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ju-vondy · 5 months ago

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Into Jason's mind (Headcanon scene)

So, after the release of EP 4 I couldn't stop wondering the reason Jason prefer not commit to a long-term relationship and how he would react when he realize Candy was breaking that barriers down... So I wrote this for the chap. 20+- in my fic and I just HAD to share with you all. I didn't post the fanfic yet once I'm still waiting AO3 invite me LOL. But here you go, I hope you enjoy it:

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Jason was sitting on the sofa in his luxurious apartment, the dim light from the modern lamps casting soft shadows on the walls. He held a glass of whiskey, slowly swirling the amber liquid, lost in his thoughts. The night was silent, interrupted only by the occasional sound of distant traffic.

He glanced at the clock on the wall: 2:45 a.m. Sleep was something that had been eluding him lately, especially with Candy dominating his thoughts.

Jason ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. The goals, contracts and meetings that once occupied his mind so easily now seemed insignificant. His mind wandered incessantly to Candy, to her smiles, her expressions of determination, and even to the moments of vulnerability that she rarely let show.

Looking around, he realized how his personal space was carefully designed to reflect success and control. However, the emotional emptiness remained unchanged.

Jason picked up his phone and, on an impulse, opened Instagram. He looked at his recent posts: several photos of him at social events, with different women by his side. He recalled Thomas's words that he had overheard while the Devenementiel team gathered at the Cosy Bear Café: "Jason is a womanizer…" “He doesn’t seem to commit to his relationships…”

That was true. But why?

Releasing a deep sigh, he leaned back further on the sofa, closing his eyes. His mind drifted back in time, reliving memories of past relationships. Then he remembered the first time he decided not to commit: He was young, ambitious, and... In love with an older woman who had promised to be his partner in life and in business. But she betrayed him, both emotionally and professionally, ruining not just his heart but also an important business transaction.

After that, Jason vowed never to let anyone get that close again. Long-term commitments brought risks he couldn’t afford. He built a life where control and independence were paramount, and where women were only temporary distractions, never real threats to his heart or business.

Moreover, he didn’t have time to dedicate to a partner. His work consumed every second of his day, leaving little room for anything else. And children? The idea of being a father was a responsibility he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, assume. Kids are absurdly expensive and need time, patience—things he couldn’t offer in the phase of life he was in.

Jason also couldn’t ignore the fact that most of the women he met were shallow. They played hard to get, but as soon as he showed some sign of value, some symbol of status, they yielded instantly. Candy, however, was different. Candy never yielded. She challenged him and… That intrigued and attracted him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

She disarmed him with her intelligence, her strength, and paradoxically, with her vulnerability. He remembered how he felt when he saw her wearing glasses for the first time, how that unexpected sight affected him more than it should have. Jason stood up and walked to the window, looking at the illuminated city below. The view was something that always calmed him, but today, even that couldn’t soothe the restlessness within him. Candy’s presence in his life was starting to make him question his decisions.

What was most frightening wasn’t the desire he felt for her, but the fact that he wanted more than just a fleeting affair. He wanted to know her better, wanted to be by her side, wanted to hear her bad jokes, wanted… Commitment.

“Why does she affect me so much?” he murmured to himself, his thoughts returning to the last time he saw her.

They had met at the tennis club last weekend. He still remembered how his heart skipped a beat when he saw her with sunglasses and a hat, an unexpected and incredibly attractive sight. And then, during the match, the moment they bumped into each other and he offered his hand to help her up. The connection he felt at that moment still haunted him.

In fact, all the other moments haunted him. Even though he had shared a bed with several women in recent months, it was always Candy he found himself thinking about. The first time he kissed her in the garden, that night when the explosion finally happened and they released all the tension between them as their naked bodies engaged in heady movements. And then, at the Snake Room, the electricity between them was almost unbearable. The heat and urgency of that moment still made him shudder.

At the opera, the tension between them was so palpable that he could barely focus on the performance. And later that night in his apartment… their bodies fitting perfectly, the way she knew how to touch him in ways he didn't even know he needed. Every encounter with her was a whirlwind of emotions and sensations.

Jason closed his eyes, remembering the conversation with his mother he had earlier.

Since the moment their families reunited again she encouraged him to bring Candy closer, seeing something he tried to ignore. He accepted the mayor's proposal for a partnership with Devenementiel not only for strategy but also to keep Candy close. At first, he told himself it was to destabilize the competing company. But now, the truth was becoming increasingly clear: he wanted Candy by his side for much more personal reasons.

Jason walked to the desk in his bedroom, opening the drawer and taking out a small wooden box. Inside, there was a ring he had bought years ago, intended for a proposal that never happened. A reminder of his failures and fears.

“Candy…” he murmured, closing the box and putting it back in the drawer.

He needed to admit to himself that all this had started as a game. He wanted Candy to accept his job offer to screw up over Devenementiel again, but in the process, he ended up getting lost. She was not just a pawn in his corporate game anymore; she was someone who made his life more complete, more vibrant and his days became easier when she was around. She was someone he didn’t want to lose.

And he hated to admit it.

Jason stood up again, taking the glass of whiskey and heading to the terrace. The cool night air enveloped him, bringing a momentary sense of clarity. He looked at the stars, remembering how his life seemed simpler before Candy entered it. But now, he couldn’t imagine going back to that simplicity.

He knew he was at a turning point. Continuing with his usual behavior meant losing the chance at something real, something he hadn’t felt since… well, since forever. But opening up meant exposing himself again to pain, to risk, to vulnerability.

Jason took a long sip of the whiskey, feeling the warmth descend his throat. He needed a new approach, a new way of thinking. Maybe, just maybe, Candy was worth the risk. Maybe she was different. He just needed the courage to find out. Because, in the end, he was falling for her. And that was the truth he could no longer deny.

This realization hit him hard.

“Damn, Candy,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “What have you done to me?”

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PLEASE DO NOT POST IT ON OTHER PLATFORMS without giving credits! This is all my original writing and I would hate to see anyone use it without my permission. Thank u <3

#jason mendal #amour sucre #mcl #my candy love #mcl jason #mcl new gen #amour sucre new gen

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guthrie-odonto · 2 years ago

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My thoughts exactly, all the way down to “of all Pokemon to make an ancient form based on pterosaur cryptids”

now Great Tusk, on the other hand, they completely knew what they were doing with that one.

That is the mokele to have ever mbembe, all the way down to its tusks and elephantine qualities as a Donphan ancestor being like some accounts of the mokele-mbembe (including its incarnation in the Monsterverse) and it’s even got a lizardy cedar tail to homage both the young-earth-creationist and the more reasonable explanation for the biblical Behemoth, which the mokele-mbmembe often gets tangled up with because a living sauropod somehow proves that evolution is fake and therefore God is real for some reason idk

It will never not crack me up as a paleo fan that Flutter Mane is called a pterosaur in its Occulture article. Like bitch in what universe does a dinocore Misdreavus resemble any kind of pterosaur?

even David Peters is looking at you like “You keep calling it that name. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Yeah, that got me confused too XD

I guess it's a reference to the "pterosaur cryptids" like the Kongamato or the Ropen? Though those at least have the decency to vaguely resemble cartoony pterodactyls somewhat, if you either squint or have Creationist biases at least (the Kongamato is obviously supposed to be a bat, but that's another story). Flutter Mane doesn't look like a pterosaur at all.

If it helps, though, I don't think Occulture is supposed to be a reliable source.

Now, if, hypothetically, we WOULD call Flutter Mane a pterosaur, I'd put my money on it being an abnormally large anurognathid.

#pokemon #pokemon scarvi #paradox pokemon #flutter mane #great tusk #pterosaurs #cryptozoology #mokele mbembe #Amber reblogs

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jetsetlife138 · 9 months ago

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Imaginary: Reimagined (Alastor-Fem!Reader) - Chapter 2

A Multi-Chapter Story

Previous Chapters: Intro / Chapter 1

Chapter 2: The Introduction

Chapter Rating: Mature

Chapter Warnings: Reader experiences intense feelings of anxiety, discomfort, fear, and unwanted attention from a certain Radio demon.

Startled by the unexpected greeting, you pivoted swiftly in search of the elusive voice. Given the distinct static overlay accompanying the speaker, you initially anticipated seeing an antiquated television or vintage radio. However, to your astonishment, the origin was far more ominous.

The towering, gaunt figure before you exuded a distressing aura, his malevolence etched into every line of his sinister visage. As you examined him further, a labyrinth of unique features unfolded like a tapestry of the macabre, each detail more entrancingly unsettling than the last.

His penetrating leer felt like it could scorch the very depths of your soul, his eyes smoldering with an otherworldly crimson fire. The blood-red sclera lent an eerie depth, complemented by cinober irises that glowed with a supernatural intensity. Thin black pupils, sharp and unwavering, bore mercilessly into whosoever dared to meet his gaze. A burgundy oval-shaped monocle rimmed with sleek black adorned his right eye, adding an air of sophistication to his countenance.

A mischievous, broad smile unfurled across his face, a wicked crescent that exposed a set of teeth colored like sulfurous flames—sharp, pointed, and reminiscent of shards of amber. Each tooth, a gleaming weapon, hinted at a predator's cunning, a testament to the calculated danger that lurked behind the veneer of his baleful grin.

Crowning his head, peculiarity manifested in an unconventional hairstyle—an unruly cascade of fiery strawberry-red, meticulously cropped with a rebellious flair. The tips, dipped in the deepest black, created a striking contrast. Two audacious tufts of hair, tipped in the same jet black, extended defiantly from the apex, creating a distinctive silhouette, adding an almost devilish semblance.

Perched atop this vibrant display were two small, elegant black antlers—a subtle yet distinctive touch that further emphasized his unearthly presence. Together, the hairstyle and the antlers wove a tale of defiance and mystique, marking him as a character who embraced the havoc within, turning it into a crown of eccentricity.

His attire, further validating his enigmatic persona, consisted of a carmine pinstripe coat and dark cherry lapels lined with stark white; the garment exuded an air of both elegance and decay. Torn and ragged along the hem, it hinted at a history filled with battles and untold challenges. Beneath the coat, a bright red dress shirt with a bold ebony cross on the chest hinted at more profound symbolism. A black knotted bowtie with a ruby center adorned his neck, giving the apparel a subtle touch of formality.

His hands, sheathed in sable gloves, each fingertip adorned with a flash of dramatic scarlet, adding a touch of theatrical flair to his gestures as though every movement was part of an elaborate performance. Completing the ensemble, obsidian pointed-toe boots at his feet, their tips dipped in a fiery red, as if the ground itself ignited in his presence.

Maintaining a poised stance with impeccable posture, he stood with shoulders pulled back and chin elevated in a decorous and dignified pose. One arm rested gracefully behind his back, enhancing the implication of formality. At the same time, the other gripped a staff crowned by what looked to be an unusual microphone fixture, hinting at a strange fusion of worlds in his grasp.

This ambiguous figure stood as a walking paradox, a haunting blend of elegance and menace, sophistication and chaos.

Sensing your trepidation, his grin widened even further into a wicked expression that seemed to relish in your stunned reaction as well as the element of surprise. “Tongue-tied already?”

Apologizing nervously, you stumbled over your words and cleared your throat before mustering a hesitant greeting, "Um... hello."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, sweetheart!" he exclaimed, extending his hand to clasp yours forcefully. The unexpected strength in his grip caught you off guard, smoothly drawing you closer—a bold move that sent a tingling sensation through you as you struggled to reclaim your composure. "Alastor, at your service. An absolute pleasure, I must say!"

A subtle crackle in the air marked a palpable shift, signaling a sudden transformation in his demeanor. In the blink of an eye, his welcoming host facade vanished. In its place emerged the persona of a beguiling gentleman, his intentions now veering towards the less honorable. Undeterred, he continued his greeting; his charismatic glamor, now laced with an undeniable allure, hinted at lurking danger beneath the surface. "And you, my enchanting mystery, what should I call you?" With a subtle yet commanding touch, he pressed a refined and tender kiss to the back of your hand, each second stretching into eternity as his intense gaze remained fixed on yours.

Despite your desire to reclaim your hand, it remained ensnared in his firm grip, rendering your haphazard attempts futile. Staring back at him, completely captivated, you failed to muster even the most straightforward responses, such as your own name. His aura derailed you far more than the demons you had encountered when you first arrived, surpassing even the ones who posed more direct threats.

Incoherent and nonsensical words stumbled out of your mouth, the quiver in your voice reflecting the unease that enveloped you in the magnetic field of his presence.

Growing impatient, the demon interjected, "Surely, you possess a name of your own. Come now, don't be a canceled stamp. What moniker belongs to such a captivating individual as yourself?"

As he continued speaking, you noticed his language unmistakably belonged to a bygone era. The vintage phrases and rapid-fire delivery echoed the dialogue of old black-and-white movies you had encountered over the years, particularly those with brisk and lively commentary.

His manner of speech carried a peculiar mix of disconcerting enticement, seamlessly melded with his overall style and disposition. A fleeting thought crossed your mind, contemplating whether it was a carefully crafted act or if he could indeed be a relic from the 1930s. In your current setting, where boundaries between eras blurred, the possibility of him being a genuine product of the past could be as likely as any other extraordinary occurrence in Hell.

Drawing a deep breath to steady your nerves, you eventually yielded, surrendering your name to the demon. Alastor, as you now knew him, flashed his ever-present grin, the twisted mirth dancing in his eyes as if he had just secured a coveted prize. The lobby's light seemed to flicker in tandem with the sinister satisfaction on his face.

"Why, that's absolutely delightful," he declared, testing the sound of your name on his lips. "It just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Splendid! Now, forgive my curiosity, but you don't strike me as a local." It was challenging to focus on his words as Alastor's eyes bore into yours, like embers dancing in the shadows. His impeccable manners and theatrical gestures were a stark contrast to the ominous air that surrounded him.

Collecting yourself, you felt your pulse quicken as you stammered, "W-what gives you that impression?" It was a feeble attempt to challenge his assumptions, but even as the words left your lips, a moment of realization struck, making you feel somewhat foolish. The truth was painfully obvious – you were undeniably human, not a demon. The air around you seemed to tighten with an awkward silence, a palpable acknowledgment of the absurdity that hung in the space between you and Alastor.

"Well, my dear," he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes, "first and foremost, you're alive. There hasn't been a living soul down here in… well, ever, to my knowledge. Your heartbeat practically sings in this abyss of torment!" His tone carried a mix of mischief and genuine fascination as if he had stumbled upon a rare and captivating treasure. "Quite the twist, isn't it?"

Another chill crept up your spine, the realization settling in that Alastor's interest extended far beyond mere pleasantries. Each syllable he uttered bore the weight of a concealed agenda, leaving you to navigate the labyrinth of his enchantment cautiously.

"Secondly," he continued, visibly unfazed by your gawking stare, "You're quite noticeably average. Hell is brimming with anthropomorphic beings. I regret to inform you that you stick out rather drastically. If your intention was to be discreet, it appears you're off your trolley!"

Perplexed, you furrowed your brow. His attempts at communication through outdated terminology failed to resonate and left you even more bewildered. "Sorry, what?"

He laughed heartily in response to your evident confusion, delighting in the disorientation you were experiencing as he playfully tapped the microphone on the top of his staff. "Hello! Is this thing on? Can you read me loud and clear?"

Battered by the relentless onslaught of mayhem and Alastor's nonsensical banter, you felt your sanity teetering on the brink of collapse. The unyielding pandemonium you had continuously endured was reaching its limit, and the existential panic lingering in your mind was now threatening to surface. You felt the unraveling of your composure, desperate for a moment of peace.

Sensing the strain on your waning mental stability, Alastor abruptly ceased his heckling. A sudden stillness replaced the dastardly mirth as he offered assistance, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Forgive me, I've been a bit uncouth. I reckon you've had quite the day with all these novel experiences! What might I fetch for you to aid in a moment of repose? Some giggle water? A gasper, perhaps?"

Once again, the unfamiliar jargon failed to resonate, intensifying your confusion. The unexpected, yet supposedly sincere, offer of abetment from the intimidating demon further disoriented you. The interaction alluded to a hidden layer of complexity within him, contributing to the overall intrigue surrounding his character.

Despite your efforts to remain composed, a heavy sigh escaped you, vocalizing the frustration that had taken place within. Your hands found solace in cradling your head, a physical manifestation of the turmoil that enveloped your thoughts.

"Look, it's Alastor, right?" His nod of confirmation prompted you to proceed as you dropped your hands to a less manic stance. "Okay, Alastor. I'm sensing a disconnect here. I'm not sure if this—" you gestured toward him, observing the quizzical tilt of his head before continuing, "... old-timey persona is your 'shtick' or whatever… But, honestly, I can't deal with this right now. While I appreciate your hospitality, up until earlier today, everything in my life was perfectly normal. Now, I'm trapped in some bizarre cartoon universe filled with humanoid monsters who apparently want me dead, and I'm having a hard time coping. So, could you give me a minute? Please?" The pain in your voice was evident, a desperate request for a moment of calm amidst the surreal madness that had become your reality.

A profound silence settled between you. Alastor's piercing gaze carefully scrutinized you while he pondered your words. While his perpetual smile never faltered, a subtle nuance in how he regarded you conveyed a hint of disappointment. It was as if he feared he had inadvertently damaged his newfound source of entertainment before fully indulging in its potential.

"Dear, I was only–"

"You heard her! Back off!"

You and Alastor swiftly redirected your focus as a commanding voice resonated across the lobby. Emerging from the distance was a feminine figure resembling a moth adorned with long white hair elegantly secured by a vibrant cherry bow. A prominent X marked her left eye, accentuating her distinctive appearance.

As the figure drew closer, you noticed the disapproving scowl etched across her face, which looked pointedly fixed on Alastor. The tension in the air heightened as the unexpected ally intervened, her presence signaling a shift in the unfolding dynamic.

"Vagatha," Alastor greeted with cool nonchalance, an almost dismissive nod accompanying his words. "Right on cue."

"That's not my name," The moth-like woman mumbled under her breath, her narrowed eyes betraying a lingering suspicion. Yet, when her attention turned to you, her demeanor transformed. A warm smile replaced the scowl, and she placed her hands protectively on your shoulders, instantly creating a sense of comfort.

"I'm Vaggie," she introduced herself amicably. "Don't let this guy scare you off. Somehow, he wormed his way into becoming the hotel's Facility Manager, but that's on a probationary period. He's already on thin ice." Vaggie's gaze shot back to Alastor, a glare loaded with unspoken challenges. Alastor, however, seemed to relish in the confrontation, his eyes crinkling in mischievous glee.

"Charlie got held up on an important phone call, so she sent me to help get you settled until she can meet up with us. Come on, we've got a room ready for you upstairs." The promise of sanctuary in the form of a bedroom thrilled you, a welcome reprieve from the brewing storm in the lobby.

"Thank you, that sounds great," you agreed, your response punctuated by a nervous swallow. You were still attempting to stifle any apprehension triggered by Vaggie and Alastor's unique features. Turning back to Alastor, you offered a polite farewell. "It was nice to meet you, Alastor. I guess I'll see you around."

To your astonishment, you recoiled as his teeth seemed to sharpen even further, the unwavering smile on his face widening at your acknowledgment. "Oh, yes, dearest. Sooner than you think," he purred, his words dripping with a subtle menace that left a trail of anticipation in their wake. The air thickened as Alastor's gaze lingered on you, a predator watching its prey, as you turned to follow Vaggie towards the large, creaking staircase.

As you climbed the grand staircase, the glare of the lobby gave way to the soft glow of sconces that adorned the walls, casting flickering shadows along the ornate patterns of the carpet. The plush and intricate designs felt as though they absorbed the echo of your footsteps, creating an atmosphere of subtle refinement.

Vaggie led you through the upper landing, the ambience changing as you ascended. A faint scent of aged wood lingered, intermingled with the distant wails of Hell's tormented souls. It was a disturbing reminder of the realm you found yourself in.

"Your room is just down there," she said, her tone easing into a more casual cadence as she gestured ahead. The subtle tension of the encounter with Alastor seemed to dissipate with each step. "Sorry about that weird thing with Alastor. He's... unique. But don't worry, you're in good hands now."

The hallway unfolded as a corridor of opulence, with ambient lighting casting a vermillion gleam upon the dark, polished wood of the ornate doors that lined either side. Vaggie halted before a particularly imposing door, turning to you with a small, apologetic smile. "This is it. Your new home, at least for the time being." The door's intricate carvings and richly hued finish hinted at the luxury within, offering a glimpse into the mysterious haven that awaited you.

Entering the room, you were met with a surprisingly cozy atmosphere. The large bed dominated the space, adorned in rich crimson and gold bedding. Four beams stood proudly on each corner, supporting a black canopy that added an air of elegance. With their shears drawn, the two giant windows along the wall hinted at consideration for your well-being, shielding you from whatever horrors lurked below. Despite the obscured view, the city's lights cast a warm and inviting glow into the room.

A large, regal dresser stood proudly between the windows, a vast mirror attached on top reflecting the refined atmosphere of the room. Against the opposite wall, an armoire added a touch of vintage charm, and in the corner, a matching vanity whispered of bygone elegance. A door beckoned on the opposite end of the room, leading to your private en-suite bathroom.

Vaggie, her posture casual yet observant, leaned against the wall, her eyes following your every move. "It's not exactly the Ritz, but it's got its own flair."

You turned to face her, the weight of the day's events still etched on your features. "Flair might be an understatement, Vaggie. This place is..." You searched for the right word as you regarded the room. "Impressive."

She chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the quiet space. "Hell has a way of blending horror with splendor, doesn't it? Anyway, make yourself at home." Stepping back to survey the space again, you marveled at how it had met your needs and exceeded them.

Captivated by the allure of your new living space, you nearly missed Charlie's spirited entrance. Bursting through the doorway, her radiant expression illuminated the room like a burst of sunlight, and she greeted you with unbridled enthusiasm. "Welcome!" she exclaimed, extending her arms to accentuate her elation. "I hope that this space will suffice. If you need any other accommodations, I'm sure our gracious Facility Manager will happily assist!"

A derisive snort from Vaggie redirected your attention, her skepticism evident as she shot Charlie a sidelong glance. "Yeah, our 'gracious' Facility Manager has a knack for overstepping boundaries and could learn a thing or two about minding his own damn business. You're better off coming to me or Charlie for anything you need."

Charlie, undeterred by Vaggie's cynicism, chimed in with an eager smile. "Oh, we'd be thrilled to help with whatever you need!" Her eyes sparkled with genuine sincerity as she moved closer to Vaggie, intertwining their fingers as if grounding herself in their shared strength. As she took Vaggie's hand in hers, Charlie's gaze lingered with adoration. "Vaggie has done so much to help get this place up and running. She's not just my right hand; she's my better half."

Vaggie smiled sheepishly, trying to conceal her blush. Charlie planted a delicate kiss on Vaggie's cheek before turning her attention back to you, adopting a more serious tone. "Listen, I know this must all be pretty terrifying, and you must be so scared, but we've got you, I promise."

"Try to keep a low profile," Vaggie encouraged, placing a hand on her hip as she stood confidently. "Keep to yourself, avoid any potentially dangerous situations, and most importantly, stay away from the Shitlord. If you can do that, you should be fine until we can figure out how to get you home."

You blinked, puzzled by the peculiar term. "I'm sorry, the 'Shitlord'?"

"Alastor," she grumbled, ignoring Charlie's subtle scowl. "Our not-so-friendly neighborhood Radio Demon."

"Why should I avoid him?" you inquired, your interest piqued, especially after your earlier encounter. "If he's here helping to redeem sinners, he can't be that bad, right?"

The conflicting responses from Charlie and Vaggie painted a vivid picture of the polarizing figure that was Alastor. Charlie's eyes lit up with loyalty, defending the demon's actions, while Vaggie's glare spoke volumes about her mistrust.

"He's an ass," Vaggie stated bluntly, not mincing her words. It was clear she had little patience for the potentially problematic Radio Demon.

"He's not!" Charlie interjected, her tone almost pleading. "He… has a certain reputation, is all. I can't just assume that every demon that walks through our doors has bad intentions. We've got to give him a chance. He's been nothing but helpful since he's arrived."

Quirking your brow, you glanced back and forth between them as Vaggie rolled her eyes. "Charlie is endearingly optimistic."

As you observed the dynamic between Charlie and Vaggie, you noticed the subtle interplay of emotions – Charlie's infectious optimism and Vaggie's more cautious demeanor. The room's atmosphere shifted, transitioning from the initial excitement to a more serious undertone. The warmth of the welcome clashed with the ominous warning about the unpredictable Radio Demon.

Vaggie's gaze hardened as she met your eyes, a stern expression on her face. "Seriously, it's for your own safety. Alastor might come off as charming, but there's a reason other demons keep their distance. He's one of Hell's most feared Overlords. He's unpredictable, and you never know what he's up to. Just steer clear of him, okay?"

Charlie tried to diffuse the tension with a comforting smile. "We're just looking out for you. The Hotel can be hectic, and we want you to feel at home." Her words carried a gentle reassurance, attempting to balance Vaggie's wariness and her own hopefulness.

Vaggie sighed, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Just trust me on this one. He isn't just a happy face; he's a creep we've reluctantly allowed to help us. And the last thing we need is an innocent, unsuspecting soul falling under his influence."

A momentary flicker of doubt passed over Charlie's expressive eyes, but she swiftly regained her composure. "Alright, let's not dwell on this too much tonight. You must be exhausted," she said, her concern palpable. "We'll talk more tomorrow. If you need anything else, Vaggie and I are just down the hall, last door on the left."

"Got it," you affirmed, inclining your head in gratitude.

"Oh! And don't be alarmed if you cross paths with some of the other hotel staff," Charlie resumed, her enthusiasm returning. "Niffty is our diligent housekeeper, and Husk is our skilled bartender."

"At the moment, we only have two other guests," Vaggie chimed in, her tone more pragmatic. "Sir Pentious is usually occupied with his little minions and shouldn't be too much of a nuisance. Angel Dust is another story. If he bothers you, just ignore him. Or strangle him. Either one works."

"Will do," you chuckled, her attempt at humor injecting a welcome lightness into the atmosphere. "Thank you so much. I don't know what else to say. I'd probably be dead by now if you hadn't found me. It means a lot that you'd go through so much trouble for someone you don't know."

"Happy to help," Charlie replied, her sympathetic smile providing tender reassurance. "Get some rest!"

With those words, the two exited the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Eager for a distraction, you sauntered to the windows, drawing back the curtain and peering through the grimy glass.

Hell unfolded its macabre grandeur before your eyes. The twisted, decrepit structures that lined the streets challenged the laws of architecture. Each building, crooked and battered, exuded an eerie magnetism that hinted at the horrors within. The air was tinged with a paranormal quality, a discordant symphony of colors and shadows playing on the blood-splattered streets.

As you contemplated the surreal spectacle, a question involuntarily danced through your mind—what form would encapsulate your essence in this infernal realm? Would you morph into a whimsical creature, an embodiment of the anarchy that defined Hell, or perhaps manifest as an object reflecting the remnants of your earthly existence? The sheer absurdity of the thought evoked a quiet laughter that bubbled up from deep within, a coping mechanism against the overwhelming horror surrounding you.

"Remarkable, isn't it?"

The unexpected voice, a sinister melody that sliced through the eerie silence, prompted an involuntary yelp. You spun around with a start, almost stumbling over yourself, only to find Alastor standing in your bedroom doorway. The unnerving permanence of his smile rattled you while his eyes, gleaming with an otherworldly intelligence, seemed to leer at you.

"Jesus Christ!" you choked out, a hand instinctively clutching your chest to steady the frantic beat of your heart.

"Hmm… not quite," Alastor replied, his grin deepening, causing his eyes to crease with malevolent cheerfulness. "Forgive me, miss. A gentleman should refrain from intruding upon a lady's private domain. However, our earlier conversation was abruptly cut short, and I am not one to leave matters unresolved," he continued, twirling his staff with a casual flourish. "I would be remiss if I did not take advantage of this rare opportunity. Would you grant me the pleasure of your company, perhaps for a brisk stroll?"

Your eyes narrowed, wrestling with the uncertainty of his intentions. On one hand, curiosity was a shared sentiment; however, Vaggie had explicitly warned against spending any time with Alastor. Additionally, your suspicion that Alastor's interest in you concealed darker motives had only intensified since your previous encounter.

Observing your hesitation, Alastor's low, rumbling chuckle reverberated through the air like an ominous prelude, the static overlay even more prevalent than before. He casually leaned against the doorframe, his dark silhouette swallowing the feeble light in the room.

"No need to be so guarded, sweetheart," Alastor drawled, his voice an unnatural blend of charisma and menace. "I'm merely captivated by the anomaly of a living soul gracing Hell's grounds. You see, it's not every day we welcome a newcomer like yourself." Despite his attempt at reassurance, the room felt suffocating, as if his presence tainted the entire space. "You couldn't have arrived at a more intriguing time," Alastor continued, his eyes glinting with a vicious spark. "It seems fate has a sense of humor, placing a delicate creature like you amidst the chaos of Hell–and so soon after an extermination!"

Your eyebrows furrowed, skepticism etching lines on your face as you shot him a look that bordered on irritation. "Am I supposed to know what an 'extermination' is?"

"Sweet girl, an extermination is a grand spectacle of Hellish proportions! It's a symphony of destruction orchestrated to cleanse and reset the infernal balance," Alastor explained, his words dripping with macabre enthusiasm. The way he spoke made it sound like he reveled in the mayhem. "And you, my unsuspecting guest, have stepped directly into the aftermath."

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, a mix of defiance and fear lacing your words. "Is this your idea of a sick joke?"

Alastor leaned back, a wicked grin still playing on his lips as if savoring the fear dancing in your eyes. "Who's joking?" he jested, his voice resonating with a chilling levity.

You eyed him warily, the manic in his eyes intensifying. "So, what's your role in all of this? Are you some kind of demonic tour guide or a sadistic host?"

He hummed softly as he mused. "Oh, you could say I wear many hats. But most importantly, for the time being, I'm here to make your stay in Hell as... entertaining as possible."

His words dripped with a malicious promise, each syllable carrying the weight of an unspoken threat. As he spoke, the air around you seemed to thicken with an unsettling energy, and you couldn't shake the feeling that you were just beginning to scratch the surface of the twisted game that Alastor had set before you.

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Chapter End Notes: Okay, I'm seeking honest opinions here... is my writing TOO complex? I feel like I'm using a lot of words that aren't used in everyday conversation, and I worry about any unsuspecting readers whose first language isn't English. It concerns me that they might struggle with comprehension and have it take away from their experience. I don't want to stress anyone out. Does that make sense? I'm an overthinker, so any feedback is appreciated!

#alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #hazin hotel imaginary #fanfiction #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction

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nayziiz · 8 months ago

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Shadows | LN4

Summary: [Mafia] In the face of dire financial troubles, Lando receives a desperate plea from his father to unearth a lucrative solution within the family business. Fueled by the pressure to rescue his family from ruin, Lando stumbles upon a seemingly perfect venture—using luxury cars as a facade for the clandestine world of drug trafficking. With the unexpected partnership of Amelia Rossi, his father's best friend's daughter, Lando believes he has found the ideal accomplice. However, as the Norris family collides with the ambitious Russells in a ruthless bid to establish their dominance, the perilous path Lando has chosen places not only his newfound enterprise at stake but also entangles Amelia in the dangerous crossfire that unfolds.

Warning: Violence, drugs, blood, smut, fluff, guns

Pairing: Lando Norris x OC (Amelia Rossi) - appearances from other drivers

Masterlist

Chapter 10

In the quiet of the morning, with the first light filtering through the curtains of Lando's room, he found himself wrestling with a maelstrom of emotions. His anger simmered beneath the surface, a coiled serpent ready to strike at any moment. How could George have sunk so low, manipulating Amelia with such cruelty? The thought gnawed at him, festering like a wound that refused to heal.

As Amelia slept peacefully beside him, her features softened in the gentle embrace of slumber, Lando's gaze lingered on her face. She looked vulnerable yet resolute, a paradox that echoed the complexity of her character. He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light against her skin.

But beneath the tenderness of his gesture lay a steely resolve. George's betrayal had ignited a fire within him, a fierce determination to protect Amelia at all costs. He couldn't bear to see her hurt, to witness the scars left by George's deceit etched upon her heart.

Rising from the bed with quiet determination, Lando moved with purpose, his steps measured and deliberate. He knew what needed to be done, what battles needed to be fought. George may have wielded his manipulative tactics like weapons, but Lando refused to be a pawn in his twisted game.

With each passing moment, his fury grew, a tempest raging within him. But tempered by his love for Amelia, it became a driving force, a beacon guiding him through the storm. As he prepared to face the challenges ahead, Lando vowed to stand by her side, to be her unwavering support in the face of adversity.

For George may have thought himself clever, but he had underestimated the depth of Lando's devotion. And as the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and amber, Lando's resolve burned brighter than ever before, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

In the dim light of the morning, Lando paced back and forth in the living room, his footsteps echoing against the hardwood floor like the steady beat of a war drum. With each step, his anger smoldered, a relentless blaze fueled by the betrayal of his oldest friend.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Lando retrieved his phone from his pocket and dialed George's number. The device hummed softly in his hand as it connected, each ring a countdown to the confrontation that awaited.

Finally, on the fourth ring, George answered, his voice smooth and composed, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within Lando's chest.

“George.” Lando's voice was clipped, a tightness betraying the fury simmering beneath the surface.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, a pregnant silence pregnant with tension.

“Lando, my friend, what a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?” George spoke, his tone casual yet tinged with a hint of apprehension.

“I was wondering if you'd like to meet up for a paddle session? I have a proposition I think you might be interested in.” Lando lied, his plan slowly falling into place.

Lando's words were a calculated deception, a carefully constructed facade masking the true purpose of their meeting. As he spoke, his mind raced with the intricate details of his plan, each piece falling into place with precision.

“A paddle session, you say? What kind of proposition are we talking about here, Lando?” George's response was guarded, his tone betraying a hint of curiosity mixed with caution.

“Oh, just a little business venture I've been considering. Nothing too serious, of course. But I thought you might be interested in hearing the details.” Lando's lips curled into a sly smile, hidden from George's view but dripping with cunning nonetheless.

There was a pause as George considered Lando's offer, weighing the potential benefits against the risks.

“Alright, Lando. I'll bite. Where and when do you want to meet?” Finally, he spoke, his voice betraying a hint of intrigue.

Lando's smile widened at George's acquiescence, his plan inching closer to fruition with each passing moment.

“How about tomorrow morning, bright and early? I know a spot down by the river.” Lando suggested, pleased with George’s willingness.

“Sounds good. I'll see you there.” George hesitated for a moment, as if considering the proposal, before finally agreeing.

With a satisfied nod, Lando ended the call, his mind already racing ahead to the next phase of his plan. As he prepared to confront George head-on, he knew that their meeting by the river would be the first step towards unraveling the web of deceit that had ensnared them both.

“Hey, Lando.” George greeted Lando as he arrived at the paddle court. “Been a while since we've done this.”

“Yeah, it has.” Lando nodded in acknowledgment, his expression neutral as he approached George at the paddle court.

Lando couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him, knowing that Amelia had been through so much because of George's manipulation.

As they entered the locker room after their paddle match, Lando's mind raced with anticipation. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the opportunity to confront George and put an end to his manipulation once and for all.

“So, what's this proposition you wanted to discuss?” George asked, tossing his paddle into his locker.

“It's about Amelia.” Lando took a deep breath, steeling himself for the confrontation.

“What about her?” George raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about.” Lando replied, his voice low and steady. “The video.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, mate.” George's expression faltered for a brief moment before he regained his composure.

“Don't play dumb with me, George. I know about the video you have of me and Amelia. And I know you've been using it to manipulate her.” Lando retorted, his frustration mounting.

“And what if I have? What's it to you?” George's facade crumbled, replaced by a cold, calculating glare.

“It ends now.” Lando declared, his tone firm. “You're not going to use Amelia anymore. I won't let you.”

“And what are you going to do about it, Norris? You think you can stop me?” George's lips curled into a sneer.

“Try me.” Lando met his gaze with steely determination. Lando was undeterred, his resolve unwavering as he stared down his former friend. “You can blackmail me all you want, but no one will ever see that video, that will destroy her career and all her credibility. Now, I know she always meant a lot to you, George, so do you really want to be the person she hates for the rest of her life?”

George's expression softened slightly at Lando's words, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. He knew that Lando was right, that releasing the video would irreparably damage Amelia's reputation and career. And despite his ruthless nature, he couldn't bring himself to be the cause of her downfall.

“I said try me.” Lando challenged, his gaze unwavering.

For a tense moment, the two men locked eyes, the weight of their confrontation hanging heavily in the air. Finally, George let out a resigned sigh, his resolve crumbling under Lando's unwavering gaze.

“Fine.” He relented, reaching for his phone. “I'll delete the damn video.”

Lando watched as George deleted the incriminating video from his phone and cloud storage, a sense of relief washing over Lando as he watched the footage disappear.

“Thank you for making the right decision for once.” Lando's voice was laced with a hint of sarcasm as he spoke, unable to resist a jab at George's expense.

George turned to leave the locker room and paused, turning back to face Lando.

“She likes bravado.” Georges observed catching Lando’s attention.

“Excuse me?” Lando's retort was sharp, his tone defensive as George's words struck a nerve.

“Amelia. With Daniel, it was fun and adventures. With Charles, it was all about worklife balance, finding someone who shared her passion for their work. With you, it's about her being taken care of instead of having to take care of herself. She'll never admit it, but she likes to be out of control, have someone else tell her what to do, be cared for.” George explained his analysis.

“You have no idea what you're talking about.” Lando quickly countered, refusing to acknowledge the truth coming from George.

“You know, I have spent probably as much time as you trying to protect her.” George admitted.

“Protect her? You blackmailed her. How is that protecting her?” Lando retorted, scoffing at George’s audacity.

“She has no business being involved in underground business. The faster she got out of it, the better. She isn’t like the rest of us.” George argued back. There was a palpable tension in the air, a silent standoff between two former friends turned adversaries.

“What do you mean by that?” Lando wondered, his interest piqued.

“Do you love her, Lando?” George asked, evaluating the situation before explaining himself further.

“Of course, I do. I wouldn’t be doing any of this if I didn’t.” Lando responded, unsure of where George was going.

“Her name isn't really Amelia Rossi.” George started, his voice soft as he spoke.

“George, cut the bullshit already.” Lando sighed, already over the conversation.

“When Marilyn was pregnant, she suffered trauma to her abdomen late in the pregnancy following a car accident. Harold sent her up to the country to give birth and a few weeks later, the Rossi's returned with a beautiful baby girl.” George continued, ignoring Lando’s dismissive attitude.

“I know the story.” Lando retorted. He had heard the story told hundreds of times from birthdays to anniversaries to the holidays.

“Except there's a lot more to it. What no one knows is that Marilyn had a stillbirth. Their baby girl was buried outside Sussex - the real Amelia Rossi. At the time, Harold was adamant to have a child he could raise to take over his business. They had also learnt that Marilyn wouldn’t be able to conceive again. So, he orchestrated a kidnapping of a baby girl born just a few days earlier in a town up the road.” Georges further explained, and as he did, Lando’s demeanour softened as he listened.

“There's no way.” Lando breathed, taking a step back and sitting down on one of the benches in the locker room.

“Her name was Catherine Mitchells. She disappeared out of her crib in the middle of the night and was never seen again. Clyde, her father, spent every last dime tracing down every possible lead and it somehow led him to Harold Rossi. Of course, Harold didn't want to get his hands dirty, so he summoned my father to help... Clear up the mess.” George added, also taking a seat next to Lando on the bench.

“What does that even mean?” Lando asked, a bewildered look lurking in his eyes.

“My father killed Clyde Mitchells in the woods one night when we were teenagers. No one ever looked for him. Sadly, his wife died shortly after the kidnapping from broken heart syndrome, so he had no other family who would notice him missing.” George answered, leaning against the locker behind him.

“You realise how crazy this sounds, George.” Lando shook his head, unable to comprehend the information laid before him.

“It's true, Lando. I have the paper trail to prove it. My father keeps exceptional written records for these types of reasons.” George answered, aware that it might be a lot to process. “So when I say she isn’t like us and deserves better, that’s why. Her father was a good man, and she seems to be just like him.”

“What woods was he killed in?” Lando asked, his brows furrowed in confusion as the information rippled through his mind.

“Does it matter?” George asked, almost chuckling at the questions.

“Yeah, it does.” Lando insisted.

“Off Canterbury towards the old abbatoirs.” George answered, nodding his head in the direction of the old abbatoirs.

“When?” Lando continued to ask.

“Eight years ago, around her seventeenth birthday.” George clarified.

“Are you certain it was in those woods?” Lando queried, desparate for a different answer.

“I’m certain. Why does it matter?” George repeated his earlier question.

Lando's mind raced as he tried to piece together the significance of George's revelation. The mention of the woods near Canterbury triggered memories he had long tried to bury, memories of a tragic event that had haunted him for years.

“It matters because... because that's where…” Lando's voice trailed off, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of emotions and memories.

George watched Lando closely, sensing the turmoil brewing beneath his composed exterior.

“Do you remember a party at Susie Hopkins' house probably around the same time? The one Amelia and I were late to and you then told everyone we hooked up, that’s why we were supposedly late.” Lando finally whispered, his voice heavy with the weight of the revelation.

“I remember.” George nodded in acknowledgement.

“We were late to the party because we got lost. We drove down Canterbury and stopped because we had no signal to call for help. We walked for a bit and stumbled upon a group of men in the woods. It was quite dark, but they shot someone.” Lando's revelation hung heavy in the air, the weight of its implications settling like a leaden shroud over the conversation.

George's eyes widened in shock, his features contorted with disbelief as he struggled to process the gravity of Lando's words.

“You're joking, right?” George asked, his voice strained with disbelief.

“I wish I was.” Lando replied, his tone grave. “We stumbled upon them by accident. It was dark, and we couldn't see much, but... we heard the gunshot and saw him fall to the ground. All I remember seeing was his glasses falling to the ground before he did.”

“Lando, that was probably Clyde.” George stated, bringing the unknown into the spotlight and for the first time, Lando had some clarity on what happened that night in the woods.

“She saw her own father get murdered and didn't even know.” Lando grunted, unable to process the news and the possible ramifications thereof.

“Lando, you might kick the hornet's nest if you do anything with this information. My father will kill me for saying anything.” George pleaded.

George's plea resonated with Lando, the weight of their shared history and the potential consequences of their actions bearing down on him. He understood the gravity of the situation and the risks involved, but he couldn't turn a blind eye to the truth any longer.

“Then we're even. You leave Amelia alone and I won't implicate you or your father if I go to Harold.” Lando conceded with a shrug.

George nodded in reluctant agreement, his expression reflecting a mixture of apprehension and determination.

“Just promise me you'll be careful and keep her safe.” He said earnestly. “I don't want to see anyone else get hurt because of this.”

As Lando contemplated the weight of the information George had just disclosed, his mind became a whirlwind of plans and strategies. He knew that navigating the treacherous territory ahead would require careful consideration and meticulous planning.

First and foremost, Lando recognized the need for discretion. The implications of confronting Harold about his involvement in Clyde’s murder were staggering, and any misstep could have dire consequences. He couldn't afford to rush into action without fully assessing the risks and potential ramifications.

Drawing on his experience and resourcefulness, Lando began to map out a plan of action. He considered the key players involved, from Harold to Steve and even his own father, possibly, and the other witnesses present at the party. Each individual brought their own motivations and vulnerabilities to the table, and Lando knew that leveraging this knowledge would be crucial in unraveling the truth.

At the same time, Lando recognized the importance of gathering evidence to support their claims. While George's testimony provided a valuable starting point, they would need concrete proof to corroborate their story and hold up in court. This meant conducting thorough investigations, collecting witness statements, and perhaps even obtaining physical evidence from the scene of the crime.

As he delved deeper into his plans, Lando remained acutely aware of the dangers that lay ahead. The Norris family's reputation and his own safety were on the line, and any misstep could have devastating consequences, especially for Amelia who would get caught in the middle regardless. Yet, despite the risks, Lando was determined to uncover the truth and bring justice to those who had been wronged.

With his mind buzzing with ideas and strategies, Lando knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges and obstacles. But armed with determination and a sense of purpose, he was ready to face whatever lay ahead in his quest for the truth. If it meant protecting Amelia, he would have done anything.

#f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fic #lando norris smut #mclaren #mclaren f1 #lando norris x oc #mafia!au #mafia!f1 #f1 drivers #f1 driver x oc #lando norris x reader #f1 driver x reader #f1 x reader

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yellowymellon · 4 months ago

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So threshold 4 cooked me good but on the bright side I got to hear Acheron's sped up skill more than I'd like to admit, she says : "everything will vanish some day"

And that sounds awfully like what a follower of finality would say. So it made me think (again) about Herta who wonders why nanook has to exist when finality already does....

we established that nanook is the youngest aeon but SIKE it's terminus. The logic is very simple, terminus speaks of the prophecy of the end, the doomed world of the future, while traversing the past. It's because nanook's ultimate destruction gave birth to terminus to begin with. I think it's further implied by elegy :

And now the question is, what is this importune slug trying to achieve by going to the past if they're not trying to change the future? I'm glad that even the follower's of finality understand how messy their aeon is and question their actions. But if we take in consideration that finality ascends in the future it answers some of elegy's questions, like "why bring the apocalypse if they want to salvage everything"

If you noticed, unlike other aeons, Finality has never even done anything in the "name" of finality. e.g fuli collecting memories, the propagation propagates, even Qlipoth is doing something no matter how stupid it looks. But time powers? HOW IS THAT FINALITY

Part of the reason I'm a terminus bully

I'm trying to say that terminus isn't the harbinger of the apocalypse, they're a byproduct themselves. So wanting to salvage everything is unrelated.

Elegy also says this :

We can interpret it as: amber to rupture (Qlipoth) immortality to wither (Yaoshi) music to mute (Xipe) light arrows to dim (Lan) Dark sun (IX) tavern (Aha) and lastly Nanook (ty user hereistori for ur help!)

I don't think nanook will single handedly kill every aeon, but this implies that finality will at the end. It's also the reason why the equilibrium won't stop nanook because it's an equal clash between them and finality who already knows what will happen.

Imo terminus isn't necessarily good, I think they just tell the future as a matter of fact and let you deal with it however you wish, in that sense they're even better than nous who has caLcULaTeD eVeRyThiNg (not a nous hater they bbg)

But then elegy says that terminus has TB joining them in their journey soon, which might imply terminus is on our side actually. And since we confirmed that SH follow terminus -even if the database didn't update it yet- I can confidently (and somewhat disappointedly) say that Elio is their emanator. Not only that but the favoritism is real, because terminus is close by his side. Elegy (once again) says the TB received their grace, hmmm, this paragraph points at one thing, remember Kafka's truth? An unknown aeon modified TB's body to host a stellaron. Srsly terminus does everything that isn't finality

You know what will be the craziest paradox tho? It's Elio being terminus pre ascension who went back to give human him the ability to see the future (plays 5D chess). This could also explain why elio is focused on killing nanook when he was basically forced into this role. It explains his motivation and his means + his grand plan of making TB in the likeness of nanook for some reason NO IM NOT CRAZY HEAR ME OU-

I mean it makes more sense than elio is akivili or nanook (those are legit ones, I don't agree with)

Anyway, elegy....says "what is the meaning of our existence if everything is bound to be reduced to nothingness in the end" (you can tell I like her and elio a lot lol *bats my eyes cutely*) which sounds awfully similar to Acheron's. Déjà vu? So how do we explain the connection between finality and nihility ? Idk- if you have any thoughts share them pls! I'm chronically obsessed with IX!!!

At least we know that IX existed before terminus did, and I was just saying that terminus will end nihility, so maybe Acheron's answer lies in finality like ppl speculated at first, interesting don't you think?

I've been thinking that some day PLS I BEG Elio would come in touch with Acheron, if she's able to sever paths, she'll definitely come in handy against nanook.

But I gotta say, terminus is a cruel existence to IX, an aeon that believes that the fate of the universe is nothingness, and is proven right.

Also, an emanator is like a mirror to an aeon, we may be fundamentally misunderstanding smth... finality isn't connected to nihility, but it looks like it because we don't have the full picture. Elio believes the book to end, but for the story to have a million ways to play out. He doesn't refuse finally, nor does he think it's worthless to try. Terminus must be the same, they may have nothing to do with nihility, but I know nihilism to be connected to Finality.

THANKS FOR READING! 💟

#Idk why but this sounds very obvious and not ground breaking but it's not canon yet so I get to support it with proof #me try not to mention IX or elio challenge failed #I WILL NEVER SHUT UP #hsr #honkai star rail #star rail #hsr theory

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gemknightau · 3 months ago

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Nobody around Amber really knows what his hobbies or favourite dishes are. He likes what they like. He likes what he thinks he should- what he thinks would make him seem easy to be around.

Oh, he tries so hard to be tolerated. Not even wanted or loved, just to be allowed to be around others. The strange paradox of trying to be as broadly appealing to everyone is that he has nothing substantial of his own, which then comes off as off-putting and makes those uneasy who have a better perception for falsehoods.

Indeed, he is hiding himself, even from himself. The earliest years he can remember were a long lesson that it is what he ought to do. It is now second nature.

His hands are rarely idle, and he seeks out the company of others. Because when he is left without a task in solitude, a suffocating truth begins to emerge. He's a stranger in his own life.

#gemknight au #gk!papyrus #undertale au #au papyrus #amber #we have his father to “thank” for a lot of how he is #so long ago has he abandoned his kids but they are still haunted by him

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hilsonamore · 5 months ago

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THOUGHTS ON S4 EP12, HOUSE M.D (pt.1)

“ Don’t Ever Change”

I have so many thoughts regarding this episode it’s actually crazy. Okay so, here me out-

First of all, starting off strong with these two, with house asking wilson all these questions and pestering him about dating amber and asking him why on earth he would ever date her. And then they get into the elevator and house is betting against wilson that the relationship will only last 2 more months and wilson looks over at him and says:

“We’re at four months”

“You hid this from me?”

“I thought you’d be upset”

There’s all lot to unpack here. To start with, dr wilson, why would you hide from your best friend the fact that you are dating somebody else? They literally talk about everything with each other, and especially about the people they’re seeing (at least wilson is, because house doesn’t do anything else with his time apart from sticking his nose in all-wilson-related stuff). Maybe it’s because amber is an ex employee of house’s? But why would that upset him, regardless of..well, his being house. I mean sure, house was talking her down all the time “cutthroat bitch this and cutthroat bitch that”, but still.

And honestly, the best thing in this entire sequence, in my opinion, is house’s expression when he realises that wilson hid something so important from him. My man is in sock, he’s so used to wilson spilling his guts out to him, so used to having everything perfectly calculated when it comes to his best friend, that this gapping hole in his knowledge leaves him bereft. I have honestly never seen him so flabbergasted before.

And also wilson, dear, “i thought you’d be upset”. Like, i know he probably means that house would go feral over his dating somebody he literally shits on all the time, who just so happens to be a literal mirror of himself, but it makes me feel kinda funny how wilson just always has house in my mind and he knows perfectly well how he’s going to react to everything, thus taking necessary measures to secure… an appropriate amount of mental stability.

Um. I honestly don’t know where to start with this one. Firstly, house is scary. Yeah no shit sherlock. But like, he knows he’s scary, it’s not like his self-obsessed person would ever assume that people don’t quiver under his gaze (that phrase can be translated into plenty of different things, but you know what i mean). This particular phrase, i think, is not even directed towards wilson, but it’s more like house asking himself that. He knows he is scary, he knows wilson is pretty pathetic, he also knows, deep down, whether he wants to admit it out loud or not, that he desperately needs wilson in his life… the man clings on to him like he’s the fucking sun and he cant live without his radiance. Aaaand, he also knows that Amber, like him, is scary. And yet he wonders:

“Why would anyone, other than me, cling on to this man? How would such a paradoxical courtship even work?”

I just love how hypocritical and ridiculous this statement is, because not only does house know, but we as the audience can spot the oxymoron of his wondering: why would an alternate version of myself cling on to someone i need.

Just admit it babe, you want those puppy brown eyes all to yourself.

Next off, what the fuck do you mean he broke into his best friend’s/ his girlfriend’s (i don’t know whose it is) apartment just to have a little chitchat with Amber? To literally attempt to force her into breaking up with wilson? Re-Offering her a spot in his team only if she stops seeing his best friend? I mean seriously, realistically speaking, why is he even doing that?

Sure, he doesn’t like her but he respects her enough and understands her as a character because she doesn’t remind him of his own self, she literally is another personification of his own individual, and it scares the hell out of him, because he can predict the course of things. So why does he want them to break up? Because he knows she’s going to hurt wilson, she’s bound to, she’s bound to extract all the goodness, all the energy out of wilson and leave him bare when she doesn’t need him anymore. He knows she’s ultimately going to hurt him because he fears he’s going to do that to wilson as well, sooner or later, and he doesn’t want anybody else to do that other than him, if things come to that (this is SICK).

And it’s not just the “i’ll do anything for you not to lay a finger on him” or the “if you hurt him, you’re dead”, it’s not just house’s overprotectiveness over wilson, it’s also his acknowledgment of the fact that, if there’s two of them, two people who need wilson, two people who want him all to themselves, two people who cling on to him for dear life, then it’s almost certain that one of them will eventually be let go of. And house fears that that one person might be him. And he can’t risk that.

Also, on to a more silly and also craaaazy note… the way house looks at amber when he tells her to give wilson his sweatshirt back- holy. Actual. Shit. I swear to god i thought he was going to bite her head off. The way his eyes have this murderous, warning gleam, their proximity, the danger and warning in his voice i- boy is just like “give my boyfriend his sweatshirt back or else we’ll be having more than a few exchanges of words next time”

IM GONNA MAKE A PART 2 BECAUSE THIS IS GOING TO BE WAY TOO LONG SO STAY TUNED😔

#hilson #house md #greg house #house x wilson #james wilson #essay #opinion #my opinion #episode analysis #hate crimes md #they are in love #amber

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tenaciouschronicler · 1 month ago

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October 5 2024 2009

What a cool pumpkin the machine (APPEARIFIER!!!) brought to WV. Too bad that animal shaped image (dog? cat? fox? eldritch horror?) is obviously irrelevant!

WV themselves is so awed by the appearifier they cant even bring themselves to eat the pumpkin. Instead its once again time for science. The right most button, upon pressing, actually gives the info for the location we are at.

Too bad WV has no spacial awareness and blocks nearly the entire screen. What they do have is "an uncanny knack for tracking precise distances you have already traversed, in whatever units you choose." Very interesting and, coupled with the next photo, probably stems from the chess metaphors especially as the path WV has taken is marked in black and white.

The ruler in this case comes very in handy to convert whatever WVs units are to Human units for measurement.

Can we just take a moment to applaud how good they are not only at knowing where they are but where the knife, Can Town and the firefly are to bring everything over in mere seconds. And then remove said firefly from the amber. Because thats an impressive feat.

Next, as stated, this machine can only appearify NOT disappearify! Thats a whole other machine bub!! What kind of bozo would even think that possible!

You also cant bring back something that would create a time paradox. WV tries to do that with the rotten pumpkin we saw earlier and all it does is turn into A GELATINOUS GHOST PUMPKIN.

It does beg the question of how our new pumpkin is able to appear then. If we are many years in the future, did we just steal some poor persons pumpkin? What are the consequences of that? That pumpkin no longer exists in the 'now' so is it supposed to be appearified into the future? Are these timelines even actually on the same line? Probably not the same planet, is it? Ugh, my brain hurts.

At least Serenity, the firefily of indeterminate gender, can get WV back on track trying to escape this place by making use of morse code to shout 'Lets Go!!!'

It is time to get this show on the road and escape.

#its my moms birthday today #thats why im a little late reading the update #october birthdays completed 1/3 #homestuck #homestuck replay #hsrp liveblog #chrono

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liz-allyn · 2 years ago

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sugar and vice - epilogue

[continued from Part 23]

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Ice clinked against the stainless steel of her coffee tumbler like hollow wind chimes. She brought the pastel pink container to her lips, taking a careful sip. She’d already spilled some of it in her lap, and now brown spots dotted the yellow of her dress. Carefully, she set the tumbler down beside her, taking a moment to glance up at the scenery around her.

It was a golden-yellow summer day with a cloudless sky, save for the smog hanging over the city. Despite last week’s heat wave, the temperature was more moderate today, giving New York a much-needed break. From a bench in Central Park, she sat beneath the canopy of towering oak trees. A breeze rolled through that chilled her skin delightfully, aided by the icy beverage in her cup.

Nearby, a flock of pigeons scavenged for crumbs. On this particular Saturday, construction sounds were minor, reduced to distant echoes. The bright sounds of a street musician’s violin floated on the wind from nearby in the park. She heard a whistle from a group of children in the distance as they practiced soccer kicks.

Soccer would be good for Bella, she thought. The seven-year-old girl had tons of energy and legs that were longer than she knew what to do with. Ever since the Olympics and watching Space Jam: A New Legacy, Bella had been obsessed with becoming the next WNBA champion. She described LeBron’s performance as a masterpiece.

Her aunt knew better than to let her personal opinion spoil the girl’s fun.

That had been a good day. Today was a good day. She mused to herself as she took a breath. She was aware of the fact that the day wasn’t technically over. And perhaps there wasn’t anything particularly different from yesterday. But as her muscles relaxed beneath warm rays of sun on her shoulders, she found peace.

“Mind if I sit here?” a kind voice said from behind her. The muscles in her neck pulled taut. Her heart seized up and tripped over itself.

She glanced over her shoulder to find a pair of doe eyes fixed on her. Cherry lips twisted into a lopsided smile.

Impossibly, Peter Parker looked younger than the last time she saw him. The only sign of age in his creamy smooth skin were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, and a faint pink scar blending with the wrinkles above his brow.

Without the beard, he looked criminally soft. Big, bright amber eyes were fixated on her in a way that made her heart want to burst. She felt like she was floating in space and plummeting through the atmosphere.

At the same time, the primal part of her brain screamed out shrill sirens. Just the sight of him and his soulful eyes felt like she was tearing off a broken limb. Watching as his teeth pinched his pouty lip gave her the sensation of ripping apart nerve endings. Her stomach soured as her heart ached.

Beneath the heart, lava boiled in her belly. Her eyes were open wide, they could even be mistaken for shock. It wasn’t shock, however, but sheer rage burned in her eyes.

Peter Parker, the persistent paradox.

The only man that could stir every emotion in her, like the sun conjures every color of the rainbow out of drops of rain. He painted her world in vivid colors, and yet she was colorblind to everything but the golden hue of his eyes.

Peter Parker, who could make her feel stronger and weaker all at once.

She burned for him, in every sense of the phrase.

And at the present, he was holding his breath, waiting for her reply. She gazed up at him as emotions warred within her. He waited patiently, ready to accept whatever fate she thought he deserved.

She pursed both her lips tight, eyes narrowing. “I’ll allow it,” she said.

His lungs came to life once again, as if he’d been spared the guillotine. Gently, Peter rounded the park bench and sat down in the spot to her right. She kept her nose forward, eyes focused on anything but him.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked gently, gazing down at the pamphlet in her lap.

She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment. “A brochure.”

He observed the glossy tri-fold sheet with a nod. “I see that.” Instantly, he recognized the pictures and logo on the pamphlet, recalling how he once read the same words. “ESU, huh?” he noted with a half smirk, observing the ivory towers of the campus nestled in Midtown Manhattan. “Thinkin’ about classes?” He bit his lip anxiously. “What d’you wanna study?”

She held still, remaining silent as she stared down at the brochure. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and it felt like razors being shoved into his eye sockets.

“Dunno,” she answered with a gentle shrug. “Interior Design, maybe.” She cleared her throat and spoke with a little more volume. “Thinkin’ about applying for a grant for this fall.”

A smile warmed his eyes, though melancholy weighed down the corners of his lips. “What’s in the cup?” he asked, pointing his nose towards her coffee tumbler.

Lashes fluttered, she followed the end of his fingertip down to her beverage, almost having forgotten that it was there. “Oh,” she said meekly. “It’s a Mauna Kea.”

Peter quirked up a brow. “A what-ya-saya?”

She pinched her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from curving. “Mauna Kea,” she repeated slowly, enunciating the syllables. “Means ‘White Mountain’ in Hawaiian.” She hesitated for a moment, licking her dry lips. “It’s the name of the tallest mountain on Earth,” she declared, mustering confidence, “from peak to summit.”

A crease formed in Peter’s brow. “I thought Everest was the tallest mountain?”

“Tallest by altitude,” she divulged with pride. “Mauna Kea is bigger.” She flicked her eyes over to his and was immediately captured by his soulful gaze.

“No joke?” he replied with a thousand-watt smile and rosy cheeks.

“Yup,” he answered, as butterflies filled her belly.

He gazed at her as if he were witnessing the sunrise for the first time. “So, you’re drinkin’ a ‘White Mountain?’”

Her heart skipped a beat. “It’s a cold brew. Blended with honey, macadamia milk and ice, topped with coconut milk foam.” She intended to look down at her cup. Or at the pedestrians. Or the trees. Or the sun. She intended to look anywhere but at him. She really tried. “I made it myself,” she said, feeling heat crawl up her neck.

His eyes glowed, further enamored by her mere existence. “Wow. All this time, all I’ve been drinking is black coffee.” A smile glinted in his expression while his blush gave him away. “Just black coffee. Bitter. With extra sadness.”

She fought the smile her lips formed. “That’s a shame.”

“It is. People tell me I should take more risks, though. Go out on a limb.” His eyes wandered across the park before shifting back over to her. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and in his eyes she could spot his trepidation. If he looked young to her before, now he looked like a blushing boy asking his crush to prom. He gazed at her with the same terror, his heart in his throat and on his sleeve. “What’s your name?”

A fire burned bittersweetly in her heart as tears burned behind her eyes. She gazed at him, feeling her emotions swell. “Mari,” she answered, truthfully. She studied the bourbon and topaz facets of his irises and the lovely curve of his cupid’s bow. “But all my friends call me ‘Honey.’”

Peter’s lip trembled at that, eyes glistening despite his attempt to control it. “Honey,” he repeated with a murmur, as if chanting a prayer, or a protection spell. As if it was the answer to everything in the universe. In his universe, at least. “It suits you.”

A bittersweet smile warmed his features as he gazed at her, lost in the universe and freefalling towards her singularity. Her eyes went glossy as she mapped the pores, freckles, and scars on his face like the constellations in the sky.

“I missed you,” he said, endearingly.

Her heart throbbed at the pain in his voice. “I know.” She licked her lips, sadness filling her expression. “You hurt me,” she said somberly.

With misty, red eyes, he whispered back, “I know.” He swallowed hard, tears swimming in his gaze. “I’m sorry for that. M’sorry for a lot of things. But I don’t regret a single moment.”

Eyes glistening, a warm smile overtook her features, lighting up her gaze. She nodded in silent reply.

The sight of it made him want to die of joy. “If it doesn’t sound too forward,” he began gently, speaking with measured formality, “I was gonna ask you to come home with me.”

Home, he said. The significance of the word wasn’t lost on her. A tear rolled down her cheek, sliding along the curve of her grin. “Already?” she breathed out a laugh. “Geez. That was fast.”

His smile faded; he melted into enraptured awe. “No,” he whispered, eyes glowing with admiration. He leaned forward, breaking the invisible barriers between them. Her eyes fluttered shut as his calloused fingers brushed over her jaw, triggering a shiver down her spine. “I’ve waited years for you, remember?” he quietly rumbled. “I’ll keep waiting. For the rest of my life, if I have to.”

The sweetness of it all made her dizzy. It made her feel like her heart had spilled open and she would bleed out on the grass. “I’ll take it,” she sniffed, as Peter thumbed the tears from her cheeks.

“Take what?”

“The rest of your life.”

He melted in her gaze, staring down at her lips. “Sweet girl. You are my life.”

Without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The sensation made her heart flutter, her mind soar, and her brain sizzle. It made her wounds heal and her soul sing. It made life worth living. It made hope real.

When they parted from the kiss, they were breathless and dizzy, hearts thrumming together in sync.

The honey hues of his chestnut eyes were fixed on hers. “So,” he said, thoughtfully. “Mauna Kea. Ever see it up close?”

She smirked. “Nope. Never been to Hawai’i.”

“Me neither,” Peter shrugged, his eyes alight with life. “Wanna change that?”

End of Volume 1

A Note From Your Storyteller:

Whew. That was long.

I can't believe this has come to an end. Before I began writing, I was skeptical about this story, but honestly I could've never anticipated or expected the overwhelming support and love that I've gotten. People have made art from my art. They have showered me with gifts for my gift. If you'd say any gift is an expression of love, then gifted art is the ultimate expression of devotion. I love that you care about my characters, and about me!

What's next?

Good question. I've been at odds with this answer, and now it feels like I really need to commit to a path. My imagination is full of many more places that Honey and Peter can go. I could probably write 2-3 novels about these two with all of the effort I put into making these characters come to life. Realistically, I'm a mom with a baby, and I'm about to be a one-person band for the next few months. I'm excited to share these stories, but I'm not sure when or how, or even what that will look like.

The best thing you can do to interact with me is to keep your eyes on my updates from my Ko-fi page! I'm hoping to allow that to become a place where the S&V 'fandom' (wtf that sounds so weird what happened what is this life I am not worthy) can gather and where I can share updates.

In addition to S&V-related news, I'm going to post writing tips, best storytelling practices, AMAs, my favorite fics of the week, answer questions, and maybe even offer commissions. Keep in mind, none of this will be gatekeeped (gate-kept?) or behind a paywall. Even if you're not a regular... er, um, patron?... (barista?) on Ko-fi, you can still hopefully find some interesting stuff to check out.

But even if you don't do any of that, because... who cares, right? I do want you to do one thing for me. One tiny thing that will make the world better. One small thing that could end up changing someone's life.

The next fanfic you read, if you feel any emotions about it at all, please hit "reblog."

You don't have to write a long review, or leave a comment, or add any tags to it. You don't have to do anything more than click the reblog button. But please reblog. When you reblog, you get to share the gift fanfic writers make with someone else, regardless of whether you know them. And subconsciously, you tell the writer 'yes, I see you, and I think other people should, too,' and that small thing can save someone's life one day.

Forget engagement, forget likes vs comments vs reblogs vs community labels vs filtering settings—

Stories are gifts. They are expressions of love put to words. They are emotions lived, repackaged, wrapped in a bow, and then shared with others, along with a kind little note that says 'here's this moment of my heart, I hope it moves you the way it moved me.'

Reblog. And fill the world with a little more love.

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berryberrytaeberry · 1 month ago

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In the venn diagram that is Taylor Swift Evermore fans and mdzs Jiang Cheng apologists, I am probably the only person in the small overlapping center.

But oh well.

In this essay, I will explain why the bridge to Marjorie is Chengxian & (EDIT: fun fact, apparently Chengxian is a romantic only thing which i did not intend oopsie) Jiang Cheng pov coded because I think about it Every. Waking. Moment. Istfg.

The autumn chill that wakes me up

You loved the amber skies so much

The change of the seasons from summer to fall reminding JC of WWX is a cool motif imo. The leaves changing from green to brown and the skies darkening evokes the feeling of WWX's ghost cultivation tarnishing the cultivation world, but in a way that JC ultimately knows deep down is beautiful in its own way. WWX's birthday is also in October. This is also how we know the song isn't about Yanli--easy mistake, I know.

Long limbs and frozen swims

You'd always go past where our feet could touch

Swimming in lotus pier. JC is remembering WWX in the present (fall), where everything is dying, but summer activities like swimming remind him of his brother too. WWX would drag JC into the freezing water even in October. They were children, long limbed and gangly, and WWX would always swim further than was safe. Always attempting the impossible where JC wouldn't.

And I complained the whole way there

The car ride back and up the stairs

JC, my babygirl, my favorite complainer, my favorite well-meaning, grump you 😘❤️

I should've asked you questions

I should've asked you how to be

Asked you to write it down for me

And then the regret and guilt starts to creep in. JC hasn't acknowledged that he wishes WWX was still here yet, but there's a level of repressed admiration that chokes him. How did WWX do it all? Why isn't JC more like him? What rulebook for success did WWX follow when WWX never followed any rules? Why wasn't JC enough? All these thoughts race through his head.

Should've kept every grocery store receipt

'Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me

Watched as you signed your name Marjorie

Now, JC admits to grieving. He wishes he even had the smallest of scraps of his brother but it was ALL taken away from him. His whole family, his home, his authenticity. His kindness. This is why he holds so tight onto Chenqing for all those years. It's his last scrap of WWX (that he knows of). Unwittingly, the golden core within him, haunts him. His brother's veritable soul is IN him, and yet he's chasing the minutia of the simplicity of WWX writing his name.

All your closets of backlogged dreams

And how you left them all to me

Now, JC admits to the BURDEN of his grief. WWXs hidden dreams: a family, cultivation power, love, are all left to JC, and JC feels inadequate in all of them. But he will do it. He will do it. He will lose himself along the way. And he will never find his old self again. But he will yearn for his brother.

What died didn't stay dead

You're alive, you're alive in my head

JC will see WWX in Jin Lings face. In the way the water ripples across the pier. Every time he tastes lotus root soup and remembers who he used to share it with. It will drive him mad.

What died didn't stay dead

You're alive, so alive

WWX is resurrected. He didn't die. Why couldn't he just stay dead? JC had everything under control (lies). WWX is alive SO ALIVE and JC can't bear it. JC gave up on getting his brother back a decade ago

And if I didn't know better

I'd think you were singing to me now

But wasn't life with WWX good, for all the annoyances it brought? Wasn't the sound of his flute peaceful? *clenches fist around chenqing* The goddamned flute *throws flute across room* Thank god it's not broken. MXY is his brother. JC has never been more sure about anything.

If I didn't know better

I'd think you were still around

I know better

But I still feel you all around

I know better

But you're still around

Simultaneously, and paradoxically, JC convinces himself that he knows better, that it couldn't be true, none of these reveries and realizations matter because WWX is dead.

But he's not.

Dead, or alive, WWX is still around. His resurrection changes nothing and never will GAH-- THE ANGST OF IT ALL!!!

#mdzs #wei wuxian #wei ying #jiang cheng #the untamed #berry agenda rise #please for the love of god dont take this seriously #this is brain rot #and my curse to bear

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fiddlepot · 1 year ago

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miner dee en eye (kinda nsfw) go do your homework losers /neu same thing for ageless blogs. Cease.

Me when brain suddenly "kokudoma"

Like. It's honestly such a crackship but they're fuck buddies only bc kokushibo is an edgy ass bitch

But doma is like actually fond of him and won't leave him tf alone so koku goes "fuck it" and edges him with like small doses of attention only to fuck him senseless later, and y'all know they can both go for literally forever bc stamina is not an issue for demons at all

Anywhoooo 🤣

Drabble under the cut. Once again, nsfw = get the FUCK out if you're a minor plz thx ❤🌹🙏

Tags; nsfw (duh doy) kokudou, doma being a bottom bitch, degredation, little to no aftercare tbh koku don't got time for that, impact play, blood play, biting, belt bondage, humiliation, one sided affection, koku being sassy, demons being freaks lmao!

oh yeah, and before I forget to mention uh. my bad if there are like, issues in the writing. I don't rlly write smut like that so it may be like, finnicky or whatever.

His Affection

As the second-in-command, the moments bestowed upon Upper Moon 1 were of the utmost significance—a privilege beyond measure to partake in even the slightest morsel of his precious time, perhaps more so than the demon king himself.

And it seemed Muzan thought so too.

Doma's relationship with the highest Kizuki was, put simply, a distraction for them both. His lordship already didn't like him—and it was evident that the progenitor fancied the prospect of hearing his cries of pleasure bounce about the sprawling walls of the Infinity Castle even less. Or having the ability to see him unfurl anywhere, for that matter.

Yet he tolerated it all, much as he tolerated the myriad eccentricities that defined Doma's existence—solely because Kokushibo didn't bear any particular fondness of the man. If there was any semblance of favor beneath his veneer, it was a masterful deception, concealed with an artistry that left no room for doubt.

“How exceedingly unbecoming of you... Upper Moon Two,” Kokushibo taunted, his tone laced with derision as he continued to torment Doma. A single thrust of his knee into Doma's perineum reduced him to a huffing, mewling, wanton mess that could do nothing but writhe beneath the relentless assault. “Pathetic.”

“For you, I...” Doma began to croon in response, but his sentiment was summarily disregarded by his superior.

Indeed, the kanji branded into Doma's very being served as a constant reminder of the wrongness that tainted their actions. Yet he grappled with the notion of whether it truly constituted wrongdoing, when he was held captive by someone of superior strength. It could have been worse, but the act itself, while undeniably indulgent, left him yearning for more.

Three pairs of amber eyes encased in bloodshot sclerae bore down upon Doma's kaleidoscope orbs, middle eyelids lifting with a sadistic mirth as the latter struggled to gather his bearings. Yes, if nothing else, he was a rather fine instrument—a myriad outlet of wanton and eager reactions to every strum, stroke, and tug of Kokushibo's own.

Another forceful thrust, and Doma's fists, ensnared by the constricting uwa-obi, trembled with impatience. His hitherto unrewarding quest for gratification danced in macabre synchrony with Kokushibo's unyielding onslaught of ruthless stringency. Stringency he trusted Doma could handle, just as he had many times before.

Indeed, he bore an unparalleled capacity to endure the most precarious of circumstances. Stripped bare and vulnerable, entangled within Kokushibo's grip that paradoxically bore both pain and pleasure to his bruised wrists, all within the sanctum of his private chambers where the prying eyes of servants loomed over him as a threat to his image—his affection for the elder demon had endowed him with a remarkable adaptability. That which Kokushibo quite appreciated, even while he didn't do so typically.

“Please,” Doma keened, not entirely sure of what he was begging for. His legs flailed above Kokushibo's hips, the capriciousness of his knee now replaced with a rhythmic cadence. In response, Doma's own hips danced to accommodate, all under Kokushibo's unwavering gaze.

“Please?” The elder demon withdrew his knee just as he noticed Doma's thrusts growing more frantic, bringing about a plaintive whine of protest. One that he ignored. “Please what?”

Cruel, Doma surmised, his furrowed brows betraying a sensation akin to frustration—though it was more related to a profound sense of bereftness. The feeling soon gave way to astonishment though, as his superior's calloused, unfettered hand ventured toward his most intimate regions. In a tantalizing journey that brushed past a multitude of erogenous zones, Kokushibo commenced a painstakingly leisurely rhythm of strokes upon the taut, erect shaft. “Lord Kokushibo,” Doma moaned, the words escaping his lips in yet another impassioned plea. He couldn't bite back his grin at the pleasure as the ministrations increasingly focused on his tip.

“Hmm?” He pressed.

“I...”

“Out with it, now.” With a low, knowing hum, Kokushibo continued his torturous ministrations, the shadow of a wry smile playing upon his lips. He reveled in the unfolding tableau, and were it not for the undeniable evidence concealed beneath his hakama, Doma might have failed to discern Kokushibo's own mounting desire. His digit, now shifting its focus to Doma's taint and then his quivering slit, brought about a gasp and a shuddering buck of his hips from his suboordinate.

“Oh, you intoxicate me,” was what Doma wanted nothing more than to convey at that moment—but he was thinking with the brain in between his legs now, and just choking out the phrase “I want you to fuck me” was a hassle on its own. So in lieu of those words, his body needily leaned into Kokushibo's tantalizing caress, eliciting a flinch, a fervent yelp, and the shadow of a chuckle as he was duly rewarded with the electrifying sting of a strike to his thigh.

“Out with it,” repeated Upper Moon One, eyes lazily trailing downwards towards Doma's slit. The hand on his thigh never quite ceased its position there, but it did gingerly slide upwards, halting just shy of his hip. “I much prefer hearing you mewl and beg...” Kokushibo leaned back, moving to take the awaiting bottle of oil beside them in his hand with a mumur, “...than I do seeing you throw your hips about without any abandon or shame... like a cheap harlot.”

Or perhaps he preferred a combination of both.

His movements were deft and fluid, and soon enough, Doma found his thighs tensing in ecstasy as his superior slid a slicked finger inside with ease. With a single thrust, followed by the benevolent curl of Kokushibo's digit, he effortlessly conducted a symphony of squirming, whimpering, and shuddering glee from the younger demon.

“Oh, god, yes— more of that,” he finally cried out, his moans now reaching crescendos of reckless abandon, “Please, I need— I nee-he-oh...!”

Something between a laugh and a keen leaves his mouth mid plea, and Kokushibo lavishes a hot tongue on his nipple. Simultaneously, the hand that had lingered on his upper thigh ventured upward to cup his pectoral—soft and sumptuous enough to rival a woman's bosom, and apparently just as sensitive as one, too.

“Go on,” Kokushibo rasped, following his words with a bite that sent his suboordinate gasping for air that he hardly needed to begin with. Doma seemed so caught up in the feeling of wet hotness lapping his erected nipple that he hardly had any reaction to the second and soon, third finger of Kokushibo's adding to the mess of oily slick that was his entrance. A wicked spectacle it was, to witness the unraveling of Doma's customary demeanor. Kokushibo, savoring every moment of it, traced a peppery path of kisses along both pectorals, infusing his actions with a deceptively sweet tenderness before descending upon the other nipple. “What do you need?”

“I need... I need your cock— inside me,” His own cock jumped as the pinching sensation returned at a sharper intensity, one that drew forth his blood. Blood that erupted upon his superior's taste buds—blood that was lapped up hungrily until the wound inevitably fizzled away.

To this, Upper Moon One withdrew his fingers, either deeming Doma loose enough or in an effort to keep him on the edge of release.

“Just inside you?” probed the demon, withdrawing his mouth and cupping hand to do away with his garments.

“Mnhh” with a hitch of his breath, Doma lowered his eyelids, and then his gaze. Seemed the man had a sword in between his legs too, he joked to himself. “I wan—... I need you to fuck me, Lord Kokushibo.” The latter cupped the back of Doma's left knee in response. “Please,” he added. There was a period of silence between the two after that.

“Turn around,” Kokushibo finally commanded, to which Doma obliged. A small part of him contemplated praising the man silently, for although he relished the act of instructing him to get on his knees, this time, the younger demon had done so without being expressly told—a noteworthy first.

Doma's body quivered in anticipation as the sizable tip of Kokushibo's arousal prodded at his entrance. It greedily swallowed up the intrusion alongside the thick shaft that followed, and he could've sworn he saw stars once their hips converged with a wet slap. Another exploratory snap of his superior's hips, and he wails with delight—All things considered, it quite pleased Kokushibo to know this wanton little orfice remembered him so very well.

Kokushibo maintained an unwavering grasp on Doma's hips, savoring every subtle contour of the younger demon's form and the symphony of beguiling sounds that flowed from his parted lips. There was no respite, no pause in the relentless storm that were his ceaseless thrusts, each one propelling his length to greater depths within Doma's quivering core. The younger demon, overwhelmed by the overstimulation, sought solace by burying his head into the silken sheets, his eyes cast upwards, and his mouth a veritable cascade of desire, saliva pooling in his abandon. His muffled ries and moans, somehow still unbridled and unrestrained, reverberated through the room and likely the halls beyond it. And it was always at that point that Kokushibo knew his conscience had been wholly eclipsed by the arduous affair.

In all sincerity, Doma was at his most endearing in this state. A harsh sentiment, perhaps, but in such moments, there existed no space for artifice or his foolish banter. In such moments, he was malleable, receptive to reminders of his place.. Just as he should be.

As Kokushibo's hand traversed the expanse of Doma's nape and traced an affectionate path along his back—perhaps the sole form of praise Doma would garner from his superior this night—he basked in the tender sensation, finding solace in the fleeting respite his dampened pillow couldn't hope to provide on its own.

However, that interlude of affection was destined to be brief. His hand, which had previously caressed Doma's back, now ventured to entwine itself in the younger demon's tousled locks. With a firm tug, akin to that of a leash, Kokushibo elicited a high-pitched squeal from Doma—a sound that he found utterly delicious, a brief indulgence before he shifted his focus.

At the crook of Doma's neck, Kokushibo bared his fangs, and with a savage bite, he drew forth yet another long bead of blood to be lapped up with grace. Kokushibo's lips closed around the wound, savoring the metallic tang of Doma's essence. From there, the rolling of his hips only grew more intense, and Doma's moans only grew louder.

“Such a piteous mess,” drawled Upper Moon One, muffled by his own painful ministrations. Doma threw his head back with whatever room he was allowed. “Merely a handful of thrusts, and you're wailing and contorting... like a desperate animal in the throes of heat.”

A well-placed blow to his rear incurred a yowl of pleasure from Doma—a response not born of wrongdoing but a delicious opportunity to chastise him in such a manner.

“M'sorry,” He babbled mindlessly, “M' a mess for you, Lord Kokushibo, I—mhn~!—feels so good, I'm...”

Kokushibo tore his fangs from the yielding flesh, savoring the yelp that ensued, along with the metallic tang of blood that tantalized his lips. He took a moment to relish the essence, licking it away with a deliberateness that bespoke his hedonistic enjoyment at that moment. As anticipated, the wound healed swiftly. He leaned back, drinking in the sight of Upper Moon Two, stripped of his dignity and forced to his knees within the confines of his own domain—a place where his image held paramount importance.

“You don't appear to be contrite in the slightest.” Kokushibo crooned, his voice oscillating between panting breaths and lascivious groans as he skillfully coaxed another cascade of mewls from Doma. His free hand deftly moved to stimulate the other's arousal, further heightening his pleasure. “I wonder,” he continued, his tone dripping with malice, “what might occur... if one of your devoted followers were to stumble upon this debauched scene... while you're ensnared in such a stupefying state?”

With another resolute thrust, Kokushibo's hand deftly manipulated Doma's frenulum, unleashing a searing tidal wave of pleasure that sent the younger demon reeling, stars dancing before his vision. In that moment of rapturous intensity, his brain grappled to process the words uttered, and when comprehension finally dawned, the thought alone made his cock twitch with fervor.

“How crassly forthright.” Kokushibo remarked, his grip on Doma's arousal tightening briefly, only to unleash a punitive slap upon the hypersensitive tip. The sharp sting gave rise to an immediate yelp of pleasure-pain, Doma's breath quickening with a sharp hitch as he teetered on the precipice of rapture and torment.

It was a sound judgement to have him face the door then, Kokushibo supposed, basking in the sounds he choked out of his suboordinate. Doma's vocalizations ran the gamut, ranging from rasped vulgarities to squeaky cries, and if there was one facet that Kokushibo genuinely admired about him, it was his voice—a mellifluous tenor that he might not have deserved but undeniably possessed. In the throes of passion, Doma made the most delectable sounds, each note growing more exquisite, more impassioned, as his inevitable climax approached.

And Kokushibo, true to his intent, was resolute in granting him that release, if not the preservation of his dignity. After all, he was exceptionally well-behaved tonight—and he had put the man through more than enough.

In that chamber, a tumultuous tempest of blurred ecstasy unfurled its rapturous banner. Devoid of ardor's solemn vows, bereft of any whispered oaths, release finally came. As Doma, his frame a symphony of ecstasy, ascended towards the zenith of his sensual reverie, Kokushibo, without much delay, joined him. With one last fervent thrust, Upper moon one stilled his hips, and the demons' release converged in sinewy strings of white amidst their frenzied sounds of pleasure, until there was nothing left to give.

Doma was the first to succumb to a semblance of exhaustion, his body yielding as Kokushibo's length slid out of him, leaving him in a languid sprawl as he finally had a moment to revel in the intoxicating fluids that now clung to him—an unapologetic mess of his superior's warm spent and his own perspiration that existed despite his naturally low body temperature. Kokushibo, his gaze fixated on the visage of Doma in his post-coital haze, contemplated the notion of a potential round two, had he the luxury of time.

With a sigh, he carefully removed the obi that had previously bound Doma's wrists, freeing the younger demon from his constraints. He proceeded to dress himself upon sliding off the bed as if nothing happened—although his apparent discomfort at his own perspired state was palpable.

“It would be prudent for you to summon your servants to attend to this... aftermath,” he remarked in a hushed tone, his words laced with an air of formality. “If there is anything you require me to procure for you... now would be the time to inquire. If not.. I'm taking my leave.”

“A kiss would be-”

“No.”

Doma grumbled, shuffling up to the edge where Kokushibo stood. Like clockwork, his perpetual smile returned, and of course, so did his cheekiness. Kokushibo, who had been facing the door, turned to look at him, utterly unamused.

“Would it kill you to give me just one...?” he pouted. “You said I could ask for anything I wanted just now... You're always so mean to me.”

“No,” Kokushibo repeated, adjusting the sash of his kimono. “...I said I'd give you whatever you needed. You don't need what you're asking for.”

Kokushibo reached for his sheathed katana and slid it into his obi with practiced precision. He was preparing for his departure, to which Doma deflated onto his bed in silent resignation.

“...Nor does it seem like you need anything from me at all,” he remarked stoically, turning his gaze forward. “So I will take my leave now.”

And with that, he was gone. Doma rolled over unto his back with a dramatic sigh. Maybe it was a need. His affection.

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Wowzer, that was a long one. Sorry for the long wait. I've been meaning to get this out for a whole week, but my perfectionist ass kept editing before the damn piece was actually finished. Anyway.... yeah, I'll probably post more of these two lol. Their banter was fun to write for sure.

#hypothetical #fanfic #kny #kny fanfic #doma kny #kokushibo #doma x kokushibo #eev rambles #kny michikatsu #michikatsu tsugikuni #doma smut #kokushibo smut #his affection #kokudouma

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