#darkness is a lack of light but light is not a lack of darkness

[fangdokja]

They’re not heroes. They’re your tormentors, and you’ll love every second of it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Four men, each consumed by a darkness that binds them to you, will stop at nothing to claim your soul. In their world, love is a twisted cage, and you’re the captive—lost in a nightmare where escape is impossible and desire is the cruelest torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,707

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, suggestive themes, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ A/N. Not me not knowing fully who these characters are. So... not sure if I did this right hahaha. It's too early to judge the unreleased characters but oh well. And, I did put this into my usual style... idk adjskaskd Take this like a brief hypothesis, I suppose. I am thinking on getting back to Genshin and HSR... maybe. Probably not though. Idk. Anyways, I personally thought I cooked with this. Just not sure with personalities askadsdakldsm

♡ Mr. Reca.

"Every thought you have, every breath you take, is a scene in my film—my masterpiece. And don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you never forget your lines. Not even when you're screaming them in your sleep."

The universe had always been a canvas to him—a vast, writhing tapestry of chaos and order, the kind of unpredictable beauty that Mr. Reca found utterly magnetic. He had always been a collector of moments, a Memokeeper who consumed emotions, gestures, and unguarded thoughts with the same fervor a drowning man gulps air.

But you—oh, you—you were not just another fleeting spark in the vast night of existence.

You were an anomaly, a glitch in the dreamscape, a hauntingly real smear of imperfection across his perfectly constructed illusions. And so, he watched you, studied you, devoured the fragile lines of your every expression. It wasn’t obsession, not at first. It was curiosity, a scientist’s hunger for understanding. But curiosity, as it often does, rotted into something far darker.

It began subtly. At first, you didn’t even realize you were his subject. The assistant frog—so innocuous, its mechanical chirps like a child’s toy—hovered too long in your presence. That thing recorded the barest twitch of your lips, the dilation of your pupils when you dreamt, the cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought.

He played those recordings back again and again, crafting you into the centerpiece of his mind’s latest film, a work of art that no audience but him would ever see. Each flicker of your gaze, each half-whispered syllable, was dissected with a surgeon’s precision and woven into the dream bubble of his fantasies.

You had not agreed to this, of course. You would not have, had you known. But consent had never mattered much to Mr. Reca, not when reality itself could be edited, overwritten, and reshaped to suit his narrative.

He didn’t fall in love with you in the way mortals understood love.

No, it was something far more grotesque. You were not his equal. You were not even human, not to him.

You were a role to be perfected, an actress bound to his script. And he—he was the director, the puppeteer pulling the strings of your existence with a touch so light, so surgical, that you didn’t notice your autonomy dissolving until it was too late.

He didn’t approach you like an ordinary man. Ordinary men didn’t cloak their words in riddles, their intentions in shadows.

“Your dreams are fascinating,” he said once, his tone light but his eyes dark, predatory. “I could make a masterpiece from them. Would you let me?”

His gaze burned into you, not with affection, but with hunger—the kind of hunger that consumes, destroys, leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

When you hesitated, when you stammered out a polite refusal, his smile curved sharp and cruel. “Ah, but do you really have a choice?”

You didn’t, of course.

The dream bubbles began soon after. Vivid, horrifyingly real landscapes where you were no longer yourself but a marionette dancing to his whims.

The first time you woke screaming, trembling from the phantom pain of dream wounds, he was there. He shouldn’t have been—your door had been locked—but there he was, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head tilted and that damned frog-camera clutched in his gloved hands.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, as if you were a specimen under glass. “You feel it, don’t you? The fear, the thrill, the pain. Tell me, how does it taste?”

In bed, he is not a lover. He is a creator, and you are his medium.

His touch is clinical at first, cold and calculated, his gloved fingers trailing down your spine as if mapping the curve of your body for a sculpture he plans to carve later.

But there is heat beneath that coldness, a violent, consuming fire that erupts when he lets himself indulge. He does not make love. He takes. He presses you into the mattress as if trying to merge you with it, his weight oppressive, suffocating. His hands grip your wrists too tightly, leaving bruises like the ink stains of his artistry. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a low murmur that mixes poetry with threats, promises with lies.

“Do you feel it?” he whispers, his tone too calm for the frenzy of his movements. “The way your body betrays you? The way it obeys me, even when your mind doesn’t want to?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, and the sharp pain that follows is not accidental. “I could keep you here forever,” he says, his voice thick with sadistic delight. “Inside the dream, inside me. Would you even know the difference? Would you even care?”

You would care, of course.

You fight him, or at least you try. But he’s relentless, unyielding, a force of nature that smothers your resistance with sheer willpower. He doesn’t let you hide from him, not even in the sanctuary of your own mind.

His powers as a Memokeeper ensure that every thought, every secret, every fleeting desire you’ve ever tried to bury is laid bare before him. He uses them against you, weaving them into the narrative of his control.

“You want this,” he says, his voice a velvet knife. “You want me. Your body knows it, even if your mind refuses to admit it.”

His lips trail down your throat, his teeth leaving marks that will linger for days, physical proof of his dominance. “And when I’m done with you, when there’s nothing left of you but what I’ve created, you’ll thank me. You’ll beg me to keep you.”

The horror of it all is that he doesn’t just break you physically. He breaks your mind, piece by fragile piece, until you can no longer tell where the dream ends and reality begins. His dream bubbles seep into your waking hours, twisting your perception until even the memories of your resistance feel like fabrications.

He tells you that you’re his muse, his masterpiece, his greatest work. And despite the revulsion, the terror, some part of you begins to believe him.

Because how could someone so brilliant, so meticulous, be wrong?

And yet, in the darkest corners of your mind, you know the truth.

You are not his muse.

You are his victim, a living doll trapped in the nightmare of his creation.

But no one will ever hear your screams.

He’s made sure of that.

After all, reality itself is just another film to him, and he’s already written your final scene.

♡ Mydei.

"You belong to me, just as I am bound to this blood-soaked fate. No one will ever take you from me, not in this life, not in the next. I’ll carve my name into your soul, and you’ll learn to love it, even if it takes a thousand deaths."

It begins as a hum in the back of his throat, a low vibration that settles into his chest like the resonance of a beast stirring in its lair. He watches you, not from afar, but from the corner of your vision, where his shadow seems to stretch and curve unnaturally—always larger, always darker than the dim light allows. His gaze is not mere sight; it’s weight, pressure, suffocation. He sees the tremor in your fingers as you pour water into a glass. He catalogues the way your breaths hitch when his footsteps echo closer, closer still.

And when he speaks, his voice is a razor dragged slowly, deliberately, across raw nerves. “You’re trembling,” he says, though there’s no concern in his tone.

It’s an observation, clinical yet laced with something sharper, something akin to hunger.

He doesn’t touch you yet, but the proximity is suffocating—his presence a noose tightening with every passing second. His breath brushes your ear as he leans closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

You flinch but say nothing, and he chuckles. It’s low and guttural, almost amused, but there’s an edge of cruelty there, a promise that he’ll savor every inch of your fear.

He feeds on it, you realize, and the thought sends a chill racing down your spine. “You should be,” he murmurs, the words dripping like venom. “Fear keeps you alive… but not from me. Never from me.”

He lies, of course.

The predator in him is far too obvious, a wolf cloaked in something barely resembling humanity. He doesn’t see you as prey to consume in haste.

No, he sees you as a possession—a rare, precious thing to break slowly, to shatter and rebuild in his image. He thrives on control, on the knowledge that every shiver, every gasp, every cry is something he owns, something he’s dragged out of you inch by agonizing inch.

When he finally touches you, it’s with the precision of a surgeon dissecting his subject. Fingers glide over your skin like scalpels, drawing phantom lines where his teeth will follow, where his hands will linger. There’s no tenderness in the way he grips your wrist, the bruising force of his palm a warning, a declaration.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand: you’re his.

The room is suffused with a kind of tension that seems alive, thrumming in the air like an electrical charge waiting to snap. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smile if not for the sheer malice in it.

“You can fight,” he says, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “but we both know how this ends.”

And then he moves, swift as a predator pouncing, pinning you against the unyielding surface of the wall.

The impact drives the air from your lungs, and before you can catch your breath, he’s there—everywhere. The heat of his body seeps into yours, the solidity of him a cage that leaves no room for escape. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming with a kind of obsessive thoroughness that feels both maddening and humiliating. He maps every inch of your body as if it’s a territory to be conquered, claimed.

The words he whispers into your ear are sharp, biting things, designed to slice through your defenses. “Do you know how easy it would be?” he breathes, his voice a silken thread woven with danger.

“To tear you apart. To ruin you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. And you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you? By the time I’m done, you won’t want to remember what it felt like to be whole without me.”

His grip tightens, and you can feel the latent strength in his hands, the power that could snap bone without effort.

And yet he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He revels in the anticipation, in the way your body reacts—fear mingled with something darker, something you refuse to name. The way your breath catches, the way your pulse races beneath his fingers… it’s a symphony to him, a melody of submission he’s determined to conduct to its crescendo.

When he finally takes you, it’s not an act of love—it’s an act of dominance, of ownership.

His movements are deliberate, almost cruel in their precision, each thrust a reminder of who holds the reins. He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, doesn’t let you escape into the safety of darkness.

No, he demands your gaze, demands that you see him, that you acknowledge the monster who has reduced you to this trembling, gasping wreck. And when you do—when your eyes meet his, wide and glassy with tears—he smiles. Not with joy, but with triumph, with the satisfaction of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

His words during these moments are a mix of degradation and adoration, a twisted litany that leaves no doubt of his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath searing like a brand. “Every breath, every scream, every drop of blood in your veins—it all belongs to me.”

And yet, even as he tears you apart, there’s an undeniable allure in his madness, a magnetic pull that keeps you rooted to the spot even as every instinct screams at you to run.

Because beneath the cruelty, beneath the overwhelming force of his obsession, there’s a flicker of something more—a need so desperate it borders on pathetic, a craving for connection that he can’t voice but demands nonetheless.

When it’s over, he doesn’t release you.

His arms remain locked around you, a vice that refuses to loosen. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his body still trembling with the aftermath.

And in that moment, you realize the truth of it: he doesn’t break you because he hates you. He breaks you because he loves you, because the thought of you existing without him is unbearable.

But love, for him, is not soft or kind. It is a blade, honed to a deadly edge, and he wields it without mercy.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, and it’s not a question.

It’s a command, a promise, a threat.

“You’ll stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go. No one else who could ever understand you the way I do. And if you try to leave…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken consequence hangs heavy in the air, a silent vow etched in blood.

You nod, because what else can you do?

And as he tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, you feel the full weight of your reality settle over you.

There is no escape. There never was.

And in the dark recesses of your mind, a small, terrified part of you wonders if you’ll ever want to leave at all.

♡ Anaxa.

"You think you can escape my mind, but you're already tangled in my thoughts—your every breath, every movement, is an echo of me. You belong to me, and I will never let you forget that."

The air around him was always cold, as if reality itself recoiled in his presence, drawing its warmth into the void of his indifference. Anaxa moved like an unfinished thought, fragmented, deliberate, yet ever disquieting.

You felt his shadow linger before you saw him, a chilling weight that settled on your skin like frost, sinking into the marrow of your bones. His eyes—one bared to the world, the other concealed beneath the eyepatch—were an unforgiving tapestry of contradictions: icy intellect simmering beneath the calm veneer, an endless labyrinth of thoughts that spiraled toward madness.

He whispered your name like a sacrament and a curse. Each syllable, spoken in that low, velvety cadence of his, seemed to unravel you, a knife peeling back every layer of resolve.

"You think knowledge can shield you," he murmured one night, his breath as cold and intimate as the edge of a scalpel. "But even wisdom has limits. I’ve seen them. I’ve transcended them." He would circle you like a predator savoring the hunt, his movements calculated, his proximity suffocating.

Anaxa was not a man who shattered the soul through brute force.

No, his torment was subtle—a slow dismantling, piece by piece, until you became something unrecognizable to even yourself.

You didn’t notice how he had claimed your life until it was too late. The quiet manipulation seeped in like poison—so gradual, so insidious, you mistook it for safety. Every book you touched, every whisper of thought you dared to express, every step you took outside the prison he called your sanctuary…all of it traced back to him. You'd look up from a page of text only to find him leaning in the doorway, a slight smile curling his lips, the sort that spoke of secrets too profound and too damning to voice.

"You have such a beautiful mind," he'd say, his gloved fingers brushing the side of your neck in a touch that was almost reverent.

"It’s wasted on anyone else. They’ll never understand you—not like I do." The words were honeyed, dripping with a sincerity so intoxicating you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your trembling hands, on the ink smudges on your skin, on the way you recoiled yet stayed rooted in place. He liked the way fear made you fragile, and though you hated him for it, you hated yourself more for the flicker of thrill that bloomed in your chest.

Anaxa didn’t need chains to hold you down; his words alone were shackles. His intelligence was a web, intricate and all-encompassing, and you were the fly ensnared at its center.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered once, late into the night when the room was too quiet and his voice was too close. "But I will, if it’s the only way to make you stay."

And you knew he meant it—not as a threat, but as a promise, a truth spoken with the same certainty as an immutable law of the universe.

The moments of intimacy—if one could call them that—were no less haunting.

His touch was clinical, precise, like a scientist studying a fragile specimen. He knew where to press, where to hold, where to carve into your soul with a calculated cruelty that left you yearning and dreading in equal measure.

His lips on your skin felt like frostbite, burning cold yet addictively sharp. His hands, those hands that wielded intellect like a blade, seemed to map every inch of you with the precision of a scholar dissecting sacred scripture.

"You’re beautiful," he would say, the words an oxymoron of tenderness and possession.

"Beautiful because you’re broken. Broken because you’re mine." He traced the curve of your throat with a gloved fingertip, lingering on the places where your pulse betrayed your terror.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could peel back the layers of flesh and bone to reach the essence of you. "Do you know what the Titans whispered to me in my dreams?" he asked once, his voice a mix of wonder and madness.

"They said I’d find divinity in ruin. And here you are."

The nights were the worst.

In the darkness, you felt him even when you didn’t see him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating, inescapable. His words would echo in your mind, winding through your thoughts like a parasite. He’d appear at your bedside, his figure shrouded in the dim glow of moonlight.

"You should sleep," he’d murmur, though his tone carried no warmth. "You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll unravel the secrets of the cosmos. Together."

And though you tried to resist, you found yourself clinging to the edges of his words, desperate for the clarity he promised, even as it led you deeper into his labyrinth.

When he finally claimed you, it was an act of calculated brutality disguised as love.

Every kiss felt like a conquest, every caress a branding. He whispered to you like a poet reciting his magnum opus, his voice soft yet unyielding, every syllable carrying the weight of his obsession.

"You belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands pinned you beneath him. "Not just your body. Your mind. Your soul. Everything. No one else is worthy—not even you."

And as his touch became more demanding, more consuming, you realized that he wasn’t just unraveling you. He was recreating you, piece by piece, reshaping you into something that existed solely for him.

And though every fiber of your being screamed in defiance, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was love—or if it was something far darker, something that transcended the bounds of human understanding.

"You’ll never leave me," he said, his voice a blend of certainty and desperation as his lips ghosted over your trembling skin.

"Even if you try, even if you run…I’ll always find you. You’re the only constant in my chaos, the only light in my darkness. And I will burn the stars themselves before I let that light fade."

And so, you lay there in the cold embrace of his obsession, trapped between terror and desire, caught in the orbit of a man who would dismantle the heavens just to keep you by his side.

♡ Phainon.

"Every strike I make, every victory I win—it’s all for you. So don't be afraid when you see the blood. It's just a little sacrifice to remind you: you're mine, and I will burn this world to the ground before I let you go."

The moments he craves most are the quiet ones when the two of you are entirely alone, but tonight, silence isn’t kind.

It’s oppressive, weighted by the looming presence of the man before you—the Deliverer, the Nameless Hero, a man who wears the name Phainon like an armor of light.

Yet beneath that golden radiance, a storm of obsession churns, relentless and unyielding.

He stands over you, the faint luminescence of his ichor-stained veins pulsing faintly in the dim, cold air of the temple chamber. You can feel his gaze before you see it—heavy, glinting with something raw and unspeakable.

His voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is soft but unshakable, carrying the weight of a promise that makes your blood run cold.

“You don’t understand, do you? You’ve never understood.” A smile curls at the edge of his lips, serene yet terrifying. “I don’t want to save the world, not anymore. I want to save you. Every step I’ve taken, every blow I’ve struck, has always been for you.”

His claymore rests at his side, its edge gleaming faintly with an unsettling crimson, dried remnants of the battle from earlier still clinging to the blade.

He hasn’t cleaned it.

He hasn’t even sheathed it.

The weapon is as much a part of him as the air he breathes.

You can’t help but wonder if the blood that stains it belongs to someone you knew, someone who once stood too close to you for his liking.

He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

You back away instinctively, but there’s no escape.

His pace is slow, deliberate. He knows exactly how far he needs to push you before your resolve shatters.

“Run if you want to,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle. “I won’t stop you. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

There’s no malice in his words, only certainty—a chilling, inescapable truth that wraps around your throat like a noose.

His hands are stained too.

Not visibly, not this time, but you can feel it in the way he reaches for you.

Fingers meant for wielding destruction now hover over your cheek, trembling slightly with restraint.

You flinch, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost human—almost.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans closer.

“And I... I hate that. I hate that you make me this way. But I hate it even more when you’re far from me.”

When his lips press against yours, it isn’t a kiss—it’s a conquest.

His desperation seeps into you like venom, intoxicating and suffocating all at once. He tastes like metal and fury, his ichor burning faintly where his tongue grazes yours. His touch isn’t tender; it’s possessive, frantic, like he’s trying to carve his existence into your very bones.

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His grip tightens, dragging you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him is overwhelming, a furnace of ichor and madness that threatens to consume you whole. His other hand presses against the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him as he lowers his head to your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin, and when he speaks again, it’s a guttural rasp that makes your stomach twist. “You don’t understand how far I’d go for you. What I’d destroy. Who I’d become.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark—a brand, a reminder of his claim. You cry out, and he exhales sharply, almost like he’s savoring the sound.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ll scream for me, cry for me... but you’ll never leave.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Because even now, as fear and anger coil in your chest like a viper, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

His presence is suffocating, his obsession terrifying—but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the sun in a world of endless night, that makes it impossible to resist him entirely.

It’s sick.

It’s wrong.

But it’s real.

Phainon knows it too.

He knows you better than you know yourself, and that knowledge is his greatest weapon.

He wields it with precision, unraveling you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the parts of you that belong to him.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’ll always stay. Because no one else can have you. Not the Titans, not the Trailblazer... not even yourself.”

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto yours, glowing faintly with the golden ichor that courses through his veins. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him in this moment, a tragic god draped in shadows. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s just solved.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not.”

And you believe him.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

———

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

[queeniewithabeanie]

The Dinosaur

Danny hadn't been a halfa for very long, honestly he was still figuring out the whole "ghost" thing. He decided to attempt exploring the zone, maybe making a map or something. The whole place was very confusing and he couldn't make heads or tails of any directions.

He felt something brush him from behind and turned around just in time to see the swirling green portal forming on top of him.

He felt frazzled after he came to. His limbs felt weird. They were heavy, disproportioned, and he seemed to have an extra one?? He also was most certainly not in the Zone anymore, there was a distinct lack of toxic-neon-green.

In fact, Danny could barely see any colors at all. The place he was in was dark, and damp, and lacking very much light. All signs pointed to him being in a cave, but there must have been an exit somewhere. After all, there were a couple of rays of light illuminating parts of the room.

He picked up his heavy limbs, a stark contrast to the weighlessness of intangibility, and started walking towards the light, albeit very slowly.

Before he could even get close he heard a squeak from down below.

"I thought B said the dinosaur was just a souvenir from an old case!"

[the-raven-and-the-tower]

A snoop through Lucanis's room in the Lighthouse; Signs of a Struggle

Lucanis is doing a damned good job holding it together considering everything he's been through. He's keeping a tight grip on his emotions and using the job to focus himself, but if you stop in to check on him... there are a few clear signs that not all is well.

Baby boy picked a room without windows, yet he's still craving light. For an assassin who has spent most of his life very comfortable in the dark, he’s avoiding it now like he’s avoiding sleep.

There are FIFTY SEVEN candles in his room. Fifty six of them are lit. Look at the variety. He found every spare candle available to him in the Lighthouse and possibly dragged a few back with him from the Cantori Diamond or Dellamorte estate.

^ Short candles, tall tapers, all in various states of use, ALL LIT. One very different candle in a silver candle-holder, maybe from the Diamond or home

^ Another silver addition, this time a candelabra with similar style to the last one and an elven lamp, similar to the one Rook decorates their room with.

^ Three more styles of candlestick holders in with all the standalone candles I'm guessing he found around the Lighthouse.

^ Terrible shot, but he also has both wall torches lit, which were the only lights in that space when he moved in IIRC

And what's more, he has enough coffee stashed in this room to give niacin flush to an elephant.

There are ELEVEN coffee cups sitting out and two more sitting ready next to the gifted coffee set. (Also, he has no coffee in his mug if you sneak a peek into it.)

^ Seven of the cups are within reach of his right hand, where he sits on the bed.

^ There's another in front of his hookah pipe. Couple more in the second shot, I missed a picture of one somehow. There are two unused cups sitting ready behind his gifted coffee set that definitely doesn't look like it's for tea...

^ Coffee beans and I'm guessing the two sacks next to the basket are full of the same. His empty cup below, cuz it makes me laugh.

Next, the bed. It gives me vibes of the crappy bedroll Astarion sleeps on in BG3. Look at this thing.

You can see where he tried scrubbing the grime away before giving up and deciding to just live with it. We know there are other beds in the Tower, Taash and Davrin both have cozy ones when they arrive.

Whether or not Lucanis had the conscious thought of "what he's worth / deserves", this is how he values himself. This is what he chose to sleep in... likely with the thought that he's going to be avoiding sleep at all costs anyway, why does it matter what shape the bed is in?

He brought barely any personal possessions with him. Lace is the same way, but Bellara's room is full and we found her packing list (adorable). Neve, too, has brought books, papers, a spare leg, tools to work on it with... Even Rook has a scene where they decorate their room with possessions that are meaningful to them.

But if we go looking through Lucanis's personal belongings, we find barely any of them. And what few there are, we find mixed among the team supplies or shoved under them.

^ Here, is hookah pipe is neatly shelved in the corner, and we find a a heavily-armored and well-locked chest tucked among the fruit. I might be looking for meaning where there isn't any but... Lucanis has got himself tucked away in the pantry, his walls up and himself still locked away in the Ossuary of his mind.

^ Better view of the chest.

Underneath one of the moved shelves is a Crow-themed rug, with almost all details hidden under supplies for the team, another big basket of coffee beans and another presumably-locked chest.

Under the bed, we find another rug, rolled up and not set out even though having it laid on the floor inside of the bed would be more comfortable. He spends a lot of time sitting on that bed, having a rug to put his feet on could be nice and yet... it's under the bed.

The only other Lucanis possession I could find in the room is his bag, shoved under his bed. He's a boujie boy, but it's not a boujie bag. It's utilitarian and well-used, shoved under the bed until he needs it.

To end on a slightly happier note... his brewing bench outside the pantry door is pretty neat.

^ I wonder where these mugs are from and what the designs represent.

^ Any idea what this is, anyone? The thing hanging from the chain?

Oh, and guess what was under the brew station! MORE COFFEE!

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC xDP Fanfi idea: The End and Beginning

It starts off simple. The Fentons move to a new universe once the AntiEcto-Acts are accepted worldwide. It was a problem when the USA enacted the laws, but convincing the rest of the world to follow suit left a bitter taste in their mouths.

It also made them feel highly useless.

Their youngest was a half-ghost, and after meeting the clone and alternative counterpart of said son, the Fentons family now were half of what the Acts claimed had no soul.

They could fight against the country and escape into the dead of night, but there was nowhere to hide when the whole planet hunted them. Unless you had a portal that could send you far away from the government dogs.

This was good because said dogs had managed to build their own portal. Nothing with Fenton Works tech, but it didn't seem to matter. They had a way into the Infinite Realms and planned on sending bombs through to vanquish the ghosts once and for all.

Clockwork had warned the planet's governing units, appearing in their skies and speaking every language.

"If you do this, then your world will end. Your world is a flip of ours. Without one or the other, everything will be destroyed."

His warning only further fueled their hate, and mods flooded the streets chanting for the bombs to be set off. It was like the whole world had lost their minds.

The Fentons cowered in their homes, trying desperately to get people to listen, but their words fell on deaf ears. Clockwork's reputation puts him in a challenging position. His natural dedication needed to remain neutral in any situation, but his soft spot for Danny made it hard to allow time to run its course.

In the end, he appeared before the Fentons with a message. "You must leave this world in one week. Everything will come to an end."

His warning had the group moving. They reached out to all their friends and extended family. Begging them to flee with them. Only Sam and Tucker arrived at their house on the last day, eyes puffy red, bags packed, and a daunting lack of their parents.

Clockwork sent them a ship. It looked like a glowing cruise ship, with wooden planks creaking and groaning as they climbed aboard. They were to pick a room and take shelter, understanding that once they sealed the door, they could not reopen it until they arrived.

The ship would travel at alarming speeds, protected from their timeline with Clockwork's power, but it would take everything the ghost had to keep them safe.

The final moment came, with the seven people pilling together in the largest room- The VIP balcony cabin. Sam, Tucker, and Danny held each other while sitting in front of the glass windows overlooking the fleeing ghosts- their world was also ending.

Maddie, Jack, Jazz, and Dani were in a pile on the bed, eyes shut tight and hugging each other with all their might. Tears rolled down their faces, but no one called it out. They were all mourning.

Dan stood to the side, arms crossed over his chest and leaning on the door. Despite not saying it out loud, they knew he wanted to guard it in case a ghost figured out the cruise was an escape pod. If a desperate enough ghost attempted to break through the door, their deal with Clockwork would be voided, and Dan would never allow it.

The moment came without warning. Multiple portals ripped open among the green skies. Through them, the Fentons could see cheering humans, treating the bombings like a giant festival. Fireworks, waving banners, music that thumped with glee- it made them all sick.

The first three bombs were set off. The Realms' reaction was just as instant, collapsing into itself as the humans' joys reached new levels of glee- until the holes warped into black holes, swallowing up the portal and the area around it.

One right after the other. Large glowing lights, then swirling darkness yanking everything into a quick, meaningless nothing. The humans were no longer cheering- now they were screaming. They were cowering.

But there was nowhere left to run.

Clockwork appeared in front of the trio, smiling sadly at them as multiple cracks appeared on his being. He mouths a sentence, placing one broken hand on the glass, and then pushes the ship away. At a speed that is more light than movement, the Fentons and their guests rush away, watching with horrified eyes as Clockwork breaks apart completely.

He vanishes into dust that gets absorbed into a black hole. Dan and Danny's noise is gutted, ripped from somewhere deep in their cores.

The cruise crumbles around the pressure of the push. Wooden pieces are shaken off the ship, shattering from the effort to keep itself together, and fall into the void as they watch, unsure of Clockwork's power, which would be enough to withstand the breaking of a timeline. Soon, only their room remains; even that, it starts to show glowing green cracks on the wall.

Dan glares at them, never hating something as much as the sight of them, while his family and kid brother's friends start to sob. Suddenly, everything comes to a stop.

Or rather, a large being made entirely of light, taking the shape of a human man, catches their cabin. They all stumble, thrown from their positions as the glowing white human shape brings them to its large face. It's like looking into a marble statute with no distinctive face, only the barest of outlines that could count as a face.

"You bear Clockwork's mark, but he is not with you," The being says, blinking its large eye into the window. The swirling red of its pupils baths the humans and ghosts as they stare back open jaws. "How curious"

"Who are you!?" Dan demands, stepping away from the door. "How did you survive the destruction of the timeline?!"

The being eye's dim. "Clockwork is dead then. I told him I would welcome him into my realms, but he chose to send his kin instead. What a sentimental fool."

Dan's human features melt away, and his ghost forms burst from an explosion of flames. "Who are you!?"

"Your kind calls me Speed Force." It replies after a movement, sounding slightly amused, "And I grant you sanctuary as a favor to an old lover. Live well."

With a snap of its fingers, the group vanishes into a bright light, appearing in the middle of a blue sky. Gentle clouds float around, spread out like a mist. It a daunting change from the darkness and the screams.

The group gawks at the sight before gravity reaches up to grasp the broken remains of the cruise ship within its claws. It rips from them the sky, sending them into a downward spiral.

Dan's flames are smothered out as he desperately reaches for it "I can't go, ghost!"

"Me either," Dani screams, clinging hard to Maddie.

"Speed Froce took our powers." Danny realizes, clutching Sam and Tucker closer. "Everyone brace for impact!"

They hit the ground hard and flung around like rag dolls as the last of Clockwork's powers desperately tried to shield them. The glowing green cracks quickly spread until they resemble spider webs.

They hit the ground with a loud bang, sliding through a few layers of dirt. The group is flung against the wall, Dan grunting in pain when Sam slams against him from the force.

Ultimately, the wood can't hold itself together, and it shatters just as it crumbles to a stop. They all land with pain and cries against the hard ground, in a pile of limbs and confusion.

"Oh my," A woman says, standing on her porch overlooking the Fentons. Beside her is a wide-eyed man, one steaming mug in his hold. "Pa, I think I need to put more coffee. We have guests."

Above the couple is a wooden sign with faded but beloved letters. It reads Kent Farm.

[radioiaci]

Had Vox not interjected, Alastor might have stood there for longer. A repeated habit, it seemed, in the face of far more nostalgia and memory than he can remember ever being faced with in recent years. Instead, at the sight of the strange stuffed animal, he turned and squinted at it. It seemed a bit beyond salvaging. But the sight of it - and the idea that Vox thought he might have wanted it - made him snort out a small laugh.

"I think I could do without that," he said.

The way the other seemed to just casually stroll into a room and break whatever seal remained around it was jarring - but what else was Alastor meant to do except to do the same? Maybe Vox was doing him more good than harm by wandering around and treating it as though it were nothing.

He had been right to bring the man along.

"It was a lot of blood," he agreed after a few silent moments. "But then, that had sort of been the point."

As if to somewhat copy Vox, he placed his shoe onto the spot, rubbing his sole against it, though it did not seem to give any. The blood had stained the wood beyond measure. A dark blemish on the floor.

"I butchered my father here," Alastor finally managed to say, keeping his voice rather disconnected and disinterested. "She tried to get rid of any evidence, but - It was easier to just leave." An explanation given for why the house had been abandoned entirely.

Another laugh escaped him then - this one a bit off-kilter and much more like that of some kind of hyena. Purposefully dark and cruel sounding as it reached the wooden walls and died for lack of material to echo off of. He circled it with a fixed stare until he was on the opposite end of the room, his shadow creeping with whatever small amount of light was permitted into the room from the doorway. Though he was in disguise, the shadow behind him still did a few funny wiggles and shifts. As though his true nature were still there. Lingering. Watching.

"What a funny mark for him to leave on this place."

Another breath.

"We should burn it."

Upset.. but not catatonic. That was some sort of victory. He coughed a few times under his breath. His throat felt like it was on fire after all the bile acid and then nicotine on top of it. He would have killed a man if he saw a water bottle.

Vox coughed again in a manner that could only be described of as old man coughing, then spit something to the side as he did a check around the bed area. Maybe looking for any child treasures. He did end up finding something. Almost molded to the floor, and part of it had some very happy looking moss on it— a teddy bear. In peeling it off the floor, its left shoulder and hip seemed to be stuck in the flattened floor imprint. It was a bit stiff.

Euch.

He held it with two fingers, away from himself and turned around to find his companion.

He wasn’t far, but he was in a doorway he hadn’t noticed before.

Vox approached him from behind with his hand outward.

“I found this… and a picture..” he inhaled from his cigarette casually from his other hand and exhaled it away from Alastor casually.

Then finally looked up when he didn’t get a response immediately, leaning into the room more to see what spectacle had his attention.

“That’s a lot of blood.” He said casually as if this wasn’t the first blood stained wood floor he had come across.

While still holding the weather worn toy, he moved into the room and stood over the spot. Sort of scuffing at the wood with his shoe irreverently. Mostly curious if it was squishy or soft. Or slippery. The room was so dark he couldn’t really see much else in the room. But he flicked his cigarette butt casually to the side somewhere with one finger to smolder out.

[soulofapatrick]

I'm Not Watching You - Ridoc Gamlyn x Female Reader

Summary: Ridoc catches you staring at him

Warnings: fluff; flirting; implied smut to happen

Words: 2.7K

Notes: I can do a smutty part two hehehe

Y/N’s POV 

The dining hall at Basgiath buzzes with the chaotic symphony of clinking goblets, hearty laughter, and the metallic scrape of knives against plates. The air smells of roasted meat and spiced ale, mingling with the smoky scent of the torches lining the walls. Our squad claims one end of a long wooden table near the center of the room. Despite the cacophony, our corner feels lighter than usual, celebratory even. We’ve made it through another week of training—still breathing, still together—and that alone feels like something worth toasting.

Ridoc Gamlyn sits across from me, lounging in his chair like the rules of gravity don’t apply to him. His brown skin glows in the warm light of the torches, and his floppy brown hair—forever unruly—falls into his face no matter how often he shoves it back. There’s a spark in his dark eyes, a mischief that matches the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s spinning a fork between his fingers, the casual rhythm oddly mesmerising, and I find myself staring.

Big mistake.

“You’ve been staring at me all night, love,” Ridoc drawls, his voice cutting through the din with effortless precision. He sets the fork down with a deliberate clink and leans forward, the gleam in his eyes making my stomach twist. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

I stiffen, heat rising to my cheeks as I scramble for a response. “I’m not staring at you.”

His eyebrows shoot up, his expression dripping with faux innocence. “Oh? Then who were you looking at? Barlowe? Imogen?” He grins, leaning even closer, his head tilting just enough for that ridiculous mop of hair to flop sideways. “Or maybe you’ve finally realised how devastatingly handsome I look in candlelight.”

I snort, rolling my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. “Candlelight? What century do you think this is?”

“It’s called ambiance, darling,” Ridoc says, completely unfazed. He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the flickering torches. “Something you clearly haven’t learned to appreciate.”

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter, shoving a piece of bread into my mouth to keep from smiling.

Ridoc notices anyway—because of course he does—and his smirk transforms into a triumphant grin. “Ah, there it is. You’re smiling. That counts as a win for me.”

“It doesn’t,” I shoot back, though the words lack conviction.

“Sure it does,” he says, sitting back again with the kind of casual confidence that sets my teeth on edge. His chair creaks dangerously under his weight, but he doesn’t seem to care. “I always win.”

Imogen, seated a few spots down, snickers and raises her goblet in our direction. “Ridoc, leave her alone before she stabs you with her dinner knife.”

Ridoc’s grin widens. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried,” he says, winking at me.

I groan and pick up my cup of water, draining it in one long sip to avoid saying something I’ll regret. He’s relentless, a constant thorn in my side—and yet, for reasons I can’t fully understand, I don’t hate it.

As the night wears on, the squad’s conversations shift to trading stories from the week. Close calls in training, spectacular failures during drills, and ridiculous mistakes that somehow didn’t get anyone killed. Ridoc’s quick wit earns plenty of laughs, but I can’t help noticing how his gaze keeps flickering back to me, as if checking to see if I’m still paying attention.

It’s maddening.

I hate how aware I am of him—the way his laughter sends a strange ache through my chest, the way his teasing feels oddly personal, like it’s meant for me and no one else.

Eventually, the others start drifting away, one by one, until it’s just Ridoc and me left at the table. The noise of the dining hall fades to a distant hum, leaving an almost intimate stillness between us.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Ridoc says, his voice softer now, the usual teasing edge absent. He rests his elbows on the table, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the wood.

I shrug, unsure how to respond. “Just thinking about the squad. How lucky we’ve been.”

Ridoc nods, his expression unusually thoughtful. “Yeah. Not everyone’s got what we have. Iron Squad’s something special.”

He pauses, his fingers stilling as he meets my gaze. “And so are you, you know.”

I blink, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, his tone lighter now, though his eyes stay serious. “You’re sharp. Fierce. And you keep me on my toes, which I appreciate more than I probably should.”

My stomach twists again, and this time I know it’s not from the wine. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” I manage, my voice quieter than I’d like.

Ridoc grins, but it’s softer now, lacking the usual bravado. “It’s a compliment. Trust me.”

For once, I think he might actually mean it.

He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back with a scrape that echoes through the nearly empty hall. “Get some rest, love,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat before turning to leave.

I should let him go—I really should—but the words spill out before I can stop them. “Wait.”

Ridoc pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with a curious tilt of his head. “What’s this? You actually want me to stay?”

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the rapid thudding of my heart. “Don’t make it weird, Gamlyn.”

His smirk returns, slow and deliberate, as he steps closer. “Too late. But I’ll bite—what is it?”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come. The tension between us feels electric, crackling in the air like a storm about to break.

Ridoc stops just in front of me, close enough that I can see the faint freckles dusting his nose and the way his dark eyes gleam in the low light. His gaze drops briefly to my lips before flicking back up to meet mine.

“Say the word, and I’ll leave,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if you don’t…”

I don’t let him finish.

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab the front of his jacket and pull him down. Our lips collide, and for a moment, the rest of the world ceases to exist. He’s warm and solid, his hands finding my waist as he kisses me back with a fierceness that takes my breath away.

When we finally break apart, I’m left gasping, my pulse pounding in my ears. Ridoc’s smirk is gone, replaced by something softer, something real.

“Well,” he says, his forehead resting lightly against mine. “That was unexpected.”

“Shut up, Ridoc,” I whisper, but there’s no bite to the words.

His grin returns, bright and genuine. “You know, I could get used to this.”

“Don’t push your luck,” I warn, though I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

Ridoc chuckles, his thumb brushing softly against my side. “Too late.”

And just like that, everything shifts. It’s still us—but better. Something new, something I’m not sure I want to let go of.

The dining hall feels distant now, the noise fading into a comforting hum as Ridoc’s hand lingers on my waist. His touch is warm, grounding in a way that makes me want to lean in, even as my brain screams at me to step back. I shouldn’t feel this way—not about him—but there’s something disarming about the way his eyes meet mine, steady and unguarded.

“You’re staring now,” I manage, my voice softer than intended, like I’m trying to break the tension without shattering it completely.

Ridoc chuckles, low and quiet, his thumb tracing idle circles against my side. “Can you blame me?”

“Yes,” I reply, though the word falters, betraying the conviction I wish I had.

His smirk softens, and for once, it’s free of his usual bravado. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he murmurs, and the way he says it feels less like teasing and more like truth.

“Ridoc…” I warn, though it comes out weak, almost breathless.

“Alright, alright.” He steps back slightly, giving me space but not entirely letting go. His hands hover, like he’s not quite ready to lose the connection. “I’ll behave. For now.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “That’s a first.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he fires back, the grin creeping back onto his face. “I make no promises.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile I’m fighting slips through anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, tilting his head with mock innocence, “you kissed me. Funny how that works.”

Heat floods my face, and I shove lightly at his chest. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Ridoc laughs, his gaze bright and alive with something I can’t name. “Not a chance, love.”

The easy banter fades into a quiet moment, the kind that feels heavier than it should. Ridoc shifts, his confidence softening at the edges as he glances down at our hands, his fingers brushing against mine. “Dinner tomorrow?” he asks, the question casual but his tone anything but.

I blink, caught off guard. “You’re asking me on a date?”

His grin is still there, but it’s gentler now, almost shy. “I mean, we’ve already kissed. Might as well see where this goes.”

Something in his sincerity makes my chest tighten. Ridoc, insufferable flirt and relentless tease, is suddenly serious in a way that feels terrifying and exciting all at once. I hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing against me, before finally nodding.

“Fine,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “But if you bring up candlelight even once, I’m stabbing you with a dinner knife.”

Ridoc’s laugh is warm and unapologetic as he takes my hand, his thumb brushing against my knuckles. “Noted.”

Ridoc falls into step beside me, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as we make our way down the dimly lit hallway. The flickering torches on the walls cast long shadows, but his presence is anything but subtle. He walks so close that our arms brush every few steps, and the air between us seems to hum with a tension neither of us is quite ready to name.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he drawls, his tone lazy, like he’s savouring the moment. “Planning your next move? Or just imagining all the ways you’re going to stab me with a dinner knife?”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to smile. “Maybe both.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine. “You’ve got quite the imagination. Should I be flattered that I’ve taken up so much space in that pretty little head of yours?”

I roll my eyes, though the corners of my mouth betray me by twitching upward. “It’s less ‘taking up space’ and more ‘annoying squatter I can’t evict.’”

Ridoc places a hand over his heart, feigning a wounded expression. “Ouch. And here I thought we were making progress. Guess I’ll have to work harder.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” I retort, though the playful edge in my voice robs the words of any real sting.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Oh, I won’t. You’re worth the effort.”

That makes me falter, my breath hitching just enough for him to notice. His grin widens, and I hate that he catches every little crack in my defences. It’s like he’s made a game out of unraveling me, and worse, he’s annoyingly good at it.

By the time we reach my door, the weight of the moment feels heavier, charged with something that wasn’t there before—or maybe it was, and I’d just been ignoring it. I stop in front of the wooden frame, my hand hovering over the doorknob as I try to decide if I’m ready to let this—whatever this is—go any further.

Ridoc leans casually against the doorframe, his body angled toward me, his hand braced above my head. He’s so close now that I can feel the heat radiating off him, and I have to fight the urge to step back—or closer. His gaze searches mine, the teasing glint in his eyes tempered by something softer, more sincere.

“You’re staring again,” I say quietly, trying to regain some semblance of control.

He doesn’t flinch. “Maybe I am. Can you blame me?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the words get stuck in my throat when his free hand comes up to brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger at my jaw, his touch warm and grounding, and suddenly the door at my back feels like the only thing keeping me upright.

“You should stop,” I manage to say, though my voice wavers.

His lips curve into a soft, knowing smile. “Do you really want me to?”

Damn him. Damn the way he looks at me, like he’s seeing something no one else does. Like he’s daring me to stop hiding and meet him halfway. My silence is answer enough, and his gaze flickers down to my lips for just a moment before returning to my eyes.

“I should probably say goodnight,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t move an inch. “But I don’t really want to.”

“Then don’t,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

That’s all the permission he needs. Ridoc closes the gap between us, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that’s as infuriatingly confident as he is. His hand slides to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the intensity of it steals the breath from my lungs. There’s nothing tentative about the way he kisses me; it’s all heat and certainty, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as I have.

I fist my hands in the front of his shirt, anchoring myself as the world tilts beneath my feet. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, his lips moving against mine with a maddening mixture of tenderness and hunger. When his tongue brushes against mine, I gasp softly, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his grip on my waist tightening.

By the time we break apart, we’re both breathing heavily, our foreheads resting together. Ridoc’s eyes are darker now, his smirk gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You know that?”

I let out a shaky laugh, trying to ignore the rapid pounding of my heart. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but there’s an earnestness in his expression that takes me off guard. He raises his hand, his thumb brushing softly along my jawline. “So… do I get to come inside, or are you going to make me sleep in the hallway after that?”

I arch a brow, reaching for the door handle behind me. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s pushing their luck.”

“It’s part of my charm,” he says with a wink, though the way his eyes flicker down to my lips betrays just how much he’s hedging his bets.

Instead of answering, I twist the doorknob and push the door open, the wood creaking softly. His smirk falters for half a second, replaced by genuine surprise, but I don’t give him a chance to recover. I grab the front of his shirt and tug him inside, the door clicking shut behind us.

His hands are on me in an instant, his lips finding mine again with renewed fervour. This time, there’s no hesitation, no testing the waters. It’s all fire and heat, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for second-guessing. His hands slide down my back, pulling me even closer, and I let myself get lost in him, in the way he kisses me like I’m the only thing that matters.

“Shut up, Ridoc,” I whisper against his lips, and for once, he actually listens.

Part Two Here ⇒ You Can Watch Me

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

you | for @steddiemicrofic January prompt new

pairing: steddie (duh) | word count: 517 | rated: M | on AO3

The next morning, Steve finds himself awake much earlier than he would’ve liked; the light of the new day filtering through the blinds is still tinged with early morning darkness.

For a moment he just breathes it in.

Only a handful of hours before, he was alone.

Only a handful of hours earlier, he was convinced that the thing he wanted most in this world would always be an impossibility.

Now though, these wholly insignificant amount of hours later, he feels a shift in gravity beneath him, the warm body beside him pushing up to turn over.

“Sorry,” he whispers, “Did I wake you?”

Eddie blinks blearily over at him; his brow is scrunched in confusion, like he’s not quite sure how he got here.

“You okay, Ed?”

Eddie grunts, letting his weight fall unceremoniously onto Steve’s chest. “Mrmph.”

Steve chuckles, and Eddie shifts again, tilting his head up to poke his chin into the meat of Steve’s chest instead of his nose. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“Hmm.” he hums, snaking an arm out from under his boyf– lov– frien— out from under Eddie and over the soft planes of his back. “Go back to sleep, Teddy.”

Eddie’s nose smushes into his pec once again, and Steve can’t help but laugh, his chest causing Eddie to bounce slightly.

“Mmrughph!” he complains, louder this time, flopping an arm over him and pressing down slightly to stop him moving, “Tryin’ t’sleep, here.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Steve chuckles, squeezing Eddie tight to him. He shifts, and Eddie presses himself the rest of the way to him, his leg hooking over one of Steve’s and settling between them.

Eddie soon goes boneless again, Steve feeling each point of him as it gets heavier with sleep.

He lies there, with Eddie in his arms, and thinks.

Thinks about how they would never have been here now if not for Eddie’s penchant for popping up at Steve’s house randomly. That if he’d had anything else to do tonight, he wouldn’t’ve waltzed in just after dinner. That if Steve had any better hearing than he does, Eddie wouldn’t’ve walked straight into Steve’s room mid-jerk.

The utter horror of being walked in on (by his newfound crush no less), did absolutely nothing to quell the heat blazing through him, nor did it deter Eddie from recovering quickly enough to shut the door, lock it behind him, and climb onto the bed between Steve’s legs.

“This all for me, big boy?” He’d asked, voice low and eyes dark.

And for some reason, all Steve could do was laugh.

Laugh at being caught, laugh at Eddie’s complete acceptance of what was happening, laugh at his complete lack of hesitation.

Steve laughed, Eddie’s face started to shift from sultry to panicked, and Steve had sat forward and pulled Eddie to him, kissing him soundly.

They’d moved against each other for hours; kissing, grinding, coming, laughing some more.. It was the least scary a new thing had ever been.

Eddie shifts beside him again, “Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” his leg hitches higher, feeling the effects of Steve’s reminiscing.

Steve smiles, “You.”

i haven't done a microfic in a while.. nor have i even writen/posted something in a while!! brushin off the cobwebs today apparently lmao

buy me a coffee? ☕

[fiftyfiftyfinchy]

Hiiii, I would love a ArthurTv x reader period comfort, I just feel like he’d be so sweet about it. Maybe the reader stains the sheets and is really upset?

Love your writing so much!!!!

had a lot of fun writing this way too relatable request!

how you think he'll react vs how he actually reacts:

The morning light seeped through Arthur’s thin curtains, slapping you in the face with the reality of a new day. You blinked against the brightness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar bed, the disheveled man beside you, and—oh right. Last night. You let yourself fall back into the memory, replaying it like a favorite scene in a movie: the way his fingers had traced slow, deliberate patterns along your spine, sending little shockwaves down your body. The way his voice had dropped an octave. It was warm and teasing when he whispered something so dirty that still made your stomach flip just remembering it. The way his mouth found yours,, as though you were something rare and he had all the time in the world to savor you.

It had been better than you'd imagined. Perfect in the way that made your cheeks heat just thinking about it, your body aching in a way that was both delicious and maddening. Perfect in a way that made you want to weep for all the imperfect nights with imperfect men that had come before.

For a while, you just laid there, basking in the warmth of the sheets and the faint smell of Arthur’s cologne still clinging to the pillows. But then—oh no. That faint discomfort. That little tug in your gut. You shifted, and that’s when you saw it. The betrayal. A dark, undeniable stain on the pristine white sheets beneath you.

Your stomach plunged into the depths of hell. You stared at the spot like it had personally insulted your entire lineage. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Your mind raced through increasingly absurd solutions: burn the sheets, fake your death, join a convent. Should I just jump out of the window? Anything but face the reality of what had just happened.

Arthur stirred beside you, his hair a ridiculous halo of bedhead, and you froze, clutching the sheet like it was a parachute and you were plummeting toward earth. “Morning,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” you squeaked, trying to telepathically will him to not notice. But of course, he noticed. Because the universe loves to watch you squirm.

He blinked at the stain, then at you, and for a moment, you thought you might actually die right there in his bed. But instead of recoiling in horror or laughing in your face, Arthur did the unthinkable: he grinned.

“Is that all?” he said, his voice so casual it made you want to scream. “I thought something was actually wrong.”

“Arthur,” you hissed, your face burning hotter than the sun. “I ruined your sheets!”

“They’re just sheets,” he said, sitting up and stretching like you hadn’t just shattered every shred of dignity you’d ever possessed. “It’s fine. I’ll throw them in the wash.”

“I’ll do it,” you said, already scrambling to untangle yourself, but he shook his head, laughing softly.

“Nope. Not a chance,” he said, gently prying the sheets from your death grip. “You’re going to take a shower and relax while I handle this. No arguments.”

“Arthur,” you said again, but he was already halfway out of bed, stripping the sheets.

“There’s fresh towels in the bathroom,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll grab you some clothes. Go on, I’ve got this.”

You stood there for a moment, still clutching the corner of the duvet like it might save you. But his easy smile, his complete lack of judgment, made the tension in your chest ease just enough for you to nod and shuffle toward the bathroom.

Under the hot spray of the shower, you let out a long breath. The embarrassment still simmered, but it no longer felt like it might consume you. By the time you got out of the shower, wearing the oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants he’d left for you on the counter, the worst of it had faded.

You found him in the kitchen, humming tunelessly as he fiddled with the kettle. The sheets were nowhere in sight, already banished to the washing machine. But on the counter was a grocery bag, overflowing with… tampons? There must have been at least eight boxes of them and..chocolate bars? You looked at him like he had gone insane.

“I ran to the shop while you were in the shower,” Arthur said, turning around with a grin that was entirely too proud of itself. “I didn’t know which kind you’d want, so I got… all of them. And the chocolate just seemed like a good idea.”

You continued to stare at him, speechless, as he casually unpacked what looked like an entire aisle of feminine products and enough chocolate to stock a small candy shop.

“Arthur,” you finally managed, your voice somewhere between incredulous and laughing. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Are you kidding?” he said, handing you a mug of tea like he hadn’t just gone on the most unhinged errand of all time. “This is boyfriend training 101. I’m acing the course.” He smirked his boyish smirk that had you falling for him since day one.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you and filling the kitchen. And just like that, the morning didn’t feel like a disaster anymore. It felt like a warm cozy blanket.

"Thank you for being so cool about this," you say. "It means a lot."

"I guess you could say I like to go with the flow." He says before laughing entirely way too hard at his own joke.

[clubsoft]

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⠀ ⠀ BUNNY IS A RIDER ⠀ ⠀ JEY USO / POC ! F ! READER⠀⠀

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SUMMARY ⋆ jey has one of his ideas , and it involves his pretty little girlfriend . . . as always . WARNINGS ⋆ just pure smut / dom !! jey / thigh riding / daddy kink / spanking / spit kinda ? ... looks around / multiple orgasms / size kink / there's an age gap but its more shown than told idk das his baby / dirty talking / pet names ( mama , baby , babygirl , bunny ) / jey luvs his baby / thinly veiled foot kink bye WORD COUNT ⋆ 1 . 4 k NOTES ⋆ IIBTPUIYOTOMMMMMM

Ardent lust emits in a series of ungodly acts, hidden and buried away in a bedroom on a private island. No lights, no cameras. Nothing exists but strong, steady hands under the airy fabric of an angel white sundress. 

The video game is background noise. You lose! flashes in ugly red letters resembling the spillage of blood, the controller buzzes against the leather cushions away from the pair, both of whom are so very preoccupied. Jey sits with his muscular legs spread wide, top row of pearly teeth denting his soft bottom lip, lashes low and head tilted. His curls are damp from his recent shower, traces of fallen droplets on his bare chest, to which he pays no mind, for his amorous gaze is steady set on a much sweeter objective. 

Between his thick thighs stands his lover; a hot, flustered mess of a girl whose dress is bunched up at her waist by one of Jey’s large hands, soft belly and plush thighs, the flesh of round hips enduring the painful dimpling subjected by the thin straps of a pure white g-string. They’re both more than aware of the lack of discomfort, but Jey coos as though it’s the definition of torture. The nerve of that piece of fabric, hurting his babygirl. That’s enough cause to curl two thick digits around the slender gusset, beginning to pull it down her legs only to pause and let his knuckles linger in place, pressing them into the wetness of her folds, letting them catch against her clit and break her silence with a squeak of response. He chuckles, she groans, and he yanks the garment off in one swift movement while happily licking his knuckles clean. “Jey…”  She begins quietly, but words don’t come to her, her being consumed by the need for more of his touch, and she hopes the lovelorn sparkle in her eyes speaks for her. Alongside the panties goes the dress, tugged down her shoulders and tossed to the other side of the couch, entirely out of reach. Now, bare before him, she awaits his next move. 

“Want you right here, mama,” Jey rasps out, taking hold of her waist, tugging her in, patiently guiding her to straddle a singular thigh, continuing in a sultry tone that has her soaking through his sweats, “Just sit your pretty ass right here and let me take care a’you, ‘k? Wanna try somethin’ new…” He uses his knuckle to nudge her chin, dark brown eyes awaiting an answer. Calm and sensual as his demeanor is, the shakiness of his breathing reveals the tightening thread behind the curtains, ready to snap into something more primal, something less gentle. It’s the perfect time to be good and nod, so she does. “Good girl…  here we go, baby.”

A beat of tenderness, dainty wrists clasped in big hands that help settle her much smaller ones atop his broad shoulders. Then, without a second’s hesitation, Jey grips her hips and rocks them slowly against his thigh; her slick folds dragging over the gray fabric. Lightening dances up her spine, the first surge of pleasure makes a moan sound out in symphony between them, and her perfectly manicured nails dig into his skin, scratching over the inked expanse of flesh as a rhythm is set. Her darling mien is softened by the delectable sensation, lashes almost brushing her cheekbones, lips parted, tongue on the verge of sticking out past them. She’s so dirty, so depraved, possessed by carnal indulgence with such little effort, her film of innocence losing opacity with each sap like noise from her throat, and Jey quickly realizes he’s no longer in her view, the lense that views him fogged up by desperation, by the chase of peak ecstasy. 

“Feel good?” His warm chest rumbles, low voice vibrating against the hinge of her jaw as his mouth kisses and nips the delicate spot. “Does that lil’ pussy like makin’ a mess on my clothes?” All he receives in response are pleasure drunken hums, a soft croon of a yes, and he grunts. The grip on her hips tightens into a bruising one, a twinge of pain reminds her of his presence, but his eyes are on the sweet cunt staining his sweats. A curl appears at the corner of his lips, a single canine flashing in the dim lights, and he applies pressure, watches as soft pussy lips part further, her folds mold to the fabric. Just like that, her hips twitch, tongue lolls out enough for him to lick against it with his own, and as she falls apart, he sucks on the dewy muscle with pride. 

“Jey… m—my god, fuck…  fuck…” She coos, encompasses his neck with her arms, chest coming down to press against his as her figure shivers through the ecstasy. Strings of spit connect their mouths as he laughs, dives in to kiss her again, hands shifting from her hips. One strong arm wraps around her waist, a palm travels up slowly, groping at warm flesh before it settles gently at her cheek, thumb toying with a saliva slicked bottom lip. 

“Look at you… such a dirty, dirty girl,” he murmurs, “So fuckin’ pretty, ruinin’ my fuckin’ sweats…  and I bet you wanna go again, don’t you?” That dark glint returns within mere seconds of disappearing, his thumb pushing into her mouth to press down on her tongue, making it impossible for any words to form, but the lotus has been consumed, and her plump lips wrap around the digit with an unholy lack of resistance. “Yeah, you fuckin’ do… c’mon, bunny. Gimme another one. Take daddy for a ride.” 

A second large hand smooths itself against the elegant small of her back, fingers dragging over smooth skin. Her being reads his touch with ease, curving her body just how he desires, leaving her hips to find their own rhythm. She whimpers around his thumb when his hand lifts, for no amount of his touch is enough. Greedy little thing, pouting for more while using her own spot of slick to get herself off again on his lap. A cry muffles itself as the heavy set of fingers swats at her plush ass, one smack for each precious, supple cheek. The thumb slips from her mouth, his fingertips dent into her cheeks, making her lips pucker. “You look a fuckin’ mess, lil’ baby…”

Amusement on his features, it’s impossible to deny he’s enjoying every sinful second of this, leaning in to suck her juicy bottom lip into his mouth, releasing it with a wet pop! 

“You love me?” He coos in a melody that verges on condescending. “Tell me, baby, you love me, don’t you?” Clasping her chin even tighter, he presses his fingertips harder into her cheeks, and with the motions of her body, her contorted lips, she offers a nod, an incoherent sound that doesn’t serve to be enough for him. A blink of an eye, he’s swatting down at her ass again, harshly, with both huge hands. 

“Ah! I love you— I love you! I love you, daddy!” Her voice is strained with oncoming euphoria, another loud smack, the sting of handprints lighting up a dark, masochistic corner of her brain, pain stirring with pleasure for a heartbeat, then two; her back arches, body falls soft, crumpling into his chest, and she chokes out a moan, a gush of juices against his thigh marks her second orgasm of the night. 

“There you go… there you go, my baby… did such a good job, babygirl.”

Flowery and abuzz, she’s panting into his chest, eyes shut as he soothes her with kiss after kiss, scraping his nails up and down her slender back. Fingertips travel down the shape of her hips, rub down her thighs, toy with her anklets before his hands take her small feet into his palms.  His thumbs pressing slow circles into the balls of her feet, Jey watches in adoration as her perfectly pedicured toes curl with relief. “Perfect from head to toe… pretty lil’ thing… Just wanna keep making a mess of you over and over and over.” One of the feet in his grip kick up a little, a drowsy giggle sounding from her relaxed figure. Jey chuckles, nuzzling his nose against her cheek, murmuring near her ear, teeth catching on her earlobe to tug playfully. “Get some rest, baby… You’re gonna need it… I’m not done with that pussy just yet.”

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⠀⠀ ⠀ © CLUBSOFT ⠀⠀ ⠀

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TAGLIST ⋆ @days1 / @luvrsluxe / @uceyliyahh / @uceypunk / @punksyeet / @chasssssworld / @ctinadiva / @bookuce / @bratzzzdoll if u would like 2 be added 2 my tag list 4 my wrestling fics , pls like this post !!

[oc-brainstorms]

My strange addiction 18+

Perv!Dom!Voyeur!Kang Dae-ho x Sex addict!Fem!reader/Thanos x Reader(kinda)

Synopsis: SMUT! Sex addict reader finds Dae-ho jerking off to her and Thanos having sex, she makes it her mission to try him out next and Dae-ho treats her exactly how she wants to be treated wink wink

warnings: Kinda dark/swearing/mentions of death/murder/ kinda cheating?/Mentions god(in a bad way)/Voyeurism/bathroom sex/public sex/mentions of anal/smut/reader uses thanos/Dae-ho is kinda pervy/rough/non-con?dub-con?ish/unprotected sex/p in v/Oral (M receiving)/daddy kink/reader is a sex addict/horny af/reader is fucking feral/overall filth/aftercare/angst/fluff/reader has some major issues (I haven't slept so if I've forgotten anything let me know) READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Words: 4.5K (it’s a long one)/

Unedited! there's gotta be a few mistakes in it but I wrote this instead of my dissertation and sleeping so take it for what it is I guess.

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I was never one to drink, do drugs or jump off tall things all for a little adrenaline rush-No, I was particular in my chosen addiction. Sex was always my vice. I tasted it one and couldn't get enough. It’s never really mattered to me what they look like or how good at it they were, if the thought pops into my head then it’s all I crave, like an itch that demands to be scratched. Sometimes I don’t even want it, like when a smoker who's trying to quit doesn't even think about lighting the cigarette in their mouth, it's basically a habbit.

Many interactions with vile, disgusting men and bad life choices led me right here, surrounded by people in green sweatsuits playing deadly children’s games for money. It’s not exactly where I thought I'd end up, I always thought I’d die in a ditch somewhere-discarded and used without a care in the world.

Salty sweat drops fall on my forehead from the purple-haired man thrusting to his hearts content in an out of me, grunting in my ear like he's on a mission. He’s not bad, a little too desperate and loud for my liking but hey, a fuck is a fuck. Plus he was pretty good-looking under the whole wannabe-bad-boy-rapper persona.

“You like that? hmph-So good-so so good.” He grumbles, his voice mere groans of hot breath in my ear.

“Feels so good daddy-please keep going please!” My voice was no higher than a pathetic whisper in return, becoming conscious of the creaks the bed was emitting, echoing in the empty space of the room. Thankfully many people this side had died in the previous game.

My hips were beginning to ache from the angle I’m spread to- My jaw clenching as I feel him wrap his hands behind my knees and shove them up until they hit my shoulders. The pain was easing from my hips but it did nothing for the lack of excitement I was feeling. It was a little mundane for me, stuck in missionary while he has the time of his life-but it will satisfy my needs nonetheless.

I can’t help but let my thoughts wander, craning my neck to glance over his shoulder as his pounding continued, just listening the the sounds of our skin slapping and the weak sounds of the bed frame holding us up.

My attention is suddenly drawn to a rusting from a bed on the other side of the room. Under the glow of the obnoxiously large piggy bank I can just make out a large figure, laid in bed with the covers just covering his hip. Squinting into the darkness I make out rapid movements under the covers.

Is this perv getting off to us?

I let my eyes linger for a while, feeling myself getting wetter from the idea of this stranger pleasuring himself to the sounds of us fucking. Trailing my eyes up I can just about make out his number, 388. Taking a mental note, I try to peak at his face through the darkness.

A gasp gets caught in my throat as I make eye contact with dark eyes that stare back at me. His whole face wasn't clear but I could sense his eyes burning into mine as he welcomed himself to the free porn he was witnessing.

‘So fucking wet for me.’ Thanos panted out, snapping me back to his attention. Thankfully his head was buried in my neck and he was too busy chasing his own high to notice my distraction.

Maybe I should give him a show.

I took my hands and placed them firmly on Thanos’ chest.

“Stop.” I manage to gasp out, pushing him back enough to look at his face. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are crazy, Purple strands sticking to his forehead. His thrusts stagger a little before coming to a stop.

“What the fuck is wrong girl, why are you stopping me when I'm about to fill you up?” The tone of his voice is slightly erratic, and a little too loud-but I had new priorities than everyone else's sleep.

“I just wanna ride you Daddy, please?” Fluttering my eyelashes up at him, I knew he couldn't disagree with me, especially as I clenched myself around him.

“Fuck okay-okay.” He talks over himself, gripping at my sides to manoeuvre me on top of him.

I knock my head on the metallic grate on underneath the bunk on top of us, but don’t even stop to acknowledge the pain, I've got a new task to complete. I can’t let poor 388 go to bed unsatisfied now can I?

I reposition myself straddling him, letting my hands rest on his chest while he sinks his dick into my hole. I’m already pretty raw so it stings from the stretch, feeling him throb inside me from the sensation, a small gasp erupts from my throat.

Rocking my hips back and forth, I feel him glide in and out of me, making sure to arch my back and stick my ass out to give the best possible view to my new friend.

“Just like tha-fuck just like that.” he mutters through staggered breaths. I can feel him getting close so I need to do my best with the time I have.

In a brave move, I move my hands up from his chest and glide them up my body, stopping to grip onto my breasts and squeeze, Hard. I moan louder than necessary, but not loud enough to cause a scene.

Bouncing hard on his dick, I bring my hand to my throat and start to lightly choke myself, throwing my head back and feel my hair hit my back.

“Fuck this pussy, oh god, oh my fucking god-so good, so tight oh fuck.” I hear him groan, reaching his climax as hot spurts of cum squirt inside of me, filling me up.

I lean forward, laying my chest back down and craning my neck to glance over my shoulder. I watch how 388’s covers slowly come to a halt, a subtle shake as he finally finishes. I wish I could hear him trying to catch his breath over the snoring of the rest of the room, but ill sleep happy with the knowledge I've done my job-for now.

“You finished right, girl?” My attention is drawn back to the heavy breathing of the purple haired asshole under me, his hands still feeling up my hips and ass as I catch my breath.

“Yeah sure.” I nod, through gritted teeth, slipping him out of me and laying beside him.

“Good, gotta take care of my girl, especially when she’s being so damn good for me!” He ruffles my hair before turning over, falling asleep almost instantly.

God he has so much faith in me not to kill him in his sleep.

My mind didn't relax enough to sleep, too focused on all the ideas I had to get my way, I will seduce this man, I don’t even care if he’s ugly or horrible. Anyone that desperate to cum clearly needs my help, maybe he’ll actually make me cum.

My lord isn’t it bad I'm more focused on this than the games? well I guess it is a game of sorts… wtf is wrong with me, anyways.

I roll my eyes and try to push my thoughts away. Ignoring the sweaty body next to me, I pull my crumped clothes back onto my body and lay back down, fading off to a dreamless sleep.

----

The most irritating and mind-numbing sickly song wakes me up in the morning. That along with the bright lights is enough to make me kill someone-even outside of the game.

I’ve never been a morning person, nighttime is where all the fun happens-hell I don't even wake up till gone 2pm most days. However, this morning I have a task-find this mystery man.

I sit up in bed-taking no notice of the absence of the man next to me, and try to brush my fingers through my knotted hair, pinching my cheeks and lips to look more alive.

God did they have to give us these ugly ass outfits.

Doing the best with what I have, I tie up the top into an extreme crop and pull the joggers down lower on my hip, lazily throwing the sweatshirt on.

It'll do.

I scan my eyes around the room like a predator hunting its prey, reading everyone’s number until my eyes land on the one I'm looking for.

Bingo.

He’s tall, good looking-man bun be damned, chuckling along with something an older man is saying and a-is that bitch pregnant? Damn. He stretches, his muscles flexing as he does, almost having me salivate on myself. He doesn't even glance over here before waltzing over to to the breakfast queue.

My footsteps are fast but inconspicuous, anyone else probably would’ve thought I was just hungry- and I guess they'd be right, but not for food.

I manage to squeeze in behind him, shuffling my feet closer to his.

“You’re pretty cute for a perv.” His shoulders stiffened, glancing at me over his shoulder.

‘What?” He mutters back to me, his eyes raking over my body before returning his eyes forward.

“I thought guys who liked to watch people fuck without them knowing were balding and lived in their parents basement with food stuck to their face and a box of tissues next to them.” Ok, that was a weird thing to say- but am I wrong?

His breathing takes a sharp incline as he shuffles forward with everyone else in the line.

“I wasn't watching you.”

“It’s okay baby I'm not mad a you, was I good for you?” my voice is confident but low, closer to his ear than before because of the people joining the queue behind me. Not sure if he's really as in to public humiliation as he is into public masturbation.

“I'm sorry, okay?” he whispers, without glancing back. More of a whimper really, slut.

“I just told you I'm not mad.” Im more short in my answers-im starting to get bored from this restrictive situation. I do get bored easily.

My lips almost touch his ear as I lean in, playing dangerous.

“Should've let me know you needed it daddy, this pussy has your name all over it.” I stroke over his back as I come down, tits grazing his back.

He chuckled darkly, looking down at his shoes, before turning his body to to me, a slick smirk playing on his mouth as he leant down and met my eyes.

“Really? Because to me it looks like it has that guy’s cum all over it.”

He blinked, before turning back and continuing to follow the queue.

I don’t have an answer for that, he really got me there to be fair.

My lips form a sharp line and I feel a heat rush to my cheeks, I kept my eyes down and stayed silent. I didn't know I could still feel embarrassed by anything-but here we are. I also tried to ignore the wetness growing between my thighs at the situation, the degrading really does it for me I guess.

He grabbed breakfast from the guard before sauntering off, out of the corner of my eye I saw him silently giggling to himself as he walked away, asshole.

I picked up my pathetic little apple and grumbled, taking a harsh bite out of it. If he's playing hard to get then I guess I'm just gonna have to play harder.

----

After the games, the vibes really sucked. Thanos was loud and annoying as usual but at least he didn't let me die. That was kinda nice of him, or maybe it was the fact I promised him anal if he got me through it-but nevertheless, it good to be alive.

I spent a long time in the bathroom, making sure I looked perfect after that mess. I also scrubbed myself raw, feeling dirty after the game, and the fuck and especially after 388’s comment. The 5 minute shower I somehow convinced the guard to let me have did wonders. He did watch me the entire time-but at least I'm clean!

After we once again got voted to stay, I got bored of the repetitive conversation and laid on my bed, staring at nothing in particular.

I glanced down over my feet at the door to the bathrooms, taking notice of the tall pretty boy leaving.

I didn't think twice about it, my feet moving on their own. I had to have it out with this man- he acts like a disgusting pervert watching me fuck and suddenly he's all cocky? I don't think so.

Thankfully the guards really don't give a fuck about who goes into what bathroom. I stand outside waiting, watching for the door to open. I didn't want to enter the bathroom and catch him pooping- I may be deranged but I'm not a total freak.

He wasn't in there long, and nobody had come in or out since him. Hearing footsteps approaching the door I give a quick wink to one of the guards, Showtime.

He barely opened the door before I pushed him back inside, closing us in the empty bathroom.

“Woah.” He managed, jumping on the defence and getting ready to attack before his eyes locked on me.

“Oh its you.” he relaxed, sighing.

“You miss me?” I asked sweetly, leaning back against the door with my hand resting on the metal handle.

“It's hard to miss you when you keep showing up,” his hands moved to his hips and his face bore an amused smirk, playful.

“You upset me earlier, thought you'd wanna make it up to me.”

“By telling you the truth? if that upsets you darling then you put have a real hard time with everything else in here.”

“Listen, you-”

“No you listen,” He steps towards me, a strange dominance lurking under his voice.

“I have enough going on here without some needly little whore deciding she's important enough to start bratting out because I used her pathetic show of attention-seeking to get myself off.”

My breathing increases as he steps closer, I was not expecting that to come out of his mouth, I’m not often too stunned to speak but somehow he's done it in the two conversations I've had with him.

I stare up at him through my lashes, my mouth dropping open a little as I pant through it. God is this turning me on?

“You gonna do something about it, tough guy?” Is all I manage to conjure, coming out in a stupidly quiet voice.

“Since you seem so desperate for me I'll do you a favour and put that dirty little mouth to use shall I?” He suddenly reaches forwards and grips my hair in his hand, a sound between a moan and a sob exiting my mouth as he does.

He shoves me across the room and into a stall, pushing us both in before slamming and locking it shut behind us. His grip stayed strong in my hair.

I don't know what I thought this guy would be like, I thought he would be a sweet little perv who helps pregnant girls and laughs along with old men’s jokes and then rubs one out while watching two people fuck like animals.

“Kneel.” He demands, his grip one my hair beginning to give me a headache. I don’t move, sure I've had men be rough before but this really took me by surprise.

“You want me don't you?” He spits out, but something in his eyes seemed softer, like a shimmer of guilt washed over them.

“Yes sir.”

“Then be a good girl and show me how much you want it, down on your knees.”

My knees buckled by themselves, gripping his thigh for support I hit the dirty bathroom floor and looked up at him with wide eyes.

“You know what to do slut, I'm sure you've had enough practice.” His eyes were back to being hard now, whether it was all the emotions during the games or something else had hardened him, and he desperately needed release, and Im more than happy to help with that.

I bring my hands up to his waistband, dragging down the green joggers and his boxers down together, watching as his hard cock flung free.

“Spit on it.”

I swirled my tongue around my mouth and tried to muster all the saliva I could, bringing my lips to the tip of his dick and letting my spit slowly drip onto it.

His eyes glaze over and he leans his head back, a groan slipping through his lips.

Taking my chance, I grab his throbbing cock with my hand and slowly pump my spit all over his shaft.

“I-is that good daddy?” I manage to stutter out, hand moving up and down as I slowly trail my tongue up his tip, tasting the pre cum that's already leaking out.

What the fuck is wrong with you, get your shit together.

“You know that's good slut, you're just begging for my validation aren't you?” He chuckled again, that deep chuckle he keeps doing that sounds like he's just been told a dirty joke, amused but interested.

I ignored the degrading tone and looked back down to his cock, its big and throbbing-a lot bigger than what I'm used to, or at least than what I've had in a long time.

Nervousness seeps into my brain but I push it back, taking him into my mouth and guiding him to the back of my throat.

As my nose hits his clothe stomach, my head is whipped back by his grip on my hair, a sudden flash of pain strikes my cheek and I feel tears welling up in my eyes from the sting.

“I asked you a question slut, or are you too stupid to use your words?” The look in his eyes flashed with amusement, like he was speaking to a cute puppy who just learnt a new trick.

“Yes sir.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir, I want your validation.” It hurt to spit the words out, but as soon as I did my head was thrusted back onto him.

He doesn't speak for a while, just grunting softly and leaning his head back against the cubicle wall with his eyes shut, fucking his dick right to the back of my throat like I'm nothing but a fleshlight he's using. All I can do is stifle my gags and take him, my face wet with my tears and the saliva dripping down my chin.

“So.Fucking.Good.” He chokes out between thrusts.

My mind goes black with everything else other than pleasing him, nothing but the pain in my throat and the blurry vision of his body above me.

His breathing quickens and I'm sure he's about to cum, my hair now fully being ripped out by the strength of his hands tangled in it.

“What should I do?”

I look up at him and try to muster up the most confused face I can under the circumstances, managing to furrow my eyebrows.

“Should I cum…down your throat?” His thrusts begin to slow slightly as he drags out his question.

“Or on this pretty little face?” His finger drops down and traces my jaw.

“Or should I have you lift up your shirt so I can cum on those perfect tits of yours, baby?” His questions receive no answer considering my mouth was still bing invaded by his thick cock.

“No, No, I know the perfect place.” His voice is dominant and looms over me.

With a swift movement he pulls me off of him, one arm under my armpit while the other stays in its place in my hair. They glide down to my own joggers, ripping them down to the floor along with my underwear, leaving me exposed and shaking from all the sensations of my body.

His large hands find my thighs and grips onto the backs of them.

“Jump.” He orders, and of course I follow through. Before I know it I’m pinned up against the cold wall, and being forced to bounce on his solid dick that's thrusting in and out of me at a rapid pace.

My arms find his shoulders and I cling on, hiding my whimpers in the Crook of his neck as I let him use my cunt for his pleasure.

“You want me to make you cum don't you doll?” He teases.

“Ye-Yes s-sir, please sir, yes, yes, yes!” I hate how the pathetic yelps come out of my mouth but the pleasure rocking through me takes my mind away from any embarrassment.

“That other little boy couldn't do it for you could he? You need a man to make you cum don't you huh?”

“Please make me cum Daddy, I'll do anything.” my voice sounded more like broken sobs coming through my lazily parted lips, already cock drunk from this humiliating situation.

He grips my wrist tightly and drags it between my legs.

“Rub yourself, c’mon princess I know you can do it,” His sweet words hit my ears and I immediately obey, becoming a gasping, moaning mess as I rub rapid circles around my sensitive clit.

Almost immediately after I feel myself reaching my climax, my head throwing itself back as he lunges for my throat, leaving sharp hickeys down my neck.

His breathing changes and soon after he's open-mouthed kissing my neck as I feel him pump his cum up into me, the grip he has on me weakening with every moan he produces.

As he lets go of the hold he has on me I drop to the floor, knees weak after the use he put them through. Im tired, and sore and sticky, I can feel him dripping out of me and onto the disgusting toilet floor. My eyes are heavy and my face flushed, with chapped lips and baby hairs sticking with sweat to my forehead and a tangled mess behind.

As the glow of my orgasm fades I get the same sinking feeling I always get when I finish, the feeling where Im immediately disgusted and ashamed and just want to cry and try and forget that I've just made a fool out of myself for a strange man.

I bring my hands to my face and sigh deeply, still trying to catch my breath. I forget the man*-whose name I still don't know* is there. Im sure he’ll see himself out eventually.

My unravelling show of self-pity is interrupted as I feel the man crouch down next to me, silently watching me cry into my hands.

Awkward, I bet he's regretting even meeting me now.

“Hey,hey.” He coos, his voice softer than soft. He seems afraid to touch me as his fingers ghost over my arm.

I bet he's so fucking irritated god I would be.

Imagine you've just fucked someone out of pity and they start crying on the fucking floor.

“I’m just gonna clean you up okay angel?” I sniffle and stop in confused awe. Moving my hands away from my face I wipe the tears off and pull them down until my eyes are peaking through.

He keeps eye contact for a moment before reaching over and grabbing toilet paper from behind him, ripping some off he starts to clean up the mess between my legs, uttering small apologies as I hiss from the contact.

“Shh..it's okay baby, you're okay.” His words are soft and comforting as he manoeuvres my clothes back on me. His hands stop at my waist as he tries to catch my eyes, but I'm looking everywhere but his face with my half-lidded gaze.

“Can I see that pretty face again? Please baby, let me clean you up.” I nod, eyebrows still subtly furrowed in suspicion.

With the softest touch he moves my hands away from my face, taking them in one of his and using the other to gently wipe off any moisture that remained. His touch felt like a feather grazing my skin, it was nice, I've never been treated so nicely before.

He fucking hates me doesn't he, oh well what do I care, I don't care anyways.

He places a hand on my knee, not in a way that's sexual but more of a calming gesture, probably to help stop the shaking by body has absentmindedly started doing.

Everything inside me is telling me to run, push him away and go find my bed to rock myself to sleep in, but something about the kind care in his eyes and the gentle touches he's gracing me with is making me want to stay here for as long as I can.

His other hand comes up to my hair, his fingers attempting to gently remove the knots that had built up from his harsh tugs.

‘Did I hurt you, go too far?”

I shook my head.

“Why are you doing this?” I broke my silence, voice barely audible.

“Doing what, sweetness?” He glanced down at my face, his voice soft and caring with a glance of concern.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” The words left my lips with a short chuckle, not an amused, joking chuckle, but more of disbelief and confusion-like when you hear something so ridiculous you can't help but let a chuckle slip out.

I sound so fucking pathetic.

“I’m taking care of you, you deserve it.” His confusion grew, his eyebrows getting more furrowed together the more he took in the disbelief on my face.

“You don't even know me, I don't even know your name, you don't know mine.”

“I would like to.” I stopped, staring blankly at him.

“My name Is Y/N.” I mustered up, I'm sure he doesn't really care-but it would be nice to be on a first name basis with this man, at least he's being helpful.

“Beautiful name, it suits you.” He spoke without moving his head away from the focus he had on my hair.

“What's your name?”

“Dae-Ho” His fingers freed themselves and he leant forwards, placing a soft kiss to the top of my head.

“Thank you.”

“What for?” he whispered against the skin of my forehead, the coolness of his breath causing a shiver to sneak down my spine.

“For telling me your name.”

Thank you for being nice, for holding me softly, for being so sweet and kind and affectionate to someone you don't care about.

“Angel I will tell you every single thing I know if it makes you happy.” My breath hitched and all wordings fell short in my throat. His eyes were light and kind, he didn't seem at all to mind easing me through this mini meltdown.

“Why?”

“I told you, i’d like to get to know you.’ He paused, his mind seemingly somewhere else, thinking deeply about his next words.

“Would you like to sleep in my bed with me tonight? i’d like to be able to hold you now, it feels wrong to part ways after this, unless you have plans with the crayon you were sleeping with before.” The sarcasm in his voice seeps through when he speaks about Thanos, a subtle spit of jealousy perhaps mixed in with his words.

Interesting development.

---------------------

A/N: Lit havent slept and wrote this with no editing so if its ass lmk lol- also my first piece of writing on tumblr! exciting times-many ideas ahead.

[deadmeat666]

YO. okay. weird gore-loving thoughts have possessed me and i can't help but (obvious GORE WARNING HERE) cutting open an angel just to caress their pulsing insides. even better if they have a heart 🫀 i can caress as they look up at me. the sweet gabriel looking at you through fingers as he covers his blushing face with his hands. michael holding his skin open and coaxing you further— he loves how his human is just as obsessed with him as he is with them. uriel's blank face only betrayed by the rapid beating of his heart, how his legs tighten around your waist, and the hearts in his eyes

GLISTENING FLESH. top! reader x sub! angel drabble

TW: xtreme dark content, bodily horror, eroguro (i think that's what it's called???), sacrilege, blasphemy, mention of dead animals, you (the reader) are insane, mention of penetrating with exposed insides. jeez im spoiling everything. BOTH PARTIES ARE CONSENTING!!!!!

a/n: steams blowing out of my ears this is so hot. this is a short one because ive never wrote this typpa stuff before

Imagine being a scientist that had bereft yourself from the functioning society. You wield fantasies far beyond any conscious understanding.

Blood of whatever animals, or humans, would pool beneath your feet. The tiles had seen far better days as the surgical light bounced off. In the middle of the room, lay one of life's greatest gifts, on the tattered operating table.

An angel (any of which you will), precisely cut from their chest down to their belly button, no liquid crimson spilling out, just the purest of red of their insides.

Their heart pumps not of blood, but just the pure devotion they have towards you. They are the cleanest species you have handled amongst the jars of vile specimens scattered throughout your.. "home", or lack thereof.

They let out a resigned sigh when you squeeze their heart with your bare and calloused hand. Their eyebrows stitch together as sweat begins to coat their skin.

Their hand grabs your wrist, leading you to toy with their flesh further and deeper, yet no blood would come to stick on your skin. The flesh feels soft and mushy, warm like being in front of a fireplace and comforting like a fresh bedding.

Surely, you'll enjoy fucking them with their insides exposed— how your cock is truly, literally changing their insides.

[captain039]

PART 6 The Meaning of Flowers

Viktor x reader

Bridgerton AU

Warnings: olden times, sexism, light swearing, plus size reader, older Viktor, age gap, fat shaming, sexual, smut, oral F and M receiving, innocent reader, light corruption kink, reader in her 20s, long-haired Viktor, possessive Viktor, obsessive Viktor, angst

Previous part <-

Dearest reader, with our matches getting cozier by the second it seems we may have proposals within the week, in fact, I’ve noticed a few gentlemen seeking the favour of a young lady's hand already. However, with all of this going like clockwork, the only thing that doesn’t tick with time is our dear Duke and man of progress. Is the young lady he danced with going to steal and capture his heart? Or is it all going to come crashing down in burning smoke?

You’ve never attended a ball held at your papa's estate, usually, it’s only in the winter you come here to wait out the cold season in such a large home, though now you’re starting to see why no balls are held here. Your mama's colour palette is a tad odd. Perhaps she’s trying to copy the Talis’s gold but with orange? Her theme is orange and yellow and everything seems to be in your face quite literally. The flowers, the drapes, the decor, intact the kitchen silver wear isn’t silver but yellow and orange, there’s Orange and yellow cakes, orange and yellow drinks, you may go dizzy. You stand by your papa at the entrance of the ballroom as the servants set everything up.

“Oh boy,” your papa whispers as you blink in slight horror.

“Isn’t it wonderful!” Your mama comes up beside your papa and he forces a smile.

“Yes indeed” he lies and you excuse yourself. Your lady maid Mercy beside you gives you a small look.

“Yes, I’m aware” you huff.

“It’s all quite-“ she trails off.

“Disgusting? Hideous, like she threw lemons and oranges everywhere?” You say.

“I wasn’t going to be that harsh but yes” she grimaces as you walk into your room and fall on your bed.

“Please, I beg you tell me my dress is not orange or yellow” you say and she winces again as she pulls out a yellow dress with orange flowers.

“Oh gods,” you say sitting up and staring at it.

“I tried talking to her lady maid about uh, subtly adjusting it however it did not work” Mercy explains.

“We’re going to the modiste, right now,” you say and she nods quite literally chucking the dress back into the box it came in. You’ve never been one for dresses but you will not embarrass yourself further to look like a lemon. You head to the modiste and the madame there smiles.

“Welcome,” she says.

“No mama today?” She says.

“No, I need your help, please,” you say and she turns serious.

“The yellow dress?” She asks and you nod.

“Oh goodness, indeed come with me” she beckons you with her into the back fitting room.

“I knew this would happen I had an extra made, now it is still yellow but it is almost pale and I made sure to make the flowers white” She pulls out a beautiful pale dress that’s almost white, it’s not bright but subtle and the white flowers littering the top add to its charm.

“Thank you, Madame, you’re a lifesaver,” you say.

“Nonsense, you danced with the duke in my dress I am more than happy to provide” she smiles and you flush a bit.

“He’s quite handsome, no?” She grins and you nod not trusting your voice.

“I’ll stop teasing, but I’ll have this packed and dropped off” She smiles and pats your arm. You return home thankful to avoid wearing that hideous dress now hidden in the dark corners of your closet. Your nerves are building up for this evening wondering if the duke will indeed attend knowing he only tends to the higher members of the city’s balls and soirées.

You find yourself antsy, waiting for him to arrive and wonder what has gotten into you. You’ve never been so… so interested in a gentleman. As the ball carries on though you realise he’s not going to show up and your heart sinks a bit. You ignore your mama's glares at your lack of a bright yellow dress compared to hers, but you match everyone else in their pale yellows and subtleness. You manage to leave the ballroom and head to the gardens figuring since you’re at your estate it can be of no harm. You walk for a bit before sitting down on a cold granite bench and looking at the statue in the garden.

“You’ll catch a cold out here my lady” Your heart rate increases as you look over and see the duke approaching. You stand up quickly eyes a little wide.

“You came,” you say as he stands a meter from you.

“And miss the brightness of such a soirée?” He smiles.

“Gods please don’t remind” You sigh and sit back down gesturing for him to sit as well.

“I assume you did not have a say in such matters neither did your father?” He says resting his cane on his side.

“No I did not this is- it’s hideous, embarrassing you should’ve seen the dress she bought me” you sigh watching his eyes crinkly in the corners as he smiles.

“Your dress is beautiful” he says and you look down at the subtle pale yellow and white lace flowers.

“The Madame at the modiste was kind enough to have made me a backup,” you say trying to ignore the way your heart rate picks up.

“Smart woman,” he says. You sit in comfortable silence, though you fiddle with your fingers, picking a bit.

“Stop,” he says gently but firmly his slender hand taking yours.

“You’ll make yourself bleed” he says his fingers slotting between yours and resting them on his thigh. You hold your breath, don’t dare move or breathe, you’re holding hands with the duke in the garden alone….You’re alone in the garden holding hands with the duke…. You’re alone- you stand up and gasp.

“What is it?” He stands up as well limping slightly.

“I’m alone, with you in the garden, no chaperone” you begin to panic.

“Calm down” his voice is firmer than before and your eyes snap to his. He steps closer his free hand lifting, you’re shaking slightly your eyes watching his hand as he cups your cheek cold slender fingers touching your warm cheek. You let out a small gasp without meaning too eyes moving back to his honey coloured ones as he steps even closer his breath mingling with yours.

“Nobody is out here but us” he says voice low and breathless almost.

“How do you know?” You ask in a whisper.

“I made sure” Something in his tone makes you frown briefly before he leans in closer.

“Do you know how hard it is, to not touch you” he murmurs.

“To not have your warmth filling my bones, to not have you close” your mouth parts as you breathe shakily and his eyes look down to your lips.

“How hard it is to be gentlemen within your presence when all I want to do-“ his thumb traces your bottom lip gently.

“Corrupt you?” He whispers his eyes darkening as you feel your body tense, your heart rate increasing your lower stomach doing something you’ve never felt that makes you squeeze your thighs together. He lets out a small growl-like noise his forehead resting against yours.

“That feeling just now, you don’t know what it was do you?” He whispers and you shake your head slightly.

“That clench in your lower stomach, pressing your thighs together,” he says.

“It’s arousal” he murmurs and you frown.

“Fuck” he mumbles.

“I want you to do something tonight when you’re alone in bed” he leans back slightly so he can look into your eyes.

“I want you to think about that feeling and what gave you that feeling” he orders gently his accent getting thicker the lower his voice drops.

“I want you to slip your hand between your thighs, where it’s most warm” he adds and all you can do is look at him.

“I want you to touch yourself, explore what feels good what brings more of that feeling in your lower belly” his thumb gently strokes your cheek.

“I want you to chase it, keep doing it till it builds.. and builds” his gaze is heavy and you forget how to breathe as you feel your stomach clench and flip.

“And when it finally hits, I want you to let go, let those built-up feelings explode” You finally breathe in quickly before you hear your name and gasp and step back. You look at the duke one more time before his hand slips from your face as you walk off. Your cheeks are warm, your whole body is warm and your legs shake slightly as you walk back to your mamas calling. His words replay in your mind all night and every time you look at him at the ball you hold your breath and feel even warmer.

When it’s night and you’re all alone you close and lock your door your breathing a little heavy. You stare at your bed lie down and pull the covers over your body taking a shaky breath as you think back to his closeness, the words he said. You do as he says your hands going between your thighs, it is warm as he said and slightly wet, you slide a finger between your folds and gasp. You still for a moment at the jolt that goes through your body, his words echoing in your head. You do it again rubbing your finger over the nub. Your stomach clenches slightly at the feeling and you let out small gasps. ‘I want you to chase it, let it build and build’ You continue moving your fingers shivers and feelings going through your body intensifying the more you do it. You’re gasping softly, your back arches ever so slightly and your toes curl under the sheets. ‘Let those built-up feelings explode’ A noise leaves your mouth as a feeling rushes through your body like a coil snapping. Your eyes seal shut and you hold your breath as it does before you remember to breathe and pant heavily. Your fingers slow and you stop, body shaking slightly as you do. You remove your hand noticing the slight wetness and stickiness on your fingers. You go to the bathroom and have very shaky legs, leaning against the counter and washing your hands as you look at yourself in the mirror. Your face is flushed, and a layer of sweat covers you, you need to ask him what just happened, and why you’ve never felt like that before.

Next part ->

[nb-octopus-writes]

The Lines that Guide Us, Chapter One

Thank you to @ccspie for the title!

Wordcount: 2K

Inspired by this lovely art by @fanartfunart!

[AO3]

~~~~

Logan did not like his soulmark.

As a child, Logan had frequently insisted his parents regale him with the story of how their marks had formed, and how they had met. He had read every book their library had on the subject of soulmarks, on the various types that existed and what information could be gleaned from them. 

He had speculated endlessly about just what form his own soulmark would take, up until he had turned fifteen and the mark appeared on his skin.

Now Logan had four dark lines on his forearm. He looked like he had drawn on himself with a thick marker, and he had gained no information of what kind of person his soulmate was likely to be, nor how he was to find them.

So no, Logan did not like his soulmark.

Nowadays, Logan generally wore long sleeves to prevent others from commenting on his soulmark. He had quickly tired of receiving unasked-for speculation on its meaning, and sympathy from strangers on its lack of usefulness grated even worse. He knew it was generally unhelpful already; he did not need to be reminded of it regularly.

It was best not to dwell on it, he had decided. However fate intended to bring his soulmate into his life, it clearly did not want Logan to help it along.

He was not prepared for the mark to change.

It was a subtle change, and if Logan had been undressing in poorer light, he would have missed it entirely. The soulmark was still the same shape, still four thick lines on his arm, but they were no longer all ink black.

Three of the lines were the same as they had been since the day they'd formed, but the fourth had lightened into purple.

When had it changed? Soulmarks did change sometimes, Logan knew. He just hadn't expected his to be one of them. It was not a countdown or a compass, or any of the other marks that updated frequently. It had not been an outline waiting to be filled in, or the mark of a first touch that would bloom on contact.

The change had to mean something, but what?

Standing in just his underwear, pajamas forgotten in favor of this new puzzle, Logan traced a finger thoughtfully along the purple line. As before, the skin felt smooth and unblemished. If he closed his eyes, he wouldn't even be able to tell there was a mark there at all.

It had been black this morning. Logan hadn't specifically checked it, but he did not think he would have overlooked such a difference. While he didn't wear his glasses in the shower, he was myopic, not hyperopic, and could see his own body clearly without them. Additionally, the lighting in his bathroom was good, and the color change, while subtle, was certainly noticeable.

The mark must have changed today, then. Something significant must have occurred.

Logan thought back through his day. It had been fairly standard, all things considered. He had gotten up, showered, dressed, eaten breakfast, and gone to work, where he had spent a very typical day making coffee and other hot beverages.

Had one of the customers been his soulmate?

Logan's blood chilled. Had he met his soulmate today, without realizing it, without recognizing them, or they him?

He had not bothered to put any of the faces to memory, indifferent to the steady stream of tired strangers seeking caffeine. If asked, there was no way Logan could pick a single one of them out of a crowd.

He had not thought it was important, but now… Had he missed his only chance to find his soulmate?

No. No, it couldn't be over. Not yet, not now. His soulmate was out there, somewhere in this town, and they would meet again. Someday. Hopefully soon.

Logan looked at his soulmark again. Four lines, and one of them purple. What could it mean? Four chances, perhaps? Four times their paths would cross, four opportunities to recognize each other before their lives diverged again.

Maybe. It was just a guess, but there had to be some significance to the fact that only one line had changed color. Although, if they signified four chances, he would have expected them to change in order, from top to bottom or bottom to top. Instead, the purple line was the third down from his wrist.

Logan sat down at his desk and opened his computer. Sleep could wait. He had more research to do.

~ ~

Virgil’s soulmates were going to hate him on first sight, and he had the words on his skin to prove it. Lucky him, having multiple people destined to have their lives twined around his, and destined to think he was a stormy nightmare.

Maybe that was why he had four of them, the universe trying to compensate for the rough matches, as though quantity could replace quality. Wasn't the whole point of soulmates that they were the one, the best person for you, someone guaranteed to love you better than anyone else? Why dilute it across four soulbonds?

Virgil breathed. Dwelling on it wasn't helping. It never did. He breathed, deliberately, and shifted his thoughts. Two of his soulmates didn't sound like they were going to despise him from the moment they laid their eyes on him, he reminded himself.

Probably. One of them he honestly couldn't tell, because he had no clue what the words on his arm even meant. It could be something bad. But the other was a kind sentiment.

Not that Virgil eating pavement or something was going to be a much better first impression, but at least his soulmate was going to be concerned for him, rather than annoyed or calling him a klutz. Hopefully, whatever incident was going to result in his soulmate's first words to him being “Oh my goodness, are you okay?” won't hurt too much.

And at least the other three phrases were very unique. They might come up in a random conversation at some point — or, at least, the two insults might; seriously, he didn't know a single scenario where the other would ever be a reasonable thing to say to him — but they seemed unlikely opening phrases. When Virgil met his soulmates, he would be able to recognize them.

He just didn't know if they were going to want him.

Virgil pushed the matter from his mind. It was going to return again; it always did, but for now, he had arrived at his new favorite coffee shop, and he just wanted to relax and enjoy it.

The shop was not particularly busy, and Virgil had only a short wait before he was at the front of the line and placed his order. Stepping out of the way of the next person, Virgil put his headphones back on — music playing softly, just enough to down out background noise without hiding important sounds, but he'd taken them off to order because people tended to complain he was being rude if he had them on during a conversation, no matter if he could still hear them fine — and watched the second barista prepare his drink.

When the drink was ready, the man looked back at him and nodded as he placed it on the pickup counter. Virgil stepped up to claim it, and noticed the man's gaze lingering on him, a smile playing across his lips. Not a customer service smile, something real. Virgil didn't know what there was to smile at him about, and eyed him dubiously.

“What?” Virgil demanded. 

The barista looked startled, and then he opened his mouth and the most unlikely words came out.

~ ~

Over the past few weeks, Logan had worked to pay more attention to the people who came into the coffee shop. It was somewhat tiring, trying to note and remember each person, but it had its benefits. He had started to recognize regulars, to learn who came in on a regular schedule, and who appeared more sporadically.

The shop was small and usually not so busy that they needed to call out names when completing orders, but they still took them down. Logan began to put names to faces and to drinks, and began to recognize favorites.

Pamela, who arrived every weekday morning in variously colored professional pantsuits, always bought a pastry and a mocha. Remy appeared at all hours of the day, sometimes even twice or three times in the same day, and usually bought something iced, though his flavors varied. Virgil, the quiet emo who always wore headphones and rarely made eye contact, favored the less caffeinated side of the board, and occasionally purchased a sandwich that he then ate at the most secluded table. The man with wild energy and an eclectic bold wardrobe who had given a different name every time Logan had seen him always wanted an unusual flavor combination and too many shots of caffeine. Valor was a college student of indeterminate gender — deliberately and delightfully so — who regularly came in for late-night study sessions.

There were more, many more, and Logan was doing his best to retain all the information he had picked up. It was interesting to note how the steady stream of complete strangers had been transformed into a group of people that Logan almost felt as though he knew. It took effort, yes, and it could be taxing, but it also made work more pleasant.

Today, Virgil had ordered a white hot chocolate, and as Logan handed it off, he noted that the man's hoodie sported a new patch on the arm, done in the same plaid fabric that dotted the rest of the clearly beloved garment. Logan wondered if Virgil did the mending himself, or if he had a friend who sewed. The visible stitches were large and messy, but in a way that seemed deliberate, and given how sturdy the patches seemed, Logan suspected that the actual fastening was done with much smaller stitches in a less obvious color.

“What?” Virgil said, and Logan realized he had been looking at him for longer than was standard for this type of interaction, and worse, his face had been making an expression without his doing so intentionally.

What expression had it been? Logan had not made it deliberately, hadn't been paying attention to it as it occurred, and had to recall. In doing so, he failed to appropriately translate from the inside of his head to words most people would use.

“You seem to have caused my zygomaticus muscles to contract,” Logan said as explanation, and then as Virgil's expression changed as well, realized that he should have taken the time to change the phrasing.

“What,” Virgil said again, in a very different tone, one that Logan had trouble identifying. “What does that mean!?”

He slammed his drink back on the counter and used his now free hand to pull back the sleeve of his hoodie.

“This has mystified me for years, the fudge does it mean!?” he demanded again, shoving his now bare arm toward Logan, and Logan…

There were words on Virgil’s arm, the very words that Logan had just said, written in a dark blue ink as though by Logan's own hand.

Several thoughts swirled in Logan's mind as he looked at Virgil's soulmark. Instead of any of them, he said, “You could have looked it up.”

“Oh–fuck you!” Virgil said, pulling his sleeve back down.

“Apologies,” Logan answered, and lifted a hand to trace the line of his zygomaticus major, starting near his lip and moving up and back. “Here. It aids in a number of expressions. I had not realized I was engaging it.”

Virgil squinted at him. Logan shrugged.

“I was admiring your jacket,” he said. “I enjoy visible mending techniques, and I was wondering if you had repaired it yourself.”

Virgil looked down at his sleeves. “I… yeah. Yeah, I did. I–” He looked back at Logan. “You're my soulmate.”

“I am,” Logan agreed, now wondering if the shade of Virgil's patches matched the purple on his own arm. He glanced at the other people nearby. The line was not long, but Logan's coworker at the till and the four people waiting in line had all stopped what they were doing to watch them. It was uncomfortable, having such an important moment so publicly. “We are holding up the line,” Logan said, and checked his watch. “I have a break in a little under half an hour. Would you like to join me for it, and… talk?”

Virgil hesitated, then nodded. He retrieved his drink and stepped back. With a final glance in Logan's direction,  he retreated to his usual table.

[xen-lotus]

CRK: Let The Show Begin

"Ahh, welcome, welcome! Why the look of horror on your face?"

The crazed jester stares directly towards you with a heinous toothy grin that hid his psychotic insanity, sitting on a throne of blue and gold. Above him is the former hero Pure Vanilla Cookie, still alive but barely clinging on to life. He's hung above Shadow Milk Cookie in blue string; the strings cutting deep into his dough and clothing. His flower staff was destroyed as the flower laid on floor next to the throne as it slowly fades due to the lack of life essence to keep it alive. Strawberry jam drips down from the barely conscious cookie on to the mad cookie who had half of his face covered in the red sweet paste.

"Kya ha ha! You left the poor healer in a mental state that he can't recover from!"

Red eyes appears from the darkness as the feminine voice chastises the weakened hero and praises the beast that sits on the throne.

"Although you could've just left it at psychological attacks. I don't think he'll live to see his own kingdom fall."

A purple eye also appears from the shadow as the masculine voice explains the circumstances to the jester.

All the healer can do is softly cry as the realization of failing to stop Shadow Milk Cookie comes to him. His tears landing on his soul jam that the jester ripped directly from his person after the onslaught.

"Well it looks like we've accumulated an audience, haven't we?" The mad cookie snickers as he revels in his sick twisted deeds. "I was always a sucker for entertaining the mass!"

He lifts his cane and slams it back down to the floor; just then a multitude of light blue eyes emerges from the all around the empty room as laughter and cheers filled it. The jester starts to tie some blue strings around his left hand that connects to Pure Vanilla Cookie. This brought agony to the healer who's already in a horrible state.

"Ladies and Gentle Cookies!" The psychotic jester announces throughout the room. "Let The Show Begin!"

THE JESTER HAS FINALLY GONE CRAZY!!! Well... more crazy than before. Sorry Pure Vanilla... You'll get your get back soon.

[rinz-aspirinz]

Exhausted. Fear. Exhausted.

Gn!MC x Lucifer.

Author's notes: I don't know, nothing? This is just a quick study on MC and Lucifer's dynamic from my view + word vomit lmao

Beginning.

The Avatar of Pride is hard to humiliate. The Anti Lucifer League would know, they’ve been trying and failing for decades. He finds a reason to be prideful in everything, whether it’s dressing up as a bunny boy, a butler or being a dame. He’s the best at everything imaginable and he will say so with so much confidence it would make Leviathan cry.

Though he doesn’t know if he could ever talk about what forces him to be best at everything let alone be proud of it.

The first thing he does in the morning is check up on his brothers. That is also when he gets his first migraine of the day usually. He loves his brothers deeply but sometimes he feels like they’re getting revenge for the pain he caused them with how many problems they give him every day.

It’s not like he could blame them if it was the case but he can still admit it would hurt.

At RAD, everyone admires him but doesn't dare to make eye contact with him– most of the students don’t even breathe in his direction. It feeds his pride but that pride dies quietly as the day goes on.

Paper after paper, document after document, sign after sign, coffee after coffee, report after report; it never ends. Having to go to extreme lengths to make sure Diavolo doesn’t get to take advantage of his exhaustion to take some pictures and maintain the peace between him and his brothers is a cherry on top. The amount of broken walls and ceilings at RAD is concerning, the fact that Diavolo merely laughs whenever the damage is reported to him is even more concerning but he’s not about to say anything about it anytime soon. He’ll just hang his brothers to the ceiling for now.

At night, he doesn’t sleep. It’s either a dreamless nap that lasts three hours at most (and he’s sure Belphegor is the reason it’s dreamless. He doesn’t sleep long enough to let his brother give him nice dreams but he appreciates the lack of nightmares too. He never says anything about it.), he’s learned the hard way that anything more is either impossible thanks to migraines or will end up with nightmares.

He’s in a cage.

When MC enters his life, they change everything.

They change everything for the better.

He doesn't have to wake up and check on his brothers anymore. MC woke up earlier than him to take care of everyone. They all chat peacefully and go to RAD without any problems.

There are dark circles under MC’s eyes.

The amount of paperwork he has to deal with decreased. MC always takes a pile away from him without letting him say anything. They also occupy Diavolo to let him work in peace.

Their handwriting is shaky. So, so unnaturally shaky.

Now he can sleep at night. He hugs them close as they crawl under his silk covers and wraps his wings around them.

He threatens to tear them apart limb by limb in their dreams. Belphegor somehow sleeps more than usual to give them nicer dreams. He never says anything about it either.

He sees himself improving and gets to taste rightful pride. He’s well rested. He’s not so paranoid anymore. He spends time with his brothers. He takes care of himself. He spends time with MC as they do his paperwork. He spends time with MC as they sacrifice their sleep for him. He spends time with MC after they spend the entire day taking care of his brothers. They’ve forgotten who they belong to so he’ll monopolize their entire afternoon.

Rightful pride.

They destory themself as he builds himself from his ashes but it’s okay. He loves their broken pieces too. He loves them.

He loves the way their eyes light up when they see him.

(Fear. Dark circles. Exhaustion.)

He loves the way their much smaller hands wrap around his.

(They’re shaking. Exhaustion. Exhaustion. Exhaustion.)

He loves the way they curl up next to him in bed.

(Limb by limb. Fear. Fear. Fear.)

He’s out of his cage.

(They’re inside one.)

He loves them.

End.

[faewrenbird]

Homicipher Theory

Mr. Hood: The Dishonored Samurai

Don’t turn your nose up yet, hear me out. Maybe it’s a stretch, maybe it makes sense, maybe it’s just a damn good (or delusional) headcanon, you decide.

Homicipher/Mr. Hood Route Spoilers Below!!!!

I established in an earlier theory that the “Ghost Apartments” is a pocket of the spirit realm on haunted grounds where a hospital and subway line were once located but destroyed in an earthquake, after which, an apartment building was built and then abandoned.

But I have a theory that the history of the haunted grounds goes even further back. Perhaps as far as Edo-era feudal Japan. Why? I’m inclined to believe that Mr. Crawling is from that era, but that’s a whole different theory I still need to mull over.

Suppose it’s true—that the cursed land that has accumulated hundreds of vengeful and lost spirits became haunted hundreds of years ago. Perhaps, it became cursed and haunted due to war in this time period. Whatever the case, operating under the premise that its history is this old, I want to take a look at helpful Mr. Hood.

Mr. Hood

He’s the first face we see after waking up in the spirit realm (not counting our startling run-in with Mr. Crawling). You could consider him our Toriel. He gives us the basics, enough info, or lack thereof, to begin our exploration. He tries to teach us some words: light, dark, sound, door, not, maybe “container” if we’re smart. We take this knowledge, leave him in the room behind us, and proceed to immediately get our hearts eaten by Mr. Gap.

But who, or what, is Mr. Hood?

The only thing we learn about him from our brief introduction is that he’s a man of few words, mysterious, monotone, and he’s…literally just a guy in a hood. Oh, and he’s got a big fuck-off axe for seemingly no reason at all.

From what I’ve played of the game so far, it seems we’re unlikely to ever see him again unless some really bizarre and specific conditions are met.

If those conditions are met, we wind up being Alice-in-Wonderlanded into a miniature version of ourselves, and Mr Hood makes an unexpected appearance to help us try to find the magical potion to make us normal again.

During our adventure with him, we…don’t learn much. Kind of the ongoing theme of this game, actually. Get used to perpetually knowing nothing and being confused by what you do know.

We do learn a few key things, though.

First, man has a deft hand with an axe. In fact, he can flawlessly execute any ghost he deems to be a threat, without a moment’s hesitation, and with the badassery to act totally calm and say only “they’re dead” when you interrogate him about it.

Second, there’s nothing under the hood. After escaping a brutal entity, he sits with his hood pulled back, revealing nothingness. Unlike the Bride, though, he prefers to mask this feature. When we comment on his lack of a head, he quickly pulls the hood back up.

Third, he has a body. Although lacking a head, we know that there’s something solid under the cloak, because he hides us in it and we comment on the err…texture of his insides(?).

Fourth, he is some kind of executioner. This is perfectly apparent design-wise. Hooded and carrying a massive axe that he employs with perfect ease. Some speculation, but he seems to specifically serve the purpose of executioner in this land of ghosts. He’s very adept at detecting a threat and differentiating between good and evil (wish the same could be said for our himbo-brained Mr. Crawling, but I digress). In fact, while we're taking a nap, he evidently leaves to a different room to hunt and kill another ghost.

Fifth, he goes where he’s needed. He comes off as someone strictly bound by his duty. At least, this is what I infer rather than him being a wandering spirit in these halls. It’s why, when we’re reunited with Mr. Crawling and the others, Mr. Hood leaves us. We don’t need him anymore, and he can’t accept that we want him with us just because we like him. In fact, he tells us not to say things like that, or depending on your interpretation, that he has nothing to say to that before he abandons us.

So, what does this all mean (apart from making him the sexiest and most mysterious hooded figure I’ve ever known cough)?

My theory is that, in life, Mr. Hood was a samurai who committed some great treason and thus endured the ritual of hara-kiri (seppuku) for his execution.

Hara-kiri was a form of ritualistic suicide where a samurai would take a blade and slice open his stomach, after which, an executioner would decapitate him. An honorable death was when the executioner left just a bit of the criminal’s neck during the slice, not quite severing it completely. A dishonorable death meant the whole head came off, which was embarrassing for the deceased samurai and his family.

If Mr. Hood was a samurai, his prowess with a weapon and calculating attitude towards fulfilling his duty and cutting down enemies makes a lot of sense.

If he was a dishonored samurai, then his reclusive manner and the shame of having no head also makes sense. Not that I think the ghosts retain memories of their life (Mr Gap excluded), but he could be carrying residual shame and dishonor from his death. He could be forever trapped trying to repent for his sins by executing evil, to make up for whatever treason he committed.

I think it’s further evidenced by our description of his insides. Slimy. It’s a grotesque thought, but if we’re being held against a gutted and sliced open stomach, this description makes sense, too.

Additionally, the shame and self-loathing would help explain why he rejects our confession of affection towards him. He’s not worthy of that affection, nor of companionship. He can’t even fathom our interest in him.

(Edit: some below translations aren’t great, I’m still ironing them out. As I’ve seen now, the best translations show us saying “Love you,” and Mr. Hood replying with “not understand,” indicating her can’t grasp our love for him, which still lines up with everything I said!)

I personally am really obsessed with this concept and have adopted it as my headcanon because I think it makes it all the sweeter when he comes back to save us and decides to carry us for all eternity (which, btw, I squealed when I realized that we were no longer small when he picked us up with this objective in mind, so we’re spending our afterlife being bridal-style carried by this man). We are, after all, the first person to care for him since his humiliating death. The first person to like him. The first person to give him purpose beyond routine and mindless execution of dark spirits. We give him a new duty, something to protect and cherish.

And idc what you say, that’s goddamn romantic for this vaguely romantic horror game.