. he’s gotten used to this whole free use thing. he takes up the overnight shift which also forces you to stay that long with him. and that’s exactly why he picks it, even when he has nothing left to do. he was a pathetic vigrin when you first met him but now, he is a full fledged freak. he has a game where you turn off all the light in the office and hide. if he finds you, he fucks you while you’re still scared from his jumpscare. you can hear heavy breathing coming around you but you can’t see anything or sense anything. your eyes begin darting across your hiding spot — choso’s cubicle. a scream in-front of your face jolts your up, making you scream. you can feel warm wet tears bubbling from your eyes. “aw, did i actually scare you?” his deep voice chuckles while he lifts you up and places you face up on his desk. you’re still crying and sniffling when he pulls your skirt away along with your cute lacy underwear. your hands come up to cover your face because you feel humiliated. “was it that bad?” he asked but you didn’t respond. he sighs when he levels his face with your cunt. his finger come in to play with your clit, he spreads your folds open and massages it. you don’t give in and continue crying. that’s when he starts licking it. strong, fast flicks of his tongue toy with your clit turn to slow, languid strokes that cover your whole pussy in his spit. which ends in him slipping his tongue in but when that fails, he brings in the big guns. his big dick. he starts thrusting into you, trying to somehow get a noise out of you but you’re so stubborn right now. he wraps you into a tight hug while still fucking you. that’s when you break. moans mixed with cries start coming out. this was somewhat oddly comforting? “there she is.” he says kissing you. he’s a nice, fucked up man that knows how to get you fucked. you just hope to get a better hiding spot.

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marvelstoriesepic · 3 months ago

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Angstober (day 17)

Pairing: Endgame!Bucky x Reader

Prompt: “Shhh…”

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: allusions to deep depression; very slight mention of suicidal thoughts; mentions of an eating disorder (neglecting food due to mental health problems); sad!Reader; sad and desperate!Bucky

Author's note: I'm so late, so sorry!! Actually planned on ending this way more angsty but I just couldn’t. Hope you still like it!

Angstober Masterlist

Not that you’re counting, but it has been 14 nights now. Two weeks. Nearly 340 hours since Bucky returned. He came back, along with everyone else who had vanished for five long years. But nothing else seemed nearly as significant as the feeling of seeing him again - the man you loved before the blip, during the blip, and thereafter.

Obviously, this was supposed to be a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. And it was for a moment. But you never felt the weight fall off you, that great release where all your problems just go away and nothing is left but love, relief, lightness - the kind of peace you can finally sink into.

But peace is far from what you feel.

You carry something in your gut; a stone lodged deep, heavy, and smooth to the touch but sharp on impact, that pushes your insides down and twists the knots in your belly into nausea. It’s guilt. So thick and visceral, it hurts, your body trying to reject it, to shake it, but you can’t breathe it away.

Because it’s also the 14th night of you leaving the warm and cozy embrace of two arms - one flesh, one metal - and the feeling of a chest pressed against your body just to sit out on the balcony, the exact same you spent ceaseless and lonely nights on when the world had emptied itself of Bucky Barnes.

Back when this place was only yours for the better part of the blip. With an old armchair placed to overlook the stars and form changing moon blinking at you from the blackness overhead. As if each of those tiny bright dots stood for something specific.

Bucky is asleep inside the bedroom, you’re supposed to be in right now. Wrapped safely in his arms, surrounded by the comfort of having him back. But the truth is, this comfort you should feel suffocates you.

You’re frozen. Stuck between two worlds. The one where you lost him, where you had to endure five long years without him, and the one where he returned as though no time had passed at all.

Five years living without him just for him to return to earth within the blink of an eye as if it was nothing. As if the time spent alone wasn’t agony in the worst sense of the word. As if your suffering didn’t even happen and everything just went back to normal in seconds.

You don’t know how to react. You don’t know how to be normal again. How can you just slip back into a love that feels like it was frozen in time for him but battered and painful for you?

It hasn’t been easy for anyone, you’re aware of that. Disappearing or not. Suddenly re-entering a world that had moved on without you, a world you never knew you even left, is a scary thought. But, honestly, it’s so much worse for Bucky. Your stomach, again, churns in pain.

Bucky has already lost so much of his life, trapped in decades he was never meant to live, a ghost haunting the wrong era. The world keeps slipping through his fingers, time moving around him while he’s frozen in place. Literally even. And now there goes another five years.

But you just can’t turn your head off. And you hate yourself for it.

The truth is, you’re not the same person you were when you met Bucky, started dating him - the one he fell in love with. A bright spirit, an effervescent soul, full of light, energy, softness, with a laugh that was infectious. That version of you is gone, taken by the same breeze that took Bucky years ago. What’s left was a hollow shell, lost in the grief of your greatest love story.

Time wore you down, erode pieces of you that you didn’t even realize were fading away until there was hardly anything left. Just bare bones of who you once were - a thin foundation, fragile, with crumbs already falling to your darkest depths, ready to be swept away for good.

How can you possibly go back to the person Bucky expects you to be? How can you pretend to be the version of yourself he fell in love with when it doesn’t exist anymore? When what’s left of her is irredeemable, too far gone to be resurrected?

You’re certain you’ll only end up disappointing him. If you haven’t already.

Fourteen nights you’ve been out here, on this balcony, sitting in that chair, wrapped in the dark, keeping yourself apart from him when you know you should be beside him. When all you ever wanted was to be beside him again.

Thirteen of those nights, Bucky has noticed your absence. The first night he found you out here, sitting in silence, you nearly snapped at him, frustration and confusion at the way you feel bubbling up so fiercely, you didn’t know how to contain it.

You told him to leave you alone. Insisted on it for so long until he finally, reluctantly relented, slowly retreating back inside with a tremble in his breath and clenched fingers. You knew he would respect your request. You also found out that he didn’t sleep a wink that night, since you didn’t come back to bed, wearing circles under his eyes that matched yours as he made you some breakfast in the morning you barely ended up stomaching.

Since then, you haven’t asked him to leave. Though you don’t really engage him in conversation either, only letting him linger. His presence is gentle, never pressing, always so patient, but it doesn’t make it easier. If only, it worsens the guilt, its fingers tightening around your chest, digging into your skin painfully. You don’t know how to let him back in, not when you’re still so tangled up in the person you’ve become - someone so worn-down, you don’t recognize yourself anymore, afraid to be confronted with the harrowing reality by looking in a mirror.

And every night, you wonder, silently asking the night sky, how much longer it’ll be before he realizes that the person he loves is someone he lost.

You’re waiting. Waiting for him to notice that this new version of you isn’t enough.

Every time, Bucky comes out to you, bringing you something - blankets, jackets, his hoodies, a cup of tea still steaming in his hands, or thick socks to warm your feet. He gets you all the things you never thought to grab in your rush to escape to the balcony, to get lost in the night air that bites into your skin but usually feels oddly comforting in its coldness. The chill always manages to give you a small sting of reality.

You never make the first move to wrap the blankets around yourself or pull any of the clothing items on, so Bucky usually does it for you. And he’s nothing but kind. Patient and soft in ways that almost hurt to witness. It’s in his eyes, in the way he watches you, never pushing too hard, never demanding more than you can give.

But his worry is etched into every corner of him like he is carrying it in his very bones. It’s heavy on his brows, weighing them down in a furrow that never seems to ease, lips pressed into a slight frown that tugs at the corners even when he tries to soothe it out.

It’s in the way his hands twitch, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach out and pull you close, but stops himself because he’s unsure if you want him to. He’s constantly walking that fine line, balancing between the space you seem to want and the need to be there, to comfort you, troubled with his own helplessness.

It’s in every considerate gesture, every thoughtful thing he does to make sure you’re okay, or at least giving you a sense of solace.

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to really talk to him. To explain what’s going on in your mind. To voice the fear that now lives there and which places it travels and where it settles down, lodging itself deep into your conscience, roots spreading and festering.

There’s no way to explain what drives you out here night after night, sitting in the darkness while your returned love waits for you inside.

It’s not that you don’t want to. God, you want to more than anything. But the words just won’t come, not making it past the lump in your throat. You’re trapped in a loop of thoughts; confusion, and guilt guiding them to twirl in your head like an indecipherable storm.

How do you even begin to explain that the person he’s so worried about isn’t really there anymore; that you’re afraid you’ve changed too much; that you’re not sure how to go back to the way things were, or if you even can? So while you remain silent, your mind races and your heart aches with the weight of everything you can’t say.

There are so many ghosts in his life and you don’t want to count yourself as another. But you don’t have it in you to do something about it.

As expected, the door to the balcony opens, quietly, slowly. It gets shorter, you notice. The time it takes him to realize you’re gone. As if he instinctively wakes up the second you leave his embrace. As if he barely has to stir to know you’re missing, to feel the cold, empty space where your warmth should be.

You wish he had given you just a little more time. Woke up just a little later. Nausea pools in your gut.

“Sweetheart.”

You pick up his whisper. You intended to ignore it, just as you had intended to ignore the quiet shuffle of his steps, the way he appeared in your peripherals like he always does. But the way his voice reflects so much of a fragility you can’t and don’t want to describe, your head lifts almost on autopilot, responding to him before your mind can even catch up.

He’s crouching down to your level in front of the chair you’re perched on, carefully lowering himself to your eye level. You hadn’t even acknowledged the bowl of pasta he brought until he set it down on the small table next to you, food you hadn’t even glanced at all day. As well as the blanket draped over his forearm he now deliberately wraps you up in. His hands linger on your arms longer than needed until he almost reluctantly pulls away.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not for a second. Gaze so intense and solid, it undoes you. They’re filled with everything you try to run from, everything you try to bury deep inside yourself, everything you try to hide from.

You avert your eyes at the new wave of pain that tears right through your chest, intended to knock you off that chair, perhaps even off that balcony. Your silence is wearing on him and you know. You know that his brows are creased in worry, that his hands are trembling as they grab onto his knees to prevent himself from reaching out to you because he thinks that’s not what you want. That his touch is unwanted. His lips are pressed together as if holding back the flood of words he’s too afraid to say out loud.

Still, you don’t open your mouth. You don’t move closer to him to feel some of his warmth. You don’t look at him. All you do is let him down, night after night, as he watches you drift further away.

From yourself.

From him.

“Please eat something, love.”

His pleading voice again reaches you with the force of a knife, thrown straight to your heart, tearing through the blanket, your thin clothes, your skin, to embed itself into the organ that once held something so precious. A love so fierce, not only for the man in front of you but for the woman he fell for. For the woman that’s now lost in a body filled with coldness.

“Not hungry.” The words fall flat from your lips, monotone, your voice as hollow as you feel inside. There’s no weight behind them, no energy. They’re the same words you’ve been giving him all day, all week - really, for two weeks straight.

Actually, you haven’t been hungry in what feels like forever. The idea of eating, of caring for your body, feels so distant, so unimportant, perhaps even ludicrous, that you’ve stopped thinking about it entirely. Your stomach knots itself in protest but the thought of offering sustenance to your weary body pales in significance amidst whatever storm is brewing inside your mind.

Bucky never relents. Never gives up. Never stops trying.

But it’s heavy on him.

The pained sigh that ripples through his body, drags his shoulders down, his entire frame. His desperation is so evident, it’s standing out like a light that wants the attention of the darkness around you. His pain almost echoes like a sound, ringing in your ears.

He bows his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

Another stab. Another twist of the knife, that never really leaves your body anymore. It’s always sharp. Always intense. Always piercing. Because it never ceases to hurt when Bucky is in pain.

And he’s in pain because of you.

It’s always because of you.

His despair now is an extension of the love that triumphed against odds, yet now feels so misplaced, so undeserving in the wreckage that was left behind.

Every line of his body screams misery and it’s so unlike Bucky to carry it so openly. He’s not able to stop his hands from shaking, even though he’s clenching them into fists that leave his skin white. He’s not able to ease the tension in his jaw, the way his breath catches as though he’s holding back more words, more pleas, more desperation.

You know it’s your fault. You know this is a love he still holds for a person that doesn’t deserve it anymore. He holds on so tight. So fierce. And that’s what hurts the most.

A new sensation wells up, one you had consciously buried for the past 14 nights. One you hadn’t let yourself feel every time you got lost out here. It grips your throat, wraps itself around it, and squeezes, cutting off the flow of air. It’s choking you, as if in triumph, confronting the tidal surges of emotion you’ve been holding back for so long. It stings behind your eyes, making them swell and burn as tears form faster than you can stop them.

The sob that forms in your belly takes shape in a revolting way and you can’t grasp it properly.

So, when it finally escapes, it’s heart-wrenching. The sound rips from your chest violently and guttural, tearing through your lips before you can do anything to keep it inside. Your hand flies to your mouth, desperate to stifle it, but it’s useless.

Bucky’s head snaps up with so much vigor, and he stumbles in his rush to reach you, arms shooting up, eyes wide with alarm. His hands move toward you without hesitation, disregarding the fragile boundaries you had set, the cautious distance he believed you’d wanted.

You’re shaking, shoulders trembling with the power of the cries that rack through your body and he pulls you against him.

He cradles your head against his chest, his other arm pulling you closer, closer, closer. His grip is so full of anguish, holding onto you like his very life depends on it, his warmth fighting against the chill that’s been living inside you for such a long time.

Your sobs come harder, sounds muffled by the fabric of his hoodie. Bucky tries to hold you tighter, letting you crumble against him.

Minutes stretch out and your cries don’t let up. Each breath you take is painful, rough, and with every shudder that convulses your body, Bucky grasps you firmer.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby, I got you.” His voice sounds so soft but frail, hoarse with the effort of keeping himself composed. He keeps whispering, though his words tremble on his lips as if he’s battling the same ache that’s threatening to break him apart all the same. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you can feel his breath against your skin, shaky and uneven, trying so hard to be the anchor you need.

“Shhh…” he breathes again, but there are tears in his tone. He’s holding on so solidly, gripping you as if letting go would mean losing you entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, the words tumbling out over and over because it’s all your scrambled mind manages. It’s the only thing that feels true in the mess of your awareness. The silence, the distance, the weight you’ve placed on him, on his shoulders, which should be free from burden after the hell he’s been through. He’s only just come back from five years of being lost to the world, and now you’re drowning him in your own grief. And that makes your tears come without control, the guilt crushing.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob again, the only thing you can offer. An apology isn’t enough but it’s all you have. Because you don’t know if you’re supposed to hold onto the hope that maybe, one day, he’ll forgive you for being too much, for not being who he needs anymore.

Bucky shakes his head against yours, strong, fast; his breath broken. “No,” he breathes, rough and thick. “No, baby, don’t apologize. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to drown out his voice. He’s too nice. Too sweet. Too forgiving. Too patient. Too Bucky.

Shaking your head, you grip onto him. “You should leave me.” It’s louder than anything you’ve said the whole night. It’s more resolute. It sounds more like you, but it still doesn’t seem to come from you. Because never in seven years did you believe those words would ever make it past your lips. Would ever even be formed in your mind.

Bucky pulls back. Not harshly, but urgently, in a panic, determined. His hands cradle your face and he only moves his head away a little to get a better look at you. His eyes, wet and glassy, lock onto yours, filled with pain so stabbing it matches your own. But there is a resolution in his eyes, a firmness in the small glimmer of blue.

He shakes his head as if something is breaking in him.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” he whispers, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheeks that keep rolling down even as his own spill over. His touch is so gentle, so tender, so loving and you feel the guilt that settled deep inside you in a war with the longing you had felt for so long. The longing to feel his touch in a way that always knocked the breath straight out of your lungs. The longing to have his eyes sear right through you as if you’re the only thing in the world that holds worth.

“This isn’t your fault,” he continues. “None of this is your fault, Y/n! Alright? Nothing you could do would make me leave you. Hear me when I say this, my love. Hear me when I say that I'm here. And I'll stay.”

A sad, wobbly smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “There’s no getting rid of me, sweetheart. Nothing you could do would ever scare me away.”

Something cracks open inside you. His words, his touch, his gaze, everything is so full of love. And even if it’s just a little, the compressing weight of guilt loosens. It will take many more nights for it to completely leave you but Bucky will walk this road with you. You’re sure; because in his eyes, the way he holds you against him, you finally see that he’s not asking for the person you used to be. He’s asking for you, as you are, as you’ve become, broken pieces and all.

He’s still loving you with a depth your guilt could never reach.

#angstober2024 #angstober 2024 #day 17 #marvel mcu #marvel bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #endgame!bucky

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sitp-recs · 3 months ago

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top 10 drarry fics by the sheer force of the feels they gave you? not necessarily good feels! things you remember primarily because they hit hard in some way.

obviously, i'd also love to hear exactly how/why they hit hard if you're up for sharing that!

Oh that’s such a wonderful ask, thank you! I’m sorry for the late reply, the 10 fics came easily bc whenever I see those titles I get immediately transported back to where I was and what I felt reading them for the first time. But putting into words what exactly makes them heartkick-y for me was a bit more challengeging. It’s usually a “when you feel it you know it” kind of thing (and quite literally too, as sometimes it manifests as an actual physical reaction!) but more often than not the fic just clicks for me and there’s no rationale behind it. As Clarice Lispector said: “I suppose that understanding myself is not a question of intelligence but of feeling. It either touches you, or it doesn't."

Anyhoo, I tried my best to keep this short and sweet but since I’ve written individual recs for almost all these fics, I thought I’d include them too :) thanks again, this was super fun! And I’d love to read about your picks as well 👀

An Emerald In The Sky by corvuscrowned | my rec

it doesn’t get more romantic than star-crossed lovers doomed by time travel!!!! (see also: my thoughts on The Eighth Tale by lettered). this is my brand of melancholy, something about the constant yearning, the beauty of stolen moments in liminal space, the unfairness of it all… ugh

Far From the Tree by aideomai | my rec

fft has altered my brain chemistry and ruined me forever with its tender devastation, I had such a visceral reaction to it - to the point of feeling dizzy and feverish. a simple time travel concept (this is my kryptonite istg) but the epic storytelling! the gratification! the bittersweet ending! rereading it would kill me but what a way to go

Forgive Those Who Trespass by Lomonaaeren

easily one of the most haunting and terrifying fics I’ve ever read, one jumpscare after the other but so creative and well-written I was too busy collecting my jaw from the floor to talk myself out of it lol

Little Compton Street by writcraft | my rec

as a queer woman, this one feels extremely personal and is very dear to my heart. I’ll never forget the emotions I felt learning about queer history and finding a sense of peace and belonging. lcs feels like coming home 🏳️‍🌈

Little Red Courgette by blamebrampton

this was my first bb fic and their sense of humor just blew my mind. I was so impressed by the smooth world building, by their wit and clever political commentary. I just couldn’t stop laughing. the dialogue is so good it makes me wanna weep, I can’t explain how much joy and comfort this fic gave me

Merlin Works in Mysterious Ways by lordhellebore

full disclosure: my reading experience was shaped by the fact that I didn’t realize the tagged disability would be major and permanent 🤡 by the time I noticed I was so emotionally invested I couldn’t stop. one of the most painful reads I’ve ever endured, worth it tho

Running on Air by eleventy7 | my rec

introspective fics are my jam and this one was just what I needed while working through some shit at a turning point in my life. so I guess it was more about finding the right fic at the right time, and I’m hit by mixed feelings of catharsis and nostalgia every time I revisit roa.

Still Life (orphaned) | my rec

my definition of a perfect shortfic. gorgeous prose, flawless execution, the “nothing is happening but everything is changing” vibes I live for, one of the best Harry pov I’ve ever read and an ending that always makes me gasp in awe. few authors can write complex emotions so effortlessly as seefin, absolute masterclass

Super Rich Kids by trishjames | my rec

criminally underrated, this story broke my heart but also gave me such a THRILL. I usually avoid substance abuse in fic but something about Draco’s spiral journey felt so raw it kept me at the edge of my seat. devastating but also a surprisingly funny and exciting thriller. the range!!!

The Long Fall by tackytiger | my rec

as someone who’s never been into kid fic and family dynamics, this was a punch on the solar plexus and rearranged my whole view about this trope. I was deeply moved by Harry’s longing for a family of his own and despite not having or wanting kids, this still felt really cathartic and changed me in a way I can’t quite explain.

#top 10 ask game #smehur #pls keep in mind this is obviously 100% personal #as it should be

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grayskies2525 · 19 days ago

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A Sneezy Little Christmas

This is just an incredibly self-indulgent 2,500 word one-shot about one of my OC's who has a cold on Christmas (well, Christmas Eve) and can't stop sneezing. That's it -- that's the whole story. I can't emphasize that enough. This is literally just sneezing 😅 Warning for a tiny bit of mess toward the end.

***

Felix isn’t going to sneeze. He isn’t going to sneeze because he’s already sneezed what must be one hundred times today, alone, and surely that should be enough to satisfy his body. There’s no rational reason he should continue having to endure sneeze after sneeze. So, he makes the decision that he is done. With his lips slightly parted, he pushes out a slow, steady breath and then slowly inhales the same way. He smiles at the victory. One whole breath and no sneeze! He deserves a medal, or trophy, or a bench dedicated to him, or—

“HEP-NkxxT!”

“Bless you,” Connor says, his voice low, from his spot next to him at the dining table, as he rubs Felix’s back soothingly.

Felix narrows his eyes at his boyfriend. His annoyance isn’t from being blessed, but is instead from the simple fact that now he’s going to have to open his mouth to speak. Here he is, fighting for his life desperately trying to keep breathing from triggering a sneeze — and now he has to try speaking.

“Connor heh! Hhhhh hehhhh HEN-NKT’choooo!” Felix pitches forward, capturing the sneeze in his pitifully used tissue. “I think may-maybe we should hhh hhhh put a moratorium on blessings during this dinner be-because —” Felix can’t finish the sentence. He just can’t. His nose is brimming with itchy, burning sneezes that are begging to topple out of him. His eyelids flutter as he focuses on the Santa Clause painting hung on the dining room wall. He stares at it as he continues letting out little gasps of air. “Heehhhh hhhhh Hhhhhh!”

“Oh dear,” he hears his mother say from her spot at the table across from him. “Okay, well, Felix is obviously too occupied by his cold right now to offer much to our conversations. So, Ben, why don’t you tell us how things have been with your jobs?”

Felix is thankful for attention being redirected to his best friend. Ben is, for all intents and purposes, his brother and is one of the closest people he has in his life. Ben also has a propensity to talk a lot about nothing, which is exactly what Felix needs right now because all Felix is capable of doing — all he’s been capable of since he woke up on this horrible Christmas Eve — is sneeze. Felix sits, fork in hand, in a futile attempt to maintain the pretense of actually being able to eat the dinner his parents cooked.

He takes a shockingly deep breath — a breath that seems to draw in as much air as his lungs can physically hold— and continues staring at the picture on the wall. This time, there’s no gasping or hitching. He’s trapped in this one single breath while his eyes prickle with tears and his nostrils flare as his body prepares for the inevitable. He clenches one fist at his side. He uses his other hand to frantically wave his tissue — a tissue that is, admittedly, strikingly damp and likely useless at the moment — in front of his face. He silently begs for the release to finally just come — to please, please just come already.

And it does.

“EEHHHHH-ETzz’SCHIEWWWW!”

As prepared as he was for the sneeze, he’s still shocked by the force at which his entire body snaps forward. The way Ben suddenly jerks away from him — putting an almost comical amount of distance between them — and his subsequent exclamation of “Christ, Felix!” gives Felix the impression that he may not have captured as much of the spray with his tissue as he had intended. He supposes it would have been better to have had the tissues actually covering his nose and face instead of held out a foot in front of him. In his defense, he can normally stifle with ease, so he wasn’t exactly prepared for the harsh release of spray.

“Sorry,” Felix mumbles, sheepishly. He looks around as his father, mother, boyfriend, and best friend all stare at him. “I, uh… I think I must have picked up an especially bad cold from somewhere because I just can’t stop heehhh I can’t-can’t stop hep-NKT! HEH-NxxT! AH’NKT-chooo! At’NKT! HEP-nkt! I can’t stop sneezing hhhh hhh no matter h-h-how how hard I HEP-N’GKT! Holy shit,” he mumbles, blinking hard, keeping his harm pressed to his face. “Uh pardon my language, Mom. I just really can’t stop, oh my god.” His chest is heaving and more sneezes quickly begin tumbling out of him. “Eh-NKt’chooo! NKT’choooo! HmpKT’choooo! EH-TCHOOO! NKT’shooo! HMP’tshoooo!”

“Damn,” Ben says, sounding awed. “You know he’s really sick when he stops holding them in like he normally does.”

“Okay, um, excuse me. I need to uh st-step away MMpt’shhhhhhh! MPPT’SHOOO! HMPT’ShOOOOO!” Felix continues muffling sneezes into his arm as he makes his way to the bathroom.

__________

Felix stands in the bathroom for a couple of minutes and still doesn’t think he’s ready to come out. His breaths are coming out erratically and there’s still such a sharp tickle buried deep inside his sinuses. He has already sneezed an astonishing amount, and he’s not proud of how many germs he’s sure he’s released into this small room. He’s just helplessly under control of this cold. He’s lost all autonomy when it comes to choosing to sneeze or not to sneeze.

He hears a knock on the door and a “Felix, are you all right in there? Is it okay if I come in?”

Felix sniffles. “Y-yes you can come in HET-NgT’CHOO!” The failed stifle bursts free in what Felix thinks to be a rather dramatic fashion with droplets of various sizes glistening on the bathroom mirror’s reflective glass.

Connor opens the unlocked door and steps in, wearing a sympathetic smile. “Hey there. How are you feeling?” he asks as he places his hand comfortingly on Felix’s back.

“Uh…” Felix says, then sniffles deeply. “Babe, I think I’m, like, super sick,” he says before sneezing down at the floor.

“Really?” Connor asks, letting out a light chuckle. “I think we may need further evidence before we can draw a definitive conclusion.”

Felix tries to glare, but only succeeds in sneezing. “This is no time for jokes. I’m dying, Connor. I know people joke about dying when they have colds but I’m — I’m — I’m? HeeEEHHH’NGT’CHUUUHH!”

And with that, the air becomes tainted with yet another contagious, germ-filled cloud. “Connor, I — I can’t even fucking cover anymore. They just — they won’t stop. To catch all of them, I’d have to have a perpetual arm held up or a ti-tissue heh-it’shhoooooo!" Felix lets out an exasperated sigh. "And, quite frankly, I’m too exhausted for that. Why? Why why why do they just keep coming?” he asks, mostly rhetorically.

Connor hums in thought next to him. “I think it’s your body’s way of banishing the cold from your body.”

“I know. I teach biology. I understand viruses, but — but why so — so many heh-m’KTshoooo!”

“Well, uh, something tells me you have a lot of that cold virus in you and your immune system is kind of… well, it’s freaking the fuck out. I think it’s trying to expel all those little viral demons out of you all at once,” Connor says with a gentle smile

“Well, personally, I find this to be an overly aggressive reaction and — EH-mpfft’shuuuh! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I’m going to tear this whole thing off my face!” Felix exclaims in anguish, throwing back his head and groaning.

“Oh, don’t do that. I love your little nose,” Connor says, smiling fondly at him.

“You wouldn’t love it if it were yours, Connor,” Felix says, voiced laced with annoyance as he rubs his nose. Feeling fatigue settle deep in his bones, he wanders over to the toilet to shut the lid and sit down. He rests his head against the wall, keeping his eyes shut.

He feels Connor’s cool hand against his forehead. Felix hums in contentment at the soothing touch.

“You don’t feel like you have a fever,” Connor says.

“No,” Felix agrees. “No fever, but I feel like I could sleep for 20,000 years,” he says, not having the strength to open his eyes.

“Aw, don’t do that. I’m afraid I would miss you.”

“You’d be better off,” Felix says, hating how it comes out as a whine. “I’m useless now.”

“Aww, Felix. You look so pitiful,” Connor says, though Felix doesn’t miss the small laugh Connor lets out. “We’ll get you feeling better soon, okay? Do you want to go ahead and leave? So you can get some rest?” Connor asks.

Felix contemplates this, but his nostrils are flaring and his breath is hitching and he’s about to —

He feels something clasp around his nose and opens his eyes to see Connor pressing tissues against Felix’s face. “You look like you’re about to sneeze, and I don’t mean to offend you, but your sniffles sound… well, let’s just say that your next sneeze doesn’t sound like it’ll be a pretty sight if you leave it uncovered.”

Felix can’t process the words. He’s preoccupied with more pressing matters.

“HEFF-mph’ssshhhhttttt! MMg’shuuuhhhh! Eck’fshhuuuhhh! Aff’shhhtt! K’SHUUUH!”

Connor was certainly correct in his assessment of the current state of Felix’s nose. It is not a pretty situation. Even with the tissues, he can still feel steady trickle of warm wetness seeping past his nostrils and down his lips. He sees Connor’s wide-eyed, shocked expression and has a single millisecond to feel shame course through him before his body’s lost to another violent paroxysm.

“HEP’NKxxxT’SHOOO!”

Felix truly did attempt a stifle out of courtesy, considering Connor’s hand had still been firmly pressing tissues over his nose. It seems, though, that the attempt created even more of a mess.

“Sorry,” Felix says, voice mangled by an obscene amount of congestion and the tissues still clasped against his nose.

Connor clearly attempts a smile, but it resembles more of a wince. “Bless you…. Uh, I’m going to be honest, I don’t think I thought this decision through entirely. I guess I thought you’d just have one sneeze? You kind of just kept going, though.... But, that was totally my bad. Nothing about today has indicated that your nose would be happy with one single sneeze. Do you… do you mind taking over now, sweetie?” Connor asks and Felix realizes he’s still sitting there while his nose drips with Connor holding Felix’s soaked tissues.

Felix slowly brings up his own hand to take over. Connor hands Felix over several more tissues. Felix blows his nose, feeling its contents pour into the tissue. It's a gurgling, long-lasting blow that easily drenches his tissues. He’s vaguely aware of Connor washing his hands. He winces slightly as he realizes that Connor had surely gotten some of Felix’s mess on his fingers.

Felix finishes blowing his nose, dropping the used tissues into the wastebasket. He scrunches up his nose at the itch he still feels present.

“Oh, your poor nose,” Connor says, frowning.

“I know,” Felix says with a sniffle. “I’m one step away from Santa asking me to guide his sleigh tonight.”

Connor laughs, then cards his hand through Felix’s mess of wavy hair. He lowers his head, placing a gentle kiss on Felix’s forehead. When Connor draws back, he smiles and locks his gaze with Felix’s. “You know,” Connor starts. “I do recall someone warning you to be careful at the mall the other day. When there were… oh, I don’t know, dozens of people coughing and sneezing literally everywhere. In fact, if my memory serves correct, you seemed to completely ignore these suggestions, choosing instead to walk directly into the path someone openly coughed in.”

Felix cringes at the memory. “That may have been a mistake.”

Connor smiles, and Felix appreciates how it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. As annoyed as he is at Connor’s taunting — though truthful — words, when Connor smiles like that, Felix will melt every single time.

“You’re cute when you wiggle your nose like that,” Connor says. Then, to Felix’s horror, he touches Felix’s nose. It’s only the tip of it and Connor is quick to pull his finger away, but the touch is firm and with Felix’s nose full of a cold, that’s all it takes.

He shakes his head violently and holds his hand out in front of him. He feels his warm, hitching breaths hitting the palm of his hand.

Felix sits on the toilet seat, his chest heaving and eyes streaming tears. “HEHHHH Hhhhhh HHH HHHHH hhhhhhhh HHHHH!”

He sees, through watery eyes, Connor roll his eyes and huff out a laugh. “I think I’m going to do us both a favor and hurry this along.” With that ominous statement, Connor hands Felix several tissues. Felix, breath still hitching, gives Connor a questioning look.

Connor brings his long, slender finger up to Felix’s nose and begins to lightly trace over the bridge. Feeling the vibrations radiate throughout his entire sinus cavity, Felix throws his head back, using one hand fiercely to grip the side of the toilet seat and his other to clutch the tissues over his nose, while his breaths come out in desperate gasps until sneeze after sneeze begins to explode out of him..

“AAHHHHHH N’GXXT! N’GXXT! G’NXXT! NG’T! NG’T! NG’T!” Felix’s shoulders shake and his head pounds with the force of the stifled sneezes, but he instinctively continues stifling because that’s always been his natural response. “NG’T! NG’T! NG’T! NG’T! NG’T! NG’T! NG’T! HAAHHHHHH NGT’choooo! NGT’chooooooo! NGxT’choooooo! HEP’NKt! HEP-NKT! NKT’SHOOOOO! EP’nkt’choooo! ET’SCHIEWWWW! ET’SCHIEWWWWW! ET-SCHOOOOO! ECK-SHOOOO! ”

Though many of the sneezes were stifled, he still manages to flood the tissues. He blows, sneezes some more, then looks up at Connor.

“Babe, I’m literally dying,” Felix says, his eyes still pouring tears and his nose is dripping like a faucet.

Connor is looking at Felix the way one typically looks at a swarm of ants feasting upon a rotten piece of food — as though Felix is disgusting but too interesting to look away from.

“You’re not dying,” Connor says, rolling his eyes, though still smiling fondly in that way he often does. “You just have a really bad head cold. Like, really bad — to a truly impressive degree."

Felix feels another itch burrowing out from the depths up his sinuses, slowly crawling along to the surface. Felix can’t hold back a whimper as his shoulders sag and his expression crumples in defeat.

“More?” Connor asks, sounding incredulous.

“More,” Felix confirms, breath already hitching.

“Maybe you are dying,” Connor says with an expression mixed with concern and amusement.

Felix can’t roll his eyes, or shoot Connor the glare he deserves, or respond in any way other than to sneeze. So he does.

Then, he sneezes again. And again. And again.

Felix hears Connor muttering something about Felix needing rest and maybe some Benadryl, but Felix is helpless to respond. He’s at complete and total mercy of this cold. Felix resigns himself to the fact that this is simply going to be how he spends Christmas this year.

#snz #snz fic #snzblr #snz kink

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alluringlight · 2 months ago

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Sunday x (Gender Neutral) Reader

Warnings: nothing really, ig maybe a little bit of angst but more hurt/comfort, you are the Astral Express medic, you're supposed to be a fallen angel but that's not really necessary to understand this and will p much only become relevant if I ever follow up this one-shot w the same reader x Sunday (which I might bc I love this idea of fallen angel x Sunday), also this is not intended to be canon to Sunday's true form or anything since it's unconfirmed if Halovians have multiple sets of wings or not

Word Count: 1726

As the de facto medic of the Astral Express, since you were the only trained doctor, you made it your top priority to always know how every one of the passengers was doing, physically and mentally. Currently, your most challenging case sat before you; Sunday, former head of the Oak Family and newest passenger aboard the train.

He sat stiffly, spine straight and hands crossed together neatly in his lap as he sat on your examination table. His head was facing straight but instead of looking at you, his gaze was on his hands. You’d always felt a kinship with the Halovian, whether it be due to your own (miserable) past, or the fact that you both shared avian features. Your own wings twitched, feathers fluffing slightly as you tried to puzzle out the best way to help him. Getting him to even admit he needed help was akin to pulling teeth, but you were determined to be patient.

“Sunday, I just need to look them over, okay? I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” you said, your voice soft as you tried your best to coax him.

He squeezed his hands tighter together, his voice barely audible as he spoke, “I know. I-” He cut himself off, pressing his lips closed as he refused to say anything else. Instead, he uncrossed his hands, and began disrobing his top half, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding the material off until his torso was bare.

His wings, a dark purple akin the nightingales you’d seen on Penacony, were on his lower back, further down than your own black wings which sat between your shoulder blades. His sat around his waist, and they were very obviously neglected. They were tightly wrapped around his torso, and the feathers were dull and in disarray, it was clear they needed to be preened. Most alarmingly, his flight feathers were clipped on his left side. It made you wonder if the piercings on his upper wings weren’t of his own volition, if they were perhaps a reminder that he was a flightless bird.

You made your way behind him so you could observe the wings fully. Sunday himself was exceedingly skinny, and you made a mental note to talk to him about that another day; when he wasn’t so shaken up. The connecting muscles to his wings were underdeveloped, making it apparent that even if his wing wasn’t clipped he still would be unable to fly.

“Is it okay if I touch them?” you asked. Sunday gave you a shaky nod. Instead of immediately beginning a more thorough examination you spoke, “I’m going to try to stretch them out, okay? I’ll be gentle, but it’ll probably be painful or uncomfortable. Please let me know if I need to stop.”

A rush of breath left him, before he nodded again, his hands gripping onto the edge of the examination table to brace himself. You started with his left wing; it would be the most troublesome to deal with.

You took it slow, gently prying his wing away from his torso, stopping whenever he’d hiss in pain. It probably took the better part of a half hour to get the wing fully stretched out, but once it was, Sunday heaved a sigh of relief.

You examined the wing more thoroughly, trying to give him a break before you worked on his other one. His flight feathers were in worse shape than you first thought; many of the primaries had been clipped, including the ones used in landing. It was quite barbaric. You briefly wondered how many times the feathers had been clipped, how long it took Halovians to grow them back in, how many times had he endured such treatment?

The muscles in the wing were atrophied, and you knew you’d have to help Sunday set up a strict physical therapy regimen if he had any hope of ever flying again. You massaged the joints, helping to relieve the tension from being so cramped.

You gave him another moment’s reprieve, gently kneading the area where the wing met his back, before you began working on the other wing. This one didn’t take as much time to straighten out, and you gave it just as much care as the other one, rubbing away the aches and pains that lanced through him.

Hearing a bang, your wings shot out, wrapping around Sunday’s form before you turned to the door. “Hey- oh! Sorry, sorry.” March said, scratching at her head as she realized she was interrupting something. You could feel Sunday tuck into himself, his wings twitching as you felt him barely stop himself from wrapping them around himself. Thankfully, your wingspan was larger than his, mostly covering him from March’s view. “Um, I was just going to ask if you’d seen Dan Heng, but I’m guessing not, so I’ll leave.” she said, giving an awkward laugh.

“See you later March,” you said as she ducked out the door, giving it a firm shove shut. You could hear her voice carry through the door, speaking to the Trailblazer, before the two wandered off, presumably to find the elusive archivist.

Your wings settled back into place, tucking them against your back as you sighed. “Sorry, Sunday. Are you okay?”

His breath was shaky as you peered down at him, his face flushed from embarrassment. You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed at the thought of March seeing him in such a vulnerable state, or if it was because you’d wrapped him in your wings. After a long moment, he responded, “Yes, I am…fine. You may continue.”

You hummed in acknowledgement before giving his wings another once over before you pulled away. “I won’t lie to you, they’re in rough shape.” You moved back to the otherside of the table so you could look at him as you spoke. “You need to stop constricting them immediately. The blood flow is severely damaged, and your joints are in less than ideal shape from the abuse. The bones themselves are doing well, but the muscles are atrophied.” You took a deep breath before continuing, “It’s going to take a lot of work to get them healthy again, but after strengthening them, and once your flight feathers grow back in, it could be possible to fly again.”

His face seemed to crumple at your words. This…was not an expression you’d ever seen on him before, especially considering he’d tried his best to appear perfect, hiding away any perceived flaw away from prying eyes. You had to stop yourself from reaching out, uncertain if he’d be appreciative of any physical contact, even if all you wanted to do right now was comfort him. All at once his expression dropped, his eyes downcast and gaze dead as he spoke, the whisper so low you weren’t sure he meant for you to hear, “Do I even deserve…?”

You sighed. “Forget whether you deserve it or not, do you want it?”

Sunday raised his head, looking you in the eyes, though his gaze remained far away as his lips parted. “I don’t know.” His expression turned pained as he licked his lips, nervous, as he finally seemed to see you again. “Can you help me fix them?”

You smiled, nodding. “I have some general ideas on what needs to be done, but I’ll do a bit more research on Halovians specifically to help, just give me a day or two to figure out a plan. For now though, we’ll need to get you some better fitting clothes, and the feathers need to be preened. If you’d like, I can do that, or I can leave you to your own devices.”

His cheeks slowly flushed again, the wings by his ears fluttering nervously, and you had to suppress the desire to cup his face in your hands. He was so pretty it was unfair, but you wanted to help him, and it wouldn’t do to admit any budding feelings you had for the Halovian. It was obvious he needed a friend, and you didn’t want to jeopardize the fragile trust built between the two of you.

Sunday cleared his throat. “If you truly would not mind, your help would be appreciated.”

“Do you want tea or anything? This may take a little bit of time,” you said.

He shook his head, “That is unnecessary.”

The two of you situated on the examination table, you had your own legs crossed together as you found the most comfortable position. You began your work; gently opening pin feathers and brushing out old feathers that were stuck, all the while carefully avoiding any blood feathers, lest you injure him.

As you worked, tension seemed to seep out of Sunday, and every once in a while he breathed a sigh of relief. You wondered when he’d last been preened by anyone else; his smaller wings by his wings were taken well care of, his own handiwork you presumed, and the way he shuddered at each gentle touch of yours, each delicate caress as you dutifully worked through the plumage, was telling enough.

It took over an hour to completely finish, and your hands and fingers ached, but it was well worth the effort. You stretched your hands, your joints popping as you did. “Alright, you’re good to go,” you said, sliding off the examination table to once again stand in front of him.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Of course.” You smiled at him. “Just ask if you want me to preen them again, okay?” He nodded at your words, giving you a small smile in return. “Plus, if you’d like, you’re welcome to return the favor one of these days.”

His eyes widened at your offer. “You would trust me to preen your wings?”

Your brows furrowed as a slight frown made its way onto your face. “Yeah. It’s not that surprising is it? I trust you, Sunday. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, and I’m not going to condemn you for yours. The Express is about starting over, about not letting your past weigh you down. Instead, blaze the trail, see the stars, do what you want.”

A soft smile seeped back onto your face as you spoke once more, “Trust, and be trusted in turn, by your fellow passengers. There’s a whole universe waiting for you, Sunday.”

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you #sunday x reader #hurt/comfort?#x reader #not really sure what else to tag #crazy posting this directly after that sparkle one shot but it is what it is #sorry not sorry ig

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piasargeant · 1 month ago

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Quick rant but I've been holding this in for too long. It's long so if you don't wanna hear me rant about Logan Sargeant and the shit he endured, just keep scrolling. Another warning, it is dramatic and I spill how I've been feeling these past few months, so just a heads up it's a lot to process and VERY dramatic so again I'm sorry if it's too much.

What pissed me off about Logan getting dropped is not just that he got dropped, but the way Williams handled it. How are you going to claim you are still going to support Logan in his racing career, but can't even have the decency to announce him being dropped BEFORE announcing who is replacing him. Hell, even your goodbye post was dreadful to read. Not even caring enough to put a simple paragraph. It's sad. Fucking Alex Albon and DURACELL gave him a better goodbye than that, giving him a whole post and a paragraph or more to wish him well, and Alex actually talked about him during a press conference, and it actually made me cry it was so well worded. But even JAMES VOWLES, THE TEAM PRINCIPLE, who said he saw something in Logan, said he has reached a limit to what he can achieve. You were supposed to be the one person who is supposed to help build his confidence, but you only tore him down. It's disgusting.

Also how the rest of the grid treated him. There were very few drivers that followed him on Instagram, so that's just one thing that shows how outcast-ed he was. And for what? Because he is American? Who knows, but it's just not ok. I don't have much to say on this for now because it's not a big deal, just a bit sad in my opinion.

Now onto Franco, I must make it clear that I do not have anything against him. He is extremely talented and seems like a very nice person, and I can see him having a bright future in F1, if given the chance. Now, that being said, the comparison to the way Franco is being treated to the way Logan was treated is genuinely ridiculous. For example, Logan crashes, he deserves to be taken out of the sport or have his seat revoked. Franco crashes, it's automatically the cars fault, and it's not fair to him that the car is so bad. Tell me, how does that make any sense?? For Logan, it's always his fault, but for Franco, it's the car. It's unfair. When the announcement came out that he was being dropped, there were little-to-no comments from any drivers on the grid that were wishing him well. But when Franco was announced?? That's a whole other story. So many drivers welcomed him to the grid. And I mean so many. There were quite a few. The amount of comments on the Williams posts whenever he crashes are always kind and saying the car is shit, but the comments on when Logan crashed?? Every single comment was saying that he should be dropped and how shit he was. How is that fair??

When Daniel got dropped, every single driver was in the comments wishing him well and showing him support, and again, I understand why because Daniel was in the sport for YEARS and everyone loved him and made such an impact in the sport, and I personally love him, he is in my top three favorite drivers, but its just common courtesy to wish someone well even though you may not know then or they were not there for long, because the comparison to Daniel's comment section and Logan's comment section is INSANE. Again, I get Daniel is more popular and well known and loved, but its still crazy to me and it might just be me who thinks that, but I don't care. I will be honest, every driver drop that occured this season was so shit, it's sad. How are you going to be a whole ass adult in an ADULT SPORT and not know human decency?? For Logan, Daniel, AND Esteban, the whole thing was handled so poorly. Alpine, why drop a driver on the LAST RACE OF THE SEASON?? Like what??

I just watched a video of when Logan was talking about how the number 3 was (obviously) taken when coming into F1, and the comment section was WILD. They were hating on him for just saying the number was taken and how he had used that number for other series, but the comments were bashing him and calling him names (saw someone call him a 'trumpie' and it's just like ??? wtf when has he ever said who he supports in the election like?? I'm pretty sure (by contract) he is not allowed to talk about polictics so idk where they got that but whatever ig). I get some people may think he isn't a good driver but he has never EVER shown that he was ever a bad person, so if you hate him than you actually don't have a reason too.

I might be going a bit over board and acting dramatic but it genuinely crushes me seeing how poorly he was treated in the sport. BUT I am so happy to see him doing so much better and thriving now that he doesn't have to deal with the shitty treatment he endured in F1, and now people can see that it wasn't Logan's fault, but that the car is just shit, seeing how horribly the car has performed these last few months.

Again, sorry that this is so long, everything just sorta snapped from being on tik tok too much, and I just couldn't anymore. Sorry if this is too dramatic because I really had to get my point across 😭😭 But anyway this is a Logan Sargeant, Oscar Piastri, Alex Albon, and Duracell appreciation post. Thank you for showing Logan that you care and actually appreciate him. Thank you so much 💗 Logan, I am so excited to see you race in the Le Mans series, and hope to see you even more in the future in Indycar!! 💙💙

#fuck james vowles #formula one #formula 1 #logan sargeant #ls2 #daniel ricciardo #alex albon #oscar piastri #franco colapinto #williams racing

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bitchimasnake-sss · 1 year ago

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unwinding after a long day ft. luffy!

in which, after a long day, he comes right back to you <3

ft. luffy x fem!reader

set-up: its been a tiring day for him, good thing you're right here to offer your services (wink wink)

warnings: both sfw/nsfw headcanons for this dumbass; nsfw stuff includes penetration, cockwarming, raw!fucking (kids use protection pls 👍)

luffy:

sfw!!

- after a long, long day of eating, running around the deck with ussop, defeating like five sea kings, enduring 53628 kicks and punches from the crew (how is this man a captain is beyond me sometimes), luffy is bound to be tired - you're laying on your bed post-dinner, absent-mindedly chipping away the nail polish - you feel the mattress next to you dip lowly as he jumps next to you, face-first - "ynn-" he's whining, wrapping his hands around you and intertwining his legs between yours, "ynnnnnn" "hmm?" you hum, still busy picking apart the colour on your nails "i'm so, so soooo tired" a laugh escapes you, "really? is it due to all the running?" and now he's pouting, "are you saying it's my own fault?" - you peck his cheek, then flash him a grin, "how can i ever say that?" - most of the nights, you silence him by giving him a massage - you don't even think you're good at it but holy shit this boy is obsessed with getting a quick massage from you. - and this has led to quite the number of misunderstandings. "yn," he had asked you when the crew were eating dinner together, "can we do that thing at night? i really need it." "WHAT THE FUCK-" nami is punching luffy in his guts, his food is being thrown out of his mouth and onto zoro, "WE ARE EATING." - he meant massage. - you knew it, he knew it. the rest of the crew? they assumed you were fucking (they aren't wrong, per se. they just didn't want to believe that all the sounds of bed creaking wasn't from you both jumping around, rip them) - yeah ussop threw up and sanji fell to his knees and cried for like 57 mins because how did luffy manage to bag you??? - zoro hasn't spoken in two days from the shock of it (and the traumatic experience of having food spit on him) and nami has retired to her room for a whole business week, she is now only conversing by using chopper as her message carrier - chopper is confused (poor bby 😭😭, he assumed it was massage or something and he is the only one who's correct) - anyways, other than getting massages, sometimes he starts rambling on about something or the other till he falls asleep mid-conversation - rest assured because he will continue whenever he wakes up "where was i?" he's shaking you awake "luffy" you groan, "it's like two am, go to sleep" "oh right, so ussop told chopper than reindeers are called reigndeers because they used to be actual kings back in the ancient times and so rein means reign and not rain like most people as-" he falls asleep again mid conversation - tf are you supposed to do with this man?? - peak, sheer dumbassery even when he's tired

nsfw!!

- this man refuses to entertain one-sided favours - your soft hands were kneading away the tension on his biceps a few minutes ago, so obviously he should return the favour back by massaging your back - you refuse many times because as much as you love luffy, this man does not understand his own strength - so you have a very valid fear that he would break your spine as he gives you a massage - "this isn't fair, let me do it too ughh" "how about no" "okay then let me fuck you, you'd like that right?" - didn't even blink twice plz 😭😭 - this dude is dead serious. - he gotta make up to you for being such a sweetheart to him one way or the other - that explains how he was pulling your top off, sucking sweetly on your tits, fingers gently rubbing over your clothed pussy - that also explained how he pulled you onto his lap, slipping in his dick inside you, stretching you out with a loud moan "you always take it so well, don'tcha?" he grins at you, tipping your head upwards and kissing you - refuses to move tho. - basically baited you into cockwarming him - what a royal asshole. - "what is it?" he coos when he feels your walls clamp down on him, your fingers desperately toying with your clit to get some sort of relief "pl- pleasefuckme-" there's tears clinging onto your lashline, your lips are red from how long you've been biting and chewing on them "hm?" he grins at your state, "what was that you said?" "please-" your breath hitches as he thrusts into you suddenly "fuck you?" "go- god. fuck, yes" his thrusts are merciless, pounding into you at a speed that has your overstimulated cunt spasming in seconds - doesn't let you go till he feels like he's paid you back enough "that was fun" he nuzzles into your neck, breathing slowly "mhm" you feel yourself dozing off he lays you down before snuggling into you and falling asleep - will end up giving you a massage in the morning anyways - although he can be just a little bit of a dick sometimes, there's no one you would rather unwind with

bonus!!

- ussop (while crying) had to relocate from his cabin to sanji's because the walls are really not that thick and he was next door - "i can hear them-" ussop sniffled, standing at sanji's doorstep, "omg i can hear luffy-" "ussop, you have to learn to face the horrors of the world." sanji spoke firmly, although his expression betrayed the confidence in his voice - actually they both just cried and ate the secret stash of ice-cream sanji had saved up - you and luffy need to pay for their therapy now im afraid 😃

zoro's part <3 sanji's part <3

#one piece #luffy x reader #sanji x reader #zoro x reader #luffy smut #monkey d luffy x reader #monkey d luffy #sanji smut #zoro smut #one piece x reader #one piece smut

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the-tech-turn · 11 days ago

Text

UNFINISHED

Summary: Crosshair finds Tech's old journal and reads through it.

Word Count: 1,136

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, s2 spoiler

A/N: This takes place right after the ending of episode 4 s3. I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG FOR ME TO FINISH I PROCRASTINATED TO HARD! This was supposed to be my 50 follower celebration but now it's the 151 followers celebration! Now everyone say thank you to my bestie for peer pressuring me into finishing this and proof-reading this.

The moment Crosshair walked onto the ship after reuniting with his brothers he felt like something was off. He knew Tech was no longer with them but as he looked toward Hunter in the pilot's seat he knew it was wrong. That was Tech’s seat. Tech was supposed to fly. Tech was supposed to be there. Tech was supposed to be here. Yes, Crosshair may have reunited with his family but not all of them. Not his genius brother who would never stop talking. Oh, what he would give to hear his voice geek about different kinds of insects or Wookie culture. Crosshair gets up from his seat and walks into the barracks. He walked up to Tech’s bunk staring at all the projects that would never be finished. Gently, he moved the projects enough to sit but still kept them in relatively the same spot. He didn’t want to disturb Tech’s things. ‘He never let us near them anyways,’ he remembered. He threw his head back, a mere attempt at holding back his tears. He missed his brother. Then a thought came into his mind. A long time ago Crosshair had given him a notebook. A real paper notebook. Tech hasn't used it much since “ It is a precious gift that I do not intend to misuse.” He wondered if he ever had used it. He looks around his bunk seeing nothing. He looks under the bunk and in every place that he can think of to find the book. But he couldn’t. ‘Maybe he lost it or threw it away. Wow, Tech, really showing its “value”, he pauses. ‘ Or maybe…it was on Kamino.’ He didn’t like thinking about it much, but the day the city he was raised in drowned was the day he lost all of his memories as a cadet. He recalled the time he first gave Wrecker Lula. Or the time Hunter had come up with the name the “ The Bad Batch”. Or when he found Tech’s hiding place for his datapad. The memory reminded Crosshair of the hiding spot he and Tech used on the ship. Crosshair used it to store his toothpicks, but Tech used it to hide what he deemed valuable.

‘Maybe, just maybe, it was in there.’ Crosshair crawls across the bed stopping when he gets to the edge of the bed. He reaches over to the side of his bed and carefully pries open a panel. With his hand, he searches for the notebook in the dark box until he locates the small red booklet. He grabs the book and flips through it. ‘Yep, he definitely wrote in it,’ but as Crosshair continued to flip through pages he realized just how many pages were blank. Never to be written in. Never to be drawn on. He got up and sat on Tech’s bunk once more. He opened the book, analyzing the handwriting. He saw how the handwriting improved with every entry. While skimming the book one word caught his attention. “Race”. Omega has told him about the time they were bodyguards for someone named Cid and Tech was forced to race to keep everyone safe. “ What’s so important about a mission on some sketchy planet?” Crosshair wonders. There was only one way to find out so he started reading.

I had won the race (obviously) but to my surprise, the crowd cheered which is not uncommon at such events. I've heard their screams since I arrived. I also had full confidence in my ability, but hearing them chant my name with so much excitement, along with the praise from my siblings, I felt an overwhelming joy. All my life I had been made fun of, due to my enhancement. Mainly by regs, I have also endured endless teasing from my brother's thanks to my constant "rambling". It no longer bothered me much but it took a lot of self-reassurance to get to such a point. Little praise was given to me, the only source of which came from my brothers. No one else had a reason to provide that to me for it was my purpose. But now there are hundreds if not thousands of people admiring my skill. It felt nice, to say the least.

Crosshair gave a soulful smile. ‘ He had been mocked all his life, and I participated in it,’ he admitted sorrowfully, ‘At least, he didn’t hold it against me.’ Crosshair lets out a sigh and flips to another page. Crosshair pauses, his name on the page. Hesitantly he begins reading, afraid of Tech’s true feelings towards him after everything. He could only hope his brother didn’t think poorly of him.

Omega asked me why I didn't care about Echo leaving us and while I think I responded appropriately the interaction got me thinking about Crosshair again. I’ve tried to forget, but that plan was flawed. How was I supposed to ignore him if I didn’t want to? I eventually came to accept his decision but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. In all honesty, I miss the times when we’d cause trouble in the mess hall. I miss when we’d compete in who shot more droids. I miss the moments when I work on a project and he’d sit next to me and clean his rifle. I miss when we would be up at the latest hours when I would ramble about anything and everything while he’d try his best to stay awake. He enjoyed sleeping a lot so it was difficult for him, but I appreciate what he did. I miss when things were simpler- no that is incorrect. I do not miss fighting for the republic. Back then we had to risk our lives, we were mistreated, we didn’t have Omega and we couldn’t choose for ourselves. I miss Crosshair. But I don’t think I’ll see him again. But, if there's one thing certain about Crosshair is his loyalty. That was evident when he stayed with the Empire. It never falters but it can shift when the loyalty isn’t mutual. I believe that is why he left us. When we denied the Empire he felt that we denied him. I do not regret leaving the Empire but I do regret not taking Crosshair with us. I find myself replaying recordings of him when I am in need comfort. It’s the closest thing that I have to him with me.

Tears threatened to fall from his eyes. He should’ve come back sooner. If he had his brother would still be here. Crosshair looked around the room and studied it. He sees Tech’s projects, equations, and blueprints. All are things that Tech never got to finish. Looking down towards the journal, Crosshair decided to complete writing on the book. So it didn’t have to remain unfinished.

EXTRA: Here's some old art I made when first promoting this fic.

#tbb tech #tbb crosshair #the bad batch #tbb #tbb fanfiction #Angst #tbb angst #tbb spoilers

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iamnmbr3 · 4 months ago

Note

Severus calling Lily a slur in a fit of rage and humiliation while being bullied - obviously very bad. James publicly sexually assaulting Severus - obviously much worse?!!! That was some serious sadism on display. Yet for some bizarro reason the narrative wants me to judge the words said in this scene more harshly than the deeds done, because at this point Lily - an author self-insert and the Holy Mother of this saga - cuts one off for their crime and falls in love with the other. I do not like that Lily’s romantic choice is treated as some sort of absolution, but it’s what JKR implied. Despite paralleling James’ actions with the Death Eaters ‘sick’ ’torture’ of the Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup! Idk, I was never satisfied with the lack of follow through on the implications of that scene, nor with the textual idea that Snape’s fixation on the Marauders is petty childishness, rather than a quite understandable trauma response.

Yeah. I have a huge issue with the way James is framed by the narrative. It's also weird because in-universe everything works fine. The problem comes when we look at the jarring disconnect between what was written and the way the audience is cued to react. James's characterization - and the characterization of the Marauders - is well done and consistent. They all act and react realistically given who they are. The problem comes when we look at how we the audience are supposed to react. Because we are supposed to see their actions as bad, but not THAT big of a deal. And uh...yikes.

The Snape's Worst Memory sequence is one of the most horrifying and sadistic moments in the series. I find it particularly visceral and upsetting because it feels real in a way that some of the more fantastical scenes just don't. It's so horrifying and personal in a way that Voldemort punishing his minions or a snake coming out of a lady just isn't. The way James and the others so obviously delight in tormenting and humiliating Snape is just horrific. And the fact that they do this out in the open and face little pushback and no consequences makes it even more awful.

Even worse, everything we see in the narrative suggests that what they did wasn't even that unusual for them. The behavior and dialogue we see from Snape and from the Marauders makes it very clear that doing this sort of thing to Snape is a regular pastime. The reason this is Snape's worst memory is because of the effect this particular incident ended up having on his relationship with Lily, not because of the horrible treatment he endured which was horrifyingly routine.

JK Rowling seems to like Snape. But at the same time I think she tends to have a view (common among TERFs btw) that discounts men as victims of assault. Because that's what this was. And I know if a woman had been stripped and exposed by a group of boys JKR would not have treated it as lightly. Yes she thinks what happened was bad, but not THAT bad. And listen I don't have a problem with the story depicting this and I think the way it is viewed subsequently by the Marauders, wizarding society and Snape all work in the story. My problem is with the framing and the way JKR has talked about James in interviews where it makes clear that she doesn't view this with the gravity it deserves.

James shows more of a natural inclination towards sadism and obvious enjoyment of cruelty and violence than young Tom Riddle does. And this is never dealt with. A lot of the real evil people of the world are more like James - people who aren't the way they are because of some dramatic backstory or because of trauma or whatever. They just aren't kind. James wasn't raised without love or forced to suffer privation in an orphanage or anything like that. He comes from a loving home with parents who spoil him rotten. He has a lot of privilege due to both his wealth and his blood status. And he is cruel and delights in tormenting someone weaker than him for sport. Not because Snape did something to him. Not because they quarreled and James went too far in retaliation. But rather because, as James himself puts it, he exists. Which is so typical of the bullies of the world.

I actually like the fact that Harry's father turns out to be this kind of person. It think it adds depth and complexity to the narrative. But I don't think JKR fully understood or intended what she wrote. She meant to show James as flawed, but not to the extent that she ended up doing I think. And I agree that has always bothered me too.

#not to mention the way some corners of fandom act as tho james was this pure cinamon roll when he...very much wasn't.#James Potter #Harry Potter #asks #cw sa mention

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mirnilop · 1 year ago

Text

𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ wally darling

⚠ tags: sfw, mob au, yandere!wally, gn!singer!reader, power imbalance, discussions of violence

♡ synopsis: you’d be surprised how many fans you accrue as a small-time lounge singer. while this is usually a good thing, one of yours happens to rule half the city, so he isn’t exactly receptive to the word “no”.

♡ word count: 5,310

⛧ﾐ‧*･ﾟ the following content may be triggering to some. please proceed with caution! ･ﾟ*‧ミ⛧

a/n: hello!! ₍ᐢ.ˬ.⑅ᐢ₎ goshh, my very first post on this acc!! i haven’t posted fanfic in a hot minute but i’m suuuper excited to get back into it!! 💞 i have sooo many wips for this fandom, it was difficult to choose which one to finish first! credit to @/clownsuu for creating the au and for the lovely art!! i tweaked the concept a wee bit so that it takes place in a roger rabbit-esque world where puppets and humans live together unharmoniously (with a jessica rabbit inspired reader ofc >v>). it was a lot of fun trying to marry wally's canon personality with a Scary Mob Boss (*´ 艸`) i can't wait to post more!! what are y'all's favourite aus? let me know!! ･*･:≡(　ε:)

There’s a rose on your vanity.

The sight of it snuffs out your high spirits, irritation igniting in its place– and it was such a good day, too! You and the girls were perfectly in sync for your entire performance, bolstered by the unusually affable audience; you even rewarded them with a sneak peek of new material, which made them go wild!

Dreams of stomping it beneath your heel stew in your head as you drop it in the faience vase at the rim of the mirror, where a crinkled, beige-tipped rose droops against the rim. Why not break the vase too? An idea that’s crossed your mind too many times, and while it gets harder to resist with each flower, you endure it. They’re presents, after all, and you doubt your admirer would take kindly to the news that you’ve trashed them. You’re certain one of his minions would obtain the evidence, if not witness you do it; you can’t pinpoint the extent to which they survey you, but the crawling sensation of eyes on your back crops up often, and obviously they have no problem barging into your dressing room to play delivery service.

Sighing, you comb through your rolling rack to pick a suitable outfit to change into. Most of the articles hanging are also gifts, but you’ve made sure to keep some of your own hard-earned clothes here out of sheer spite. A burgundy cashmere number has just slipped into your grasp when the door bursts open.

“How’s that for a show?! And what a great crowd, a whole buncha dolls! Or– well, puppets– and humans! Hahaha!”

Lottie skips in with her usual energy, the bell on her collar jingling alongside the clack of her Mary Janes. You hate that their manager mandates the bells as a part of their costumes, as if puppets being treated like second-class citizens wasn’t enough. “You wanna make money or not? It’s part of the appeal! You know, Mary Had A Little Lamb and all that!” is what he told you after one of your countless tirades regarding his treatment of them, but the sleazy smirk wrapped around his cheap cigarette allowed you to read between the lines. As much as you despise that man, it’s not your business to judge the trio for staying contracted with him. Mottie’s recalled to you how difficult it was to hire a manager at all, and you suppose you have to (begrudgingly) thank him for bringing them into your life, since he’s the one who bagged them the backup singer gig.

A swell of color in your peripheral lets you know that she’s come near, but you don’t bother diverting attention from your search. This is such a common occurrence between you two that pleasantries are no longer required.

“And they were mighty generous with the tips! So me and the gals was thinking we should go somewhere to… celebrate…”

Hearing her trail off, you turn to find her staring at the new rose, her once-perky ears fallen limp. You click your tongue, remorse prickling your heart, though you’ve done nothing wrong.

“I’ll be alright, Lottie. Here,” You grab a wad of bills from your personal tip jar and fold them into her hand. “You take your sisters somewhere nice, my treat. As an apology for having to skip out tonight.”

When she doesn’t move from her spot, merely pouting at you with big, glistening eyes full of concern, you swaddle her in a hug. Fleecy strands of shell pink hair tickle your nose as she nestles her snout into your shoulder, squeezing you like a lifebuoy. Having her in your arms is a vital reminder as to why you continue to put up with everything. Lottie, Dottie and Mottie are your beloved friends– your family when you had none– and you are willing to do whatever is necessary to build a life with them.

“Are ya sure?”

“Positive. And if that bug gives you even a whiff of trouble, you come get me right away, got it?”

She laughs, the sound a balm to the ache of your worries. “He never gives us any trouble– n’fact, I haven’t heard ‘im say a single word!”

“Good. At least one of them has manners. Now go have fun!”

After a few more hugs and a promise to relay your apology to her sisters, she trots towards the entrance. Halfway through it, she pauses.

“Promise ya’ll play nice?”

An involuntary grimace twists your face, which you smooth immediately.

“I was planning on it,” you concede, earning an exhale of relief from Lottie.

“Thanks. Honestly, I’m kinda worried...” She leans against the doorframe, gaze trained on the checkered floor. “I see more and more of that Napoleon-wannabe’s goons lately. Do ya think he’s gettin’ antsy? It’s been real quiet since that incident with Dorelaine.”

Ah, the incident. It happened a handful of months ago; he refused to go into specifics, but what you’ve gathered from his gnomic recount and various news stories is that their rival organization– led by Ronald Dorelaine, a human man– planted explosives somewhere important, racking up thousands in damages and dismembering several puppets, left to be mended with those horrific stitches. You didn’t receive another rose until several weeks afterwards.

“I can’t be sure,” you admit. “He doesn’t tell me much about the goings-on of the ‘family’, not that I care to know. But I noticed he’s been more wound up lately… maybe they’re going to retaliate?”

A visible shudder travels through Lottie, and she tosses her head as if to ward off the gravity of your predicament. It was easier to ignore the implications when there wasn’t an active turf battle.

“You’re right, we should stay as far as we can from that nasty business. Wear the red, then. To butter ‘im up a little.” She offers you a conflicted half-smile, most likely holding herself back from proposing a makeover, before sidling out the door.

Glowering, you follow the advice, shucking your tight, shimmering stage outfit for the cozy cashmere you were eyeing before. Like I need to be reminded of his favorite color. I’ve practically lived in red since I met him. It inexplicably fits like a glove, as do all of the clothes you've been bestowed; for the sake of your sanity, you prevent yourself from delving too far into that subject.

As you fix the little bits of your appearance that got mussed up during your performance, you can’t help but contemplate hiding in your room until morning, even though you know it wouldn’t work– and you’d have to pay for a broken front door. Once every speck of lint has been removed and your ensemble is flawless, you steel your resolve with a hard look in the mirror. If things go south, at least you’ll make a gorgeous open casket.

You step into your shoes and out of the dressing room, swiping your bag and a matching hat from the plethora that dangle on knobs affixed to the wall along the way. The haze that eternally permeates the lounge envelops you as you walk, no longer springing tears to your eyes like it did so long ago, when you were a starry-eyed fledgling. Upon entering the foyer, you call out to the owner, Gene, who’s counting the register behind the bar.

“Hey, I’m heading out!”

“Geez, you’re in a hurry! Got a hot date or what?”

“Something like that,” you breathe, your nerves relighting tenfold now that you’re so close to the outside.

“Ahh, I getcha.” His amusement is clear, construing an innuendo within your words that is absolutely not there, but you’d rather die than clarify. “You did a great job today, you deserve it!”

Somehow, your admirer has managed to limbo directly under Gene’s nose; thus far he’s made no indication that he’s aware he has a very important patron. For a moment, you observe him, and see how he absentmindedly rubs the pocket of his button-up– where a polaroid of his two children is safely tucked away– and you decide that it’s probably for the best.

“Thanks, Gene. Have a good one.”

“You too!”

His reply barely reaches you as you cross the threshold from the comfort of your work into the cold, pensive night. A luckier soul may have suffered a fright when greeted with the colossal figure standing below the street light, carved with shadow, but it’s a familiar sight to you now. An inconspicuous black car is parked behind him.

“Hi Howdy.”

“Evening, Mx.” He bows slightly, whisking open the sleek passenger door which you reluctantly slide inside.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I do have a name.” It’s true. Being addressed formally by such an important figure imbues you a with a sick feeling, like he’s won, and you’ve already been initiated into this fucked up institution.

Though he waits for you to finish speaking before shutting you in, he doesn’t grace you with a response; not that you were expecting one. In all the times he’s escorted you to these duress-dates, as you’ve taken to calling them, he’s remained stoic to a mechanical degree, acknowledging your presence and nothing more. Thrashing, crying, screaming– you’ve tried everything to escape, and have never elicited a reaction more severe than that of a tired parent handling a tantrum. If you resist, he simply manhandles you. It’s hardly a fair match, with him having 4 arms and several feet of height on you, so you opt to reserve your energy for dealing with his headache of a boss.

When he hauls his many limbs onto the driver’s seat, the car lurches, too small to accommodate a puppet of his stature; he has to hunch forward to see the windshield, antennae pushed flat. You lean back and vacantly turn towards the window, wondering if cars big enough for someone like him to drive comfortably even exist while the engine rumbles to life.

The umbrous cityscape passes you by, inklings of humans and puppets flashing in and out of the darkness like ghosts. Thick boughs of red and green tinsel are strung across a few lamp posts, but by the end of the season they’ll all be covered. Dottie’s already triple checked that you and her sisters have one day of the annual Christmas market off, even though you strike the same deal with Gene every year; the four of you get Saturday, then he gets Sunday to take his family. It’s one of your favorite times of the year, if only because you get to experience the aura of wonder that enlivens Lottie when the first snow falls, Mottie’s timid wheedling to attend The Nutcracker, and Dottie’s alphabetically-organized checklist of fun winter activities.

Those cheerful thoughts are wiped away as Howdy turns into a private garage attached to a sleek, angular skyscraper. He parks in the spot nearest to the entrance, the first in a row of spaces labeled with metal “Reserved for Staff” signs, and circles the car to let you out. The sensation of him gingerly lifting you comes with no alarm; he always assists you up the concrete stairs leading to the elevator, as if you’re so physically inept you can’t handle 3 tiny steps. You assume his needless precaution is for the same reason he hasn’t beaten you yet despite defying him so often: boss’s orders.

With a reedy knell, the elevator glides open, and Howdy signals for you to go ahead. Once you’re both inside, he inserts a key and presses the button for the uppermost level. Expecting a noiseless ride, you tune into the low muzak emitting from the speakers, which makes you miss the first time he calls you.

“Mx.”

Startled, you swivel towards him. His steadfast profile is unreadable.

“Boss doesn’t know you’ve opposed him so vehemently in the past. Please keep that in mind tonight.”

The entrance broaches before you can interrogate him as to what the hell he means, granting you entry to a luxury penthouse laved in gold, ivory, and– of course– red. A glimmering chandelier suspends from the ornamental ceiling, bathing the antique furniture in an amber glow. If you hadn’t just ridden up the elevator, you would have assumed such a lavish drawing room belonged to an old mansion.

It’s something straight out of a romance novel, except instead of a chiseled, broody Italian, it’s a short puppet sitting at the marble-topped dining table. He lounges at the head in a slate blue silk suit with its jacket buttoned to the top; an honor seemingly reserved solely for you, because it’s the only way you’ve seen him wear it, despite street tales describing the way it billows from his shoulders as he stalks the town. Revealed by its plunged neckline is the collar of a white dress shirt embossed with rainbow pinstripes, and a red ascot neatly tied and pulled askant around his throat.

Wally Darling, in the felt: kingpin of The Neighborhood, and resident thorn in your side.

When you arrive, he rises to meet you, dismissing Howdy with a pointed glance; you’ve learned that the relationship between a crime lord and his loyal bandog transcends language. You watch him as he leaves through a pair of swinging doors to the left, his cryptic advice-slash-warning heavy on your mind.

And so, you find yourself alone with the most dangerous man in the city– puppet or otherwise.

“Good evening, dearest. I hope my gift found you well.”

The concept of personal space might as well be Greek to Wally, since he hasn’t once respected it from the day you had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. He crowds so close that you have to crane your neck to see his face, the heat emanating from him eliciting shivers in your chill-soaked body.

“Yes, thank you. It was quite a lively night,” you chirp, wielding a civil smile.

Although the contours of his wispy, coiffed curls only reach your ribs, he extends his arm to you, which you take with such a featherlight hold that you barely brush his sleeve. Rather than leading you to the dining table like you expected, you’re guided towards a small lounge area to the side, the crackling croon of Billie Holiday wafting over from a refurbished stereo console in the corner. Oh, great. He’s feeling sentimental.

“Would you indulge me with a dance before dinner?”

Don't have much of a choice, do I?

“I’d love to.”

Dancing with Wally is funny, in an ironic sort of way; it certainly caught you off guard the first time he asked. When you envision dancing with a powerful, deadly mobster, you think of being swept away, wrapped snugly by strong arms and a dastardly smirk, or perhaps something more courtly, like a waltz steered by a polite hand on your waist. Turns out both versions are incorrect.

Muscle memory ushers your arms open, and Wally falls into the space in between them– literally. Slack against you, his full weight is heftier than his height would imply, but not physically uncomfortable– emotionally and morally, however, are another story. An air of pure peace washes over him as his cheek nuzzles the underside of your chest, arms limp at his sides; you swear you even hear a little trill. Your face burns, but you say nothing as you begin to sway faintly to the beat, tracing a loop with your feet as you traipse along. Wally follows easily, tethered by the reluctant cage of your embrace.

“Do you remember the night we met?”

The query is felt more than heard, his gentle monotone muffled by the downy fabric of your garb. You huff softly to yourself, rustling a few gel-slick strands atop his pompadour.

“How could I forget?”

The day the infamous Mr. Darling appeared in your club, his two largest henchmen in tow, is burned into your brain like a regrettable tattoo; Gene was off, so you were covering entertainment for the night while the sisters managed the bar and floor. As you were singing the very song playing now, you detected a curious hush that had overtaken the throng of guests, and strained to cut through the stage glare and cigarette fog to locate the cause. Tracking the audience, who were all regarding the bar with varying amounts of subtlety, you nearly dropped the microphone when you saw the broad blue back of Barnaby B. Beagle, someone you’d only heard of in gossip. He gesticulated as he spoke boisterously to poor Mottie, who was as white as a sheet behind the counter. Situated a slight ways away was Howdy Pillar, who stood as motionless as a statue with both sets of forelimbs fastened behind him.

And then you noticed him. A puppet no more than 4 feet tall, but whose oppressive presence commanded full attention. He paid no mind to the (one-sided) conversation between his colleague and your friend– no, he was staring right at you. Boring into you so acutely that you felt pinned, compelled somehow to continue singing until the final note trickled away.

As if a spell had been broken, you leapt from the platform and scurried to Mottie, who stayed petrified even when you tried to covertly nudge her to the side. How avidly you wished a fissure would open beneath their shoes and swallow them whole; but, armed with years of appeasing difficult and sordid customers, you spoke.

“Evening, fellas. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Barnaby, who had stopped talking when you rounded the bar, bellowed a laugh.

“Fellas?! Is that any way to greet the boss and I?"

He tilted forward with menacing glee, propped up by furry elbows as his claws scraped the laminate countertop. Each of his fangs were as big as your nose.

"Dontcha know who we are, toots? Or do ya just need a refresher on respect?"

The acrid smoke from his cigar blew directly into your face, making spikes of anger bubble in your belly as you choked back a cough. Just when you felt composed enough to reply, a surprisingly mellow voice chimed in.

"It's alright, Barnaby."

The shock slacking his jaw mirrored yours, although you hid it under a mask of cool indifference. You dared a glance at Mr. Darling, but the pressure of his peer chased your gaze back to Barnaby, who grumbled as he straightened back up. It was difficult to stay trained on his good eye, but you soldiered on. Fear was not something you could afford to show, and you knew you'd crumble if you peeked at the fabled gaping socket that he stapled open himself.

"I don't suppose you're Gene Clifton, aged 54, father of two, owner of this joint?" He joked, recovered from the flub.

"No, sir, but my banker would sure be happy if I was. Can I take down a message?"

"A message! I love this bird!" Snickering cruelly, he waved a flippant paw. "Y'should try that material on stage sometime, might bring ya more customers than the singing bit."

You sucked a sharp inhale up your nose. Serenity now.

"See, here's the problem. This is family territory, and in return for our protection, we charge a teensy fee. Now, we ain't unreasonable– we've sent ole Gene a few letters. And what’s our thanks for such humble hospitality? Zilch."

Oh dear. Gene doesn't bother investigating any mail the lounge receives before tossing it because it’s typically adverts. He definitely would've noted The Neighborhood's seal if he did. Regardless, the frank abuse of power only fanned your annoyance, obscuring your better judgment.

"What protection? I don't recall seeing any of your members patrolling outside. Besides, we didn’t ask for protection."

Mottie snapped towards you, looking as though she might faint. The corner of Barnaby's mouth twitched skyward, like he was hoping you'd argue, but his boss beat him to the punch.

"We can reach an agreement, I’m sure. I'd hate to see a family establishment go under, especially when they have such lovely entertainment."

Apparently Wally was so smitten that he'd accept your company in lieu of money, and so the agreement (if you can even call it that, since you were coerced) was this– whenever a rose was delivered to you, you'd attend a rendezvous with him. When you returned to your dressing room later that evening, you discovered the first gift of several: your vase.

“I knew because of your eyes.”

The floral wallpaper in front of you shifts back into focus, Wally’s voice shaking you from your recollection.

“Pardon?”

“That night, you drew me in; I couldn’t concentrate on anything else, least of all a petty protection tax. And I knew I had to have you when I met your eyes.” He sounds dreamy, reminiscing as you were before, though his framing of events is worlds apart from your own; he recalls a destined encounter with his future partner, whereas you mark it the day your wings were clipped for good.

“They shone like stars, even through the smog.”

It’s only after he’s finished that you realize you’ve stopped moving, wrapped in an intimate hug like true lovers. A strange mix of pride and disgust floods you at the compliment, stomach flip-flopping rapidly.

He untangles from you, receding so that only your hands remain connected. The newfound distance eases some of your tension, but to your horror, you find yourself mourning the loss of the husky scent of his cologne. Loath as you are to admit it, the bastard smells amazing: a dark, leathery swirl of apples and saffron that you’d buy out if someone turned it into a candle.

“Let’s not delay any longer. You must be starving.”

True to his gentlemanly veneer, he seats you at the table before settling himself. You don’t see him call, but a server emerges immediately from the doors through which Howdy left with a tray of appetizers.

There are two graces you award Wally Darling: his excellent taste in cologne, and his staff’s Michelen-quality fare. Though they adopt the four courses typical of fine dining, the dishes are more grounded, toeing the border between grandma and Gordon Ramsay perfectly. Truthfully, you’re not even sure what to categorize it as; virtually everything is transfigured into a jello, pie, or salad, harkening back to the post-war cookbooks you used to gawk at as a child in your late mother’s library. The yellowed pictures in those books appeared extremely unappetizing, but somehow The Neighborhood makes it work.

It could be because of an illusive member named Poppy, one of the 7 who make up Wally’s illustrious inner circle. She’s scarcely seen due to her fretful and skittish nature, but Wally lauds her cooking and baking skills, regaling you in the past with plenty of kitchen mishaps that occurred when she tried to decompress by experimenting with recipes and was interrupted by their more excitable comrades. If you remember correctly, he once told you that most of the menus in rotation were created by her.

The nature of these duress-dates is wholly dependent on Wally’s mood– if he’s happy, then he’ll gladly chat your ear off about frivolous happenings in his and his friends’ private lives, though he takes care to be shrewd with any details that dive too deep into the murky underbelly lying just below. If he’s unhappy, then they can be utterly unbearable; his mere existence puts you on edge, so it’s exponentially worse when he’s out of sorts, tone curt and glare fierce.

Thankfully, he’s amiable tonight. The first 3 courses march on without incident, and painless conversation flows between the two of you, even if he does most of the talking– you’re not exactly eager to share more than you have to. It’s when the server presents dessert that things go awry.

“Say, how are those triplets you work with doing?” Wally says, spooning at the Bananas Foster. “I haven’t had the pleasure of catching a performance since our mishap a while back. So much paperwork, so little time, you know how it is.”

The mention of both your friends and the aforementioned Dorelaine incident have you bristling reflexively, but you do your best to tamp it down.

“They’re well, overall. Sometimes it’s difficult for them– their manager’s a real piece of work, and we get all types at the lounge.”

“I see…”

He lets out a long “hmmmm”, like he’s reflecting on this information.

“My family has also come upon hard times. It can be… trying, sometimes, to guide my children. Especially now, when we are under unjust attack.” He confesses, wistfully resting his chin on a thread-scarred palm. “Every family requires a head, but what is a head without a neck?”

Unjust my ass. Still, the weird metaphor confuses you.

“A neck?”

At that, his catlike grin only grows. What is he talking about?

“Yes, a neck; that is, someone who supports the head. I care for my family, so it’s only right I am cared for in return, wouldn’t you say?”

Though the phrasing is puzzling, you’re fairly confident you can infer what he’s purposefully dangling in front of you, and oh, it makes your stomach plummet. Sweat breaks out underneath your suddenly-sweltering outfit; it's as if you've been tied to a railroad and have managed to divert the train through pure will for a year, but now it's steamrolling square for you. The anxiety of impending doom renders you mute, unable to piece together a coherent thought.

Taking your silence in stride, Wally leans forward, intense as he grasps your hand in both of his own. The yellow fuzz does nothing to help how clammy you feel.

“What I mean to say is, I think that it’s time to settle down."

No.

“Wh– what? Settle down how?”

“To get married, silly.”

You’re unable to help the gasp that escapes you. No, no, no!

“Get married? You mean– to me?!”

“Of course. I’ve been courting you all this time, haven’t I?”

You sputter, and he rubs your hand as if to soothe you. His many gold rings gleam under the chandelier, teasing a glimpse of your fate.

“I know in the beginning you weren’t receptive to the idea of this life, but I've shown you that I can provide for you better than anyone else.”

Your expression must betray your surprise, because he chuckles– a slow, stilted sound that sends gooseflesh blooming across your skin.

“You thought I didn’t know? Howdy may not have reported it– which I’ll rectify in due time– but I have eyes everywhere, dear. You’re quite the talented actor, though.”

That trademark simper melts into something beguiling; he cradles you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“I love you, and I will take care of you, as I ask you to do for me. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

An inviting facade of genuine affection, so ardent that you almost want to believe it. Wouldn’t that be the easiest path to take? To surrender to the hand that feeds, because where it strangles others, it caresses you sweetly? It’s more tempting than you’d ever divulge, because underneath the armor of aplomb you've so carefully forged, you're exhausted. This burden has been yours alone to bear– and what a bear it is, because if you mess up, the people you love could be injured, or worse. So much worse.

Perhaps sensing an opening, Wally continues.

“Be reasonable. The family welcomes you with open arms! Haven’t you missed having a family?"

The words stab you right through the heart, and your waning resolve springs back tenfold by the fury that ruddies your vision. When you rip your hand away, he makes no move to stop you.

"My friends are my family. I don’t want anyone else, especially not murderers!” You snarl. “You kill people– and torture and maim them! How can you expect me to accept this?!"

"All in a day's work when cleaning up the city, unfortunately," Wally hums. "I wish we didn't have to resort to such things, but you must understand. As it is, puppets are treated as less than, and hardship runs rampant for both humans and puppets alike. You’ve experienced these firsthand.” With the elegance of a master conman, he touches his chest in mock respire. “All we wish to do is provide a safe haven for those in need– somewhere to rest your bones, enjoy a hot meal, and where everyone accepts you as their own. A home.”

You abruptly stand up, feeling like you’re wound so taut that you could erupt at any moment. The mahogany chair behind you tips over from the force, striking the floor with a leaden thud, though the sound is deafened by the blood rushing in your ears.

“Bullshit! You don’t have to start a gang to combat discrimination or help suffering people! Maybe that spiel works on the poor saps you trick into doing your dirty work, but it won’t work on me. The answer is no.”

All is still for a moment as you struggle to calm your heaving breaths, trembling and locked in a quiet stalemate with Wally, who’s as relaxed as ever. Your attention flits from his right eye to where the left would be, if not for the lesion carved from a notch above his eyelid to an inch below, giving the illusion that what lies beneath is impaled.

Oh shit.

The magnitude of what just transpired comes crashing down as your adrenaline flushes out. After playing it safe for months– stomaching unwanted exorbitant gifts, being tailed by his employees, and rousted to innumerous “dates”– you just rejected Wally Darling in the most aggressive way possible. So you do the only thing that might garner you a chance to make it out of this alive: run.

You’re halfway across the room when 4 thick arms suddenly wrangle and force you to halt, a scream ripping itself from your throat out of fear. Can this motherfucker teleport now?! How the hell did he get here so fast?? Thrashing, you throw your head back to search Howdy’s face, desperate for an ounce of the sympathy he’d offered in the elevator, but it is in vain; his stony visage is impenetrable, as though it had never wavered.

“How about you sleep on it, hm? Think about all of your options. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to those little lambs when their adorable shepherd isn’t around to protect them.”

Delicate fingers cup your jaw, making you freeze as Wally stretches up to plant a faux-kiss on your cheek, complete with a small “mwah!”. You scowl daggers at him as he collects your hat from where it flew to the floor, dusts it off, and lovingly places it back on your head before giving you a few pats.

“Aw, don’t be that way, darling. I truly meant what I said; you have beautiful eyes. I can hardly wait to try one on.”

With a snap, you’re hauled over Howdy’s back and spirited out of the room, presumably to be transported to wherever you’ll be staying. Hopefully not Wally’s quarters.

It’s all too much; you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare. How else did you expect this to end? You’re not sure. With all of the awful things he’s done, forcing you into marriage is not beyond him. You just thought you’d have more time: to plan, to save up enough money to take the girls and race to the hills.

Tears gather on your waterlines, and the minute your mouth wobbles, they spill ceaselessly. Full-bodied sobs wrack you, the pain of Howdy’s shoulder jutting into your midsection compounding the profound ache of sorrow. All this time, you’ve been trying to fight, but there was no fight to be had; it ended the moment his eyes found yours across the lounge that day.

#🐇 penned #🌈🖼️ wh #feat. some random ocs i made up for the sake of the fic #welcome home #welcome home x reader #wally darling x reader #x reader #reader-insert #yandere x reader #i love randomly throwing in ronald dorelaine #cause we have no idea who he is or what he's like #so he can be whatever i need him to be #yandere wally darling #yandere wally darling x reader #welcome home mob au #clownsuu

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