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cryptidghostgirl · 10 months ago

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Hello hello!! You're probably swamped with asks, but if you have the time and energy, you should do a slow burn Alastor x reader set in the 1920s where the reader is a performer at mimzys speakeasy and that's where Alastor goes to chose his victims. He sees the reader for the first time and immediately thinks that they are his next victim but he keeps getting thwarted by small incidents, such as the reader leaving early and him barely missing his chance. After a while he notices small things about them and their personality after sort of observing them, and then they meet and he loses his interest in killing them. Of course the slow burn happens, the drama ensues, he's still a killer but keeps it a secret and then after a while the reader finds out. You can choose if you want a happy ending or not, but I had that idea in my mind and your one of the only writers I see that could do it justice. Thanks for sharing your talents!!! Your amazing and gifted in ways that inspire everyone who interacts with your blog🫶🫶🫶

A/N You’re literally so sweet?? Wtf?? I love you?? Thank you??? I hope you like what I did with this fun and fluffy idea!!! ahhhhhh!!!! also, I am running with the ambiguity of the ending. I am such a little slut for ambiguity.

Burn (Human!Alastor x Human!Gn!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: SLOW BURN. SLOW. BURNING IMAGERY. A LITTLE OVER THE TOP ON THE BURNING IMAGERY THING. Dead bodies, blood, murder, killing, mentions of stalking. This one got away from me a bit.

Word Count: 4,197

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Ravenous, that was the word. Not in the way where everything dissolves, leaving only the object of your affection. Not in the way that someone is controlled by desire. Hungry in the way fire eats paper, in the way kindling catches light. Starved in the way that leads to a progressive repeated sense of the word, a starving. A constant state of being famished that turns into a well loved and cared for blaze. Alastor burned.

The box of matches pulled from the pocket had been Alastor going to the bar, all those months before. Nearly a year now, once he sat and really thought about it. He had been going to Mimzy's little speakeasy on the outskirts of town since it had been just that, a little speakeasy on the outskirts of town rather than the full fledged, illegal club she ran today.

Back when it was a speak easy, there had never been a problem. On that fateful day, though he hadn't known it then, the club had changed its form. It had become the kindling. Sitting down at the table had been pulling a match from the box and Y/n.... Y/n had been the rough hewn striker paper he lit it on. It was all so obvious now, looking back. The expression 'hindsight is 20/20' existed for a reason.

So, Alastor had entered the club (matchbox out of pocket). As soon as Mimzy had spotted him, she had run over with a bright smile and a glass of whiskey on the house as always. Alastor had always liked Mimzy. She was wild and positively hilarious when she wanted to be but, at the same time, she had a good head for business. Her morals were just wobbly enough that Alastor felt comfortable with her, a camaraderie he felt with no other.

The lights had gone down suddenly and Mimzy, cutting herself off mid sentence, had turned to the stage in excitement.

"Good show tonight?" Alastor had asked.

Alastor never came to Mimzy's club for the music. She knew he didn't care, not really. Still, he had the curtesy to ask and so, she whipped back towards him.

"You betcha." she grinned up at him, "I just got this new kid? Came from all the way up north, can you believe that? Anyway, they have a set of pipes like you wouldn't believe! Just the bees knees, I tell you."

Grabbing Alastor's arm, Mimzy dragged him to a table by the stage. Alastor sat down across from her (match from the box) with an air of mild reluctance. Mimzy tapped her hands on the table impatiently.

A spot light flickered on and a scrawny young kid stepped onto the stage. He couldn't be much younger than Alastor or Mimzy themselves but he was one of those people that always look younger than they are. He had been working for Mimzy for a while now but, Alastor had never bothered to learn his name. He was simply 'Mimz's Manager' in his view of the world. The kid cleared his throat, leaning in towards the microphone which had been placed at center stage.

"How are we feeling out there tonight?" he asked the room at large and there had been a miscellaneous cheer from the room at large, "Well that's good to hear! We've got a real treat for you tonight folks. All the way from the Big Apple, we bring you, Y/n!"

The kid left the stage and a new figure stepped out from the shadows (revelation of match striker paper). The minute Alastor saw them, in the well cut suit that shone dark in the light, he knew. They were perfect. Slim, but not too fit and shorter than he was. Morally ambiguous enough in their aims that they had come running from New York to work at a speakeasy. This 'Y/n,' if that was even their real name, was his ideal next victim. Alastor smiled in the dim light as somewhere off stage, a piano began to play.

"I'll be loving you, always" the person sang and Alastor was taken aback.

Mimzy had been right. He had never heard a voice like it before. They sang with an emotional depth that could be heard from few. Somehow, they still managed to keep it sounding like music.

"When the things you plan Need a helping hand I will understand, always, always"

Mimzy leaned across the table to Alastor, her eyes alight.

"What did I tell you?" she whispered.

Alastor nodded his head to the side in vague agreement.

"Not for just an hour Not for just a day"

When they finished their set a half hour later, it was to raucous applause. The house lights raised and with them, Mimzy stood from her chair.

"I'll be back in two shakes." she promised before disappearing off into the crowd.

Alastor leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. Contemplatively, he took a sip from his drink. The time before a kill was nearly as an enjoyable as the act itself. It was ritualistic, it brought him closer to god.

Before he knew it, Mimzy was back, dragging the singer behind her. They looked slightly frazzled, their hair a bit messy and their brow furrowed.

"Mimzy!" they exclaimed as they struggled to keep up with the woman holding their wrist in her vice-like grip.

Their speaking voice was... different than Alastor had expected. From the way they had sung on stage, he had thought it would be sharp, loud, ebullient. Instead, it was rather soft. Alastor couldn't help but think of the creek out back of the house he had grown up in.

"Al, meet my new favorite!" Mimzy announced, coming to a stop beside Alastor.

"I..."

The situation had been unexpected to say the least. Alastor had had a long day. He hadn't come here to socialize, he came here to drink. Now, he was at a loss for words, the haze of sleep and irritation clouding his mind.

Y/n looked at Mimzy before fixing their gaze back on him. The took a step forward, fixing a smile on their face, and held out their hand.

"Y/n."

So it was their real name. The one they presented to the world, at least.

Alastor smiled, standing from his seat and taking their hand in his.

"Alastor."

They had a firm handshake. There was something authoritative about it, something just a bit too confident.

"Pleasure to be meeting you." they said.

"Quite the pleasure." Alastor nodded.

They broke contact and Y/n turned to Mimzy, suddenly seeming very tired.

"I'm gonna head, Mimzy." they hummed, their voice nearly drowned out by the cacophony surrounding them.

Before Mimzy could say a word against their statement, they were gone. The crowd sheltered them from sight almost immediately. After that night, Alastor started coming to the club a lot more often.

He always sat in the same seat, the table near stage left. It was right next to the exit. Anyone getting off the stage had to go right past him. It was a calculated choice. Step one of his little projects, so to speak, had always been learning more about his victims, finding out their patterns.

The problem was, Y/n never seemed to do the same thing twice. Every time Alastor would think himself ready, would ready everything for the action, something different happen. The first time, it had been that Y/n had simply managed to slip out earlier than normal. Mimzy was always introducing them to someone or another after their shows, delaying their departure. That night, it seemed, they had somehow been able to avoid the mayhem.

Another time, the problem had been that Y/n had stayed at the club too long. Alastor was a working man and once the clock hit midnight, it was time to cut his losses and go home. A third time, Y/n had just happened to call out sick the very night he had gotten everything back in order.

A month in, and Alastor was ready for his fourth attempt. He sat at his usual table, drinking his usual drink. When Y/n left the stage, he kept his eyes trained on them as always. It went like clockwork - Mimzy pulled them away, they tried desperately to escape and eventually, they succeeded. That was when everything went south again.

One second, Y/n was by the bar and the next? Gone. Alastor got to his feet, tossing a bill or two to the bar tender and disappearing out through the door. He was determined. Tonight had to be the night. If tonight wasn't the night? He was done. Alastor was not a foolish man, he knew when he was beat.

Quietly, nothing but the sound of cicadas and the occasional echo of a car from elsewhere in the city accompanying him, Alastor slipped down the ally he knew the club's back door let out into.

"There you are."

Alastor spun around.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

Y/n leaned casually against the wall, the dark fabric of their dress blending softly with the night. When Alastor didn't reply, standing in their gaze like a deer in headlights, they stood themselves up and walked the step and a half it took for them to be face to face with him.

"I'd like it if you stopped following me. Or, trying to follow me. It's getting kind of old.'' (match struck paper, match remained unlit.)

Alastor resumed his composure. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he leaned forward, fixing a teasing grin onto his face.

"Oh, would you now?"

Y/n, much to his surprise, held their ground.

"Yeah, I would. Whats your interest in me anyways?"

Thinking on his feet had never been an issue for Alastor. Besides, he really did have some questions for the illusive singer. Or, he had one question for them. One that might lead to others.

"Oh, you know." he hummed, straightening back up, "All the way from the 'Big Apple.'"

Y/n scoffed at his parody of their nightly introduction to the stage. They crossed their arms, glancing off to the ally's entrance as a drunk couple stumbled by.

"Yep."

"Why?"

Turning to face him again, Y/n narrowed their eyes.

"Why do you wanna know?"

The hint of an accent. At least he knew they weren't lying about where they came from.

"I suppose you can call me a curious fan."

"I think being a bit less of both those things would suit you."

They fell into a brief, nearly uncomfortable silence. Letting out a sigh, Y/n was the one to break it.

"Look," they began, "I know you're friends with my boss and all but... I am going to go back into that dive and I am going to stay there until you are long gone. I'll stay the night if I have to, d'ya get it?"

Alastor's smile tightened.

"Loud and clear."

"Good."

Y/n didn't see Alastor for another week. Slowly, the tension that had permeated their every waking moment since meeting Alastor that first night, the constant ache of his eyes on their back, began to fade. Just a little, but it was enough. When they saw him sitting at the bar almost two weeks after their little altercation, the amount it had faded was just enough to make them angry at his return.

Alastor hadn't really meant to come back. His plan was to give it a month, maybe even two. His plan was to come back and resume life like it had been before he had ever even known Y/n existed. His mind had other plans.

He had tried to find another target, occupy himself with a new victim. There was something unsatisfying about it, he couldn't quite get his head in the game. Every time he went to trail a potential victim, he heard their voice ringing out in the silence of his mind.

There you are.

Alastor had been killing for about three years now. He had a good number of victims under his belt and was in no ways a newbie. Even back when he had been one, no one had ever caught him out like that before. There had been a couple close calls, sure. There always were but waiting for him? Thwarting his plans repeatedly? Beating him at his own game?

"I thought I told you to leave me alone."

Alastor looked up from his glass of whiskey, smiling politely up at Y/n. He could feel the anger radiating off them in waves.

"Mimzy would be rather sad if I just up and disappeared like that, no explanation."

He caught sight of her across the open space and waved. With a bright smile, Mimzy waved back before returning to the conversation she had been embroiled in. Alastor turned back to Y/n.

"Oh, wouldn't you hear that? You're getting sober. Congratulations."

"Ah, but there is still the music and that wonderful new singer who came down from up north not too long ago."

Y/n took a deep breath, calming themselves.

"It's not that hard of a question to answer. Or at least, it shouldn't be for most people. What, are you on the run from the cops? I heard life is oh so dangerous in those big cities up there, after all. Maybe part of the reason was you."

"If I answer your question, will you leave me alone?"

Alastor was silent for a short moment before he replied.

"If I like the answer? Sure. I'll leave you alone."

In a single, sharp movement, Y/n dragged the stool beside him out and sat down. Tapping their fingers on the table, they got the bartender's attention and ordered themselves a drink.

"You want to know why I left New York?" they hummed thoughtfully, "It's because of guys like you."

A shock of sudden nerves fought through Alastor's system. Did they somehow know? After all this time, had someone figured it out? After just under two months?

"Guys like me? What ever on earth do you mean?"

"You know, pretty boys. Pretty boys who turn out to be creepy boys that don't know the meaning of the word 'no.'" (match struck paper, match remained unlit.)

It wasn't the first time Alastor had been called pretty or handsome or something of the like. In fact, he knew he was pretty. It was part of why the whole ruse worked. Normally, however, when people told him he was, it was accompanied by far too much blushing and looks to the side. Y/n held his gaze firmly the whole time.

"So, you're escaping an ex? A jaded lover?"

"A jaded 'someone-who-watched-me-perform-once-and-decided-it-meant-we-were-married'? Yeah."

The bartender placed the drink in front of Y/n. They picked up the glass, downing it in one go. They grimaced.

"You like my answer?"

"Hmmm... no." Alastor grinned, ear to ear, "I don't think I do."

Y/n sighed.

"What is it you want from me?"

Alastor's brow furrowed in confusion. He was very good at keeping the inside from showing on the outside. The question had just caught him so off guard, or maybe it was something about Y/n that had him on his toes, he couldn't help it. They kept seeming to make his head spin.

"Want from you?"

"Money? Sex? Fame? A fall guy? What."

"I don't want anything from you." (match struck paper, match remained unlit.)

Y/n eyed him suspiciously. The answer had been automatic. Alastor himself was struggling to comprehend the words that had left his mouth. He wanted to kill them, right? What he wanted from them was their life, right? That was what he had been working for over all these days, fighting for. He knew it was true so why did the statement not feel like a lie as it had traveled from his tongue?

"Yeah right." Y/n placed their hands on the bar, pulling themselves to stand, "I totally believe that."

"Just your time, Songbird. Just your time."

They turned to him.

"I don't understand you."

"You don't have to. I don't understand you either."

They paused.

"It frustrates me." Y/n admitted, "Who even are you? I don't know anything except your name."

Alastor gave their now empty chair a pointed look. Y/n stood in contemplation for a few seconds before they nodded their head once, seemingly to themselves, and took their seat once again. Confidently, they tapped two fingers on the lip of their empty glass.

"Another."

(match strikes paper, match lights.)

Alastor was the match, Y/n was the paper. The club stopped being kindling the moment the pair took their conversation outside its boundaries for the first time, about a month or so later. For a while, there was no kindling, there was just match and paper. Alastor liked it that way.

It had been hard enough to come to terms with the fact that he really did have no interest in killing them anymore. That the moment such an idea occurred, he could see them in his minds eye, smiling or picking at the hem of their shirt the way they did when they were nervous.

The kindling reappeared when Alastor realized the match had been struck in the first place. That was a whole other thing. The friendship suddenly seemed easy, the loss of bloodlust directed toward them was like nothing in the face of a realization like that. Once he recognized the flame, Alastor stopped being a match and Y/n stopped being paper. The match became the little flutter of their stomachs when they caught sight of one another, the tension of the moments where they could make contact. Y/n and Alastor were kindling now and they were standing oh so very close to that dangerous flame.

It was Alastor's sleeve that caught fire first. It happened when they had gotten caught in the rain. Y/n had opened their umbrella and, seeing Alastor had none, insisted he join them in its cover. Alastor had, of course, refused. With a roll of their eyes, they had grabbed his hand and yanked him forcefully into place beside them. Alastor hadn't realized they had only touched once, when they first shook hands, until Y/n's skin made contact with his once again.

The worst part about it all, was that it made sense. It made so much sense. They were quiet, contemplative, and calculative. Before long, being with them felt like being with an extension of himself in an odd way. Alastor couldn't quite describe it, he didn't have the words.

Y/n always seemed to notice things no one else did. When Alastor had forgotten his umbrella the next three or four times it had rained, they had confronted him.

"Almost like you're doing this on purpose." they had hummed softly.

Though they didn't look at him, Y/n knew Alastor was blushing.

"Shut up."

The next thing to catch had been Y/n's collar. Y/n had been chatting with him, sharing a drink before their set and they had lost track of time. At the sound of the stage manager, Alastor still did not know his name, beginning their introduction to the stage, they had jumped up in fright, hurriedly tightening their tie which they had loosened in the casual atmosphere. Noticing that the action had caused part of their collar to fold awkwardly, Alastor had gotten to his feet as well. With a gentleness he had not made use of since his mother died, he had fixed Y/n's collar.

"Wh-" they had stopped mid question, having realized what he was doing.

His hand lingered on their collar. Y/n's eyes traveled up his arm, at last meeting his own.

"Thank you."

Those big wide eyes, full of curiosity and comfort. Alastor could get lost in those.

"Y/n!" the stage manager announced.

"Shit!" they exclaimed and the magic of the moment was broken as they pulled themselves away.

All it took was that. It wasn't much but, fire has a way of working with what it has. When a few days later Y/n had stepped out into the street without looking, being too caught up in the story they were telling Alastor, and he had pulled them back just as a car passed, it was too late. The house couldn't be saved, the flames had gone too far. A few blocks later, after thanking him, Y/n had realized they were still holding hands. They stopped, pulling Alastor to a halt beside them.

"What are we doing?"

"We're going for lunch. Are you quite alright? You were the one who sugge-"

"No, Alastor. I mean: what are we doing?"

Alastor followed the path of their eyes to their interlaced fingers.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

There was a pause. The world turned around them.

"I don't... I don't know if I can do this anymore."

Alastor took a deep breath before braving the sight of their bewildered and slightly saddened face once again.

"I said all I wanted was your time."

"That's the problem."

Y/n let go of his hand, running their own through their loose hair.

"That's the problem, Alastor." they said again.

"What is?"

Y/n had a habit of telling him the most serious things eye to eye with a stoney demeanor. He was surprised to see them break from this confident custom of theirs as they looked away, their arms wrapping protectively around themself.

"I want more. I want you to want more."

Alastor was stunned, he was speechless.

"I... I'll see you tomorrow, Al."

Before they could make it more than a step away, Alastor grabbed their shoulder, spinning them to him. Y/n looked up at him, confusion painting their features with the most delicate brush.

Alastor struggled, he fought. Still, there were no words.

"Don't you get it?" he asked, "I want your time. Y/n, I want you."

Alastor kept finding himself in trickier and trickier situations. First there had been trying to kill them, then the hurdle of not wanting to kill them. Friendship had given way to its own bag of worms and now that they were more than friends?

He had thought that it all would stop. He had thought that if things ever worked out the way they had, everything would be okay. He had forgotten his nature.

At first, hiding the killings was just as easy as it had been before. It did not stay that way. Alastor was good at hiding things, always had been. That wasn't the issue. What was the issue was that he cared about Y/n, he didn't want to hurt them. Keeping secrets... well, his mother had always told him that no one ever fools anybody. His mother was a wise woman. His mother had been right.

Y/n had stopped by as a surprise. They had a home cooked meal in a basket and a bag over their shoulder full of records they thought he would like. When they stepped into the foyer of Alastor's large, garden district home, they had called their usual greeting.

Alastor's heart had stopped at the sound of their voice. He froze, his cleaver still firmly wedged between the shoulder and chest of the man he was chopping into pieces for easier disposal. Hoping it was his mind playing tricks on him, he waited. They called again.

"Al! I have a surprise for you! The surprise is me! And also? I made you dinner. Come out! I know you're home!"

Under any other circumstances, them showing up like this would have filled him with unbridled joy. However, it wasn't any other circumstances. It was these circumstances. Alastor was covered in another man's blood. There was a body just a few rooms from his beloved. Either way, they would find out the truth. They were a nosey thing, always so inquisitive.

"Alastor!" he heard them call again.

They were closer now, much closer. He watched in a mixture of horror, despair, and a twinge of excitement as the doorknob jiiggled.

"Alastor?"

How would Y/n react to such a sight? Would they cower in fear? Was their love alone enough to hold them here, to tie them to him in loyalty? Would they run to the cops? Would they cry? Would they ask to help? Would he have to kill them too?

It was sickeningly delightful, all the unknowns. His heart pounded violently in his ears. The door swung open.

"There you are!"

"My dear! How wonderful to see you."

----

TAGS:

@willowshadenox @i-love-jafar @elfyeet @reader3 @lazygirlfanfic0-0 @kahlan170 @wendyphan01203-blog @fairyv-ice @clarakainda @lunaramune @mcueveryday @luxky-aish @peterpankat @corvid007 @juskonutoh @simpingsohard @sethianaa @gabile18 @slytherin4ever @skyeliteratures @zombiesnips-blog

Sorry if the end made you angry,,, I just think the not knowing is so much more fun!

Also the song is "Always" by Irving Berlin.

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thoughtsaboutbats · 11 months ago

Text

When Tim first started seeing the harsh lines that form the boxes that now followed him around daily, he thought he was going crazy. They weren’t the first thing to make him think that of course, if they were the only sign he’d just think he needed to see an optometrist. No, the first thing to make him question his sanity was his conviction that Bruce was alive despite the literal corpse they had buried, just because of one painting that kinda looked like him.

The second sign was when he realized none of this was real. That one he had pushed hard against. Obviously the world was real, he was real, how else could he even be questioning his existence. He’s pretty sure that’s what Descartes was going on about (that’s the guy that said I think therefore I am, right? Tim wasn’t so sure. Philosophy wasn’t his thing).

This revelation had worried him so much he almost gave up his search for Bruce, and he had even been looking into antipsychotics when Ra’s ninjas found him in Paris. He didn’t tell them he thought their entire universe was fake of course, it wouldn’t do for Ra’s to know he was losing it, but he did lay out his evidence for Bruce being alive and lost in time, and they seemed convinced enough that it was possible, so he kept going. At least now he knew he wasn’t completely out of touch with reality. Probably. He didn’t think there was a reason Ra’s would have his people help Tim search for evidence that was all in his head but you never know with Ra’s.

The boxes had started appearing sometime between when Tim first encountered the ninjas and when he finally accepted their help. They were thin, practically non existent lines hovering in the air in seemingly random places. Sometimes they were big and distant, even going so far as looking like a strange line in the sky. Sometimes they were so close to him, they looked like someone was putting a frame around his face, or the person he was talking to’s.

He knew, instinctively that they were the reality of his fake world. The boxes he saw were the way people outside his reality saw what was happening. How they made it happen? He definitely didn’t have enough brain space to process that without actually going crazy. But he knew he wasn’t real, no one and nothing he knew was real. They were characters, playing their parts in the narrative.

Or he was going crazy.

But when he stumbled to his feet in that desert, blood pouring out of the hole in his abdomen where he had been stabbed through just a moment ago, surrounded by the corpses of the assassins he had befriended, Pru desperately trying to suck in air around the blood pour down her throat, he really didn’t care if he was crazy or not. They were hours out from the city at this point, and he had no clue where any nearer settlements were, let alone how to get to them without setting off any of the explosives buried in the sands. There was no hope of getting to the medical care they needed. Unless Tim wasn’t crazy, and he was actually seeing their hotel room, just a few short feet away though one of the boxes.

The decision to try to step through the box was easy. After some rudimentary first aid to slow the blood flow from both of their injuries, Tim pulled Pru up, looped her arm over his neck and dragged them both through the there-not there box.

What he saw as he traveled between boxes, between panels, was something he couldn’t describe properly if he tried. The closest he could get would be it was live stepping into a perfectly white room, no shadows anywhere, no way to tell where the floor became the wall. Except that one side of the room was full of windows that each showed snapshots of his life. He could see, just above his head, close enough he could reach into it if he tried, the moment that Widower had stabbed him. The words the widower had said in that moment floated there in neat little bubbles.

The other side of the room though, hurt to look at. Attempting to even look at it long enough to describe was like looking at the sun, except it was his brain that was overwhelmed rather than the photoreceptors of his eyes. He knew though, that that was where reality lay, and that trying to go over there would almost certainly destroy him.

Tim didn’t stop to stare at any of this though. His goal was to get Pru and himself into their hotel room and get help. In just a few short strides he was there. The angle this panel was at wasn’t nearly as convenient to step through as the first, as it was a downward shot of the room that left him with no choice but to basically jump down from the ceiling. He managed the jump without breaking a leg or dropping Pru though, and they both fell back onto the bed. He heard the door open and someone exclaim at the sight of them just before he passed out from blood loss.

#Tim Drake #red robin (2009)#fanfic #my fanfic #meta Tim Drake #fourth wall break #kinda?#inspired by a convo in the Capes and Coffee discord and last weeks prompt for What Do They Eat

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quackity1999 · 1 month ago

Text

"i mean— it's a weird mix. some of you come in the form of letters, some of you are the weird, noisy pop-up ads, some people i meet in person. it's a variation of stuff."

LN ARCHIVES: MASTERPOST ON Q'S CHAT!!

OKAY. cracks my knuckles.

much like how other characters in the dream smp have physical manifestations of their twitch chat, i thought it'd be fun to apply that here — since this is a c!quackity ask blog.

anons function similarly to a twitch chat, which is why i decided that q's chat wasn't a duck pond for originality!

3 categories: people / actual pop ups / and letters or documents.

[ TAGGING SYSTEM ] + [ PINNED ]

POP UPS: this applies to all asks that aren't letters or in-person situations.

these asks are visual pop-ups (boxes, like those virus advertisements you get on a computer, ykykyk) that show up in quackity's peripheral vision. the pop ups can't interact with him physically since they're just text— but they pile up and overlap if he doesn't address them. he can swipe them away with his hands, of course. quackity either responds to them verbally (only if he's alone to avoid looking bonkers.) or mentally (if he's got company.)

examples ; THIS , THIS , THIS , AND THIS .

LETTERS / DOCUMENTS: these asks are formatted + physical, often delivered to quackity's desk. pretty cut and dry.

examples ; THIS, THIS , AND THIS.

PEOPLE: these asks are physical interactions. yk. when people are within his office, or give him something, or touch him, or come to give updates about LN— etc. anon examples: 🟣👓, ♾️🪞, and a few others.

examples ; THIS , THIS , THIS, AND THIS.

NOTE: literate interactions are NOT my primary style of writing. i'm an ask blog with some teeeensy aspects of roleplay— i almost always write in dialogue! yes, even in response to some literate interactions. i don't respond to rp starters unless i'm writing an event + have planned those interactions with another writer. respect that :3 thank yew!! [ also for the love of prime herself, pleeease, READ PINNED. it'll help. i swear. it's easy peasy lemon squeezy. 5 mins! ]

lengthy asks always tend to overwhelm / slow me down, and while that isn't a bad thing, i do prefer short-mid length asks on a regular basis. this doesn't rule out occasional long letters & shit tho :)

EXTRA INFO:

as for the anons side of things, i'd imagine it's similar to either watching a TV show you can send in notes / commentary / questions into, or literally being a citizen of LN. or, for some, working in the nation itself. (we need more workers pleasepleas.e pleas e its so fucking cool dude i love writing professional fancy shit olealplease i beg i beg i plead)

the anons cannot press too hard on changing what lore i have set up. you can add in little details if you like, or base details off of what canon i've already shown thru this blog (LOVE THAT), but anons aren't going to be aware of absolutely everything nor can they possess or control quackity's actions. keep that in mind <3

IMPORTANT: i've seen a few dsmp blogs using my pop-up idea, and while that's chill, i politely suggest taking inspo from the cc's interpretation of their chat. :3

i made quackity's anons function as popup ads rather than a duck pond or something basic, since it reflects his chaotic sort of character— from what i recall, tommy (?) had a nokia phone, jack uses his ingame headset, phil has crows and techno has voices.

bascially, i'd much rather see ppl coming up with their own versions of their anons/chat. or at least credit me for the pop-up idea!

i hope this clears things up :3 if there's questions or confusions i am more than happy to respond!

#ooc: the prophet talks #delegation — LN TEXTBOOK.#ask blog

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fourseasonsfigs · 6 months ago

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Painting Plum Blossoms

We're jumping from yesterday's Episode 36 Armory figures all the way back to Episode 1.

You'll recall this striking scene:

Here we have Zhou Zishu before he was A-Xu, painting his last fallen brother out of his generation's picture.

This scene is so visually stunning. We have the immaculate profile of the jianghu's most jaded civil servant, dressed in a gorgeously rich, weighty imperial uniform, painting what is quite literally one step away from the last nail for his coffin.

The almost tangible aura of heartsick despair in this scene as he drops his brush is so well done.

I missed this fig entirely. It wasn't even that my hand speed was too slow to snatch it up on release day - I had no idea this figure even existed. I saw it one day when browsing Xianyu and was like, what the what is going on here. The fig maker apparently released this and another one, Flying Aspara Wen, at the same time:

PRETTY cute, don't you think (she says, not bitterly at all)? I have not managed to track this one down yet, but I'm gonna, mark my words.

Right. Anyway, I did manage to find this Painting Plum Blossoms one on Xianyu, and I was really happy about it.

This little man is letting the weight of the world drag him down - his boots were a bit uneven and made him tilt quite a bit to the back.

The brush fit beautifully in his hand - I literally just slid it between his fingers. I didn't even have to glue it or anything, and it didn't move around at all as I moved the fig around to take pics. I was quite surprised.

You can see he's leaning quite a bit to the back. This is a nice angle to see some of the detailing on his Tianchuang uniform, which really is a gorgeous costume. It's actually my second favorite Zhou Zishu costume, after his pale lavender Four Seasons Manor one.

My goodness, what a backwards lean! It makes me laugh. Sorry Zhehan, your gorgeously regal perfect posture is not being well represented in resin here!

I love the detailing on the back of his leather guan here, as well as the strings of his hair tie. I know it looks in the picture like the hair tie is part of his head, but it's actually a totally separate piece. It can move a little back and forth.

I like that the fig maker did some pleating on the back of the outfit. It's a very nice touch. I also like how they did his painting arm, with the wider blue sleeves, the detailing on his bracer, and the modeling on the hand. Look at that delicate blushing on the fingers! Proportions can easily get skewed on the limbs for these figs, but this works beautifully.

Oops, this isn't quite the full side view, I over-rotated him a bit. Anyway, this is a great view of that delicately modeled hand.

Even the brush is well done. This is a good angle to see all the pleating on the front of his uniform and the detail on his belt. I'm really happy with this fig.

I love the detail on the bracers, it looks so good. The guan is rendered well too.

The shadows are a little too thick here, but you can barely see he has blue pants tucked into his black boots. This is a great angle to see all the pleating around the entire outfit.

You'll notice the brush is still being held in his hand! It slid back a bit, but it's still hanging in there.

Similarly, the brush slid out a bit to park against the paper, but it didn't fall right out when I turned him over. You can see a little more (blurry though) of the texture in his hair ties.

The modeling is quite nice on the guan here. I'll also just take a moment to say how grateful I am that the paintbrush was so easy and painless to slide into his hand. I know I always call back to my travails with Han Ye with Sword, but that fig is always in my mind when I see a small piece that needs assembly!

More of the lacing on the guan. So nice! You can see a little bit of the groove in his hair on the bottom right of his head there, where the hair tie piece rests in.

I'm always happy when I get a box card, especially when I have to buy a fig on the secondary market. It got a little bent in shipping but otherwise is in great shape.

Material: Resin and a whole lot of despair

Fig Count: (+1) 524

Scene Count: 38

Rating: Only 35.5 more episodes to go until happiness!

[link to the Master Post Index]

#word of honor #Episode 1 #zhou zishu #zhang zhehan #figthusiast #wen kexing #wen kexing kinda tangentially

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askthehospitalghost · 1 month ago

Text

"How may I be of assistance?"

Welcome to the ask blog of Irina Warashi, the hospital ghost!

Irina is a first year Mortkranken student, recovered after a mission involving the haunting of a local hospital. She tends to lie often about whether she is a ghoul, an anomaly, or a human. It seems she will do anything to before a human again, perhaps so far as to sell her soul, the only thing she has left. Mysteriously, Irina is still tangible and can be touched, though she does not react to things the way someone living should. She may go out of control in messy places, or if she feels as though she must fix something. All hell breaks loose if she must protect the ones she loves. She does not remember her past, but small clues in reactions and instincts lead her to believe her fate was less than pretty.

Irina currently serves as a paramedic and assistant, though her focus lies in researching refeeding syndrome, muscle atrophy, and resuscitation. Her expertise lies in emergency improvised medicine on the scene of the accident. She is said to be highly agile, highly optimistic, deeply caring, and skilled in hand to hand combat. There is reason to believe she is skilled with firearms but it hasn't been confirmed. She has no artifact, but is reported to go on a large amount of missions.

Irina regards Jiro much like an older brother and is extremely proud of her house.

It is also said that Irina might have a crush on one of the ghouls, but she denies it and claims it's "nothing more than a scientific curiosity." Irina is rather easy to fluster, though, all things considered.

Rules

NSFW Content may be posted, and will be tagged. NSFW asks are allowed, though tagging them will be harder since the ask will automatically show at the top of the post.

The mun is a full time student and may be slow to respond.

NOTHING SHE SAYS IS MEDICAL ADVICE, PLEASE DO NOT TRUST A GHOST TO SAVE YOUR LIFE LOL

I maintain the right to decline to answer asks that make me uncomfortable.

Not all asks will get art, but I will try to include some for as many as I can.

Rules are subject to change as time passes.

Any Words from Mun?

《Hooh. Finals week. Yippee. Your honor, I am tired. LOL》

《Irina is very easy to write, thankfully. She practically steals the keyboard away from me and does whatever she wants. I adore her so much.》

ASK BOX STATUS: OPEN

Tagging a few folks: @askruimizuki @taiga-shark @ritsu-shinjo

(Trying to tag several more users but good god my phone is not cooperating. Going to try again on pc after class because I know yall exist but it literally will not tag. ;^;)

See you soon!

#tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker oc #tokyo debunker ask blog #ask irina #ask blog #irina warashi #the hospital ghost speaks #hospital ghost announcements

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oculusxcaro · 3 months ago

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The crowd claps politely as a red-headed woman steps onto the stage, looking like she'd just stepped straight out of a modelling magazine. The professional-looking business suit she's wearing however soon puts any thoughts of her just being a pretty face to rest as she approaches the mic, accompanied by two-similarly dressed women who also wouldn't look out of place in a beauty pageant.

"Hello everybody, thank you all for coming today. As you all know, I am Miss Mavros. I am here today to present a crucial breakthrough of a prototype we at Prometheus have been working on for some time now. It's taken years to develop, but as you'll see shortly, the results will be as immediate as they are impressive."

The crowd murmers slightly at this, a handful of people looking to one another while the rest stares transfixed, eyes locked onto the redhead pacing back and forth on stage.

"Here at Prometheus, we're not just dabbling in cosmetic changes. Our primary research is looking at things on a deeper level, particularly when it comes to genetics. For example, how hard is it for the average person to stick to a diet in this day and age? Contrary to what others might tell you, it's not always your fault if you're unable to lose weight easily. In some cases, it's quite literally your own body working against you, but today I'd like to introduce somebody who will help provide us all with a live demonstration of one of our products. Would you all please welcome Delvin, who has so very kindly volunteered to be the very first person to officially take one of our products."

A man steps out onto the stage, his weight noticably in the upper levels of healthy. He shuffles shyly towards the mic whereas the two women who accompanied Mavros step back, one of them quickly turning on a black panel already placed on stage.

"Thank you for joining us today, Delvin. As you can all see, our friend Delvin here has tried all manners of losing weight without much success. It's difficult, tedious work, especially in this day and age when so much of our food supply is pumped with sugar, chemicals and e-numbers you couldn't even pronounce the name of. Here at Prometheus however, we don't think improving yourself should be so difficult or time-consuming. In fact, we think it should be easy and to make it so that your body works with you, not against you."

Delvin glances back and forth, clearly looking awkward at all the attention now directed to him. Mavros however seems not to notice, instead beckoning one of the women from before to come forth and deliver a briefcase to which she does. The contents of the case reveal a small white box, of which consists only of a vial filled with pale green fluid.

"One simple dose of treatment and simply watch the weight melt off you. Delvin, if you would, please."

Delvin steps onto the scales, the image of which is projected on a bigger screen that comes down to show people at the back of the crowd what's going on. He then offers his arm and the woman quickly finds his vein, injecting the syringe of green fluid. The man's face contorts slightly in discomfort as cold liquid enters his bloodstream but he stands in place obediently, waiting for something to happen.

Within 30 seconds, the reading on the scale starts to drop. Delvin's weight starts to decline, going from 280lb which hits 279, 278… seconds more pass as the crowd oohs and ahhs at the live demonstration of immediate weight loss, Delvin's physique quite literally changing before their eyes. Gone is the paunchy face as cheekbones start becoming more defined, the man's soft features soon becoming harder, more rugged as his weight continues to fall.

260, then 255. The crowd is watching with rapt attention, whispering animatedly amongst themselves while Delvin sweats and sweats though manages to maintain his composure. The weight loss started slowing after 270 but it finally clicks to a stop at 240, an effective show of the man having lost 40lbs in the span of five minutes.

The women help Delvin off the scale while Mavros approaches the crowd again.

"This is just the surface of what we at Prometheus are hoping to accomplish and, if all goes according to schedule, will soon be able to offer to you, the public."

"M-Miss Mavros, I-I don't… feel so good…"

"That's to be expected, Delvin. The effects of treatment should wear off shortly once your body has adjusted to the change. After you've had a rest and something to drink, you'll be feeling like a brand new person."

Delvin shakes his head wearily but allows himself to be escorted offscreen, walking away with tottering steps as Miss Mavros continues talking like nothing happened.

"Here at Prometheus, we take utmost care to ensure the personal safety and well-being of each and every one of our medical participants. Even the smallest steps of research are carefully monitored to ensure the comfort and dignity of those who undergo our tests willingly and while side effects do occur, they are only temporary. Over time, the benefits will far greatly outweigh any temporary bouts of dizziness and nausea…"

She claps her hands together, face beaming as she continues with her speech.

"Today was just a tiny demonstration of the kind of research we've been looking into. Ultimately our long-term goals are to tackle genetic flaws, to strike disease at the root cause before they can take hold. Cancer will be a thing of the past and even people who have lost bodyparts thanks to accident or warfare can look forwards to regaining what - until now - would be lost forever. It's all very exciting and I hope to surprise you all very soon with the things we've got in store."

This time the smile does reach the corner of her eyes but there's a cold gleam to them, perfectly arched lips crinkling in vague amusement at the rousing applause her speech derived.

#🌈 || musings #So I wanted to delve into Prometheus a little more #Should have been answering stuff but she wouldn't get out of my mind #At any rate it's good for getting some writing done #And a bit more about Prometheus bc I have not gone into that for a LONG time #Who be this woman? Might reveal more in due time

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adelaidedrubman · 6 months ago

Note

59. “You want to come?” “Y-yes, I— please—” “Hm, but do you really deserve to?” and/or 113. “What did I just say?” + for Jestiny x John 👀

[rushing in on literally the last hour of pride month to get the bifails posted and answer a three month old prompt] OMG HIIII CAYMAN THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SENDING AND I’M SORRY AND I DID BOTH

notes: seriously not joking i am scrambling to get this timely posted so it’s really long and sloppy even by my standards and the ending is both rushed and meandering and if you catch me fixing this in a few days with a complete rehaul no you didn’t. anyways also installment three in the failstrap series but this one is the least fail, ig. (by extension, set vaguely in hook, line, and sinker verse) wordcount: 5k (yeah) warnings: NSFW. nsfw while fishing. outdoor/semipublic (not really bc her fishing spots are secret). pegging. uh. strapwarming? edging. overstimulation. dom/sub type dynamic with implied lack of negotiation. emotional manipulation. there’s a brief joke about strap vs. dick that uses some “real thing” language that could read with uncomfortable implications. (technically it’s about softbait lures vs. worms and bioessentialist language isn’t used for the former comparison but since the double entendre gets us there i wanted to flag.) oh, and egregious fishing sex puns in general. like, that’s most of the fic. really bad

John had the uncanny sense that he was reaching a revelation he’d reached many, many times before, but always failed to internalize. A lesson that had been taught in abundance, without ever once being properly learned.

Because the sting of tears trickling down cheeks burned bright red from hours of baking beneath the unforgiving midday sun brought with it an unmistakable feeling of déjà vu that told John he’d discovered before the exact undeniable truth he was arriving at now — that any time Jestiny Rook gave him something he wanted without a fight, it meant she was going to find a way to give it to him that would make him regret ever asking.

“I — I can’t — Can I —” Another broken sob overtook him as a shiver ran through his body — fuck how was he ever supposed to do this when he was shaking like a leaf and unable to even form words? “I can’t fucking take this — Can I — Can I please fucking move, already?”

And he should have realized it had all gone too smoothly, had been far too simple. That it went too perfectly according to plan from the very start.

From the second Jessie had first called for him to be a good boy and fetch her tackle box as she shuffled out the door. In that fateful, infinitesimal sliver of time the idea first sparked to life to not only pack the box she filled with fishing hooks, bright feathered lures, and glittery plastic worms, but also the more intimate one in which she kept an assortment of expired condoms she’d never once actually offered to use, lube bottles of varying age and brand all uniform in having a slow pouring capful left at most, and an entirely different collection of multicolor, long, rubbery polymer attachments.

An odd quirk of hers — keeping every sex product she owned in a beaten-up tackle box rather than a discrete designated drawer the way any normal person did. But one he thought he might use to his advantage, for once.

It had seemed easy enough to do so — wait until they were far enough out on the water, give her a feigned apology about how he hadn’t been able to remember which tackle box was which and dared not violate her privacy by opening either. But then, oh, since it was here, perhaps he could try his luck distracting her from fishing with the lure of using the equipment in the other tackle box.

“Sure you can, baby,” she answered in hot, ragged breaths kissed into his back, the dark laugh she hummed into his skin sending a fresh quiver through every worn raw nerve of his spine. Her hands slid down to grip his hips tight to hold him firmly in place atop her lap as she added in a husky whisper, “As soon as you earn it.”

He should have known not much of anything could truly and completely distract Jestiny from fishing.

“B-But Jessie —” he gasped out, placing a free hand atop hers in hopes to coax it from its place pinning his hips down. “I-It’s been hours, it’s — it’s too much. I need it, I —”

“What did I just say?” her tone grew colder and firmer as she cut him off. “You’re the one who decided to pull this little stunt. And you knew what the deal was for me to go along with it,” she chided. “You get it inside you now, but you’re not gonna actually get fucked with it until you manage to reel in something with enough inches it’s legal to keep. Until then, you’re gonna sit nice and still in my lap and keep casting.”

Another mistake — he hadn’t really thought the proposition through past needing it inside of him, feeling an arrogant certainty she wouldn’t really be able to withhold from him once they were that far.

“I mean, how am I ever gonna make a proper fisherman out of you if I reward you for not catching anything?” She wrapped an arm around his waist, reaching up to tuck a lock of displaced hair behind his ear. “You give a man the strap, he wastes a full day of perfect fishing weather. You teach a man he’s gotta earn the strap by reeling one in…” She brushed a thumb back and forth along his lower lip then pushed past to slip into his mouth. “He never goes hungry again.”

“But God, Jessie, I can’t —” He paused, allowing his words to fade into a mumble around her thumb as he leaned forward to swallow deeper and give it a hard suck, as if he could gain something from the sensation of suction hollowing his cheeks alone — anything anything anything, what he wouldn’t give at this point just to get his throat fucked, to feel firm silicone thrusting into him somehow, even just to choke on it. “There’s — oh, any chance there ever was of me catching a fish h-has to be gone now. There’s no way — not when I’m on the edge like this. You can’t really expect me to…”

What had he been thinking? He could barely even do it to her standards when he wasn’t compromised by hours of teasing from her strap resting deep but frustratingly still inside him.

“I do,” she said firmly. She leaned forward, pressing against his back, breath hot against his neck as she guided his hand towards the cup holder on the left in which a styrofoam cup filled with worms rested. (A cup of bait in one cup holder and a bottle of lube in the other — what kind of person lived like this?) “C’mon. Only one way to start.” She did the faux kindness of handing him a hook with fishing line threaded through it. “Bait your hook.”

And why the hell had he agreed to handle fishing hooks with his fully exposed cock and balls out?

He did his best to still his trembling fingers as he pinched the eye of the hook between them, other hand dropping all but one of the dirt covered worms he grabbed (— his poor natural teak flooring, too —) to bring it to the hook.

“Fuck!” he cursed, metal barb piercing through the worm to prick his finger as unsteady hands guided it to slide down the hook.

He tried to focus on the clarity the pain brought and not the quickening of the drumming of his heart against his ribcage. He raised his arm, thumb readied at the rod’s release button as he swung back and —

“O-Oh,” he whimpered against his will as a shudder ripped through his body, the flexing of his hips to push himself backwards also making the strap inside him press at just the right angle to make that diffuse thrum of pleasure swell to something almost solid, a sudden enough spike to make satisfaction seem more that just a distant dream — and to cause the fishing line he cast to fall impotently into the water just a few feet in front of their boat.

Sending out a signal to his hands to begin reeling the line in was so far back in his brain’s queue of necessary actions it might as well not have been there, every ounce of his strength and willpower instead directed towards ordering his hips not to begin rocking as his thighs squeezed together to increase that sweet, solid pressure of silicone against his aching insides.

God, he could cum just like that, he thought — tensing enough to drive himself to a peak from the tightening grip alone, the only means of more more more he could chase. It would take so little to push him over the edge, at this point.

He thought he would, if he wasn’t so certain any finish he found would be so underwhelming and unsatisfying after all the teasing build up at the promise of being properly fucked. A weak dribble as pleasure overflowed by barely a single drop to leak from his overstimulated body, insides contracting with such a feeble rhythm it could be as easily ignored as a lazy tap-tap of a tambourine drowned out in a symphony. Like expecting to reel in a sturgeon and pulling up a measly bluegill, Jessie might say.

When did he begin thinking in fishing metaphors?

“Try again,” Jessie’s whisper found his ear to chase the thought away, placing her hands over his to guide him in reeling the line back in, reeling his awareness back into his body as she did. “You still got your worm on the line and everything,” she said encouragingly as she finished winding the line inward so that the hook dangled just short of the pole. “So just get right back at it. And remember — getting distance is about steadiness, not force. Not so hard, keep it smooth.”

It didn’t help that she used that same patient coaching voice she did when talking him through his finish; instructed him how to cast his line with the same breathy tone and cadence she would use to tell him where to touch himself and how and when to ‘let go, baby.’

Her forearm adhered itself to the underside of his upper arm, hand cradling his elbow to steady him as he cocked the arm back, hot breath falling against his ear as she whispered, “Let go, baby.”

His thumb jammed against the button obediently, a mechanical fwshhh of the line unwinding and soaring through the air following.

He did his best to blink away the newest film of tears blurring his vision and focus on the candy apple red nestled in bright white bullseye of the bobber — it had landed a respectable distance, far enough he had to squint to see it floating amongst the reeds.

Maybe there was some hope for him yet, he thought, placing his hand atop the crank to turn, trying to remember to do so slowly, teasingly so as to entice the fish, and not in the jerky, clumsy rush his body wanted to move in.

It only took a few turns before the low whir of the line spooling around the reel was interrupted with an abrupt click of the crank locking into place and refusing to move.

John looked up to see the line pulled tight ( — tight, so fucking tight — ) and the bobber vanished beneath the murky water ( — not exactly the thrill of watching plastic disappear he had in mind, but —) then gave an experimental tug ( — oh, what he wouldn’t give — ) to the line, watching as the pole ( — too easy — ) arced downward with a force matching his.

“I-I — I have something!” he announced, a wave of cautious hope washing over him as he tested the line with more force, finding it matched by a weight heavier than he could have hoped. “And it feels like a big one, this time!”

He ignored a snickered out ‘that’s what he said’ and tensed his muscles — untensed, rediscovering the way squeezing around silicone thwarted the mission by making him melt, then tried tensing again, this time only from the waist up, and yanking.

Shit. Steadiness, not force, he lectured himself with Jessie’s previous advice as he found the line refusing to budge, arms flexing at the strength of the fish opposing him, planting his feet just like she’d taught him. A pleasant burn sank into the muscles of his arms as he tugged, and then — oh —

Then he threw himself back, and a molten gold sun glitter matching the caps of the water erupted upward from the base of his spine to sizzle up to his neck, cheeks flushing fresh with its heat as he tossed his head back to rest atop Jessie’s shoulders.

“It’s — I almost —” Every single vertebrae seemed to shudder as Jessie ran fingertips along the arch of his back. And the damn line hadn’t even seemed to budge — how much harder did he need to pull? “I’m close, I know it’s —”

He shot trembling eyes to the spider web silken strand of fishing line, pulled taut as could be — how was it even possible, how could it withstand that much tension without finally —

Snap — the sound cut through the air, followed by a swish-click-click-click of the reel reversing. John lifted his head just in time to make sense of the glint of a knife pressing against the milky transparent glisten of fishing line stretched across the pad of Jessie’s thumb, barely having time to mourn the suggestiveness of the sight before it vanished as she severed the thread.

“Not to a catch, you weren’t,” she shushed, craning forward to press her lips to the corner of his mouth and kiss away the choked noise of devastation. “You always manage to — heh, to snag the bottom.”

John pouted.

He blatantly, unabashedly pouted. He pouted with such untamed, untempered impudence he mentally told himself ‘stop acting like a brat, John,’ before Jessie could utter it aloud, and then huffed to the Jessie in his mind that she couldn’t tell him what to do, when she was being so unfair.

He stuck out his lower lip, he crossed his arms over his chest, he tossed his head to the side. He pouted, and he was determined to keep pouting.

Her lips tickled from the nape of his neck to the dip beneath his ear with featherlight breaths, and his complaining huffs faded back into needy moans.

“Jessie, please…” How did she reel him back in to flounder with such shameless deference as soon as he’d made up his mind to sulk? Did he really have so little dignity left?

“C’mon, you think begging is gonna get you anywhere?” she taunted with a light suck of the skin she teased.

No, he didn’t. Not when she was in one of these moods. But —

But, he thought with the sudden clarity of a man with nothing left to lose, there was always one reliable way to bait her.

No, allowing his own ego to be crushed never got him much of anywhere. But stroking hers, on the other hand…

“But please, Jessie,” he repeated, raising a clenched fist to his mouth to bite down on knuckles then looking over his shoulder to bat eyelashes dewed with tears at her. “Can you show me again — that special knot you use to tie the line? I can only ever remember a basic overhand — especially now, I can’t even think straight. It is —” He removed the hand from his mouth, sinking teeth into his lower lip as he reached towards the tackle box meant for literal tackle, fingers hesitating and hovering above the rows. “It is hook before bobber, isn’t it?”

“Well, look at that. Reckon you have almost managed to learn something, after all,” she replied, giving him the cruel reward of a quick flick to his nipple before knocking his hand from the tackle box to retrieve a hook herself.

“Hook first is right,” she cooed as she unspooled a generous length of fishing line. “But don’t worry your pretty little head with any of the too fancy ones yet. We’ll start off with upgrading you to a basic clinch knot, for now,” she hummed with a kiss to his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll go reeaaal slow so you can keep up.”

Even appeasing, she was distinctly cruel. He absolutely couldn’t take slow right now.

He especially couldn’t take it watching those deft, dexterous fingers working their magic slipping through every tight loop she wound, curling and prodding with a careful force that made him envy fishing line, of all things.

“You think you can be a big boy and bait it all by yourself?” she teased, her lips finding their place at the base of his skull again as she held out a hook woven into plastic thread.

He prayed his ploy would work, because God knew he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the actual technique.

“Oh, I’ll try.” He reached towards the cup of bait, paused, then reached once again towards her tackle box. “But perhaps…” He trailed his fingers along the lengths of soft baits piled in one of the center trays. “I could borrow one of your lures? Since the fish don’t seem too tempted by the worms alone.”

He forced out a small huff of laughter in spite of his complete lack of amusement at his situation.

“After all…” He threw his head back and turned, nuzzling against the underside of her sculpted jaw. “Many find plastic even better than the real thing.”

John was not quite certain he was among said many. At least not at the moment. Not then and there and acutely aware of how much it might even the playing field if only the phallus inside him were the kind with flesh and blood nerve endings.

As it were, his partner answered with the cold, unfeeling scoff of someone unphased by how long they’d had someone sitting on their lap and taking them without moving.

And had he been less devastatingly sensitive to every slight shift, he might not have noticed the way she stiffened beneath him — spine straightening and shoulders squaring with a proud bluster that betrayed the veneer of indifference.

“Sure, baby,” she answered with a laugh equally choked with artificial irreverence. “Pick yourself out something pretty.”

John flashed a grateful smile, drumming fingers against tin and pretending to consider for as long as he could stand to let anything hang in limbo, then reaching with purpose for his always intended prize — a chunky blue and black striped minnow body with the distinct sheen of newness coating its deep ridges.

He caught before she could hide it with another nonchalant laugh the reflexive gulp buried in her throat, and for the first time in hours he felt a sense of victory as he stuck the hook deep into the soft gel of plastic. He’d wagered correctly, it seemed — it was a new and valued lure, one she was looking forward to using herself, and wouldn’t want to lose. Hopefully, she would want to avoid losing it enough she would see to it herself that he would be reeling it back in successfully.

“It’s —” He lifted the rod in the air, over his head. “Steadiness, not force,” he chanted to himself as a mantra with a particularly choppy cocking back of his casting arm. “Steadiness, not force. Steadiness, not force, steadiness, not —”

“That’s right, baby,” she coughed, drained of usual smugness as she gripped his elbow to pull it back down to a proper casting position.

“Could you —” Her arm had already moved to cradle his before he could even stick out his lip and finish the question. “Could you help to steady me again? You’re so much better at it than I am.”

“God, you’re so helpless and needy,” she chided as she covered his hands with hers. “Can’t believe I let myself keep spoiling you like this…”

Spoiling him. Ha!

What a rich thing to say when she’d spent hours more or less torturing him.

The pit of his stomach fluttered, lurched upward so that the devastating ache that had been along the base of his spine now settled in his chest, and it occurred to him as she swung her arm forward with his in tow that this might be what being in love felt like.

Or perhaps it was just what she’d always promised him fishing felt like, he considered, as she splayed fingers between his to begin turning the crank without hesitation, and he felt the satisfaction of knowing he had his catch on the line.

“That feels…” He gasped at the sudden, thrilling sensation of a tug of his line, the firm pressure of smaller hand tightening in response even more satisfying as he looked back with eager deference. “It’s a real one on the line this time, isn’t it?”

As if he had to ask, as if any deficit in fishing instincts impaired his keen ability to read every little movement of hers well enough to know from the twitch of her fingers alone.

“Maybe you should reel it and find out,” she teased — as if her chin weren’t already resting on his shoulder to gaze at the water in anticipation, as if her fingers didn’t press against his to show him just how to turn and turn and turn. “You’re doing so good, John.”

Fuck, that —

Okay, okay.

God, he needed to fucking finish — he needed to steady his trembling hand so that he could reel so that he could finish. He needed to at least keep up the pretense he was doing this himself well enough that she wouldn’t withdraw.

He needed to remember how the fuck to unhook a fish, because the splash of the water just over a rod’s length away from the hull revealed he definitely had a real one this time.

Jessie’s breath hitched, a tickle against his neck, and he knew it was time to pull, to hoist his catch up — struggling, nearly faltering as their shifting forward in unison sent a shiver through his entire body that made the weight of the (?)trout(?) feel tremendous enough to break him. It would have, if only Jessie’s sturdy arms hadn’t been there to catch, hold him and support him.

Which made him want to melt all the more, but somehow he managed to do it — managed to pull it to flop down atop the gunwale, use the last of his strength to hold it down.

“Is it…” He dug teeth into his lip, looked back with begging eyes. “Please say it’s big enough.”

“You tell me,” she rasped, uncapping her knife again — this time offering it to him, tapping against the ruler etched into its side.

He blinked, focusing on the ticks of the inches and praying he was correct about that being a trout.

“E-Eight inches,” he announced through heavy panting. “Big enough to keep!”

She tsked. “Barely.”

She loved exaggerating.

“But we will,” she said, slipping out her precious bait and dropping the fish into the cooler with expert speed.

“Does that mean I —” Hot, sweltering summer air stung the insides of his lungs and still left him breathless as he gasped like a fish out of water, falling forward in collapse to grip the side of the boat until his knuckles grew so blanched white from the pressure the black ink atop them looked pale gray. God, he was too close to the finish line to let it all fall apart now, to let it all be for naught. “Do I get to — Can I —”

Firm hands gripped his hips, a deep laugh vibrating down his spine as finished for him, “You want to come?”

Even the pressure of her fingertips was becoming too much at this point, sparks dancing across his vision from the touch. “Y-yes, I — please —”

“Hm, but do you really deserve to?” she nuzzled lightly against his shoulder blade before burying her face beneath the base of his neck, as if they were doing nothing more than chaste spooning. “I mean, it feels like I did most of the actual angling…”

No no no no. His throat somehow grew even drier.

“I like when you do all the work,” he hurried out, hoarse beyond hoarse. “Don’t you?”

Nothing but a noncommittal grunt from her, as the warmth of her skin pressed against his back vanished, hands on his hips staying in place.

“I know you do,” she deflected, flashing him a smug smirk from her place leaned back in white leather swivel seat. “Mm, I bet you wouldn’t bother to move for yourself even if I did let you.”

Fighting a fish was a very, very precise artform, indeed. A careful balancing act. It required strength, it required intelligence, it required endurance, it required a touch both delicate and forceful, a perfect combination of brains and brawn.

“W-Would I really have to, Jessie?” he whined, knitting his brow. “You won’t — Don’t you want to fuck me? Don’t you —”

“I want what I’ve been wanting,” she interrupted, stroking fingers along the ridge of his hip before allowing them to retreat. “For you to earn it.” Fingertips traced back towards his spine, stroking down down down to his tailbone. “You can move.”

“Fuck —” He pushed himself up tentatively, unsure that wobbly legs wouldn’t give out beneath him, forced to move at the same molasses slow paced she’d subjected him to.

Still, his tolerance for feeling empty reached its limit before his weakened muscles did, and exhaled and lowered himself even more slowly, stuck between savoring the deeper and deeper stretch and rushing himself for more.

“Fuck, you do look pretty doing that,” she whistled behind him. “Could lure a girl in.”

“O-Oh,” he sighed, bobbing up and down at a more deliberate pace now, meeting with rocking of the gentle waves lapping against the boat, each amplifying the other. “Tell me again, won’t you?” he requested, resigning himself to find his finish on his own as he released his grip from the boat and reached to stroke himself. “Tell me I —”

A low rumble of a growl from behind them, a sudden snap of the fragile push and pull — his arm jerked and pinned to his back before it could reach its destination, finding himself shoved forward as Jessie rose to stand herself, the supportive arm that wrapped around his waist all that kept him from falling from the force.

He’d barely managed to process his new position bent over the side of the boat before silicone was buried to the hilt, its rounded end swiftly hammering just where it needed to, with such an unexpected force and precision he felt the world fade and spin around him as low waves of pleasure began to kick and whip into an all consuming whirlpool, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Look at me,” she ordered in a tone so authoritative, cool, flat, compared to the frantic whimpers he let out as he rocked back to meet every thrust, receive every sensation at full force now that he finally had it.

He obeyed, eyes he would have thought it nearly impossible to pry to squint shooting wide open in reflex at her mere suggestion, every detail of her face coming into crisp, vivid detail — that firm, sculpted jawline hanging with a surprising lack of tension, plush rosy lips not scrunched into the angry line he might have expected, but rather parted with a gentle bow to pull in quick breaths, auburn brow lax over half-lidded but unblinking eyes.

“Come for me,” she said, eyes widening with molten gold flare that burned straight through him.

This time his hand didn’t have time to begin to reach to touch himself — he didn’t even have time to think about the possibility, as one final thrust reverberated through every nerve in his body, making those gentle waves of pleasure finally rise steep enough to bend with a curl as steep as his hunched spine, then finally break, crashing against itself to white-cap in choppy pulses.

He let out a choked sob of surrender, feeling so lost and thrown about in its tow he was capsizing, spilling over with blazing heat blown away into a cool rush as quickly as it rose, as if struck down by a frigid, stormy breeze. His insides flipped and eddied about with such ferocity, his sense of balance so thoroughly obliterated it felt as if he really was falling, suspended in air and tumbling over himself to a crash at a distance he couldn’t predict, a force he —

John realized with an abrupt splat and a stinging smack of water against his cheek that he had literally been falling, had tumbled straight overboard to belly flop against the surface of the lake and plunge beneath it.

“Shit!” He heard the shout muffled through pressurized whoosh of water and the blub-blub of bubbles rising from the breath knocked from him.

He blinked his eyes open in effort to see through murky water what direction the bubbles rose, will sore and aching muscles to kick him towards the surface they foretold — only to be pushed down by another splash as quickly as he started.

This time he opened his eyes to find bright amber cutting through the murky greenish brown, set in ruddy alabaster framed by warm copper halo.

And once again, that supportive arm wrapped around his waist, and he was jetting upwards to a breath of air so fresh and relieving it felt like the first he’d ever taken.

“I got you!” His redheaded savior called through her own hungry gasp for air, keeping him held tight to her as she flailed on a rough path towards the stern of the boat. “Just hang onto me.”

“I —” He reached a palm towards the boat’s side to brace himself as the other tread through the water, legs joining to bring them to a more stable float with their weights equally supported. “I can swim, Jessie.”

Her mouth closed tight, nostrils flaring outward with a huffy exhale as she kicked towards him to propel herself gliding backwards towards the ladder, holding to its bar and wedging a foot against its rung. “Well I didn’t fuckin’ know that, now, did I?”

“No,” he rumbled softly, paddling towards her and grabbing onto the opposite bar, his other hand reaching up to cup her cheek, feeling a dimple sink into his round as she tensed. “You didn’t.”

With that he craned his neck upwards as he gently pulled her towards him to press their lips together, not caring a bit about the fishy taste of lakewater clinging to them as he savored the delicate warmth so few would ever know, sighing at the subtle tilt of her head to lean into the kiss, allow his hand to stroke along the underside of her jaw.

He felt the gentle tickle of her eyelids fluttering open before he heard the gruff clearing of her throat, followed by her pulling warmth leaving him in chilly waters as she parted and pulled away.

“Now can we get back on the boat?” she complained, ascending the ladder midway then turning down to cast a scornful glare at him, then nodding down towards sleek black silicone protruding from her crotch. “This thing isn’t a flotation device, y’know.”

He gave a breath laugh as he watched her finish her climb, envying every tiny droplet of water that got to trail its way down the curves of toned legs. “Next time we’ll be sure to strap-in to our life jackets as well, hm?”

“Next time you’re gonna have to reel one in yourself if you want there to be a strap,” she barked back, fidgeting to quickly loosen her harness. “I sure hope you fucking managed to learn something about fishing!”

He forced his laughter to fade, shaking his head as he climbed to join her. Such sudden fight in her, as if she hadn’t just shown him how deeply his hooks were buried.

He thought he’d learned quite a lot about fishing, all things considered.

#nsft #11:58 so that's the only tag it gets for now aaaaaand post

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doyouknowbtsswag · 2 years ago

Text

Baseball |Seungmin AU|

Making this gif was annoying

The uniform was red and black but it had a red and black striped uniform with white buttons. The material used for the shirt was nice and made it easy to take on and off.

"I will don't worry" he smiled and held my hand. "When am I not careful?"

"The time you face-planted on the dirt to catch a ball and almost broke your nose"

"And I caught it" He smiled "Plus when you played softball you scratched yourself every game"

"This isn't about me it's about you" I looked up at him when I finished fixing the uniform. "There you go"

"It's gonna get messed up after the first inning."

"So? You should look nice when you get out on the big screen”

"Seungmin say bye to your girlfriend and let's go you need to warm up. " his teammate said annoyed.

I understand why he was annoyed. It was the championship and they were going against NCT who had multiple good players. Although Straykids didn't have 9 players they recruited their close friend.

"I'm coming I'm coming" He sighed smiling. "Bye love"

"Bye minee you got this" I smiled kissing his cheek. He fixed my baseball hat and walked away with his annoyed teammate who grabbed his hand because he was "too slow".

I went up to get something to eat and drink before the game started. Seungmin felt bad that I wasn't able to watch from the VIP box but I reassured him it was fine. I grabbed popcorn and soda along with Seungmin's favorite candy and walked back to my seat. It was relatively close to perfect seating next to the foul ball section. Of course, I brought a glove to tease Seungmin before an inning started. I smiled and watch Seungmin ran to the pitcher's mound. His grandfather was a pitcher which inspired him to be one. Seungmin had a dark purple glove which was his favorite color. The coach approved of the color which set him into a good mood for days. each teammate had their own color. I watched as Seungmin made his pitching stance. The sweet carefree Seungmin turned into a whole other person.

He glared at player 23 as he hit the ball in the outfield that was easily caught by Jeongin. Jeongin threw the ball to Chan so Seungmin could have it. The game was entertaining, to say the least. Thanks to Minho's reflexes getting outs at first was a piece of cake. Changbin having a stronger body made it easy for them to get on bases and hit the ball further. Han and Minho communicated well so double plays were easy from any direction. Chan can easily get almost every hit to him. Unfortunately, some players could hit and others not so much. The team didn't quite have the same level of hitting as their opponents.

It was the last inning and both teams were tired. NCT was batting first and everyone was on edge. Straykids was up by one hit. All they had to do was make sure they didn't score and they made sure of that. Seungmin had the most pressure. He had to make sure his pitches were on point. His hands were shaky and he zoned out a little. There were two outs and the bases were full. He threw a ball almost hitting the batter. He tapped his foot as caught the ball so he could make the next pitch. He threw yet another ball this time low. He got the ball back and looked up frustrated. He looked over to where I was giving me almost a cry for help literally. I smiled and gave him a heart and blew a kiss.

"LET'S GO NUMBER 8!" I yelled which gave me some questionable stares.

Seungmin smiled a little and focused back to the game. He looked back to the ball and wiped his hand on his pants. He grabbed the ball taking a deep breath and threw the ball right to Changbin who gave him a nod. Changbin caught the ball which was outside.

"Take it easy," Han said from second base trying to comfort his teammate.

"Come on" Seungmin whispered to himself he threw the last pitch.

He pitched the ball which the batter swung at. The ball was hit right to Seungmin managed to catch the ball cushioning it from hitting his stomach preventing him from getting a severe injury. That was the third out which solidified their win. Everyone on his team yelled and hugged Seungmin jumping up and down. He flinched a bit but hugged back anyway.

"That's my pitcher!" Changbin yelled hugging Seungmin again.

"That was getting scary at the end," Seungmin said laughing at his own pain.

"Are you okay?" Chan said concerned. "I saw the ball hit you in the stomach.

"I cushioned it enough to stop it from hitting my stomach hard but I know I have a bad bruise," Seungmin said.

"Be careful". Han said rubbing his hair.

"Stop that" He smiled pushing his hand off his hair.

After their celebration, there was a ceremony dedicated to their team's win. everyone had a medal and Chan held the trophy. I smiled watching Seungmin's bright smile. People took pictures around them and followed the team until they made it to the dugout.

"Great job everyone, I'm proud of you all and I can't wait for next season because I know we can end up back to the championship!" Their coach said as everyone was backing up.

"Let me look at your stomach," the athletic trainer said before Seungmin could leave. "I want to make sure it's not something serious"

"I'm sure I'm fine but safe than sorry." He said as he pulled up the side of his shirt which had a nasty bruise.

"Do you mind if I touch it? It's to make sure there's nothing wrong internally."

Seungmin nodded getting a little nervous. The athletic trainer touched his bruise and he winced.

"Everything feels fine, thankfully it just barely missed critical organs. I suggest you take it easy for a few weeks and if you notice the bruise gets worse or there is no sign of its healing go to the hospital to get it checked out." She said. "Good job today though"

"Thank you" He smiled and walked away. I waited for him at the entrance smiling about his success.

"Seungmin!" I smiled running up to hug him. "You did such a good job!"

"Of course I did," He said wincing about but chuckled at your excitement.

"Your okay right?" I said pulling away. "I'm sorry I forgot"

"It's okay" He smiled. "It's just a bruise nothing more"

"How bad?" I said.

"The bruise is not pretty that's for sure but it's fine" He reassured leaving out what the athletic trainer told him. "I was just told to take it easy"

"I told you not to hurt yourself!" I crossed my arms holding the candy. "No candy for you"

"Wait it's not my fault," He said whining jokingly.

"Alright alright," I said giving him the candy. "Let's go home so you can so you can relax superstar"

"Sounds good" He smiled putting his arm around me.

"I'll even make you favorite" I looked at him. "I'll take care of you don't worry"

"I wouldn't want anyone else to," He said kissing my cheek.

————————————————————————

I want to apologize for not posting in a while. This has been in my drafts but a lot of things popped up since I'm graduating high school I needed to focus on picking a college. I also found out about the passing of my favorite teacher recently. I'm still upset about it but I'm doing my best to get it out of my mind. I hope you guys understand. Remember you all are ✨ PERFECT ✨ and ✨ WORTH IT ✨ the way you are. Love you, guys!

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #christopher bang #han stray kids #lee felix #lee minho #kim seungmin #straykids seungmin #seungmin x reader #straykids scenarios #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fluff #seungmin #stray kids jisung

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