#i like commanders with a puzzle to solve

[neonjawbone]

@emilygaming thanks for reminding me my moxfield list was out of daaaate- i didnt know people would be interested!!! but here's my guy!!!

originally i'd conceived it as a dwarves/treasures/artifacts/vehicles deck, and there's some remnants of that in there, but i cut down on typal/vehicle synergies to focus harder on the treasure (and have since ended up with a pile of cards cut from vihaan that miiiight make a decent depala, pilot exemplar deck in the future) anyway sorry i named it All That Glitters despite not having the card of the same name in my list

i built vihaan, goldwaker recently and hes become far and away my favorite deck to play. strategy: money

[derinwrites]

The Three Commandments

The thing about writing is this: you gotta start in medias res, to hook your readers with action immediately. But readers aren’t invested in people they know nothing about, so start with a framing scene that instead describes the characters and the stakes. But those scenes are boring, so cut straight to the action, after opening with a clever quip, but open in the style of the story, and try not to be too clever in the opener, it looks tacky. One shouldn’t use too many dialogue tags, it’s distracting; but you can use ‘said’ a lot, because ‘said’ is invisible, but don’t use ‘said’ too much because it’s boring and uninformative – make sure to vary your dialogue tags to be as descriptive as possible, except don’t do that because it’s distracting, and instead rely mostly on ‘said’ and only use others when you need them. But don’t use ‘said’ too often; you should avoid dialogue tags as much as you possibly can and indicate speakers through describing their reactions. But don’t do that, it’s distracting.

Having a viewpoint character describe themselves is amateurish, so avoid that. But also be sure to describe your viewpoint character so that the reader can picture them. And include a lot of introspection, so we can see their mindset, but don’t include too much introspection, because it’s boring and takes away from the action and really bogs down the story, but also remember to include plenty of introspection so your character doesn’t feel like a robot. And adverbs are great action descriptors; you should have a lot of them, but don’t use a lot of adverbs; they’re amateurish and bog down the story. And

The reason new writers are bombarded with so much outright contradictory writing advice is that these tips are conditional. It depends on your style, your genre, your audience, your level of skill, and what problems in your writing you’re trying to fix. Which is why, when I’m writing, I tend to focus on what I call my Three Commandments of Writing. These are the overall rules; before accepting any writing advice, I check whether it reinforces one of these rules or not. If not, I ditch it.

1: Thou Shalt Have Something To Say

What’s your book about?

I don’t mean, describe to me the plot. I mean, why should anybody read this? What’s its thesis? What’s its reason for existence, from the reader’s perspective? People write stories for all kinds of reasons, but things like ‘I just wanted to get it out of my head’ are meaningless from a reader perspective. The greatest piece of writing advice I ever received was you putting words on a page does not obligate anybody to read them. So why are the words there? What point are you trying to make?

The purpose of your story can vary wildly. Usually, you’ll be exploring some kind of thesis, especially if you write genre fiction. Curse Words, for example, is an exploration of self-perpetuating power structures and how aiming for short-term stability and safety can cause long-term problems, as well as the responsibilities of an agitator when seeking to do the necessary work of dismantling those power structures. Most of the things in Curse Words eventually fold back into exploring this question. Alternately, you might just have a really cool idea for a society or alien species or something and want to show it off (note: it can be VERY VERY HARD to carry a story on a ‘cool original concept’ by itself. You think your sky society where they fly above the clouds and have no rainfall and have to harvest water from the clouds below is a cool enough idea to carry a story: You’re almost certainly wrong. These cool concept stories work best when they are either very short, or working in conjunction with exploring a theme). You might be writing a mystery series where each story is a standalone mystery and the point is to present a puzzle and solve a fun mystery each book. Maybe you’re just here to make the reader laugh, and will throw in anything you can find that’ll act as framing for better jokes. In some genres, readers know exactly what they want and have gotten it a hundred times before and want that story again but with different character names – maybe you’re writing one of those. (These stories are popular in romance, pulp fantasy, some action genres, and rather a lot of types of fanfiction).

Whatever the main point of your story is, you should know it by the time you finish the first draft, because you simply cannot write the second draft if you don’t know what the point of the story is. (If you write web serials and are publishing the first draft, you’ll need to figure it out a lot faster.)

Once you know what the point of your story is, you can assess all writing decisions through this lens – does this help or hurt the point of my story?

2: Thou Shalt Respect Thy Reader’s Investment

Readers invest a lot in a story. Sometimes it’s money, if they bought your book, but even if your story is free, they invest time, attention, and emotional investment. The vast majority of your job is making that investment worth it. There are two factors to this – lowering the investment, and increasing the payoff. If you can lower your audience’s suspension of disbelief through consistent characterisation, realistic (for your genre – this may deviate from real realism) worldbuilding, and appropriately foreshadowing and forewarning any unexpected rules of your world. You can lower the amount of effort or attention your audience need to put into getting into your story by writing in a clear manner, using an entertaining tone, and relying on cultural touchpoints they understand already instead of pushing them in the deep end into a completely unfamiliar situation. The lower their initial investment, the easier it is to make the payoff worth it.

Two important notes here: one, not all audiences view investment in the same way. Your average reader views time as a major investment, but readers of long fiction (epic fantasies, web serials, et cetera) often view length as part of the payoff. Brandon Sanderson fans don’t grab his latest book and think “Uuuugh, why does it have to be so looong!” Similarly, some people like being thrown in the deep end and having to put a lot of work into figuring out what the fuck is going on with no onboarding. This is one of science fiction’s main tactics for forcibly immersing you in a future world. So the valuation of what counts as too much investment varies drastically between readers.

Two, it’s not always the best idea to minimise the necessary investment at all costs. Generally, engagement with art asks something of us, and that’s part of the appeal. Minimum-effort books do have their appeal and their place, in the same way that idle games or repetitive sitcoms have their appeal and their place, but the memorable stories, the ones that have staying power and provide real value, are the ones that ask something of the reader. If they’re not investing anything, they have no incentive to engage, and you’re just filling in time. This commandment does not exist to tell you to try to ask nothing of your audience – you should be asking something of your audience. It exists to tell you to respect that investment. Know what you’re asking of your audience, and make sure that the ask is less than the payoff.

The other way to respect the investment is of course to focus on a great payoff. Make those characters socially fascinating, make that sacrifice emotionally rending, make the answer to that mystery intellectually fulfilling. If you can make the investment worth it, they’ll enjoy your story. And if you consistently make their investment worth it, you build trust, and they’ll be willing to invest more next time, which means you can ask more of them and give them an even better payoff. Audience trust is a very precious currency and this is how you build it – be worth their time.

But how do you know what your audience does and doesn’t consider an onerous investment? And how do you know what kinds of payoff they’ll find rewarding? Easy – they self-sort. Part of your job is telling your audience what to expect from you as soon as you can, so that if it’s not for them, they’ll leave, and if it is, they’ll invest and appreciate the return. (“Oh but I want as many people reading my story as possible!” No, you don’t. If you want that, you can write paint-by-numbers common denominator mass appeal fic. What you want is the audience who will enjoy your story; everyone else is a waste of time, and is in fact, detrimental to your success, because if they don’t like your story then they’re likely to be bad marketing. You want these people to bounce off and leave before you disappoint them. Don’t try to trick them into staying around.) Your audience should know, very early on, what kind of an experience they’re in for, what the tone will be, the genre and character(s) they’re going to follow, that sort of thing. The first couple of chapters of Time to Orbit: Unknown, for example, are a micro-example of the sorts of mysteries that Aspen will be dealing with for most of the book, as well as a sample of their character voice, the way they approach problems, and enough of their background, world and behaviour for the reader to decide if this sort of story is for them. We also start the story with some mildly graphic medical stuff, enough physics for the reader to determine the ‘hardness’ of the scifi, and about the level of physical risk that Aspen will be putting themselves at for most of the book. This is all important information for a reader to have.

If you are mindful of the investment your readers are making, mindful of the value of the payoff, and honest with them about both from the start so that they can decide whether the story is for them, you can respect their investment and make sure they have a good time.

3: Thou Shalt Not Make Thy World Less Interesting

This one’s really about payoff, but it’s important enough to be its own commandment. It relates primarily to twists, reveals, worldbuilding, and killing off storylines or characters. One mistake that I see new writers make all the time is that they tank the engagement of their story by introducing a cool fun twist that seems so awesome in the moment and then… is a major letdown, because the implications make the world less interesting.

“It was all a dream” twists often fall into this trap. Contrary to popular opinion, I think these twists can be done extremely well. I’ve seen them done extremely well. The vast majority of the time, they’re very bad. They’re bad because they take an interesting world and make it boring. The same is true of poorly thought out, shocking character deaths – when you kill a character, you kill their potential, and if they’re a character worth killing in a high impact way then this is always a huge sacrifice on your part. Is it worth it? Will it make the story more interesting? Similarly, if your bad guy is going to get up and gloat ‘Aha, your quest was all planned by me, I was working in the shadows to get you to acquire the Mystery Object since I could not! You have fallen into my trap! Now give me the Mystery Object!’, is this a more interesting story than if the protagonist’s journey had actually been their own unmanipulated adventure? It makes your bad guy look clever and can be a cool twist, but does it mean that all those times your protagonist escaped the bad guy’s men by the skin of his teeth, he was being allowed to escape? Are they retroactively less interesting now?

Whether these twists work or not will depend on how you’ve constructed the rest of your story. Do they make your world more or less interesting?

If you have the audience’s trust, it’s permissible to make your world temporarily less interesting. You can kill off the cool guy with the awesome plan, or make it so that the Chosen One wasn’t actually the Chosen One, or even have the main character wake up and find out it was all a dream, and let the reader marinate in disappointment for a little while before you pick it up again and turn things around so that actually, that twist does lead to a more interesting story! But you have to pick it up again. Don’t leave them with the version that’s less interesting than the story you tanked for the twist. The general slop of interest must trend upward, and your sacrifices need to all lead into the more interesting world. Otherwise, your readers will be disappointed, and their experience will be tainted.

Whenever I’m looking at a new piece of writing advice, I view it through these three rules. Is this plot still delivering on the book’s purpose, or have I gone off the rails somewhere and just stared writing random stuff? Does making this character ‘more relateable’ help or hinder that goal? Does this argument with the protagonists’ mother tell the reader anything or lead to any useful payoff; is it respectful of their time? Will starting in medias res give the audience an accurate view of the story and help them decide whether to invest? Does this big twist that challenges all the assumptions we’ve made so far imply a world that is more or less interesting than the world previously implied?

Hopefully these can help you, too.

[onlymingyus]

Beautiful Liar (Teaser)

pairing; kim mingyu x f!reader

genre; smut (minor dni), toxic, angst, dark content, fluff

summary; Kim Mingyu's life has always been complicated, but you just add another layer. At least he is a beautiful liar.

dark content/content warnings; mafia au, murder, guns (used/sold/bought), cops, gun dealer!mingyu, mafia boss!jun (shut up), second in command/drug dealer!minghao, lawyer!wonwoo, blood, fighting/beating, drugs mentioned, smoking (cigarettes), alcohol, alludes to alcoholism, depression/anxiety, toxic relationships, commitment issues -- best friends sister to lover, bosses sister to lover, jun's sister!reader, soonyoung, dino (chan), vernon as side characters, names eunseok and haneul used (have no connection to riize and kiof), crying, food and drink as always, mentions being sick, doctor!reader, medical terminology and medical procedure/wound described -- as always i'm certain i have missed something. if there is anything glaring send me an ask.

smut warnings; dom!mingyu, mean dom!mingyu, brat!reader, unprotected sex, rough sex, pulling out, creampie, cum on skin, cum play, cumming untouched, cumming in pants, fingering, oral (f receiving), handjob, edging/orgasm denial, degradation, pet names/degrading names, praise, impact play, pussy slapping, biting, crying from pleasure, dacryphilia, aftercare. as stated above, i am sure there is something i am forgetting. send an ask if it is glaring.   

w/c; 25.6k and some change (2.8k extra words for patreon bonus) [2.2k this teaser]

beautiful liar - monsta x

a/n; thank you to my @junkissed for proofreading for me once again, i love you forever. i hope you all enjoy this one. i missed my boy so much and i wanted to expand a bit on gyu from shut up. give him a bit of life. its not the end of some of these characters, but we will see where they pop up in the future.

this fic will be released 8/15 at 3 pm est to read it now subscribe to my patreon and click here

Glancing around the large living room, Mingyu glances towards you as you drop your bag onto the sofa before moving towards the floor to ceiling windows. He knew he really didn’t have to do much more for you. Yes, Jun had told him to keep you entertained, but he had done the first part. He had gotten you from the airport to the penthouse. The bar was going to open soon. 

Biting at his lip, Mingyu takes his phone from his jacket pocket and checks his messages when you glance back to look at him in the hallway, your luggage on either side of him. You could see his brows furrowed even from across the room. He had seemed so tense the entire drive from the airport and you could barely get him to open up to you. He was like a puzzle that you were dying to solve. 

“Talking to your girlfriend?” 

Your words pull Mingyu out of his haze as he reads Minghao’s text and back into the present with you. Lifting his brow, Mingyu scoffs but quickly clears his throat before shaking his head and sending a quick text back to Minghao. "No, I don’t have one. I was just letting Minghao know I had you here. Seeing if he wanted me at the loun—at work.” 

You watch as Mingyu quickly changes his wording and clears his throat once again. Stepping closer to the middle of the room, you can see the way he swallows hard and you know it’s because he’s trying to hide something from you. Smirking, you nod and gesture towards your bags before pointing towards another hallway. Mingyu’s eyes follow your hand before finding your eyes once again when you speak, some teasing in your voice. "Well, before you leave me for my brother’s shady bar, can you put my stuff in my room?” 

Mingyu feels his stomach in his throat as you mention the bar and start to walk towards the bedrooms. Groaning, he closes his eyes, feeling his phone go off in his hand, finding himself unwilling to look at it right away as he listens to your high heels click against the floor. 

So you knew about the lounge. Jun had told him you were a respectable woman. Mingyu had done his own research. Respectable was putting it simply. You were a doctor and where Jun might have lined his family’s pockets in his own way, you were like a beacon of joy for them, with your face in scientific journals and standing in front of hospitals with sick children. The lounge was so far away from who you were. 

Looking around the master bedroom, you nod before glancing back towards the door when Mingyu moves into the doorframe, only to stop and clear his throat as if asking for permission. He was not only breathtakingly handsome, but one of the most adorable men you had ever seen. You knew he worked for your brother in some capacity and in his less than desirable business adventure, but you couldn’t imagine it right now. Mingyu did not seem like the type of man to work for your brother. Then again, at one point in your life, you said the same about Minghao. 

“You can come into the room, Mingyu. What did my brother say to you to make you so afraid of me?” You smile, a small laugh in your words, as you take a step backwards to sit on the end of the bed as Mingyu puffs up his cheeks. 

Pushing your suitcases into the room, Mingyu looks down at you on the bed and he feels the image being burned into his brain as he tries not to imagine you lying back on it as he—sighing—shakes his head and lifts his hand to run his fingers through his hair. “He told me to take care of you. Entertain you while he was gone, but he also told me to behave... in not so many words.” 

Biting at your lip, you laugh once again, lifting your leg to cross it over the other, feeling Mingyu’s eyes drop to your legs before he has to force himself to look away, pulling out his phone once again to check his messages. “Behave, huh? And what does that mean? Are you bad, usually?” 

Feeling heat rising in his neck, Mingyu swallows hard, not only at the text messages from Minghao but also at your words. What were you trying to do? You were obviously testing him. You were teasing him. He should run for the hills and a cold shower. 

Laughing, Mingyu focuses on his phone, sending one last text to Minghao, pressing send harder than necessary as you watch him closely. “Who are you texting, Mingyu? Still talking to Minghao? I might start to get jealous. I thought you were supposed to entertain me.” 

Glancing at you over his phone, Mingyu sees the smirk on your lips. You were causing some intense feelings for him. He was afraid of you for so many reasons already. You were bad for his job and his friendships. You were a brat and he could tell you were having fun, seeming to know that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

Minghao: Don’t need you tonight. Jun wants you to get some shit and guard Y/N 

Mingyu: You gotta be kidding me.

Minghao: I don’t need to remind you, but I will, because she’s like my sister too 

Minghao: Keep your dick in your pants 

Mingyu: I’m not an animal

Minghao: Yes, you are. Don’t let anything happen to her 

Minghao: Understand me? 

Mingyu: I understand! 

Giving you a strained smile as he shoves his phone into his pocket, Mingyu takes a step back from you and lifts his shoulders with a deep breath. “Which room is mine?” 

You had already known that Mingyu was going to be assigned to be security for you until your brother got back, even if you had told Jun and Minghao that you didn’t need a babysitter. At the time when you said it, you hadn’t known who Mingyu was or how much fun it might be. Now you are happy to have company. 

Smiling, you slide off the bed and up to your feet, glancing around your room with a teasing smile as Mingyu lets out a breath, afraid of what you are implying. Stepping past him, you glance up at him, letting your fingers trail over his hand before moving to the door. “Follow me.” 

Mingyu’s skin felt like it was on fire where your fingers had brushed over his. He was being stupid with just a small touch, but god, you were driving him crazy. You knew exactly what you were doing; it was going to take everything in him to keep some professionalism about him during this. He was already counting down the days, hours, and minutes until Jun would be back and this job would be over. 

Following behind you, Mingyu lets his eyes move down your back and over your ass before he glances off to the side when you make a quick right turn into the room right beside yours and nod. Glancing over your shoulder at Mingyu, you lift your hands to do a quick eye to hand measurement of his height before doing the same for the bed and making an unsure sound. “You might fit, big boy.” 

Unable to stop the scoff before it starts to leave his mouth, Mingyu walks past you into the room and looks at the bed. It wasn’t a small bed, and he wasn’t that big. Meeting your eyes, Mingyu watches you smirk at him before you glance around the rest of the room and pout your lips at him. “You didn’t bring anything with you? Maybe I could take a ride with you and stretch my legs while you pack a bag.” 

You knew he didn’t have anything else with him. Clearly, he hadn’t been planning on staying, but you seemed to have known he was going to be sticking around before he did. Sighing, Mingyu scratches at his eyebrow before gesturing towards the door and giving you a strained smile. You could tell you were wearing him down. You wanted to crack him. Get to the real Kim Mingyu, not this professional mask he was wearing for the sake of your brother. 

Mingyu hadn’t expected you to follow him up into his apartment, so when you did, he could feel the heat rising in his neck and face. His apartment was nothing compared to the penthouse you were staying in or the penthouse that Jun owned. All Mingyu had was a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in a decent part of town and he kept it pretty clean. Thank god. 

“Uh, I’ll be quick. Just—” You watch as Mingyu hurries past you into his living room to swipe a gun from his coffee table, a few bullets hitting the floor as he curses under his breath, leaning down to pick them up. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” Glancing over his shoulder at you, Mingyu pushes the bullets into the magazine in his hand before pushing the magazine into the pistol and hearing it click. 

Your brows were raised and you were watching him curiously. He hadn’t planned for you to be in his space. He had been cleaning one of his guns the night before, well before the bottle of jack, but normally people weren’t inside his apartment. Especially people who looked like you and were decent, normal people. 

Following Mingyu with your eyes, you watch as he leaves the door crack, probably to listen to in the other room as he grabs a bag and starts to fill it with various things. You weren’t surprised that he had a gun and it didn’t bother you; in fact, it made him even sexier somehow. You felt a bit safer around him knowing that he was armed, especially if he was supposed to be taking care of you. 

Looking over the books on his shelves, you tilt your head and smile at the titles. They weren’t what you would expect someone like Kim Mingyu to have. As that thought crosses your mind, you think to yourself that it isn’t fair of you to think that. You didn’t know him well enough to judge his reading habits or intelligence. You just hadn’t expected to see The Count of Monte Cristo sitting on his shelf with the binding broken as if it had been read several times. 

Pulling the book out, you hold it delicately in your hands as you flip through, reading over the words—some you remember, others that you hadn’t forgotten, having not read it in so long. What makes you smile are the notes in the margins in the same chicken scratch that you had seen your name written in at the airport. 

Grabbing a few things from his bathroom, Mingyu zips up his bag and checks his pistol before sliding it into the holster under his jacket. You were quiet in the other room and that was making him nervous. He had tried to be quick while packing, but he had no idea what to bring, so he went simple and only took what he needed. 

Turning the corner into his living room, Mingyu stops in his tracks, seeing you standing in front of his bookshelf with one of his books in your hands. You were gorgeous in the evening light pouring in from the decently large windows he had been blessed with, and you had the prettiest smile on your lips as you ran your fingers over the margins of the book. He could already tell what book you were looking at before even getting closer. It was his favorite, but that was probably easy to see, which is probably why you picked it up. It was obviously the most well loved book on the entire shelf. 

“All human wisdom is contained in these two words–Wait and hope.” You read the quote from the book that Mingyu had re-written at the top of the page before glancing up at him as he watches you carefully. Closing the book, you slide it back into his place and take a breath before offering him a smile. “Are you a tortured soul, Kim Mingyu?” 

Laughing into a scoff, Mingyu adjusts his bag on his shoulder and shakes his head. “I just enjoy the idea of revenge being fulfilled, I think.” Mingyu watches you nod and take a few steps closer to him, the air feeling thicker as he tries to take a breath only to get a deep breath of your perfume. 

“And it has nothing to do with the love story attached to it? That isn’t why you’ve read that book so many times that the pages are falling out.” Mingyu’s eyes fall to your lips as you speak and he has to force himself to look back up to your eyes before pulling his gaze away from you and towards the window with the golden light. 

“It’s just a story.” You think to yourself as you hear the words come out of Mingyu’s mouth—what a beautiful liar he is.

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[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto's obsession

Hii guyss, I hope you like this idea I had.

You knew who Toto Wolff was long before you actually met him. Your brother, George, spoke of him all the time, describing him as a visionary, a man who turned dreams into reality. "He’s not just a team principal," George would say, his voice tinged with awe, "he’s a strategist, a leader—a god, really. Strict, yes, but there’s no one like him. He’s why I’m going to win a championship."

Strict, charming, busy—those were the words George used. But it wasn’t until the first time you met Toto that you fully understood what he meant by "charming."

It was at a celebratory dinner. George had just signed with Mercedes, and the room buzzed with excitement. You felt a certain nervousness, knowing you'd soon be face-to-face with the man your brother had so admired. But nothing could have prepared you for that moment.

"Y/N," George called, catching your attention, "come to meet Toto."

And then you saw him. Tall, imposing, with an air of calm authority that seemed to silence the room as he approached. His sharp, tailored suit, the confidence in his stride—it all added to the magnetic pull he had.

Toto’s hand extended toward you, and the moment your fingers touched his, a spark ignited. His eyes met yours, dark and calculating, but there was something else—something deeper. You could feel the intensity in his gaze, as though he was memorizing every detail of you in that instant.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice smooth, but there was a certain edge to it—something almost predatory.

From Toto’s perspective, the moment he saw you, time seemed to slow. There you were, standing next to your brother, but somehow, everything else faded into the background. You weren’t just George’s sister; you were something he couldn’t quite describe—captivating, delicate, and untouchable all at once.

He prided himself on being a man of control, a man who calculated every move. But you… you were a variable he hadn’t planned for. The way you smiled, the softness in your voice, the quiet confidence that emanated from you—it all struck him harder than he had anticipated.

She has to be mine.

The thought crept into his mind, uninvited but relentless. He barely heard George’s words as they introduced you, his focus entirely on you. He was a man used to getting what he wanted, and you, without even knowing it, had become something he wanted more than anything.

As the dinner went on, Toto kept glancing your way, watching how you moved, how you spoke. Every detail fascinated him—the way your lips curved into a smile when you laughed at something George said, the way your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of your glass.

Obsessed wasn’t the right word. It was something more. You were a puzzle he needed to solve, a challenge he couldn’t resist. And in his mind, the outcome was already decided. You were meant for him, and nothing—not even the relationship he had with your brother—would stop him from making you his.

Later that evening, when George stepped away for a moment, Toto seized the opportunity. He made his way toward you, his presence commanding attention without even trying.

“You seem to have made quite the impression,” he said, his voice low, eyes locked onto yours.

Your pulse quickened as he stood closer than before, and for a brief moment, you felt a tension that you couldn’t explain.

“Oh? On whom?” you asked playfully, but your voice wavered slightly.

His smile was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the weight of his words hit you with full force.

“On me.”

You stirred awake in the soft, dim light of a hotel room, the warmth of Toto’s arms wrapped securely around your waist. His chest rose and fell steadily behind you, his breath brushing the back of your neck in a rhythmic, soothing pattern. For a moment, you simply lay there, allowing yourself to enjoy the peaceful silence, the comforting weight of him holding you close.

Since that night at the celebratory dinner, your life had taken a turn you never expected. It was supposed to be a harmless introduction, a fleeting moment in the whirlwind of your brother’s new career with Mercedes. But after that night, Toto had made sure you didn’t slip away. You had started seeing each other in secret, always in the shadows, far from prying eyes and cameras.

The world would have a lot to say about you and Toto if they knew—about the age gap, about you being George’s sister, about the power dynamic. But in these quiet moments, it all faded away. Here, it was just the two of you, hidden away from the world’s judgment.

You shifted slightly, feeling his arms tighten instinctively around you as though he could sense you thinking about pulling away, even for a second. His possessiveness was something you were still getting used to, something you weren’t sure you fully understood. He wasn’t just protective; he was almost territorial, as if the very thought of you belonging to anyone else, even in the smallest way, was unthinkable to him.

"Stay," his voice, deep and groggy from sleep, rumbled against your ear. He nuzzled into your hair, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, smiling softly as you let your fingers trace his arm around your waist.

His hand moved to cover yours, holding it against his chest, his grip firm. "Good. I don’t like the thought of you slipping away from me."

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “Where would I go? No one knows we’re here, Toto.”

He hummed in satisfaction, but there was an underlying edge to his words as he murmured, “And that’s how it should stay.”

You didn’t fully understand the depth of his obsession with keeping your relationship secret, assuming it was mainly about the media and the attention it would bring. After all, he was an incredibly public figure, and any news about his personal life would be plastered across headlines instantly. And yet, sometimes, there was a flicker in his eyes that made you think there was more to it.

Toto shifted behind you, pulling you closer until your body was flush against his. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath warm as he spoke in that low, commanding tone that always sent a shiver down your spine.

“Do you ever think about how it all started?” he asked, his voice smooth and rich with emotion. “That night… the moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t let you go.”

You tilted your head back slightly, meeting his gaze. His eyes were filled with a tenderness that made your heart flutter, but beneath it, there was something else—something more intense. “I didn’t know you felt like that then,” you said softly, smiling at him.

He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek gently. "You’re smart, but sometimes too innocent," he murmured, his lips curling into a faint smile. " From the very beginning, you were mine. I couldn’t let anyone else have you."

His words, though wrapped in affection, held a possessive edge that you had come to recognize. It wasn’t just love that fueled his actions—it was something deeper, a need to claim you, to ensure that no one else ever got close to you. But you trusted him. You believed in the love that you felt from him in these moments, not fully realizing just how consuming it was for him.

You giggled softly, brushing it off, still unaware of the full extent of his obsession. "Well, I’m not going anywhere," you repeated, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

Toto's hold on you tightened once again, his eyes darkening with a fierce protectiveness. “No,” he agreed, his voice low and firm. “You’re not.”

Here's part 2

[dolcettamagica]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞

gangleader!sukuna x reader, modern au

tags: possessive & obsessive sukuna, choking, lowkey stalking translations: piccola - little one/baby notes: listen to "salvatore" by lana del rey wc: 1.7k

In the dimly lit underbelly of the city, where shadows whispered secrets and alleys told tales of violence, there existed a figure feared and revered in equal measure: Sukuna Ryomen, the enigmatic leader of the most dangerous gang. His name struck terror into the hearts of those who dared oppose him, while his charisma drew countless souls into his fold.

Sukuna was a man who commanded respect without uttering a word. His mere presence exuded power, his icy gaze capable of silencing even the boldest of adversaries. With a network spanning the city's underworld, he held dominion over illicit trades, clandestine operations, and the very pulse of criminal activity.

Yet, amidst the chaos and the conquests, there was one enigma that eluded Sukuna’s grasp: a woman whose allure ignited a fire within him. You, a mysterious beauty with a spirit as untamed as the flames dancing in the night. You moved with a grace that defied the chaos around you, a silent tempest in the midst of the storm.

From the moment Sukuna laid eyes on you, he knew you were unlike any other. You were not bound by the rules of his world, nor swayed by the promises of power and wealth. Instead, you remained an enigmatic force, unyielding and unattainable.

Driven by an insatiable desire, Sukuna sought to possess you, to unravel the mysteries that shrouded your existence. He offered you riches beyond measure, a throne by his side where you could rule the underworld together. Yet, each offer was met with a gentle refusal, as you remained steadfast in your independence.

Frustration festered within Sukuna's heart, a tempest of emotions that threatened to consume him whole. He was a man accustomed to getting what he desired, yet you remained beyond his reach, a tantalizing mirage in the desert of his ambitions.

Despite his best efforts to suppress the yearning that gnawed at his soul, Sukuna found himself inexorably drawn to you, like a moth to the flame. He watched from the shadows as you moved through the city, a silent guardian cloaked in mystery.

In the depths of the night, when the city slumbered and dreams took flight, Sukuna found himself haunted by visions of your captivating gaze. You were the one anomaly in his meticulously crafted world, the one puzzle he could not solve.

And so, amidst the chaos and the conquests, Sukuna Ryomen, a formidable leader, found himself ensnared by the one thing he could not possess: the heart of a woman who danced beyond his reach, a forbidden desire that burned brighter than any flame in the darkness.

In the depths of his lavish office, Sukuna sat with unwavering determination, his gaze fixed on the phone before him. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, a molten rage that threatened to erupt at any moment. With a swift motion, he seized the device, his fingers dancing across the screen with a commanding presence.

"Where are you, piccola?" he typed, each word a declaration of his unwavering dominance. "You cannot hide from me forever. I will find you, and when I do, you will answer to me."

There was no room for hesitation in Sukuna's messages, no trace of the desperation that had once plagued him. Instead, his words dripped with authority, each message a demand for her submission.

"Do not test my patience" he continued, his tone brooking no defiance. "You belong to me, and you will come to me willingly. There is no escape from my grasp."

With each message sent, Sukuna's resolve hardened, his determination driving him forward with unrelenting force. He would not be denied what was rightfully his, not by anyone, especially not by a woman who dared to defy him.

"Tell me where you are," he commanded, "I will not ask again."

But still, there was no response, no sign of surrender. Anger flared within Sukuna's chest, a wildfire of fury that threatened to consume him whole.

"If you think you can hide from me, you are sorely mistaken," his words a warning laced with venom. "I will tear this world apart to find you, and when I do, you will regret ever crossing me, piccola."

With a final message sent, Sukuna leaned back in his chair, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. He would not rest until you were in his grasp, until you bowed before him in submission. For in Sukuna Ryomen's world, there was no room for defiance, only dominance and control. And he would have it all, no matter the cost.

As Sukuna's fingers hovered over the screen, poised to send yet another commanding message, the door to his office swung open with a forceful creak. In strode one of his most trusted lieutenants, a figure cloaked in shadows and whispers, bearing news that ignited a spark of hope within Sukuna’s hardened heart.

"Boss," the subordinate – Toji – began, his voice low and deferential, "we've received word. She... she's in Miami."

The words hung heavy in the air, a tantalizing promise of victory amidst the tumultuous storm of Sukuna's emotions. Without a moment's hesitation, he rose from his seat, his movements swift and decisive.

"Prepare the jet," he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "We leave immediately."

There was a sense of urgency in Sukuna’s tone, a hunger that burned brighter with each passing second. Miami beckoned like a siren's call, its neon-lit – ruby, blue and green, neon too – streets promising the chance to reclaim what was rightfully his.

As his subordinates scrambled to fulfill his orders, Sukuna's mind raced with thoughts of the woman who had eluded him for far too long. He could almost taste the sweet victory that lay within his grasp, the moment when you would finally bend to his will.

With a steely resolve and a heart set ablaze with determination, Sukuna embarked on his journey to Miami, a man possessed by a singular purpose: to capture the one who dared to defy him and to assert his dominance once and for all.

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting its golden rays upon the pristine sands of the Miami beach. Among the throngs of sun-seekers, Sukuna strode with purpose, his eyes scanning the shoreline with a predatory intensity. And there, amidst the azure waves and the gentle sway of palm trees, he spotted you.

You laid upon the sand, a vision of beauty that stole the breath from Sukuna's lungs. Clad in a bikini that left little to the imagination, you exuded an aura of confidence that only served to fuel his desire. Your bronzed skin glowed beneath the sun's warm embrace, your tousled hair cascading like silk upon the sand.

With measured steps, Sukuna approached, his gaze never wavering from the woman who had haunted his every thought. He stood before you now, a towering figure clad in shadows and sinew, his presence commanding the attention of all who dared to gaze upon him.

"Piccola," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "You cannot hide from me forever."

There was a flicker of defiance in your eyes, a spark that ignited the flames of desire within Sukuna's chest. But he would not be deterred, not by your beauty nor by your resolve. He had come too far, fought too hard, to let you slip through his fingers once again.

"You belong to me," he declared, his words laced with a possessiveness that bordered on obsession. "And now, you will come with me."

But you remained unmoved, your gaze steady as you met his with a defiance that stirred something primal within him. You were a challenge, a tantalizing puzzle that begged to be solved, and Sukuna was more than willing to rise to the occasion.

“I was working on my tan, boss.”

"Working on your tan," he repeated, his voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within him. "In Miami, of all places."

There was a subtle tension in the air, a silent battle of wills as you and Sukuna locked gazes. Your defiance sparked a flicker of admiration within him, even as it fueled the flames of his frustration.

"Indeed," you replied, your tone cool and composed. "Is there a problem with that?"

Sukuna's jaw clenched, a silent testament to the storm of emotions swirling beneath his stoic facade. He had come too far, searched too long, to be met with such casual indifference.

"No problem," he finally replied, his voice a low growl. "But I must insist that you accompany me. We have unfinished business, you and I."

Your lips curved into a sardonic smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in your eyes. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, boss. I have many businesses, all of them quite finished."

Sukuna's patience wore thin, his frustration bubbling to the surface like molten lava. He had pursued you across oceans and continents, faced down countless adversaries in his quest to claim you as his own. And yet, she remained as elusive as ever, a tantalizing enigma that refused to be solved.

"Enough games, piccola," he snapped, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. "You cannot hide from me forever. Sooner or later, you will bend to my will."

The tension crackled between you like electricity as Sukuna's hand shot out, seizing you by the throat with a force that bordered on violence. His grip was firm, unyielding, a silent declaration of dominance that sent a shiver down your spine.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as you stood locked in a primal embrace, your gazes locked in a fierce battle of wills. But beneath the surface, a different kind of energy simmered—a raw, unbridled desire that pulsed between you like a current of electricity.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as Sukuna's grip tightened, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin like branding marks. And yet, there was no fear in your eyes, only a smoldering heat that mirrored his own.

With a low growl, Sukuna leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear with a tantalizing promise. "You cannot resist me, piccola," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "You were made for me, and you know it."

A shudder ran through your body as you felt the heat of Sukunas breath against your skin, your pulse racing with a heady mixture of fear and excitement. You knew that you were as drawn to him as he was to you—a dangerous truth that sent a thrill coursing through your veins.

“You will always belong to me.”

[mirensiart]

hello! I absolutely love your Zelda ocs, chain and key. I was thinking about them the whole day while I was working, (mostly about what chain’s attack combo would be if he was in smash bros) and I got curious about that magic chain!

is it a tool that is magic, like the whip from skyward sword; or is it magic that is a tool, like the spell only appears if link casts the magic chain spell?

very curious about it! You’ve got me thinking about attack patterns to be used by link, or link and Zelda together, or link using on something chained to him.

HELLOOOO, first of all it makes me EXTREMELY happy to know you like them so much 🥹💖 I wanted to make a post about chain’s uh magic chain, so you asking more about it is perfect since it lets me explain how it works!

I swear it makes much more sense in my mind, so bear with me a little bit hehehe

anyway so, the basics! link’s (chain’s) magic chain+shackle is an item! He got it as a bounty reward pretty early on in his career as a bounty hunter! It uses his magic to work, kinda like the korok leaf from the wind waker

When the chain is turquoise/green then it’s using link’s magic, when it’s grey it means link ran out of magic

the chain works with verbal commands that activate the magic, when link is out of magic no matter how many commands he yells the chain won’t react lol

here’s how the magic + commands works:

HOW HE USES THE CHAIN TO CATCH PEOPLE:

the shackles close around whatever is closest to them, so he just throws one at his target (he at least has good aim lmao) and when the shackle grabs them he uses the CHAIN CONNECT command and success! he is now chained to someone lol

THE KEY AND WHY IT’S IMPORTANT LOL

the magic key the chain comes with it’s important cause like, after link connects both shackles like he did above with his and Zelda’s, if he locks them with the key, even if he uses the “CHAIN RELEASE” command the chain will not disappear, it’s locked lol so by losing the key he is now LITERALLY chained to her until he finds a new way to release them lol

if he’s not chained to someone he absolutely can use the shackle+chain connect combo to grab stuff and use it as a weapon lol he can also use it as a whip, he’s pretty creative I believe in his ability to find weird ways to use it lol

With Zelda in the way I can also see them use link’s commands to change the length of the chain for combat or solving puzzles! just make sure to keep magic potions nearby cause if link runs out of magic the chain is basically a normal chain lol so rip them

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

The thing about Jon that a lot of people forget is that he is actually a rather well known figure all around Westeros. I don’t think it’s incorrect to say that he’s Ned’s most famous kid by a large margin, and perhaps even one of the more famous teens in Westeros; especially now that he has become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and his reputation has began to stretch to a different continent. Because of his very unusual origin - being honorable Ned Stark’s bastard son by an unknown woman - his name has been passed around in noble houses across the entire continent. He’s not some random kid from the North that no one has heard of. The majority of people may not have seen him, but they have at the very least heard of him.

I bring this up because people tend to act as if Jon would be automatically scoffed away by just about everyone if his true parentage ever came to light. After all, they say, why would anyone believe that some random kid from the north is a Targaryen prince? But this is not really true. Jon is not a random kid. His father was one of the most powerful men in the entire land. And not only that, but Ned’s reputation as an honorable man with no fault ensured that the scandal of begetting a bastard was known by everyone who is someone. The thing is, readers tend to ignore a very large gaping hole in the story when it comes to public perception of Jon’s parentage. People all over Westeros have been talking about Ned and his bastard, but no one can agree on the mother - this is actually important!

Most people would not have questioned Ned to his face, but they too want to know who Jon’s mother was, even if it’s just for a little bit of gossip among nobles. Jon’s parentage is a mysterious puzzle that a lot of people have tried to solve themselves. Catelyn hears one answer in Winterfell, but Davos hears another on his way to White Harbor. Edric Dayne from Dorne says a different name to Arya, while Cersei and Robert (who both live in KL) hear different things. That there’s so much variation all around Westeros is actually proof that a lot of people are talking about this one issue. And Ned’s refusal to name a woman may actually end up having unexpected consequences when someone finally mentions the name “Lyanna Stark”.

So I would like to push back on the belief that no one in Westeros would care about the R+L=J reveal or that they would immediately write Jon off. GRRM deciding to keep Jon’s mother an in universe mystery that is the topic of constant conversation will have major payoff. While I could see some being incredulous, it’s absolutely not a foregone conclusion that most people will choose not to believe it. And it’s not a foregone conclusion that this reveal will only matter to the Stark kids and no one else. Sure GRRM is playing with fantasy tropes, and Jon squarely falls under the hidden prince/king. But something that makes Jon quite different from a lot of his genre counterparts is that he’s not an unknown figure who shows up at the last minute to claim the crown. Jon is not an unknown entity. He is well known, it’s just that very few people have dared to think too deeply about the very large elephant in the room regarding his origin. But I’d imagine that if R+L=J was to be revealed, it wouldn’t be too shocking for a lot of people. It’s not so far fetched that honorable Ned Stark actually chose to protect his sister’s son.

And in regards to GRRM playing with fantasy tropes, Young Griff always comes up in conversation as Jon’s foil. People say that he will be the one to be believed because he looks the part of a Targaryen, whereas a random kid from the North won’t be believed because of his brown hair and grey eyes. Jon doesn’t look like some random unrecognizable Northman. He very specifically looks like a Stark! And anyway, is Jon’s story - that Ned took him in after his sister died and raised him as his own under the protective banner of House Stark - any less believable than Young Griff’s - that Varys had the foresight to save him and whisk him off to Essos before the Mountain bashed his head in? Until now, people have never heard of Young Griff so they’ve never had the opportunity to ruminate over and gossip about his origin story. But they know Jon. And they know about Rhaegar and Lyanna. And Jon looking so very undeniably like a Stark (like Lyanna Stark!) could perhaps work in his favor.

[luvleyshif4]

ECHO HEARTS

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: In the middle of Tannyhill’s chaos, Rafe Cameron pulls you away with a confession that stirs up everything you’ve been trying to forget. Your past with him is messy, late night talks, broken promises, and feelings you could never quite shake. But this time, he’s asking for something more, something that could change both your lives forever.

Warnings: Minor mention of toxic relationship, Unresolved past trauma, A tad bit of angst with a happy ending, Hurt/comfort.

Word count: 1.9k words

Authors note: Hey guys! This is my first time posting on my blog and I’m excited (and a bit nervous) to share it with you. It’s been on my mind for a while, and I’m glad it’s finally out. Hope you enjoy it!!

Tannyhill was a place you’d been to only a handful of times, always under the guise of a party or some other excuse to keep the Pogues and Kooks mingling, if only temporarily. But tonight was different. You hadn’t come for the music, the drinks, or even the atmosphere. You were here for one reason only—Rafe Cameron.

You hated that he had this hold on you. It wasn’t just the way he carried himself, all sharp edges and stormy glances, or the way he commanded a room without even trying. It was the way he saw through you, past the walls you’d spent years building. It was that look in his eyes, always like he could unravel every secret you’d locked away, piece by piece.

Your history with Rafe wasn’t something you talked about. It was messy, undefined, the kind of thing you couldn’t neatly explain to anyone, not even yourself. You weren’t together, not in the traditional sense, but there was something between you. Something that kept pulling you back no matter how much you told yourself to stay away.

The first time you really spoke to Rafe was during one of those aimless summer nights when you’d ended up on the beach long after everyone else had left. You’d been walking barefoot along the shore, letting the waves lap at your ankles, when you saw him sitting by a dying bonfire. His usual bravado was nowhere to be found. He looked… lost.

You’d hesitated for a moment, unsure whether you should approach. Rafe was always surrounded by people, his charisma impossible to ignore. But tonight, he was alone. And you couldn’t ignore the quiet sorrow that seemed to weigh him down.

“You okay?” you’d asked, cautiously approaching.

He’d glanced up at you, his eyes glassy but sharp, as if weighing your words. “Do I look okay?”

Normally, you would’ve walked away. But something about the way he said it, like he was daring you to care, made you sit down beside him instead. The night had felt heavy, and his presence, oddly, made it feel less suffocating.

You both sat there for a while in silence, just listening to the sound of the waves crashing. Finally, Rafe spoke again, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes, I think it’s easier to just disappear, you know? Just… walk away from everything and everyone.”

It was strange, hearing him admit something like that. Rafe Cameron, the Kook prince, who never showed weakness, suddenly seemed like a person who couldn’t carry the weight of his own life anymore.

“You don’t mean that,” you’d replied gently.

“I don’t know,” he’d said, his fingers flicking idly through the sand. “I guess I just get tired of pretending. Tired of trying to live up to my dad’s impossible standards, always having to be someone I’m not. Always having to be perfect.”

You’d never expected him to share something so raw, so unguarded. By the time the sun rose, you realized you weren’t just looking at Rafe Cameron, the Kook prince with a bad reputation. You were looking at someone who was just as broken as you were. And, maybe, for the first time, you saw him as something more than a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve.

From then on, things between you were… complicated.

The party at Tannyhill was a predictable mess of bodies and noise, but you hadn’t come here to celebrate. You’d come because Rafe had sent you a cryptic text earlier that day

“Need to see you. Tonight. Don’t make me beg.”

You should’ve ignored it. You’d told yourself you were done with him the last time he’d shown up at your door, drunk and spiraling, apologizing in the only way he knew how, with promises he couldn’t keep. But deep down, you knew you weren’t done. Not yet.

You scanned the crowd, eyes moving over the familiar faces of both Pogues and Kooks, but you didn’t see him. Your heart started to race a little faster. Where was he?

That was when you felt his gaze on you. You looked up and found him standing just at the edge of the crowd, a drink in hand, his gaze fixed on you, his expression unreadable. He caught your eye before you could decide whether or not to approach, and his lips curved into that trademark smirk of his. It was a smirk that always seemed to make your heart race, despite every single warning you’d told yourself.

“Took you long enough,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the sudden flutter of nerves in your chest. “You didn’t say it was urgent.”

He stepped closer, the crowd parting like water around him. “Maybe it is. Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

You felt a warmth spread across your cheeks, a reaction you hated. “What do you want, Rafe?”

The smirk faded, and for a moment, something softer took its place. “Come with me,” he said, his voice now a low command.

Before you could protest, he reached out, his hand wrapping around yours. His touch was firm but desperate, pulling you through the crowd without a word. You had no choice but to follow him, your heart pounding in your chest, the world around you growing distant.

You both moved through the house, the noise and music still ringing in your ears, but it didn’t matter. His grip on your hand was steady, unyielding. It was like he was afraid if he let go, you might slip away.

Finally, you reached the back door, stepping out into the cool night air. The path leading away from the house was dark, only the faintest trace of moonlight guiding you toward the boathouse. Your breath quickened, unsure what this was about but knowing it was a decision you couldn’t take back.

“What’s going on?” you asked once you were inside, the door shutting behind you. The boathouse was dim, lit only by the glow of the water outside, its quiet isolation adding to the tension in the air.

Rafe was pacing the small space, his movements quick and agitated. He looked like he was trying to find the words, but he couldn’t quite get there. Finally, he stopped, his back to you for a moment, before turning around with that seriousness in his eyes that you rarely saw.

“I’m leaving,” he said abruptly, his voice sharp, but it didn’t match the vulnerability in his eyes.

You blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of his words. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” he replied, his voice tight, each word measured. “I can’t do this anymore. The parties, the expectations, my dad… all of it. I’m done.”

Your chest tightened, a knot forming in your stomach. You wanted to ask him why now, why after everything, but you already knew the answer. He’d been drowning for so long, and you were just one of the lifelines he hadn’t quite let go of.

“And where are you planning to go?” you asked quietly, bracing yourself.

He shrugged, though the gesture seemed more defeated than anything. “Anywhere but here.”

You should’ve been angry. You should’ve told him that he was being selfish, that he couldn’t just throw everything away like it meant nothing. But instead, you understood. You understood better than you cared to admit.

“I’m guessing you didn’t just drag me out here to say goodbye,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady.

Rafe turned toward you then, his jaw clenched tightly. “No, I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. Without… asking you to come with me.”

The weight of his words hit you like a freight train. Your heart seemed to skip a beat, and you could feel the air shift between you, the gravity of his request hanging thick in the space.

“Rafe…” your voice faltered, unsure how to process what he was asking.

“I know it’s crazy,” he rushed to say, stepping closer, the desperation evident in his eyes. “I know you probably think I’m out of my mind, but I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to do this without you.”

You stood there, frozen, torn between the part of you that wanted to say yes and the part that feared it.

“What happens when things get hard?” you asked, your voice shaking with the weight of your doubt. “What happens when you get scared, or angry, or when you start pushing me away again? Because you will, Rafe. I know you will….”

His eyes softened, his features pulling tight with frustration. His eyes start to sting with tears that dared to brim. He ran a hand through his hair again, like he was trying to find some answer he didn’t have. “I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. But I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to be better, for you. Because you’re the only person who makes me want to try.”

Those words, sincere and raw, hit you harder than you expected. It was everything you wanted to hear, but also everything you were afraid to trust.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admitted, the words barely above a whisper. Your heart ached as the reality of it all set in.

Rafe closed the distance between you, his hands gently cupping your face. His touch was soft, almost tentative. “Yes, you can,” he said, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that almost stole your breath. “You can, if you let me show you.”

You stood there for a moment, lost in his gaze, the words hanging between you like a fragile thread. It felt like everything was pushing you toward him, his touch, his words, the unspoken promise in his eyes. But the fear, the doubt, and the uncertainty of it all still lingered. Could you trust him? Could you risk it all again?

Rafe seemed to sense your hesitation. He stepped back, his hands slowly falling to his sides, giving you space, but his eyes never left you. “I get it,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable. “I’m not asking you to make any decisions right now. But… if you want to take that step with me, I’ll be here. No more games. No more lies.”

The sincerity in his voice was so raw, it almost broke something inside of you. You wanted to believe him, you really did. But the weight of the past, the mistakes, the lies, it all threatened to crush you under its burden.

“I don’t know if I can just… forget everything,” you said, your voice trembling, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “You hurt me, Rafe. So many times.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if the words had physically struck him. When he opened them again, there was a sadness in his gaze that matched your own. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it if you’ll let me.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. Every part of you was telling you to walk away, to protect yourself, but something inside of you, something you couldn’t ignore, wanted to give him a chance.

“I’m not perfect,” Rafe continued, his voice soft but firm. “I’m not asking you to fix me. I just want to be with you. To give this a real shot. Together.”

Your thoughts were a whirlwind, but you couldn’t shake the pull you felt toward him. It had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface, and maybe, just maybe, it was worth taking that leap.

“Rafe…” you whispered, your voice faltering as you took a step closer to him. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I get hurt again?”

He reached out, his hand gently cupping your face once more, this time with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “If it doesn’t work, then I’ll let you go. But I swear, I won’t hurt you again. Not if I can help it.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope, a hope that maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

“Okay,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay?” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes. “But if you screw this up, Rafe—”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm. “Not this time.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was equal parts desperate and tender. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a promise.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’d keep it.

[fireya-x]

they say don't open old wounds

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

The mask hides more than just a face; it hides a shared past, a love lost, a ghost you thought long buried.

[3,7k words]

cw: angst, smut, piv sex

they say don't open old wounds

but this is still brand new

and I've got nothing left to lose besides you

and I've already lost you once

what more could you do?

they say don't open old wounds

but I want to

PVRIS - old wounds

It had been months since you joined the 141, months of missions that pushed you to the edge, missions that forged an unexpected bond with your team. A sense of mutual respect and care for each other, a blend of professionalism and camaraderie that softened the harsh realities of the work you did. Soap was always ready with a joke, Gaz offered tactical insights and support, Price kept a watchful eye on your well-being — but Ghost… Ghost remained an enigma. Shrouded in mystery. He rarely spoke more than a grunt or a clipped command, the complete opposite to the warmth of the others.

He was the same hidden figure, strict and cold, like he had been a few years ago when you had the honour of being trained by him and Captain Price. He was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a cipher you hadn't even intended to attempt to crack, yet the easy familiarity with which the others interacted with him, offering their vulnerabilities to someone who resembled Death himself without a second thought, left you constantly bewildered. You needed to know more. How could they trust someone implicitly who was hidden behind a mask, someone whose past remained a blank slate?

He could be anyone, a traitor in their midst, and no one would know. You shook your head, catching yourself staring yet again, your gaze tracing the lines of the thick skull sewn to his balaclava, desperately trying to find a flicker of the man beneath.

Missions blurred into weeks, then months, and the uneasy feeling just didn’t let go. You had an eye of him always, your gut telling you to, but you found something different than you were hoping for.

It began with small, almost imperceptible observations that chipped away at the carefully constructed wall of Ghost’s persona. Subtle movements, like the precise, almost ritualistic way he adjusted his gloves like he had always done; a subtle tilt of his head as he listened, mirroring his thoughtful pose from years ago. The way he favoured the knife in the strap on his left, like he had always shown off his favourite weapon to you, shown you how to use it to defend yourself if you ever had to grab it from him. The subtle shift in his breathing when under stress, something he tried to conceal but you recognized it with an unnerving familiarity.

You’d catch yourself staring, again and again, searching for something, anything, beneath that mask to prove your mind wrong — or right.

You scoffed at yourself, pushing the thoughts away. Wishful thinking. Ridiculous. Simon was gone. He is and always will be.

It was your mind playing tricks on you, you reasoned, grasping for closure. You were back in the field, surrounded by danger, by ghosts of your past. Of course, you’d see him in every shadow, hear his voice in every whisper of the wind. Your heart, starved for the his presence, filled the void with illusions.

But you couldn’t help it. The mask. A blank canvas that taunted you, allowed your mind to paint his face onto it a million times over, feeding your impossible, unrealistic hopes with the absurdity of ever seeing him again.

Then, a mission had gone sideways. A sudden ambush, a chaotic scramble for cover. Shots were exchanged, but the target was hit, the job done. But in the chaos, you’d gotten separated from the team, wandering some endless fields, unsuccessfully trying to contact anyone through the deafening static of your radio.

Suddenly, you saw him — Ghost, slumped against the rough-hewn timbers of an abandoned barn, a gash bleeding freely on his forearm beneath the torn fabric of his jacket.

Adrenaline surging, you raced towards him, your medic instincts taking over. 

Inside the barn, the air was thick with the scent of dust and hay. Ghost leaned against the bales and exhaled loudly, avoiding looking at you.

You carefully set down your rifle in the hay. “We have to wait here and hope we can contact the others. Comms are down.”

No response.

“Let me look at the wound, Lieutenant.” Not a question, but a command, softened by the implicit understanding that he couldn’t afford to ignore the wound, not now, not while still being out in the field.

You knelt beside him, your hands already moving to assess the damage. “Fuck,” he swore, the word muffled by the mask. You assumed it was the pain, but later you would understand the true reason behind the swearing.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, your focus narrowing to the task at hand. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.” You pressed an alcohol-soaked cotton against the wound, retrieved form your medkit, your touch surprisingly steady despite the frantic beating of your heart. Even through the layers of his tactical gear, you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Something about the feel of him, the solid weight of his body against yours as you leaned in to examine the wound, sparked a disconcerting sense of déjà vu. Stop it, you berated yourself. This is not the time.

All those times he'd been around you, he’d kept his distance, interactions brief, clipped, professional. But now, trapped with you in the suffocating silence of the barn, with nowhere to run, no excuses to offer, no escape from your touch, his carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble, inch by agonizing inch. With your hands on him, gentle and caring as they had been countless times before —

You heard the thud of his helmet hitting the ground, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he shifted, loosening your hold on his arm. “You need to hold still, sir.”

And then you heard it. Your name. Not your call sign, not the impersonal formality of military protocol, but your name. Whispered with the same cadence like it had been in your dreams, and you were sure fatigue had finally driven you beyond sanity. 

Your blood ran cold. No. It couldn't be. He’s gone. It was impossible. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare. He is not here.

But when you turned, you froze. You looked at a ghost. Not the Ghost, but that ghost from your past that had haunted your every single waking moment, your dreams, your nightmares. It had been stalking you, mocking you, reminding you of a love lost and irrevocably buried. The ghost with its dirty blond hair and scarred face and hazel brown eyes.

Simon.

The man who had stolen your heart, then shattered it with his sudden, unexplained disappearance. 

A strangled sob tore through you, the sound raw with disbelief, with years of suppressed grief.

A torrent of emotions washed over you – shock, denial, a resurgence of a love you thought long buried, a burning anger at his deception, at the years of silence, of unanswered questions. “Why?” you choked out, the word laced with accusation. “Why, Simon? All this time… we were here. Together. You knew.”

He winced, his gaze dropping to his injured arm, unable to meet the intensity of your gaze.  “I… I couldn't risk it,” he murmured, the words a strained whisper. “Risk you.” 

A wave of nausea washed over you. He knew. All those stolen glances, the way you always gravitated towards him—he'd known. The realization struck you, and fury warred with the irrational surge of joy. Alive. But he chose this. Chose to hide, to let you grieve.

“The things I've done…” His voice cracked, the weight of his secrets heavy in the air. “…The things I had to do…” He met your gaze, bracing himself for the storm of your anger. “I couldn't risk you getting hurt.” A weak excuse, a pathetic justification, but the only truth he could offer. 

Shame burned in his gaze, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he’d lost you, before you even had the chance to find each other again. The anger, the hurt, the unanswered questions — he saw it all swirling within you.

“Hurt?” The word was hollow, edged with bitterness. “You left me to rot in hell for seven years, wondering if you were even alive, and you talk about hurt? You were here, Simon. You even trained me!” He flinched at the pain in your voice, a pain he inflicted. Something he deserved, not you.

You felt a flash of anger towards Price, who had kept this from you, knowing how much Simon’s disappearance wrecked you. But you also knew that Price, above all else, was loyal to his men. 

“I know what you're thinking,” he whispered. “I asked them to keep it from you. I asked them not to say my name around you… I thought… it would be easier.” He knew now how wrong he'd been. How could he not know? How selfish and misguided this attempt at keeping you safe had been. He was supposed to protect you, not hurt you. “If you’re angry, be angry at me.” He was the only one to blame. It was never up to his comrades to take this weight off his shoulders. 

Then suddenly, he closed the distance between you, and his hand, trembling, cupped your cheek. A jolt, a spark, in the desolate wasteland of his guilt. Your skin, soft and warm beneath his fingertips. A reminder of everything he’d lost. Everything he risked losing again by revealing himself.

No. Your mind screamed in protest, wanting to pull away from the unwelcome tenderness. Don't you dare forgive him. But the words remained unspoken. His thumb gently stroked your skin, a familiar caress, and a sob escaped your lips. This is wrong. He hurt you. But the voice of reason was a faint whisper against the roaring tide of longing. Your hands trembled, wanting to push him away, to distance yourself, anything but this aching tenderness. But at the same time, you wanted nothing more to feel him.

“I don’t want to be angry,” your hand found its place above his on your cheek. “Just… tell me why, Simon? Why?”

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Instead, his lips found yours, a kiss that was both a question and an answer, a desperate, hungry reconnection of two souls separated by time and circumstance. 

He knew you’d push him away, he expected it, he deserved it. But he needed this, this moment of contact, the fleeting taste of a past he had thought was lost forever. He had been dreaming of this moment for too long, torturing himself with imagined reunions, each encounter an agonizing exercise in self-control. Every time you were near, he’d shackled himself mentally, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach for you, to touch you, to scream at you that he is alive and yours, and to beg for your forgiveness.

Your lips on his were like watering a withered flower that his heart had turned into, dry and shrivelled, unable to let love close if it wasn’t yours. He’d sworn never to love again when he left, believing it was that easy, believing it was the only way to protect you.

He had hoped that each mission and kill helped to bury his heart and his emotions until there was nothing left but death. Bury the part of himself that yearned for you, that ached for your touch, and leave only the Ghost behind.

But then you were there. On his team. You stood before him, more beautiful than he remembered, your long hair braided back, your uniform hugging your curves, a vision that made his breath catch in his throat. He could have died then and there, content to simply exist in the same space as you, to breathe the same air.

And with your return, so was he, whether he wanted to or not. He was powerless against you. Simon Riley, the man who loved you, resurfaced from beneath the mask, shattering the carefully constructed illusion he'd built around himself. 

The moment he dreaded haunted his work now, and he considered running, again. Leave the team, like a dog with its tail between its legs, give up and run from his past.

But Price had promised him that he wouldn’t tell you, if he stayed. He had almost begged him not to run again, knowing his past and his pain, and somewhere, he knew Price was right. He needed them. And he realized he needed you.

From then, he cherished every moment with you together, and it pained him to be so harsh to you. But he had to be, afraid the mask would slip, literally. Conversations cut short, orders barked, the subtle flinch in your eyes when his voice cut through the air — each interaction was a battle, a constant war against the overwhelming urge to reach out, to soothe the hurt he knew he was inflicting, to pull you close and beg you to forgive him.

And now, with your hands on him, so gentle and caring, the dam had finally broken. He couldn’t bear it any longer, this agonizing distance from you.

And your lips, so sweet and so soft, like no time had passed at all, they were his salvation, his damnation, his only hope of redemption.

A sigh left your body, distorted from the sobs, and he pressed your face closer to him. He never wanted to let go anymore. Never again.

He still expected you to push him away, to be angry, to unleash your wrath upon him for abandoning you — but you didn’t. Your hands touched every single inch of skin that was exposed, and he didn’t stop you.

He was ashamed of the relief that flooded through him, ashamed of the way his body responded to your touch, ashamed that he dared to enjoy this moment, a moment that should never have existed, a moment born of his lies and his carefully constructed deceptions. Then your hands cupped his length through his jeans, and an unexpected groan escaped his lips. 

He should stop you. You should be furious. You shouldn’t be rewarding him for the years of silence, for the agonizing absence that had left a gaping wound in your life. But the moment your hand touched him through the fabric, every carefully constructed defense crumbled to dust. He was lost.

“Show me you’re real, Si,” you whispered against his jaw, your lips leaving a hot, wet trail along his stubble, your hips pressing against his thighs, the friction igniting a fire in his blood. “Show me… I need… I need to know this is real.”

How could he deny you? How could he deny himself this one moment of reckless abandon, this one chance to reclaim a piece of the past he had so carelessly thrown away?

“Are you sure?” 

He felt the zip of his jeans slide down, heard the quiet clink of his discarded weapons against the hay. He felt you nudging his thighs open, a sense of anticipation coursing through his blood like pure, electric adrenaline.

“I don’t know.” You whispered, looking up at him. Your sight was blurry from the tears, but you saw real concern in his eyes. Mixed with confusion. He had expected you to react differently, you were sure of that. 

If this was just a fever dream, a hallucination conjured by a mind desperate for solace, then so be it. You would savor every moment, every touch, every stolen kiss, before the inevitable awakening, before the cruel return to reality.

You kissed him again, your hand now firmly stroking him, the familiar texture of his skin, the throb of his arousal beneath your palm, sending a wave of heat through you. His hands found their way beneath your uniform, slowly pushing your pants down as far as your position allowed, and the catch in your breath when his touch found your centre was his undoing. The small, shuddering breath that passed through your body, an unconscious reaction to his finger as it played against your sweet spot. And he felt the blood rush to his cock, hardening it, causing it to ache with a need he hadn't felt in years.

You crawled closer onto his thighs and slowly eased yourself onto his waiting length, and that puzzle that was Ghost, the unsolvable mystery, finally clicked into place, a puzzle piece finding its perfect fit, making you both whole.

The world around you ceased to exist. It was just you and him and nothing else. The wound and blood were long forgotten. If there were enemies outside, you didn’t care. You could die right then and there, if it meant you were in your lovers arms for all eternity and beyond.

The stretch of his cock inside your sensetive walls was pure bliss, and you sighed into his neck. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Just you. Always you.” You whispered in confession, and you earned a groan in return.

“I swore to never love again,” he murmured against your hair, as he began to move inside you, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. “And then,” a hard thrust, a gasp escaping your lips, “you were right there again. Fuck.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the worn fabric of his uniform as he moved within you. The rhythm was both familiar and achingly new, years of longing poured into every thrust. The feel of him, solid and real, chased away the ghosts of the past, the years of wondering, of imagining, of hoping. This was real. He was here.

You sobbed, a mixture of relief and the lingering sting of betrayal, and he responded with a guttural groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath, hot and ragged against your skin, mingled with incoherent apologies whispered against your ear.

“Si…” you breathed, his name a prayer, a plea, a reaffirmation of a love that had endured despite the years of silence and pain.

His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your rhythm to match his, the friction building and building. It wasn't just the physical pleasure, though it was like a white-hot fire spreading through you; it was the reconnection, the desperate need to erase the years of separation, to meld back into the person you were before he disappeared. 

“I missed you,” he groaned. “So fucking much.”

“Me too,” you whispered back, the tears you thought you'd cried out returning.

The world narrowed, shrinking down to the feel of his clothed body against yours, the heat of his breath, the relentless rhythm that was driving you both toward the edge. 

There was no pretense, no holding back. Just the raw need to be close, to reconnect, to find solace in each other's arms after so long apart, even with the limitations imposed by the circumstances.

You arched into him, the friction of clothing against skin a delicious torment, and a wave of pleasure ripped through you. His grip tightened, and his name tore from your throat as wave after wave of sensation crashed over you, shattered you, dragging you under.

He followed close behind, his release a shuddering groan against your ear, his length pulsing inside you. For a long moment, you just held each other, hearts pounding, breaths ragged, the silence broken only by the occasional shuddering sigh. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t poetic. It was messy, desperate, and utterly perfect.

Even as the aftershocks subsided, you kept your eyes closed, clinging to the warmth of his embrace, afraid to break the spell, terrified that opening them would erase him again, that this precious moment would dissolve into the cruel, cold reality of his absence. You felt a kiss on your forehead, a tender gesture that sent a pang of fear through you. Was he going to leave again? 

But he didn't move.

“I’m so sorry, love” he whispered, his voice ragged, breath warm against your skin. “Please… look at me.”

You opened your eyes, your gaze locking with his. Scarred skin, hazel eyes filled with remorse, but also with an unmistakable love.

He was still there.

He hadn’t disappeared.

He didn’t walk away.

“I promise,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, “I won't ever leave you again.”

You clung to his words, your heart swelling with a cautious hope. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but his eyes held yours. Watching you these past months, your strength, your resilience in the face of unimaginable danger, revealed a simple truth that would strip him of any excuses not to tell you. You were stronger than he’d given you credit for, stronger than even he had believed. You deserved the truth, no matter how dark, no matter how painful. And he would give it to you. He swore it to himself.

 “I will.”

“Bravo Six… in the blind… you… copy?” The radio crackled, a jarring intrusion into the fragile intimacy of the moment. He reached for it immediately. 

“Bravo Six, this is Ghost. We're in the blind. What's your status?” 

His voice, when he responded to Price, was still tinged with the softness you’d heard only moments before, a subtle reassurance that despite the return of the impersonal detachment, despite the mask he wore for the world, for his team, he was still there, somewhere beneath the surface.

“When we go back,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the static of the radio, laced with a vulnerability you hadn’t intended to reveal, “…when Ghost comes back,” you corrected yourself, the words catching in your throat, “will I still have… Simon?” 

He paused, his hand hovering over the radio, his gaze locking with yours. “You, always,” he said, without any hesitation. “And I promise,” he added, his voice softening, the warmth of him breaking through, “I'll help you understand… Ghost.”

He would reveal the darkness, the secrets, the pain that had driven him to become the masked soldier. He would trust you with the broken pieces of himself, the fragments he’d kept hidden for so long. He owed you that much, if not more. 

He’d give you every little piece of him he could offer.

[arctrooper69]

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Chapter 15:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Heavy whump in this one - blood, broken bones, pain. Loneliness.

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The cold seeped from the damp ground, settling stiffly in your aching bones. Shattered, whimpering gasps sucked desperately through panicked lungs, burned as if the air around you was poison. You blinked, letting out a groan to dispel the awful groggy confusion, desperately trying to wake yourself from whatever nightmare you’d fallen into.

Panic flooded your veins, threatening to consume you in its blaze. It was dark - so suffocatingly dark.

Stop. Stop.

You tried to calm the race of spiraling thoughts before they inevitably became too much and you lost control.

Panicking will not help you here. Breathe. Focus. Please.

Screwing your eyes shut, you tried to concentrate, to calm the rushing beat of your heart.

What can I see? What can I smell? What can I feel? What can I taste? What can I hear?

You forced yourself to open your eyes. Dark. But as your eyes adjusted, the smothering inky blackness slowly abated into rocky shadows dimly illuminated by the constant twilight far above where you had fallen.

The deep musk of damp dirt sank through your senses. It was somehow calming, grounding. The earthy scent that lingered in the air, reminded you of Hunter.

Everything reminded you of Hunter.

That was when the panic hit again, spiking into a new high as you shifted on the ground, sending lightning bolts of pain riveting through limbs that wouldn’t move. Each breath suddenly tore at your lungs with such a sharpness as if there were some creature trying to gouge its way out. The agony beneath you wrenched a scream with startling ferocity only to find it cut off by spasming lungs as muscles tensed and locked to protect themselves from further harm.

It took several long seconds to relax once again, crying out softly through clenched teeth, determined not to fight against the pain, but to let it wash over you.

Fighting only made things worse. It took discipline and a lifetime of practice but now you feared it was all in vain. This white hot fire, that burning, freezing, grating pain felt all consuming and ready to swallow you whole.

You weren’t a clone but you were trained for this - trained to endure the pain that threatened to overcome all reasoning and logic.

Pain is only a symptom. Find the source.

Hunter’s voice. Hunter’s voice echoed training that had been drilled into your brain time and time again. Of course, he would have received similar training, but that didn’t matter now. Why was it his voice that your mind conjured up in its panic to stay alert? Why was it Hunter’s voice that so calmly soothed fiery nerves? That professional and strict command laced with a hint of compassion and genuine concern - the perfect mixture that made him so complex. A puzzle you so desperately wanted to solve.

Breathy whimpers and half-conscious groans slipped over bleeding and bitten lips.

It hurts, I know. But you need to focus.

Closing your eyes, you fell back to that training, guided along by that handsomely rugged voice keeping you grounded.

My hands are still bound behind me.

You took another breathe, hissing through your teeth at the renewed explosion of tortured nerves. My ribs…. Definitely broken. A stuttering groan leaked from quickening lungs that once again threatened to rip themselves free like the tears that leaked down your face. That pressing pain and panic surged, no matter how little you forced your lungs to inflate in the vain hope of lessening that sickening grate of what was surely must be bone against bone.

Focus!

His voice spoke again from your mind, this time with an edge. Firm and impossible to ignore.

You’re bound with rope of some sort. Your ribs are most likely badly bruised or broken. What else? Breathe through the pain. In and out. Come on, you know how this works.

Eyes, now well adjusted to the darkness, scanned the area. Mind, falling back on that trained discipline, spoke again in Hunter’s voice. Your leg. Do you feel it?

You did. You had been, though a sense of denial still seemed so desperate to dampen the growing dread. That deadly sharp throbbing that shot up your leg had now become impossible to ignore, yet you still couldn’t bring your eyes down to look.

You can do this, cyar'ika. His voice was softer now - more compassionate - though it still held that air of authority that would compel you to obey his direct command. That little nickname of his cyar'ika, what did it mean? The voice inside you that was Hunter, begged for you to come back and find out.

You have to survive. You have to make it back.

Steeling yourself, you pushed onwards, forcing yourself to draw your eyes down to the pain screaming for emergent attention.

Oh kriff. No. No, no. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

It seemed surreal, like looking down on your own body from miles above. Legs weren’t supposed to bend like that. Bones aren’t meant to jut out in awkwardly violent angles.

Almost as if on instinct, through suddenly heavy, lidded eyes, you pulled your wrists closer, moving through violent bursts of pain, to find a rock, or anything that might cut a rope.

Good. Good girl.

Nothing felt quite real anymore. You were floating - like in a dream.

Just a little more wiggling and the bonds would be loose enough for you to pull your hands through. Tears fell automatically from your eyes as every movement sent white hot razors up your leg from where it sat beneath you, bent awkwardly, bone protruding from the skin

The familiar cold chill of clammy sweat sprang up from your skin, soaking your ruined clothes. Nausea gripped your stomach in a vice as you felt your vision tunnel once again.

No. No. No. Cyar’ika no. Open your eyes. Breathe. Cyar’ika come back to me! That subconscious voice seemed to wither and beg. Come on. Please.

You grit your teeth, inhaling a long, shaky breath, then slowly let it out. The process repeated once more as you willed the nausea and lightheadedness to pass.

There. Got it.

Another dizzying wave of pain shot up your leg, but at least your hands were free.

So much blood. Gotta fix that.

Your hands shook and you could only watch as they seemed to take on a life on their own.

Stars danced before your eyes, stomach flipping before suddenly exploding upwards in a dizzy sick as you vomited into the rocks beside you.

The cool damp of the ground felt soothing now, as you found your cheek suddenly pressed against the dirt.

“...H-Hunter…” the name slipped over numb lips in a quiet whisper. Funny how that was still an instinct. But now that calming subconscious voice was quiet. Gone, not unlike the real thing. Reality was cruel and ruthless.

Hunter’s not here. Hunter can’t save you. None of them can. That voice of stark reason and logic seemed laced with a bitter and vicious mockery. It’s only you now. It always has been. It always will be.

“Trust no one” had always been your mantra. Until you met that strange little group who called themselves the Bad Batch. They ran like soldiers, expedient and efficient, yet they acted like a family. Against your better judgment, you’d let yourself grow attached. You allowed this small, insignificant group of clones to take down your walls and worm inside like a disease, filling all those cracks and edges with their quirks and ideals.

And Hunter.

Ever strong and ever confident to the physical eye, though you knew the uncertainty and fear of failure that lay beneath scarred skin. It was similar to your own. Hunter understood you, better than the others did. You thought like him, slow to trust, yet now you felt protected by him and he knew you’d do the same for him. You made a good team - perfectly combining your own sense of adventure and duty with his own.

A sudden realization hit you like a ton of bricks.

I love him. I'm in love with him.

The realization hurt more than the sickening angle of your leg and the throbbing of your ribs.

I never got to tell him. I'm going to die alone.

He thought you hated him.

It hit you just then, the full weight of loneliness, of trying so hard to be self-sufficient despite knowing that you would never be enough. The self-sabotaging cycle of craving to belong, yet running from those who offered a hand. Always running, never stopping lest that hanging sword above saw fit to drop and cut you down.

Now it had. This cold and unforgiving moon was going to swallow you, chewing with rocks for teeth and the awful rumble of its tectonic stomach that threatened to digest. Its mocking voice whispering in every cloud of dust:

You are alone and there is no one to blame but yourself.

No one but Cid knew where you were and you’d made her promise not to tell. Even the treasure hunting mercenaries were gone, taking with them any hope of dialog - no matter how crude and hurtful the language, at least it was a voice. Now the silence was loud, but your own thoughts were deafening.

Alone. Alone. Alone. You’re going to die alone.

Perhaps the others would come looking for you, but they would not find you - that greed born of anger and hurt had drawn you to a place where you were not strong enough to survive.

But another voice - another piece of your broken consciousness - stirred, whispering beneath that oppressive blanket of doubt.

They will find me. Hunter will find me. Hunter always finds me. We are iron and though we can be dulled, iron was made to sharpen.

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[m-ete0ra]

Did someone say Windbreaker oc reveal.. are we ready for windbreaker ocs?… IF YALL HAVE SUM LMK I WANNA HEAR/SEE EM

The little character story I have so far if anyone is interested ^^

Who is Lady Lù Huā:

Lù Huā comes from a renowned martial arts family in Katori, Japan. Her father, a respected dojo master, is known for his expertise in various martial arts, particularly the ancient and deadly Imperial Snake Kung Fu. Growing up in this environment, Lù Huā was immersed in rigorous training from a young age. Her father instilled in her not only the physical skills but also the philosophies and discipline that come with mastering martial arts.

Secret Life:

While her family dojo is renowned for its traditional values and teachings, Lù Huā leads a double life. Unknown to her father and especially her mother, she has established and leads her own organization, a gang that operates in the shadows of Katori. This dual existence allows her to navigate both the honorable world of martial arts and while using her knowledge to protect towns nearby giving her a unique edge in both realms.

Fighting Style:

Lù Huā’s main fighting style is the Imperial Snake Kung Fu, a fluid and lethal form of martial arts that emphasizes speed, agility, and precision. This style suits her perfectly, allowing her to move with grace and strike with deadly accuracy. Her skills are unmatched, making her a formidable opponent both in the dojo and on the streets.

Family Dynamics:

Lù Huā has two younger siblings, twins who have mastered Tiger Style Kung Fu. The twins, fierce and loyal, serve as her right and left hand in the gang keeping quiet to protect both their name and their older sister. Their contrasting styles, Lù Huā’s fluid and viper-like movements paired with the twins’ powerful and aggressive techniques create a balanced and deadly trio. Together, they protect their territory and maintain order within their organization. (No names not design has been established yet.)

Leadership:

As a leader, Lù Huā is both feared and respected. She rules with a strong hand, balancing kindness with harsh discipline. It’s no surprise to see women in the gang who have ambition and determination alongside other members. Her good intentions shine through her actions, as she strives to protect her loved ones and maintain peace in her community. However, her slightly coldhearted demeanor ensures that she is not easily crossed.

Persona:

In her quieter moments, Lù Huā enjoys reading, solving puzzles, tea making, and enjoying a good firework show. These activities help her maintain balance and focus, ensuring she remains at the top of her game both mentally and physically. Her love for these activities reflects her thoughtful and introspective nature, a stark contrast to her fierce and commanding presence as a gang leader. But it’s never been a smooth life. "Even in a life of luxury, I have never lived a dream. The unseen battles within my heart leave me aching for true happiness, a distant horizon I have yet to reach."

Ps. Canon her nails grow very fast but they break every time she fights and she gets pissy. (I said so💅)

[brookghaib-blog]

Whispers of the past pt.4

Pairing: Hoshina Soshiro x reader

Summary: 10 years ago, Y/N went missing after being attacked by a kaiju, now working by Gen Narumi's side as his secret weapon, she hides herself in hopes that one day she reconnects with her first love, Hoshina Soshiro.

pt.3 - pt.5

--

Hoshina's pov:

The next morning dawned with a sense of relief, the events of the previous night fading into memory. Mina and I shared a quiet breakfast together, the gossip about our supposed relationship the subject of much amusement.

"I can't believe people actually believe those rumors," Mina chuckled, sipping her coffee. "As if I would ever go for someone like you."

I rolled my eyes, playfully nudging her shoulder. "Hey, watch it. You're lucky to have me."

We laughed, the tension of the past evening dissipating in the light of day. Despite the rumors, Mina and I had always been nothing more than friends, comrades in arms against the kaiju threat.

After breakfast, we headed to a reunion with the defense force to discuss the increasing number of kaiju attacks. The meeting was tense, the atmosphere charged with urgency as we debated strategies and tactics. Gen Narumi, captain of the first division, was as stoic as ever, his gaze piercing as he addressed the group.

"We're facing an unprecedented threat," he began, his voice commanding attention. "The kaiju attacks are escalating, and we need to be prepared for anything."

He paused, glancing around the room before continuing. "That's why I've been working on a secret project, one that I believe could turn the tide in our favor. I've recruited a new member to our ranks, someone with unique abilities that could prove invaluable in our fight against the kaiju."

Murmurs of curiosity rippled through the room as Narumi revealed his secret weapon. "Her name is Habina Chisuka" he explained, his expression grave. "She was once a human like us, but she was transformed into a kaiju. I've been training her, studying her abilities, in the hopes of unlocking the secrets of her transformation. We still don't know how or why it happened to her, she doesn't have any recolection of that night, however we have her under observation to try figure it out this occurrence.”

As Narumi spoke, I felt a sense of unease settle over me. The idea of using a transformed human as a weapon was unsettling, to say the least. How was that even possible. But Narumi was convinced that Chisuka held the key to understanding the kaiju threat, and I trusted his judgment implicitly.

"She's here with us today," Narumi continued, his gaze sweeping the room. "But she remains anonymous, her true identity hidden from all but a select few. I ask that you respect her privacy and treat her with the same respect you would any member of our team."

I nodded, the weight of Narumi's words sinking in. Habina Chisuka was a mystery, a puzzle waiting to be solved. And as the meeting came to a close, I couldn't shake the feeling that her presence would change everything. Using a kaiju as a soldier.

Later that evening, as I sat alone in my office, the events of the day played over in my mind. Chisuka Hibino was a wildcard, a variable that could tip the scales in our favor—or lead to our downfall.

--

Mina and I sat in the quiet of our shared quarters, the events of the day weighing heavily on our minds. As we sipped our tea, a tense silence settled between us, broken only by the occasional clink of our cups.

Finally, Mina spoke, her voice low and cautious. "This all Habina Chisuka situation doesn't seem right to me."

I nodded, knowing exactly what was on her mind. "I know. It's hard to trust someone we know so little about."

Mina leaned forward, her gaze intense. "But what if she's not who she says she is? What if she's a kaiju in disguise, manipulating us for her own purposes?"

The thought sent a chill down my spine, but I couldn't deny the possibility. "It's a risk we can't afford to ignore. We need to find out the truth about her, no matter what."

Mina nodded, her expression determined. "Agreed. But how do we do that? Gen trusts her implicitly, and he won't take kindly to us questioning her."

I frowned, knowing she was right. Gen Narumi had put his faith in this Chisuka, and questioning her loyalty would be seen as a betrayal. But if there was even a chance that she posed a threat to us, we couldn't afford to ignore it.

"We'll have to be subtle," I said, thinking aloud. "We'll need to gather information, find out who she is, about her past and her abilities. If she truly is who she says she is, then she won't have anything to hide."

Mina nodded, her expression grim. "Agreed. Although, if she's under Narumi's watch, it can be difficult to track her down. But if I could have something from Narumi, we can know where she is and keep an eye on her, watching for any signs of suspicious behavior. And if we find anything, we'll confront her and demand answers. Kill her if needed."

I felt a surge of determination, knowing that we couldn't afford to let our guard down.

--

Narumi's pov:

The soft glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across the quiet street as I made my way to Chisuka's apartment. The events of the day weighed heavily on my mind, and I knew that I needed to speak with her before the situation escalated any further.

As I reached her building, I hesitated for a moment before knocking on her door. The sound of footsteps approached, and soon Chisuka stood before me, her expression guarded but curious.

"Narumi," she greeted, her voice soft with surprise. "What brings you here at this hour?"

"I wanted to speak with you, Chisuka," I replied, offering her a small smile. "May I come in?"

She nodded, stepping aside to let me enter. The apartment was small and sparsely furnished, a testament to Chisuka's solitary existence. I followed her inside, taking a seat on the worn couch.

"I wanted to talk to you about the reunion we discussed earlier," I began, my tone serious. "We may need you in battle soon, and I wanted to prepare you for what's to come, we had the reunion today, we announced your presence in our team to the other divisions, we have been training for 3 years now, and with the increase of kaiju attacks and stronger kaijus appearing, you'll need to make you debut, you need to know what it's like on the battlefield."

Chisuka's expression darkened, a shadow crossing her features. "I understand, Captain. I'll be ready."

I studied her for a moment, sensing her sadness and unease. "Is everything alright, Chisuka? You seem… troubled."

Chisuka hesitated, her eyes betraying the turmoil within. "It's nothing, Captain. Just… personal issues."

I reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You can talk to me, Chisuka. I'm here to help."

Her walls began to crumble, the weight of her emotions pressing down on her. "It's just… I saw Soshiro at the bar tonight, and it messed with my head, with everything, it's just...I need to move on anyway, he even has a girlfriend now."

My heart clenched at her words, a surge of protectiveness rising within me. "I'm sorry, Chisuka. I didn't realize…"

Chisuka shook her head, trying to push aside the memories that threatened to overwhelm her. "It's fine, Captain. I'll deal with it."

We sat on the floor, her couch holding our backs, only a small light from an old chandelier lighted the room, I made conversation with her, trying to distract her from the pain she revealed to me. But I could still see the pain in her eyes, the lingering hurt from her encounter with Soshiro. Without thinking, I leaned in closer, my lips hovering just inches from hers.

"Chisuka…" I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide with uncertainty. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to ease her pain, to offer her the comfort she so desperately needed.

But as our lips drew closer, I hesitated, a voice whispering in the back of my mind that this wasn't right, that I was crossing a line I shouldn't.

With a shaky breath, Chisuka pulled away, her eyes filled with regret. "I'm sorry, Narumi. I can't…"

I nodded, my own heart heavy with disappointment. "It's alright, Chisuka. I shouldn't have…"

She reached out, placing a hand on my arm. "Thank you, Narumi. For everything."

As I rose to leave, I couldn't shake the feeling of longing that lingered in the air between us. But I knew that I needed to respect Chisuka's boundaries, to give her the space she needed to heal.

And as I watched her disappear into the depths of her apartment, I couldn't help but wonder what has gotten into me, feeling guilty for making her unconfortable...I'm sorry Chisuka.

--

-flashback-

The battlefield was chaos. Smoke and debris filled the air, the roar of kaiju and the shouts of our comrades blending into a cacophony of war. I was leading my team in a desperate defense against a particularly relentless kaiju when a new, unexpected threat emerged from the shadows.

It was unlike any kaiju we had faced before. Its form was humanoid, almost graceful, with a mixture of sleek, alien-like armor and raw, exposed muscle. Its eyes, however, held an intelligence that set it apart from the mindless beasts we were used to fighting.

I engaged it cautiously, my attacks probing for weaknesses. But it quickly became clear that this kaiju was different. It moved with purpose, almost as if it were trying to communicate.

Suddenly, the creature stopped fighting and held up a clawed hand, a gesture that seemed almost… human.

"Please," it spoke, its voice resonating in our minds rather than through the air. "I am not your enemy. My name is Y/N L/N."

I froze, disbelief and confusion etched on my face. A talking kaiju? This had to be some kind of trick.

"Why should I believe you?" I demanded, keeping my blade at the ready.

The kaiju, Y/N, shifted her form, her features softening and becoming more human-like. Slowly, painfully, she began to transform. Before our eyes, the monstrous exterior melted away, revealing a young woman with tear-filled eyes.

"Because I was human once," she said, her voice trembling. "And I need your help. Please, I'm not a threat."

The sincerity in her eyes, the desperation in her voice—it was enough to give me pause. Lowering my weapon, I approached her cautiously. "Alright. I'll help you. But you need to come with us."

Y/N nodded, relief flooding her features. "Thank you."

In the weeks that followed, I didn't know what approach to have, I was still suspicious of her, although, how could a kaiju be so human. But over time, her genuine desire to aid me became evident. She began her training with me, shared her knowledge of kaiju behavior, and proved her loyalty time and time again.

During this period, I grew closer to Y/N, now named Habina Chisuka. We spent long hours discussing strategy, her insights often proving invaluable. Despite the initial awkwardness, a camaraderie began to form between us.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, I found Chisuka sitting alone on the roof of the base. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the city below.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked, approaching her with a small smile.

She glanced up, surprised, then nodded. "Of course, Captain."

I sat beside her, the silence between us comfortable. "You've come a long way, Chisuka. I'm glad you're with us."

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Thank you, Captain. It's been… difficult, but I'm grateful for the chance to prove myself."

A few days later, we offered Chisuka a small apartment near the base, the girl had spent the last years of her life jumping from bench to bench, our working long hours for no money, just to be given a warm bed. But now, she did have a place she could call her own. I wanted her to feel as much a part of our team as anyone else, and a private space seemed like a good step towards that.

That night, I couldn't resist checking on her. I knocked softly on her door, and after a moment, she opened it, her eyes red and puffy.

"Chisuka, are you alright?" I asked, concern lacing my voice.

She tried to smile, but it wavered. "Yes, Captain. I just… I didn't expect this. A place of my own. It's… overwhelming."

I stepped inside, glancing around the modest apartment. It was sparsely furnished, just a bed, a small table, and a chair, but it was more than she had ever hoped for since her transformation. "You deserve it, Chisuka. You've earned my trust and my friendship."

She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Thank you. For everything. I never thought I'd feel welcome again, let alone have a place to call home."

Without thinking, I pulled her into a gentle embrace. "You're one of us now, Chisuka. We're here for you."

She clung to me, sobbing softly against my chest. I could feel her trembling, the weight of her emotions pouring out after being bottled up for so long. "It's been so hard," she whispered. "I lost everything. My family, my friends, my life. And now… now I have this."

Her words broke my heart. I tightened my embrace, trying to offer her some semblance of comfort. "I can't imagine what you've been through, Chisuka. But I promise you, you're not alone anymore. We'll face this together."

She pulled back slightly, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I don't know how to thank you, Captain. You've given me more than I ever thought possible."

I wiped away her tears, offering her a reassuring smile. "Just keep fighting alongside us. That's all the thanks I need."

She nodded, a small, grateful smile breaking through her sorrow. "I will. I promise."

As we stood there, the bond between us strengthened, forged in the crucible of battle and tempered by shared pain. Habina Chisuka was more than just a weapon in our fight against the kaiju—she was a valued member of my team, and someone I came to want to protect with my life.

In the days that followed, Chisuka began to settle into her new life. She joined me in training sessions, her kaiju abilities proving to be an invaluable asset. She shared her insights on kaiju behavior, helping us to develop new strategies and tactics. And slowly but surely, she began to find her place among us.

One evening, after a particularly intense training session, I found myself once again at Chisuka's apartment. She had invited me for dinner, a gesture of gratitude that eventually become something regular for us.

As we sat at the small table, sharing a simple meal, I couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. Chisuka was smiling, a genuine smile that reached her eyes, and for the first time since we had met, she seemed at peace.

"Thank you for this, Chisuka," I said, raising my glass in a toast. "To new beginnings."

She clinked her glass against mine, her smile widening. "To new beginnings."

As we talked and laughed, I realized just how far she had come. From a kaiju on the battlefield to a trusted member of my team, Habina Chisuka had found her place among us. And I knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, we would face them together.

Because over time, I saw her as a priority, she would be under my protection 24/7.

[eupheme]

k03. submission + restraints | in your hands

alfred pennyworth x f!reader

rated e - 2.7k

tags: sub!(and bossy)alfred vibes, use of alcohol, established relationship, references to stress/stress relief, restraints, teasing, oral sex (f rec), PiV, aftercare

When Alfred confesses he’s having trouble getting his mind off his work, you’re all too happy to lend a hand.

The Tower is dark when you get there.

Following the low hum of plucked jazz notes through the hall, until you find Alfred in his study - fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

Eyes screwed shut. His other hand grasping the rim of a half-drunk scotch.

You know he works hard. Too hard - have seen the dark shadows under his eyes. Your bed empty when you wake in the morning for far too many days in a row.

How much he does for Bruce. For you. Always putting himself last, as he works his knuckles to the bone.

Cracked and bleeding, and he still won’t say a word.

“Hi, baby,” Your voice is soft, from the doorway, “Long day?”

His eyes flutter open at the sound of your voice. Smile soft, as he sets the glass down on the side table, lined up neatly on the coaster.

“Something like that.”

You can see the weariness in his face, as you slip onto the seat next to him. Meeting into the press of your lips as you greet him, letting loose a long-held sigh.

“Glad to see you, darling.”

“Me too.” You smile, “Any way I can help?”

The look he gives you is soft, a hand dropping to squeeze against your thigh.

“I don’t think so, love. I need to step away, actually.” He sighs, “But I just can’t ever seem turn it off. For better or for worse.”

Thick fingers tap against his temple. You place a kiss there, and he leans into your touch with a stifled groan.

“Keep seeing things I need to do. Things I never have enough time for.”

Your lips brush his cheek, right at the edge where his stubble is scraped clean, “Think you need to rest. You’re pushing too hard.”

His eyebrows raise. Another sip of his drink. The soft smack of lips with him hum, something close to a half-hearted smile, “Think I’m far too old to be learning new tricks, darling.”

There’s a dozen instances on the tip of your tongue that would prove that statement wrong.

Instead, your head cocks - considering.

You’d been sitting on a partially-solved puzzle for weeks.

Something about the way Alfred’s posture had straightened when you first met, when Bruce assured you that butler would “see to your every need.”

The way his eyes dropped too quickly from yours, after - the blush that began at his ears, rose-petal pink. Caught and stamped down before it reached his cheeks.

Of course, it hadn’t meant anything - an acknowledgement to his role of seeing over the Manor.

But it had been there again - months later. The way his hips had flexed hard into the mattress as your fingers tugged on slicked-back curls.

The pleads for “more” and “harder” turning sharp as your orgasm had rushed towards you. His fingers pinching into your skin with your command, as he all but groaned into your messy cunt.

All too eager to please.

Maybe he just wanted - needed - a firm hand.

Maybe it could be yours.

You wish you had your own drink, to steel your nerves. A breath that you hold for a heartbeat, before your asking.

“I could do that for you.” It comes out hushed.

“Show you how to turn off.”

His eyes flick to yours. Silent consideration. Curiosity sparking, in the sharp chips of blue.

Not an outright denial, leading you to babble, “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it before.”

The look in his eyes when you ride him. Head tipped back against the pillows. Unable to help bucking into you, fingers pinching hard enough to bruise. Handing over the reigns a little too eagerly.

Desperation edging into his tone, when he begs you to come for him.

That look simmers in his gaze, now. Head tilting towards yours, letting you close the gap. A soft hum when your mouth slants against his. Lips parting when your tongue licks at his lip.

A rough groan, when you deepen it.

Leaning into him, his torso twisting as your hands wander - a palm against his chest. The other at his jaw, feeling the way the tight tension in his neck loosens.

“Don’t have to do anything you don’t want, baby.” You murmur, against his lips - as if he wasn’t still deadly, sharpened steel wrapped in silk, “But if, if you want this-”

“Yes.” It’s hushed.

It’s permission - your eyes dark, hungry, when you lean back. A curve of your lips, almost surprised at how quickly he answers.

“You’re going to listen to me?” You clarify.

Alfred is a stubborn man. Cleverer than most. Set in his ways - used to being in charge, even if you can see through the cracks.

“Going to be good for me?”

His jaw grits. The heave of his chest against the tight vest. Your fingers still resting above his heart. There’s a jerk of his chin - you can feel it against your lips, as they press to his jaw.

“Words, Alfred.”

There’s a sharp inhale at his name. You rarely use it. Soft sentiments have worked their way into your vocabulary over the last few weeks. It slams into him, his voice going low and rough.

“Yes, darling.”

Heat curls inside you. A considering look, when you lean back. Fingers tracing over his neat uniform - that crisp, white shirt. The tidy vest. A black tie, fastened at his throat.

“Do you like this tie?” Your fingers hook around the knot, gently tugging, “I mean, would you be upset if I wrinkled it?”

Alfred fingers twitch. Torn between loosing it himself, and keeping his hands somewhere more interesting. Tracing along your legs, the curve of your hips.

“You may do as you like.” He husks, “With all of me.”

His words make your thighs press together. Already damp from his mouth against yours. Fingers working the fabric free, twisting around your fingers as you consider.

“Wrists together.”

He’s obedient, in the way they touch behind his back. A beat, before you bind him.

“You trust me?”

It’s a loaded question. The amount of times Alfred has allowed himself to be vulnerable in the years after he became Bruce’s guardian could be counted on one hand.

His voice is low, rough, as he answers.

“Always.”

There’s the flex of his muscles as you twine the tie around. You can hear his inhale - swallowing words down twice. Lips curving, so certain he’s prepared to offer his thoughts.

Advice on how to tie better knots - ones to properly restrain him - instead of the pretty ones you make.

Thinking better of it, for you.

He shivers, when your lips press against his bound wrists. When you loop the ends into a bow, tugging them straight.

“Pretty.” You hum, leaning back.

Already thinking of some improvements. Admiring the pulled-back flex of his shoulders. The dark glitter of his eyes, below the severe brow.

“Bedroom, I think.”

There’s a divan at the foot of the bed that you’re already picturing a use for,

He follows, allowing your hand to rest on his arm for balance. Testing the bindings with your fingertips, as he follows you through the conjoined door, into his room.

There’s a folded blanket on the arm that you lay out in front of the couch. He kneels without asking, and it sends a thrill up your spine. Settling yourself in front of him on the cushion, legs spreading on either side of his hips.

“I want your mouth on me.” You tell him, trying to set the tone.

The edge of his lips pull up, “You’re wearing a bit too much for that, darling.”

“Already talking back?” Your brow arches, “I thought a good little solider like you would want to listen.”

His eye darken, focused on how you work the sweater from your shoulders. Folding it slowly, setting it beside you on the couch.

“Haven’t been a solider in a long time.”

“A butler, then.” You coo - his eyes fixed on your chest. Tracing the pretty lace as he waits. The slight crease in his brow when your fingers hook in the waistband of your leggings, instead.

“You’ll tend to my every need, right? It’s your duty, after all.”

He can see where the fabric dampens between your thighs. No answer, except for the rough exhale of his breath. The flex of his shoulders, a reminder that he can’t touch you the way he wants.

Those eyes greedy, when you lean forward to work on him next. Carefully unfastening his vest. Working each mother of pearl button loose, until his shirt hangs open at his chest.

Hips shifting, when you loosen his belt. Leaning into the way you palm him. Not expecting how hard he is already, straining against the expensive trousers.

A stifled groan as you work him free. Letting his cock rest against the pushed down fabric of his boxers, cradled in the deep dip of the open zipper.

Exposed, to your view.

“There we go,” You hum, voice low. Admiring.

A finger traces along his shaft, his cock bobbing beneath your touch. His jaw gritting, to bite back a plea as you settle back against the couch. Your panties tugged down your thighs, laid on top of the pile of clothing where he can see them.

Alfred leans forward when you finally rest against the back, but your hand presses against his shoulder.

“Impatient,” Your tongue clicks. Fingers catching his chin, thumb smoothing across his beard.

Two fingers against his lower lip, with the twist of your hand.

“Open.”

His lips part automatically. A rough groan buzzes against the pads of your fingers. You don’t even have to tell him to suck - his eyes already closed. Another shift of his hips, rutting into air.

The pinch of teeth when you withdraw, as if to keep you for another moment. Another rough sound, when you fit those fingers between your thighs, instead of letting him taste you like he wants.

Biting back a soft sigh, as your fingers circle against slick flesh. Thighs inching wider as he shifts closer.

“You’re teasing me?” He husks, eyes narrowing.

“Distracting you.” You hum, “Are you thinking about work?”

He groans - a sharp, sideways jerk of his chin.

“Thinking about your pretty cunt, darling.” It’s almost a growl, ”You said you wanted my mouth, yes?”

Your hips lift into your touch.

“Then let me use it.” He coaxes, that rough edge pitching into need.

A beat, as you consider. The slow shift of your hips, as you angle them at the edge of the couch. He’s already leaning forward - your foot lifting to press against his thigh to halt him.

“I want you in me after,” You tell him, “So you don’t get to come until I say.”

He moans, and the second your foot shifts his head so he can tongue at your clit. Something ragged mumbled out - a “thank you” that’s drowned out by your own cry.

Open-mouthed kisses pressed against your pussy. Devouring you greedily, making up for the lack of his fingers with the way his tongue dips inside you.

Groaning into you, when he tastes how wet you are.

Unable to help the flex of his hips. Panting, when your fingers twist into his hair. Mussing the tidy strands, when you guide him to where you need.

You know what it’s like - his effect on you, how you’re putty in his hands.

How he leans into yours now, unaware of the way his cock drools. The string that drips from him, how his length jerks each time your fingers tighten in his hair.

But you notice. You see how far gone he is. The pretty haze in his eyes.

“You close already, baby?” You coo, “Want me to touch you?”

“No,” His chest heaves, as he draws back for a breath, “Don’t deserve it, need to make you come first.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to argue. To tell him that he deserves that, and more. That you’d give him everything.

But you think he must need this.

An edge creeps into your tone, soft and commanding.

“Then make me come.”

Your words shoot through him. A ragged groan when your thigh hooks over his shoulder.

All his attention narrowing down to the flick of his tongue against your clit. To the sound of your breath, every little hitch of your hips. Everything that tells him what you need.

Knowing just how to bring you over the edge. Leaning into the words that slide from you, the praise slipping over his skin.

“Fuck, right there.” You whine, “Gonna make me come, baby. So good for me-”

He keeps the exact pace you need - your breath growing short, as your orgasm crashes over you.

Riding the high of doing this for him. His sweet submission, that eagerness that rolls off him in waves. That knowledge that if you hadn’t told him not to, he would have spilled all over the floor some time ago.

The bliss courses through you, hips bucking into his tongue. Alfred doesn’t stop, until your hands find his jaw, gently easing him from you. The pleasure still throbbing deep inside - almost aching from the way he drew it out.

He has been good.

Intent on pleasing you. Needing it, but every man has his limits, and this is his - tasting you, while being bound like this.

Trying so hard to hold himself back. To listen, to ignore that deep clench in his belly. That urge to shift forward, to rut himself against the fabric of the couch until he’s spilling against him.

He can taste you on his lips. You’re smeared across his chin, against the dark bristles of his beard.

“That was so good, honey.” It comes out breathless. His lips part with the praise, knees pressing into the blanket as his thighs shift wider.

“Come here.” You coo - fingers against his chin again.

Drawing him up to you, your mouth meeting his as he kneels. Tugging him closer, “Wanna feel you come for me. You can do that, right?”

His moan comes out ragged.

You have to guide him into you. Reaching between down to line him up - he sinks into you the second he feels the tight clutch of your pussy around him.

Losing himself, in the way his hips jerk forward. Pushing himself deep, hips pumping as his arms strain against the binding.

Unable to touch you the way he’d like, and it drives him mad - head bowed as he watches the way you take him, again and again.

Could try to make you come again, and he wants to - that urge burning through him. Almost begging you in hushed tones, wanting to feel you one last time.

“Make it up to me later.” You tell him, and when your leg hooks around his hip to drive him deeper - that last bit of control slips through his fingers.

He’s coming with a ragged moan on his next thrust. Pleasure still ripples inside you - and the way he comes undone so quickly send another wave rushing through you.

His hips stuttering as his muscles string tight. Lips parted, grunting as he throbs inside you. The stress sloughing off, the pleasure turning him mindless.

Only aware of the tight, warm grip of your pussy around him. The sloppy drive of his cock, as his thrusts grow shallow. Trying to keep himself buried deep as he comes.

There’s still the sharp pinch of the tie around his wrists. Still holding him at your mercy, a place that he puts himself willingly.

Eagerly.

He’s always been yours.

Alfred is boneless against you. Lips parted as he pants, a warning sound when you try to slip free.

You stay another minute - pressed full of him. Kisses pressed to his cheek, his temple, as your hands slip behind. Loosening that knot.

Guiding him onto the bed when he finally lets you rise. Carefully tugging off his clothes.

Smoothing lotion onto his wrists - he’ll have to keep his sleeves rolled down tomorrow, with how hard he tugged on his bindings.

Lips pressing against his pulse, his limbs still limp in your grasp.

“Still worrying about work?” You ask softly.

He stirs then. A low chuckle.

“Actually,” There’s the curve of lips, a tired smile.

“I’m not thinking about anything at all.”

thank you for reading! 💖

[kedreeva]

on the topic of peafowl play, would/do peafowl enjoy those pet puzzle toys? would they have the patience or interest to complete 1 outside of food motivation? i don't know why but i always imagine peafowl as the brilliant but lazy types and i wonder if that headcanon of mine has any plausibility lol

I gave my peafowl one of those chicken treat puzzles (this one) which they are supposed to peck/scratch at and roll around, which drops scratch grain slowly on the ground and gives them something to do until it is empty. It's basically two yellow bowls bungee-corded together by a single cord on the inside, anchored at that little black nub. You fill one half, and then "seal" it as a ball- but it's not clipped together or anything, just bungee tension holds it together.

I set it down for Aris for the first time, and rolled it so she could see it had scratch in it that would fall out. She pecked it once, examined it for roughly 10 seconds, and then grabbed it by the little black nub, and shook the hell out of it, bursting it open and flinging scratch all over the pen. She dropped it and everyone went about their business eating the scratch.

I taught Eris how to press buttons to "speak" to me; she had a few treat buttons, a food button, a water button, and some Word word buttons like "want" and "Eris" and "yes" and "no." She used them to argue with me and make fun of me for forgetting to put water in her wet food one day.

I gave Bug toilet paper rolls with holes cut in them, stuffed with paper towels and superworms. She learned to pull the paper towel out almost immediately. She gets a bowl of fresh foods when she goes into her pen in the mornings, and it started with me walking in and coaxing or carrying her in. Now she goes and waits on the perch where I put the bowl. I give anything leftover she didn't eat to the barn crew, so when I go to collect her in the evening, Polaris and Opal are usually waiting on the table where I put the bowl.

I bring Artemis indoors to do paintings with her, and she knows the order is indoors->bath->dry off->painting+treats, so if I bring her in, and she gets a bath, and I wait too long in the drying off, she will start scolding me until we start painting.

If I let the birds out of their pens, they get free range time while I'm outside. When I call "hup hup!" loudly and repeatedly, they all start walking back to the coops. Many of them know up commands. Artemis and Bug have both learned to put their trains up if I ask (and that's a no-treat trick, they just do it). Beep knew "ask nicely" when she wanted something (which is what led to me training Eris with the buttons), so she would scrape her beak on me if she wanted something. Beep also played with a lot of different toys.

I guess the point is that they are pretty smart birds, given a chance and good circumstances. They can be incredibly stupid, too, but the majority of them are pretty smart most of the time. But they don't have a lot of patience for things that are not either immediately rewarding or that they choose to focus on. Beep once spent an hour trying to get the button off my jeans, but if you offer Bug a mouse and move it away before she can get it, she'll usually just stop caring. If you give a treat to one bird, they might snub it, but they'll kill a man for it if someone else gets it and acts like it's good.

So COULD they become interested in a pet puzzle and possibly solve one? Maybe? It really just depends on what's in it for them, and/or how interested someone else is, and/or if they think it's their idea. They don't really have a lot of grabbing strength in their beaks, so that factors in, too. They do NOT like to peck hard things.

They DO like to destroy stuff though. If you could make an edible tissue box, they would absolutely lose their shit about it. Every peafowl I've ever owned LOVES tearing tissues out of a tissue box and ripping tissues to shreds to try to eat. Don't know what that's about. Leftover raptor instincts to disembowel things, I guess.

[nesonkin]

Obviously a 10-hour indie game with a story to tell is not going to go too deep into linguistics (not that it needs to) but I very much appreciate how the way we learn different languages in Chants of Sennaar is connected to the culture of the people that speak that language.

Bards are very big about beauty, artistic expression and class oppression, so, of course, you're going to learn their language mostly through theater plays and people mocking you.

You don't really get to talk to Alchemists, but much like their whole thing is about sciences, you mostly learn their language by looking through maps and diagrams, solving math puzzles, and even being tricked into directing your attention to the clock (a game design trick that is so simple but effective it's actually hilarious). You can say that level is my favorite.

Warriors shout commands and Anchorites were isolated into the virtual world, so the process is automated through a series of word connecting puzzles.

Can't put my finger on Devotees. I would say primarily socialization, as the very first puzzle that lets you into the town is about lending a hand to another person (same with the mysterious kid helping you enter the Abbey).

I just love this game, okay?

[sitp-recs]

hello!! i love your recs so so much, and i finally have something to ask. what about fics where harry is very good at something beyond just having powerful magic (love that trope tho) like commanding a classroom, solving a complicated puzzle, or idk even whittling. and draco notices and likes it? like competence kink. thank you!!

Oh I love this ask! Such a great concept, and not something I see often (competent Auror Harry is pretty popular though!). I’m sure I’m forgetting a bunch of fics and might add more later, but these are all great:

In Which Harry is Magnetic North and Draco Is An Idiot by bryoneybrynn (T, 13k)

For as long as he can remember, Draco’s been bringing fake dates to his family’s annual Yuletide celebration in order to evade his mother’s matchmaking. This year, Potter’s posing as his pretend boyfriend. But as the party gets underway, it gets unclear who’s playing who, who’s pretending what, who’s not pretending at all, and what the game really is. Confused? Yeah, so is Draco…

Unfinished Business by cupiscent (E, 20k)

Ten years after the War ends, Harry and Draco still haven't got their act together. But maybe it's not too late.

This is Never Happening Again by hpleems (M, 32k)

“Potter,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “Do I look like I care about your holiday plans? Trust me: this is *never* happening again.”

Meet Me at Midnight by thestarryknight (T, 57k)

Harry was beginning to wonder if he’d ever make anything again when Malfoy stormed through the door of Harry’s furniture shop. Now Harry’s got an impossible Ministry commission to finish, and even less energy than ever to deal with his elusive muse. That is, until he stumbles upon the surreal and beautiful world of a mysterious fae creature…

A Room Up There (And You In It) by thestarryknight (T, 59k)

When Preservationist Draco Malfoy was assigned to work on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, he was excited to delve into the gorgeous Black family antiques. His excitement quickly ended when something in the House decided it did not like his presence one bit. Featuring a grumpy antiques lover who most certainly did not sign up for this, encounters with a vengeful apparition, and a healthy application of Christmas spirit.

Among Ancient Pines by Theartfulldodger (M, 74k)

Every day, Draco Malfoy tries. With every fiber of his being he tries. But he doesn’t much think about what he’s trying for. In his final term of Healer training, Draco is unfortunate enough to find himself on a plane, the only means of traveling to a small, magical town in rural Alaska. Years of hard work have culminated in an opportunity to work with an experimental wandmaker to study the intersection of Healing and wand theory.

Azoth by zeitgeistic (E, 88k)

Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for eighth year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care.

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by nerakrose, dustmouth (T, 96k)

Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry.