#but also Don’t Touch Me™️)] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dakusan · 11 days ago

Text

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #lee know #lee know x reader #lee minho smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho skz #tethered tuesday

957 notes · View notes

hy6erion · 5 months ago

Note

Uh, consider, if you will, JayVik x artists reader? Not sure if u wrote for JayVik so if not then just Viktor’s good too!!

But uh, I’ve been drawing for my whole life and I’m kinda ass at science and I just think it’d be neat to hang out in the lab with them and be,, entirely unhelpful

I’m making little doodles of characters or flowers and they’re making magic tools for the betterment of society (very cool)

Also, it seems to b common for artists characters to also paint but i mega hate painting cause it’s evil and, the worst ™️. I mostly work with markers

Also also, I think it would b very cute if the reader just doodled Jayce n Viktor n showed them after all proud of the drawing n stuff!!

Obviously u don’t have to include everything, I kinda rambled a bit here, but uh, yeah!

Hope ur doing good :))

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐕𝐢𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⍣✰..𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦, 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟

⇢ 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲/𝐧, 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐣𝐚𝐲𝐯𝐢𝐤, 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 (𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞) 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

𝐢 𝐠𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝟏𝟎 𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞. 𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨�� 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐣𝐚𝐲𝐯𝐢𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 ｡^‿^｡

The lab had become something of a second home for y/n. Not because she had any business being there—Hextech and alchemical theory went straight over her head, and she was perfectly content to keep it that way—but because of them.

Jayce and Viktor were as different as fire and steel, the kind of contrast that made their arguments legendary and their rare moments of agreement dangerous. They bickered, they teased, they pushed each other to the edge, but beneath it all was something unshakable.

And Y/n had somehow found herself tangled in the middle of it.

The stool she sat on had long since become hers by default, wedged between Viktor’s usual seat and Jayce’s endless mess of blueprints. It put her right in the crossfire of their arguments, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

At the moment, Viktor was winning—at least, if the smug little curve of his mouth was any indication.

“Jayce, you must be at least somewhat familiar with the concept of precision.”

“Don’t start with me, Vik.”

Jayce was pacing again, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands running through his hair in frustration. The moment Viktor challenged him, he had to make a show of his suffering, like the world had personally wronged him. Y/n, who had been sketching the curve of Viktor’s jaw just moments before, sighed dramatically.

“Jayce, I’m begging you to sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”

Jayce turned to her, looking personally offended. “Y/n, love of my life, have you seen what he’s making me deal with?”

Viktor barely looked up from his work. “Making you? I was under the impression you begged for my help.”

Jayce groaned, dropping into his chair with all the weight of a man carrying the world’s burdens. “I hate both of you.”

“You love both of us,” Y/n corrected, flipping to a fresh page.

“Tragically,” Viktor added dryly.

Jayce huffed. “This is abuse.”

“It is affection.” Viktor’s hand reached out absently, fingertips grazing Jayce’s wrist before returning to his work. It was a small thing, an automatic thing, but it made y/n’s heart clench just a little.

Because that was how they were. Not just words or dramatic declarations (though Jayce was particularly good at those), but the little things—familiar touches, the way they naturally fell into each other’s space, the comfort in their presence.

She sketched the moment without thinking.

Jayce, head tipped back, exasperated. Viktor, ever smug, hand still resting against him, fingers loose. The way their bodies leaned towards each other, even in irritation.

“You’re drawing us again,” Jayce accused, though there was no heat to it.

Y/n smirked, dragging her charcoal in long, confident strokes. “Can you blame me? You two make excellent muses.”

Viktor hummed, casting her a sidelong glance. “And which one of us is your favorite muse, I wonder?”

“Oh, don’t do this,” Jayce groaned.

“Oh, but I must.”

Y/n, to her credit, considered it. “Hmm. That depends.”

Viktor quirked an eyebrow.

“On?”

“On which of you is willing to pose shirtless for my next series.”

Jayce’s head snapped up immediately. “Oh, I volunteer.”

Viktor scoffed. “Of course you do.”

“Come on, Vik, don’t pretend you don’t like showing off,” Jayce said, leaning against him now, all broad weight and smug warmth. “I like when you show off.”

Y/n watched with barely concealed amusement as Viktor shot him a long, unimpressed look—but there was a flicker of something softer in his expression, something that told her Jayce’s words weren’t entirely unwelcome.

Jayce grinned, and before Viktor could protest, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw, barely above his collar. It was quick, casual—something that had once been rare but had now become theirs. Viktor didn’t react, not visibly, but y/n caught the way his fingers stilled over his work for just a second.

It was moments like this that made her work impossible to put down.

“You two are ridiculous,” she said, though she was smiling.

“You love us,” Jayce echoed back at her, smug.

“Tragically,” Viktor deadpanned.

She laughed, shaking her head as she finally turned the sketchbook around. “Speaking of love—look.”

They did.

The pages were filled with them.

Viktor, hunched over his work, a lazy smirk on his lips. Jayce, mid-laugh, all wild joy. The way they moved around each other, the way they fit together, even when they were arguing. The way they looked at her.

And at the end—

All three of them.

Jayce, sprawled back, arms draped lazily over both of them, his usual warmth pulling them in. Viktor, against his side, head tipped slightly toward y/n, something softer there. And her, caught between them, exactly where she belonged.

There was silence.

Then Jayce exhaled. “Shit, that’s—”

“Perfect,” Viktor finished, voice quieter.

Y/n bit her lip. “Yeah?”

Jayce was already pulling her in, lifting her straight off the stool, laughing into her shoulder. “You’re insane, you know that? How did we end up with you?”

“You charmed me,” Y/n teased. “Or maybe Viktor did, I don’t know. He’s hard to resist.”

“I am,” Viktor agreed, flipping through the pages with something bordering on reverence. “And yet, it is you who captured us.”

Jayce pressed a kiss to her temple, grinning against her skin. “What do we have to do to get you to paint these?”

Y/n hummed. “Well… I do take payment in the form of physical affection.”

Jayce didn’t even hesitate before kissing her properly, pulling her into his chest with the ease of someone who knew she was his. Warmth, security, the unmistakable feel of home.

And then—before she could blink—Viktor’s hand curled against her jaw, tilting her just slightly. His kiss was softer, more controlled, but no less possessive. A silent claim, spoken through the press of lips and the steady grounding of his palm against her cheek.

When he pulled away, Jayce whistled low. “Damn.”

“Payment,” Viktor said simply.

Y/n was breathless. “That might be worth a series.”

Jayce groaned, flopping dramatically against the table. “Oh, great, now she’s inspired. We’ll never get her back.”

Viktor smirked, tugging y/n back onto his lap as she flipped through her sketchbook again.

“That,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “is a problem I am willing to have.”

#✰⍣ 𝐡𝐲𝟔𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 #arcane #x reader #x you #arcane viktor x reader #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #jayce talis #jayce arcane #jayce talis x reader #jayce x reader #jayvik #jayce x viktor #arcane jayvik #the more the merrier

495 notes · View notes

readwritealldayallnight · 9 months ago

Text

A Stranger is a Friend You Haven’t Met Yet… (Part 2)

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 5.5k words

(18+ mdni) warnings/tags: kinda barely enemies to lovers, tension, grinding, dry humping, finishing with clothes on, Ghost does not do feelings™️, mask stays on (for now)

Part 1 Part 3

‘Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst’.

That was something something you told yourself often, working as a woman in close contact with the military. Especially so when starting new assignments for the first time, landing on a new base, meeting new faces. More often than not the grand majority of those faces were men. Large, intimidating, burly men. Some of whom sometimes held certain feelings about a woman being brought in to work alongside them.

The first time you’d met Captain Price on yet another new base for yet another new assignment, shaking hands with the tall man, you’d once again repeated the familiar phrase to yourself. If only you could have known there was no real way to prepare for meeting the 141.

He walked you through numerous zig zagging hallway and corridors that made up the heart of the base, leading you towards the briefing room where you’d be meeting the rest of the task force your employer turned friend Laswell had assigned you to assist. Your work as a highly skilled translator meant that your unique credentials made you a vital asset to anyone you worked for. You were only a year out of finishing your degree when Laswell had scooped you up, seeing the potential in you.

As your mind shifted to her, you halted your steps, cursing yourself silently. You’d promised Laswell you would text her and let her know when you’d made it to your hotel safe last night. After the chaos of being left out in the dark, pouring rain at the wrong address following a 10 hour flight where they put your luggage on the wrong flight, being unable to find reception walking along a sketchy, desolate road in search of a way of calling a cab, being rescued by a large, mysterious, enticing stranger on a motorcycle, you’d forgotten to text Laswell before you crashed on the hotel bed that night.

It had equally slipped your mind the next morning when you woke up in a panic, only a few hours later due to the early start time of the briefing, shoving your still wet clothes into the questionable hotel dryer, hoping it would be good enough in time for your mad dash to the base. All this to say, the last 24 hours had left you frazzled, and you’d completely forgotten to get back to her.

“I’m so sorry Captain, I-”

“You’re welcome to call me Price, if you’d like. You’ll find we’re not always so formal ‘round here.” The older man replied, also pausing his foot steps so as to not leave you behind, offering a kind smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes.

“Price,” you corrected, offering him back the best smile you could muster up at that moment. “You’ll have to forgive me, I just need 60 seconds to contact Laswell, that’s all. I was supposed to-”

“Say no more.” He interrupts, holding his hands up as if in a display of mock surrender, taking one small step back towards the door to the briefing room. “If it’s Laswell, I don’t want to held responsible for upsettin’ her. Used up enough favours with her already to finally have her send you over our way.”

You offer him a genuine chuckle at that last comment, knowing that Kate is in fact more often than not bombarded with requests for your skills, and that the head of the 141 was one of those little birdies often chirping in her ear.

“I’ll give you a few minutes. Come in when you’re ready.” He kindly offers you before excusing himself into the briefing room. You take a steadying breath, pulling out your phone and quickly typing out a message to your friend, not wanting to cause a worse first impression than you might already be currently doing. The soft whoosh sound of your text being sent has barely touched your ears before you’re hiding your phone away, ready to get this show on the road.

Your hand is reaching out to twist the door handle, catching the tail end of Price’s deep voice telling someone that he’s “been tryin’ to get ahold of her for a long feckin’ time now.” before an excited Scottish accent adds “So it is a lass??”

‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst’ you thought one last time before opening the door and walking in to meet the 141.

“Last time I checked, yes, I’m still a ‘lass’.”

To your utter surprise, the transition into working alongside the 141 had been the easiest, dare you even say, the most fun, you’ve had in a long, long time. Price is a kind and fair leader, always looking out for his teammates. You, Soap and Gaz have gotten along with ease from the get go, the Sergeants taking an immediate liking to you.

“Is it really 11?” Gaz had asked you during that very first briefing between the five of you, a playful smiling stretching across his young, handsome face. Soap was gazing at you beside him with equal, genuine curiosity across his features.

“Yes, it’s 11.” You confirmed for them, used to the question at this point. It was a fair question, and you knew that. It wasn’t every day that they met someone who was perfectly fluent in six languages, fairly fluent in 3, and knew enough to effectively translate in another 2 languages. Sometimes, if you stayed on with a team for long enough, you forgot how ‘odd’ your work was, seeing people’s reactions for the first time, raving about how they wish they had your ‘gift’.

In actuality, your knowledge felt like the furthest thing from a gift, some days. Your skills were the result of hard work, blood, sweat and tears. You’d been raised in a household where 3 languages were spoken on a daily basis, and so though you did have that advantage early on in life, when you chose your path after high school graduation and decided to learn more than the 3 you already knew, you’d dedicated more effort to your pursuits than you ever had before.

Discovering your love for learning languages, your nose was never not in a book. This is how one of your first every contracts gifted you with the nickname that stuck with you to this day. Though you weren’t technically military, only working with them, the call sign was deemed too perfect not to be yours. This was something Soap was very curious about upon meeting you, and wasn’t shy to hide it.

“And the wee call sign? How’d a sweet lass like you end up being called that?” He questioned, earning a sideways glance from his superior, who was beginning to open his mouth to probably scold him before you laughed and reassured him it was fine.

“I was just starting to study Russian when I’d landed on what would be my longest job at the time. And Russian is really hard to learn, let me tell you. 33 letters in their alphabet, I was working more so had less time to study, anyways I was just reading a lot, always had my nose in a book.” You explained to the men, a familiar story you’d recounted countless times now. “Eventually that got me the nickname bookworm, which over time got shortened to, what it is now… worm.”

“Ach, nowhere near as fun as I’d been hopin’.” The Scot huffs out as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thought maybe you’da been forced to eat a worm at some point or-”

“Sergeant MacTavish!”

That first meeting had been a few weeks ago now, and you were pleasantly surprised at how well things were going. Well, almost everything. Because as kind as Price was, and as friendly as Soap was, and as inviting as Gaz was, those men only made up 3/4 of the task force. There was one other member of the 141, and the issue wasn’t that he’d been missing from that initial briefing, it was that he hadn’t said one goddamn word to you.

The entire time, the massive, intimidating, beast of a man sat in the corner of the room, eyes hidden by the shadows that the skull plated mask he wore cast over where his eyes should be, almost giving off the impression as if the figure behind were not alive. Price had introduced him as simply, Ghost, the Lieutenant. And that’s exactly what he was, a ghost hovering in the space, listening in on the stories that those alive and well were sharing around the table, never saying a word, never making a sound, never even moving.

It wasn’t until the briefing finally ended, Price explaining that he would show you towards the room that would now be yours for the indeterminate future, that you finally saw any sign of life from him, as he took no hesitation in standing to his feet and swiftly leaving the room, all without a word or look of acknowledgement in your direction.

“Don’t you be worryin’ yourself over him, wormie.” Soap had insisted one evening as he helped you spar in the gym. You were by no means a soldier, and were not expected to fight. However more and more often you work was requiring you to be on at the heart of the chaos, translating for your team on the spot in tense, increasingly dangerous situations. It was vital, no, necessary, to Price that they go over what sort of self defence you knew so that they could judge for themselves what was adequate and what needed improving before he deemed you fit to be defending yourself from more than your colleagues.

“It isn’t just you, he act this way with anyone new.” Gaz added as well from where he was stood on the edge of the mats, observing your progress (or the lack thereof rather). “Takes him time to warm up, ya see. He just doesn’t know ya yet.”

“He’s still warmin’ up to me, even now! If you’ll believe me, bonnie!” Soap had joked, wanting to squash your concerns.

The days dragged on however, and the Lieutenant’s behaviour became increasingly odd. He still would not speak to you, and so you never tried initiating contact, reading his message loud and clear. But there were times where you’d be holding multiple folders, if not boxes, of files and information on the way to a briefing, and you would run across none other than Ghost.

Rather than continuing to ignore your presence and continuing his way to the briefing room, he’d wordlessly pluck the items from your hands, carrying them in your place, pace quickening as if to leave you behind. Another time, you were practicing strapping on gear that you’d apparently be expected to wear at times depending on the climate and the situation, intent on heading straight to the gym afterwards to practice sparring, as per his idea to have you practice in actual equipment.

You knew Ghost was somewhere in the room as well, polishing some weapon or another, but you were focused on your task. That’s part of why you were so caught off guard when you stood up, thinking you’d finished gearing up correctly, and found your path to the door blocked suddenly by the Lieutenant’s immense frame taking up your line of sight.

You’d gasped in surprise at his unexpected closeness, finding your mouth gone dry when his large gloved hands reached out to your front, adjusting the straps of your tactical vest without a word. As quickly as he had appeared before you, he’d completed his task and disappeared, leaving you spinning from the interaction.

The next time, you were in the mess hall, standing awkwardly as you tried to leave a conversation but didn’t know how to do so politely. The young Sergeant had suddenly introduced himself to you as you were walking out, and the man had yet to take a single breath to allow you to speak and excuse yourself. Something apparently caught in his throat however, when he quickly clammed up, eyes going wide, gaze trained over your shoulder, before he suddenly had to be somewhere and dashed out of sight.

When you’d turned around, you’d barely caught enough of a glimpse, but you were certain it was Ghost you saw turning the corner, confusing you even further. You couldn’t make any sense of his behaviour, unsure of what to make of the situation. Things came to a head however, when Price decided it was time for the Lieutenant to begin handling your training.

Ghost casts a quick glance around the gym as he walks in, finding that he’s the first to arrive this morning, something he’s thankful for. He’s still not sure how he’s going to go about this. When Price had approached him, saying that he believed the sergeants were going too easy on you in your training and that he wanted him to take over, he knew he was not in any position to refuse.

After all, how was he meant to explain to his captain that he’d rather not be left alone with you. Not when he’d been trying to avoid you at every cost, realizing that out of the dark and the rain, wearing his usual Ghost mask that had been absent from his face the night he met you on his motorcycle, you hadn’t recognized him. And why would you? The only identifying feature you might remember from that night, was his voice, and he’d been making every effort to avoid speaking you thus far.

At first, he wasn’t sure why he was going to such lengths to avoid you, a complete 180 to the way he’d gone out of his way to help you previously. Deep down though, he knew why.

You’d called him a good man.

He’d gone back to base and touched himself, relieved himself, came all over his first like a damn teenager, all to the thought of you, the thought of your sweet voice calling him just that, a good man.

But you had only called him that because you didn’t know him, not really. Your idea of that hero riding in on a steel steed, saving you when you needed it, was not something he wanted to taint, to ruin, with the revelation that that man was actually him, the farthest thing from good there could ever be.

Realistically, he knew he couldn’t avoid you forever, not when you’d apparently be working together. God, what a shock that had been to see you stepping into the briefing room. His intention wasn’t to ignore you completely, at least not indefinitely. He only wanted to buy himself some time, give himself a chance to think of what he might say should you somehow recognize him. But then every time you were in his line of sight, the only thing he could think of was his exit strategy, how to get as far from you as possible.

And yet, even as the days turned into weeks, Simon’s avoidance of you couldn’t hide the growing affection that beginning to take form in the recesses of his heart. Any time he was within hearing range, his ears were tuned in to every word that left your mouth. When your back was turned to him, his eyes were following your every move. Even his own body was beginning to fight against his mind at times, taking initiative before he could realize that he was adjusting the straps to your tactical vest, the thought of you being in a high risk situation without being properly secured leaving a foul taste in his mouth, finding his hands relieving you of the load of whatever paperwork you were bringing to the briefing that day.

Or worse, he finds himself intimidating any man whose eyes land on your figure for a fraction of a second too long for his liking, or who has the balls to actually speak to you. Acting as though he had any right to act as your protector, to involve himself in your life like this without having ever even had the courtesy to speak to you. He really was going about this all wrong, wasn’t he?

Any further self destructive ideas Ghost might had come up with are instead cut short when he hears the hinges of the gym door squeaking open once more. His head swivels in the direction of the noise, eyes landing on none other than you. He’s seen you in your sparring sessions with the sergeants, seen you walk in full of energy, enthusiastic about proving your abilities and learning how to improve them. This morning however, you appear almost timid, trying to make yourself appear smaller as the loud thud of the door slamming shut behind you resonates out, only further emphasizing how alone you and Ghost are now.

He knows he has to be the one making you feel this way, and you aren’t without good reason. Clearing his throat, Ghost acknowledges he’s stalled as long as he can, if you’re going to recognize him, it’s just going to happen.

“Alright?” His deep, gravelly voice rings out in the space. You nearly jump in surprise but manage to school your expression. You wonder if his voice always sounds so rough, or if its a by product of the early morning hour. Whereas Soap and Gaz, ever the gentleman, had asked you what time you’d prefer to train, leading to late night sparring sessions, Price had informed you that Ghost would be meeting you in the gym before the sun had even come up. Damn military men and their early wake up times.

“I’m alright, yeah. How uh- how are you? Sir.” You reply, slowly stepping towards the training mats where Ghost is stood, muscular arms crossed over his huge chest. You tack on the ‘sir’ at the end, not wanting to get on his bad side before you even have a chance to begin training.

“Ghost will do.” He corrects you, ignoring your question otherwise. Ghost finds himself feeling antsy, almost out of his element, he doesn’t like that you’re messing with his head so much already. He��d rather get this over with. The less chit chat (and the less odds of you recognizing him by his voice), the better. “You ready?”

“Yes, I stretched before coming so, should be ready.” You answer him, finally stepping near enough that you’re within reaching distance of one another. Fuck, he’s suddenly extremely thankful you chose to do that before coming here, he’s not sure how he would’ve managed watching you bend over every which way to stretch.

“Right. Let’s see what the sergeants have taught you then.”

All in all, you’re actually not as bad as he might have expected, for someone who wasn’t a soldier. Obviously, he was going easier on you than he would’ve if it were Garrick or MacTavish he were sparring with, but he wasn’t completely letting you win either. You were fast on your feet, slippery in his grasps (maybe that’s why they should’ve named you worm), quick to think and to dodge his movements. He finds himself actually surprisingly quite pleased with you.

What he isn’t enjoying as much, or rather is probably enjoying too much and that’s the issue, are the fucking noises you keep making. Your small grunts of exertion, your puffs of breath drenched in effort, the groans you let out every time he lands a soft blow on you, not nearly as hard as he’d hit an enemy, but with enough force you knock the wind out of you each time. He’s also noticing the way the sweat drips down your neck, across your collarbone, sneaking into the heaving valley between your breasts.

There’s stirring happening in Ghost’s sweatpants and suddenly he needs this session to be over with sooner rather than later. He’s about to call it good enough for today when you open your pretty little mouth and say:

“Why are going easy me?” You’re panting, cheeks reddened with the blood pumping through you and his continues to gather somewhere it really shouldn’t be right now.

“What?” He grunts out, turning his back to you. He reaches a hand behind his neck with a towel, wiping at whatever sweaty skin his balaclava exposes.

“Look I’m not trying to pick a fight with you-” He’s cursing himself silently already at your words. “But not even Garrick or MacTavish treat me like I’m that weak. And they don’t have any issues with me being here.”

“Don’t have any issues with you.” He attempts to reply coolly, still not facing you, though he’s finding himself standing up straighter.

“With all due respect, that’s pure shit.” You retort. At this, he swings around to look at you, eyes narrowing. So she’s got some bite to her. “You’ve had an issue since I arrived, and that’s fine. I don’t need you to like me. But if you’re the one who’s apparently going to be training me now, I’d appreciate if you didn’t treat me like a kid. I’m here to do my job, and do it right. Can I expect the same from you, Lieutenant?”

If you were anyone else, he’d have you running laps around the entire base by now for talking back to him like this. Except you’re not anyone else, you’re you. And now you’re stepping closer to his space, this small thing daring to get into his face over him not training you hard enough? If harder is what you want, then harder is what you’ll get, little worm.

“You want me to go harder on you, s’that it?” He questions, taking the final step forward until your chests are now touching, and you’re having to crane your neck back to maintain eye contact. He’s close enough he sees you swallow at his question, but you don’t dare back down. Good girl. “Treat you like a big girl, s’that right?”

Suddenly struggling to find your voice, you manage what you hope is a confident nod. He’s never been so close to you before, and you’re noticing that the scent of him, even covered in sweat and likely morning breath behind his balaclava, is dizzying. Nearly intoxicating. He smells like a pure man, and you’re internally berating yourself to stay focused.

“Careful what ya wish for.” He says, barely allowing a second to pass before he’s suddenly throwing you onto the mat, flipping you onto your back, both of your hands pinned above your head in one of his large palms, his large, heavy body holding you in place underneath him, all in the blink of an eye. “What now, little worm? How are ya wrigglin’ your way out this?” He presses his mask covered mouth next to your ear, feeling a shiver go through your body at his words.

He’s careful to keep his now raging erection away from you, leaning his hips back but still pressing enough weight on you to keep you from budging. To your credit, you do try to get out from underneath him, but it’s a losing battle from the start, you’re no match for his size, especially with both hands above your head like this. Your cheeks are reddening in a mix of effort and embarrassment, and Ghost finds himself enjoying this view far too much.

“See, I was actually bein’ quite nice to ya,” He adds, barely tightening his grip on your hands, as if to remind you that he’s not even using his full strength with you. “But out there, wormie. They’re not gon’ be so kind-”

Whatever Ghost was going to say is cut off by a genuine, ragged gasp erupting from behind his mask. In your effort to free yourself, you’ve lifted your hips, unknowingly rubbing yourself against the bulge straining in the front of his sweatpants. Shocked by his reaction, you stay frozen in place, still pressed against what you can now tell is his throbbing member. And from what you can fell, it’s huge.

You’re momentarily caught off guard by his reaction to you. You weren’t exactly expecting… this. But his delicious, masculine odor is filling your nostrils, it feels as if every inch of you is pinned down by every inch of him, you can feel every twitch of his muscles and can practically count the steady beating of his heart through his cock pressing intro your thigh. And though you’ve always prided yourself on thinking first, acting second, you can’t exactly explain why you find yourself slowly beginning to rock your hips forward.

“This is you bein’ nice, Lieutenant?” You attempt to ask coyly, though you can’t hide the breathy way your voice comes across. Before you can pull your hips back anymore however, Ghost is suddenly releasing you from his grasp, standing to full height and dashing out of the room before you have a chance to even sit up.

Well, that went well.

The birds have only just begun to chirp when there’s a loud banging at your door early the next morning. You’re confused, prepared to tell whoever is on the other side of the door that it had better be a matter of life or death, when you come face to face with none other than a Ghost.

“What are-”

“If training starts at 0500, then you are to be in the gym at 0500. Understood?” His gravelly voice demands. A quick glance to your watch tells you it’s 3 minutes past 5 in the morning. You had been certain after yesterdays debacle that Ghost would never want to train with you again, assuming that he’d speak with Price about handing you back over to the sergeants somehow.

So why does the sight of this gigantic masked man standing in your doorway, so large he blocks most of the light coming in from the hall, someone who’s done nothing but piss you off so far, arriving in absolute insistence that you continue sparring together, have your thighs suddenly clenching together?

“I thought that-” You cut yourself off as you watch him tilt his head, almost as if daring you to finish that sentence. “Yes sir.”

“Get changed. You’ve got 60 seconds.” He informs you before reach to shut your door for you.

That’s how you find yourselves alone in the gym a short time later, training resuming. To his credit, Ghost does not go as easy on you this time as he did yesterday, genuinely challenging your abilities in self-defence and close quarters combat, teaching you moves that Soap and Gaz had apparently not considered necessary.

“If you’re ever in a situation where it’s your life on the line,” he had said between clenched teeth as he taught you to dodge his blows more effectively, as if the thought of you in actual danger enraged him enough to chip a tooth. “I want you doing anything necessary, to get out o’ there. Understood? You make it out.”

By the end of the session, Ghost himself is panting with exertion, the both of you having put in more energy than you would have, were you sparring with anyone else. You watch him, hands on his hips as he catches his breath, head tilted slightly to the ceiling, and you decide it’s as a good opportunity as any to try and catch him off guard, feeling confident in yourself.

Foolishly confident.

Before you even manage to land a finger on him, he’s flipping you into the very same position as you found yourselves in yesterday, you on your back with him above you, one of his hands pinning the both of yours above your head as his other is planted by your waist, warm breaths meeting in the middle.

“That, I never want to see you do again.”

“Was worth a try.”

“Was it?”

You slowly raise your hips, unsurprised when you make contact with his steel hard cock above you, teasingly rubbing yourself against his length.

“Maybe.” You whisper, eyes searching his glazed over expression. You find his pupils have darkened to the point they eclipse almost all colour, specks of black eye paint smudged around his eyes have caught onto his eyelashes. He’s so close to you, you’re able to make them out as blond. Something about being near enough to the mysterious, alluring Ghost to know that he’s blond under that mask causes the blush on your cheeks to darken further.

As caught up as you are in the obvious want you find behind his eyes, there’s something about them that almost, somehow seem familiar. As if you’ve looked into these eyes before, in a different place, a different context, a different time.

Any rational thoughts are cut off however, when you both hear and feel Ghost growl, the hand that was planted at your side now coming to sneak between your back and the floor, pulling your front somehow even closer to his muscular chest. There isn’t an inch of space between the two of you now, your heads falling beside each other, temple to temple, as his grip on the situation finally slips, his resolves breaks, and he begins to grind against you.

You let out a gasp, the feeling of his pulsing member rubbing against your centre, even with all the layers of clothing, is sinfully delicious. You suspect he’s feeling the same way, because his grip on your waist tightens, hips bucking already with more insistence. His grunts are music to your ears, as are the small moans and whimpers you let out into his neck. You’ve wrapped one leg behind him, widening your hips as far as they’ll allow, granting him as much access to your core as his large frame needs. Having released your hands to allow himself to explore the soft squeeze of your breasts through your workout shirt, your fingers in turn are roaming up and down his back, across his shoulders, fingers nails scratching at the fabric of his shirt.

Ghost knows he’s not going to last long. When he’d gone to get you this morning for your sparring session, he was determined not to let yesterday’s events get in the way of his professionalism. You were right, after all. You both had a job to do, and he would ensure you could do it right. He would sleep better at night anyways, knowing you were properly trained in how to defend yourself. Trained by him, and his hands. He hadn’t intended for the session to end the way yesterday’s had, with you laying beneath his raging erection on the sweaty training mats, though he wouldn’t lie and say he hadn’t hoped for it in some small part.

He knows he’s not going to last long because he’s finally, somehow, got you here underneath him, and your small sounds of pleasure are better than anything his twisted imagination could have ever conjured up. He shouldn’t take it any farther than this. This is already going too far, humping you into the ground of the gym fully clothed like a pair of teenagers who can’t keep their hands to themselves. But that’s exactly what you make him feel like though, isn’t it?

No, he won’t go farther than this, won’t allow himself to take more than this. This alone is more than he feels he deserves. God, how he wishes he could give you what you deserve though. Releasing your breasts from his continued groping, he snakes his hands down your stomach, meeting the hem of your pants, allowing his digits to slip beneath the band of your underwear, fingers instantly finding your pulsating clit between your soaked folds. Your moans only grow louder as he begins to quickly bring you closer to your peak, one of your hands coming to cover your mouth should anyone happen to be walking by.

It feels as if the two of you are caught in a raging storm, two inevitable waves colliding with one another in a fury likened only to mother nature’s doing. You’re both reaching your peaks together, tumbling over the edge into pure, mind numbing bliss, as you continue to hold onto one another, as though you’re life preservers in the sea, seeing each other through to the end of the end of the fall.

Ghost can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed at the fact that he’s cum in his pants. Not when he’s searing your blissed out expression into his mind forever. You’re both panting now, coming back to your senses, remembering your surroundings, as well as the fact that with the time that’s passed, it’s becoming increasingly likely for anyone to walk in.

Taking one last look at you, squeezing your side with what might just be affection, Ghost begrudgingly rolls himself off of you, coming to stand, readjusting the front of his now wet sweatpants. He turns himself around, extending a hand out to you, which you accept, allowing him to pull you up.

Only you don’t let go of his hand right away. Instead, you tighten your grip on his palm, pull him closer to you, narrowing your eyes at him, a cheeky smile spreading across your lips.

“So,” you say, licking your lips. “Same time tomorrow?”

Longest chapter ever and first time writing sort of smut! Feel like I’m earning my place on tumblr lol

Reader gets a call sign and a bit of a back story! Hope it wasn’t too long or boring to read, it’s literally only because I really wanted to justify naming reader as ‘worm’ because there is absolutely definitely without a question eventually going to be a chapter where worm is drunk and crying about how the boys are saying they wouldn’t love her if she turned into a worm thank you that is all

- M 🫶🏻

599 notes · View notes

p0rnd3aler · 11 months ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE NSFW THINK PIECE/DRABBLE

I’m depraved

Rafayel is the neediest. He’s got a lot of insecurities/abandonment issues from his first love and he def has an anxious attachment style. He’s also absolutely the type of person to be codependent (Hello?? “Join me let’s drown in the ocean together”????? Like, come on). He’s constantly trying to do every little thing with you, almost like he can’t breathe unless it’s air that’s already been filtered through your lungs.

However, all big baby behavior™️ considered, he definitely knows how to woo you. I feel like since he’s Lemurian and also an artist, he only knows how to love a person in the most deeply devoted and romantic way. He’s also very careful with his heart and who he gives it to, once he decides it’s truly and solely yours that’s it. There’s no one else. But you also have to honor that with proper care, he’s very sensitive.

Anyway, I feel like he fucks in a way that’s slow, very sensual. The kind of love making where he takes over all of your senses, all you can feel is his touch, all you can smell is his sweat and cologne, all you can taste is him on your tongue, and all you can see and hear are his face and the sweet words of devotion he whimpers in your ear.

He’s also very easy to rile up.

Zayne is boring to me. Like I get the appeal he’s very hot and he’s also very stable (in a romantic sense) and healthy but I just can’t fantasize about that. Like yeah he’s a busy ass surgeon who will always make time for you no matter what and he’s super devoted and always caring for you in little ways, but also mf will make you take a water break during sex if you’re too wet bc he doesn’t want you to get dehydrated. Im done.

Honestly I think I’m biased against him bc the way he talks to MC just reminds me of this horrid man I met at a bus stop once who immediately started trying to tell me what to do/give me life advice. I get Zayne is qualified and the guy at the bus stop was not but idc if y’all want me to put effort into writing for him ur gonna have to submit it into the requests baby, moving on.

SYLUS. I feel like everybody thinks he’s just some big ol’ nasty freak but they’re WRONG. THEYRE WRONG ABOUT HIM.

Don’t get me wrong he’s definitely fucking tweaking when you first meet him, like just going apeshit off the bat with no context for us. But also? Once you get to know him? Bitch I’ll kill for that man you do not know. This mf drops everything for you.

Important arms deal he’s been trying to set up for a year or going to the arcade with you to get plushies out of a claw machine? Deal = cancelled

The fearless leader of the N109 zone who blows up anyone who perturbs him slightly. MF contributes 50% of the carbon in the atmosphere alone with the amount of shit he literally actually blows up with bombs. But you? You may break into his house and handcuff him to his bed in his sleep while trying to steal a brooch off of him. he doesn’t give a fuck. he’s in love with you. Set his house on fire! He won’t care! He’ll just buy a new one!

As rough as he is around the edges he’s completely smitten. “You should know I adore you. There is no love purer than mine.” Like girl don’t fucking play with me. Is he mentally ill? Absolutely. But he is so devoted, so careful with you. “I’m never annoyed when we do things together.” It’s literally like he’s learning how to be a human being for once and he doesn’t care about losing the coldness or sharpness he once had because you’re more than enough to replace any absence the loss of those thing may bring. He knows he’s getting soft and doesn’t care. He doesn’t try to stop it. To kill for you is nothing to him. Not even a second thought. He kills all the time. But he would never harm again if the violence ever came in between you two.

And I think that dedication, that devotion totally translates itself into how he makes love to you. He’s definitely a filthy talker, I think he says some NASTY shit during sex, just because he likes seeing you squirm and feel how your skin gets hot from his words. But I don’t think he likes hurting you. He wouldn’t do anything to harm you. He’ll spank you yeah, and he’ll tap or squish your cheeks to get your attention. But he only wants to bring you pure, carnal pleasure when it comes to sex. If you even think “that feels good” he’s like a dog with a bone. You get no rest when he’s there you only get mind-numbing pleasure. He’s a tease, he’ll poke lighthearted fun at how loud you’re being, ask you who you think can hear you two while you’re being nasty. But he knows you. He knows what you love, what gets you off, and he cares to learn all of this because of how much he loves you God I’m SICK

Xavier is filthy. That man laps up your pussy like a thirsty dog. The freakiest nastiest mf out of all of them. He won’t show any sexual prowess or interest for months I think. I’m not sure he’s even aware of his powers. Your relationship will literally be based around his chaotic sleeping “schedule” (that shit is not a schedule) and relaxing between missions together. All things considered, you guys spend almost every waking (and sleeping) hour together. Work, dates, naps, eating, it’s almost always together.

It’s not until he hears you getting hit on all night that his composure finally starts to crack.

Three months of the sweetest, purest boyfriend you could ever ask for. Your sweet silly boy, who starts silently pouting all night. It’s not until you two finally find a hotel to stay at for the night, that he finally starts loosening up.

“I’m not a young fool, you know. I don’t take what’s in front of me for granted” he quotes the guys hitting on you earlier, which he heard through your ear piece. Then he recites every time another guy hit on you while you two were on your mission. He’s a jealous jealous jealous boy. He HATES other guys vying for your attention. It just makes him want to whisk you away and bounce you on his dick so loud that every other guy can hear it. When he feels jealousy, he feels the need to mark, claim, devour you so no one else can try and steal you. He gets himself worked up. Stewing and agonizing over the thought and the memory of another guy trying to get to you so much that he can’t even think of sleeping. He gets completely taken over by the urge to have your every reaction solely based on him and what he gives you. I think he fights off these feelings for a long time, up until the protocore mission in the misty invasion memory. He just barely keeps it together until you’re rubbing all over him, pulling him closer to whisper his name in his ear, he just can’t take it. He needs to hear you say it louder. He needs everyone to hear you say his name.

He fucks you so sloppy, the kind of man who does not care what means he has to use as long as the end is what he wants. He wants you covered in marks of his making, he wants you to smell like him, he wants you to have trouble walking the next day, and he wants that asshole who tried hitting on you at work to ask you “what’s wrong? You look like you’re having trouble walking”

And as soon as the guy asks that you look over to Xavier, who has the most pleased little shit eating grin on his face.

The craziest part is that after he gets it all out of his system he’s back to being the little innocent sweet boy. But you know his secret, and he likes that you know it.

#sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lads #lads sylus #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads xavier #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x mc #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace sylus #lads smut

590 notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 2 years ago

Text

A Thought™️ that I had last night and shared in the Discord server, that I’m now going to share here more fleshed out.

Content: implied/mentioned dubcon, kidnapping, unhealthy relationship dynamics, objectification, and reader anxiety.

Oh and Simon being Mean.

You belong to Johnny — one of his toys, essentially. Like a cock ring or a vibrator but better because you also serve as a little companion pet. Someone that Simon got for Johnny to pour all that overflowing love and tenderness into when he just… can’t handle it. When he starts wanting to hurt Johnny in Very Bad ways past the lines they already walk, only because Johnny wants to dote on him.

So Simon got you as a gift for Johnny.

And he gets to dote on you, chatter to you, soothe you, fuck you. It’s a weird “relationship” you two have. Johnny pouring so much into you while you awkwardly try to reciprocate and tolerate. A bit like a child’s beloved long-suffering pet. Simon lets Johnny drag you everywhere, dress you up, babble on about you. Put in all that attention and energy when Simon is needed (or simply just focused) elsewhere. Johnny’s happy as a peach, Simon gets a bit of a break, and you’re a soft-spined thing that’s stopped crying and whining for the most part so wins all around.

You and Simon’s relationship is nonexistent. Just a matter of logistics. You’re one of Johnny’s toys that Simon got for him, end of. You interact with him only so far as 1, following the rules of captivity; 2, keeping Johnny happy; and 3, being used as a reward or punishment to be given or taken away.

And the two of you are respectively fine with that. You follow Johnny around, speak almost solely to or through him. Are not acknowledged by Simon unless Johnny’s showing you off.

Until Johnny is gone for a Period of Time. A mission, most likely.

While he’s away, you treat it as a sort of vacation and just avoid Simon, don’t even ask when Johnny will be back. Until one day you’re going about your business, kind of bebopping along in your own little world. And almost run directly into Simon.

Blink in surprise, hurriedly skirt around him, pulse skipping. “Excuse me,” you say, soft and melodic (a voice you specifically use to soothe and neutralize) and then pad away quickly.

It flips something in Simon’s brain. Like a cat seeing a bit of interesting movement. Locked on, tail swishing.

You’re just so… shy. Even with Johnny you’ve always been a bit reserved, but with Simon you studiously avoid eye contact with his very person - in a way he can’t even get Johnny to do in the deepest subspace. You’re just this quiet little thing that lives in his house, and it’s like it only just occurs to him.

Simon starts finding ways to hem you in against counters and walls, making you squeeze past in hallways. You try to be so so careful of his Sacred Personal Space because Johnny’s gleeful shared stories (and shown you evidence) about how Simon “handles” touching without permission. You’ve no interest in being on the receiving end of any of that, thank you very much.

But then Simon starts showing up all over the house to watch you like a specimen — you devoid of Johnny. You’re so normal and functional. Snacks and tv shows and novels. Bird watching in the windows. Napping in Johnny’s room. Cooking and cleaning up after yourself.

He starts taking up all the space you just got back. Fills up a room with his presence alone. Squishes you in on the couch until you’re nearly falling over the arm just to maintain that sliver of no-contact.

Gets to the point that he even growls at you when you pass too close, just to hear you squeak and watch you dart off with a mumbled, “sorry!”

“Make us a cup of tea,” he says as your futzing in the kitchen on morning.

You’re so used to being ignored that you don’t respond, mouthing words to some ditzy song stuck in your head. He grunts in annoyance and takes two long strides towards you — not that he needs to, your head snapped up halfway through the first.

“Oop,” you breathe, scrambling away from the counter.

“The hell are you going?” He ask, voice purposefully gruff.

“I, um… I thought… that you needed something…?” you explain, pointing at the cabinets you were just in front of.

“I need a fucking cuppa.”

You blink.

He reminds himself that you’re not trained like Johnny. But that doesn’t mean you’re getting away with anything.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?”

A double blink as you seem to process. “O-oh! Uh, sure. The black cup right?”

You shuffle back to your previous spot and reach into the cabinet, up on your toes because Simon put it a shelf higher than usual. Seem to actually be waiting for a response as you hold the mug up in question. He just stares.

And there goes the nibbling - a nervous habit that tears up your bottom lip. Still, you keep going, filling the kettle and tapping your fingers nervously at the sides as you wait.

“Earl Grey?” you ask.

He grunts. You look a little frustrated about that, if you should take it as a yes. Decide that it is and fish a sachet out while the water’s heating.

While you wait, you try to continue what you were doing before - making yourself a little parfait - but Simon’s stationed himself in such a way that you can’t get to the cutting boards without asking him to move. And you really, really want some of the fresh fruit he bought yesterday.

“Um…” you start.

He crosses his arms, seems to loom without ever taking a step closer. You fidget, fingers twisting in the long sleeves of your jumper.

“I need — could… could you…?” You’re flushing brighter and brighter, eyes darting all over so fast he’s surprised you’re not dizzy. “Could I get by… um, into that cupboard… please?”

He takes a single half step to the side. Your eyes actually get a bit shiny as you blink, confusion and anxiety welling up. But you keep it together enough to awkwardly angle yourself, get the cabinet open just a sliver, and maneuver a cutting board out.

Simon realizes you’re holding your breath the entire time, until you’re once again a safe distance away. He snorts softly as you pluck a tiny paring knife from the block and get to work on cutting up your assortment of fruits.

“Who the hell said you could have a knife?” he demands.

You pause, give him a truly baffled look. “Um… no one said I couldn’t? I just, uh, use them sometimes. Johnny’s taught me tricks. Or-or tried to anyway…”

It’s the most he’s ever heard you speak. Your tone catches between appeasement and genuine confusion. You finish cutting a strawberry into cubes, then send him a worried glance.

“Am I… not supposed to…?”

Because you know that it doesn’t matter how things normally are. What matters is how Simon wants things to be.

“Put that down.”

You do. He strides towards you and as always, you’re quick to make way. He takes up the knife to finish paring and jerks his head at the the stove.

“Tea’s almost done. Take care of it.”

You jump as the kettle starts to whistle, murmur a quick “oh, shoot!” as you hurry to finish making his tea. By the time you’re done, he’d cut all the fruit and stolen a handful as a toll for his “help”.

Hasn’t actually put any of the fruit in your waiting yogurt, though. And the dishes are still there on the counter, along with detritus of unwanted bits like strawberry tops.

He takes a sip — made just the way he likes.

“Next time, dont make me repeat myself,” he barks.

You jump nearly a mile, blueberries rolling across the counter.

“Y-you repeated yourself?” You ask, hurrying to catch the berries before they hit the ground.

“About the tea,” he explains impatiently.

You blink for a second. “Oh! I thought you were on the phone. Sorry.”

He grunts. And doesn’t leave. After a moment, the pressure of his stare seems to get to you.

“Was… there anything else…?” you wonder.

“I’d tell you if there was,” he replies, flat.

You swallow, press your lips together, then continue with your task, shoulders a little tenser than before. When your parfait is finished (and dishes are in the machine) you escape to the dining table to eat in peace. He gives you two solitary bites before he’s at the corner next to you, and your spoon clinks against the bowl in surprise.

Well.

Isn’t this a fun game?

Masterlist

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #mean Simon ghost Riley #simon riley

1K notes · View notes

myherofics · 4 months ago

Text

— boobs, butts, or thighs? —

which body part of yours do the mha boys prefer?

« wc >800 »

« warnings: mildly suggestive, hickeys. »

« includes, izuku, katsuki, shoto, eijiro, denki, tenya, and hitoshi. »

izuku

-✨personality✨………ok. fine. he’s obsessed with your thighs.

-when you first start kissing more than just pecks, his hands just lightly brush your thighs, just in front of your knees.

-“i’m sorry. is this ok? 🥺”

-don’t be fooled by his innocent little eyes, he’ll be all over you, once he’s been with you a while.

-kneading your thighs with those ✨hands✨ of his awooga.

-imagine you’re sitting on the couch, there’s some movie playing, but you guys are just sucking face instead. now imagine he pulls you in by your thighs to straddle his lap…

-anyway.

-likes to nap on your thighs. sleepy boi 😴

-will kiss on them, but it’s very innocent honestly.

-when he’s all snuggled up on your legs, and lightly kisses the sides.

-accidentally left a hickey one time, and got so embarrassed.

-will leave more tho if you let him…

katsuki

-bum.

-but you already knew that.

-he’s definitely the type to have his hand in your back pocket when you’re out.

-pretends he hates it when he’s?? literally the one initiating it??

-careful, he pinches.

-going up stairs and he’s behind you? run.

-he’s honestly not that rough tho.

-pretends he is, but the most he does is little taps and squeezes.

-his hands always slide down to your butt while you’re making out.

-he doesn’t even mean to, it just happens.

-if you’re laying on your stomach scrolling through your phone or something, he’ll come lay on your bum, arms wrapped around your waist.

-“this ass is mine.”

shoto

-really likes your boobs actually.

-nuzzles into them. Catoroki™️

-doesn’t care how big they are, he just wants to bury his face there.

-will press soft kisses along your chest, while staring up at you with those entrancing eyes.

-he’s not a possessive person, but if you’re wearing something particularly low cut, he’ll get a twinge of jealousy.

-“let’s just pull this up a bit shall we, dear.” he says as he pulls your top up a bit so it covers more.

-not too bad, he just wants to be the only one who gets to see you like that.

eijiro

-if you asked him, he really couldn’t choose.

-honestly, just really loves your whole body.

-his hands tend to stray to your boobs more tho.

-really likes when he’s holding you, and his chest is pressed against yours.

-there’s bite marks on your boobs.

-definitely.

-is really respectful too, despite being a nipper.

-“can i touch? i’ll be gentle i promise..”

-he kind of stares a lot…

-if you’re wearing something low cut he’s just 👁️👁️.

-profusely apologizes if you catch him, and point it out.

-“sorry baby, you’re just so beautiful i can’t help but look 🥺”

denki

-this may surprise some people, but he prefers your thighs.

-they’re just the most convenient to touch most of the time.

-he loves that he can touch your thighs in public, without looking too much like a perv.

-one hand on the wheel one hand on your thigh.

-he’s also a biter.

-giggling against your thighs as he nibbles on them.

-when you’re sitting on his lap, and his hands are gripping your thighs, he’ll let off little sparks (sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose to make you jump).

-lightly taps on them when he’s bored.

tenya

-thinks it’s inappropriate to have a preference.

-it’s your boobs. and you can tell lol.

-he’ll spoon you and his Big™️ hand will trail to just under your boob, and he lightly, and innocently rubs his thumb over the base of it (please tell me you understand what i mean😭).

-does the same thing when he hugs you from behind.

-he seriously doesn’t notice he’s doing it til you point it out.

-“oh 😳 i won’t do it anymore, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

-please assure him that he’s allowed to touch your boobs whenever.

-will lightly touch them when you’re kissing, but he’s always gentle, and reserved with it.

hitoshi

-sleepy boi #2 likes your thighs.

-like todoroki he is Cat™️.

-nuzzles into them, and practically purrs as he finally falls asleep.

-the first time he falls asleep in your lap, you practically cry.

-while he’s asleep, he’ll subconsciously push his nose into the flesh with a teeny tiny itty bitty smile.

-will never admit it tho, and if you record it for proof, there’s not way you can manage to keep the video without him deleting it.

-like deku, he’ll manhandle you by your thighs a bit.

-let’s say you’re laying in bed on your phone, he’ll come up the edge, and grip your thighs, pulling you close to him with a smirk.

-“what are you doing in your phone when i’m here to entertain you?”

—————thank you—————

#mha #my hero academia #mha x reader #mha reactions #mha fluff #izuku midoriya #katsuki bakugo #shoto todoroki #eijiro kirishima #denki kaminari #tenya iida #hitoshi shinsou

290 notes · View notes

americasfavoritelesbian · 22 days ago

Text

WU TANG WENDY pairs : juju watkins x fem!reader in which : your the karate kid here at usc ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ MASTERS LIST || #USCWBB

JUJU WATKINS X READER . ( 2025 USC ™️ )

you grew up in the bronx. that means your morning started with yelling and sirens, ended with more yelling and maybe a chopped cheese from the corner store. you were never the "delicate" type — not when your parents enrolled you in karate at five years old after you accidentally roundhouse kicked your cousin in the head. they thought it was a phase.

turns out, it wasn’t.

you spent years waking up at 4:45 a.m., eyes still crusty, slipping into your old gi and heading to a worn-down dojo off 149th street. you dreamed your sensei would be like sensei larusso — wise, chill, a little mysterious. maybe he'd say cryptic things like “balance is everything.”

nope.

your sensei was wendy. young, tired of your bullshit, and mad strong. she once made a grown man cry in sparring and didn’t blink.

wendy has been in your life longer than any best friend, any girlfriend, any teacher. she’s the only one who’s ever said she’s proud of you after you win — but also the only one who’s told you you’re full of yourself when you start walking around with too much swagger. she still trains you to this day.

you love her. like… love her. not romantic, not weird. but that kind of love where if anybody even looks at her the wrong way, it’s up.

anyway. all that’s just background. fast forward. you got into usc. full ride. not for basketball, not for academics — they gave you a martial arts scholarship. who even knew that was a thing. you still train every morning with wendy over facetime, 5:30 sharp. she doesn’t care about time zones. and then there’s your crew. mia and delaynee. they’re not in your program, but they’re always around. they’re loud and unserious and they swear you need to “get out more” and “touch grass.” you tell them you spar people, you touch flesh.

they don’t laugh. they just shake their heads and tell you to come to more parties.

then came the weird girl. that’s how it started.

you were just in the rec center, on the mat, doing light sparring with mia and delaynee. nothing serious. just showing off, if you’re honest. you’ve been feeling untouchable lately.

and then she walked up. light-skinned, braids in a bun, oversized hoodie and basketball shorts that went like to her thighs. she had a calm swagger about her, like she was used to being the best in every room she entered.

"y’all mind if i hop in?"

delaynee blinked. mia looked you. you shrugged.

"you fight?" you ask.

she laughed. "nah. i hoop."

“so why are you here?” delaynee said, arms crossed.

“because someone told me a girl was out here handing out Ls like flyers.” she glanced at you. “figured i’d check it out.”

and then she got on the mat. no warmup. no hesitation. just… got on the mat.

"you sure?" you asked, tying your belt. "you sure?" she threw back.

cocky. annoying. but intriguing.

you weren’t going full speed — not really — but she was fast. her instincts were ridiculous. no formal technique, but she read your moves like subtitles. every punch you threw, she ducked. every kick, she spun out. when you swept low, she jumped.

you ended the match in a hold, but only barely. she stood up, smiling. not winded. not mad. just smiling.

"what’s your name?" you asked, fixing your gi. "juju."

"juju what?" "juju watkins."

you blinked. mia and delaynee’s jaws were open like cartoons. you had no idea who she was.

“…should i know you?” you asked.

juju grinned. "nah. but you will."

next day, mia pulls up your instagram and says, "ayza. you sparred juju watkins. like. the juju watkins. you live under a rock or something?"

you just blink. "she hoops. okay. cool."

"she doesn’t just hoop," delaynee groans. "she’s like, the chosen one. she been playing ball since she was four. she had scouts watching her in middle school."

you scroll through her page out of curiosity. she’s got clips, interviews, game highlights, videos of her dropping 30 like it’s nothing. and for someone with a big name… she’s chill. her captions aren’t try-hard. her smile’s real. her style’s clean.

you’re annoyed at how interesting she is. and how much she actually got under your skin during the match.

next time you see her, it’s at a team open gym. she’s got practice but stops to talk to you when you pass by. you’re sweaty. she’s sweaty. you should say bye and leave.

but she holds you up. "yo," she says. "you ever teach people karate?"

"i don’t do kids’ birthday parties," you smirk. she laughs. “nah, i meant like… me. i wanna learn.”

you raise an eyebrow. "why?"

she shrugs. "footwork. discipline. mental stuff. plus, i wanna beat you next time."

you stare at her. "you lost the first time."

"i almost had you." she steps close. “next time, i’ll finish the job.”

you roll your eyes. but you can’t lie. you’re already thinking about what move you’d teach her first.

maybe juju’s got something. maybe this season at usc won’t just be about degrees and dojo calls. maybe it’ll be about rivalry.

and maybe something else.

☆ ~LULU SPEAKS // GUYSSS , WHY IS EVERYBODY GETTING INJURED ,, LIKE CC AND EVERYONE ALSO . angel needa sit her hoe ass down , tryna fight cc . like bitch that’s why you got leaked ??

#juju watkins #juju x reader #usc wbb #usc trojans #usc x reader #juju watkins x reader #juju watkins imagine #gxg imagine #🌺#🫧#🎧 .#☆ ~ talula

83 notes · View notes

writing-for-life · 1 day ago

Text

First Impressions of Netflix Sandman Season 2

Okay, I need to get this off my chest. Some people might know I’m the resident comics geek in here, but I’m not a comics purist. I liked the changes they made to S1 because they all made narrative and emotional sense to me, and despite some softening around the edges, it all felt true to the story to me.

And that was one of the reasons why I went into Season 2 with such high hopes and so much excitement. And I did like S2 as a sort of standalone thing.

But I also have a lot of thoughts about it as an adaptation, and I don’t know what happened there. Well, I guess I do because I expected compressing it so much would lead to some fallout. And I would’ve been okay with that. But it’s the emotional core of the story that has changed, and in my mind not always in a good way (people are obviously free to disagree). But one thing after another. Slight spoilers under the cut…

The Disjointed Feeling

The pacing feels completely off. We’re jumping a lot between storylines without giving any of them space to breathe, especially in Season of Mists. And it felt a bit like checking boxes? As an example, Lucifer’s abdication was rushed through like it was just another plot point. The new Nada arc (I call it new because it has so little resemblance to the original one that I can’t call it anything else) also felt rushed. For me, it was really hard to feel invested in their story, but that’s not just because of the overall disjointed feel, and I’ll get to it later.

Brief Lives fared marginally better in terms of letting the story breathe, but I think that’s also down to its overall narrative structure in the comics, which obviously supports that. And while I loved that we got Wanda, it felt like fan-service but otherwise just… stale? Because we completely scrapped AGoY, and it honestly felt a bit like, “But we need to make sure we still shoehorn in the fan-favourite trans-character somehow.” Honestly, Wanda deserved so much better than being this type of checkbox, and at this rate, it felt like doing her a disservice. But again, people are free to disagree.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: I get they had to condense it and that their hands were tied in a way. But it felt like condensing while still trying to cram in too much? I think volume 1 would have benefitted from cutting certain stuff to give other, more important beats more breathing space so it doesn’t feel like getting whiplash half of the time.

They’re Making Dream… Sorta Nice?

This is the big one for me. They’re softening Morpheus into oblivion (no pun intended), and it’s killing what makes him such a compelling character. In the comics, Dream is actually terrifying and horrible very often and not one bit in touch with his feelings (and for a good reason). I know that everyone loves the sad wet cat meme of Morpheus in the rain, but that’s his theatrics and drama, which are only part of his emotional core. Morpheus hides/supresses his true emotions 95% of the time until he can’t anymore and they burst to the surface in the most maladjusted ways. He also doesn’t talk about them like he’s in friggin’ therapy. That’s all good and well for fanfic, I do it as well because it’s fun, but that’s not his emotional core. That’s us trying to fix him.

And Netflix!Dream in S2 felt like a massive fix-it fanfic to me. Maybe that’s why so many people don’t seem to care because Tumblr obviously laps up these tropes, don’t know. It’s also understandable that people who haven’t read the comics won’t even notice, and that’s also okay. Netflix!Morpheus is a very different character from comics!Morpheus, and that wouldn’t be a problem, but the narrative tension stops working if you still try to cram him into largely intact comics plot. In the show, he gets a million beats where he’s clearly meant to be sympathetic, where the camera lingers on his face so we can see how much he’s hurting™️, where he has conversations with Lucienne that feel like the clumsiest exposition ever to mAkE us UNderStaNd because we’re apparently stupid and can’t figure out stuff or emotional subtext for ourselves (that already annoyed me in S1 btw). But the whole point of Morpheus is that he doesn’t SHOW that hurt. He buries it under duty and pride and quiet rage until it all comes exploding out in the worst possible ways. Netflix!Dream has been cracked open right from the start, and I honestly hated a little how far they took that in S2, despite already getting hints at it in S1. None of this should have been truly visible before the end of act 2 (the end of Brief Lives—that’s where he cracks open), bar a few subtle hints (there are obviously a few bits in SoM that are largely inner monologue).

And even then: Can we talk about the wash bowl scene? Just no, sorry. I had expected that scene to rip me to shreds and turn me into a blubbering wreck because it still does in the comics. But I didn’t shed a single tear, and it left me strangely underwhelmed because I honestly felt… that’s not Morpheus? Apologies to everyone who loved Tom’s performance there, but I just really didn’t. And I wanted to 🥺 That’s no reflection on anyone’s acting, because the acting as such was great. It’s just a character that’s barely Morpheus anymore. He’s this:

I totally get how it could be argued that the emotional outburst is in tune with releasing grief, so if people prefer that, I can see and understand why. To me, the quiet grief away from everyone was always more powerful though. Because it’s enough. It’s someone who hasn’t allowed himself to connect to that truthful, deep part of himself while theatrics and drama are much more of a an openly acknowledged part of him. That’s why I find the chair scene so powerful (and I’m PISSED we didn’t get it)—because it’s quiet and truthful. The wild scrubbing and howling is much more Morpheus the drama queen for me, but I get that I’ll be alone with that, and I’m okay with it 🤣

Which brings me to: The way they handled his relationship with Orpheus was particularly off for me. Comics!Dream’s guilt over his son is like an infected wound that he never lets anyone see. Netflix!Dream practically wears it on his sleeve after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing. Netflix!Dream is also painted as far more noble than comics!Dream. It feels like they’re setting him up for the heroic sacrifice only, and to me, that honestly stinks a little because I’ll call it what it is: mischaracterisation. But since I also know that screenwriters aren’t that dense, I’ll call it what it really is: making him more palatable for the mainstream audience.

The Emotional Core

The thing that makes Sandman special is that it is about stories and grief and the volatility and instability of dreams and the terrible weight of existing for too long. It is about change and the fear of change and how sometimes the only way is to break everything you used to be. But Netflix!Dream in S2 already is all of what he’s supposed to become, at least in a roundabout way. That’s why the conflict feels forced, because everyone around him still treats him like comics!Dream. It lacks deeper emotional resonance. It’s all surface emotional manipulation and layers it on so thick that for me, it was bordering on corny in parts (I wasn’t too keen on the additions to the dialogue with Orpheus at the end).

Or Nada. Don’t get me started. The whole sending her to Hell for 10,000 years barely makes sense anymore, because it was presented as a genuine choice. He was just “a bit pissy” she didn’t choose him and then didn’t rescue her, but she made the choice herself and basically suggested it first. Of course Hell in the Sandman is a place we send ourselves, and it was also implied in the comics that she could have walked away at any point had she just forgiven herself for the fate of her people. But it was Morpheus who planted the seed for that in the first place. In the show, they basically made it Nada’s choice from the outset.

Also: That he basically proposed and said he won’t bother her any further if she said no? Yeah, about that one. He’s so nice, isn’t he? Not at all the guy who could never take no for an answer, and hunted her down like a crazed stalker when she was both alive and dead.

It was just really weird revisionism of a story that originally had misogynistic and coercive undertones. I get why they removed them, but the problem is that they now fail to connect coherently with the story beats they kept intact.

In SoM, Lucifer’s character work was stunning (Gwen was great with what she was given), but it existed in isolation—it didn’t really connect to the broader themes about power and responsibility and the cost of ruling. It was all a hand wave.

I know that all sounds like I absolutely hated it, which I really didn’t. On its own, it’s okay. But I feel it’s just okay so far, while I thought S1 was great. S2 had many moments that absolutely did connect (I’ll just say Calliope and Johanna—they both made me sniffle), but moments don’t make a season. I’m a tad worried that the show has lost sight of what made the source material so special, in favour of making it more accessible to mainstream audiences (well, it’s Netflix, of course they would, but S1 was so much better). Sandman isn’t supposed to be “accessible”. It’s supposed to be challenging and weird and uncomfortable, and that’s what ultimately makes it beautiful.

I’ll keep watching, of course. I’m too invested not to, and maybe things will grow on me when I rewatch. But right now it feels like they’re adapting the plot of Sandman without understanding why that plot matters.

Maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe I need to let the season breathe and see how it all comes together. But right now, it feels like they’re giving us a beautiful, well-acted shadow of something that is so much more.

Did anyone else feel like something was missing?

#sandman #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #the sandman Netflix #netflix sandman #sandman season 2 #lucifer morningstar #nada sandman #orpheus sandman #the sandman comics #sandman comics #netflix the sandman #sandman netflix #sandman meta #sandman spoilers #sandman season 2 spoilers #sandman s2 #queue crew

63 notes · View notes

balrogballs · 21 days ago

Note

Hi hi hi! I just finished reading The Sword Tree and I'm still unwell about it so I hope it's okay if I rant in your ask box for a sec. I'm South Asian and the bit about celebrian saying there's more to their national diagnosis of sea-longing hit so close to home because the rhetoric around returning to valinor is so similar to partition where the rhetoric was (and remains to this day at least in pakistan) that all the Muslims of the subcontinent WANTED to go to Pakistan because they wanted a Muslim homeland. Which is just - patently untrue as evidenced by the fact that MILLIONS of Muslims chose to remain in India and doesn't take into account any of the hundred of reasons people actually chose to migrate, the threat of violence being not least amongst them. The way returning to valinor is framed as this glorious homecoming when really so many of the elves would have been fleeing from violence, would have been going because they had no other choice, because it was that or fade is soooo ASHDHSGS it drives me insane. But at least now I can think of celebrian taking them to her forest so yay <3 thank you for that

You’ll have to excuse me nerding out being a complete freak and writing a whole ass impromptu 1500 word meta essay at midnight in the hour since you sent this though, because this ask scratches a good 100% of my brain in a wonderful way + I have a lot of THOUGHTS + it touches on some non-fiction stuff I was preparing for Mereth Aderthad… so thank you very much ily as you can see here I am just as unwell 🥹🙏🏽🫶🏽

I’ll put the actual content under the cut since it’s long, but it may be interesting to anyone else keen on my silly meta/theory ramblings re: postcolonial South Asia, Tolkien elves, Valinor, Indo-Pak (obv a thematic comparison rather than a direct equation since the circumstances, cost and setting is entirely different), slow violence and the diction of genteel exile… plus, Frodo comes into it at one point!

Forgive me if I repeat myself here because I’m not sure how long you’ve followed me so idk how much Balls Lore™️ I’ve dropped btw… so I’m not religious but my paternal side (who we’re culturally closer to as a family since my mum’s side don’t really practice their religion/culture) are actually Indian Muslims from Kerala, which was one of the v few Indian states that had both a high Muslim population yet saw almost no northward movement towards Pakistan, partly bc it was so far south and the people don’t speak any of the Indopak “border languages” but also because there wasn’t much communal violence or structural discrimination (relative to the rest of the country, I mean…) so life was at the time not particularly hostile or difficult for Muslims in Kerala, at least on the basis of their religion (caste is a diff story though 🥲).

And so people just stayed, because, as you say, they COULD. Because why the fuck would you choose to leave the place you were born in, trek across the entire subcontinent and face unspeakable violence, if you had literally any other choice!!!

And your point about “glorious homecoming” is also super interesting to me especially in the context of the RSS/Indian RW’s “Musalmanon ko donon sthan, Pakistan aur kabarsthan’ (Muslims have two places: Pakistan or the graveyard)” chant, by now a vicious majoritan sentiment which simultaneously contradicts their other unhinged viewpoint, aka “Pakistan technically belongs to India”. And that kind of diction is in turn echoed and mirrored from the Pakistani side, where anytime anti-Muslim violence breaks out in India, the PK broadcast media/politicos begin their “we told you so tee hee we told you you should have come here, who asked you to stay in India? 🤪” world tour like they’re talking about children who dropped their ice creams 🥲

Which is unsurprising of course, considering India and Pakistan have spent nearly 80 years constructing their national identity as the moral and civilisational antithesis of the other one… ie Pakistan as a “sanctuary from Hindu majoritarianism”, India as a “secular (lmao) republic against Islamic theocracy”… and like w Valinor and Middle-earth, these imaginaries are less geographic than mythic (thinking about Eärendil’s journey here, or Tuor just… as a concept sksksk): each land continuously reifies itself by casting the other as failed or impure, and the rules of performance and belonging keep shifting…

The very structure of Valinor's inaccessibility aka requiring divine permission, reserved for the select, where rules can be broken only if the divine powers will it to me resonates w how citizenship & belonging are gatekept in the subcontinent and how those with hybrid or marginal identities (like Ëarendiil) are often asked to prove their fidelity to the nation (“choose elves or men”) in ways the majority never is, as if access to the country of your birth was a conditional gift rather than a birthright.

And I’m thinking again about the Peredhel choice, and Elwing and Eärendil being forced to choose to belong to either men or elves at great cost, quite literally punished for hybridity, and for stepping foot in Valinor as the “wrong kind”, the kind who aren’t allowed to enter… and this punishment lasts for several generations of their line, right down to Arwen… so again that “homeland” projected not as a shared horizon of peace but as a fantasised ideal purified of the other’s existence…. an unsoiled homeland that can only keep moving forwards by erasing those whose identities speak to entanglement...

And with “Indo-Pak”, that metaphysical distance between Valinor and Middle-earth is reenacted as militarised borders and cultural opposition... each made from the blank spaces in the other’s mirror. And so in India, much like for other minorities in Pakistan, or former East Pakistan prior to the liberation of Bangladesh… those who don’t fit the moral geography of Partition ie religiously intermarried families, religious minorities, borderland communities, secular dissidents, queer folk, etc, are not only excluded from nationalist narratives but seen as aberrations, or intruders… India must inversely reflect Pakistan, and Pakistan must inversely reflect India, because if they don’t, then neither country can be said to exist.

And yes absolutely, for ME elves (ie Elrond for instance) the “return” is not some triumphant homecoming, the journey West is sorrowful and final… less a political return and more an admission that Middle-earth, the “contested space” so to speak, can no longer sustain the presence of its most wounded or burdened beings. Eg Frodo’s departure, like Celebrían’s sailing, being a spiritual evacuation rather than a physical one, not in itself necessary for healing, but because healing is no longer possible where the wound was made… like, the tragedy of people needing to convalesce from their own country is just 🥲

and I think the ending of the Return of the King showcases this splendidly: by ending with a *departure* from ME rather than an *arrival* in Valinor. And that’s what makes it tragic to me, bc in Tolkien’s world, the sailing to Valinor marks the end of the narrative for the reader, but in South Asia, this desire for purified homelands continues to regenerate new forms of violence…

What I’m trying to say here is, I assume you haven’t read my India AU (Prayers to Broken Stone) since I remember you mentioning the sea serpent one was the first Maedhros and Elrond story of mine you read, which is why I am EXTREMELY shook (in a good way aka I am insanely impressed, whatever our souls are made of yours and mine are the same etc etc) at how you’ve hit the nail right on the head when it comes to a major undercurrent of Prayers, which I don’t think I’ve even mentioned explicitly on Tumblr either—the overarching thematic parallel between the fading of elves and the postcolonial trajectory of the Indian Muslims who chose to stay because they wanted to, where the opportunity for a “glorious return” to an unknown land is no opportunity at all, and is in fact nothing but a great and violent sundering. Like that is the main thematic framework there, far beyond any positionality-politics about the Noldor and the Sindar or whatever. Just including a bit from one of the chapters which I think illustrates exactly what I mean (context, this is set during the Emergency following the Fëanorians as a Malayali Muslim family, where Maedhros is a former freedom fighter).

———

I wanted to convey in the fic how in post-independence India, Muslims were not formally expelled, but their political + cultural + historical centrality was increasingly made to fade, ie transformed from participants in the national story to spectral reminders of an undesirable past… thinking about that alternate LOTR ending where Sam talks to his daughter Elanor about Celeborn staying alone in Lothlorien, and her calling it “terribly sad”… artefacts/relics/remembrance etc etc…

+ in Tolkien, fading is often accompanied by a refusal to speak of the past. Sam, after Frodo’s departure, speaks little of the Ring or of what was lost, or with Celebrían, the narrative has nothing to add about the year between Cel’s capture and torture, vs her sailing, ie what it was like to make the decision to sail after the act of violence. Similarly, in India, public discourse around Patrition + postcolonial antiMuslim violence is marked by silences, half-truths, and amnesia (similar to how the Bangladesh War of Liberation is taught in Pakistan, from what I hear from a cross-border friend…). And this silence is absolutely not accidental but functional: they allow the nation to perform coherence by concealing rupture.

Eg just as the memory of Frodo’s pain is only buried under the peace of the Shire and never truly gone, the memory of communal violence in India is buried (quite literally sometimes, thinking about Babri masjid…) beneath the rhetoric of secularism, progress and unity. IE like Maedhros realises in that snip above where he “loses” his name, India tells itself that it must forget the past in order to survive the future… and in doing so, renders certain kinds of survival indistinguishable from death 🥲

So yes, I absolutely think it’s exactly that “violence of belonging”, where to belong fully often requires the erasure of the other, where even the sacred return is structured by exclusion. Ie the “offer” of “returning” to an imaginary, idealised and ultimately inert “homeland” is more a euphemism for removal, or a horizon made visible only through loss.

The political grammar of “sundered” states require a sort of continuous re-inscription: new Others, new exiles, new purity tests. and in both Tolkien + postcolonial India, gesturing the “fading people” towards a redemptive “homeland” doesn’t signify the endpoint of suffering and victimisation, but rather serves as its ongoing justification. Eg is it homecoming or is it exile? 🥲

Hope my very incoherent midnight thoughts make sense! You really put my brain on speedrun mode jsjsjsjxjd this is the fastest I’ve run to answer a meta ask hahaha. And I also wanted to say thank you so much for leaving all those fantastic comments on my fics, I normally respond in bulk because I’m only logged in to AO3 on my desktop, but I just wanted to say they have TRULY been making my week…

#ask balls #tolkien #the silmarillion #lord of the rings #balrogballs writes #lotr #lotr meta #silm meta #prayers meta

60 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 3 months ago

Note

How about a Reader who is just Done™️ with everything and is (usually) a shut-in but their parents said “Aight, you’re going on your Pokemon Trainer / Digidestined / Naruto / whatever’s popular hero’s journey and you’re gonna like it!” and practically forced Reader onto the Astral Express. You’d be forgiven for thinking Reader was a Self-Annihilator but nah they’re just Tired™️ in the same way a grumpy cat is Tired™️ and that translates quite hilariously into their experiences.

Arrest warrant on Jarilo-VI?

Reader: “So, let me make sure I understand this clearly… We’re being arrested under suspicion of plotting to incite rebellion?”

Bronya: “That is correct.”

(Note: the presence of the Stellaron wasn’t known to the public at this time)

Cue Reader pulling out their phone and blasting at full volume a recording of the crew’s earlier meeting with Cocolia, meaning everyone in the area — guards, civilians, shopkeepers, Serval’s workshop — ends up hearing the whole conversation, from Cocolia’s greeting to the crew’s footsteps leaving the office (and March’s chatter about sightseeing); so everyone there, not just Bronya and the guards, is a witness.

Bronya: “Th— This wasn’t what was reported…!?”

Guard no.1: “What’s a Stellaron…?”

Guard no.2: “No idea, never heard of it.”

Reader: “As you have seen, and heard, your quote-on-quote ‘Supreme Guardian’ gave you orders based on false information. At no point did we ever threaten to undermine the authority of Belobog’s government. We have nothing to gain from taking over a city on a literally dying planet. All we did was promise to get rid of the Stellaron for Belobog’s safety but, it seems like she never intended to treat us like guests in the first place.” 😑

And after Cocolia is defeated—

March: “Time to celebrate—!”

Reader: “A mother’s death right in front of her grieving daughter?”

March: 🥶

Trailblazer: ☠️

Dan Heng: 🙂‍↕️

Reader: “You could at least wait until we’re out of earshot.”

Questioned by Yukong on the Luofu?

Reader: “I honestly don’t know what to tell you, ma’am, we heard there was a Stellaron on your ship and I, personally, got kicked out of the train to go with these guys. I just wanna hole up in my room and play video games.” 😞

Trailblazer: “But you haven’t even touched your dailies?”

March: “Yeah, all you do is lie in bed and sleep!”

First time hearing about the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus?

Reader: “…I’m going to be real with you, that just sounds like a creepy cult getting together under a medical con artist.”

Jing Yuan: 😅 “They do call themselves ‘the Disciples.’”

Reader: “And the ones who came before you actually fell for the scam.”

Jing Yuan: 🫠 “Unfortunately, they did…”

Reader: “And they even took your life insurance, in a way, and the life insurance of future generations.”

Welt: 🙂‍↕️ “You don’t need to rub it in.”

Heliobus breakout?

Trailblazer: “Hey.”

Reader: “No.”

Trailblazer: “? I haven’t said anything yet.”

Reader: “My answer is still no… Wait, why am I in a group chat with random numbers—”

Guinaifen: “Hiiiiiii~!”

Reader: “Oh no.”

Guinaifen: “WHATAYA MEAN ‘OH NO’ I’M THE LIFE OF THE PARTY” 💢

Plus the fact that Reader’s ‘negative’ energy has rubbed off enough on Yanqing that when Apyra (a heliobus) offers to teach him sword-training instead of Jing Yuan, Yanqing actually refuses (compared to canon).

Yanqing: 😑 “Sounds like a bunch of lazy amateurs getting together under a con artist.” (Now why does this sound familiar…)

They’re also kind of listening to Sunday not because of his pathos speech and trauma, but because “every day should be a Sunday.”

Reader: “I don’t know about you but my Sundays were stressful deadlines.”

Sunday: “Then stress no more, for your Sundays will now consist of lying in a fluffy bed with plushies while watching your favorite shows and playing video games~!”

Reader: 👀 “Let him cook—!”

Sunday: 😀???????? (Cooking? But, there’s no kitchen here…?) <- does not know internet slang

How does Firefly wake up Reader from Ena’s dream over Penacony?

Blade: “Put me on the phone.”

Firefly puts him on the call.

Blade: “You have assignments due tonight.”

Reader: 😱 *Scrambling out of bed* “NONONONONONONONONONONO WHERE THE FUCK IS MY LAPTOP—!!!” Pause. “I’m not even working anymore…?”

Firefly: 😀 “Wow, that was fast…!”

Blade: “You’re welcome.” *hangs up*

Reader: 😑💢

Firefly: 😅 “Sorry, but this is really important—!”

Crash-landing on Amphoreus?

Reader: “Why not just ask for directions instead of automatically pulling out weapons?” *taps on a Titankin’s shoulder* “S’cuse me, can you tell us where the nearest city is? We’re kind of lost.”

Titankin: “Oh yeah, Okhema should be close by, so you want to go through that giant temple over there in front of us, it should have a back door and from there you need to take a right turn—”

Phainon, watching from a distance like a confused puppy: 😀 “That actually worked…?”

Tribbie: “I can’t tell if they’re crazy, or if they’re too lazy to pick up a sword.” 😅 <- she hit it on the nail with the second guess

And Aglaea? She can sense how tired and listless Reader is. They don’t want glory. They don’t want power. They don’t give a rat’s ass about making a name for themself. They just want to get this mission done and be on their merry way.

And if sheer lack of energy through the golden threads is anything to go by, there is practically nothing going on in Reader’s head other than the cute chimeras.

Aglaea, about to start her life-or-death interrogation of the crew: 🙂‍↕️ (I am so sorry for what I am about to do…)

[Several hours later]

Phainon: “…How long have they been sleeping?”

Trailblazer: “Uhhhhhh twelve hours, I think?”

Dan Heng: “It’s not healthy, but it’s pretty normal.”

Phainon: “Did they even have something to eat yet? I don’t think I ever saw them with a plate. Or a fruit.”

Dan Heng: “…Now that you mention it, I almost never saw them in the kitchen, and the most they had at group dinners was fried rice and water.”

Tribbie: “Well I agree that this isn’t healthy and it should not be normal!”

Cue Tribbie yanking off the blankets and putting Reader in different areas of work and group activities. “You need sunlight! And exercise! And food!” and all that fun stuff.

Then Hyacine makes an appearance and Aglaea and Tribbie shove Reader her way.

Hyacine, after listening to Dan Heng and the Trailblazer about Reader: “Hm… Sounds like they’re still caught in that mindset of being stagnant. They’ve hit a dead end with their life back home and never reached that sense of fulfillment, so they kind of decided to throw in the towel. I think what they really need is something they can actually enjoy engaging in.”

Trailblazer: “They did enjoy the e-sports Mr. Yang would set up every week, but we have no connection here.” 😞

Dan Heng: “How about cooking? They send me cooking videos every now and then.”

Trailblazer: “…They send YOU cooking videos, and never me or March!?” 😭

(Dan Heng just has that quiet friend energy where he and Reader can just yap in the chat about nerdy and/or domestic things, lol.)

And it works.

Kind of.

Reader makes a whole batch of dishes and desserts that everybody likes, but still seems pretty listless.

Up until Mydei give not only a critique but also some encouragement and solid advice for improvement.

Then they really get into it.

They also do really well working with the chimeras.

After that, Reader starts waking up on time and immediately gets to work (with something they actually enjoy doing).

Imagine the rest of the crew’s reactions.

Welt: 😭 “Miss Hyacine, you’re a miracle worker.”

Hyacine: 😊 “Just doing my part to get more people to smile~”

And then Hyacine will probably suffer a horrific fate thanks to the prophecy and Reader might go back to being listless — we won’t know until 3.X releases tho

Okay okay you’re giving me life with this character concept—Reader is peak millennial/gen z burnout with a dash of “grumpy cat stuck on a road trip with overly enthusiastic NPCs” energy and I love them so much. They’re literally the only sane person surrounded by chaos and myth and Aeons and world-ending prophecies and they’re like, “Yeah okay but I haven’t slept in three days and I don’t get paid for this.”

The Astral Express crew must feel like they picked up a gremlin they’re now emotionally attached to despite all common sense.

March: “You’ve got main character energy!” Reader, wrapped in a burrito blanket on the train couch: “Yeah, and main character depression.”

Also? That Jarilo-VI scene with Bronya and the phone audio absolutely killed me. Reader weaponizing the group chat receipts like a warlock casting Sending is so iconic. I can literally see Bronya's face glitching in real time. Reader’s like if you gave a Gen Z gremlin a tactical nuke and a smartphone.

And the Penacony bit? The way Firefly had to resort to Blade for waking Reader is both terrifying and hilarious. Blade having to pull the “you have homework” card is so on brand—he knows what works.

And the fact that Aglaea literally hesitates to attack because Reader is just That Burnt Out™?? This is such a good dynamic, because instead of challenging her with equal fire, Reader challenges her whole perspective just by being this inexplicably apathetic—but strangely kind—person who isn't trying to win anything. They’re just... here. And she's so thrown off by that. Like, “you’re not begging for your life?” and Reader’s like “bro I haven’t had eight uninterrupted hours of sleep in two years. I welcome the void.”

Tribbie being the chaotic friend who decides to forcibly nurse Reader back to health had me wheezing. Just her screaming “YOU NEED VITAMINS” while Reader gets dragged into a salad-making team-building exercise.

And then Hyacine stepping in with the insight and encouragement??? And the little spark finally coming back to Reader through something as simple and genuine as feedback on their food?? That’s... unironically beautiful. Like—Reader might still be tired, but now they’ve got this little light. Something to focus on. Something theirs. That’s some Studio Ghibli-tier healing arc.

Reader is relatable, funny, tragic, and kind of powerful in a weirdly grounded way.

59 notes · View notes

localplaguenurse · 2 months ago

Note

writing requests? Ok hear me out

(this is inspired heavily by my own oc)

Pantalone meeting the parents™️ but y/n’s parent he is meeting is neuvillette, and Pantalone had no idea until the day of. (how that information got past him is beyond any of us) second parent can be a normal person or nobody at all, dealers choice (you said no ships so I won’t say anything)

Hi Pandora

I mainly said no ships because I honestly just don't do much shipping in general. I just make up guys and smack them into canon characters like barbies. It's mainly Haikaveh and Dottolone here. ANYWAYS

Connecting the Dots

Notes: Pantalone is a touch ooc from how I would usually write him, but that's mostly for the humour of it (and this is one of the few times I've had to think about what his dynamic with Neuvillette would be lmao). SFW, kind of fluffy, and a bit of secondhand embarrassment.

The bell of the elevator being called dings in the lobby, heard only by the woman sitting at the front desk and the Regrator standing in front of said elevator. Stepping back, he readjusts his hold on the bouquet of rainbow roses in one hand and the gift bag in his other. Both things he must be careful with if he is to make a good first impression, though for a man like him, he can afford to make any impression he likes.

There’s another ding as the elevator door opens, and he steps inside. He turns to watch the door close, a smile on his lips that for once is a little more sincere than merely polite. It’s a smile that is quickly wiped away with surprise as something jams in between the doors just as they’re about to close. They clank around it, then they slowly pull open again. Between the doors was a cane, being held by a gloved hand. The cane alone gives away who it is before Pantalone can see him.

Pantalone looks up, locking his gemstone eyes with the pearly purple eyes of Fontaine’s beloved Iudex, and the slit pupils briefly narrow when he recognizes the Harbinger in the elevator.

“My apologies, Regrator,” he says with little inflection.

Pantalone’s smile loses the sentimentality, but remains courteous as he steps aside to let Neuvillette into the elevator. “Ah, it’s quite alright, Monsieur Neuvillette.”

Neuvillette’s coat sways as he turns to face the door. With his free hand, he presses a button on the elevator’s panel. Pantalone opens his mouth to ask the man to hit one of the buttons for him, but sees the floor Neuvillette has selected is the exact floor he needs to go to.

“Oh, what a coincidence!” Pantalone remarks as the doors close. “It appears we both have business on the tenth floor.”

“Is that so?” Neuvillette asks, looking straight ahead.

Pantalone nods, and the elevator begins moving. “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you here, Monsieur?”

Neuvillette glances at the Regrator out of the corner of his eye, then returns to staring straight ahead. “I am visiting someone.”

The vagueness of the statement intrigues Pantalone. Very well, he can be vague too. “As am I,” he replies.

Neuvillette turns his head and stares at the flowers and the gift bag. “I had presumed as much from the flowers. I presume this is no client meeting.”

“Would it be a crime if it was?” Pantalone jests.

“While it is not necessarily a criminal act resulting in jail time, it would violate the laws under section–”

“I’m joking,” Pantalone interrupts, “I’m meeting with someone I’ve grown quite attached to.”

At this, Neuvillette politely smiles. “That sounds lovely, Regrator.”

“In truth, I’m actually a tad early,” Pantalone says. “We’re expecting additional company, so I figured my dearest wouldn’t mind if I came to assist in setting up, and perhaps have a quiet moment or two together.”

“In that case, I hope all goes well for you two.”

“What of you, Neuvillette? Who are you visiting?”

“... I am visiting someone I also find near and dear to my heart,” he answers.

Pantalone raises an eyebrow. “Oh? The impartial, distant Neuvillette has taken a lover?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he almost stammers, put off by the mere idea. “I’m, ah, visiting family.”

Pantalone hums, but does not make his disappointment known. He had hoped it would be something more interesting, scandalous even, but no. He’s simply visiting one of the many melusines who consider him their father. Perhaps another time he’ll discover something truly interesting about the Chief Justice.

The elevator dings, and when the door opens, Neuvillette turns to address Pantalone. “I hope you and your love have a lovely day.”

Pantalone nods. “I hope all goes well with you and your family.”

Neuvillette gets out before Pantalone, his cane thumping in rhythm with his footsteps down the hall. Pantalone trails not too far behind Neuvillette, the gift bag in his hand gently swaying as he walks. It’s beginning to feel a little heavy, as he’s been carrying it for a good part of the afternoon now.

Neuvillette stops walking, which prompts Pantalone to stop as well. He’s stopped in front of a door, specifically the door Pantalone was looking for. When Neuvillette gently knocks on it, Pantalone raises a brow.

“Pardon me,” he says, “but I think you might have the wrong apartment.”

Neuvillette gives Pantalone an odd look. “What do you mean?”

Pantalone points to the number on the door. “This is the apartment I’m supposed to be visiting.”

“That… That can’t be right,” Neuvillette replies, brow furrowed, “could it be that you have the wrong apartment?”

“That’s not possible,” the Regrator replies. “I’ve visited this apartment on many occasions, I would know. Besides, you said you were visiting family, no? There aren’t any melusines here?”

“What do the melusines have to do with–”

The door finally opens, and the two men immediately snap their heads in its direction. The figure on the other side of the door is not a melusine, not even close. It’s you, the Regrator’s sweet little darling, and he feels his heart swell with love for you and smug pride at being right; Neuvillette does have the wrong door.

Yet, Neuvillette does not act like he’s wrong. He does not grow flustered and stammer out an apology, he does not leave promptly, he doesn’t even try to walk away. Instead, he smiles warmly, and opens his arms up. To Pantalone’s shock, you grin and throw yourself in Neuvillette’s arms gleefully.

You look up at Neuvillette.

“Salut, Papa!”

Pantalone feels like he just got shot.

Papa? PAPA?

“Good afternoon, my sweet,” Neuvillette greets back. He then turns to the Regrator, seeing his shocked face. “See?”

Pantalone feels nauseous, though he doesn’t know what thought sickens him more; that Neuvillette, Neuvillette of all people, is your honest to god father, or that you’ve been two timing with the Regrator and Iudex and papa is some deranged title you’ve given Neuvillette. He genuinely doesn’t know which reality would be easier to accept.

You blink, and look over at Pantalone as well. Your face flushes, and you pull away from Neuvillette. “Oh! You’re here earlier than I thought.”

He clears his throat, trying to regain composure. “I was going to offer you help in getting lunch ready,” he replies.

Neuvillette calls you by your name, and the sound makes Pantalone feel worse. You turn your attention back to Neuvillette when he does. The man clears his throat, then speaks.

“When you had said that we would be having special company,” he says, “I was not aware you meant the Regrator.”

You nervously laugh. “N-No, I didn’t, but I didn’t think we’d all be meeting up like this, ah…”

You step past Neuvillette and approach Pantalone. Seeing his hands are full, you hook your arm around his, finding he’s oddly stiff. Neuvillette blinks, and you awkwardly smile. “Darling,” you say to Pantalone, then gesture to Neuvillette, “this is my father.” You turn to Neuvillette and gesture to Pantalone. “Father, this is–”

“I know who the Regrator is,” Neuvillette says.

You laugh, and it’s obviously a little forced. “Good! Then we can skip over m-most of the formalities.”

The three of you enter the apartment, with Pantalone needing to be prompted but not fully dragged inside. Without saying anything, he hands you the bouquet of rainbow roses, and you smile sweetly at him. While you run off to find a sufficient vase, Pantalone then turns to the hydro sovereign staring him down.

He glances inside the gift bag, then offers it to Neuvillette, polite smile stretched across his lips. “I suppose this is for you, then. I was told you would appreciate it, and now I understand why.”

Neuvillette silently scrutinizes the gift bag before he takes it. He reaches inside, and pulls out a clear, ornate glass bottle.

“Imported from Sumeru,” Pantalone adds.

“Thank you.”

Before an uncomfortable silence can settle, you reappear with the roses, now in a vase. You set them up by your window, and gesture for the two men to actually properly enter your abode.

“Lunch will be ready in a bit,” you say, “both of you are a little earlier than I expected you to be.”

Pantalone clears his throat, and feels Neuvillette’s stare boring holes through him. “Darling, could I talk to you for a moment? Preferably in private.”

“Oh? What for?” Neuvillette asks.

“Father, please.” You spy the bottle in his hand, and point at it. “Why don’t you put that in the fridge, and help yourself to some of the water I have? It’s from Mondstadt, I think it’ll be perfect for a day like this.”

“Hm, good idea,” Neuvillette says, “Sumeru’s water is a complex flavour on its own, but drinking it when it is cold adds another layer to its taste that truly exemplifies how refreshing it is, especially in such a harsh climate.”

While your father lets himself get distracted by the hydrating delicacies of imported water, you and Pantalone slip away to your room. He shuts the door behind him, and immediately the calm, suave mask drops. He points to the door, staring at you with wide eyes. “That is your father? Your father is the Iudex of Fontaine?”

You nod. “I imagined this reveal going differently, a-and I know you have questions–”

“But you don’t go by Neuvillette!” Pantalone says. “You go by a completely different name! Did you change your name from Neuvillette, or is he just your adopted father and that’s your biological family’s name?”

“He’s my biological father,” you explain, “and I, ah, I have two surnames, actually. I-I use my mother’s maiden name in social settings, but on all my legal documents, I have her and my father’s names. Here…”

You approach your bookshelf and pull a book from the bottom shelf. You open it, and when Pantalone peers over your shoulder, he sees two pages before him. On the right page are photographs of not just a tiny version of you, but Neuvillette as well, and he hasn’t aged a day save for growing his hair out. On the left page is a dedication, and sure enough, there is your first name, what he thought was your only surname, and attached to that with a little dash is the name Neuvillette.

You shut the book and tuck it under your arm. “My father suggested I start going by my mother’s maiden name,” you say, “both to honour her memory, and because he thought me going by Neuvillette could put a target on my back, considering his line of work.”

Pantalone chuckles grimly. “That explains why you weren’t all that concerned when I warned you of the consequences of being my most beloved. Still, I just can’t believe that the Neuvillette had a child of his own, let alone that child being you. I know you said you take more after your mother, but I can hardly see the resemblance.”

You touch your ear. “We both have pointed ears.”

“And so does Pulcinella,” Pantalone remarks, “darling, be serious.”

“I also drink a lot of water,” you tell him, “and I’m very particular about how it tastes.”

“While I am starting to connect the dots now,” Pantalone says, “having pointy ears and preferring imported Mondstadt mineral water over filtered Fontaine tap water doesn’t immediately scream spawn of the hydro sovereign, which… be honest, darling, what were your expectations for how this lunch would go?”

“That you two would start ranting about Archons and become best friends,” you answer, “especially regarding Rex Lapis.”

“Ah, common enemies. That’s historically a very good base for friendship.”

You peck his cheek. “It’ll be fine, now come on before my father wonders what’s taking us so long.”

With the album still tucked under your arm, you leave the room and Pantalone standing inside. He blinks, digesting everything you’ve just told him. He was expecting a rich father. He was expecting a politician. He expected someone with some amount of power. He’s not sure of Neuvillette’s exact amount of wealth, just that it’s the one thing Pantalone has over him while Neuvillette excels in everything else. Does this also make the melusines your sisters? And what of Lady Furina? Did this mean an Archon was, what, your aunt?

He takes a deep breath, makes a mental note to double check that his last will and testament is up to date when lunch is over, and puts on the polite, smiling mask before he leaves the room.

#ask #furby!#pantalone #pantalone x reader #neuvillette #request #my fic #my writing

54 notes · View notes