#and demeaning to life itself
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
i actually really do think atheism is an extremely beautiful way to view the world, the universe, humankind and i'm sad that view of atheism isn't expressed much.
the belief that beauty finds a way on its own to exist in the world, in spite of the vast swaths of nothingness and the billions of years of nothingness, brings tears to my eyes. kindness is something not built into the soul, is not something with a reward at the end, but it is a choice billions of people make every single day.
there was a one billionth of a billionth chance that even a single flower would come into existence and we are in a world full of them, blooming and becoming new and vibrant things over time.
it's beautiful that the world, planet earth, has died and been brought back anew through multiple ages, with and without humanity or any guiding hand. there are planets that no intelligent being has ever witnessed that look like thousands of glittering diamonds... not to be enjoyed or judged but just to exist.
everything exists not for someone else's gratification but just for its own sake. and humanity has found ways to tie things together and weave them into supportive nets, baskets of joy, just for happiness' sake.
that in all the ugliness, the emptiness, and the black holes, literal but also the events and people and oppressors that exist just to suck everything up, the universe persists. not because it has to, not because it has been willed to, but because survival and existence is innate. we exist. not in spite of or because of. we just exist.
and can give it all value. but those things we don't qualify or quantify still exist. judgment and perception ultimately do not define existence. because everything, everyone will still exist.
this worldview extends inwards. i can shrug off judgment because it does not keep me from existence. even death i can shrug off because the idea of me will exist to everyone who matters to me until they no longer exist and then there's no one left to prescribe value to my existence, so it won't matter. i mattered when i needed to.
i think that's beautiful and defies the need for a god or supernatural force. and that, in fact, applying intention to any bit of the universe, in its large scale, would make it less beautiful to me.
#likewise I think life matters more if it ends with death#any idea of the afterlife sounds terrible to me#and demeaning to life itself
13 notes
·
View notes
Note
touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)
by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.
DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.
idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.
It's survival.
At first.
A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached.
Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter.
Nothing else, except—
He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling.
He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—
Mesmerising.
Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.
(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)
He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—
Ever.
And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have.
Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along.
Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars.
(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”
and he—
he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—
he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid?
slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella.
in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness.
you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”
and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest.
“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”
his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)
And now—
Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.
Protection, he calls it.
("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.")
You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is.
Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—
It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him.
Vile man. Awful.
(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)
This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore.
(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)
Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—
Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second.
Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed.
(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)
Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat.
It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl.
You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape.
You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums.
“Need somethin', pet?”
Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”
“Yes, what?”
“Sir—”
Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up.
You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning.
“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”
Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste.
It's gross. Disgusting.
It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—
He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—
(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)
You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony.
Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary.
“S–sir—?”
He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems.
You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”
You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue.
Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains.
Uprooted, turned into something new—
His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable.
(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)
“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”
You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it.
“I need—I need you.”
Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”
He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”
Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him.
Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins.
Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—
He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—
just like he says.
As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems.
Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.
His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing.
And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.
You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee.
Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting.
There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—
Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him.
He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.
“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting.
There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand.
He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.
Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—
“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”
It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—
He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much.
you don't want him to stop.
His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.
He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more
The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm.
It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand.
He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—
But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains.
“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.”
“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”
Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—
You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave.
“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.”
You burn, blister. “Please—”
“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?”
Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves.
“Simon—”
“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.”
“No, no, no—! I'm—”
“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes.
“Please, sir—”
“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”
The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart.
He knows you. Every part—
“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—”
It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it.
He hides his need under a layer of derision.
“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?”
His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand.
“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”
Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”
His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin.
He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”
Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self.
But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside.
There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin.
Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—
Full.
Mangled.
Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot.
He's—
Pretty.
Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—
You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—
You kiss him.
Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—
Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally.
And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.
Because you need him, don't you?
Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you—apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—
(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)
—it’s all so divine.
His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—
And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him.
Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive.
It coils around you. Thick, smothering.
He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—
He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour.
But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—
“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”
“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”
The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric.
“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide.
Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.
His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.
You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort.
After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out.
His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast.
He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette.
“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”
You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore.
Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor.
“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”
Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.”
You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest.
His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”
“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”
“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”
There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—
Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china.
Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.
This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—
“Gonna be my good little wife?”
Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—
His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—
“Not gonna run?”
Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing.
How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad.
Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”
And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss.
His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his.
It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep.
It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in.
Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.
It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—
Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.
When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—
Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”
—and you swallow it down with a moan.
(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)
#when your kidnapper is mean and rude as hell but you've been dtf since day one: the manifesto#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#i forget where i put peoples hands sometimes and then have to go back and remind myself where everyone's at lmao#hope you enjoyedddddddddddd#i'm gonna go pour myself a glass of bleach bye#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#cod#ghost#simon ghost riley#simon riley x you#ghost x you
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Problem with Sexy Costumes
There were a lot of things Tim loved about Halloween. But nothing came close to all the half-naked sorority sisters at their frat’s Halloween party. Each year, they’d throw the biggest Halloween party on campus, inviting several of the hottest sororities over. And each year, their frat house would be filled with sexy nurses, witches, teachers- you name it. Tim would go as a football player. Perhaps somewhat unoriginal, given that he just wore his uniform, but he got the attention he needed. The girls would be practically hanging off his muscular arms and running their hands along his abs. Yeah, for Tim, this was the life. And as the party continued, the young jock smirked when he saw a sexy witch standing all by herself. He walked over, a confident smirk plastered on his face.
“Sup?” He casually put an arm around her.
“Get lost.”
Not the response he was expecting. Someone must’ve really pissed her off. But Tim wasn’t all that worried. He just needed to charm this witch.
“Don’t be like that.” He grinned, “You wanna hear a joke?” She raised an eyebrow, “You lookin’ for a broomstick, cause I have something you can ride.” He grinned, clearly impressed with himself.
“You’re all the same.” She mused, “I didn’t even want to come to this stupid party.” She looked down at herself, “I look ridiculous.”
Tim frowned, “I don’t think you do.” He reassured, “You’re, like, the sexiest witch here.”
“Exactly.” She continued, “Sexy.” She spat, “It’s so demeaning. Having all these guys stare at you.”
“I don’t think so at all.” He smirked, “We can’t help it. I mean look at you! Seriously, take it as a compliment.”
“Really? You’re...” She was pissed, but she could tell by the jock’s dopey grin that he didn’t understand. A small smile formed on her lips and she placed a hand on his mountainous bicep, “I guess I might just have to put a spell on you.” She whispered in his ear.
“Oh baby, I won’t stop you.” He immediately perked up, a devilish grin forming on his face.
He didn’t quite know what caused this sudden change, but he wasn’t complaining. Tim figured it was his charm that tamed this witch. He leaned in for a kiss, which she returned. And before he knew it, they were going upstairs to his room.
“So you’re gonna put a spell on me?” He asked, pulling off his shirt to reveal his muscular torso.
“Oh you have no idea.” She replied.
Tim didn’t think she was being literal. But apparently she wasn’t just a sexy witch only on Halloween. When she snapped her fingers, the young jock felt his body temperature rising.
“Is it getting hot in here or...”
“Just you.” She smirked.
Tim raised an eyebrow and grunted as he felt a sudden pressure on his muscles. He watched in terror as his muscles started to atrophy before his eyes. His meaty pecs slimming down, as the muscle in them evaporated in mere moments. The steam that was once his muscles dissipating into the air. He turned and begged for mercy as his arms followed- quickly losing their girth, but remaining toned nonetheless. He took a step to try and escape, but felt a shooting pain in his legs. He looked down to see his thick thighs and plump ass evaporate away. He stared at her, pleading again for mercy, only to hear his voice crack and raise a few octaves. He let out a grunt, and with a sickening series of cracks, his body seemed to cave into itself, becoming shorter, slimmer, and all the more delicate. Even his chest and abdominal hairs vanished, leaving him smooth and hairless. Tears stained his eyes when he saw his reflection. His masculinity stolen from him. And when he looked back at the witch- realizing he was now at eye-level with her- she simply cupped his face and ran a hand through his messy hair. He felt a series of pops as his jawline reshaped into something more feminine. Even his hair restyled into a cute quiff.
“Oh now isn’t this perfect.” She mused.
Tim whimpered as his football gear shifted into something more appropriate. His shoulder pads becoming bedazzled with fake jewels, while his jock strap reformed into a tight speedo. She snapped her fingers again, and he watched as his new costume materialized on his slim form.
“Wh-why.” He sounded so weak- so helpless.
But when he turned, she was gone. Tim knew he needed to find her. To have her undo this. And so he left his room and returned to the party. He wished he hadn’t. As he made his appearance, he could feel all eyes turn to him. Staring at his sexy football player costume. Undressing him even further with their eyes.
“Bros?” He whimpered.
He let out a yelp when he felt one of his former frat bros squeeze his ass. Another approached him and gently teased his exposed nipples. Tim let out an unwilling moan, as more of his former frat bros approached him, fondling his ass and lean form.
“Please... wait...” He moaned, his mind fogging over from the bliss.
It wouldn’t be much longer until Tim found himself out of his sexy football costume. His former bros seeing him as nothing more than a sentient toy for their pleasure. And as his eyes rolled back into his head, his focus became pleasing his former bros. And with each thrust into his mouth and ass, Timmy could hear a voice. It was mocking. Lecturing him even.
“Take it as a compliment, Timmy.” It repeated, over and over again, “They can’t help it.”
853 notes
·
View notes
Text
TEETH TO BONE // t. nott
RATING: PG-13 / 1.3K WORDS
Theodore Nott x Reader Insert (no gender-specific details)
+ SUMMARY - You come to your best friend's dorm room after not being able to sleep. He makes a decision that changes your relationship forever. *Theo's POV* (Romance)
+ WARNINGS - Heavy kissing, a bit of petting, someone kisses w/o that person's permission
+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -
Touch - Troye Sivan
---
The sheets in the morning always caught Theodore’s attention. In those early hours when the sun's warm shades had not yet overtaken the cool, the birds still refused to sing, and the residents of the castle hadn’t yet awoken. It was a rarity for him to wake up at this time naturally—it didn't always have the same effect. But when he opened his eyes to the milky hue that stained the floor and felt the luster within his sleep-filled eyes, an instant feeling of comfort washed over him. This was always quickly followed by an unnerving question of life itself and the reason for these comforting feelings, but before this came along, there was comfort.
It was the folds in the sheets that traced over his legs and the imaginary body lying next to him; the soft dancing of eyelashes over cheeks; the supple pink of another’s lips--someone in particular, not just anyone; and coffee with just enough cream to where it matched an old pair of corduroy trousers. These were all things that made him feel equally as comfortable as that morning light. The lips, though, were an image that often flashed in his mind. As were the sheets and the unfairly long eyelashes and the corduroy trousers. Each day, Theo found himself aligning more things in his personal thoughts to that of someone like you. He might hope to consider you his love but would never truly do so for the looming sense of rejection that hung over him like a rain cloud.
The door in the corner creaked with a symphony of old wood and rusty nails. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but the sound was as nostalgic as the crackles within the records that he and you used to play, sitting on the floors of each other's bedrooms. Theo smiled gently at the memory, remembering the feel of the hardwood beneath your ankles and the looks in both of your eyes. If he wasn't crazy, he might have thought that this is where his heart first opened up to you. Where he first realized how badly he craved your touch instead of any of the girls or guys his mates eyed in town.
"Teddy," a whisper like crinkling parchment tickled the shell of his ears. Only you could call him that.
"Are you awake?"
Theo pushed himself up into a sitting position, feeling the sheets tangle around his feet in a new position than they previously had. His eyes met that of a bedroom floor record player in an embrace with a cotton touch. You smiled, showing off the teeth that Theo found so endearing. You shifted a bit in the doorway, rubbing your bare thighs together in an attempt to gain some warmth. You were still wearing the shirt and the shorts that you’d been in the night before—the ones that made his stomach kiss his chest.
He caught onto your sense of embarrassment and beckoned you over, your nightshirt a bit too big for you. The sleeves reached the tips of your fingers in a rather demeaning manner. You sauntered over before stepping into his bed, crossing your legs and placing your hands comfortably between each thigh. The shirt you wore was ill-fitting just as his but in a different way. The cotton material lay against your chest which didn't dare to touch. Your skin pulled tight over your bones and made a passionate embrace with the fabric as it hung off you in a rather languorous way that caught Theo’s attention rather quickly. The collar delicately caressed your exposed collarbones that cut like knives and burned like fire in the pit of Theo’s stomach.
"Alright, love?" Theo whispered, his voice cracking from the pressure of the morning. You looked down, a few strands of hair falling into your eyes. You didn't seem to notice.
"Couldn’t sleep, I reckon . . . ," you spoke just above a whisper, the tenor undertones in your voice making the hair on Theo’s arms stand up. Without thinking, the brunette swiftly swiped the hair out of your eyes with a single thumb, just barely brushing your skin with his own. His eyes found yours in a breathless escape, attempting to analyze what you were feeling. Theo could hear his heartbeat in his ears and he wondered if you could hear it as well. His hand fell limp at his side in an embarrassed fashion.
Your mouth opened as if to speak but closed once more. You seemed to be debating on whether or not to say what was dancing on the end of your tongue. Theo desperately wanted to hear what you had to say. He wanted to know if it was a negative or a positive that he had touched you in that way.
"Teddy—" you began but Theo pressed his lips to yours before you could finish. It hadn't been something he’d thought about before doing. He just did it. His hands remained tightly pressed into his lap, not wanting to push himself onto you any further. He felt bad for doing this in the first place, he just needed to feel the person he'd known for so long in the way he desired. He expected you to push him away or run or something but by the time he realized those things could possibly happen, he knew that this kiss had been extended much too long to be a hormone-fueled act of blind passion.
Your lips no longer remained dormant but moved against his. Yours cradled his bottom lip with a gentle touch—much too gentle for him. He pressed his hands to either side of your face, pulling himself onto his knees. You rested comfortably between his thighs, knees dug into the mattress, as your shoulders were against the headrest. He steadied you, feeling his fingers trace the lower part of your posture. Theo groaned breathlessly into your mouth, politely insinuating that he needed a breath.
You slowly pulled away, your lips joined in a messy trail of spit that disconnected as you rested your forehead against his. Blue eyes met yours in a frenzied heat of repressed desire as dry throats held the hunger of fasting lovers. Your thumb gently stroked his cheek, eyes flickering down from his bewitching eyes to his swollen lips, painted with your love.
"More."
It was a single whisper. Nothing too dramatic or emotional, just the hoarse beg of a starved man. You took Theo’s lips back onto your own, much more fervently than before, feeling his desperate breath against your cheeks. Theo’s hands fell to your hips, his fingers brushing the bare skin there. You winced into his mouth at the cold touch of his rings, your fingers tightening into his hair.
Theo pushed off from the headboard and gently laid you back on the bed. He hovered over you in a protective guard, shielding you from all other eyes in the outside world. His lips touched against your neck like a feather, only barely ghosting against your soft flesh. You knew that the man above was like a god and you worshiped him as such. Lips to skin, teeth to bone. The young god's hands held onto you like a lifeline, exhaling syllables packed with amour and white-hot lust in your ear.
Theo’s hand slid delicately beneath your shirt, caressing the warm skin stretched over your ribs. You could feel his heart drumming through the rest of his body like a bomb ticking away. It teased you, daring you to take control. He wouldn't let you, though, you knew this well enough. The man in question slid down your body and pulled you by the back of your knees until your head was resting against the pillow. His knees lock you in place. You couldn't go anywhere even if you wanted to.
"Are you sure, love—" Theo whispered breathlessly.
"Merlin, Theo, yes," you spoke. You were surprised you even got the words out with the way your pulse was pounding in your ears. It knocked against your brain, imprinting a tattoo of lust within your skull.
If Theo died right now and the last thing he saw was you beneath him, pressing your lips against his undeserving flesh and tracing your fingers down every individual scar, freckle, and anomaly on his body, then he'd take it.
#theodore nott#theo nott#harry potter fanfiction#harry potter#fanfiction#smut#theodore nott x reader#harry potter smut#slytherin#creative writing#oneshot#reader insert#fanfic
2K notes
·
View notes
Note
So I recently had a thought about Chilchuck x reader. While drinking, Chilchuck discovers that the reader is a complete lightweight who got drunk after 2 drinks. Not only that, but reader who is usually reserved and quiet becomes rather giggly, vocal, and the smallest bit flirty. Maybe he sees what happens when the reader becomes even more drunk and backs himself into a corner when they become very flirty and forward about their feelings for him? :3
642 words / warnings - you imply you want to bang chilchuck maybe? idk its a vague comment take it how you will ~~~
Saying he was excited to see beneath the veil of brooding silence would go against his entire modus operandi, so Chilchuck would never say it aloud.
Yet he cannot fight the quiet snicker leaving him as you drunkenly giggle over some terribly unfunny joke spat by a tipsy Marcille. Party morale nights were his favorite: free ale and free entertainment.
“You should join us more often!” Marcille cheers.
“Oh, no,” you drawl, staring into your emptied mug -- your first mug, might he add, “I’m not a big drinker.”
“Obviously,” Chilchuck cannot bite the remark before it slithers out.
“Hey!” you whine, swirling on your stool you glare at him. Cheek smushed against your fist, “I’m just not a fan…”
“Because it reveals your actually tolerable side?”
“Rude!”
Chilchuck might’ve been worried about hurting your feelings if you weren’t laughing quietly, eyes fluttering shut as you hum displeased at his jab. That infamous furrow in your brows coming to life as you mull over a response, soft scowl dragging soon after.
“I think you said something you didn’t mean to, Chilchuck…”
“Huh?”
Refocusing your stare on him, you lean forward, “You pretty much just said I’m cuter when I drink.”
“Is that how you took it?”
“It’s what you meant.”
Rolling his eyes, albeit with a chest full of mirth and warm cheeks, “Right.”
“I hope it was, anyway,” you confess, smile widening regardless of his following shock.
“What do you mean by that?!” he has to grab the table, knuckles whitening, to prevent from slipping backwards.
Shrugging coyly, you dip further into his personal space. Smelling of beer and perfume, “What do you want it to mean, Chilchuck?”
“You’re not making any sense,” he mutters, bringing up his maizer for a distracting gulp. Clenching his eyes shut when he can still make out the pretty way your lashes crown your cheeks each blink.
That itself is a mistake because now the sugary tones of your voice are further heightened in his reddening ears,
“There’s no shame, Chilchuck, I think you’re plenty cute.”
“Excuse you?” he’s thankful none of your party members catch his exclamation, or the slam of his cup against the table.
“Sorry,” you blurt, a muted gasp preceding your slurring afterthought, “Not cute in a demeaning way. Cute like I think you’d look nice in my bed.”
His jaw clatters to the floor: no way this is the same combat mage he’s been working with for months. The one that could barely return Marcille’s small talk without clamming up. The one that dodges Laios’ every attempt at monster-education. The one that quietly slips out of Falin’s sight whenever a protection spell violating personal space is required. The one that outranks Toshiro in most unapproachable. The one with a most notorious resting frown on their face.
Chilchuck was convinced you didn’t even like him as a coworker until you eagerly sat beside him at the table instead of joining Namari.
“W- what…?”
“You’re really attractive, seriously,” you bumble through the syllables, nose wrinkling in a disarmingly adorable chuckle at yourself, “I sound silly, huh?”
Rather than assure you he hardly cares, or that he’ll silently forget this entire admission, Chilchuck nods curtly and buries his nose into his cup again, “Yep.”
“Sorry, Chilchuck,” voice a coo, you relax back until you’re now invading Laios’ space. Head against the blonde’s shoulder.
Chilchuck’s most horrifying realization is that he’s awfully jealous of Laios in that moment.
But instead of saying that, he snarks bitterly,
“Tell me again when you’re sober.”
“Okay!”
Such sincerity makes him roll his eyes again, and once again he’s full of fondness and affection despite it all. Part of him even mourns how wasted you are, knowing you’ll wake up tomorrow with a headache and no memory of this: returning to the sulky attack mage he barely talks to.
#chilchuck x reader#chilchuck tims x reader#dungeon meshi x reader#delicious in dungeon x reader#dunmeshi x reader#nonny.requests.🥝
557 notes
·
View notes
Text
King
Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator
A/N: A happy return my dark sugardaddy!joel. It’s truly been too long. I hope you enjoy his dark and looming presence.
Summary: You do what it takes to get that car you’ve wanted for a while.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)
Tags: +18 smut, sugardaddy/sugarbaby dynamics, abusive relationship, dom/sub dynamics, hint at virginity kink, power dynamics, reader calls joel ‘king’. daddy kink, light bondage, verbal humiliation, demeaning talk about sex work, praise kink, slapping, manhandling, dacryphilia, choking, rough piv sex, cream pie, no aftercare
Word count: 3.3k
Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56477767
King
You run your fingers down over the front of your little black dress. It’s not your favorite but it doesn’t matter as it is not the centerpiece of your outfit, mischievously hiding an emerald green set of lingerie underneath it that peeks out from under the hem in the form of a garter belt.
The silk underwear is new, bought only last week when Joel took you shopping for something new to tear to pieces. He’d chosen this color very carefully but you suspect that it had really been the heart-shaped gap between your legs that had made it sell itself. You knew instantly then, from the way his eyes had darkened and his suit pants had tightened, that it would become a useful weapon in getting what you wanted. Not that you would ever say it out loud (and you suspect that he knows) but Joel is sometimes easy to read, easy to wrap around your finger if you let him do as he pleases. He cares about your happiness and wants but he just doesn’t like to say it out loud, likes to play games so it looks like it is his idea. You’re happy to indulge him in this fantasy if you end up benefiting from it anyway.
The black dress has no uneven ruffles but you still smooth it out underneath your palms. Then you head to his king-sized bed, toeing off your shoes, and decide to take a nap on your front until he gets home. He doesn’t even know you have a mission.
Joel arrives home a few hours later. You wake up from the sound of his car crunching the gravel of his driveway, announcing his arrival like an impending hurricane that has consciousness to be merciful but only if it likes. You imagine the scene in your head; the sight of the car coming to a jarring halt, the door being opened and a single foot hitting the solid ground.
You get out of bed immediately with your heart pounding at the thought of seeing him in just a moment. You leave your shoes behind as you exit the bedroom, tiptoeing out into the hall to peer down at the front door from the top of the enormous staircase.
You can hear the jingle of his keys and then he is framed in the doorway, a dark shadow in contrast to the pining sunlight outside. He looks around for you for a moment, surveying his large home with a presence that fills the space completely.
You try to steady your breathing so as to not reveal yourself to be spying on him, taking note of how he carries himself and what mood radiates from him. Sometimes it’s not the right time to ask for things. Sometimes it’s better to just spread your legs or open your mouth.
However, Joel simply closes the door and lets out a tired, relieved breath, hand coming up to run across his forehead and using two fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. His shoulders slump at this moment that he thinks he is alone, and you release a breath that you didn’t know you have been holding in as you find no clenched fists or angry muttering to himself.
You make your way back to his bedroom and decide that sitting obediently on the edge of the bed, posing as someone who has been waiting to make his life easier, is the best way forward.
It takes a little while before you hear his footsteps approaching outside the room. He opens the door slowly, entering the room with his still impressive demeanor. You give him a little smile and push yourself to stand, making your way towards him and pecking his lips when you stand in front of him.
“Hey,” he says, only a hint of warmth in his tired voice. He reaches out to place a hand on your waist, his grip on your body feeling more like a claim than a comfort.
“You look tired,” you note and cup his cheek with your dominant hand. He closes his eyes briefly as if drawing something from your touch, draining something out of you. When he opens them again, they go down to take in your appearance. His grip on your waist tightens.
“And you look…” he begins but is unsure how to compliment the effort you’ve put into your outfit that’s only for him. It seems like he genuinely wants to say something nice until his eyes narrow in suspicion, “What’s this for?”
“I want a new car,” you let him tower over you as you decide to be bold in his fatigued state. Your fingers come up to peel the straps of your dress off, letting them droop down over your delicate skin for just a second before pulling the rest of the dress down to pool around your feet. You step out of it, don’t dare smile in case he might see it as smugness.
Joel looks unimpressed, disappointed even. He narrows his eyes further, a flicker of irritation across his face. He lets go of your body as if you are suddenly not interesting anymore, reaches to undo the knot on his tie, “Take one of my old ones. I have plenty… and with the way ya drive I shouldn’t be spendin’ so much goddamn money on somethin’ new and shiny because you’re bored of your other toys.”
“Joel,” you pout, entwining your fingers in front of you to make your arms squeeze your breasts together tightly while you push out your bottom lip.
“That ain’t my name,” he replies and briefly looks down at your cleavage, “And what? The little princess didn’t like her pony? You’re so fuckin’ spoiled. A dumb cliché.”
“Daddy,” you correct yourself and he nods once. You walk backward towards the bed, crawling onto it and making sure he watches you with every step you take, teasing the bottomless panties while doing it. You sit on your knees, his favorite submissive position, and smile with the hope of making his dick hard. It’ll make this so much easier, “Please. I can earn it. I can be a good girl.”
“Show me whatcha got,” he tells you, his tone letting you know that his attention is fleeting so you better make use of it now that you have it.
You lay down on your front, propping yourself up on your elbows by resting your chin in your hands. You give him a sweet, doe-eyed smile, “Honey, you’ve had such a long day.”
“Nope,” he rejects the fantasy with a bored expression but still takes one step closer to the bed, “Try again.”
You try not to let him see the frustration on your face that your first fantasy fell through, recovering quickly by getting up on your slightly-spread knees. You grab the end of the bed, leaning forward to make your position even more provocative.
“It’s my first time, Daddy,” you say with a pout, blinking your long lashes at him, “I’m a little nervous. I’m so wet between my legs. Can you tell me what’s happening to me?”
Even as Joel swallows thickly, he shakes his head while he walks to the side of the bed. He stares at you from a few feet away from the edge, “No. Again.”
You notice that he is getting hard but you know him well enough to tell that it is from the game that you are playing with each other right now and not from how you look or act. He gets off on the power he has over you, and you feel yourself getting excited from it too.
Power. That’s the one.
You crawl forward and lay down on your back on the vulgarly huge bed, staring up at him as you swing your legs out over the edge of it. You spread them slowly to make his gaze burn, revealing the heart-shaped hole in your panties and your soaked pussy that he can slide into if he wants. All he has to do is take a few steps forward and lift your thighs over his hips.
Joel is too easy sometimes but mostly when he’s in one of his good moods. He stands beside the bed not a second later, looking down at you with awaiting eyes. You know exactly which words to make him fuck you until you cry, even feel a little silly that it hadn’t occurred to you the second you saw him enter the house.
You give him a hazy look, holding your thighs open for him. His gaze bores into yours and you swear that he can read your mind. Even so, you don’t blink or cower under the look of God.
“You’re my king, Daddy.”
“Attagirl, that’s better,” he praises to make your skin prickle and your chest feel ablaze.
Something in Joel’s eyes darkens with the idea of being superior in every way and the spark of fire that you have ignited only seems to grow when you don’t try to act like this isn’t the case but instead give in and let him know just how beneath him you are. Figuratively and literally.
He reaches for his belt, unbuckling it with rough hands as he plans your demise in his head, all kindness seeping out of his face as if the way he praised you seconds ago simply didn’t happen. There’s something about those Shinigami eyes, teasing the border between fear and arousal. The urgency of his movements tells you that it’ll hurt for days but the pretty things that you’ll receive in return are worth not being able to stand upright for a while. You calm your beating heart by listing cars in your mind, choosing colors, models, and leather seats.
You return to reality when you hear Joel’s fingers snap in front of your face. He sneers, kneeling on the bed with one knee and pulling off his tie completely, “Don’tcha fuckin’ think you get to decide what car you’re gettin’, honey. If you want one, I decide. We clear?”
You watch with pleading eyes, knowing you should say something but faltering because all you want to do is complain about his decision. There goes that dream of an expensive Aston Martin, the one that has kept you scrolling through your phone.
“You dare make your King wait?” He spits harshly when you don’t answer quickly enough, his eyes going practically black with rage. There’s no emotion in them anymore, not even when you whimper at his tone. He reaches out for your arms, violently yanking them towards himself so he can wrap the tie around your wrists, and the panic that you feel suddenly starts to make you cry. He ties a painful knot, securing your arms tightly until he pushes them over your head, “You don’t behave then you don’t getta touch.”
You whine with tears at the corners of your eyes, looking away in shame in the way that he likes. However, it is actually a punishment because you do really like touching him - or at least just hold onto him, which you still can but you don’t dare move your arms back down - when he fucks you. The avoidance of his powerful eyes earns you a slap to your right breast, and you yelp in surprise.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you babble, barely able to croak out a coherent reply whilst you twist on the sheets from the unprepared sting to your chest. As you turn your body to the side, subconsciously trying to protect yourself from more painful strikes, you curl in on yourself and thus pull your legs shut, “You know best, I-I know. I understand.”
“Lie still, ya bimbo. I saw that hole between ya legs drippin’ wet, so you’re gonna lemme use it or you won’t get as much as a damn penny for your stupid new obsession,” he curls his calloused hands around your thighs until they dent the skin and maneuvers you onto back once more. He holds your legs open, knees pressing into the mattress until you feel as though your hips might dislocate. He stares down between your legs, smiling to himself at the heart shape in your panties. The stitching of it is coated in your slick, obscene in how creamy and white it is compared to the emerald color of the fabric. Joel makes a primal sound, “Daddy fuckin’ likes. God, I am gonna ruin ya, baby, ruin this well-behaved pussy.”
“Just for you, Daddy. It’s all just for you, I promise, money or not,” you cry quietly with your bottom lip sticking out, wiggling your hips as much as you can under his powerful weight to show how desperate you are for him. You want to tell him that he already has ruined you. Oh, how thoroughly he has ruined you and ruined everyone else for you. However, no one should make the mistake of thinking you have not let him, no, you have waited for him to find you in a sea of unimportant and tedious nobodies, and fuck, you love him for it. Even if he makes you cry.
“That’s right, just f’me,” he smiles down at you almost tenderly whilst removing one hand from your thigh to undo his pants. You smile with wet cheeks, eyes glazed over as he hurries to get his cock out, the head red and angry from not having enough attention. You put on a show of looking like your life depends entirely upon whether he gets inside of you soon.
“You want Daddy to fuck ya? Fuck ya so I’ll give in like I always fuckin’ do?” He aligns himself with you, gliding the thick head of his length through your soaked folds.
“Please,” you choke out feebly when he starts to spear you on his dick, feeding you inch by inch with his girth until your whole lower body buzzes with greed. Your tied-up hands grip the sheets above your head, your breath shaky as he drapes your thighs over his hips when he has bottomed out inside you.
Your voice wavers as he starts moving inside of you, setting a painful pace that has your eyes rolling back into your skull, your body thrashing, and your moans climbing in pitch like you are possessed. He knows what you like and you can feel he might be generous about it today. After all, you’ve put in so much effort to look nice and what would a King be if he couldn’t exceed in everything? That means even your pleasure.
He leans over you when you tighten your legs around his waist, rough hands settling on your hip bones so he can grind harshly into you. You beg for him, pleading his name as if in prayer again and again. His pelvis nudges at your swollen yet untouched clit. It causes you to scream and grab harder at the sheets as your orgasm builds up fast. You sob on the shaking bed as he puts more effort into each thrust. The head of his cock molds you to fit him each time, reaching something inside of you that has you sizzling with ecstasy in a way that no man has ever made possible before. You didn’t even know you could come like this, so intensely, before you met him but despite his talent, he is cruel even in his generosity.
“You’re gettin’ fucked for a dumb car, you know that?” He growls above you, staring down at your wide eyes and open mouth. He moans with a smirk, “You know what that makes ya?”
He keeps you on the edge with his thrusts, teasing an orgasm that he doesn’t allow to come yet. In the most frustrating of ways, you find that even if he exceeds in making you come, it’s not a given that he’ll just hand it over to you. Nothing is ever out of the goodness of his heart. You nod frantically as if it’ll make him think you are anything other than pathetic, “Yes! Oh God, yes, please.”
“Say it, sweetheart,” he demands, splaying a hand on your chest and letting it travel up to rest on your neck. However, he doesn’t squeeze to watch your face heat up in panic or push his merciless thumb into your windpipe. Instead, he waits for you to follow orders.
“A whore, Daddy,” you reply with a whimper, driven crazy by the unreleased tension in your lower belly. You scrunch your eyebrows, “Please— ah, l-let me come.”
“That’s right, a filthy, little, gold-diggin’ whore,” he lets out a sound that’s a mix between a laugh and a moan. Those words make your cunt clench around his cock, walls squeezing enough to make him switch up his pace. His thrusts become sharp and erratic, sending you hurtling towards your high so quickly that you throw your head back and involuntarily twist your arms as much as you can.
You come with Joel’s violent grip on your throat, with your tits bouncing in the skimpy outfit and your pussy gushing on his dick when your clit happily gets its way. He follows behind you, panting in exhaustion as he finally gets pushed over the edge by how you pulse around him with each beat of your fluttering heart. He is warm inside you, making a mess of your panties with how much already spills out of you around his girth.
It’s intense even in its aftermath. None of you move for a moment and the body heat radiating from you to him and vice versa has you sticking to each other. Joel has a palm on the bed while the other grabs at one of your thighs that are still slung around his body. He strokes up and down to soothe you but only to slip loose of the hot choke of your pussy.
You look up at him with a soft whimper when you’re left empty, knowing not to say any actual words yet. Silently, he unties your wrist and you gaze longingly at him as he leans over you to do so. He is so commanding even when he has not uttered a word. Above you, he looks so beautifully disheveled - some of his curls have fallen into his forehead, one sticks to the sweat there - and when he is done, he quietly starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Once naked on his chest, he stares and thinks about something for less than a second. He is quick in his evaluation of the situation, finally stepping out of his bottoms. He takes his time to dig into the pocket of his discarded pants, retrieving his wallet and you wait as patiently as you can muster as the anticipation grows.
“I think that dirty fuck deserves an Aston Martin at the very least, don’tcha think?” He smiles knowingly but it doesn’t reach his eyes and places his sleek black card on the bed. You hear him mutter the word pathetic as you reach for the card but when you peek up at him, you can see the way he takes pleasure in rewarding you when you so successfully display the thrill you feel in earning it.
Your body aches but you prop yourself up on your elbows, grinning with tear-streaked cheeks, “Thank you, Daddy.”
Joel leans down over you once more, capturing your lips in a possessive kiss and tangling his hand in your hair to make you unable to pull back. He knows how to show you who is in charge but he sets it in stone when he only draws back an inch after breaking the kiss again.
“Remember, baby,” he murmurs, voice raspy with sex, “You only get what you deserve and you’ve been very deservin’ today.”
“Can I shower with you?” You smile sweetly. It seems like the right time to ask for a bit of intimacy.
Joel huffs a laugh and shakes his head, “No. Lie in it.”
He disappears after that. Your smile does too.
.
.
If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️
#pedro pascal characters#joel miller#joel miller x reader#the last of us#joel miller x you#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel the last of us#joel miller the last of us#joel miller fanfic#joel miller imagine#joel miller smut#pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal fanfiction#my writing#sugardaddy!joel#the last of us fanfiction#the last of us fanfic#tlou hbo#tlou fic#tlou#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal fandom#pedro pascal
554 notes
·
View notes
Note
The writing where reader died, what happens if they were revived as a wraith like Ghost? There's probs going to have a lot of fluff and a small angst here and there. But I mostly wanna read your writings!! It's cus' I can't get enough, and kept rereading it all the time
Cw: pain, death, turning, cannibalism, implied torture, implied blood and gore, angst, fluff, hunger, tell me if I missed any. We’re going to forget how you previously died, cuz @bluegiragi gave us more info about wraiths and I just love where the comic is going.
What a cruel joke, irony hitting him in the face the same way his abrupt shift hurt him, an apathetic slap to the face that left him bloody and in shock the way he left Roba on his dying breath. Simon didn’t know what was crueler, the knowledge that you were tortured and buried alive, left to die alone for the sins of his own making and the wrath of another, or that you were left to die a slow and excruciating death after being beaten half to death, expected to lose your resolve solely on the fact that you were a medic, and turned into the monster he was.
Neither your captor nor death had been merciful, much less the reaper, a collector of wandering souls and lost ghosts, waiting their turn to cross the river with a small token for the afterlife. Be it Hermes, the messenger and the carrier of souls, Thanatos the reaper and collector, Anubis - or Inpu, however people called him - the guide, Ankou the shadow, Sgàthach the warrior, or Freyja and Fólkvangr; you weren’t granted the soft embrace of a calm death, but the cruel rejection of it, forced back into life and abandoned by sweet sleep.
He remembered his own, the painful pull of his back, the crazed smoke that filled his mind with a thirst for blood and revenge, the crack and ugly break of his bode, reshaping his body and organs dyed dark, dying and pained. He remembered well the pain of it like it was yesterday, having to crawl out of the shallow grave on his own and discover the carnage he left behind, stained in his and Price’s blood. He was reborn.
And so were you, crying and sobbing, your skin scarred beyond thinking and mind in shambles of broken faith and abandoned affection. He knew first hand how it felt, the burn and agony of it, the hunger and ache that plagued you like an undying pestilence, darker than the one that ripped through Europe in the fourteenth century and more devastating than the Justinian’s. He’d been too late, too slow to help you through the first ripple of shock and fear once you’d quenched your thirst, staunching it like you would a wound. He let you fester in your sorrow and hunger, left you without a guide or caretaker until you ravaged the area, leaving only blood and rubble in your devastation.
But he’s here now, picking you up from the mess you found yourself in, a storm of smoke and thick black that you hid yourself in, to hide the monster you had become. He might not be proud of who he’s become - much like you - but he grew into it, lived his life as one, and he would be here to help you through the process of it. Where he wished he had a helping hand, you would have his. He would help you with your hunger, the famine that grew the more you left it alone, filling your being with bodies he’d gather up for you to absorb. He would teach you how to control the smoke - the sinews of your being, the consistence of it forming your figure - and build from it, stopping yourself from phasing to and from it, staying as a physical manifestation of it rather than darkness itself.
Where he felt lost and confused, alone and wishing for a swift end, you wouldn’t, he made sure to stay, to be the pillar of support for you whenever you crashed, his body covering yours to stop you from vanishing in a fit of tears. Where he spent time hating himself, demeaning the cannibalism he became, you wouldn’t, he’d rather send himself to hell than let you think you were the lowest of the low, a human eating another. And where he was cruel to himself when death had renounced him, you wouldn’t, he’d whisper the sweetest words, praises, compliments, affection and guidance, he would make sure you wouldn’t drown alone like he did years ago. He loved you too much to let that happen.
Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce @sobbingnshtting
#x reader#cod mw2#cod mw2 x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost mw2#simon riley x reader#monster 141 au#monster cod au#monster 141#wraith!reader#tw death#ansgt#fluff#mw2 ghost#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#tw: torture
556 notes
·
View notes
Note
Request? Please for the love of god something spicy where a mid/plus size reader gets herself stuck in handcuffs and ghost finds her struggling
I know for a fact that simon is a chubby chaser bc he told me himself! plus size readers unite!! no triggers besides the mention of the reader's body/weight.
you used to think that men like simon riley would never treat you right. your weight was never a fatal flaw, but it always seemed to be a talking point with your partners - and although you were pretty and smart and had a heart of gold, every man left you with a broken heart.
until you met simon.
at first, you think that he’ll be like all the other boys before him - bland, immature, and unable to get you off. you’ve been with men like simon, they start off sweet and gentle before they inevitably disappoint or demean you. they never asked you to ride them, never got hard at just the idea of burying their face in your tits, and they definitely never begged to eat you out every time you bent over - so why is it that simon wanted all of this and more?
and why does he talk about how good you would look handcuffed and riding him? you’re so naive that one day he finds you shyly browsing the store collection when he takes you shopping. and fuck - if simon was a good man his cock wouldn’t be twitching when you accidentally lock them around your wrists, whining about how embarrassing it was to have him get the key from the poor sales clerk only to buy them immediately after the fact.
simon loves how curvy you are, the way your body seems to mold itself to his touch. he loves how your thighs shake when he’s lapping at your cunt and curling his fingers to make you squirt all over his tastebuds. he’s obsessed with you, letting his hands wander over your skin and tracing stretch marks like he’s charting the constellations. and when he says that he’s been waiting for you all his life, you realize that you’ve never been with a man like him before.
he talks about how he’d fuck a baby into you if you let him, tells you that he’d retire early if it meant he got to bury his head between your thighs. simon likes to squeeze your tits when they’re squished into a tight crop top and says he’s never wanted anything more than you.
he calls you babydoll and gropes your ass until his nails leave an imprint in your skin. he falls asleep with his head on your chest after talking about how he’d just love to fuck your thick thighs and cum on your stomach before he actually does it. he binds your wrists together when he fucks you from the back, saying that he just can’t help it when you always squirm on the length of his cock and beg him to fuck you harder.
and when he asks you to ride him for the first time, you’re biting your lip and crossing your arms over yourself - saying something like you wouldn’t want to be too heavy for him, and that you’ve never really ridden someone before. but simon just cocks an eyebrow at you, one hand slowly jerking himself off while the other grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. his eyes are dark and heavy with desire, his breath faltering as he lowers his hand to wrap around your neck.
babydoll, you really know how to tease me, huh? come be a good girl and sit on my lap.
and you’re such a doe, so hesitant and nervous at the way he’s got his hands on your waist while he guides you onto his cock. he’s muttering filthy curses and screwing his eyes shut when you’re fully seated on him, your fingertips digging into his chest as you breathe erratically. you think he’s uncomfortable, with the way he stills your hips from moving while avoiding your anxious gaze. you’re certain he’s regretting asking this of you, with how he’s gripping your ass and looking up to the ceiling in anguish.
but when you move to get off him, feeling embarrassed and ashamed, he tightens his grip and forces you down fully. and is it just you, or did he whimper when you rolled your hips against him?
before you know it, simon has your arms pinned behind your back as he gently clicks the handcuffs into place. he’s planting sweet kisses all over your tits, biting at your nipples just to feel the way you jerk in his lap and moan breathlessly. he’s telling you that he’ll never wear a condom again, that he wants to wake up to this every morning, and that the feel of you bouncing on his length is just oh so heavenly.
and afterward, simon reaches for your bound wrists, tugging on them as he pulls you off his leaky cock that has beads of cum weeping from it, talking about how you're just too good for him while he lays you back and spreads your thighs apart. simon tells you to sit there and be pretty while he laps at the creamy load he’s left in you. and what can you do except indulge the poor man?
#as a plus size reader this request healed me#simon riley imagine#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley#cod#cod imagine#cod mw3#cod modern warfare#ghost cod#cod mw2#cod x reader#call of duty fanfic#call of duty fanfiction#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare 2#call of duty#cod fanfic#ask#simon riley fanfic#ghost fanfiction#fanfic#fanfiction#text
333 notes
·
View notes
Text
Adam Dating Headcanons
I love him sm and I hate that it's him!! Why couldn't be like Lucifer or something!!
Angel:
With his status as the “First Man”, Adam can get away with most things. In doing so, he has you with him at all times. Takes you everywhere like a pampered pet. If someone comments about you, he’s hyping you up. He’s telling everyone how you’re just so hot, and you give the best kisses, and how you tempt him constantly. You’re all that he can talk about. It’s him bragging about how great you are, and of course, you're great. He deserves all the finer things that angelhood has to offer. You’re an added bonus. Someone so cute and hot.
He’s crass with everyone, and you are no exception to this. He’ll throw our swears, and phrases that are demeaning. He’ll use awful pet names that have your ears burning, and s scowl twisting at your lips. A part of you believes that he only continues to call you such things to see your reaction. His crude nature is public for all to see and bear witness to. He has no issue telling others the filthiest things that you two have done, and where you’ve done them. He only slows down when you swat at him, your face burning and hidden into his arm, pulling at the cloth for him to stop. His grin is sharp, and for the few times in his life, he takes pity, and he gives you mercy, letting the words come to a sudden halt, about how only he should be privy to just how perverse you can be.
There are times where he’s just a jerk. Flat out mean, and cruel towards others and towards you.. It never lasts long, it’s more like it’s just second nature to him to know that he’s above everyone else, so he doesn’t have to play nice with others. He’ll snarl and when an angel clings to his robes with stars in their eyes about meeting him, all he can think about is how he has to be somewhere that isn’t there and they’re dirtying his robes. You’ve been on the receiving end a few times, and everytime you give him a certain look. He isn’t one to say sorry without being nudged into it, but he’ll lift his shoulders as if to hide himself, and he’ll mumble something close to an apology, and when you look away from him, he’ll hold your hand. He didn’t mean to snap at you- he thought you were someone else, and you know how it is. When you do take it personal, he still won’t tell you a proper apology, but he will wrap his arms around you and his mask will nudge itself along the crook of your neck, soft words spoken that won’t be heard for a long while.
It’s rumored around Heaven about the past wives of Adam- how they both fell for Lucifer, how they were Adam’s but they left him. He complains about it, grumbling under his breath about the fallen angel, about Lilith and Eve, and there’s this underlining of hurt in his voice. Everytime that you see him without his robe, he almost always has his side turned away from you, a hand curving just under his chest. And maybe because of the betrayal, he’s so attached to you. He wants you around him. He needs you around him. Far more than he would ever like to admit, he can’t- and he hates to even give it thought- he doesn't think he could stand another betrayal like that. So he’s attached to the hip with you. He’ll call you constantly, he’ll want to go everywhere with you. He just wants to be near you.
While he may have his moments where he’ll whisper honeyed words to you, or give you bouquets of flowers, Adam expresses himself through touch. When the two of you go out, he’ll hold your hand, and if he can get away with it, he’ll tuck his hand over your bum. He’ll put his arm over your shoulders, letting his fingers graze over your chest, and keep you tucked underneath him. His wings are massive, soft to the touch and blinding in the sun, shimmering with gold and snowy white feathers, and while they can be heavy to hold them against his back, he’ll curve them around you, pulling you close to him when others cannot see. You’re protected underneath the gold, and he adores how you always reach out to touch them, to smooth at any stray feathers that bristle when he surrounds you. He needs to be touching you- he has to. In private, he’ll hold your hand and trace over yours with his claws. He’s never been so gentle with someone, he’s pulled apart sinners and covered himself in blood and gore, he’s vile and cruel, but he holds your hand so tenderly, and for a moment, he’s forgotten he’s Adam, First Man, and at that moment, he’s a man, holding an angel’s hand in his calloused claws.
Sinner:
Adam likes to joke that Extermination Day is the best thing to ever happen to you since it’s what allowed you to meet him. Plus, the added bonus is that now you’re protected and you won’t die. Probably. If you listen to what he says. But even then, he always makes sure to keep an eye out for you- hunting near your hiding spot, shooing away any of the other exterminators. It’s a win all around, really. At first, he’d have the two of you meet at the Heaven Embassy in Hell. However, it proved to be suspicious when other angels would question and even his own lies were starting to fall apart. He could always tell them he needed a break from all the singing and pure-hearted delight in Heaven, but he knows that he would have others follow him, peeking into something personal. So, he’s commissioned a new mask, and he’ll ditch his holy robes for something more Hell-esque to visit you.
You’re aware of his feelings towards demon folk, and walking hand-in-hand with him in the very place where he creates destruction, makes you feel like a traitor. You can tell that he's disgusted by everything- the gore and deaths, the rotten stench of meat coming from the Cannibal District. The rottenness of Hell has acid burning his tongue, but when you pull him towards a vendor on the street, he can hold his tongue. He gets to see you, and that’s enough for him. He holds no power in Hell. He could, and while he’s sure he could handle a few of the Hellborn and Sinners, you would be at risk. So any amount of disrespect has him biting his tongue and keeping you close to him. It’s infuriating to know he has to spend his time locked in your apartment, eating takeout- or on the lucky occasion your home cooked meals- and hiding away with you. He wants to show you off. He wants to be showed off. But, you sit beside him, and tap against his horns with an impish smile as you hold a forkful of food near his lips.
He may never admit it, but he likes staying indoors with you. For those few hours, where you cook and you nap together, and you kiss him earnestly and with want, he can slip into the illusion that this is his norm. It’s vanilla- so much so that if it were any other time or place, he’d be sick. But, with you by his side, complimenting his mask, the tips of your claws curving over the horns and tracing the outline of his mask, he’ll take it. He’ll tease and snap at you, asking you to beg for him to remove his mask, telling you to ask nicely, and when you coo and press yourself against him, he’s grateful that the mask is still on. Not much can make the First Man flush, but when you act so sweetly, lips pulled into a smile with fangs on display, he thinks it’s one of the better sights that he’s seen in a long while. If he’s in a pleasing mood, he’ll rid himself of the oversized robe, and let his wings expand. He watches your expression- the awe and wonder that they hold, the gasps when you touch his feathers. He’ll stare and memorize the shape of your eyes, and the curve of your lips, as you familiarize yourself with his wings. In those few hours when he’s with you, it’s domestic, and it’s nice.
When he visits Hell, he never stays for long. It’s visits that last for a few hours, but they never stretch into the night, and when it’s time for Sinners and alike to rise, he’s gone, not a single trace of him left behind. The dishes are put away, his part of the bed tucked in and flatten, it’s as if you dreamed a perverse dream where an angel took interest in a demon. You’ve asked him what excuses he gives to the others, never telling him that you wish he would stay for longer. He tells you that he’s told others he’s doing paperwork, or that he’s going to some orgy party and no one should bother him. When you laugh at that, he stares at you, eyes wide and heart- or whatever it is that he has- skipping a beat. You sleep in your bed, and he pulls you close to him, his eyes on the wall, as you make yourself comfortable on top of the Exterminator. He tells himself that he could miss a day- skip work and spend the day with you here, where the two of you could entangle yourselves with one another, but when brushes over your skin, and he hears the demons talk between the thinned walls of your apartment, he pulls away, and rests his lips over your temple. Leaving you behind in Hell never gets easier, and the more he erases that he existed in your home, the more he hopes that you’ll cry and miss him, and want him.
Unsurprisingly, he’s mean. Perhaps it’s his own personal feelings that he’s had with demon folk for the past number of millenniums, and how in comparison to that, he’s only just met you, that he still has animosity towards demons. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop with you. He can be cruel, referring to you as a Sinner, and sneering at you, and when you flinch, hurt evident in the way that you back away from him and pull your limbs close to yourself, that he groans. He hadn’t meant it. Not like that- at least not towards you. You have to understand, some demons, some of those sinners, well- and his explanations are always cut short when you scowl at him. He hadn’t meant to be mean to you, he promises. He’ll envelop you in his arms, and pout, asking you to not take it so personally. He’s tense, and he waits with bated breath, and he visibly relaxes when you wrap your arms around him. Adam had never thought himself to care about what a demon may think of him, but in those moments where you sit still and he’s unsure if you’d forgive him or not, his mind is racing. He can’t- It can’t even comprehend what it would feel like to be rejected by you.
#hazbin hotel#hazbin adam#hazbin hotel adam#hazbin hotel adam x reader#adam x reader#hh adam#adam hazbin hotel#hazbin adam x reader#im gonna go feral#the last character to make me feel like this was mammon#from helluva boss#i think i have a type#i like writing sinner!reader for adam#the angst!!#the secrecy!!#the hatred he has that would pop out!!#the need to care for them#the fact that he can't protect them during extermination without it being suspicious#anyways#i think with angel!reader#hed be so annoying and like smitten#like it would still be crude#and he'd be hesitant but wow#he'd kinda be like those couples that sit on the same side of the booth#that didnt make it into the headcanons
580 notes
·
View notes
Text
Being an Elf and falling in love with Thorin
Headcanons below the cut!
When Gandalf had first summoned you, it wasn't a very easy decision to make.
Being a Sindar elf yourself, the choice of having to derail from your own beliefs bruised your ego... especially since you were entrusted with overseeing Thorin and his company.
"My dear (Y/N)," Gandalf sighed, "I can not trust any other elf with such an arduous task. I know you are capable of setting aside your prejudices and aiding these dwarves."
"You saved my life once from the Uruk-hais. I am indebted to you for that, Gandalf. But I believe that this will be the one time I shall repay you for your kindness in this manner. Do not expect more from me." You muttered with a bitter tone.
"I do not plan on it." Gandalf reassured you.
When you first met the company under Bilbo's roof, there was silence. An eerie amount of silence.
The hobbit before you seemed enchanted by your presence.
You learned his name was Bilbo; he was the most sensible out of the bunch at the moment.
Your eyes traveled across the room and landed on Thorin, who had a nasty scowl on his face.
He wasn't expecting you to actually show up. He had hoped that for once that elvish pride would've saved him from having to face another individual of the same kind that had betrayed him years ago.
The silence continued, and you made your presence known. You were here to help the dwarves, nothing more and nothing less. You would accompany them to The Misty Mountains, but you would not step foot into their sacred lair. Not out of respect, but out of the sheer disgust you had for the dwarves.
Not even Eru could force you to enter their dwelling; it seemed as if death was the better option.
The journey there was not an easy one.
And Thorin didn't make it any easier.
He'd pass sly remarks every so often about you, try to demean you in front of everyone. He was constantly fighting a battle to ensure that you were beneath him in every aspect, despite being one of the most skilled elves to traverse Middle-Earth.
"Ah, it's best not to anger (Y/N), Thorin," Gandalf would quip from the background, wanting to ease the tension.
It did nothing.
There was an instance where you had left the group to gain more ground and a safer pathway for the dwarves through the forests.
Yeah, biggest mistake ever and Thorin wouldn't stop nagging you about it.
Those stupid trolls had gotten to them and Bilbo had managed to stall them long enough before Gandalf used the sunlight as a weapon.
"I left for one day... forgive me, I was merely trying to secure a safe path," You hissed at Thorin as he shoved past you.
"A safe path will only do if the company itself is safe first, elf," He spat, glancing over his shoulder. You so desperately wanted to spear your blade through his heart.
The rest of the trip resumed its unsteady silence. You glared at the other dwarves, not wishing to say anything to them. Occasionally, you'd offer a helping hand to Bilbo.
That didn't go unnoticed by Thorin. He didn't really like Bilbo as much, but compared to you? Bilbo was far better, and the stupid burglar was mingling with the wrong person.
However, his concerns of Bilbo shifted to his two nephews - Fili and Kili.
While they still harbored some resentment towards you for being a Sindar Elf, they were still young. They were naive, they did not experience that devastating day when Thranduil's forces abandoned Thorin's desperate cries for help.
And so what did they do?
They talked. Talked, and talked. Especially, Kili. Fili would add a joke once or twice, but if he ever caught Thorin's watchful eye, he'd gulp his words and nudge Kili to quit.
And then slowly, one by one... the dwarves were opening up to you.
Balin was more sympathetic, he was a very kind and wise dwarf. You actually enjoyed his presence.
Bofur was a bit reluctant to talk to you at first, but slowly came around. You noticed this when he asked you if you needed more food on your plate when you were dining in Rivendell. That was enough to tell you that perhaps there could be friendships between the dwarves and the elves.
You saved their asses a couple times, especially with the Goblins. Killed some orcs led by Azog. And then watched Azog brutally wound Thorin.
And then something switched in you. For a moment, you felt your breath hitch at the sight of him, dazed and unconscious. Something began to stir inside of you, and you couldn't place your finger on it. It almost felt... unworldly.
And that feeling continued... even when you ended up facing Thranduil, who was so puzzled at the fact that one of his own kind was helping those dwarves...
"I am repaying a debt that I owe to Gandalf," You explained, your head jutted up high into the air.
"What a terrible way to repay it, (Y/N)." Thranduil grimaced, "If you wanted an opportunity to keep yourself occupied, you could've turned to Legolas and he would've found you a wonderful position among my kingdom. We could use elves such as yourself, you know."
"Ah, but I could not say the same for you," You bit back, noticing the way his eyes widened at your audacity.
Word of your defiance quickly spread to the dwarves as the elves guarding them gossiped about it with such eager interest.
It fell onto Thorin's ears.
He almost thought they were lying to him. He couldn't believe it.
And as you passed Thorin's cell to enter your own, much farther away from the dwarves, you noticed something different about him.
He was smiling at you, a twinkle in his eyes. He seemed... proud? Ecstatic?
When the company and you had escaped via the barrels, you had almost hit a rock down the river. It was surreal to see the way Thorin's hands stretched out to warn you.
It seemed as if he cared.
You took a daring risk to climb off the barrel to kill some orcs, almost slipping across the branch in the process as you jumped back into your barrel.
"Be careful, elf!" Thorin cried out, "You could've gotten yourself killed!"
"And what does it matter to you?" You snapped, furrowing your brows.
He did not respond.
He did not need to.
Because you sort of knew the answer by the way he glanced back at you with a soft smile.
You mattered to him.
More than reclaiming the Mountains? The answer was obviously no.
But when you climbed up and watched him excitedly open the hidden entrance to the inside of the Lonely Mountains, his eyes flashed towards you for a split second.
As if he was waiting to see your reaction as well.
And when you gave in and smiled.
With or without the gold, the Arkenstone or the throne,
He felt as if he was the richest dwarf to ever live.
You mattered to him.
He mattered to you.
And thus began, the love between an elf and a dwarf.
#writing#fanfiction#fanfic#lord of the rings headcanons#lotr headcanons#lord of the rings#the lord of the rings#the hobbit#the hobbit headcanons#the hobbit x reader#lord of the rings x reader#thorin x reader#thorin x y/n#thorin oakenshield#thorin oakenshield x reader#thorin oakenshield fanfiction#thorin oakenshield headcanons#thorin oakenshield x y/n#lotr#lotr headcanon#lotr fanfics#lotr fanfiction#the hobbit fanfic#the hobbit fanfiction#lotr x you#thorin and company#the hobbit thorin#thorins company#thorin x you#thranduil x reader
653 notes
·
View notes
Text
Yandere monster x male reader
part two
Imagine, you're a new dad of a precious pair of twins. You have a beautiful wife, she stays at home with the kids while you work. You love your life, and the people in it. love your wife, and you love your kids. Your life is going perfectly, absolutely nothing could ruin it.
“Have a great day at work sweetheart,” your wife said, kissing your cheek. You blush it’s been five years since you started dating but you still feel like that schoolboy who couldn’t look at her without blushing.
Honestly you didn’t know how you pulled her. You were such a nerd in high school, your nose in a book, and not to mention your obsession with monsters. But she was the queen bee type. You kiss your baby's goodbye and head off to work, not before stealing another kiss from your wife. You smile big, this is life.
You came home to a silent home, Instantly you could tell something was wrong. Normally you’d come home to the smell of dinner cooking, normally you would hear your wife humming along to whatever song she was listening to. But no, it was quiet. You walk towards your room, maybe she was taking a nap? It was dark so you turned on the lights as you passed by them. Walking into the master bedroom you saw nothing. Wait, the kids, you walked into the nursery. Nothing was wrong, thankfully.
You hear the door close behind you. You pause. Turning around you see nothing. Was something here? You get closer to your kids. Wait, maybe it’s your wife pranking you, yeah that works. She was never that type but maybe she was just feeling playful.
“Hun,” you chuckle. “I love the prank but you're starting to creep me out.”
You feel something grab your waist, but it wasn’t the small hands of your dear wife. They were big and cold. Definitely not her.
Imagine someone, or something coming close, Studying you.
“This is who she chose over me,” the thing scoffed. You still haven’t gotten a good look at the figure that grabbed you. He seemed mad at you, or you assumed it was a he.
“You're a twig,” it demeaned you. It seemed proud of itself so you weren’t going to break the news to him that his insult sucked.
“Well, doesn’t matter anymore I’m here to take back my kid,” he let you go and stalked off towards the crib. Your eyes widened. What does it mean by his kid?
Imagine the fear when this thing goes towards your kids. Your babys, barely even a year old, could die because of this strange man you can’t even see. Which was honestly starting to freak you out, I mean wouldn’t your eyes adjust by now?
You were so freaked out that your mind goes blank. The only thought is to save your kids, but how?
‘Light‘ You hear a voice whisper in your head‘. The light switch! But what is that going to do? Whatever, no time to think. You quickly turn on the light.
“Argh!” The monster yowled. It slapped his hands to his eyes. It worked! It was weak to light, but now what? The monster was writhing in pain. You kinda felt bad. Brushing that thought away you grab your twins and book it out of the house.
Days pass and you finally decide to go back to your house. Thankfully everything seemed ok. Still no wife but at least the monster was gone, well that’s what you thought. Walking into the twins shared room you saw the monster again you pause. It was still rocking back and forth covering its eyes but it seemed ok enough. The monster heard you come in. It bolted towards your feet, it started to beg.
“Oh please great lord turn the lights off,” it cried out, kissing your feet. You do. The monster laughs maniacally and goes to attack you. You turn on the lights. immediately it went back to begging. You smirk. Now you have a puppy demon monster thing you can force to do your bidding (getting groceries you hate getting groceries) your electric bill did go up But it was all worth it. Your twins also seem oddly ok with the monster for some reason. maybe they have a connection you don’t know about? He did mention one being his kid Well doesn’t matter, now you have twin infants and a seven foot puppy to take care of. You hardly have time to think of such minuscule things like that. Right?
#male reader#yandere x male reader#yandere#yandere x darling#yandere x male darling#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere thoughts#yandere drabble#yandere monster#monster fucker
131 notes
·
View notes
Note
Just because I'm tired of seeing it and for anyone who needs a 'tap the sign', here's my best list of what both Stolas and Blitzo apparently both did wrong here. I'm adding some points here that are the fandom's framing more than mine so I'm going to pick those apart below
Blitzo:
stole from Stolas as a child because his father asked him to
called Stolas' interests boring (because he'd been sold to be his playmate)
stole Stolas' book
slept with Stolas to get the book (then never did so freely again)
asked Stolas on a date to Ozzie's to spy on M&M
ignored him while on the date at first
didn't believe Stolas had pure intentions when he invited him in after Ozzie's
didn't tell Stolas that Striker tried to kill him (s1e5)
didn't come rescue Stolas in person in Western Energy
didn't visit him in the hospital
didn't believe Stolas sincerely loved him during his confession
tried to go back to a sexual relationship despite Stolas' discomfort
treats Stolas like a prince who looks down on him and refused to see otherwise
yelled and snapped at him during their talk in full moon
yelled and snapped at him during their talk in apology tour
Stolas:
locked Blitzo in his room at his party and assumed he was here to 'ravish him' (s1e1)
Blitzo tells him to knock it off with the dirty talk (s2e1). Stolas doesn't stop (s1e1).
let Blitzo use the book with no strings attached before calling to change up the terms
changed the terms when Blitzo was in danger and couldn't give informed consent
proposed a deal that was inherently coercive even without Blitzo being in danger since he has to have sex with Stolas to keep his business running (s1e1). This is rape IRL and since Verosika said very clearly that 'we're in Hell' isn't an excuse...
called up Blitzo to be a bodyguard that he didn't actually need in Loo Loo Land. He knows Blitzo needs money so leverages that to get Blitzo to spend time with him
Blitzo tells him to stop flirting with him and he's only here to work as a bodyguard, as agreed, and protests Stolas flirting with him multiple times. Stolas doesn't stop. (s1e2)
Shows no respect or gratitude to Blitzo's colleagues for saving his life. Doesn't even call them by name (s1e2)
Puts a cigarette out on Blitzo's horn (s1e5)
Yanks his face multiple times (s1e5, s1e7) and calls him 'little' or 'itty bitty' on different occasions
Demeans Blitzo by calling him 'sexy little one' in front of a whole crowd and persistently refuses to call Blitzo by his proper name, including spoiling Blitzo's moment by doing so as he ties Striker for winner of the tournament (s1e5). His behavior is bad enough Blitzo is happy to skip out on the full moon ceremony itself due to how thirsty he's being
Outright calls him a little plaything (s1e6)
Asks for sexual favors as a thanks for saving his life (s1e6) - he doesn't specify this but he says 'very much so' to the idea instead of showing any offense that Blitzo thinks Stolas wants him to pay for his life with sex
Tries to ditch the table when called out in Ozzie's, hides his face in a menu (s1e7)
It doesn't occur to him the full moon deal is wrong until Ozzie's and that's seemingly partly as a response to Blitzo not wanting to date him
Seemingly still doesn't understand that they are not in an actual relationship despite what Blitzo said as Ozzie's and him outright saying asking Stolas to the club was a mistake (s1e7)
His song in The Circus frames himself as the victim of Blitzo - what's between them is a 'comfortable lie' and he says 'I'm the fool who believes when you look in my eyes' (s2e1)
Despite knowing unequivocally that Blitzo hates being treated like a sex object, Stolas responds to Blitzo's anxiety about performing by sexualizing him some more (s2e2)
Gets mad at Blitzo to the point of his employees hiding behind him even though it's his fault his daughter ran off (s2e2)
Still doesn't acknowledge any of Blitzo's colleagues by name even though everyone is helping him find Via (s2e2)
Calls Blitzo up to get him out of a situation he should have been able to handle himself, does nothing to communicate where he is and is weirdly blase instead of urgent on the phone (s2e4)
Admits that the deal was wrong but in a general 'transactional relationships bad' sense, no acknowledgement of the gravity of having coerced Blitzo into sex despite recognizing at the start of the episode that he is a monster if Blitzo was only with him as a prisoner of the deal (s2e8)
Makes Blitzo panic by taking back the book forever and doesn't even notice or care that Blitzo is begging him in tears and saying he'll do anything (s2e8)
Immediately shuts down the conversation and walks off instead of giving Blitzo a minute to process (s2e8)
Rewrites reality, has the gall to be shocked Blitzo thinks it's all about sex when he made it that way (s2e8)
Rewrites reality, acts like he had no idea Blitzo didn't think highly of him despite being told so before (s1e8, s2e8)
Uses magic to throw Blitzo out of his house (s2e8)
Makes no attempt to talk things out, just gives Blitzo the cold shoulder instead of asking for space, clearly thinks he is in the right just because Blitzo yelled at him, has done no reflection on anything Blitzo said (s2e9)
Rewrites reality, keeps insisting he's never looked down on Blitzo despite the fact that even the most insensitive person in the world should realize being called a 'plaything' is not a compliment (s2e9) and it takes a truly special sort of ignorance to squeeze his own imp butler like a stress ball and not think he has any superiority over imps (s2e2)
Blames Blitzo for not saving him in person even though Blitzo sent his employees to help and he knew full well Blitzo was taking his daughter to the doctor (s2e4, s2e9)
Focuses solely on Blitzo not telling him Striker tried to kill him and doesn't acknowledge that Blitzo saved his life in Harvest Moon (s1e5, s2e9)
Calls Striker Blitzo's 'friend'? If he really believes this it just seems to be the old classism/racism rearing its head again, if he doesn't then it's obviously just more petty o'clock on his part, especially since IMP has kept having to fight Striker, sometimes on Stolas' behalf
Rewrites reality, appears to think of himself as one of Blitzo's exes since he doesn't think his getting an invite to Verosika's party was weird, all around behaves like a jilted ex. Seemingly if it feels true then it must be true (s2e9)
Goes to the party despite calling it petty and despite the risk of Blitzo finding him at the party, since he somehow knew Blitzo was actually doing the whole apology tour thing across Hell (s2e9)
Calls Blitzo a motherfucker even when he admits in song that the arrangement was just an arrangement to him (s2e9)
Despite Blitzo telling him all the way back in Ozzie's and again in Full Moon, Stolas still can't bring himself to do enough self-reflection on how he acted to realize that calling someone a plaything and ignoring their boundaries and protests constantly is a reason for them to feel treated like an object. The song directly states that there's something he could learn from the arrangement falling apart even though he's had ample time to try and learn it and is punishing Blitzo for behaving in a way he doesn't understand because he's refused to see the problem (s2e9)
Expects an apology just as he did that morning, still thinks he's basically entirely in the right, doesn't accept it because Blitzo isn't meeting his needs well enough (s2e9)
Gets annoyed Blitzo might judge him for being at an anti-Blitzo party even though he himself said it was petty and is still calling it 'something stupid' (s2e9)
Despite knowing a big problem between them is Blitzo not believing he really cares, doesn't take the opportunity once he hears about Blitzo's insecurities to say what he likes about him and instead talks solely about wanting someone to love him (s2e9)
Despite seemingly wanting Blitzo to open up and talk to him, ditches the whole conversation the minute someone shows him the affection he wants (s2e9)
Makes out with that person - arguably he's given up entirely trying to make Blitzo understand he loves him and anyone will do, because otherwise this is just a spiteful thing to do (s2e9)
I didn't even intent to make the Stolas entry so long, there was just a lot of it because when a character keeps rewriting reality to favor themselves it would be accepting the show's framing to just let them do it. And the show's framing is wrong.
Anyway, that's the list. I'd like the 'Blitzo did just as much wrong!' party to look at his entries and note how many of them were just reactions to what Stolas did to him, how many of them are informed by his social class/being forced into bad positions due to poverty, how many of them are entirely understandable for someone in his position and how many of them require some pretty screwed up logic to count as doing something wrong (i.e. the fandom has a bad habit of implying Blitzo was duty bound to deal with Stolas' obsessions and delusions for the entire show because they had a one night stand, one time).
Notice how many of Stolas' entries are just plain abusive behaviors involving demeaning others or rewriting reality to favor himself.
Thanks for the list and your brave service, Anon. I'll definitely be keeping this one handy for tapping purposes, as should everyone.
#Anonymous#stolitz critical#stolas critical#helluva boss critical#actual blog post#image reply#viv stuff
221 notes
·
View notes
Text
Just a little reminder that everyone has a feminine and masculine side, so don't hesitate to read the messages for your masculine side too.
Paid Services | Botanica | Tip Jar
Pile One 🕺
BEYONCÉ - COZY
Right away, I’m detecting that this pile is trying to work through some bitterness and that’s ok. I get the gist that this collective is aware of this and are either accepting of it or in denial of it because of the assumption that it’s embarrassing or demeaning to feel that way. I always want to remind people that it’s okay to feel negative emotions. Having them is not what defines you but how you choose to express them is how it truly characterizes you. It feels like this brooding energy is like a seesaw or a visual representation of tug of war, because it’s happening in two different directions. This pile could be in limbo with trying to reach the other side of realizing your self-worth. There’s bitterness split into two directions. Acerbic agony over “why not me?” in terms of finding people who accept and match the love that you give to others and “why me?” when it comes to jealousy and vitriol that makes you afraid of your own potential for success and dim your light. What your feminine side is asking of you is to stop watering yourself down because you feel it’s safer that way to be under others. Take note of the vibe that you get from this channeled song because it’s time to get “cozy” with who you are and take some initiative in the lessons that you’ve been through by talking your shit. You sat with your pain long enough to know its beginning but to finally decide how YOU want to create its end. If you’re in a funk where it’s making you feel meek and want to self-sabotage, reach deep inside yourself to know that the answer isn’t to revert back to old patterns and lies that people told you to keep you stuck because they don’t want to see you grow. Get cozy with yourself because you must understand that every step of the way isn’t going to be comfortable all of the time but I feel that a lot of you are at a point where things are getting worse before they get better. It could be something external going on, but I feel that it’s mostly mental. You’re going to come out of this even stronger than before and you’re going to move differently and choose differently but also get an upgrade relating to speech. How you talk to yourself will improve, you’ll speak with more confidence, and your words will match exactly with your feelings when it comes to communicating with others. The main thing that I am seeing here is no longer trying to make accommodations that make you suffer in the end just to protect another person’s ego.
Pile Two 🕺
BEYONCÉ -MOVE
I’m sensing a lot of completion with this pile. If you’re not in this new energy yet, prepare for people making a lot of misconceptions about you. You could be accused of being aloof or have people nitpicking or trying to diagnose you based on little to no evidence. It doesn’t have to be this exact situation but what I first would like to point out is that it’s like, you’re floating down this river, unphased, and just flowing with the currents. Or that you’re water itself, becoming mutable with your form but regardless of what changes are made, you’re still water. If you’ve experienced intense feelings over people ghosting you or just not prioritizing you in the past, I’m seeing that you’ll be at a stage where you understand that what those people did wasn’t at all right and you’re no longer internalizing it with your thoughts and actions, but in other words, you’re not going to be that person anymore that’s waiting for a text. You’re not going to wait for people to act right, wait for other people’s approval, or postpone your life for people who like to play with your time. I’m getting the message that you shouldn’t stop yourself from doing whatever it is that you think about doing because “they will talk about you either way”. This could apply to promoting yourself in some way, maybe for a new job opportunity, or just taking a chance to improve your health. You may have anxiety of thinking that maybe there’s no point in trying to see what you can do for your body because you’ve been stagnant for years because of circumstances that weren’t really in your control, like finances or being dependent on a toxic parent. This could also be something else, but either way it’s like you’re afraid of what you could hear, possibly something negative or even just a “no”, but I’m hearing you can’t make that judgment without trying, because you might actually receive a yes, assistance in getting back on your feet again, or good news about your timing in getting something done before you could miss out on what’s important.
Pile Three 🕺
BEYONCÉ - CUFF IT
A rebirth is needed for this pile. There’s a lot of indulgence that feels mindless and endless because you’re seeking to satiate a need or needs but there are people who are already aware of this but are in need of confirmation for which way is the right direction to go. It’s about experiencing everything for the first time all over again. Not in a dreadful way to make you suffer, but to soothe any worries over not finding happiness if you don’t have that “one thing”. If you’ve been tested recently on remaining brave in your decision to part ways with someone but are having second doubts or the fear that you’re going to miss out, maybe that “need” that you have can be replenished by just being around your family to remind yourself that you aren’t lacking love and support around you. If you’re feeling “sexual”, maybe it isn’t sex that you necessarily need and that it’s just your soul telling you to create. If you’ve been used to seeking answers through spiritual measures but are still left confused, then maybe that’s a sign that it’s time to step back and take a break from the unseen and to come back and relearn how to go through life from just being instead of trying to know everything. Even if it isn’t those specific scenarios previously mentioned, you’re on a journey of wisdom of learning that a lot of the things that you’ve considered as losses haunting your everyday life, were not really losses, because they can be replaced by something else that’s going to lead you into falling more in love with yourself.
#divination#intuitive#psychic#pick a card#tarot#spirituality#tarotblr#pac#pick a pile#tarot readers of tumblr#the tarot community#tarot community#beyonce
284 notes
·
View notes
Note
In the latest trope talk you used Odo as part of your examples. I think You've talked about Star Trek: The Next Generation before but not Deep Space Nine and I just had some questions about what you thought about the show.
What did you most/least enjoy about the series?
What did you think of DS9's syndicated episodes compared to contemporary trek's (TNG, VOY) episodic nature?
How do you feel about the Dominion storyline as a whole? Did you feel like it went against Star Trek's utopian future?
Which characters stood out to you the most/had the most engaging development?
What do you think gagh tastes like?
Any other thoughts about the series?
Oh man, DS9.
I have this very consistent pattern of thinking that the star trek I have most recently watched is the best star trek. When I watched TNG it was the best because of its standout episodes that let Patrick Stewart and Brent Spiner show off. Then when I watched Voyager it was the best because Janeway was incredible and 7 of 9's arc was a beautiful iteration on the "inhuman character explores humanity" star trek trope. Then when I got to DS9 I was like "Oh, so this is what actually good Star Trek looks like." I do think I'm actually right this time, though.
I think they really took advantage of how different the core premise of the show was from previous Star Treks. Because the setting was very consistent, the episodic variations on the formula weren't dedicated to seeking out Weird New Shit, but to focusing on the characters and their dynamics with one another. Correspondingly I think the best thing in the show is the character writing and how everyone's arcs are built up. This was something I think they were building towards with the previous series; TNG would occasionally have character-focused episodes, but for the most part everybody on the ship operated like a well-oiled machine, inputting the Weird Thing Of The Week and outputting a solution. Voyager destabilized the formula by yeeting the heroes halfway across the galaxy and well outside the safe confines of federation space, so you got a lot more opportunities for drama caused by limited supplies or existential despair, and a lot more character-driven conundrums without clean or flawless solutions. DS9 is kind of the apotheosis of this shift away from "seek out new life and new civilizations, boldly go etc etc" because instead of our heroes briefly interacting with Bajor and then fucking off into the end credits, they're sitting right on top of a planet undergoing tumultuous social restructuring after the end of a long and horrible military occupation, and they're there for 7 seasons. Because they aren't following an adventure-of-the-week formula, absolutely everything they do has consequences they have to deal with later down the line, and that lends itself very well to longform character arcs.
I liked the Dominion storyline well enough, and I think the existence of an evil space empire to fight doesn't preclude the Federation being a utopia. Utopias are internally perfect systems, not worlds that have absolutely no conflict. I think the part of DS9 that does undercut the utopia is the whole thing with Section 31, but I think that's part of a very intentional move on the writers' part to highlight that Section 31 is not as necessary as they think they are, and that doing all this stuff unethically is a moral concession and a shortcut that demeans the principles of the Federation. That's part of why I like that they serve as a nemesis to Doctor Bashir, who has very personal reasons to despise the idea of taking the easy way out.
Character-wise, I have very predictable favs. Jadzia Dax is fascinating to me, and I love the way they play with her past lives and centuries of experience to create this very layered character packed with plothooks. Also I have very simple tastes, and "woman fills narrative Man Role trope and nobody is weird about it" is an itch I so rarely get scratched despite how not complicated it is. Jadzia gets to be a swashbuckling romantic hero with a tragic starcrossed lover; she gets to be a wise yet cheerful mentor to Captain Sisko; she gets to be a noble warrior honoring debts from a lifetime ago. And I adore how her dynamic with Sisko plays out over the seasons - another completely uncomplicated trope I so rarely get to enjoy, male and female leads who are profoundly ride-or-die for one another and have absolutely no interest in making out. I am still so mad about how Jadzia gets iced, but that doesn't mean I don't like Ezri, and there is something very beautiful about how when she gets Dax'd and her existence becomes an absolute mess of confusion and conflicting memories and she doesn't even know who she is anymore, her single point of stability is Sisko.
That said, Garak is probably my overall fav. The man is an absolute drama hound and since he's not technically main cast it's a rare treat to get him focused on. He is so much fun on a rewatch when you can see exactly when and how he's lying and when he's telling the truth in a way that everyone thinks is lying, and what I think is most interesting about him is how absolutely everybody else on the station has him figured out. There's this "I know he knows I know they know" loop underlying almost every interaction. Everyone knows he's a spy, he knows everyone knows, and they're all just vibing anyway. It's like his entire character is built on telling the truth in a way that sounds like a lie, to the point where it always manages to surprise people when he does something absolutely ruthless. He's been saying he's a bad guy the whole time! People seem to keep forgetting!
Also, fun fact, the very first chunk of DS9 I caught was the back half of the episode "The Wire", and when I was mentioning this to my dad, I was like "yeah I don't remember their names but these two guys seemed extremely married-" and he immediately went "oh, Garak and the doctor?" so that's very telling I think
297 notes
·
View notes
Text
🍭☀️A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet
Slow burn angsty Ominis x F!Reader [T-Rated, 7.8k words]
Letting himself embrace this horrid part of his heritage terrified him. It was like being back in the cellar again, that Muggle writhing beneath him in pain, his parents and brother lauding his name. Gaunt. No matter what he did to unbind himself from the bloodline, always it came back to shackle him. Always, it answered when he didn't call.
In which, even after he broke your friendship, Ominis can't get you out of his head.
Tropes: angst/ romance/ drama, slow burn, black cat x golden retriever, opposites attract, forbidden love, Scriptorium quest, Muggle culture, Your Scent in the Amortentia, Going Feral when You're Hurt, Comforting You When You're Sad.
[MASTERLIST][PREV][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]
2: When Everything Changed
You didn't speak to him for a long time.
Justifiably, Ominis knows. It's one thing to insult, degrade, demean someone, but something else entirely to diminish their very existence, to reduce them to flesh and bones and happenstance. You were Muggle-born, he was pure-blood. Your friendship together was as tenuous as life itself.
You didn't deserve risk, so he steeled his heart, his mind. He moved through the struggles of fourth year silently, like a wraith, participating only when needed. A clock was ticking for summer – he couldn't spend the entire holiday at Feldcroft, though he longed for it, though Sebastian offered. When the dread of it came, thick and drowning, it was the thought of you, what he was doing ultimately to protect you, that eased the pain. He didn't realise how deeply you had planted your vines inside him, so that everything he did now, anything he felt, or touched, or tasted, reminded him of you. You were ingrained, and no matter how hard he tried to uproot you, you would not wither.
Perhaps this was his reality now. Perhaps he would never speak to you again.
Naturally, fifth year changed everything.
The new school year rang with tension. A goblin tyrant, Ranrok, sought vengeance against wizardkind, with his influence strongest around the Scottish Highlands, scattered around the hamlets around Hogwarts. His plans were unclear, just another thing Ominis worried about, massaging his temple on the walk up to school for the first evening.
Sebastian wasn't in a talkative mood. He'd come to verbal blows with his uncle that afternoon, when Ominis was packing and keeping Anne company. Their voices were so raised they could be heard in the entire village.
"Stop getting her hopes up! For goodness sake, she's cursed. At least let her enjoy however long she has left in peace, without your meddling!"
"Meddling?" Sebastian scoffed. "She's my sister! I'll find a cure for her—"
"If St Mungo's Healers can't do it, no fifteen year-old boy will either."
"You might've given up, but I haven't."
"I've stopped trying to fill her head with false hope and nonsense!"
Anne's lethargic sigh had pulled Ominis away. "I'm so tired."
"You should rest."
"No." She fell back against the pillow. "I mean, of their arguing."
Truthfully, Ominis was tired of it too. He heard enough hatred at home, the few lonely weeks he had to spend there before absconding to Feldcroft. For the most part, his parents ignored him, though there were days they dragged him to dinners or parties with the other pure-blood families. He made sure to give the Malfoys as wide a berth as possible, even though Peregrine didn't bother him again.
"Can you promise me something, Ominis?" Anne had asked.
He'd pursed his lips. "That depends on what it is."
"You'll keep an eye on Sebastian this year." A wry laugh. "A metaphorical eye, that is."
He always intended to. The darkness was offering Sebastian solace, and he feared his best friend was diving down a path from which there was no return. How far would he be willing to go for Anne?
"I'll do my best."
"And... and talk to Gibby."
He hadn't heard your name all summer. It sent a frisson through him, equally terrifying and pleasant, and made to leave before an inevitable interrogation—
"Please," she said, stopping him. "Sometimes family isn't blood. Sometimes family is heart. And she is as much a part of yours as the rest of us are."
Yet, when he left with Sebastian an hour later, he adamantly reminded himself why he made that pact in the first place. He could not— would not talk to you, and rub raw a healing wound. Things were simply too dangerous to risk it, if not from Peregrine Malfoy, then from one of the other pure-blood families, the Lestranges, the Blacks, or the Fawleys.
When he and Sebastian arrived at the school, sun hushing the horizon, Ominis paid no mind to the knowledge that you were there, somewhere at the Hufflepuff table, enjoying the start of term without him. He took his seat next to his best friend and expected the same opening speech, Sorting Ceremony and feast.
Only there was one thing different.
Missy was what everyone called her. The nickname was sparked by rumour, as thick as honey – unlike yours, spurred by your actions, your quirks, Missy's had come before her, on the train up to Hogwarts, where all the fifth years spoke of a new student starting this year under the mentorship of Professor Fig.
Staring school so late, with the support of a prominent Hogwarts professor? That was unusual, she was unusual. A mystery.
Only when she appeared at the Sorting Ceremony, late, it was apparent she was anything but.
"There she is," Nerida crowed in the hum of chatter. "The new girl!"
"Her hair is amazing," said Violet, awed.
Ominis heard the new girl – like you, she had a distinctive set of sounds he could use to distinguish her from others. But unlike you, however, there was no naivety, no jolliness or upbeat wonder. There was only purpose, strong with each stride and levelled breath. Even as the interloper, and a late one at that, she acted like she already belonged.
His heart ached suddenly – the memory of the Undercroft tore at him, and he fought to keep it down, push away the strange sensation that came with thinking of you.
When the new girl was sorted into Slytherin, she sat next to Sebastian. "Hello." Her voice was distinctive too, well-spoken, eloquent, from wealth.
"The mystery student," Imelda said, clearly more impressed than she let on. "The whole year's been talking about you."
"Have they?" She didn't seem bothered by this at all. "Is that what I am? A mystery?"
"A real lady of mystery," said Sebastian, equally intrigued.
"Oh," said the mystery student, chuckling – Ominis caught threads of a sinister undertone. "I'm no lady. Miss is just fine."
"Well, then, Miss Mystery," Sebastian teased, "welcome to Hogwarts."
Ominis was too polite to ask what her real name was. It was too late now, anyway. The nickname stuck like mud, too fitting for a girl with an air of something otherworldly and powerful to be displaced. Your laughter bubbled in his head – maybe she would come to love the nickname as you did.
But there was no point thinking about you anymore. No point imagining what the future beheld for you.
Later that month, Ominis asked after what Missy looked like, if only to build a better picture of how different you were to one another, but Sebastian had only laughed.
"I'd tell you, but she changes her hair and eyes every day. Always in Snelling's Emporium. And her robes – she's never wearing them! Every class we go to she just puts on capes and hats and all sorts. It's a mismatch."
A very strange girl indeed, but not in the same way you were, in the same way you still are.
As the air began to chill, Ominis felt the change in his friend like frigid air on bare skin. He was warming to the new girl, more rapidly than Ominis expected – she invited him to Hogsmeade, joined his secret duelling club, stole him for night-time escapades and thirsted for knowledge only he could give. It seemed harmless enough at first, but the new girl had a particular sway, popular but not needy with the attention, mysterious but still generous with her time, and genial with her friends. Especially with Sebastian.
Worst of all, you were becoming her friend too. She was like the replacement for what you'd lost.
"Amortentia." Professor Sharp's voice carried through the Potions classroom one day, as October crept up the front lawns. "I'm sure you're all familiar with this, but for our new student's sake, could someone please refresh us on its properties?"
Unsurprisingly, Garreth spoke up. "It's the most powerful love potion in the world. It smells different to everyone according to what most attracts them."
"Very good. This is a potion we will be learning to brew in seventh year. As Mr Weasley has said, this is the most powerful love potion in the world." The last part he emphasised seriously. "It is not to be trifled with. Today, we will be brewing weaker love potions, but I am allowing you all to see for yourself the properties of Amortentia, so that you may recognise it outside the classroom. Dare I say, so you can protect yourself should anyone try to use it on you."
Sharp allowed them to gander at the potion as they brewed their own. The fifth-year girls were most excited, and as Ominis prepared his ingredients, the Hufflepuffs plus Missy headed up to the main station to have their turn.
Of course, you were amongst that group.
"Well, Missy?" you asked, as eager and animated as he remembered you to be. "What does it smell like?"
Missy took a whiff, then laughed.
"Secrets."
"Secrets don't have a scent," said Lenora haughtily.
"They do to me." She stood back, let you go ahead. "Go on then, Gibby, your turn. What does it smell like to you?"
Ominis struggled not to listen.
"Sweets." Of course it did. "Magic. You know, just the general scent of it. And..." Your voice turned tart. "Oil."
The giggling ceased. "Oil?" asked Adelaide.
"Oil," you confirmed, in a way that brooked no space for discussion.
What an absurd thing to find attractive. Did oil even have a scent? He pondered on this for a while, trying to untangle its meaning until their potions were neatly bubbling and Sebastian nudged him out of his thoughts.
"Want to go up next?"
They went after Everett declared his favourite scent to be broom handles ("Probably because that's the closest thing he'll ever get to a girl's touch," Sebastian muttered). Already the aroma was drawing him closer, a pleasant tickling like a silk robe on freshly bathed skin.
Sebastian inhaled deeply.
"Hmm."
"Well?"
"Old parchment," he said, "and hair dye."
Hair dye? "I've been told you were starting to grey."
"Funny. No idea why it smells like that."
But Ominis did. Just an inkling, anyway.
"Your turn." His friend stepped back. "You more than most anyone to know what it smells like."
Perhaps nothing, he thought in vain. It was a folly to think himself above such emotions. In fact, though his family may have tried to beat it out of him, it took strength to admit he had such a weakness at all. Since his sense of smell was more acute than most, it would've been strange, perhaps concerning, if there was no scent to the Amortentia at all.
So Ominis leant forwards and inhaled. The aroma was so heady he could get drunk on the smell alone.
"Honeysuckle," he murmured, probably because they grew around Feldcroft, and the memories were something he cherished. "Polished wood, like in a wandshop. And something... sweet." It was a sudden overwhelming note, and his voice grew hoarse. "It's very sweet. Something like—"
He iced over.
Strawberry laces.
"Something like...?" Sebastian said. "Your face has gone red."
"What?" Ominis drew back, willed the scent to disappear. "I— I don't recognise it."
Sebastian didn't say a word at first. Then came the insufferable chuckling beneath his breath.
"Ah, wait. Sweet, was it?"
"I said I don't recognise it." And when Sebastian went to speak again, Ominis quickly snapped, "Not another word."
But he knew, when his friend lapsed into contented, smug silence, this was by far the last time they'd have this conversation.
Without meaning to be, without even being there, you were a cruelty, vivid and sweet, and no matter what he did, he was powerless beneath your spell.
But with tensions rising in the world, he could not afford to think about you. He couldn't afford to think about what your scent in the Amortentia meant for his confused, muddled feelings.
By chance, he got the opportunity to think elsewhere the next day, when a letter arrived – from Gringotts, of all places. The braille glided beneath his fingertips, and he realised it was a will, his Aunt Noctua's will. It was getting to the point where she'd been missing longer than she had not, and his parents had finally bowled through solicitors and admin to snatch the last of the pittance from her vault. With no next of kin, she had given most of it to Ominis, though the money wasn't actually his until he turned seventeen.
Truthfully, the worst part was he could barely remember Noctua's voice anymore. He wondered constantly where she had gone, why she'd left him with her horrible brother and family. Once when he was eight, when a hopeful innocence still sang through him, Noctua had come to watch over him as his parents and siblings attended a society event in London. A pure-blood ball, he was told. Adults talking about adult things, how dull. As the youngest, Ominis hadn't been permitted to go, but he didn't mind so much when he got to spend time with his whacky aunt.
He was practicing his braille as Noctua tidied about the room.
"They'll be back after sundown," she was saying, "so make sure you're finished before then."
"Isn't it midday?"
"It's one."
"So I have lots of time."
"Yes," she said mirthfully, "but I want to take you to the village later today."
The village? "That's the Muggle place, and Father says I shouldn't go near them. They're all stupid anyway. Like pigs."
"Is that what he said?"
"Yes."
A creak as she sat on the bench next to him. Her hand ran down his back.
"You should know, Ominis, that not everything your father says is true. Muggles aren't anymore stupid than wizards are. They're hardly different from us at all."
The comment, harmless in retrospect, felt like an affront to everything Ominis knew. "But they don't have magic. That makes them stupid."
"It doesn't make them stupid. You don't have your sight. Does that make you stupid?"
"No," he said at once, indignant.
"So you understand. What we have and do not have doesn't matter. It is how we choose to live that does. In the end, we all return to the earth in the same way, flesh and skeleton."
That didn't make sense to him. "But how do they do anything if they don't have magic?"
"Well, you're learning your braille now, aren't you? They find ways to do things that work for them." She stood. "Tell you what, why don't we go to the village now? You can finish your work later."
Ominis agreed. He wanted to know, after all, if what Noctua said was true. She dressed him down for it, cotton and breeches and a woollen coat that drowned his arms, and they headed out before the clock struck two, Ominis clutching her hand as the wind bandied playfully with his hair. It didn't take them long to walk, though he detected so many new scents, new sounds. Wheat fields susurrating within musky spruce fences, crackling bonfires and burnings that pumped smoke into the sky. They reached a low stone wall that bordered the village river, cold against Ominis' hands, before Noctua hushed him.
"Do you remember the rules around Muggles?"
"No talking about the M-word," he said diligently, "or that we are the W-word."
So Noctua took him on a stroll through the market. He was surprised at the atmosphere, busy but not bustling. Horses clattered against cobblestone, ivy rustled against houses with rooves made of thatch. Knives slammed down on meat and fish, and there was bartering, so much bartering, for the best cuts and lowest prices.
"Come off it, Dave. Two shillings for that? You must be joking."
"Ain't no joke. Gotta' keep the lights on somehow, don't I?"
They chuckled, even though Ominis didn't understand why, until he remembered Muggles simply couldn't call upon light whenever they wanted. They had to rely on candles and hearths and gas lanterns. They had to rely on their own labour to make ends meet and provide for their children.
A thread of something fresh caught Ominis' nose then, and he turned towards the scent. Warm bread, just baked.
"Want some?" asked Noctua.
His family teachings came to him. Make no disturbance of your betters. "No thank you."
"Are you sure?"
It did smell nice, but he worried about whether Muggle bread was poison for wizards. Still, Noctua took him into the bakery, and thought terror laced through his fascination, he took the bread Noctua paid in their strange Muggle money and eagerly bit into the crust. It was warm and buttery and filled his belly to full – and best of all, it tasted like regular bread. No poison.
"Ah, born like that, was he?" said the baker.
Noctua seemed so at ease with them. "Yes, he's practicing braille at the moment."
"Oh, now, that's wonderful. Keep at it, lad. You'll do great."
"Thanks," Ominis managed. He'd never spoken to a Muggle before. He didn't know Muggles learnt braille too.
Noctua took him back outside as he finished the last of his bread. "Well? What do you think?"
The general mood was buoyant and hopeful. Not everyone was affluent, yes, but there was something wonderful in the way they worked tirelessly to get what they wanted. If the air smelt the same, the food tasted the same, the people merry and sad and angry the same...
"It's a bit like Hogsmeade," he admitted at last, because that was all he had to compare it to.
"So you see, then," said Noctua, a twinkle in her voice. "Not so different after all."
Only when they got back to the house, Ominis not entirely convinced but probing for more, he felt a shift in the air like claws on his shoulders. His parents had arrived home early, as had Marvolo and his noisy sneer.
"At the village, I see," his father barked. Then, "Ominis, to your room. Now."
Ominis knelt to the ground and pressed an ear to the crack under his door so he could hear the argument in the foyer below.
"You will do well to remember that he is my son, and I will not have you traipsing him around in Muggle slums!"
"Do you want him to be so completely unaware of the surrounding world? He'll have to live outside these walls one day."
Marvolo scoffed. "The boy is blind, Noctua."
"In sight, not in head," she retorted. "Though he will be if you all keep treating him this way."
It was nice to hear her support him, and from then on he enjoyed her company a lot more. She had so much wisdom to share, about the Muggle world, about his family, about the dark secrets that followed the Gaunts like shadow. When she went missing, he despaired in his bedroom alone, knowing all too well no one but him would care. It was only until that will arrived, balling up any last hope that she was alive, that he decided to shut the door on her disappearance once and for all – by chasing the information she'd last shared with him.
Salazar Slytherin's Scriptorium.
It hadn't been an immediate decision. Once he told Sebastian of the Scriptorium, and his aunt's futile quest to find it, Sebastian hounded him for weeks, desperate to seek it himself. Ominis shut down his questions, even though, secretly, he wanted answers himself.
Missy managed to convince him – if only because she reinforced how important it was for Sebastian to find a cure for Anne, something that was possible with the secrets of the Scriptorium. And, well, to sate his own curiosity Ominis wouldn't be moved, but for Anne, whom he loved as much as Sebastian did, he agreed to make an effort. He would put aside his distaste for the Dark Arts for closure.
"Don't mistake my agreeing to go as thinking this is a good idea. I'm only going to ensure you don't get into some sort of trouble."
Missy's voice turned upwards with agreement. "You've made the right decision."
On the other hand, his was rueful. "I hope we don't regret this."
They waited until nightfall. It should've been no trouble to get there for the three of them, since the Scriptorium's entrance was next to their common room – but come the clock chimes at midnight Missy was nowhere to be found. Sebastian paced in wait as Ominis pressed a heel to the wall where the secret door lay, trying to sense any vibrations beneath. Boot steps heading towards them snagged his attention.
But there were two pairs. The first, Missy's forceful strides. The second—
You.
Instantly he recognised it. The bounce of your curls. The clatter of your glasses. The shoes, merrily clacking against stone. The scent of you, so sweet and innocuous, and yet like pure ecstasy.
You startled at the same time he did, standing upright.
"Gibby—"
"Ominis—" Hearing you speak his name after so long, in a tone that wasn't revulsion, was like music. But the shock was gone when you turned to Missy, aggravated. "I-I didn't know he was coming."
"Yes," said Missy coolly, "this information comes from his family."
"And therefore it is my quest," he reiterated. "You cannot invite whomever you want."
"I thought the more people, the better." So composed and unperturbed. "Why? Will this be a problem?"
"Yes. She cannot go."
"And why not?" you challenged indignantly.
So damn naïve. "It's dangerous."
"When has that ever stopped me?"
"There's a first time for everything."
"You can put your wounded ego away, Ominis. There's no way I'm not going exploring with you all."
He swore steam erupted from his nose, but it took Sebastian, of all people, to step in and play middle man. "We'll all go— and no, Ominis, unless you're planning to hex her, I don't think you can stop her."
"Don't tempt me." He grinded his teeth. "If you get hurt—"
"You wouldn't care," you said coldly.
And you were right. He shouldn't have cared. He'd severed your bond almost a year ago now. But there was something in him helplessly clutched in your grasp. Something that wouldn't let him let you go.
"If we're ready," said Missy, elongating her words in a poor attempt to smooth the tension, "then you can tell us the first step into the Scriptorium, Ominis."
Lighting the braziers was the easy part. Other students had done it, lit the things to light their way through the dungeons and accidentally unveiled the door. But no one had got further. A dead end, it was declared.
Instantly, he knew why.
Whispers seeped through the chamber walls. As the others explored, and Missy repaired a broken relief, Ominis wished he could clap his hands over his ears. There was something terribly wrong with this place. Something dark.
"Wait— a journal entry! Under the broken pieces!" Sebastian snatched a crusty parchment from the ground. "Ominis— it's signed from your aunt."
"What?" He couldn't believe it. Then had she... succeeded? "What does it say?"
Sebastian read. "Wow... she tried to convince your father she'd found the Scriptorium. She came down to get proof."
Noctua was here. And, perhaps worse, his father knew. His father knew and never said a word.
Tears came unwilling to his eyes, and he fought to bat them back, but it was like the susurrations heard his pain, strengthening their efforts to unsettle him.
"What's wrong, Ominis?"
Your voice was a balm, even though Ominis hated himself for it. His throat ran dry.
"I— I can hear hissing."
"Hissing?" asked Missy.
"I'm a Parselmouth," he explained, and for some reason, admitting it in front of you filled him with more shame. "I can hear and speak to snakes."
"Wow, that's incredible."
The awe in Missy's voice disconcerted him. "All descendants of Salazar Slytherin have the ability."
"So what's it saying?"
Ominis swallowed and focused on the sound. It pulled such a deep fear from him, to use this ability he hadn't in so long. The worst of it was, it was like he'd last spoken it yesterday. Like he'd never stopped at all. He'd sworn a year ago to lock away all the darkness of his family bloodline and throw away the key, and yet here he was, standing in his predecessor's lair, the translation effortless.
For Aunt Noctua, he tried to convince himself. But it was much harder to pretend the ends justified the means.
"Speak to me," he murmured.
"The relief depicts a person facing a snake," said Sebastian. "And this door... well, it's covered in snake motifs."
Ominis felt it, if only to fuel the hope that his friend was wrong. Of course he wasn't.
His heartbeat was a wild stag in his chest. "But I— I can't. I haven't spoken it in years."
"I think you know it's not the sort of language you forget."
No. It wasn't.
Letting himself embrace this horrid part of his heritage terrified him. It was like being back in the cellar again, that Muggle writhing beneath him in pain, his parents and brother lauding his name. Gaunt. No matter what he did to unbind himself from the bloodline, always it came back to shackle him. Always, it answered when he didn't call.
Everything in this place was overwhelming. His father's deliberate silence, the darkness that fettered him when he thought he was free... He didn't realise he was shaking until a hand came to steady him. You. Because of course you knew about his aunt, and how fond of her he was. You knew how much this meant to him, even if you didn't know the horrible things he'd done to get here.
He hesitated pulling his arm away – a foolish mistake. Your touch lingered like your soap.
"Take your time," you said softly.
He tried to gather some lost mettle. For my aunt, he told himself, again and again, until the whispers didn't seem so scary. It was difficult to centre himself when three people were waiting on him, but knowing that behind this door were the answers for his aunt's disappearance, and potentially the answers for Anne's illness, lit the spark of courage he needed. All that was left was to speak.
So he took a deep breath. Forced it out again.
And he spoke.
The tongue was guttering and unnatural. Rusty. Yet the door recognised its own flesh, and as the snakes undulated along the door's surface, and it opened with a cold draught of wind, Ominis knew he'd never escape his family legacy. No matter how much he wished it.
The others cast Lumos and set about exploring the space. Even so many years here and there was still some wonder in discovering the new, the unwritten. Salazar Slytherin did not make it easy to enter his Scriptorium, as the enclosed stone hallways, suffused with the cold, were riddled with puzzles, most of them involving the use of sight. Missy managed to solve the first, a memory test that required her to twist dials to match symbols on the gates.
She clicked the first one. Something sharped sliced the air besides him, and Ominis flinched.
"What the—"
"The gate came down," Sebastian said, terrified but also in awe – a worrying amount. "Between the archway."
"So there's no way back."
You huffed a breath. "So there's only forwards."
Regardless of your optimism, that was not a comforting thought, and the group stayed closer together, firing Lighting charms into the darkness. Dust swirled beneath Ominis' nose, and yet the place had a damp, mildewed feel, unpleasant and uncomfortable, but as the others continued to solve Slytherin's riddles, a rising worry eschewed his fear. This was too easy. His ancestor, he hated to admit, was one of the greatest wizards of all time, and too clever to find entertainment in shallow puzzles. There had to be something worse.
"I don't like this," he murmured into the humming din at one point, as Sebastian and Missy searched for the next symbols.
He didn't mean to talk to you, but he had.
"We'll be okay," you said, even though you moved a little closer to him, closer than he'd expected. "Salazar Slytherin is your direct ancestor?"
He swallowed. "Yes."
A pause.
"He hated Muggle-borns, too."
On anyone else's tongue, the words were a jab. On you, they were only full of pity.
I don't hate Muggle-borns. I don't hate you.
But he couldn't bring himself to say it, and the silence that followed devoured him.
"I think this is the last one," said Missy, when they entered yet another identical stone corridor, the echo of her voice a small comfort in the confined space.
Sebastian had already turned this into a game. "Race you?"
She let out a single chuckle. "You couldn't keep up."
"Try me."
You laughed along to their competitive scrabbling. When the air rippled, and stone quaked, revealing a corridor that seemed to lead nowhere, you patted your cheeks twice and marched forwards on Sebastian's heels.
But Slytherin enjoyed games too.
The gate almost sliced Ominis' nose when it descended in front of him, cutting him off from you and Sebastian. A mere breath separated you, and yet the gap felt infinite.
Behind him, Missy spluttered. "Damn it!"
That meant— he was trapped.
Powerless.
He grabbed the gate, unyielding beneath his fingers. "Sebastian, what's going on?"
"I—" Sebastian startled. "Oh no."
He heard your intake of breath then.
"What's going on?" Ominis demanded.
"Bones," you said quietly. "And a note. I-It's from your aunt..."
She died here. You read it aloud, confirming Ominis' worst fears. Grief tore through him, swelling behind his eyes.
"This is the last puzzle," Sebastian said, voice firm. "There's a door, but it's sealed. It says Crucio on the floor..."
"No!" Ominis rattled the gate. "No, you can't. This is madness, Sebastian! Please—"
"Please what?" Sebastian said, frustrated. "The Scriptorium wants a price for entry. This is what we must pay."
But you didn't know any Dark Magic.
Sebastian did.
The realisation chilled Ominis down to his heart.
"Don't you dare!" he screeched. "Don't you dare use that curse on her!"
You stammered. "Ominis—"
"We're stuck!" Sebastian barked. "Your aunt died because she came alone. She didn't have anyone to use Dark Magic on. So unless you want to die like her, we don't have a choice."
"We always have a choice!"
Even though he didn't know what that was, even though it was Slytherin's nature to demand obedience or death. None of that mattered. What did was that you were the last person who deserved such pain, when you'd already been through so much. When he'd already caused it.
He tried with all his might to break the gate, bend it, cast the Exploding charm, whatever it would take to get him in the chamber.
"It won't work," Missy said, softer than he thought capable.
"I have to try—"
"It's okay," you mumbled, cutting him off. "I-I can take it."
The tremble betrayed your fear. Sebastian offered a compromise, that he could teach you and you'd use it on him, but even if you wanted to learn the curse yourself, which you didn't, there was no way you'd ever find the intention to use it willingly, and to use it willingly on Sebastian, no less, who'd done you no wrong since you'd known him.
Ominis banged his hands against the gate. "Damn it, Gibby—"
"I said I can do it," you snapped. "I'll be fine."
"I told you it was dangerous!"
"I knew the risks."
"Did you?" he challenged. "You came down to explore!"
"I'm not naïve, Ominis!" You came closer. "Of course the Scriptorium of Salazar Slytherin wouldn't be easy to get into. Of course I knew there was a price!"
But for you, and only you, to pay it? Was it by fate, that you walked in second, or was this what Slytherin wanted all along? For Muggle-born blood to pave the way for the rest of wizardkind?
His hands shook as he clutched the gate, so tightly his veins bulged. Once, you were the most naïve person he knew, but that day in the Undercroft had changed you as much as it had changed him.
You spun away, back to Sebastian. A deep breath.
"Okay. I'm ready."
"Are you sure?"
Presumably you nodded, because you didn't say the words.
And Ominis was helpless to listen as Sebastian raised his wand.
"Crucio!"
Your pain seemed to last for hours. For a second, a wink in time, you were silent, only that fizzing noise, that horrid, burning stench of the curse any indication anything was happening at all. But then you cried out, you wept, you mewled, howled – then it was pure agony, screams that arced through Ominis in ways he would never forget.
Something shifted. It was a softer noise than your screams, like mud, or honey almost, sinking into the ground. As the blockage melted, Sebastian ceased the spell, but your pain did not end, and when the gate shot back up, Ominis stumbled over himself to get to you.
"Gibby," he fell to your side, cradled you, ran hands over your shoulders and face, breathless. "You— I— are you—"
Your ragged breaths calmed. Your quivering eased. Tears ran down his own, probably splattering onto you, but you said nothing, only remained still in his grasp as he held you, comforted you.
Something warm drew up his temple then, and it took a second to recognise it. Your hand. Your thumb, combing back an errant lock of hair, skimming the mole on his temple.
"So you do care," you croaked.
He didn't know how to respond.
"I-I'm sorry," he said instead, failure washing through him. "I... I should've—"
"Don't," you whispered. "Not here. Not yet."
So he didn't. Instead, he wordlessly helped you to stand. Sebastian and Missy asked after you, and their awkwardness brought a new flush to Ominis' cheeks, but when you gave a shaky thumbs-up and an audible smile that warmed even this terrible place, the four of you headed into Slytherin's Scriptorium impeded no longer.
Sebastian and Missy got to work searching each nook and cranny of the cavernous chamber of stone walls, busy with the scattered remnants of Slytherin's work: parchment, scrolls, ancient tomes on shelves that seemed to hum with magic too ancient to describe. Ominis held onto you for the entire time, emotionally spent. You clutched his arm in return, and he felt the tremble of your grip, the vestiges of the curse. He should've helped to search the place, really, but he didn't trust that Slytherin, the most famous pure-blood supremacist in the history of Hogwarts, wouldn't have any last surprises for you.
Missy eventually found Slytherin's spellbook, and the exit, which chucked the four of you back out into the dungeons. You huddled behind the columns until you were sure there were no teachers or prefects, and only then did Ominis allow himself a moment to press his head to the stone, process everything he'd heard, felt.
His aunt was dead, bones lying cold in that corridor.
Sebastian had used Dark Magic like it was second nature.
You had been hurt. And you were owed an explanation.
But so close to the common room entrance was risking too much. If not Peregrine Malfoy, then another pure-blood, a painting, a ghost, a teacher bribed. Someone else, trading with secrets that could ultimately slither its way back to his family.
"Ominis," Sebastian sounded genuinely contrite, "about your aunt—"
"Oh please, Sebastian," he snapped, the anger sudden but healthy. He swung on his friend, teeth bared. "We were lucky we escaped at all."
"But I'm grateful that we did, because maybe now Anne—"
"And if you'd have died in there? How could you have saved Anne then?"
You startled. "Wait, let's—"
"Swear to me." He didn't bend under the weight of your gaze. "Swear to me, right now, that we will never engage with Dark Magic ever again. That— that we will never cause that pain again."
Sebastian was speechless. "But—"
"Swear it, Sebastian!"
"All right, all right." He took a breath. "Understood. And I... I really am sorry about your aunt."
Admittedly that closure was nice, to know Noctua was gone. He didn't voice anything, his feelings too raw and churning, and Sebastian headed towards the common room, Missy in tow.
"We'll go. You two... have a lot to talk about."
When the common room door slid shut, and it was only the two of you, alone, a new sort of worry seeded in his stomach. You said nothing for a while, the last moments that had passed between you as palpable as stone.
"I— I'm sorry," he forced out, this apology much harder than the last. "The Cruciatus Curse—"
"I'm okay," you repeated. A shuffle of your boot. "Are... are you going to talk to me again now? Are you going to tell me why you turned on me?"
But he found the words impossible and unmoving. He needed time, space, to heal from today, before he was ready to open another old wound.
"I-I can't. Not yet."
You paused. It was long and hard to bear, like a rake drawing down his chest.
"All right," you said quietly. "When you're ready, find me. You know where."
He did know where. Back in the early months of first year, when you were green and hungry, there were times when you weren't tagging in Ominis and Sebastian's shadows, times when they didn't know where you were at all. Once he decided, on whim, to search. The castle was huge and he wasn't optimistic, but he checked your favourite places: the Hufflepuff common room, the library, the front lawns and the sitting area outside Charms. When you weren't there and no one had seen you, he concluded he was just missing you, and hurried towards the Great Hall before his absence at dinner was noticed.
That's when he heard you, far above.
The hallways of the Viaduct Entrance were quiet – everyone was at the feast – and even still, your voice was barely a whisper. He halted, pausing to make sure, and there again was your sound, high-pitched and squealy and very you. Brow furrowing, he followed the noise up the stairs until he found himself squirrelled between the wooden joists holding the ceiling.
Whilst Ominis and Sebastian had claimed the Undercroft as their own, this was your space. He didn't know when you'd discovered it, or how, but here you were, curled beneath the beams.
Crying.
It surprised him. You, crying? When you were always so upbeat? When everything seemed to make you laugh? He approached you like you were a unicorn, easily spooked by noise. Still, you noticed him anyway.
"Oh! Ominis! I— I didn't see you there."
"That makes two of us."
But you didn't laugh, which meant something was very wrong.
He swallowed his pride. He'd never dealt with someone crying before, least of all a crying girl. "What's the matter?"
"You're going to think I'm silly."
"I already think that."
Another heaving breath. Another jab that didn't land. "Then— I don't know. You might laugh."
"Why would I—?" He stopped himself. That wasn't what you needed to hear. Instead, he sat next to you. "I won't laugh. Promise."
"Okay." You shuffled a little closer. "I-I miss home."
Ah. You were homesick. Frankly the concept was foreign to him – he'd never once missed his family. Even then he rejoiced every second he got to spend away from home. Still, it seemed to be eating you up.
"I-I'm not ungrateful," you said quickly. "I'm really happy to be here. And I really like magic. It totally makes sense – one time I exploded my brother's washing basket and we never knew how—"
"Exploded—?" He sighed. Just you things. "Never mind."
"But I miss them. My mama and papa run the confectionary. My brothers are supposed to take over when they're older, but Connor met Matilda Asher at church and everyone reckons they'll marry soon and he'll go into lumbering, and Ellian doesn't like sweets a lot, and he's much better at business and numbers anyway, and who knows how little Tam will grow up— oh no, I'm going to miss him growing up!"
Now you were weeping and hiccoughing. "Slow down. You're getting tears on my robes."
"Sorry. Is that... am I a wally?"
He didn't have the heart to ask what a wally was.
"Everyone gets homesick sometimes."
"You don't."
So you noticed. "I grew up in the magical world. You didn't. If I was suddenly dropped into the Muggle world, I'd be sad too. It's overwhelming to suddenly be in a different place with different people, let alone find out you're actually a witch, but you'll get used to it."
"What if I don't?"
"You will." It wasn't a guess. It was fact. "And your friends will help. Sebastian and Anne, and Adelaide and Evangeline and Arthur too."
"And you?"
"Yes," he said, managing a smile for your sake, "and me."
You took a deep breath, a sign that meant you would be okay.
"Do... do you have a tissue?"
"No."
"A... face-cleaning spell? Dryus Tearus?"
"You can't put -us at the end of words and expect it to be a spell. Just stop crying." It came out as a demand, even though Ominis didn't mean it to. He lifted the hem of his robes and wiped away the tears. "You'll get to go home at Christmas, which is only two months away."
By which point, he knew, you wouldn't feel so homesick anyway.
You squirmed when he drew the robe across your nose again. It was snotty, which made him grunt in disgust, which then made you giggle, and then use the sleeve of your own shirt to wipe the rest away.
"Thank you." You sniffled again. "I must look terrible."
"Awful."
A sharp pause – then another laugh, this one more like your usual self. "You are funny, Ominis Gaunt."
Funny was, perhaps, the last word he would ever ascribe to himself. It was, however, the perfect word to assign to his feelings a few days after the Scriptorium debacle, when he was finally ready to share the truth.
He didn't find you under the joists in the Viaduct Entrance's ceiling. Instead, where you were sitting that first time he caught you in first year, and where you sat in the subsequent times since, he found a note. Cleverly it was in braille, and he suspected there was no written words. He drew his thumb across the print.
Below astronomy deck, 8pm.
You had been waiting there, every day like clockwork. Waiting for him.
Ominis climbed the winding stairs. He didn't come up here often – without his sight, he couldn't read the stars, though he did still partake in stargazing theory and discussion. The floorboards croaked. So high up, the wind teased the tips of his ears, and he fussed with warming them until the deck was before him.
He thought he was alone, that he'd missed the chance today.
But you were here, coming up to him steadily. "Are you ready to talk?"
He nodded, voice scarpering deep into his throat. You waited. You weren't going to prompt him or give him any tools to help. You were as hungry for answers as you were before, but you would not make it easy. He would have to work for your trust.
He didn't know how to start.
"I— my family—" How did he tell you about the pain he went through, without diminishing yours? How could he articulate the horrors he'd experienced home, that he'd subsequently thrown back at you? "Some... things happened, when I was at home that summer after third year."
You waited still, not saying a word.
The beginning, then.
"You know my family hates Muggles. Hates Muggle-borns. It's an old pure-blood notion that Muggle-born magic is weaker, that it's stolen. I realised it was wrong when I met you, and regardless of my family's opinions I thought it was okay to be your friend."
"Opinions," you retorted. "You mean prejudice?"
"Yes," he agreed hoarsely, realising his error too late. "Yes, prejudice."
Silence again, as you waited for him to continue. He didn't know you could be so blunt.
"Peregrine Malfoy found out in third year we were friends. He— he told his father. Who told mine." Now his heart raced, his pulse thrashed, a cold clamminess prickled up and down his skin in disgust, shame, fear. "M-My parents, my brother Marvolo, they... they were displeased—"
Your hand found his arm then to steady him then.
"You don't have to continue."
"You deserve to know—"
"It's okay. I... I already know."
"You— what?"
"I've known since the Scriptorium."
"How?" he demanded, then seethed. "Damn Sebastian—"
"Not Sebastian," you mumbled.
Anne.
"It wasn't her place to tell either."
"No," you agreed, "but I wrote her a letter and she told me anyway, since you were being a dummy."
"But you know why, then," he reiterated, clutching your shoulders, hoping, begging to make you see. "You know why—"
"I know I lost my best friend," you said, angry tears snuffing your voice. "I know you suffered. I know your family are the vilest, most evil people on earth. I know that nosy Malfoy should mind his own business. Sebastian said he talked to him. He won't say a word about you now."
What the hell did Sebastian do? "It's too risky."
"I'd rather live in risk with you then not have you at all."
"You don't understand. My family will stop at nothing to protect the sanctity of the bloodline. If they are capable of hurting me, they will hurt you. Maybe— maybe worse. They might've tried something already if you weren't protected here, at Hogwarts."
"I'm not afraid of them."
"You should be. They can do so much worse than... than the slur I called you, Gibby."
"Mudblood. I know."
"Don't say—"
"Why? That word means nothing to me – it only meant something when it was coming from you."
He didn't know how to respond, speechless.
"Your family can continue to live their lives in hatred, but I won't ruin mine for their sake. If I have to keep my friendship with you a secret to keep you safe, fine." Your voice was fierce, incredible, beautiful. "But I am not losing you, Ominis Gaunt. Not again."
You knocked the breath from him then. Those were words he would never forget; you planted yourself deeper into his heart, where your flowers bloomed even in the shadows of his past.
You were his family, too.
It had taken him a long time to realise you always had been.
[MASTERLIST][PREV][NEXT] [Divider credits]
#hogwarts legacy#ominis gaunt#ominis gaunt x mc#ominis gaunt x reader#hogwarts legacy mc#hogwarts legacy fanfic#acvas#acvasverse#gibby#my writing#my stuff
100 notes
·
View notes
Text
for some reason people seem to think that mary somehow stumbled into writing a commentary on marriage/incest accidentally, and that the themes of frankenstein are all about her trauma due to her experiences as a victim of the patriarchy, as a woman and a mother surrounded by men - as if she wasnt the child of radical liberals who publicly renounced marriage, as if she herself as well as percy shelley had similar politics on marriage, as if she would not go on to write a novel where the central theme is explicitly that of father/daughter incest years later…
the most obvious and frequent critique of victor i see is of his attempt to create life - the creature - without female presence. it’s taught in schools, wrote about by academics, talked about in fandom spaces - mary shelley was a feminist who wrote about feminism by making victor a misogynist. he’s misogynistic because he invented a method of procreation without involving women purely out of male entitlement and masculine arrogance and superiority, and shelley demonstrates the consequences of subverting women in the creation process/and by extension the patriarchy because this method fails terribly - his son in a monster, and victor is punished for his arrogance via the murder of his entire family; thus there is no place for procreation without the presence of women, right?
while this interpretation – though far from my favorite – is not without merit, i see it thrown around as The interpretation, which i feel does a great disservice to the other themes surrounding victor, the creature, the relationship between mother and child, parenthood, marriage, etc.
this argument also, ironically, tends to undermine the agency and power of frankenstein’s female characters, because it often relies on interpreting them as being solely passive, demure archetypes to establish their distinction from the 3 male narrators, who in contrast are performing violent and/or reprehensible actions while all the woman stay home (i.e., shelley paradoxically critiques the patriarchy by making all her female characters the reductive stereotypes that were enforced during her time period, so the flaws of our male narrators arise due to this social inequality).
in doing so it completely strips elizabeth (and caroline and justine to a lesser extent) of the power of the actions that she DID take — standing up in front of a corrupt court, speaking against the injustice of the system and attempting to fight against its verdict, lamenting the state of female social status that prevented her from visiting victor at ingolstadt, subverting traditional gender roles by offering victor an out to their arranged marriage as opposed to the other way around, taking part in determining ernest’s career and education in direct opposition to alphonse, etc. it also comes off as a very “i could fix him,” vibe, that is, it suggests if women were given equal social standing to men then elizabeth would have been able to rein victor in so to speak and prevent the events of the book from happening. which is a demeaning expectation/obligation in of itself and only reinforces the reductive passive, motherly archetypes that these same people are speaking against
it is also not very well supported: most of the argument rests on ignoring female character’s actual characterization and focusing one specific quote, often taken out of context (“a new species would bless me as its creator and source…no father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as i should deserve theirs”) which “proves” victor’s sense of male superiority, and on victors treatment/perception of elizabeth, primarily from a line of thinking he had at five years old, where he objectified her by thinking of her (or rather — being told so by caroline) as a gift to him. again, the morality of victor’s character is being determined by thoughts he had at five years old.
obviously this is not at all to say i think their relationship was a healthy one - i dont think victor and elizabeth’s marriage was ever intended to be perceived as good, but more importantly, writing their relationship this way was a deliberate critique of marriage culture.
#rob.txt#frankenstein#frankenstein the modern prometheus#victor frankenstein#the creature#elizabeth lavenza#gothic lit#analysis
401 notes
·
View notes