#and pretend me not to fall for that dead meat

[teeto-peteto]

'But Pyke is dead... and he probably is decomposing, and smells super bad like dead and sea, probably even has bugs and maggots and a horrible breath...'

Me and my beloved Pyke selfshippers and apologists:

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Jikininki Disorder.

Pairing: Yandere!Sukuna x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 5.0k.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Cannibalism, No Curse AU, Chef Sukuna AU, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Kidnapping, Gore, Physical + Psychological Abuse, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Prolonged Captivity. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Sukuna kept the basement door locked.

That was the only part of his rustic, oversized house that was off-limits to you. For the first few weeks, he’d kept you either collared and leashed to the headboard of his bed if he was home and locked in a roughly human-sized dog kennel when he wasn’t, but now, you were allowed to wander freely, even if he still kept deadbolts on the windows and doors. Occasionally, he’d lock you out of the kitchen while he was working on a new recipe or tell you to stay in your bedroom while he talked to his every-mysterious “business partners”, but for a kidnapper, Sukuna was surprisingly trusting. The basement door was the only thing that was always locked – and you should know. You checked the knob at least twice a day.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of you escaping, or hurting yourself, or god forbid, hurting him. Even in the early days, before you’d proved you weren’t going to run away, he seemed to be more concerned that you might be a nuisance than that you might be any kind of threat. The only thing you really knew was that the basement was where he kept his meat locker, and while you were curious, you were sure that wasn’t what he was keeping you away from. Sukuna had you sample everything he made. If he was going to start withholding food, then he would’ve had to—

“Oi, brat.” You felt his elbow jab into your side, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Quit daydreaming and try this.”

You glanced towards him, pouting as you straightened your back and repositioned yourself on the kitchen counter. You would’ve been more comfortable to sit on the floor, or better yet, at the table in the next room, but he liked to have you as close as possible whenever he was cooking. Not that you’d have it any other way. “You’re always so mean to me,” you sighed, in a pitchy mock whine. “One day, I’m not going to want to spend time with you at all.”

“As if. You can’t get enough of me.” He rolled his eyes, turning back to the stove top. Currently, he was working on something for his restaurant – a variation on karaage, a spread of vegetables and meat (pork, maybe, but you weren’t entirely sure) sitting on a cutting board off to the side, a greased skillet waiting next to it. His attention was on the broth simmering in the pot in front of him, though, which his ingredients would strew in before being fried. He’d been toying with it for the better part of an hour, and you’d sat diligently within arm’s reach, only slightly motivated by the fact that he’d threatened to break both your ankles if you tried to move.

Your sample turned out to be a piece of broccoli – likely chosen to best compliment the flavor of the broth – and you accepted it eagerly, letting Sukuna bring his chopsticks to your lips and feed you by-hand. Of course, the flavor was heavenly, and of course, you took long seconds to savor it, letting your eyes fall shut as you chewed and swallowed. Sukuna watched you intently, his dark eyes never leaving your lips. It wasn’t a secret that his favorite part of you had always been your mouth. You didn’t mind – his cooking was the only thing you’d ever liked about him.

Praise would’ve been pointless. It was a given that anything he made would be the best thing you’d ever tasted, so you tried to focus on something more productive. “It’s… salty,” you surmised, pursing your lips. “Did you use your…?”

“Cum?” Sukuna finished. “Just a tablespoon. ‘m surprised you can even taste it.”

A month ago, you might’ve recoiled, refused to eat, but now, it was all you could do to pretend to be surprised.

You watched intently as he added another cup of water, another round of herbs all kept in mismatched, unlabeled jars. Your heart skipped a beat as he finally reached towards the cutting board, but he pulled away at the last minute, turning to you, instead.

“’kuna,” you whined as he slid into the space between your legs, planting a large hand on either side of you. “I was actually hoping to eat sometime tonight, y’know.”

“I know, I know.” And yet, he didn’t seem concerned, chuckling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the base of your throat. “You’ll get to, just sit pretty for a little while longer.”

“But—” He cut you off with another kiss, this one immediately followed by feeling of his pointed canines burrowing into tender skin. You flinched into yourself, and Sukuna groaned into your neck, drawing back just far enough to run the flat of his tongue over the twin puncture marks.  Your hands shot to his shoulders, but you resisted the urge to push him away. Even if you did, it was already too late; you could feel something stiff pressing against the inside of your thigh, hear him murmuring something low and affectionate into the dip of your shoulder. Resigned, you leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and shut your eyes.

At least, if he got this over with quickly enough, you might still get to eat.

~

Your first impression of Sukuna, unsurprisingly, was that he looked more like a body builder than a chef.

Calling him massive would’ve been an understatement. He stood a head above you, with biceps as thick as your head and a chest so defined, you could see the outline of his definition through the thin fabric of his black (presumably not Health and Safety compliant) tank top. He had piercings, too – twin studs underneath his bottom lip, lining the bridge of his nose – and tattoos, black lines forming intricate patterns across his jawline and bands around his wrist. You already had your back to the concrete wall, but you pressed yourself against it, regardless, eager to put as much space between you and him as possible. Sukuna remained where he was, perpetually unimpressed.

His introduction was brief, succinct. “You’re the little bitch Uraume sent out?”

“I… I think so?” You genuinely weren’t sure. The waitress had only told you that the owner wanted to talk to you outside, which you hadn’t been surprised by. It was your fourth time coming in that week, since his restaurant didn’t do takeout and the last person to order more than they could eat in one sitting was promptly and proudly taken outside and beaten half to death. You couldn’t risk that, not when more than half of your meals came from his shop.  “I’m sorry, I just—Are you the chef? I really like—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He took half a step toward you, and you glanced down the alleyway behind his restaurant. One end was cut off with a chain-link fence, and while the other side opened up onto a proper road, it was still more than fifty feet away. You never would’ve made it, not with someone like Sukuna chasing you. “Who sent you? The Gojo clan?”

Sent you? You had no idea what he was talking about – if you had someone to fund your addiction, you wouldn’t have to resign yourself the cheapest section of his overpriced menu. You opened your mouth, but must’ve taken longer to answer than you realized. You blinked, and suddenly, his hand was planted on the wall beside your head, his body only a hair’s width from yours. He had to tilt his head forward to look at you, which while not surprising, did little to comfort you. “Answer the fucking question.” And then, when you shrunk into yourself at his tone. “I swear to fucking Christ—Did he tell you what happens to the people who piss me off? Because you’re about to—”

“I can’t eat anything else!”

You were just as surprised as he was to hear your own voice. Still, you did your best to recover quickly, falling into a stiff bow as deep as the confined space would allow. With your eyes fixed on the pavement, you forced yourself to go on, to say something that would stop the owner of your favorite restaurant from murdering you in the alleyway behind that aforementioned restaurant. “I—I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, but—but a classmate brought me here a few months ago, and—and I haven’t been able to eat anywhere else since. I can come in less often, if that’s what you’re bothered by, but please.” You forced yourself to inhale, to breathe. “Please, don’t ban me.”

At that, Sukuna broke. You didn’t dare to look at him, but you could hear the smirk in his voice, the airy laugh lacing his tone, as if he found something about your desperation funny. He did, obviously. You’d quickly realize that Sukuna found most things about you funny. “You think I’m going to… What was it? Ban you?”

You nodded furiously. “I—I know you kicked out that salaryman last week, and a couple students the week before. They were all regulars, but I haven’t seen any of them since.” It was a rushed explanation, only half-coherent, but you still tried to go on, bowing your head. “I—I can’t cook, and I can’t eat anywhere else, anymore. If you ban me, I really don’t have a lot of other options, so—”

“You can go back to your table.”

It was your turn to blink, this time, to startle. You didn’t straighten your back, not until you felt Sukuna’s hand on your shoulder, heard the grin in his voice sharpen. “Really?”

“Mhm. Don’t order, I’ll send something over. And you’re going to stay until closing.” And then, as you stared up at him with as much gratitude you’d ever felt, “We’re going to grab a couple drinks after I close up shop. Try to think of a few more compliments, before then.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded regardless. After scurrying back to your table before Sukuna could change his mind, a white-haired woman who you’d never seen working the front of house before brought you a meat dish so rare, you could’ve sworn it hadn’t been cooked at all.

It went without saying that you savored every bite.

~

“Needy ass brat.”

His bicep dug into your stomach where you were slung over his shoulder, your legs dangling uselessly was your hands clawed half-heartedly at his back. You weren’t really upset that he’d caught you – you knew it’d only be a matter of time the moment you slipped out of bed – but it was frustrating just how quickly he’d come to get you. You’d barely gotten to the kitchen, let alone the fridge.

Your mind drifted back to the basement door – to the meat locker. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you decided that you would try to pick the lock tomorrow, after he’d left for the day. Whatever punishment he’d dull out would be worth it, if you could actually get in.

Unceremoniously, you were dumped onto the floor of his bedroom, left to shamble to your knees as he collapsed onto the foot of the bed. You moved to stand, but Sukuna was quick to catch you by the hair and force you back down. “Disobedient, too,” he muttered, his voice still rough with exhaustion. “Tell me what you were trying to do before I decide you can’t be trusted with the ability to walk.”

You sulked, letting out a shallow sigh and resting your cheek against the inside of his knee. “I’m just hungry,” you explained, feigning thoughtlessness. It was more or less true. You were eating better than you ever had before, and yet, your stomach had never felt emptier. “I was gonna come back, after I got something.”

Sukuna chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. You melted into his thigh, eager to keep his mood light, sentimental. “I feed you three gourmet meals a day, baby. Don’t act like you’re starving.”

“But I am.” You sighed, stared up at him with your doe-like expression. “I’ve really been craving meat, lately, ‘specially that stuff you keep downstairs. Can you make it again tomorrow?”

“We’ll see. I don’t want you getting spoiled, and ‘sides, I’ve gotta save some of it for the shop.” You frowned, sinking deeper into his thigh, and Sukuna sighed, raking his nails over your scalp. “But, maybe, if I got some motivation from my little helper…”

He trailed off, and suddenly, it was your turn to play oblivious. “Well, yeah, I’d obviously help,” you chirped, mimicking his smile. “I’m not very good in the kitchen, though, so you can’t blame me if—”

“That’s not what I want from you, babydoll.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. It wasn’t painful, but the way his fingers tugged at your hair was.

He didn’t pull. You tried to be thankful for that, but it was hard to be thankful for anything when his free hand was already at the waistband of his sweats, freeing the semi-stiff cock formerly hidden beneath the grey fabric. You frowned, but didn’t pull away. “How are you already hard?” And then, as you settled onto your knees, “You woke up, like, two minutes ago.”

“Always gotta have something nice n’ warm ready for my baby.” Rather than let your whining deter him, he focused on drawing you into his lap, encouraging you to lean into him, to brace yourself on his muscular thighs. Controlling as always, Sukuna guided you gently towards his cock. You half-expected him to force you down at the last minute, to laugh as he suffocated you on his length, but of course, he didn’t. He wasn’t that kind.

He wouldn’t let you play such a passive role in your own dehumanization.

You moved as quickly as you could without making your unwillingness entirely transparent, taking the head of his cock past your lips and running the flat of your tongue over his slit (already leaking, as if this couldn’t get any worse). You couldn’t pretend to be some pure-of-heart, dewy eyed virgin, not when most of your mornings were started with Sukuna thrusting three fingers lazily into your cunt and most of your nights ended with his face buried between your thighs, but you never seemed to be able to completely brace yourself for just how wide you had to open your mouth to take him, just how mindful you had to be to not let your teeth scrape against his shaft as you struggled to get past his tip. Like everything else about Sukuna, his cock was too fucking big. Not that he seemed to care.

If anything, Sukuna seemed to like the way you gagged around him. As you wrapped a hand around his base, pumping over the parts of his shaft you couldn’t swallow and trying to ignore the fact that your fingers didn’t touch, you heard him groan, felt his grip tighten on your hair, and knew he was staring at you, drinking in the sight of you choking on his cock with as little shame as you had dignity. “Good girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Are you gonna start moving, or does the spoiled princess need a little help?”

‘Help’ meant him holding your head in-place while he fucked your skull. Resisting the urge to shake your head, you bobbed shallowly, the veined underside of his cock gliding over your tongue as a knot of ache formed in either corner of your jaw, the strain already too painful to ignore. You could taste his arousal in the back of your throat, feel him throbbing against the hollows of your cheeks, but you forced yourself to dip your head lower, to take him deeper, to at least attempt to match the stuttering pace of your hand with that of your mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him distracted. His hand drifted from the back of your head to the nape of your neck, his thumb pushing rough patterns into your skin. “Still can’t believe I get to keep such a sweet thing all to myself.” It was almost cruel, how composed he sounded while saliva dripped from the corner of your mouth. “It would’ve been a shame if I’d fucked up and done something really mean, that first day. I don’t think I would’ve gone through with it, though. As soon as I got a good look, all I wanted was to see what that pretty mouth looked like wrapped around my cock.”

His breath hitched, his hips bucked, and you audibly gagged as the blunt head of his cock slammed into the back of your throat. You jerked away on reflex, but Sukuna didn’t let you go far. His hand wrapped around your neck as he rolled his hips, forcing another inch of his cock down your throat, then another, until it was all you could do to blink away the tears quickly forming in your eyes. Your hand fell away from his shaft to scramble and claw at his thighs, but if Sukuna mourned the loss of contact, you couldn’t tell. The only thing you could make out was his cock pulsing against the convulsing walls of your throat and his voice, as distant as it was deafening. “Fuck,” he sighed, then again, “Fuck. Desperate little bitch. My desperate little bitch. Can’t go three fucking seconds without needing me to take care of you, isn’t that right?”

Your only response was a desperate, keening whine – mostly muffled by the twitching object lodged in your airway. Rather than a plea for mercy, Sukuna seemed to take it as confirmation, taking you by the back of your head and forcing you that much further, that much closer. “Fucking—Take it.”

He didn’t give you a chance to spit, let alone pull away. Your nose brushed against the defined muscle of his abdomen as you felt something bitter and searing flood down your throat. Calling it swallowing would’ve been too generous.

That night, you vomited twice before letting Sukuna carry you to bed. Despite everything, you would dream only of the taste of fresh blood and burnt meat.

~

Despite everything, you only saw the kitchen of Sukuna’s restaurant once. He expected you at your usual table almost every day, invited you out for drinks at one of his classy, dimly lit lounges (a severe juxtaposition to his own hole-in-the-wall establishment) nearly as often as that, but he only let you see his back of house once, late at night, hours after closing.

Coincidentally, that was also the night he took you away.

Admittedly, it was difficult to remember why you’d been called back to the kitchen. That section of your day was blurry, distant, fuzzy around the edges from the moment you stepped into his shop to the second you woke up alone in a bed you didn’t recognize, the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke thick in the air.  Still, you could remember the feeling of chilled titanium pressing into your back, the heat of Sukuna’s body above you, what he’d looked like as you stared up at him from below. You remembered thinking, possibly for the first time, that you hated everything about him, from his inflated ego to his resonating voice to his awful, conniving smirk, and realizing that you’d never be able to leave him.

You also remembered the white-haired server being there – standing in the doorway, her expression one of pleasant indifference as she explained something grotesque and nonsensical to Sukuna, either oblivious to or uncaring of how deeply he was buried inside of you. You watched her lips move, but only a few words broke through the haze – disposal and witness, nothing that made any sense. You remembered noticing how pretty she was, and thinking that it was a shame she wasn’t the owner, rather than Sukuna.

You could remember asking for something, and Sukuna humming in response before something was shoved past your lips – heady and thick and raw. You tasted blood on your lips, felt yourself choke, and then, everything was dark.

~

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You should’ve known he’d gotten home. You’d been able to make out the sound of his footsteps through the floor above, been able to feel the light spill onto your back as the basement door and its useless, mangled knob were pushed open, but it wasn’t until you heard his voice that you could bring yourself to care. Even then, your hold on the raw chunk of half-frozen meat only tightened, nails digging into the ruddy, bleeding tissue. As much as you didn’t want to put a name to it, it would’ve been impossible to deny what it was – to ignore what you’d seen inside of the meat locker, to pretend you hadn’t recognized the disassembled bodies hanging on rusted-over hooks, to act like you could mistake the taste still heavy on your tongue for that of pig, or cow, or some other, inferior animal. It would’ve been useless, even if the temptation was still there. It would’ve been futile.

Almost as futile as trying to deny that it was the best fucking thing you’d ever choked down.

You heard the tell-tale creak of Sukuna starting to descend the staircase, and before you could stop yourself, dug your teeth into the brunt of the sinew, tearing off the largest mouthful you were capable of and swallowing it whole. You dipped your head for another bite, but it was too late – Sukuna was already behind you, his hand already wrapped around the collar of your shirt, your body already being jerked back and away from your hard-earned prize. You tried to dig your nails into the thick of the fat, to stuff the last of it past your lips, but with an airy chuckle and a quirk of his wrist, the cut was torn away and discarded just as thoughtlessly.

For the first time, you snapped towards Sukuna, your teeth bared and your eyes narrowed into something furious, something hostile. “Why would you—” And then, letting out a miserable sob and turning away from him, “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break anything, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then—”

“I get it, baby. You aren’t in trouble.”

“And then I found something heavy enough to break the knob and I couldn’t stop thinking about—” You cut yourself off suddenly, letting out a sharp exhale. “…I’m not?”

“No, princess, you’re not.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve mistaken his tone for something gentle. His gaze fell to your chest, and for the first time, you noticed the blood dripping down your chin, staining the fabric of your top. “We should get you cleaned up, though. You’ll only feel shittier when it dries.”

You didn’t protest as he pulled you into his arms and carried you upstairs, out of the basement, away from the meat locker. You didn’t say anything as he set you on his bed, your back leaning against the headboard, and eased your top over your head, replacing it with one of his own, and produced a damp cloth from the nearest bathroom. Gingerly, he cleaned the gore off your face, never rushing through a stroke or applying more pressure than was absolutely necessary, stopping often to kiss your forehead or the bridge of your nose. You were sniffling by the time he finished, crying by the time he left the room, and sobbing when he came back – a bowl in hand with a pair of chopsticks laid across its rim.

Its contents were predictable: meat, pan-grilled in thin slices and, as far as you could tell, left unseasoned. “I’ll make some rice when you’re done,” Sukuna went on, as you struggled with the chopsticks. “To balance it out. You’ll need something to take the edge off.”

You nodded vacantly, accepting the bowl greedily despite your shaking hands. It was better raw – the flavor richer, the taste fresher – but you weren’t in a place to complain, not when it was so much easier when you didn’t have to gnaw and tear like some wild, starving animal. Not that you weren’t eating like one – keeping the rim of the bowl pressed into your chin, never letting more than a second lapse between one mouthful and the next. You only paused when you felt the mattress dip, noticed Sukuna positioning himself between your legs, and but he only smiled, only rested a hand on your knee. “Keep going,” he urged. “It’d be a waste to let it get cold, right?”

“I don’t like this.” Your voice was still unsteady, prone to cracking, but it was true. You didn’t want him to pretend to be nice. “I’ve never really liked you. I’d leave, if I could. There hasn’t been a moment since you kidnapped me that I haven’t spent fantasizing about getting out and fixing what you’ve done to me.”

“You’re just saying that to hurt my feelings, doll.” You were, but it wasn’t. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his chest, one hand spreading your thighs apart while the other toyed lazily with the hem of your shorts. You felt him lean against your thigh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the tender flesh. You’d gained weight during your time with him – not much, just a few pounds, a little plush to soften your harsher edges. You weren’t sure whether or not to care. “I’m just proud, that’s all. Don’t you want me to be proud of you?”

You didn’t want anything from him. Your appetite gone, you placed the bowl haphazardly on the bedside table, watching through clouded eyes as Sukuna removed your shorts entirely, taking agonizing seconds to guide them down your legs before letting them drop to the floor below. You expected your panties to follow, but Sukuna only settled into place, dragging the pad of his thumb over the length of your slit, pausing to draw slow, idle circles into your clit through the silken fabric. It went without saying that he picked out your clothes, even if he rarely had the patience to tell you exactly what to wear. You were allowed to choose your outfit day-to-day, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t, not when your entire closet was suited to his tastes.

His hands curled around your thighs. You felt his tongue before you realized what he was doing – wet and warm and thick, his saliva soaking through the thin material and infecting you, spoiling you. You tried to ignore it, to remind yourself that you should be used to this, used to him, but this just… wasn’t what you were used to. Normally, you could expect him to be cruel, degrading, impulsive, but tonight, he seemed more than happy to bury his face between your thighs and play lover – albeit, a lover who still must’ve known he was unwanted. A lover who must’ve known you would’ve preferred a captor.

Your panties were dragged to the side, his tongue immediately finding your cunt. He took his time, laving over your entrance, coaxing reactions out of you despite your best attempts to dig your teeth into your tongue and hold back. He knew too much about you. He’d had too much time to learn. Heat pooled in your core, leaking out through your pussy, and Sukuna lapped it up like a fine wine – his thumb finding your clit as his tongue traced patterns into your cunt, and—

And oh, god, you were crying again, tears dripping down your cheeks despite your pitiful attempts to brush them away. Sukuna’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you felt him smile against the inside of your thigh, his tongue dipping shallowly into your cunt once, twice before he pulled away, straightening his back. His hand quickly replaced his mouth, two thick fingers thrusting into pussy with a humiliating sort of ease, spreading apart and curling against you and filling his bedroom with those embarrassing, wet, vile noises you’d never been able to stand. He didn’t seem to mind, holding your gaze as he spoke. “When did you put it together?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t play dumb.” And then, as his thumb traced harsh circles into your clit, “You knew what you were looking for. What gave it away? The texture? The smell?”

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t answer, a fractured moan falling from your lips in the place of anything more intelligent. Sukuna hummed, adding a third digit, and you spilled open in an instant. “Your restaurant,” you managed, the words rushed and sloppy. “No matter what I ordered, the meat would always taste the same. At first, I—I thought you were just being cheap, but then I noticed how often your regulars would just suddenly stop coming in, and—”

You were cut off by your own miserable, keening whine; his calloused fingers catching on something tender and vulnerable inside of you and taking advantage of it. “And you kept coming in,” he finished, hushing your whimpering. “Loyal little brat. Uraume wanted to get rid of you, but I knew I was right to take you in.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You were too busy moving your hips against his hand, seeking out the pleasure that your body craved and your mind rejected. Sukuna took pity on you, cooing as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap, supporting you as the movements of his hand turned short, erratic, as he edged you closer and closer and closer to your climax. You came undone with a sob, burying your face in his chest, and Sukuna was kind enough to nurse you through it, to hold you against him as your body crumpled and your poor, beaten soul seemed to give out entirely.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “I think,” he said, bowing his head and running his tongue over your cheek. “It’s time for you to learn to cook.”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t have to. There was only one thing you ever would’ve said.

“I’d like that.”

[toxicanonymity]

You can totally say no if your not comfy doing it but maybe you can suggest another writer who you may think might? But if yoir request are open is there anyway I can convince you to write on the topic of reader being Sara's best friend and has tried to come onto Joel multiple times (ie sneaking into his room etc) and then escalating to slipping a roofie into his drink one night while her and Sara are home on winter break from college? If you're not comfortable i totally understand and im sorry if I made you uncomfortable its just your writing for the darker stuff is so amazing 💖

locket.

2k, joel miller x dark f!reader | master list A/N: here's your dead dove in a pear tree 🖤 in a way, it's kinda the inverse of night talks 😅 didn't overthink this one, so FIWB. WARNINGS: I8+ big girthy age gap (44/21), drugs, dosing, f masturbation, dubcon unsafe p in v, somnophilia-ish, choking adjacent move, degradation (both), cum, dead dove december

You're tired of her hot Dad playing hard-to-get, and you're going to put an end to it tonight.

You've come home with your college roommate, as you often do since your family lives far. Once again, her dad is dressed like a piece of meat. Tight, white, ride-me t-shirt. Cock bulging in his slutty joggers. He’s walking around double cheeked up on a Friday night in front of his daughter’s best friend. His daughter’s best friend who thinks about him every time she touches herself. 

Sarah falls asleep fast, and you can still hear the TV downstairs. You put on your locket, take off your underwear, and adjust your oversized, wide neck t-shirt to make a wardrobe malfunction inevitable with the slightest movement.  You creep down the stairs and pause at the landing, where you lightly caress your nipples, bringing them to full attention. You’re already tingling downstairs. You creep up to the edge of the living room with your arms straight down, pushing your boobs together, hands clasped together near your crotch as if you're cold. And to be fair, the air is a little cool on your bare cunt. You’re dripping for him, and the shirt barely covers your asscheeks.  Joel barely glances, then does a double take.  

His eyes fall on your breasts before reaching your face. His jaw clenches. After a few seconds, he asks, "What?" 

"Sorry to bother you. I couldn't sleep."

"What am I s'posed to do about that," he grumbles, looking away from you, resuming his focus on the television. 

You shiver and briskly rub your arms, feeling the air hit your exposed nipple for a moment, and you ask about changing the thermostat. He sighs, braces his hands on his knees, and gets up. You shamelessly ogle the bulge in his gray joggers. While he's on his way to adjust the thermostat, you open your locket and drop a little medicine into his can of beer: half a sleeping pill and half a Viagra. 

In the corner of your eye, Joel is lingering in the hall. He rubs his beard, looking at you while you pretend to look at the TV. He slowly walks forward. "Goddamn slut," he mutters under his breath, and you force away a smile as you sit down.

When Joel returns to the sofa, you're sitting next to his seat.  You bring your knee up to rest on the sofa and feel your pussy exposed.  He picks up a blanket off the other end and sets it in your lap.

"Take this with ya." He picks up his beer, and moves to the easy chair. You don't miss the way he adjusts himself as he settles into the chair. 

You make yourself comfortable, and when you just sit there, he says, "thought ya said ya were cold.”

“I'm comfy now.” 

You sit there in silence watching TV. He finishes his beer and gets another. You keep an eye on him. The sleeping pill seems to hit him first. His eyelids get heavy and he rests his head back on the chair. His breathing is steady. You think you see him getting hard. Yeah, something definitely moves in his joggers. He’s nodding off and jolts awake. He grabs his crotch and mutters, “fuck,” before he remembers you're there. You shift positions to lie on your stomach, facing him, with your ass exposed so he can see your butt cheeks. 

“Go to sleep, darlin’. God damn.” Your heart flutters. Oh, now he’s done for.

“You sure?” You ask and go into a cat pose with your ass higher in the air. 

“Yeah.”  His eyes are half shut. He tries to be subtle about slowly rubbing himself for relief, but you can see just fine.  “Fuck-” he interrupts himself with a yawn.  He shakes his head at you. “gave me somethin’, didn't ya?” 

You wet your lips and look down. “What makes you say that? Do you feel funny?”

“Like you don't know.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. You shift onto your side, then swing your legs around in front of you as you sit up on the sofa. “Well. . .I feel funny, Mr. Miller,” you purr as you spread your legs for him. “Yeah, I feel funny right here.” You slowly, lightly caress your mound near your clit with two fingers, then spread them to trace down your outer lips. 

“Somethin’ wrong with you,” he shakes his head. His brow furrows and he swallows. But he doesn’t leave. . .He looks back at the television. Your body is churning out slick, getting ready for him, but right now it’s going to waste on his sofa. You gather some from your hole and bring it up to your clit. You grab a breast and begin to touch yourself. He’s sleepy, but he's hanging in there. The heel of his palm is planted in his lap. 

When he begins to nod off again, you get up and approach the chair. He stays seated, awake but sleepy, and his breath deepens as you brace your hand on one arm of the chair. You wedge one knee between his outer thigh and the chair’s arm. Then the other side, so you're straddling him. You both look down at his visible erection. He looks up. His lips form a subtle pout, then part slightly. His brown eyes glaze over as he studies your face. 

“Dress like you want it,” you whisper. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. You reach for his cock and he gently stops your wrist. 

“I could be your dad,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper. Your hand doesn't stop, and he doesn't try to stop it anymore as you reach. You grab the rock hard protrusion and he silently grunts from the back of his throat. He’s throbbing against your palm through the thin cotton. Your breath hitches at the first contact. You twitch and ache for him. His brow furrows. 

“‘If you’re gonna do it, do it,” he challenges you in a near whisper. He must be painfully hard. He can't take it. You massage him through the soft fabric. 

Your lips part, and you tilt your head as you read his face. 

He mumbles, “Gonna pussy out?” He cracks a little smile and adds, “with your pussy out?”

You sigh. “You’re so fucking cute.”

“Such a rotten girl,” he murmurs with half lidded eyes as his hands come to your thighs. You shiver in a bolt of pleasure as his hands wrap around the backs of your thighs and slowly run down to your knees, then up to your ass. He squeezes your cheeks, and his cock throbs in your hand. 

“Coward,” he whispers with a snarl and takes his hands away, resting his arms on the chair. 

You brace one hand next to his head on the back of the chair, and your heart shaped locket dangles as you take down his waistband with your free hand. His cock slaps against his white t-shirt, making a wet spot. 

Good Lord. Your mouth falls open. You tug the joggers down more. He grunts softly when you cup his soft, fuzzy balls. Then you release them, grab his shaft, and hear yourself moan. Never felt anything stiffer. It's angry and now the tip is actively oozing. Your mouth waters and your body opens up for him. 

He watches your face, then yawns again. You rub yourself and gather your slick, then wrap your slippery hand around his cock. You scoot your knees forward and hover over it. He inhales through his nose as you lower yourself to make contact. You pause with the tip just inside. It's already a stretch, but deeper inside,  your core is begging for more. Your entrance spasms around his tip.  He gasps and tenses, gripping the arms of the chair as you begin to sink down.  He closes his eyes and winces as his cock divides your walls and you moan as your bodies become flush. You sit on his dick while your body makes space for him and you get even wetter. 

“Fu–ohh” he tilts his head back. His neck veins strain. He's so goddamn hot. 

You slowly tilt your hips and let out only an inch of him before bottoming out again. His cock takes up so much space inside you. You look down between  your bodies. His white shirt has ridden up to expose the happy trail and the slight pudge of his lower belly. His stomach heaves with deep breaths. You begin to move on him, slowly. 

“Ahhh, fuhh-uhhhk,” he sighs. His brows knit together and he watches you ride him. 

You tilt your hips, seeking the pressure of your clit nudging his body. “Yeah,” you breathe and move a little faster. Your necklace swings, the silver heart getting closer and closer to him. Then his hand flies up to wrap around your neck, trapping the chain. His grip isn’t firm, but the presence of his hand around your throat is enough to freeze you on his cock and give you a surge of need. Your pussy spasms, your slick walls begging for the friction they've earned. 

“You’re sick,” he mutters, then his hips punch up and he sighs. He lets go of your throat, then tugs your shirt down under your tits. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, the corners of his mouth glistening with saliva. He reaches out and palms your breasts, then hooks his hands under your arms. He watches your tits move with your rhythm. 

“How many times have you thought about this,” you ask. 

“I don't think about it,” he claims, but his face says constantly. You massage your own breasts as you ride him, and he sighs. Hopefully he can't get enough. Hopefully he comes back for more. You roll your hips with a moan. That's why you didn't use a roofie - He needs to remember this. He needs to need it. “Mmm.” Maybe he’ll be desperate, mad. As he watches you ride him, his eyelids begin to droop again. Maybe he’ll be mad enough to take it. 

You gently slap his cheek. “Stay with me,” you command, and begin to ride him harder. You slot your fingers into his hair. “When's the last time you came,” you ask, massaging his scalp as you move on his cock. “Hmm?” You pause with his cock all the way inside, and he twitches inside you. “Hmm?”

“Days,” he whispers. You start rolling your hips again. “Been days, ohhh–fuck.”

“You're gonna come inside,” you nod. His cock twitches again. 

“Ohh, fuck. Are you–ohhh,” he sighs, “are you–ugghh.” 

“It's okay,” you reassure him, “It's okay.” God, the thought of Mr. Miller nutting in your cunt has gotten you over the edge so many times alone. You're close. You bring your body closer against his and grind your clit into him, your body moving his swollen manhood, subtly rocking it as your clit presses into his pubic hair and your insides swell with the pressure of pent up pleasure. “Ohh, God,” you sigh and feel your body tighten, tighten, almost there. “Ohh, fuck,” you pant. 

“Ohh,” he moans and his hips lift under you. The tension snaps and your clit pulses, making you whine. You grind into him as you pulse, release pressure, pulse, release more, losing yourself in waves of release. 

“Oh, God,” you moan, fluttering around his stiff cock. 

“Ugggh,” he groans and his hands come to your ass. He begins to move you on his cock as your climax wanes. He moves you harder and moans unrestrained. He grits his teeth, and his fingertips dig into the plush of your ass. ”Ohh,” he sighs and fucking erupts. 

“Oh shit,” you whine, and keep clenching around him with warm bursts of him flooding your core. “Ohh God.” 

“Oh, fuck,” he pants, bursting again and again, filling you with his seed. “Ohhh,” his pulses fade and you come to a rest in his lap. He lays back against the chair breathing heavily. You lean forward and hug him. He doesn't have the energy to push you away. Soon, he's snoring and you're just sitting there enjoying the fullness of his cock and cum. 

“Mmm,” you sigh softly and begin to push yourself up. You let his cock out and some of his cum comes with it. You scoop it up from around his tip and draw a heart on his shirt, imagining how cute it'll be when it's dry and hard. Then you get off the chair entirely and draw a few small hearts of cum on his joggers. You pull the waistband up for him, then plant a kiss on his lips before leaving him there. Then you go back upstairs and put on your underwear before you get back in his daughter's bed. 

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Thank you so much for reading, ILY 💖 If you really like dark reader, you might wanna try my ghostface fic every inch

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I hear you about notifs not working, i hear you about tags not working (i'm not receiving a lot of my tags either). consider checking my fic notifs blog @toxicfics or the "latest fics" link on my profile header once in a while to see what you might have missed.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part three —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: let's build some relationships :)

From behind a tree, your eyes narrow with concentration as you draw the string of your bow. The feel of it in your hands offers satisfaction; you used to love new makeup, blushes and creams, or sweet custards from the market. Now, you love a good weapon.

Is there anything Ghost doesn’t know how to do? And you thought Paul had skillful hands.

You’re not sure exactly where Ghost and Blue have gone, because after leading you out the gate of their camp, Blue showing you the exact maze of steps needed to avoid their booby traps, they went their own way. Again, they disappeared among the white trees. You were left to pick a direction and stick with it. So you ended up here, the opposite way of the pond, with your eyes finally catching sight of a small deer. A fawn.

It’s young but perfect.

The blood that courses through its limbs switches on the predator part of your brain. It will be enough to keep you fed for at least a week, perhaps more, and promote the healing of the wound that aches with each shift of your waist. You inhale, exhale. The arrow is ready to release.

A single gunshot rings out.

Straight through the fawn’s eye.

It doesn’t even have time to cry out as it falls over, a small thud filling the quiet air. Your heart skips a beat and your eyes flicker in the direction of the gunshot, but you already know who has stolen this kill from you. In the distance, you see his bulky form, the lowering of his rifle, and then you see the girl bounce down from a tree and whirl towards the dead animal.

Are you kidding me?

You want to snarl and sneer. Instead, you flare your nostrils while lowering your bow. Meters away, Blue kneels down by the deer and you see her gently mouth words to its corpse. Perhaps, a childish parting that helps her feel better about its death. Ghost arrives and bends down to Blue’s level, and you can’t see his mouth with the mask on, but you know he is speaking to her by how he gestures his gloved hand around.

You’ll have to find another animal.

Squirrels aren’t your favorite meal. They’re not much compared to the taste of venison. But if you char squirrel meat just enough, it can get a nutty flavor that, with your eyes closed, you can pretend is a juicy slab of chicken home-roasted by your mother.

There is no room to be picky.

There is no room for wants anymore, only needs, and from behind the tree, you move your gaze to spot a grey squirrel that will be enough for the day’s needs. You take aim again. You’d put your washed hair in two French braids to keep the strands from interfering, but without ties, they are starting to come undone at the ends. There was a time when you cared about the fashion of your hair. Now, styling is a tactical choice.

Squirrels are trickier. They are small and require greater marksmanship than you are confident you have. Archery was never something you did until the world bled grey and demanded it of you.

The animal flicks its bushy tail, prancing about over thick tree roots. You wait for the moment it stills.

“How’s it going?” someone says, and you jump back in a step, fingers nearly slipping and releasing the arrow off at the ground.

Blue. You whirl around to see that she’s snuck up in a tree behind you, nimble and light on her feet, with curiosity filling her eyes as she sits perched on a branch, one that would be too high for you to ever climb. Her brown hair is hidden under her hood, the tip of her nose flushed pink from the air, and she rubs her hands together to brush off the crumbs of tree bark. Her movements remind you of the squirrel.

It takes a moment for your muscles to soften. You glance back at the squirrel and it’s already scampered off.

“Going great,” you tell her flatly, sighing through your nose. You can be patient with her. She’s nice, young. She’d snuck you extra food. “Shouldn’t you be with Ghost?”

“I’m just stopping by to tell you that we’re leaving. And—“ she squints her eyes in the distance for a moment, “That there’s a couple of those fucks due south.”

Those fucks.

Lovely. You glance around at the unfamiliar trees. From down here, you don’t see anything, but from her vantage point, her scope of sight is better for scouting threats.

“They’re pretty far off. Just be careful, okay?”

“Thanks. I will,” you nod.

Her bright stare then flickers to your braids. “You did your hair... What are those called again?”

She frowns, searching for the word somewhere in a corner of her young brain. You’re surprised that a ten-year-old girl doesn’t know what French braids are; they’d been all you wore as a kid. But then you realize her normal life came to an end at age five. Perhaps many of the memories have faded, replaced with more useful knowledge that her father has had to stuff in there.

You swallow. “Braids?”

“Braids,” she repeats, tasting the foreign word with a click of her tongue. “Right. They look really cool on you.”

“These ones are pretty shitty because I don’t have anything to keep them in.”

Blue starts to say, "Maybe you could—"

But a gruff call cuts through the trees, beckoning her head to turn.

"Blue. Let's go."

Your own eyes follow the voice and land on Ghost some odd paces away. He is already staring at you through lidded eyes, a palpable energy rolling off his body in waves that you can feel even from this distance. Over his shoulders, he carries the fawn with ease. Large palms clasping the knobby ankles. A steady drip of its blood creates a red stain in the snow beside his boot.

He looks horrific. A smear of crimson on the skull. Dressed in all black, carrying a dead animal as if it is nothing. You recall how he'd pushed you to the ground like you were nothing, too. You swallow the thought.

Before you can even look back at Blue, she's already gone. Whirling down from the branch and running over, following in his footsteps as they head back.

It takes another agonizing hour but you manage to kill a squirrel. The Greys don’t find you, luckily. You stuff your coat pockets with some pine needles and decide to call it a meal, knowing that you will have to hunt again tomorrow.

This area of the forest is still new. In your brain, you’ve already etched some markers to find your way back: the pond where they found you, a circle of pine trees to the right of their camp with a big stump in the center, a small creek past the hill. But the way you return back today leads to you approaching the camp from the backside, and you notice something.

Behind the cabin is something covered in a big black tarp. The tarp is peppered with fallen twigs and snow, but still, you think you make out the shape of a vehicle underneath.

They have a car—?

Irritation finds you. How did Ghost manage such things? A goddamn cabin, a deep trench that you assume he dug all by himself. And now a car. Did he also have petrol stored somewhere? By the looks of it, the tarp hasn’t been moved in a while. What is the car for? Is this what he uses to get medicine from the cities?

You almost scoff as your boots crunch the snow.

You won’t have any of our medicine.

There hasn’t even been a chance to consider how you might fend for some yourself. 

For now, you will just focus on food.

Ghost has tied the deer upside down on a branch by the time you are back. You carefully recall the way through their traps. Blue has to unlock the bolted gate for you, but then she runs back to Ghost, who hands a thick blade to her.

“Go on, then, kid.”

“I hate this part,” she mumbles, but he lifts her up so she can reach the knife to the animal’s hind legs, beginning to skin the hide top-down. She wears a concentrated expression as she does so, nose scrunched, and you can tell that skinning deer is a skill her small hands have practiced before. 

Ghost is the one to butcher it.

You skin your squirrel. 

They use the fireplace for cooking, and of course, their dinner is prepared first. While you wait, you undo your braids and snack on the pine needles. Blue is surprisingly quiet, helping her dad cook a little and playing with Grim on the floor, but also flickering her gaze to you every minute or so. 

“Your hair is curly now,” she comments softly during dinner. “From the braids?”

“That happens when you take them out,” you say after swallowing a piece of meat. There’s nothing to wipe your hands on, so you use your trousers as a napkin. Your mother would’ve had a fit. 

“Do you…” you clear your throat, glancing at Ghost and then back to the girl. “Do you want me to braid your hair after dinner?”

She nods sheepishly, but Ghost huffs out a low breath. “I could do that for you, Blue.”

“Ghost,” she sighs. “You don’t know how.”

“How hard can it be?”

But Blue licks her lips and shakes her head, mumbling, “I want her to do it. She’s good at it.”

The way Ghost looks at you is rarely anything but uncomfortable. However, when you sit down on the rug with Blue, your hands finding purchase in her hair, his eyes seem to burn holes through your body deeper than any time before. It is as if letting someone touch his daughter physically sickens him, and causes his breathing to turn weighted and deep. He begrudgingly allows it but supervises, sitting on the couch as you begin braiding her hair. 

Grim sits in her lap. She strokes his fur.

“You have pretty hair,” you tell her.

Blue softly wonders, “How can hair be pretty?”

“I… I don’t know,” you say. “The color, the length. It’s just pretty, I think.”

“Ghost cuts it for me,” she says, turning to look at him.

“Wait, don’t move. It’ll mess me up.”

“Oh, sorry,” she turns back but continues. “He gets it wet and has me lay my head on the tree stump so it’s all flat. Then, he chops it off with his knife. Right, Ghost?”

His response is a low hum. It’s stiff, pushing through a tense jaw.

You finish the two French braids, running your fingers over them.

"I don't have anything to tie them, but they look really nice on you."

It is then that Ghost stands up and disappears for a minute. When he returns, he has a roll of black thread that you believe he used for your stitches.

With the knife from his belt, he cuts two pieces, bends down, and silently offers them to your palm. Blue lights up. You tie off the braids and she stands, toying with them happily, and asking her dad what he thinks. Finally, you notice his shoulders soften.

"Beautiful," he murmurs quietly, just for her. He strokes the braided hair and then gives a gentle brush of his thumb over her cheek. "Always look beautiful, Baby Blue."

"Don't—" her cheeks flush and she briefly flashes her eyes to you, "Don't call me that."

"Used to call you it all the time,” he grumbles. “Gettin' too old for it, are you?"

What you learn Blue isn't too old for is curling up with him on the couch. This is the first night you stay in the cabin after dinner rather than retreating to your shed, simply because they've left some embers in the fireplace for warmth. You sit on the floor beside it. Blue sits with Ghost and he pulls out a book to read quietly to her.

You try not to look.

It touches you in a way you didn't think it would. It seems so normal. For a moment, you imagine a world where things could be different. A world where Blue wore braids to school every day. A world where Ghost could pick a new book out, rather than read the same ones over and over. A world where, maybe, you could have a family of your own, rather than be an uncomfortable witness to theirs.

But your family is nothing now. You never even knew what happened to your parents. The end arrived when you were away from them. No wifi. No service. Whether they died or turned Grey, you could never be certain. A pit in your gut told you their end happened years ago.

You’re brought out of your daze when Ghost stands from the couch. Blue has fallen asleep. He carries the girl to her room, and you take it as a sign to leave for your place outside. 

But before you can open the door, his voice stops you, dropping down to an even lower octave.

“Hold on.”

You turn. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

Despite the warmth from the fireplace, your blood goes icy rigid. You stand there and press your lips. ���If this is about the braids, then I won’t do it again. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No. Not that,” and he holds your stare, unwavering, “It’s about your old camp. The other day, you said there were… hoards of ‘em.” 

The words roll off his tongue thoughtfully as if this is something that has been mulling over in that brain of his for a while. Thoughts belonging to a skull. A ghost. A father. 

Ghost continues gruffly, “Where were you?”

“West of here,” you say. “Jesus, I think, at least. I couldn’t really tell where I was going.”

“How far?”

“Far, but not that far.” Your eyes drift to the floor. “By the forest’s edge.”

“We don’t see that many of them here,” Ghost mutters. This might be the most he’s spoken to you in five days. “Only ever a few at a time. Ten at the most.”

“That’s how it was for us. But more came, and then,” you exhale, “And then there were too many.”

Your eyes close, recalling the frantic manner in which you escaped. The last glimpse of your old life had been the mangled arm of your sister, thick bites cutting down to white bone. In a way, you were glad there were enough of them to kill her.

Your eyes reopen. “We should’ve had an escape plan, something for emergencies. We got too complacent after making it for so long.”

All Ghost says is, “Yeah. You should have.”

And then he is dismissing you with a lazy wave of his hand, turning to give you his back. You scowl, roll your eyes as he is not looking, and leave the cabin. Your spine already aches before you even lay down on the floorboards for the night.

You wonder if Ghost has his own emergency plans; what would have to happen for him to abandon this perfect setup? How would he do it? The memory of the car out back finds you as you drift off. But your sleep that night is haunted by terrible, grey dreams.

It usually is.

Hunting on your own is different than hunting with Paul. There's some learning to do. You have to study the tracks on your own and observe the marks of antlers against the trees. For the first week, you don't get a single deer. Only squirrels. One skinny hare. Ghost and Blue don't go with you; the fawn, rabbits, and stored cans and jars hold them over.

Most evenings are spent braiding Blue's hair. I like the way it feels, she claims. Ghost gets used to it. He still watches from the couch but rather than stiffly staring, he lays down and relaxes, placing a hand over his chest.

The next time they go hunting, Blue's hair is still woven in the French braids when you catch an interesting sight through the cabin's window. She stands on the dining chair to reach Ghost's mask, peeling it off. You can only see the back of his head: brown hair, chopped short.

So there is a human under that thing?

She sets the mask on the table and picks up a clean one. A different one.

When they come out, Ghost with his guns and Blue with her knives, he appears more like a father than a character from a horror film. There is no plastic skull. Instead, a cutout in the fabric reveals the tops of his temples and the strong bridge of his nose. You would never say it, but you prefer this one.

Blue must catch your staring because she tells you, "The other one was starting to smell. I made him change."

"Good call," you quip under your breath.

Again, you go your separate ways. You head for the pond. You think you can hear them somewhere nearby, but ignore it, focusing on the deer prints in the snow. It's hard to tell if they're fresh. It hasn't snowed in two days.

Your footsteps quiet to a halt when you hear light crunching sounds. Another living thing is close by. You take position behind a thick pine, eyes scanning the wooded area and the pond to the right of you. But you know the sound of deer, and you're starting to learn the sound of Blue.

She's scampering towards the pond, just her. You can't see Ghost. As protective as he can be, he allows the girl some length to her leash. Offers bite-sized moments of independence. She's allowed to play in the tree just outside their camp before sundown, but only if he is watching. So you imagine he has let her run off ahead only because he is somewhere nearby.

From the distance, you watch her lurch for a squirrel.

She is quick about it.

Grabs the neck, and holds it up. A quick slice to the jugular. Blood seeps. She frowns, closing her eyes and murmuring something that, in the quietness, you think is along the lines of: I'm sorry. Tried to make it quick for you.

And then she begins to skin it, right then and there.

Young, nimble hands taught to survive.

As she does so, you decide you've seen enough. You have your own food to find.

But as you move from the tree, your eyes drift to find another watcher. A form takes shape behind a distant oak, near the pond. Your heart spikes; a Grey? But no— a Grey would already be running towards her scent. This shape belongs to a human, a withered man with hair that juts out in grey clumps, and crazed eyes pointed right at her.

More so, a revolver pointed.

taglist: @cool-0-n @savagemistresss @morganvoorhees @dinsverdika @cated18 @lolszass @jeswiii @all-good-things-have-an-ending @alternatealt @uvoiid @underatreedrinkingtea @ramadiiiisme @crissteetee67 @lexi-zsy09 @spikespiegell @littlezarp @rebel-soldat @4headkissess @mckenzieriley69 @moxxiestar @palomaxaxaxa @msjaeger

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Word count: 2600+

Warnings: mentions of war, anxiety, vomiting, blood and dead animal

In books there's no mention of Tamlin being able to winnow, but for the sake of story, let's pretend he can

Part III | Part V

You woke up with a jolt, unable to take a breath. Something was pushing you from behind into sturdy, but warm object, crushing you. You squirmed and scratched until the thing under you stiffed and moved. It was alive. The grasp on back of your head and waist loosened a bit and you sat up gasping for air. As soon as you calmed down, you looked back to see what held you. Your eyes widened as you recognized the person next to you.

Tamlin was still asleep, lying on top of the blanket on your bed. He looked tired and torn, his cloths were dirty with bloody stains, his golden hair all dishevelled. He didn't have a single scratch on his skin, though he seemed to be trapped in another nightmare. He was moaning, gritting his teeth and frowning. His head was tossing from side to side, fingers clenched into fists.

"Please.. no.. don't le-.." he murmured under the breath.

"Tamlin," you shook his shoulder. "It's just a bad dream. You are.. safe."

High Lord woke up panting. Swallowing hard he looked around, seemingly trying to remember where he was. His green eyes stopped on you. Confusion and pain on his face was replaced by relief.

"You are awake," he breathed out.

"So you are. How did this happen?" you gestured between him and your bed.

"Ah, this.. Don't worry. Nothing happened. You passed out and as it looks I fell asleep while taking care of you. When was the last time you ate?" smirking he slowly sat up, his face just an inch from yours. You tried to put some distance between you and him, but everything went dark for a second. His big hands caught you, grounding you. "Slowly."

"I'm fine now. Thank you."

Tamlin shook his head. "When was the last time you ate?" he repeated his question.

"I don't know," you admitted, shrugging. "Is the war over? Who won?"

"We did, but I already told you yesterday. Don't you remember?" he tilted head in rather an animal way.

You blinked confused. "Really? I-I don't remember any of that.."

"Hmm," he watched you with concern. "It's interesting. When I came in I thought cottage is empty. I couldn't sense you at all. Then you suddenly appeared in the shadows and when I told you we won, you passed out. Don't you really remember it?"

You frowned and shook you head.

"Well, never mind," Tamlin sighed. "Let's find you some food."

"I'm afraid I don't have any at the moment. I.. couldn't go out.. I-I was worried.." you blushed turning your gaze away from him.

A wicked grin appeared on Tamlin's face. "I thought you are angry at me and meanwhile," one brow raised up, "you worried for my wellbeing. I'm flattered."

You blushed even harder. Since when did you have such kind of feelings? You didn't recognize yourself. "I could feel it.. The magic of this world was..wild..roaring."

"Yeah, it was quite a tough fight," Tamlin was once again serious. "War is a horrible thing. Many lives were lost. Too many. Things you see on a battlefield.. It's hard to erase it from one's mind.."

You could feel the enormous weight burdening his shoulders. Suddenly you felt really sorry for him. He was just a young male and yet.. he had a great responsibility. Many lives depended on him. He had to rule entire Court and fae who lived there. He was protecting this land for so many years and then human woman came and things started to fall apart.

"I'm going to get us something to eat," Tamlin stood up, heading to door. "You stay here and try to rest. I'll return soon."

He stopped, hand on a handle. "Uhm.. can you handle a meat? I know you said you don't remember if you've ever eaten it, but.. unlike you I'm afraid I'm not able to collect mushrooms and herbs. I'd most likely poison us."

You giggled. "I'll give it a try," you agreed grateful for anything he could bring. Tamlin's cheeks turned pink. Nodding he left.

Barely twenty minutes passed when you heard Tamlin returning back. His steps were heavier than before. Curious you carefully went downstairs using walls for support. Seeing an animal slung over his shoulder, you yelped.

"You shouldn't stand up," Tamlin said calmly as if he wasn't carrying big deer.

"Are you going to," you swallowed, "cut it open here?" If you had anything in your stomach, you would throw it out right there on the spot. You felt faint and needed to sit down. When Tamlin took a note of your state, he let the deer fall to the ground and rushed to you.

"Easy, vicious witch," he smirked helping you sit to your armchair. The smell of the dead animal stuck on his clothes and you gagged.

"I'm sorry," breathing deeply you tried to work off the nausea.

"No, I am sorry. It should have occurred to me you might feel sick when you see this," he pulled away, fanning you with hand. "It was really bad idea." Thinking about something he narrowed the shining green eyes on you. "I could.." he said hesitantly, "clean it and roast it at my house." You nodded weakly with closed eyes. "But I don't want to leave you alone for so long in this state."

"Don't worry. I'll be fine. Just leave me here," you groaned, the desire to be as far from the dead animal's body and its smell as possible growing with every second.

He studied your face for a while. "Come with me," he said firmly. You wanted to object, but he continued before you could even open mouth. "You can rest in other room or take a walk around if you will feel up to it. I would be less worried. And meal won't unnecessarily cool down."

His gaze was too piercing and you had to look away. The very same feeling you had when you tried to go to check on him in his manor returned. Leaving this forest even for hour or two made you nervous. Whole your body was against it. You started sweating.

"I'll winnow us. No need to be afraid," Tamlin assured you. "Come." He pulled your hand lightly.

"I.."

"If you are afraid I will do something to you, no need to. If I would really want to, I already had a plenty opportunities, don't you think," he grinned and winked. Under all the playfulness there were traces of something dark, cold and painful. He was trying to suppress it, but you noticed it nonetheless.

Maybe it was for that pain that you agreed at last. Uneasiness was crushing you from inside and you had to repeat to yourself that it would be just for few hours and you would return back home.

Tamlin winnowed you as he said. When you dared to open your eyes a little, you found yourself in a room with big windows. It was impressive just as expected from High Lord's manor, but signs of neglect were visible all around. Every surface was covered in dirt and dust, some pieces of furniture were broken. Tamlin blushed looking around.

"I'm sorry for this," he gestured around. "This used to be the nicest room, but certain things happened and.. all servants left.. The state of my house is.. quite horrible at the moment."

Your eyes wandered around the room while he spoke, taking in beautiful details. You turned to him only when Tamlin stopped talking, waiting for your reaction.

"It is still very nice house. And bright," you smiled nervously. "It's so huge."

"For one person, it's too much," sadness filled his eyes. "If you want, you can look around or find some place to rest. Just.. stay nearby, please.. You know.. just in case you pass out again.." he added nervously as if his request needed an extra explanation. You heard that High Lord basically imprisoned his fiancée in the manor after their return from under the mountain and she broke down. That's when somebody from Night Court came to rescue her and she left him for the first time.

"I'm going to take care of the..meal," his voice snapped you out from your thoughts.

"Okay, I won't go far then," you promised and sent him reassuring smile. You watched your High Lord until he disappeared behind the doors on the opposite side, leaving it wide open. Was he really such bad person? He was gloomy, sad and broken, but down under it all, he seemed to be caring and gentle in his own way. You had mixed feelings.

You were weak and felt sick, so you decided to sit on chair near the window overlooking the garden. At least the anxiety of leaving the forest wasn't so bad right now. Resting you head against the frame of the window, you let your thoughts wander.

The peaceful moment didn't last long. Air changed and something felt off. Wondering what's going on you trailed in the direction Tamlin had disappeared in. It didn't take you long to find kitchen, the faint smell of dead animal guiding you. You were about opening the door when you sensed some stranger on the other side. His magic filled air with smell of dark chilly night, so strong it made a shiver ran down your spine. Whoever it was, he was powerful, more powerful than your High Lord. No matter how scary it was, it felt familiar in a certain way. You halted, trying to remember where did you met with such powers, but there was nothing.

You shook your head concentrating on a small gap in the ajar door. Peeking through it you could see Tamlin standing behind the table across the room, his hands dirty from the animal's blood. He was cutting - no, tearing it to pieces, obliviously ignoring the stranger standing on the other side whose back was turned to you.

"I just came to check on you," the stranger purred, even his voice was like silky night.

"Why would you bother?" Tamlin grunted, his eyes trained on the meat he was peeling off the skin.

"You saved my life which I'm really grateful for. Feyre said you even wished her a happiness. We used to be friends, Tam."

"Right, we used to. The past tense," Tamlin snarled.

Stranger stayed silent for a while, ignoring his words and looking around. "This house turned into a great mess. You should do something about that."

"Your mate made sure nobody stayed here," your High Lord snapped. Now it gave sense. The other male was Night Court's High Lord, the one Tamlin's fiancée ran to.

You could see Tamlin's discomfort, his shoulders tensed, jaw tightening. It worried you. You felt hate towards the male who came to tease him, to kick him while he was at the bottom. You were debating if you should go in and support him or stay hidden when Night Court's Lord spoke again.

"Are you really alone?"

Tamlin's gaze shot to the door you were hidden behind, flash of panic in his eyes. It took just mere second, but you noticed. He was afraid the other male could find you here. It was like a signal to stay where you were. "Yes," he rasped.

"Hmm," other male hummed amused. "Maybe I should send somebody to make you a company."

"Shove it up your ass, Rhysand! I don't want your sleuthhound to sniff around," Tamlin barked, his claws punched out.

So called Rhysand raised his hands in surrender. "It was just a friendly offer. You don't have enough men to guard the borderline. I can help you out with it."

"I. Don't. Need. You." Tamlin growled.

"Okay, I've got it. But if you change your mind or need help, let me know," Rhysand laughed and winnowed.

Tamlin stood there, his chest rising and falling as he heaved, sharp claws ready to tear the flesh into shreds. He was angry once again, pain all over his face. You hesitantly stepped out of your hideaway. His gaze shot to you, studying you from head to toe.

"How long were you eavesdropping on us?" His words were sharp like daggers.

"Long," you admitted calmly although your heart rate increased.

"So now you know.." he whispered, voice full of pain and looked down on his bloodied hands.

"That you are High Lord? I know it since I treated your wound."

His eyes shot up to you with surprise, searching your face for disgust, hate or any other emotion subjects of this court usually felt for him. He was taken aback when he found none of that.

"Will you leave like others did?" he asked in a small voice. "I.. won't stop you.."

"No," you answered simply. "I already told you I won't leave my home."

His lips pulled into a thin line. "Your cottage.. right.." he mumbled. He silently stood there staring absently at the table.

"So.. When will be the meal ready?" you changed topic, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Tamlin gave you a questioning look. "You don't mind eating with me?"

You huffed, raising a brow. "Have I ever given you such impression?" He searched your eyes and then returned back to portioning the deer.

"You know what I've done, don't you?" he asked while putting a piece of meat on the spit.

"I heard something."

"I see." You felt him watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You smiled. "Do you plan to lock me up in your manor?"

His head snapped up. "No," he hurried to answer. "I-"

"Easy," you stopped him. "I was just teasing you." You smiled wider. Slowly a shy smirk appeared on his face, his shoulders relaxed bit more.

A silence stretched between you. Tamlin was roasting the meat, while you were standing as far from the rest of the deer as possible, going through almost empty shelves. When his servants were leaving they took most of the useful things with them. In one of the cupboards you managed to find some plates and cutlery.

"Do you.. do you have a name?" Tamlin asked suddenly.

You hummed. "Probably, but I don't remember it," you said unexcited.

"So with your past you forgot also your name," he stated. You nodded. "Well then.. how should I call you?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?" you shrugged.

Tamlin stopped in the middle of reaching out to turn the meat, gaping at you. "Of course it matters. Everyone has name." He stepped closer, examining your face in disbelief. You gazed back at him. He was met with emptiness of your eyes. There was again no emotion, no sentiment nor desire. It was disturbing.

"If that's the case I will give you name," he decided lastly. He took his time, watching you, circling around you with thoughtful expression. "How about... No." He circled around you one more time. "I will call you.. Y/N. What do you think?"

"Well.. I guess it's..fine." It felt strange. You didn't want to, but nevertheless you cared. It was just a name, yet it changed you. You couldn't grasp what it had done to you, but it was big. You felt different.

"Fine?" He raised a brow. He watched you closely, lightly grinning at your reaction. "Your High Lord just gave you new name and you say 'fine'?" He really enjoyed teasing you. You shrugged.

Since then he made sure to call you by the name he gave you at every opportunity. It took some time, but at last you got used to it.

[thetorturedbuckydepartment]

chapter three: the truce

pairing: Bucky barnes x plus-sized!SHIElD!reader

masterlist

summary: being a SHIELD agent, you have a knack for analysing people, particularly when it comes to attraction. you have everyone figured out, sorted away into the boxes you've created. But there's one man you can never seem to figure out, the very bane of your existence -- Bucky Barnes. On the field, he is a saint, helping you dodge bullets and taking knife wounds in your name. Around the building? Public menace number one, always poised to insult or to spar with you.

After being sent on a 6-month-long torture-cum-vacation with the very man, could all this change? Could you finally figure out what has been bubbling beneath the surface for years between the two of you, the juggernaut that you know you cannot stop?

warnings:  language, mention of being fostered and it being terrible, more hints to reader’s past, dead mother, mentions of sex and reader being dom

word count: 2.7k

taglist: @cjand10 @mcira @calwitch

PREVIOUS PART

A/N: I enjoyed writing this sm! as always, please let me know what you think, all comments and reblogs and likes are heavily appreciated!! love u all <3

You didn’t expect moving to be so much work, and…so much fucking tape. Ever since you escaped the hellhole of your foster house, you’ve been living in the Tower, only ever having to unpack a duffel and a suitcase full of clothes and shoes and makeup. 

The good news that comes from being so tired is that you barely have the energy to argue with Bucky, often falling asleep on the couch halfway through dinner. The TV will continue to blare in the background, and Bucky will continue to chew silently. He lets you take the naps, gently waking you up once he’s done, and handing back your freshly heated dinner plate right back at you, just so you never eat a cold meal. In all honesty, it’s been wonderful.

Somehow, he’s nice to you, now. The two of you haven’t officially called a truce, but it goes unspoken, you suppose. You find yourself helping him more than usual, and certainly have stopped insulting him. You don’t know why. Why he’s being kind, and smiling, even in the privacy of your own home, where nobody else but the two of you have been, so you know for sure that there are no bugs or secret cameras.

The neighbourhood has been pretty quiet, and it seems the Senator is currently on a vacation of some sort, so you haven’t had the chance to profile him in person, or his house. Your own is quite nice, large with a swimming pool in the back garden. It’s modern, and neat, and oozes luxury. 

If you weren’t so fucked up, if you still wanted the ring and kids and picket fence, you would’ve loved it here. You can almost see it — a partner grilling an assortment of meats and vegetables that have been marinating in a secret spice mix for hours, kids splashing and playing about in the shallow end of the pool, you and other guests lounging on the chairs as the sun sets, washing everything in sight in hues of golden orange. Or if it’s just your family, maybe sneak some affection from your partner with a hand around their waist and a kiss pressed to the back of their neck. It’s perfect. Given that Bucky’s from the 40s, he must be losing his mind. He’s pretending, albeit, but he’s gotten the simple life he must’ve dreamed of and clung to. It’s a shame he’s with you.

Which brings you to right now, standing in front of the oven with your arms crossed, waiting for an old-fashioned timer to go off. You stare at it, at the minutes ticking by. There’s nothing much left to do. You’ve already unpacked all the kitchen crockery, throwing away the last of the cardboard. The blue frosting and white icing is mixed and ready on the counter, and you hate yourself. It’s March 10th, today. Bucky’s birthday. 

His kindness in these past two weeks has completely swayed you, so here you stand, baking him a fresh batch of cupcakes you’re going to be decorating, just for him. You don’t know why, it feels like you glanced at your new phone, registered the date, and all you did was blink and now here you stand. Bucky’s still fast asleep in his bedroom.

That was another relief of the house — there were two bedrooms. Thank God, the two of you sleep separately. You’ve shared a bed before, on several missions and attempts to get the two of you to enter a state of permanent civility, and oddly enough you missed those nights sometimes.

When you weren’t tired enough, so the nightmares ran rampant in the small area of your brain and the large expanse of your imagination. Sometimes you’d wake up pressed tightly against him, and you knew he must have held you to ground you. Other times, he’d still be fast asleep, and you would often trace all the intricate ridges and details of his vibranium arm. You’ve gotten adjusted to the sight of his brand new, human arm, but you miss the black and gold. You’d rather die than verbally express so, but you miss it. You miss the way it soothed you, distracted you. The way it created space in your mind for something that wasn’t torturous memories lashing out at you. 

If he knows about it, he’s never said anything. About the nightmares. Not even two nights ago when you had woken up screaming and trying to escape out the window, desperate to escape a phantom wielding a bloodied knife. He’d just calmed you down, talked you back to the centre of the room and held you.

He likes doing that a lot now, finding excuses to touch you. It’s comforting, like you’ve been on edge your entire life and are just now finding peace. You hate it. You hate everything about your current situation, but it’s simultaneously a humongous relief. To not have to constantly have your guard up and be ready to fire insults like they’re bullets. You can just be, and revel in the way he’s not treating you like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The timer goes off. The cupcakes cool. The recipe is something your mother taught you — your only remaining inheritance you carried with you. You smother them in frosting, writing HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUCKY with one letter on each cupcake, leaving two for free reign. You chose to simply put the number 107 on each of them, and arrange them on a wonderful, dark blue tray.

You let yourself smile, proud of the work you’ve accomplished so far, at only 9AM in the morning. And then, a voice grubbed over with sleep, yet not as annoying as you remember calls out.

“Whatcha bakin’ there, doll?” You turn to him, rubbing his eyes and yet thankfully wearing a shirt. His hair is still messy, and you move forward to fix it for him as he shoots you another lazy grin. This has become somewhat of another step of routine between the two of you. He always wakes up with messy hair he cannot be asked to comb, and you got tired of berating him for it. He’d complain theres no mirror around and being to pout until you huffed and fixed it for him.

You try and pretend like you don’t notice his conspicuous eyes fixed on your face like he’s desperate to memorise it. 

“Happy birthday.” You decide to keep your words simple, staring directly into his eyes, so blue that they make some long-forgotten muscle in your chest restart.

You turn around to ignore that feeling, heading back to the counter where your frosted treats await. You miss the desperate, aching look of longing on his face. It brings back memories of him, of how he acted the last time you bothered to remember one of the most basic facts about him — how he’d pretty much thrown your gifts across the room and stormed out of his own birthday party without so much as another word.

He swears to be different now. To be different to you. In all honesty, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why you dislike him so, but on the journey here, he was finally able to read between the lines. It’s pathetically embarrassing to admit why he acted that way towards you, especially now. He wonders if you’d laugh at him, shape it into another painful weapon to aim for his diaphragm.

“Happy Birthday, Bucky. I know being stuck with me isn’t ideal, well, let’s be honest, you’d probably rather be back in cryo—.”

“No I wouldn’t,” he replies all too fast, staring down at the tray in your hands. He tries to ignore the rampant beat of his heart as he registers that you finally called him Bucky, instead of literally anything else. He knows you do it to spite him, and admires that you’d still never call him the Winter Soldier, despite how deep the faux hatred between the two of you ran. Well, faux hatred on his part.

He’s been in love with you for years. And when he finally realised it, you’d already moved past trying to be nice to him. He’s missed his chance with you, he knows this. But he finds himself growing more and more desperate with every passing year to manufacture that chance. But every time he builds up the courage, it seems you’re too busy flirting or eye-fucking literally anyone who isn’t him. And it crushes him beyond belief, every single time.

Without fail.

“Oh, okay. Didn’t mean to bring that up. Erm, I made you these cakes. They’re my mum’s recipe, and as far as I know you’re not allergic to anything in here.” He plasters a grin right back on his face.

“Aren’t you gonna sing for me, doll?” God, you wish you could hate that nickname. But it’s a step above Butterface, that’s for sure. And as much as you hate him, it is his birthday. You don’t know how much you can bring yourself to deny him, especially what with all the kindness he’s been showing you recently.

“Do you want me to?” God, Bucky wishes you could love him back. That those beautiful eyes he dreams about so often, just stare at him with some warmth, some fondness. Like you did when he first got here, when he didn’t deserve your affection. But those versions of the both of you are long gone. 

“‘Course I do. It’s my birthday after all.” You roll those pretty eyes and huff, pretending to be annoyed. 

You grab the candles from the cutlery drawer you bought in a last minute impulse on your grocery shopping run, and stick them in two of the cupcakes, lighting them with your lighter — the only physical inheritance from your mother. You still remember that night, when she pressed it into your small hands and begged you to hide underneath the bed, before all hell broke loose. She always had a lit cigarette in her hand, and the smell of ashes always brings memories of her floating back to you. It’s a simple golden one, engraved with a venomous snake on the front and her name embossed — her name before she got married. It’s your most prized possession. Bucky watches as you run a thumb over it with that fond look in your eyes, and his heart catches in his throat. You’ve never been more vulnerable than you are in this moment, not even when you were on the floor crying over the thought of pretending to be married. All of your guards are temporarily lowered, and he sees how your hard exterior gives way to something softer and warmer, a version of you long buried under the stresses of your job and the malice you exude in his presence.

And he’s obsessed with the ring on your finger, the way you play with it when bored or pensive. Actually, he’s just obsessed with you. You begin singing with a small, yet seemingly genuine, smile on your face. He thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. 

You have a lovely voice, even if it’s reserved for showers and to be lost in impromptu choirs. But his heightened senses mean he can still pick your voice out of the crowd, can still feel the weight of it wash over him like a perfect blanket. He wishes you’d cling to him like that, like the songs you sing when you think nobody’s listening or paying attention.

And then you call him Bucky again, and his heart goes out the window. He’s practically vibrating where he stands and clutching his fists to his sides in trying not to kiss you. You wouldn’t like that. When you finish, he closes his eyes and wishes for you like he does every year. 

He guesses a lesser man would’ve lost hope, after seven birthday wishes asking for one person, and yet still having them so close yet so out of reach. But he’ll beg, every year, until someone out there decides he shall have no more. He’d beg for you any time, in any way you like. His heightened sense of hearing, and the two of you living on the same floor, means he already knows how much you enjoy being begged for pleasure. How much you enjoy being in charge.

When he first got to New York after Wakanda, the only room that was available was across the hall from yours. He didn’t mind. Even though he’d completely forgotten how to talk to people he finds insanely attractive, so insanely enigmatic that all he can do is try his best to not let drool drip out of his mouth when he watches you do even the most mundane things like eat cereal with your hair still messy from a long night, in a sports bra and joggers. Showing off every inch of that perfect body he’s worshipped so many times in his dreams. It’s why he hasn’t moved out of there, because of the perverted side of him. Something he’d rather die than admit.

And of course everyone in the damn building knows, how could they not? When they see the way he looks at you when you storm out of a room, how he almost misses the punching bag when he sees you training weights across the room with sweat slicking your hair to your forehead. He thinks you’ve never looked more irresistible, and he’d do anything to get his hands on you, in any way you allow. Why do you think he asks you to spar so often? 

You grin at him. “Bucky privileges are only for these 24 hours, then I go right back to James. And I got you something.” You hand him the tiny box, gift wrapped in blue as he looks at you with an adorable blush on his face.

“You really didn’t have to do all of this, doll.”

“I wanted to make you feel more at home. And I needed to talk to you about something.” You’re wearing one of his old flannel shirts, folding your arms across your chest. You’d requested some of his bigger, older shirts to wear, and had told him it’s considered a form of deep intimacy in the 21st century. And those six shirts are all you’ve worn around the house, often with biker shorts on underneath. You know, just to drive him to ridiculous heights of insanity, of course. 

“We should call a truce. Officially. I mean, we’re being civil, and it goes unspoken. But officially, for the record, we should call a truce. At least, not be mean to each other. I wanted today to be the beginning of it, end date TBD.”

“Yeah, that’s fine with me. Now, can I open it?” You nod, gesturing at the box. You watch his face as he delicately unwraps your birthday gift, for any signs of discomfort on his face. If he’s truly okay with the peace you’ve proposed between the two of you. 

“Come here.” He commands. You’re surprised how quickly you comply, walking across the counter to stand mere inches from him. You wonder if he’s going to treat this gift like he did the last, and make sure you end up crying this time. 

“This is a wonderful gift, doll. I really, really love it. Thank you.” Before you can protest, he pulls you in for a quick side hug. You don’t miss how his blue eyes glow as he takes the New York keyring out of it’s container, running his thumb over the Statue of Liberty. 

He feels…so warm. And so cosy, all perfect for snuggling up. You find yourself wishing he hadn’t pulled away from the hug, desperate to feel more of his warmth against you than ever before. You suppress the need as it emerges, but you’re not strong enough.

“Yeah yeah. Whatever. What do you wanna do today? We could go out.” You try to remain impartial, but it’s proving difficult.

Keeping up all of your guards and walls is becoming more and more difficult with each passing day, and you find yourself becoming soft. The one thing you despise, but you also crave. 

You have no idea what’s happening to you.

And it’s terrifying.

NEXT PART

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

I’ve been on a bit of a walking dead kick recently and fell in love with your writing. I was wondering if you would do a fluffy Daryl x reader. Where reader has been part of the group from the start and is super outgoing but is almost always with Daryl. They do everything together and he’s trying to work up the nerve to confess (maybe around Alexandria). Then one day she goes “how come you never kiss me?” And he’s so confused and she’s all like I mean we’re dating aren’t we? Could be a cute idea?

A Long Time Coming

Daryl Dixon x plus size reader

Daryl has loved you since the beginning; with all your softness and beauty, you always felt unobtainable to the hunter but as it turns out, he had nothing to worry about, because you were already his all along

Warnings: A big old load of fluff, Daryl’s usual angst and he’s a little dumb (is that news to anyone), implied smut

WC: 1.3k

Minors DNI

Spring hit Alexandria hard. Flowers popped up everywhere and it seemed that the forest around the township was coming back to life. But for Daryl, that meant he had to get back to work.

The sun was just barely over the horizon as the hunter quietly slipped from his home, crossbow slung over his shoulder. By his count, the scant deer population should be returning to Virginia about now and their meat stores have run dangerously low by the winter months.

He did like the silence of the early morning though. Everything was still and if Daryl closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could pretend that the world was back to normal and he had just woken up from a fucked up nightmare. 

The houses around him were still dark as he walked the main road towards the gate. Well, all except one. He knew that he shouldn’t bother you, you were probably asleep on your couch again. But he really just wanted to walk in and take you into his arms and fall back to sleep with you.

It was a habit he had developed long before they found safety behind Alexandria’s walls. He was the natural protector of the group even if it was a reluctant roll at first, but he had always had this urge to constantly make sure that you were safe. If he couldn’t see you, his stomach would drop and his veins fill with dread as he imagined the terrible things that might have happened to you. Yet as soon as you would trot back into his line of sight, all of that fear was washed away in an instant. 

Daryl knew what he felt was love during one night at the prison. He had been on night watch in one of the guard towers when you sleepily stumbled into the room, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a pillow tucked under your arm and only one of your feet had a sock on it. Without any words, you plopped down next to him and cuddled into his broad shoulder before falling asleep.

You were his sunshine and he would do everything in his power to keep it that way, even if that meant hiding his feelings for you. In Daryl’s mind, there was absolutely no way that you would want him, he was far too broken, far too old. But still he yearned.

With dragging feet, he continued to walk past your home. He kept his head down, his greasy hair which was long overdue for a haircut falling over his eyes as if the dark strands could shield him from the ache in his chest that he always seemed to get when he thought of you. 

Abraham opened the gate for him without a word and Daryl slipped quietly into the wilderness, determined to run from his feelings, at least for a while.

——————

“Daryl Dixon you are a god!” Your squeal broke said man from his daze. The cigarette he had been smoking was now mostly ash and hung precariously between his thick fingers. You stood below him on the street, looking up at him as he sat on his porch.

“What’d I do now?” He answered sharply, eyes darting away from you since you had decided that today was the day you would wear the most distracting outfit in the world (one of his flannels and tight jeans). 

Your smile somehow got even brighter and you took that as your cue to skip your way up the steps to his home and plop down beside him on the small bench. Heat exploded all over Daryl’s body as your thick thigh pressed against the side of his leg. Your arms wound around his bicep so you could prop your chin up on the hard muscle. 

“You brought home the biggest buck I’ve ever seen! And now we all get to be well fed for a good while. You’re my hero.” You cooed. Daryl felt his brain short-circuit and, he hated to admit it, his pants tighten at the sight of your gorgeous eyes fixated on his face as you called him your hero.

Clearing his throat, he spoke with a slightly shaken voice. “It was nothin. Jus doin ma job.” You tutted and gave him a stern look while squeezing his upper arm.

“Stop it. You did good today, just like everyday. You deserve some celebration for all the amazing things you do for us, for me.” And his heart stopped. The way you held onto him, the way you looked at him, the way you spoke to him, it was all too much. The urge to confess to you how he truly felt was becoming an overwhelming need. It grew like a wave, slowly getting larger and larger until it was like a tsunami.

Your gaze softened as you looked up at the hunter. The wave was beginning to crest. A hand unwrapped itself from his bicep and was placed firmly on his chest, right above his heart. “Daryl?”

His words were caught in his throat, he couldn’t answer you so he nodded instead. You took a deep breath before speaking again. “Why don’t you ever kiss me?”

The wave broke, shattering against the shoreline of his heart. “What?” It came out as more of an exhale than words but obviously you understood him because your fingers curled into his shirt and you looked away as if ashamed.

“Well, we’ve been together for such a long time and you’ve never even tried to kiss me or initiate physical contact. And I know you don’t really like touching people but you always let me hug you and hold your hand. So I was wondering why you have never kissed me.” You spoke quickly in an almost panicked manner, the words falling from your lips in a torrent.

Daryl was frozen. “We-we’re together?” Your head tilted cutely as you regarded him.

“Yes? Daryl, we’ve been together since the farm. Remember, I told you that I loved you after you got shot and then I held you all night.” The memory slapped him in the face. You were right, that did happen but evidently, he forgot because of the copious amount of pain medication he had been on at the time.

“Fuck.” He growled. There was only a moment of hesitation as the air between you went still. His eyes dropped to your lips, then traveled back up to meet your gaze and then he kissed you. 

Your lips were softer than he had ever imagined. They tasted faintly of your homegrown tea and honey you farmed yourself. With his free hand, he cupped your soft jaw, his thumb brushing against your full cheek. His body was alight with electricity and a little bit of self-deprecation. How could he have forgotten you proclaiming your love for him?

He could kiss you forever but soon enough, you pulled back slightly so you could catch your breath. But Daryl needed to keep touching you. His own lips travelled down the length of your throat to the base of your neck. “D-Daryl.” You clutched at him.

He didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop, not now, not when he finally has you in his arms. 

“Jesus! Get a room!” You shot apart, startled by the sudden voice. Carl had his arms crossed as he glared at you both, a stern look on his face. “Nobody wants to see that.” He spat.

You rolled your eyes while you stood, pulling Daryl to his feet beside you. “Maybe we will.” You stuck your tongue out at the teen and he responded likewise as you walked away and into Daryl’s home. 

“We will?” The hunter asked quietly. You looked back at him from over your shoulder with a smoldering look.

“It’s been a long time coming, Dixon.” Daryl tripped over his own feet as you led him back to his room.

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[lovelykei]

The return of HQ as boyfriends on instagram part 7 I think?

Haven’t done these in a while 😳 hope they’re still fun🤩

Tendou | Hinata | Akaashi

Tendou:

The summer was coming to an end which meant Tendou was moving soon

Which is not very cunty fierce diva of him🙂

Anyhow that’s how you and the rest of the third years found yourself at the beach🏖️

“You’ll be fine y/n you’re moving in with him next year when you finish school”

“Okay semi you’re gonna eat tomorrow so you can skip out on the bbq today” 😒

It had been mostly a normal day until it hit you that this would be the last time in god knows how long where you could all hang out like this 🥹

“Tendou always like his meat damn near raw” “Yn-Chan I’m not dead” “Sometimes it’s like I can hear his voice” 😭

“Sugar you don’t need to cry it’s just me”

“What’s that supposed to mean you’re my everything”

Now tendou is crying and you’re both just wailing in eachothers arms

“OKAY👏🏻 let’s take pictures” semi quite frankly was about to rip his hair out

“Babe pick me up so we can take a cute beach picture”

He picked you up alright, in a very tendouesque way but honestly you wouldn’t have it any other way🥹

Hinata

“Let’s go watch the new marvel movie baby”

It was a thing you both did, you were both busy with club activities but when a new marvel movie dropped? fuck club activities

On the way home shoyo kept kicking and throwing his hands around 🤡

“I totally look like captain America like this” no you don’t Ofcourse shoyo 💗

One thing led to another and you ended up setting up your phone to record the two of you as you played around street fighter style

He kicked his foot up pretending he was gonna kick you which made you catch his foot and make him fall flat on his back

👁️👅👁️ suck on that special move “I won”

He laughed and yanked you down so you were on top of him so you did the only sensible thing you could do and kissed him 🥴

“W wE’rE IN PUBLic”

He pulled you down ONTOP of him and now you’re the indecent one for kissing him?? 🤠

His face looked more like a stop sign and you could probably fry an egg on it considering how hot it was 🥴

“One more” 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Your boyfriend was the cutest little mf in the world and so you obliged and kissed him over and over

Akaashi

Everyday you thanked god, your lucky stars, fate and everything else that had made it possible for you to bag the man that is Akaashi🤩

So when you found yourselves on a nice romantic beach date with bokuto you took all your chances to dote on your boyfriend

“Keiji you should take of your shirt you’re sweating” 😏

“Keiji you’re gonna burn let me put some sunscreen on you” 😏

“Keiji can I lick every drop of water off of your body to dry you” okay no that one didn’t happen sadly 😔✊🏻

Later that night when you had all gotten dressed bokuto left to go buy some drinks

Keiji was holding you in his arms “I have to say your tactics have gotten better”

“👁️👄👁️?”

“You managed to undress and touch me without anyone suspecting anything” busted

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”

“GUYS IVE HAD ENOUGH STOP LOOKING TOUCHING AND FEELING EACHOTHER AND LOOK AT ME” I guess you’d been busted by both of them 😳

[dark-elf-writes]

I just woke up from a very short dream where Konoha was peaceful after Naruto took over and as kakashi got older and the fighting stayed inactive, he noticed his stomach get a bit of squish to it. Just him poking his stomach in front of the mirror and realizing he doesn’t have like washboard abs for the first time since he was capable of developing muscle mass. And finally realizing the peace will last. Has lasted. That he hasn’t been sent to kill for years now and won’t be ever again.

THANK YOU UNCONSCIOUS BRAIN! That was a magnificent idea.

Kakashi doesn’t really notice it at first, how could he when he’s making sure his former student settles into his new role and staying close by just in case he needs help or advice or anything really. Not that he looks like he’s hovering, sprawled out over a couch Naruto had moved into the Hokage office and pretending to read as he listened for any threat. Shikamaru rolls his eyes whenever he sees him. Naruto never kicks him out though. He does, however keep pushing water and tea and food into Kakashi’s hands, griping about him not being allowed to starve himself in his office.

Everyone seems to be pushing food on him, he realizes later. Guy dragging Kakashi out for dinner, Sakura bringing two bentos when she stops by for her weekly bitching session report with him and Naruto, Anko giving him a stick of dango as she bemoans her eyes being bigger than her stomach. Shikamaru keeps pushing water and tea at him as well as Naruto. Says something about how both of them would drop dead of dehydration if he wasn’t there. While that was probably true Kakashi preferred to believe the Nara was slowly trying to drown them one glass of water at a time.

He doesn’t notice until Pakkun points it out one morning as he walks around his house without a shirt (without a mask. When did he start feeling comfortable with his face uncovered even in his own home?)

“You look better with more meat on your bones. Less like you’re going to die if you miss a damn meal.” Kakashi blinked, looking down at himself and poking at the soft skin of his stomach.

There was still muscle there of course. He would never stop training even if peace lasted until the day he died but…

He looked more like Guy now he realized, just as strong but without the definition. He thought he liked it. Liked not being able to see the clear cuts between his muscles. Liked looking a bit softer. Still,

“Maa, are you telling me to go on a diet, Pakkun?”

The ninken bares his teeth at him, waiting for him to settle onto the couch (an exact copy of the one in naruto’s office. a gift from Sasuke with a deadpan expression and humor glinting in his eyes) before jumping up to lay on his stomach, making sure his paws dig in just a bit to hard to prove his point.

“No. You’re far more comfortable now.”

Kakashi hums as Pakkun settles down for a nap and decides that the village wouldn’t fall if he took a day off from lurking around his student’s office before settling back into the cushions to join him.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance AU: Chewtoy, Alt: Bad End Timeline: close to the end

Fever Dog [First | Prev]

A dog barks at the end of its chain. Barks, and barks, and barks. Sharp, echoey sounds like rocks falling into a well. Is this what a dog sounds like? Bark, and bark, and bark, pulling at the chain and the chain clinks and the dog barks.

They kick the dog. Every day, in his heavy boots, steel-toed boots with scuffs on with thick black polish on. He kicks the dog and it yelps, it whines, it whimpers, it growls, and always it gets hit. In rain and in snow and in sweltering summer heat and the smell of tarmac. The dog yelps, barks, growls, whines, sunrise sunset.

The sun wheels across the sky, kaleidoscope shadows, red sun yellow sun long shadows like a nature film and that click-click-click-click film reel noise they used to play at the start of movies. Sunrise sundown sunrise sundown or the sky is still and the world is spinning full circle, upside down, dizzying, unrelenting.

Bark, bark, bark, bark, there is the dog again. At the end of its chain and howling. Every day beaten and kicked but when he calls to it every day it comes slinking, snarling, low to the ground miserable but it comes to his call. 

He is calling now but the dog is still barking. Does it hear him? Does it hear him over the sound of its own voice? Does it even hear itself or is the bark bark bark so constant it is nothing, just nothing, just noise, and the dog doesn’t even know.

Every day the beating and the dog still crawls but sometimes a kicked dog bites. One day the kicked dog bites, and buries its teeth in his throat and shakes him like a rat. One day the dog remembers it is a dog with finger-long teeth and jaws that clench hold strain ache hurt cling bite bite.

—

Riven curses, and slaps her upside the head. It doesn’t dislodge her grip, just jolts her teeth in his skin. 

“Where the fuck did that come from?” 

He thought she was out cold, or near as. Eyes pointed at nothing, unresponsive to his hands and to the kiss of the knife. 

He digs the fingers of his free hand into the muscles of her jaw. When that doesn’t work, he gets a hold of her by the nose to prise her jaw open by force until he can yank his hand free. The skin tears a little further, caught on her lower teeth.

She snaps after him, teeth clacking together like a mechanical trap. She still has those dead eyes, not even looking at him.

“Dirty little bitch,” he growls, “I knew you were still in there.”

Ignoring the blood trickling down his fingers, he grabs one of her shattered hands and twists, feeling the shards of bone grind together between his fingers. That’s gonna have to come off soon before it poisons her blood.

She arches her back and screams – or tries. Her voice is a wisp of a thing as ruined as her body, more breathy hiss than real scream. Ribs move unnaturally under her skin as her chest heaves for air.

“You want to die, bitch?” he hisses. “I know you do. Beg me, and I might consider it.” Still the same vacant stare, not even looking at him. “You remember how to beg? You used to be so good at this.” Stubborn bitch hasn’t begged since the first week. She thinks she can win this?

He twists her hand again. She arches her back and tries to scream.

“Don’t pretend you can’t fucking hear me, you can’t pretend after you fucking bit me.” He slaps her with his bitten hand, leaving a smear of his blood across her cheek, brighter than the caked-on stains of her own blood.

Her teeth clack in the air again.

Seething with fury, Riven pushes down on her chest until he feels the crack of bone slipping against bone. She convulses, limbs twitching, mouth open in a futile gasp.

Still the same empty fucking eyes, faking like she isn’t even processing. Maybe he should rip them out.

—

The dog has its teeth in her flesh. The bark bark bark runs through the meat like waves in jelly. Bark bark agony bark. Raw splitting burning meat cracking and turning to black under the sun. Lungs full of crumpled paper, crackling on every breath. Bark, bark, bark.

[furrbbyx]

M👹NSTER March Day 8: Lake

Ok this little shortie was inspired by some tumblr art of a slutty, fish-stealing scalie. Look, I made y'all a cover image!

Croc-Manxafab!reader (Black)

Sfw-ish, no seccs but much horn.

cw: bratty behavior, mentions organs, mentions a dead fish, snark

Do not copy, do not reproduce.

Approx 600 words

You take the fresh trout you'd bought on to your hook and toss it into the lake. The familiar zzzzsh of the unwinding reel feels like its zinging through you body. You wait for your bait to be taken with a giddiness and a growing creaminess between your legs

It doesn't take long. You can see a large figure swimming out of the lilies, towards you, from the far side of the lake.  You squeeze your thighs tightly and try not to fall off the rock you sitting on and humping slightly.

You wait to feel the pull on the line, but it doesn't come. Instead a big hulking croc rises up out of the water before you with a terrific splash.

You squeal and kick your legs pretending to avoid the water as it soaks through your flimsy crop top and bikini bottom. 

"I don't know what kind of beast you take me for. I must have really lost my mind taking a dead fish off a line." The thickly scaled anthropomorphic croc-man growls, causing your heart to flutter.

He sounds bored, annoyed and utterly bratty about the fish he's holding in his clawed hand like a ...well like like it was a dead fish.

You grin widely and take in his dripping wet, powerful body, his bright reptilian eyes and his tail cutting  lazily through the water beside him.

"Oh come on." you purr" "Didn't anyone ever tell you to be nice when someone gives you a gift?"

"Cheap gift." He scoffs

"Nuh uh! I paid a pretty penny for that trout."

"Yeah cuz you can't catch your own."

"Or somethin steals 'em" You grumble turning away with a smirk.

He yanks on the fish and you suddenly find yourself face first in the lake.

"Awk!"

Your big, sexy croc-Man crush plucks you out of the water and holds you against his broad smooth chest so that your shirt rides up, exposing a generous curve of underboob flesh. You wrap your thighs around his trunk of a torso and squeeze him.

"If you don't want it" you splutter "Give it back!" You grab at the fish but he holds it out of your reach, above his head.

"No way, I'm hungry" With two snaps of his fang filled jaw he devours the fish to your delight. Bits of the fish, scales and blood splat on your cheek causing you to squeal again.

Watching him annihilate the food you'd brought him makes a hot little feeling squirm in your belly, and watching him swallow in big gulps that distend his throat turns your nipples into stiff points.

You roll your eyes, pretending to be the annoyed one now.

"Ugh, gross!" you exclaim, but you reach up to wipe a bit of organ meat off of his chin and narrow your eyes in pleasure when his long rough tongue snakes out to curl around your fingers.

"You better have more where that came from." he demands. 

"Mmmph, I thought bought fish was too good for you." you sass him.

"Maybe if you feed me by hand I wont notice."

"Hmm, I've got some squid and shark in the cooler"

His eyes light up.

"I've always wanted to try shark. But I imagined gutting one in battle."

"Oh wow, you're impossible to please."

"I can think of a few ways you can please me." He coos and lowers his head to nuzzle your neck. You revel in the the touch and the feeling of your crop top slipping further up your breasts as he crushes you tighter against his side.

You roll your hips in encouragement and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He begins to carry you toward the shore and you lean in to say quietly

"I wanna feed you while you split me open"

He just grins and makes his way towards the shore.

[ckerouac]

What I Read: July

Back with another busy month of books. Sitting in waiting rooms and poolside really adds up.

Fiction

The Familiar by Leigh Bardugo

4.5/5 || It sucked me in, devoured it in two pool afternoons.

In a shabby house, on a shabby street, in the new capital of Madrid, Luzia Cotado uses scraps of magic to get through her days of endless toil as a scullion. But when her scheming mistress discovers the lump of a servant cowering in the kitchen is actually hiding a talent for little miracles, she demands Luzia use those gifts to better the family's social position. Determined to seize this one chance to better her fortunes, Luzia plunges into a world of seers and alchemists, holy men and hucksters, where the lines between magic, science, and fraud are never certain. But as her notoriety grows, so does the danger that her Jewish blood will doom her to the Inquisition's wrath.

The Rom-commers by Katherine Center

4.24/5 || I really enjoyed this story, but the narrator definitely has a distinct style that you’ll either vibe with or it’ll drive you up a wall. I wanted to snatch all the ‘what? WHAT?’ type repeated questions from the author and put them on a high shelf out of her reach. But the story was really fun.

Emma Wheeler desperately longs to be a screenwriter. She’s spent her life studying, obsessing over, and writing romantic comedies—good ones! That win contests! But she’s also been the sole caretaker for her kind-hearted dad, who needs full-time care. Now, when she gets a chance to re-write a script for famous screenwriter Charlie Yates—The Charlie Yates! Her personal writing god! But what is it they say? Don’t meet your heroes? Charlie Yates doesn’t want to write with anyone—much less “a failed, nobody screenwriter.” Worse, the romantic comedy he’s written is so terrible it might actually bring on the apocalypse. Plus! He doesn’t even care about the script—it’s just a means to get a different one green-lit. But Emma’s not going down without a fight. She will convince him that love stories matter—even if she has to kiss him senseless to do it.

Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica

4/5 || Unsettling and great. Apparently Argentinian horror is something I’m loving this year.

His wife has left him, his father is sinking into dementia, and Marcos tries not to think too hard about how he makes a living. After all, it happened so quickly. First, it was reported that an infectious virus has made all animal meat poisonous to humans. Then governments initiated the "Transition." Now, eating human meat--"special meat"--is legal. Marcos tries to stick to numbers, consignments, processing. Then one day he's given a gift: a live specimen of the finest quality. Though he's aware that any form of personal contact is forbidden on pain of death, little by little he starts to treat her like a human being. And soon, he becomes tortured by what has been lost--and what might still be saved.

The Spy Who Came in from the Cold by John le Carré

4/5 || A classic of the genre for a reason. Carré can do in 200 pages what takes other authors twice as long.

In the shadow of the newly erected Berlin Wall, Alec Leamas watches as his last agent is shot dead by East German sentries. For Leamas, the head of Berlin Station, the Cold War is over. As he faces the prospect of retirement or worse--a desk job--Control offers him a unique opportunity for revenge. Assuming the guise of an embittered and dissolute ex-agent, Leamas is set up to trap Mundt, the deputy director of the East German Intelligence Service--with himself as the bait. In the background is George Smiley, ready to make the game play out just as Control wants.

Husband Material by Alexis Hall

3/5 || I loved the first book, and this one was… fine. Completely lacking in the charm of the first book for me. I was so disappointed.

In Boyfriend Material, Luc and Oliver met, pretended to fall in love, fell in love for real, dealt with heartbreak and disappointment and family and friends…and somehow figured out a way to make it work. Now it seems like everyone around them is getting married, and Luc’s feeling the social pressure to propose. But it’ll take more than four weddings, a funeral, and a bowl full of special curry to get these two from I don’t know what I’m doing to I do. Good thing Oliver is such perfect Husband Material.

Funny Story by Emily Henry

3/5 || I think I need to accept that I find the plots of Henry’s books more interesting than her execution of said plots.

Daphne always loved the way her fiancé Peter told their story. How they met (on a blustery day), fell in love (over an errant hat), and moved back to his lakeside hometown to begin their life together. He really was good at telling it… right up until the moment he realized he was actually in love with his childhood best friend Petra. Which is how Daphne begins her new story: Stranded in beautiful Waning Bay, Michigan, without friends or family but with a dream job as a children’s librarian (that barely pays the bills), and proposing to be roommates with the only person who could possibly understand her predicament: Petra’s ex, Miles Nowak. The roommates mainly avoid one another, until one day, while drowning their sorrows, they form a tenuous friendship and a plan. But it’s all just for show because there’s no way Daphne would actually start her new chapter by falling in love with her ex-fiancé’s new fiancée’s ex… right?

A Fate Inked in Blood by Danielle L. Jensen

3/5 || Norse magic was interesting, main character acted dumber than a box of rocks on too many occasions. Not opposed to reading the second book, but I’ll be surprised if I remember read book 1 when it comes out.

Bound in an unwanted marriage, Freya spends her days gutting fish, but dreams of becoming a warrior. And of putting an axe in her boorish husband’s back. Freya's dreams abruptly become reality when her husband betrays her to the region's jarl, landing her in a fight to the death against his son, Bjorn. To survive, Freya is forced to reveal her deepest secret: She possesses a drop of a goddess's blood, which makes her a shield maiden with magic capable of repelling any attack. It was foretold such a magic would unite the fractured nation of Skaland beneath the one who controls the shield maiden’s fate.

Big In Sweden by Sally Franson

2.5/5 || You know those fanfics that have a great set up but you quickly realize is written by someone who feels compelled to overexplain everything to prove they have the correct opinions and are aware of how ‘problematic’ everything is? Yeah.

Paulie Johansson has never put much stock in the idea of family: she has her long-term boyfriend Declan and beloved best friend Jemma, and that's more than enough for her. Yet one night on a lark, she lets Jemma convince her to audition for Sverige och Mig, a show on Swedish television where Swedish-Americans compete to win the ultimate prize: a reunion with their Swedish relatives. Much to her shock, her drunken submission video wins her a spot on the show, and against Declan's advice Paulie decides to go for it. Grappling with long-held notions of family, friendship, and love--not to mention her feelings for the distractingly handsome Swedish cameraman who's been assigned to follow her around--Paulie starts to reconsider her past and rethink what she wants for the future.

Nonfiction

King Leopold’s Ghost by Adam Hochschild

5/5 || You think you know how bad the Belgian destruction of the Congo was. Yeah, it’s even worse. Once I picked this up, I couldn’t put it down.

In the 1880s, as the European powers were carving up Africa, King Leopold II of Belgium seized for himself the vast and mostly unexplored territory surrounding the Congo River. Carrying out a genocidal plundering of the Congo, he looted its rubber, brutalized its people, and ultimately slashed its population by ten million--all the while shrewdly cultivating his reputation as a great humanitarian. Heroic efforts to expose these crimes eventually led to the first great human rights movement of the twentieth century, in which everyone from Mark Twain to the Archbishop of Canterbury participated. King Leopold's Ghost is the haunting account of a megalomaniac of monstrous proportions, a man as cunning, charming, and cruel as any of the great Shakespearean villains. It is also the deeply moving portrait of those who fought Leopold: a brave handful of missionaries, travelers, and young idealists who went to Africa for work or adventure and unexpectedly found themselves witnesses to a holocaust.

The Far Land: 200 Years of Murder, Mania, and Mutiny in the South Pacific by Brandon Presser

3.25/5 || Very readable as a travelogue, but takes a lot of liberties in the history presented as fact that can’t be known for certain.

Told through vivid historical and personal narrative, The Far Land goes beyond the infamous mutiny on the Bounty, offering an unprecedented glimpse at life on the fringes of civilization, and how, perhaps, it's not so different from our own. In 2018, Brandon Presser rode the freighter to live among its present-day families; two clans bound by circumstance and secrets. While on the island, he pieced together Pitcairn's full story: an operatic saga that holds all who have visited in its mortal clutch--even the author.

[meme-streets]

dollars event day 2. prompt: partnership ---

A sound of footsteps from the cave’s mouth pulls him from a dazed half-sleep into prickling alertness and has him reaching instinctively toward a gun he doesn’t have.  Failing that, he plucks a loose rock from the floor and then goes very, very still. The footsteps draw closer.  He tries to draw up what remains of his strength. “Come on out, it’s just me.”  Silvanito.

Light falls across the cave floor, creeping slowly towards him like running water.  Seconds later Silvanito appears in his field of view; he’s got a lantern in his hand, a pack slung over his shoulder.  And critically: he’s alone. “There you are,” he says, spotting Joe where he lies on the hard ground. Sheepishly, he lets go of the rock.

The old man’s expression is grim as he looks Joe over.  It has reason to be; Joe knows he looks rough, enough that he's glad he hadn't had a chance to see his own reflection.  He's only just now able to open his blackened right eye, and even then barely.  Silvanito looks all this over and shakes his head ruefully. “I guess I should've expected as much,” he sighs, setting down first his lantern and then the pack, and then, with a grunt of effort, he lowers himself to the floor.   Joe blinks up at him.  “How’d you find me?” “Piripero told me he’d helped you escape out here.  You are very, very lucky,” he says, shaking a finger for emphasis, “and you should be very, very grateful.  You would be dead without his help.” “Reckon I would be,” he concedes. “You won’t last very long without mine either.”  He reaches into his bag and pulls out some provisions: smoked meat and bread wrapped in cloth, a canteen of water.  The sight fills Joe with relief and sudden craving all at once.

Then: “Sit up and let me look you over.” The attempt to do so sends shooting pains all up and down his body, but he sets his jaw and pushes against the floor anyway; Silvanito catches him gingerly by the shoulder and hauls him upright, murmuring, “Easy, easy,” as he leans him back against the rock behind him. “M’alright,” Joe mumbles. Silvanito scoffs.  “Don’t pretend.  You took a bad beating.  I’ve seen what the Rojos do to men stronger than you–it’s a wonder you’re still alive.” “Mm.  Just stubborn, I guess.” “That you are.”  The reply is absentminded; he’s looking Joe over rather solemnly.  “That cut on your head needs cleaning.”  He rummages in the back again, produces a cloth and a bottle of what’s probably whiskey, soaks the former in the latter.  “Tilt your head forward and hold still.”

Joe doesn't quite choke down a hiss of pain as the whiskey sizzles into the cut, the automatic furrowing of his brows not doing much to help the pain.  Silvanito’s free hand curls around the side of his head to keep him from squirming; after a long moment he moves the cloth, folds it again, and sets methodically about wiping away the dried blood caked around his eye and nose.  His face feels strangely hot. At long last he lets go, and Joe half-hesitantly blinks his eyes open.  Silvanito’s looking at his hand. “Can you make a fist?” He tries.  His fingers only half close before his vision goes white; a harsh gasp tears out of his throat. The old man grimaces sympathetically.  “Mm.  Could be broken.  Give it here.” Cautiously he does.  Watches intently as Silvanito takes it in both his own hands like something made of glass, or a baby bird fallen from the nest, and with the pads of his thumbs feels ever so lightly about Joe’s palm, testing the bones, taking care not to touch the wound itself.  The pressure aches, but not unbearably.  Joe can't remember the last time he was touched with this kind of delicateness.  He's almost disappointed when it ends. “No break, I don't think.  But it needs bandaging.  Hold still.”

He doesn't bother with the rag this time, just holds Joe’s hand up and pours the whiskey over it straight, dragging out a sharp exhale and a barely-suppressed urge to jerk back.  Then taking long strips of cloth from his bag, he bandages it with near military efficiency.  Joe wonders dimly if he was ever a soldier, but he's too woozy to ask.  The cloth is layered near an inch thick by the time he lets go.  Joe flexes his fingers experimentally. “I can't move it.” “That's the idea.  Just in case it is broken, you don't want it to heal wrong.” He has to admit, the idea spooks him a little.  His whole method of shooting is two-handed, and that's not even touching on the other issues.

Silvanito sits back.  Hooks a finger idly under the fold in Joe’s vest.  “Any other bad cuts under there?” He doesn’t know, to be frank.  He’s not really keen on taking his clothes off on this cave floor to find out.  “Don’t worry about it. The old man tuts but lets it go.  He starts to put the bottle of whiskey away again, pauses, and holds it out.  “It’ll help with the pain.  Don’t drink it all at once.” “You waited till now for that?” Joe says dryly, but it’s with real gratitude that he accepts the offered bottle and takes a swig. “Oh?  Just a minute ago you were playing tough,” he teases, and Joe rolls his eyes.  Fair enough.  “Well, I think you’ll be alright now.  You’re lucky to have me for a partner, you know.” “Partner, huh?” Joe chuckles. Silvanito gives him a look.  “Well, if you’d rather me leave you out here to die–” “I didn’t say that.” “Good.”  He gives Joe another look over and nods, satisfied with his work.  “I must be getting back.  Here–” he reaches into his pack, pulls out something green, familiar.  “You left it in my saloon.”  He drapes it over Joe’s midriff like a blanket.  Then he pauses.  Hesitates.  “One more thing,” and he reaches into his pack again, pulls out Joe’s pistol. “Where’d you get that?” “I have my ways.  Here.  Just in case.”  He hands it over.  “And now I really must be going.  You rest.  Don’t play around with that thing till that hand has healed up some.  I’ll be back when I can.” He must admit himself tempted otherwise, but somewhat reluctantly he lays the gun down by his side.  “Oh–” he falters a little.  “Thanks.” Silvanito just gives him a nod, expression warm and a touch conspiratorial.  “Hasta luego.”

[shostakobitchh]

Chapter 50: oxenfree

The silence filled up the dead air between them for what felt like forever but was probably only a few seconds.

Snape was the first one to break the silence. “Why is there a raw steak on the ground?”

He didn’t sound very angry — mostly tired. Ariel figured the angry-tired ratio was about sixty-forty at the moment. She found herself not caring much if he was very angry at all, actually.

Ariel took that opportunity to let her eyes flicker to the tree line to make sure the Not-Grim-Dog was gone. She felt bad — she wished she’d taken the food with him, at least. Maybe he’d come back later for it.

Ariel peered over at the steak, trying to act surprised, like she hadn’t known it was there the whole time. “I was hungry.”

There was a rustle of robes. From her peripheral, Ariel could see his arm stretched out as he murmured something, the steak turning back into a rock. She felt her heart sink, thinking of the hungry Not-Grim-Dog and tried not to scowl up at Snape.

“You realize that it likely would’ve turned back into a rock the second you bit into it,” Snape said, his voice heavy with disdain.

It would have? No wonder the dog didn’t want to eat it. Maybe he had sensed something was wrong with it.

“Though I do find myself wondering why you’re trying to consume raw meat,” Snape continued on. “Was Lupin’s class that unbearable, then?”

“I couldn’t Transfigure it into what I wanted.” Ariel muttered. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“I followed the sound of your wallowing.” he said it in an almost-sneer — it annoyed her. Why was he holding back?

She made a face, tilting her head so she was looking back at the tree line. She wanted to tell him to go away, but she was so exhausted. She wondered if she sounded like he did — angry but not; so, so tired.  

“Why are you out here?” Snape was beginning to sound more like himself, less hollowed out and more frustrated.

“I wanted to be alone.” Ariel said, glaring at his shoes. “I thought that was kind of obvious.”

She glanced at Snape’s shoes again. One of them began to tap, almost impatiently. “You’re aware there is a mass murderer after you, correct?”

“Are you going to tell me the steak might’ve attracted him or something?” Ariel didn’t want to tell him about the dog, he’d probably think it was Black in disguise. “What do you want?”

She fully expected a scathing retort, or at the very least for him to snarl down that she couldn’t talk to him that way, but instead, Snape made a low, disgruntled sound under his breath.

Ariel rested her head on her arms, tucking her knees under her chin, still refusing to look at him. The wind whistled through the grass and rolled across it like waves, whipping her hair around her face. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound, letting it sweep over her while she tried to reign in her temper, which flared dangerously in the pit of her belly. 

There was a soft grunt, the sound of shoes scuffling against the dirt —

Ariel cracked open one eye.

Snape was lowering himself to the ground.

“What — what are you doing?” Ariel bleated.

“You have eyes, don’t you?” he snapped, nearly falling back. Ariel had the strangest urge to giggle, but she remembered the class's raucous laughter earlier and watched solemnly as Snape settled beside her, stretching out his long legs.

She stared at him dumbstruck. He stared ahead, like she wasn’t even there. She could see that the circles under his eyes were darker; his skin paler, greyer, and his hair was clumped together in greasy ropes. He’d only ever looked this awful whenever Ariel was in the infirmary.

“What’re you doing?” Ariel repeated, wary. “You’re not an imposter, are you?”

Snape’s eyes flickered to her for a brief moment, a hint of irritation in his gaze before his attention returned to the horizon. “Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Evans.”

“I’m serious.” Ariel turned to him, and she could’ve imagined it, but his left cheek spasmed. “I tried to poison myself in the middle of your class. Normally you’d pretend like I was a stick or a wad of gum for the next few days and then tell me how stupid I am even though it’s your stupid genes —”

Snape cut her off with a sharp glare, his black eyes hard. “Ask me something only I would know, then.”

Ariel blinked, her mouth hanging open a bit. “Like what? Like… a security question?”h

“Something only your father would know.”

[fea-resources]

Unhinged Game Commentary As RP Starters Pt.2

He's either also cold or he's going through withdrawals, one of the two.

STOP BOUNCING.

All those burnt corpses look like bacon to me. Crispy dragon-charred bacon.

Human jerky.

I’d love some jerky right now.

I'd push you.

BACKFLIP. BACK FLIP.

you're a COWARD. GO TO THE TOP. EMBRACE THE JUMP.

EAGLE JUMP.

There's a hay pile at the bottom waiting to catch you. You'll be fine.

This isn't Assasin's Creed!

Hay and parkour = ass creed.

HARDCORE PARKOUR.

_______ looks like a hobbit, not gonna lie.

Jump! You'll live!

Holy shit, I survived.

I told you your little child bearing bones would catch you! They're springy and resilient!

Congrdeurtions.

Am I having a stroke?

Who keeps a deer pelt with bread? That’s why they're all sick in this god forsaken land.

The deer pelt is surprisingly sterile. Its the most sterile thing in this fucking place.

I wanna go some place similar to ______, take up residency in an abandoned castle, spruce it up, and then pretend I'm a ghost haunting it when visitors come.

I don't want "castles" I want C A S T L E S.

We all have dreams.

Sweet dreams are made of this.

My dream is to be able to spell astetic... asthmatic... antsthetic... antstatic... aunt stacy? You know what I mean.

Who am i to disagree?

You mean bees.

Travel the world and the seven seas.

Yes that one!

I wanna lick the sugar candy in the sky.

That sounds like something Ant-Man would say.

Why is that corpse thiccer then I am?

Wait, I missed the corpse. We have to go back for the corpse. Leave NO man behind.

you mean jerky?

Okay, I thought I saw a shadow back there and it looked like a werewolf.

We do not waste jerky.

Mmmmm Bacon....

Meat is meat. They dead, they don't care.

Bacon is delicious as hell.

MEAT MEAT MEAT.

HEATHENS. ALL OF YOU.

SOS jerky.

YOU'RE A HEATHEN TOO. DON'T PLAY COY.

I'm an angel.

Sounds fake.

I don't know what your talking about.

We're all heathens. All my friends are heathens.

Take it slow.

TOO SLOW.

Can’t even remember my middle name.

Adopt a child. It's time.

Replace remembering our names with more important information, like musical lyrics. People use those a lot.

Yep, that's my middle name. Dick. You caught me.

I'm proud of my name.

Naw. Your name is Dick now.

I was named after a slutty country singer. And a car.

THAT HAPPENED.

The kink cavern.

Looks like somewhere STDs grow, not gonna lie.

See, that’s the STDs falling from the roof. Too much sex in this ramshackle place.

No one cleans that place. Don't get paid enough for that shit.

Its the jizz.... it gets between the cracks and degrades the foundation.

Can’t people fuck in the bed like normal humans?

Naw son. Too vanilla, they get bored.

Back in my day, we used beds and called it woohoo. Just like the Sims. That’s where all my Sex Ed comes from.

Back in my day we fucked on the floor like REAL MEN.

WHOA NOW. CALM YOURSELF.

COVER THINE EYES, CHILDREN.

I'M TOO ACE FOR THIS.

YOU BETTER BE PRAYIN' TO YOUR LORD AND NOT CRYING.

Back in my day, we walked 4 miles with ONE FUCKIN' SHOE, and we shared between 5 of us, through the snow, because I ate the other shoe.

Anything chewy and tough is jerky.

Skin is the jerkiest of all.

And I’M the one that needs to pray?

People are jerky, too, 'cause they're jerks sometimes.

Take the pot. Smoke the pot. Taste the pot. Smell the pot. Be the pot.

Why are you HERE?

Smoke that khajiit drug thing.

Why did you come back to the kink dungeon?

DO IT.

We're all pots now. I'm a pot. You're a pot. We're all pots.

...or drink it, i don't remember what it is.

Does the room smell like pot?

I put a pot on me head and now I'm a pot-head.

IT'S ALL OGRE NOW.

Why did you make me read that with my own two eyes?

Go sit in the corner and think about what you've done.

You're no angel.

They cant have them, the corners are mine. All of them.

Lucifer was an angel too.

Lucifer is still pretty hot, I hear.

hoNHON. EIFFEL TOWER. BAGUETTE.

You're banned from my next stream.

NO. PLEASE. I'LL BE GOOD. I'LL CALL YOU MASTER AND WEAR A SHOCK COLLAR AND EVERYTHING.

The Eiffel Tower reminds me of something else but I don't know why.

B A N N E D.

_______'s got that Eiffel tower dick.

Nah, I'm thinking of something ten times as traumatizing.

Are you sacrificing _____ to the old gods?

Honey you've got a big storm comin'.

Sleep is for the weak, and I... am very weak.

Whimps. Sleep is for the dead. Granted... we are all very dead inside, so....

No fire. Only suffering. Face the dark and cold like a dragon.

Fucking capitalism.

Your kindling looks like dog turds, and I know my dog turds.

I've stepped in enough dog shit to know turds when I see them.

_____ WAS STRANGLING A RAT. I HEARD ITS LIL ANGRY RAT SOUNDS.

The rat crashed the game to live.

Rat god.

Why kill a werewolf when you can date one?

That's BS, we all know ______'s always wet because he's a horny rabbit.

Sex keeps you warm... I think.

I'd imagine bodies that sit at 98 degrees F while doing nothing get pretty hot when pressed together and doing activities that raise your blood pressure. That's like a 400 degree sauna right there if my math is right. Pretty toasty. ....that makes me wanna never do anything cause that's HOT.

Good. Sex is bad - its how babies are made and we don't want none of that.

Condoms are a thing, but so are holes and accidents. Why do you think I'm here?

Pornhub is good to us... on what not to do. I found some messed up stuff. That’s where I found that shrek video, and Spongeknob Squarenuts.

I can honestly say I have seen worse. Anime porn is another layer of hell.

And then there were three...

Wood looks so crunchy.

I read moby dick, the three musketeers, treasure island, huckleberry fin, tom sawyer and a few others, but fuck me if I remember them in their entirety.

I read that as “I read my dick” and I was very concerned.

Wood - the original forbidden fruit.

Is that a naked man?

My god. Worst kink.

This is the least sexy sex dungeon, let’s be real here. No mood lighting, cold, no R&B music. Where’s the pizzazz?

Maybe they played music on the bones?

Do NOT. I have nightmares about that.

I can no longer look at a naked anatomical skeleton in all casual and comfort anymore.

I’m glad the men here in this dungeon are napping so well.

I am very uncomfortable with naked skeletons.

Aren’t all skeletons naked?

______'s hair is Cheeto colored which is honest such a look. You rub your hand through his hair, your fingers come back stained with neon orange dust. Cheeto dandruff.

Who's playing the meat sticks again? I heard the meaty slaps. I still hear them.

Alright. Go gather your quotes you quote whore.

[kobblefort]

Hoistedworked: Origins

Alright, okay, yeah. Back on the wagon, right here in the woods. It's still plenty remote, cold enough to teach a Dwarf to speak in clicks, and it is actually capable of sustaining life. Sure it's no glacier but the glacier was always a shitty idea. We can at least carve something out here. Like some ideas are actually just bad. Like too bad to manage. This one though is basically fine. We can do this.

See? Look at this shit, it's beautiful. Plants. Trees. Actual solid ground. Since I never introduced the actual decapods before, let's pretend these are all just the same guys, okay? Just for convenience's sake.

Cikuti Worthoars, who likes bobbit worms for their knobs and angles. Oh yeah and suddenly the snow cleared up. Don't ask me, I don't know why.

Cutichi Strengthtown, AWESOME name. He likes to eat seahorse meat and loves two-grain wheat beer.

Chetek Boattrussed, who likes kangaroos for their pouches. 🤔

Cukikuki Townriddle. Big fan of eating giant Brown Recluse spiders, even though she hates cave spiders. I'm not going to ask.

Scukikik Denttongs. Big beak dog fan.

Retuti Livingwheel, groundhog fan and mead drinker. Wonder if we can actually get a bee colony set up here.

And finally Cikuki Prisoncrafts, goat eater. Well, please forgive me if I kind of breeze past the "starter base setup" phase here.

Or, well, I would, but... nobody wants to work. That's not some boomerism, nobody will just pick up the tools to chop wood or dig holes. They gather plants fine, and took apart the wagon without any trouble, but now they're just... gawking...

Reading about it on Reddit, it seems the solution is to just retire the fort and then immediately un-retire it. So we'll try that I guess.

come on... come on... YES!!

We don't even make it all the way down 10 stories before discovering the cavern this time. And before you ask:

yep, fucked up normal grass again. Whatever. It's not as big of a deal this time. One day I really ought to properly ask how that even happens, but for now, I'm just rolling with it.

Up above, all that happened in the two weeks the game makes you wait whenever you start fortress mode again is that the crabs spilled all their prickleberry wine. What a tragedy!

After about a season, we've got a pretty nice setup coming together. All the stockpiles are hidden away under the big main meeting area, the aquifer drains into a cistern, things that rot are kept safely away from the average crab's path, and walls are being built up top to make a more secure entrance. We've eaten a boar and silky sea slug while food stocks were low, and the giant leopard we brought with us "went missing" some time ago - which probably just means it's dead. Giant raccoons have been harrassing us up on the surface, but that's the point of setting up our defenses. It's a much more auspicious start than our first expedition, and with self-sufficiency actually taken care of, we'll be able to get our paper economy and library off the ground sooner than later. We've also found a bit of native platinum quite high up in the earth, but once you start the metal economy, it feels like you just sort of become a metal economy fortress. So we'll hold off on that for now. Also, the giant wolves keep wandering into our meeting hall. Don't worry, they're ours, but they'd probably suit us better outside fending off the raccoons... Oh, and nobody has bedrooms yet. Nobody's too pressed about that, though. One time a really drunk guy came over to my house and when I said "alright that's it for the night" he was like for sure, peace out, slapped my hand, fistbumped me, grabbed his things and walked 5 steps out the front door to fall asleep sitting up on the stairwell of my apartment. So people can do that, people can just sleep on stairs. My roommates found him and were like "what the fuck" and I was also like "what the fuck" because I figured he'd just go home. I think they just let him sleep though. I would've heard it if he fell down the stairs and he didn't. So you can do that.

There's not a lot to say right now. We're not making a ton of money, but we're sustaining ourselves fine.

Defenses are coming together fine, too. Our giant wolves had pups and the pups have the zoomies. It's wonderful.

There's a quantum stockpile now to make woodworking a lot easier. For those not in the know, a "quantum stockpile" is a 1x1 stockpile that gets filled by having a minecart dump into it. The cart races down from the surface, and is just long enough that it doesn't crash at the end, though also just too long to auto-dump - so instead, the solution is to make whoever finishes filling the cart hop in and ride it down so that they can push it the last couple tiles. Or at least, that's the plan; at first crabs just kicked the cart down the ramp, but since I changed it to be ridden instead, everyone's been too busy putting a ceiling over the main "courtyard."

Here's our "administrative wing": counter-clockwise from the top, it houses our expedition leader Worthoars, production supervisor Boattrussed, and sheriff Channeledchain. We've got a hospital set up earlier than we need it for once, but nobody's been appointed chief of medicine yet. I ultimately had to run DFhack drain-aquifer just because the "mist generator" started overflowing, but I've set up "ponds" where any crab with nothing better to do will chuck a bucket of water down from the top of the stairs. The result is the same, so it should cheer everyone up. They'll need it, since...

Roofing the main area has everyone caught in a snowstorm, and though nobody's particularly miserable at all, it's still dragging some crabs down. Oh, and I like this.

Efficiency be damned, I wanted a cool bedroom setup, and looking down into the great hall right when you wake up seems pretty cool to me.

An agitated giant raccoon attacks, but it's put down pretty quickly by the giant wolves. The bigger threat is our own lack of forethought.

I wanted to put grates up above the farm plot there, because I'm not actually sure whether you still need outdoor plants to get sunlight and rain or whatever, or if a tile that was directly exposed to the sun at any point just counts as "outdoors" forever. I honestly think it's the latter but you know what they say about eggs and baskets and all that type of shit.

The problem is that crabs kept trying to put floors down on these tiles, which was possible because they could walk over the grates to reach them, but didn't register to the game as structurally sound, so the floor just instantly collapsed every time they tried to do it. Well, at least nobody died.

Except for just now. I tried to make the quantum stockpile also include rocks, and it worked! But people keep walking out in front of it and getting hit. Somehow, a shrimp survived just fine, but this metalsmith fucking died. It seems obvious to like, not walk on minecart tracks, especially if they're set to the "no" traffic setting, but it's apparently not. A bit of judicious wall use seems to fix it, though. We also make probably the ugliest fucking graveyard I've EVER set up.

Right off to the side of our main noble quarters for whenever we either get a mayor, get elevated to a barony, or whatever else, I just made... I don't know. This spaghetti nightmare. I don't care. If crabs were dying in battle, then you know, I'd take it serious, I'd make a big whole thing out of it or at least plop down the quickfort windmills. But what am I supposed to feel about a guy bashing himself with the fucking minecart? Like... you get what you paid for. And now the next poor saps to die in this fortress get what you paid for too.

Our first artifact is created! Its name translates to "Slippants." Ok. It just has an image of a decapod in it. Not even any particular kind of decapod in specific. But it instantly makes Hailcloistered, or jesus christ how am I supposed to remember this, Ricikikikitikik into a legendary armorsmith. Which is, you know, cool. Yeah, we could probably get some armor going. I neglected to mention I set up a metalsmithing business; I didn't want to, but there are so many metalsmiths in this fortress that they started a guild, and I always wanted to try actually placing workshops in a guild-relevant area instead of just having all the workshops in one place and guild halls somewhere else, so it's a little inefficient, but it looks cool, so who cares.

...and that right there is the last thing I wrote before I stopped playing for 8 months.

I feel like the reveal was always coming: "I was just doing this as a weird cry for help cloaked dick-deep in 69 layers of irony." Like on the surface it looks like it is just a person freaking out but then one layer lower it's actually just a guy fucking around but one more layer it's freaking out again and on and on and on. I don't know what to say besides that. I'm in the first really healthy relationship of my life and trying not to mess it up. I'm still soul-crushingly poor with no real skills or job prospects. I do still play the greatest simulation game of all time Dwarf Fortress, though much more rarely - I often boot it up with big ambitions to make some Content for The Tube, actually, but I'm simply too good at the game, so nothing interesting happens in my forts, and I end up with twenty gigabytes of footage and ten pages scribbled in a notebook covering six years of fortress management where the most interesting thing that happens is like, I set up a milling industry.

I'm not really interested in Daarunbay Detevay anymore, I'm sorry. It's not like I've deleted it, I keep pretty extensive backups of all my worlds and saves for the greatest simulation game of all time Dwarf Fortress, even though I rarely actually use them, so it's not really going anywhere. If there's any interest I could probably like, put the world folder on pixeldrain or mediafire or whatever and try to compile a mod list, but I'm not making any promises and I doubt anyone really wants that very bad anyway.

...and that right there is the last thing I wrote before I forgot about this draft for 2 months.

In that time, the Adventure Mode beta appeared. I stayed up all night waiting for it to come out, but it was still rough enough that I didn't dive all the way in just yet. However, I realized something after playing as a cockatiel man who got viciously killed for starting random fights with innocent dwarves in my own half-abandoned fortress which went to hell because apparently the AI lets all of the animals out of cages and unlocks all the doors when you retire a fort. There might still be much more to do in Daarunbay Detevay. Rat World may be doomed but there's no reason we couldn't make a party of Rat Bandits. Better yet we could embark from Rushsly on the mission of a lifetime: to kill Vakeek Malignreasons.

So I don't know. Maybe we're going to do that. Maybe I will actually make some YouTube Content and I'll never reveal there that I was the Kobblefort guy but you could see a video and recognize my loquacious schizotypal affect, and you'd be like "dude, aren't you the guy who did Kobblefort?" and I wouldn't respond or maybe I'd be like "what is that" but you'd know. You'd know it was me. But just for the record please don't go around asking Dwarf Fortress YouTubers if they're the Kobblefort guy. Because either they don't know and you have exposed a YouTube person (much more normal than Tumblr people, on the whole) to Kobblefort or you have put me on the spot. So yeah, just forget you ever read any of this, except for during the time where you're reading it. I'm trying to do the exact opposite of "death of the author" here. This is "death of the reader." No that sounds fucked up. This is "life of the author." Sure. See you soon