#it doesn't have to be morally pristine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kamaluhkhan · 3 months ago

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YOUR SWEETHEART PSYCHOPATHIC CRUSH !

pairing: levi ackerman x fem!reader word count: 5.7k chapter summary: while spending your summer at the ackerman's estate, you and levi become slightly obsessed with each other despite mikasa being very clear she doesn't want you to fuck her cousin. warnings: alcohol, smoking, slight enemies to lovers dynamic, kinda rough smut (18+!!), oral (f+m receiving), unprotected period sex, mentions of blood, yearning, religious imagery/references, morally ambiguous protagonist with unclear motivations, eat the rich vibes....essentially very saltburn inspired so...yeah author's note: been having levi brainrot all summer and this is the result hope y'all enjoy ♡

♪: the louvre by lorde

you weren’t in love with him.

picture levi ackerman on a gilded summer day. shimmering, sweaty skin. designer sunglasses and overpriced flip flops. mouth red and sticky from the popsicle melting in his hand. sharp jawline. sharper tongue.

you understood why people loved him, of course — and so many did.

he saw through them, and they wanted to be seen by him.

picture levi ackerman at a busy pub on a friday night, the most expensive whiskey in front of him. one eyebrow quirked, silver piercing disappearing beneath his hairline. grey-blue eyes watching carefully. interested. suspicious.

he was dangerous;

picture levi ackerman on a hot, midsummer night. on his knees, canines sparkling in the moonlight. blood on his chin, between his fingers. he’s wearing pristine silk pyjamas that will soon become stained with grass and dirt and other unspeakable things.

beautiful, of course;

picture levi ackerman in a marble bathtub, skin wet and soapy. defined muscles and intricate tendons that could have been carved from marble, too. smelling of citrus and bergamot.

and compassionate, somehow.

picture levi ackerman handing someone a cigarette, heart beating fast after a heated argument. long, slender fingers and a silver crested ring. black stars etched across the skin of his hand, similar to his cousin’s.

you loved him.

picture levi ackerman across a bountiful breakfast table. he pries open a ripe fig, reaches over for some tea. as always, he holds his cup from the top. burgundy bruises in the shape of someone’s lips decorate his neck, disappear under the collar of his shirt.

you loved him.

picture levi ackerman, preening as if for a portrait they’d hang in an art gallery. taking a slow drag of his cigarette, backlit by the sun shining in from grand windows, framing him like a halo.

but, were you in love with him?

it’s a sticky, sultry summer — the summer mikasa first brings you to paradis.

with each day that passes, slow and sweltering, june gradually melts away in the blistering heat, but july lingers.

time passes differently when your life is filled with luxurious nothing.

mikasa always had friends over, all of whom had their own summer houses nearby. you recognized them from school. work, actually — they were frequent customers at scout’s coffee.

there was historia reiss (oat vanilla latte), who was family friend to the ackermans and twice as rich; annie leonhart (double shot of espresso), who grew up next door; eren jager (black coffee) whom mikasa had gotten back together with at the end of year banquet; and, jean kirstein (cappuccino with extra foam), one of eren’s frat brothers who seemed to notice you more now that you were out of your emerald green uniform and instead squeezed into a very revealing bathing suit mikasa had given you to wear.

she’d been doing that a lot since you arrived to paradis: giving you last year’s dress to wear at dinner, a blouse that didn’t fit her right, a skirt she wore once that she thought you would look so good in, trust her.

you’re sure it was a coincidence that jean only took interest in you now.

“oy!” jean whistles your name from across the water. “enjoying the view?”

you stop your task to look at him, but your eyes quickly wander.

you are, in fact, enjoying the view. on the other side of the pool, levi ackerman (no coffee, just earl grey tea) lounges on a pool chair. his pale skin shimmers under the afternoon sun. levi’s mouth is stained, red and sticky from the popsicle melting in his hand.

levi, whom mikasa had already deemed off limits. he was family, she said, and you were her friend. it wouldn't be right, she said.

she might not be too thrilled to find out how much you wanted to run your tongue over levi’s lips and underneath his jawline, chase the sweet popsicle stains with the salty sweat on his skin.

“instead of painting mikasa’s nails, you should paint me like one of your french girls sometime,” jean continues, lifting his prada sunglasses just to wink at you. he then goes back to his conversation with eren, the two of them talking animatedly in the shallow end while sipping their beers.

oblivious or not to your staring, levi seems too busy devouring another gothic novel — last week was frankenstein by mary shelley. this week is oscar wilde’s the picture of dorian gray. he’s shirtless, wearing designer sunglasses, overpriced flip flops and board shorts. in his day-to-day summer outfit, an entirely new expanse of skin is on display: a sword tucked into his forearm; angel wings sprouting from his shoulders, almost golden under the sun’s rays; flowers and thorns blooming between his ribs; a snake slithering across his hip bone.

mikasa clicks her tongue, a telltale sign that she’s impatient for you to get back to work, so you do.

“so, here’s the thing: eren told me than jean likes you,” mikasa says once you finish with her left hand and start on her right.

annie snorts. she’s one chair over, clad in a light blue bikini, suntanning with her eyes closed yet very much engaged with the gossip at hand. “you think? he’s been drooling over her since the start of summer. i’m surprised he hasn’t made a move yet.”

“well, apparently, he’s been waiting for you to make the first move.”

you bite back a scoff. “why?”

“he likes to be chased, sometimes,” mikasa explains. “it’s a game to him.”

“i don’t know. i’m not really looking to play any games,” you lie, thankful that she let you borrow one of her many pairs of vintage sunglasses as they hide how your eyes instinctively flick over to levi.

“come on!” mikasa pouts. “jean would be, like, the hottest summer fling. he’s smart and sexy and definitely knows how to show someone a good time.” a sober mikasa would have never said that — eren would hate his girlfriend talking about another guy like that — but she reaches over to grab her second margarita, smudging the fresh polish on her thumb, and takes a long gulp before adding: “you should go for it. right, guys?”

“you should totally go for it!” historia encourages, leaning over the other side of annie to nod at you enthusiastically. “jean is such a catch.”

“heard he’s good in bed, too,” annie adds. “so, yeah. go for it.”

“right,” mikasa smiles, satisfied. “it’ll be good for you.”

it’ll be good for you.

you didn’t even want to think about what mikasa meant by that, however well-intentioned.

the truth is that you had arrived to the ackerman’s sprawling estate with a hand-me-down suitcase, one old swimsuit, and a bitterness buried in your throat.

mikasa had invited you because she pitied you, the poor scholarship student working at the cafe she and the others frequented. all you had to do was comfort her after another argument with her flighty boyfriend eren jaeger, and suddenly the two of you were the best of friends. inseparable, even when spring finals bled into summer break.

friends is a generous word, really. she was your golden ticket, you were her charity case.

what’s that saying about the road to hell?

it’s paved with good intentions.

you wonder what that means for the road to paradise, then.

“just promise me you’ll consider it? at least give it a chance? please?” mikasa looks at you with those naive, hopeless romantic eyes. she wants this for you, and you have to keep her happy if you want to stay in this paradise for a little longer.

“okay,” you concede. “i’ll think about it.”

when you glance across the pool once more, levi is gone.

SPRING SEMESTER.

amid the chaos of students rushing across campus, all you could focus on was useless clicking.

click.

nothing. not even a goddamn spark.

served you right, buying a lighter from the dollar store.

“need a light?”

levi’s voice had a deep baritone, one that might have been calming if the two of you hadn’t spent the past hour bickering. he argued that caravaggio’s painting of judith beheading holofernes was more sophisticated than any other rendition; you challenged him, stating that artemisia gentileschi’s work was more powerful — cathartic, even — and therefore a better representation of the story.

erwin smith, the professor leading your art history seminar, urged the two of you to stay focused on the class material, but between you and levi — it always got personal.

you couldn’t afford the textbook, so how could you know anything about art?

his family bought his way into the university, so how could he know anything about anything?

so on and so forth. razor-sharp insults and sarcasm that dripped from your tongues like honey, the other always eager to lap it up like a starving dog.

if there was one thing you could count on from then on, it was levi providing a snarky comment or underhanded joke meant to remind you that you were only a guest in the aristocratic world mikasa pulled you into, and for you to defend yourself as best you could through equally cutting remarks.

it was like that ever since mikasa dragged you into the group earlier in the semester.

everyone was already a few drinks in at the pub when you walked in behind her. the most expensive whiskey was sitting in a crystal glass in front of levi. he quirked one eyebrow at you, silver piercing disappearing beneath his hairline. grey-blue eyes watching carefully — interested, suspicious — as mikasa introduced you.

it was exhausting. a little exhilarating, too, but not enough to keep you from sliding down to the ground, back against the cold limestone wall, knees pressed to your chest.

“not from you,” you told him. you expected him to leave you alone, grant you a minute to compose yourself.

instead, levi sat down next to you, legs stretched out because he knew the crowd would bend around him. you listened as he lit his own cigarette on the first try, handing it to you without taking a drag.

long, slender fingers and a silver crested ackerman ring. black stars etched on the skin of his hand, similar to the ones mikasa has.

you couldn’t help but stare; levi ackerman had that effect on people.

it was almost unfair how attractive he was. all he had to do was lounge against an old building, dark hair with a sharp undercut and eyebrow piercing glinting in the late afternoon sun, to give michaelangelo’s david a run for his money.

you dug your nails into your palm to keep yourself from accepting his offer. there was always a price to kindness, especially with people like him.

after a few moments, levi rolled his eyes. he brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, just for show.

“it’s not poisoned or anything. i wouldn’t do that. not to you, at least.”

you weren’t convinced, but smoke curled around his words. when it hit your nostrils, you had to give in.

“god,” you practically moaned as warmth filled your lungs; your heart rate eased as you finally got your vice. levi let out something of a choke. his cheeks became slightly flushed.

it must have been your imagination. levi ackerman did not get flustered.

he cleared his throat, your fingers brushing against each other when he accepted the cigarette you handed back to him.

“mika says i’ve projected certain….insecurities onto you.”

mikasa had changed her major three times already, and the one she’d settled on then was psychology. her new pastime was psychoanalysing the people around her, depending on which chapter was being covered that week.

“she says i should apologize for —”

“being a dick?”

“yeah, i guess.”

it wasn’t an apology. he just looked at you with his signature, disinterested gaze.

“okay.” you wouldn’t give him forgiveness, anyways.

“can i ask you something, then? without you biting my head off?”

a pause.

“fine,” levi responded.

“what insecurities?”

another pause. he twisted the ring on his finger, almost nervously.

levi ackerman did not get nervous, but maybe he wasn’t used to letting his guard down.

the silence stretched between you.

“let’s just say that i’m not as blue-blooded as i try to seem,” he finally said.

you turned your head to examine levi ackerman: ironed button-down rolled up to his elbows, showing off elaborate tattoos that must have cost a fortune. brown leather satchel engraved with his initials. shiny new rolex.

“oh. could’ve fooled me.”

levi laughed, stiff and hollow. you could taste the bitterness from his lips when it was your turn with the cigarette, and instinctively licked your own.

“you more than anyone should know: that’s kind of the point.”

it was the way he said it that got you. his voice just above a whisper. protecting his secret — and, by proxy, yours.

you gnawed the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste copper.

it never occurred to you that you might not have been the only outsider.

there might have been reasons why levi remained on the edge of the group, a brooding mystery to most of them, why you were the only one levi bothered to argue with. there were reasons why he didn’t skip class or get blackout drunk on weekdays like the others, why he was always so pristine, so perfect, so composed.

“look, i’m not a bad person. it’s just —”

“sometimes you have to bite,” you finished his sentence. “you’re angry at the world, and you know that the wrong person might take everything away if you step out of line and let that anger slip through.”

it was a coping mechanism; one wired within you, too, even if it sometimes manifested in different ways. you didn’t need a textbook to recognize that.

“yeah.”

you could tell he was trying his best to hide his reaction, but you knew — by the sudden glint in his eye, the slight relaxing of his jaw.

levi ackerman did not let his guard down, but there you were, recognizing the hunger inside him as your own.

“well, i don’t care if you bite,” you promised. “just don’t be surprised if i bite back.”

the corners of his lips curled into a smirk, matching your own.

“i’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

you let the time pass, let ash fall from the smouldering cigarette you shared until it was down to the quick. the sun was hidden behind the lecture hall by then, and the quad was quiet. only you and levi remained.

“i should get to my next class,” levi informed, breaking the comfortable silence you had unexpectedly built. he got up swiftly, although he was likely already late.

“see you around.” you caught a flash of silver where he was just sitting. you grabbed it, and held it up. “don’t forget your lighter.”

he flicked his eyes towards the object in your hand, and he frowned.

“keep it.”

“i – i can’t.”

“it’s fine. just take it.”

“i don’t need your handouts, levi,” you snapped. you remembered the time he had teased you for wearing one of mikasa’s blouses, warning you that her handouts aren’t enough to make you pass as one of them.

levi winced, clearly remembering too. “consider it a gift for being — what did you call me before?”

“a dick.”

“right. anyways, you’d be doing me a favour,” levi continued. “i’ve been wanting to get rid of this one; got a better one waiting for me at home.”

you would’ve continued pushing back, but it was too late. levi was already walking away.

levi looked back once and winked at you. you let the cool metal lighter burn through your skin.

apparently, trust fund kids suck at monopoly. especially after a few bottles of wine taken from their parents’ cellar.

they don’t really have a strategy, and those who did…well, it can’t beat yours.

you secure property left and right, make deals, and, yeah, screw people over until you’re the only one remaining with any candy-colored bills. by the end, you’re drunk off pinot noir and a high on the euphoria of winning this little, insignificant game.

“no fair!” jean whines. “how’d you do that?”

“a magician never reveals her secret,” you hum.

“what if i asked nicely?”

you shake your head with a slight smile, leaning over to grab the last of the pretzels as a cover for getting jean’s hand off your thigh. he’d become bolder in the past few days in his flirtations; you, in all fairness, gave as well as you got — lingering eyes, purposeful touching, flirty banter.

levi, sitting across from you, sips his drink calmly.

“maybe you just underestimated her,” he suggests.

“hell yeah, he did.” historia gives you an enthusiastic high five.

“i did not underestimate her.” jean rolls his eyes. “it’s just, i didn’t expect her to —”

“ — have a strategy that might outwit you, of all people?” levi mocks.

“put your teeth away, ackerman,” jean huffs. “i’m just saying — i’m a business major.”

“you did fail econ 200 twice, jean,” eren points out.

“you’re lucky daddy kirstein payed off the professor so you didn’t have to take it a third time,” levi quips, earning a scowl from jean.

“don’t get me started, you underground piece of — ”

“okay, good game everyone!” mikasa interjects, so loud her words bounced off the walls. the ackerman’s ‘cozy’ den is just as grand as any other room, large with signature tiled floors and marble columns. she turns to you and jean, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “why don’t the two of you go get more snacks, and the rest of us will decide on a movie?”

as everyone else follows mikasa to the home theatre, the board game now forgotten, you and jean head to the kitchen.

“my dad didn’t pay the professor off, for the record,” jean says as you start refilling bowls. he leans against the counter, watching you. “he paid for a tutor. i mean, i had to pass the class, right? if i’m going to take over my dad’s real estate company. there’s nothing wrong with a little help.”

you smile like you mean it.

“of course not.”

and that seems to pacify jean, until he bluntly asks:

“is something happening between you and levi?”

you freeze. “why would you say that?”

jean walks around the large kitchen island, stopping in front of you.

“he just seems…protective over you.”

“nothing’s happening,” you swallow the lump in your throat, unable to say more. “nothing’s happening between me and levi.”

if you keep saying it, maybe it will become true. maybe the tension will evaporate, and the fire in the pit of your stomach will die out, and you will be able to give mikasa what she wants.

jean watches you through thick lashes, hands creeping over your hips. playing the part, you throw your arms around his neck, fingers threading through auburn hair.

“good. because this dress is incredible.”

it’s mikasa’s dress. gucci, spring collection from the year before.

“jean,” you whisper his name like you want him.

jean kisses you then, and you kiss back. he slides his tongue in your mouth, slides a hand underneath the dress you wore. whispers again how incredible the dress was, how good you would look on your knees for him later.

you feel nothing. it’s fine.

you squeeze your eyes shut and, ignoring your guilty conscience, imagine a certain raven-haired boy in jean’s place. it works fine, allowing you to deepen the kiss, but then jean presses his thigh between your legs, and his stubble itches against your cheek.

fuck. you don’t want this.

lightheaded, you rip away from jean’s grip and place a hand on the counter next to you to steady yourself. you swallow as much air as you can, but still feel terribly breathless.

“everything okay?”

of course, it’s levi. he came to inform the two of you that cruel intentions was decided on (a message from mikasa), and to tell you to hurry the fuck up with the snacks (a message from eren).

jean smirks as he walks past your raven-haired boy and winks at you before he leaves the room.

levi is the one who helps you bring everything to the home theatre. he doesn’t say another word to you all night.

the only time you can truly be at peace in paradis is late at night, looking out into the dark green nothing.

it became a habit of yours, going out to smoke when you figured everyone was asleep. you’d formed an attachment to a particular stone bench next to a statue of some melancholy mythological woman (persephone, maybe?), and parked yourself there every night to look up at the stars.

quiet. limitless. alone.

even then, there’s always someone watching.

“nice lighter.”

those are the first words levi has spoken to you in the past week that aren’t delivered like he’s getting his teeth pulled.

“nice shirt, too.”

you look down, remembering that you’re not wearing the nightgown mikasa had given you when she saw your actual pyjamas: a pair of old boxers and an oversized marvin the martian t-shirt.

that’s one thing you can’t bring yourself to give up in all this, apparently: the soft, worn cotton that feels like home.

the other, unfortunately, takes a seat next to you. you should tell him to leave you alone, but you find yourself wanting him to stay.

he reaches out for the cigarette. you pass it to him like a moth to a flame, body betraying mind, knowing deep down that it might cause you to burn in the end. you watch as he inhales deeply, then tilts his head up as if sending the smoke as an offering to the full moon.

the quiet, formerly comforting, now makes your skin crawl.

“so….what’d you get on the final?” that’s the best you can do in terms of small talk with levi ackerman. your heart stops, when you realize your mistake —

the reality of what happened the last time you studied together.

levi, for his part, doesn’t bring that up. he hands the cigarette back to you.

“97. you?”

“98.”

levi whistles. “better go celebrate with your new boyfriend.”

“he’s not my — ”

you bite your tongue.

careful.

you want to bite that smirk off his lips.

it’s been a while, but he’s trying to rile you up.

you wonder what levi saw in you that made him think this was how to understand you: by throwing a punch and seeing if you could match his fight.

the truth is that jean isn’t anything to you. nothing had happened after that moment in the kitchen, and you wanted to keep it that way. you know that levi is perceptive enough to notice how you subtly distance yourself from jean, despite mikasa’s efforts and jean’s once again one-sided flirtations.

(you have a clear image of levi at breakfast a few days ago, prying open a ripe fig and holding his cup of tea from the top, burgundy bruises in the shape of someone’s lips decorating his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. historia had thrown a party next door, and you had the profound displeasure of watching levi make out with someone who wasn’t you. as soon as your eyes met his from across the room, levi removed himself from the person sucking on his collarbone. you weren’t sure it was a coincidence.)

“so kirstein isn’t your boyfriend?”

“what does it matter to you?”

“are you just hooking up, then?”

“why do you care, levi?” you snap.

it was dark, and you felt levi shuffle closer to you. you turned your head away, refusing to acknowledge the weight of his gaze on your body.

“i think you know why.” his voice nothing but a burning whisper in your ear.

levi, the clever brat, after giving you the cold shoulder, is not only trying to rile you up — he’s teasing you.

god, you were losing your mind, playing levi’s game, when he should have been losing yours.

you felt a fresh kind of heat spread through your body.

“whatever.”

you rip the cigarette from levi’s fingers, careful to avoid skin touching skin, snuff it out, and make all the moves to leave.

“wait.” he commands, grabbing your wrist before you can get too far. “let’s start again. i know you heard me earlier tonight.”

you clench your jaw, still standing. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

(your bedroom is the closest to his, with only a bathroom with thin walls separating the two. earlier, you swore he was pleasuring himself to the rhythm of your name, but when you entered the bathroom to check, all you found was water swirling down the bathtub drain.)

“i saw you.”

“what do you want, levi?” his name like poison on your tongue, fire in your throat.

levi doesn’t say anything for a bit.

crickets chirp in the distance.

neither of you move.

“i think about that night all the time.” levi swallows, hard. “that night in the library.”

(during finals season, late night at the library, when you were both frustrated and bone-tired and in need of release, levi fucked you in a secluded corner. two fingers in, knuckle deep. you returned the favour after reaching your high, kneeling down on the carpet to taste him. he was wiping away his own cum from the corner of your mouth just as someone walked over to examine the shelves for a book on the italian renaissance. it was careless, and dangerous, and neither of you spoke of it again.)

mikasa made her expectations for you clear, and you need to please her, so you bit back your desire, swallowed whatever spark might have been between you and levi, and carried on as acquaintances because you couldn’t really afford to let it catch.

except, levi’s looking at you like he did then, hooded eyes, dark blue with desire.

he lets go of your wrist and you already miss his touch.

so, the reckless part of you stays, sits closer to him, tries not to melt when his silk pyjamas brush against your naked thigh.

“i think about your mouth.” he brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “those pretty little moans, the way you said my name….”

you can’t help it; you brush your fingers in the junction between his neck and shoulder, and find his pulse strong, but steady.

“levi,” you sigh, and he shudders.

“fuck, just like that.”

you and levi are so close now, you aren’t sure the air you’re breathing is your own.

“it kills me, that you’re only a room away —”

“i think about your fingers,” you finally confess. you lick your lips, grazing levi’s thumb in the process. “i think about the way you taste, how full you made me feel.”

levi sucks in a sharp breath. by now, he’s snaked his other hand underneath your shirt, fingers tracing shapes onto your stomach.

“kirstein might murder me.”

you nod slowly.

“mikasa might never speak to me again.”

“you’ve been driving me insane all year,” levi justifies. “all fucking year. when mika brought you to paradis, i thought we’d have all summer….”

he scrapes his nails against your ribcage, wandering further into dangerous territory.

“i guess we better make up for lost time, then.” you suggest. his hand stills, eyes locked on yours. “don’t you think, levi?”

levi answers by surging forward, and kissing you with such ferocity, he might as well be a man starved. teeth on teeth on tongue. you tangle your hands into his hair, pull on some strands just to see what he'd do. he groans, and retaliates by biting down on your bottom lip, hard enough that you taste the metallic tang of blood mixed with the remnants of minty toothpaste on his lips. you whimper and pull away slightly. he holds your face firmly between his two hands, so you can’t go too far.

"sorry." levi smirks, and you know he doesn't really mean it.

you don’t care. you tug his hair some more and crash your mouth back to his, let your tongue trace every one of his teeth as if committing to memory.

you’re jolted back to reality when his hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear.

“shit. wait.” you push levi away and need a second to appreciate the state he’s in: raven hair a mess of your own making, pupils blown wide as he watches you with greedy impatience.

“what is it?” he presses when you take a second too long to explain.

“oh. it’s just,” a nervous laugh bubbles from your chest. you’ve craved this, craved him for so long, and it seems cosmically unfair that something else prevents you from satisfying your hunger. “i’m on my period.”

levi blinks at you. “so?”

you’re flustered, having to spell this out for him. “well, i guess we can’t really have sex, then?” you pause, watching as levi tilts his head. “i can suck you off if you want —

“what i want is to taste you,” levi states. “it’s lucky for you, i’m a vampire.”

you would have bet all your money that levi was just fucking with you, ready to leave you to tend to yourself for the night.

it’s a bet you would have promptly lost, seeing as levi slides to his knees and lodges himself between your legs.

“if you’re not comfortable with it, i don’t have to.”

your teeth catch your bottom lip, heart almost beating out of your chest.

you could back out now, suck it up and get on your knees for jean instead, gush to mikasa about it later and keep making her believe that you’re following her word like scripture.

but — it’s just so sincere. sweet, almost, how levi tilts his head up at you, waiting for your command like you’re a deity he’s dedicated his life to, willing to do anything and everything to prove his devotion.

the final transgression, the nail in the coffin:

you reach down to brush your fingers underneath his jawline and tell him it’s okay — that you want him.

levi sinks his teeth into the flesh of your thigh, soothing his tongue over the sting before removing your shorts and underwear.

he has his way with you, bringing you over the edge not once, but twice with his sharp tongue and skilled fingers. you bite your bottom lip to prevent yourself from screaming, until it’s just too damn much and you have to push levi’s head away.

levi looks up at you again, this time with a devilish grin, canines sparkling in the moonlight. crimson on his chin, between his fingers. once spotless silk pyjamas are probably stained with grass and dirt and whatever wetness he’s gathered from you.

maybe you should be on your knees, too, repent for the sin of crossing a line that was very clearly drawn, but you don’t care.

you’re hot and sticky and overstimulated, and fuck if you aren’t entirely blissed out.

levi confesses that wants, needs, to be inside you, so he carries you to his bedroom. you claw at the angel wings engraved on levi’s shoulder blades as he thrusts into you and sucks at your pulse point, your collarbone and chest.

“knew you’d feel like bliss, all tight and wrapped around me,” levi exhales, moving up to press his sweaty forehead to yours. “i’d call you angel, but we both know our friends would sentence us to hell for this. worth it though, right, baby?”

“fuck, levi,” you moan at the nickname, which encourages him to go faster. one of his hands moves to grip the pillow beside your head; you take the opportunity to angle your chin and run your tongue over the tattooed sword on his forearm, tasting salt. “so fucking worth it.”

you reach your climax when levi starts rubbing harsh circles onto your clit. he lets you ride out your high before pulling out of you, stroking himself a few times, and painting your stomach with his release.

lingering in a post-orgasm haze, you take a few moments to look around. levi’s room is pristine, save for the dirty clothes you practically tore from each other’s bodies and the now ruined sheets. you’re about to close your eyes, but levi taps your cheek.

“hey. you okay?”

“yeah,” you yawn, tracing a finger across the roses decorating his chest. “sorry about the mess.”

levi shakes his head. “don’t worry about that. i’ll do laundry tomorrow,” he assures. “but let’s get you cleaned up now, beautiful.”

it was such a rush at the beginning, between you and levi. now, the result of your… whatever you want to call it — obsession, violence, passion — sees the two of you sharing a bath. the air thick with steam and smelling of citrus and bergamot. levi ackerman in a marble bathtub, skin wet and soapy after washing away blood and dirt. defined muscles and intricate tendons that could have been carved from marble, too.

he falls asleep in your bed, and you fall asleep to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

in the morning, when you wake up, levi is sitting on your windowsill. backlit by the sun shining in, framing him with a halo, he takes a slow drag of his cigarette, preens for no one in particular as if for a portrait they’d hang in an art gallery.

you’ve tried, multiple times, but could never quite capture his beauty. at least not with a regular hb pencil and flimsy sketchbook paper. you thought he deserved to be immortalised, all shadows and intense angles. maybe the louvre in paris or the uffizi in florence; displayed somewhere for all to admire, like renaissance portraits of italian nobles or ancient gods carved in stone, given sacrifices from starving peasants.

levi represents everything you want to burn to a crisp.

and, yet.

levi notices you stirring.

he smiles at you (you’d sit in hell just for a glimpse of that rare, precious, levi ackerman smile) and murmurs a good morning, sweetheart (how is it possible that you can taste his words on your tongue, thick like honey and just as sweet?), all while looking at you like you were the work of art.

you feel something twist in your gut.

you’re so, utterly fucked.

#this is my baby rn please take care of her #might fuck around and do a part 2 if ppl are interested....#thinking about the labyrinth scene too so 👀#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #aot #levi ackerman smut #attack on titan #saltburn #levi ackerman fanfic #levi ackerman x you #levi x reader #aot x reader #levi aot #saf writes

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moonsaver · 30 days ago

Text

hesperus

The evening star calls home. Ruin is your saving grace.

Tw/Cw; Suggestive/explicit scene, gender neutral reader, implications of religious themes (not great), dubious morals(?), reader is a COUGARRRR (implied), Sunday loves older authority figures (guilty), just guess at this point. Also reader is implied to be like a parental figure to Firefly. OOC because i love making canon characters my own ocs.

Pairings: Stellaron Hunter!Reader x Sunday (romantic), (hinted) Firefly x tb, (platonic) Firefly x reader.

A/n: 5.8k words, i hate this fic, enjoy whatever whatever.

——

“Will you be okay?”

The small girl looks up at you - trepidation and concern visible in her eyes.

“I should be asking you that, lovely.” You smile, gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was beautiful, in your opinion. You often verbalized how beautiful it looked, mentioning it as silver under a blue moon.

Firefly still had concern in her eyes, dampened by your words, her hand clasped over the middle of her collarbone.

“I'll make it.. I think.” Her determination made way through uncertainty. You hum, smiling at her.

“You will, as shall I. If you ever need, I will be there.”

You wink, making the young girl smile a bit. The small, almost sad smile, still breaks through her worry.

“I've heard they've been on the lookout for us. I'm..”

She didn't have to continue. You already knew. Your hand comes up and pats her head, gently.

“We'll be fine. Go on, my sweet.”

You smile, softly. It seems to melt away the rest of her trepidation.

She takes a moment. Then nods. Worry and uncertainty now embers as determination fires through her eyes.

You wave her off, as she makes her way.

You are being watched. But you are aware.

–———

You hum, swirling the champagne glass in your fingers, watching the bubbles rise to the top, and stick to the edges in clusters.

“Interrupting your break, am I?”

The man beside you laughs, softly. Almost forced. He doesn't respond further.

“I'm guessing your weekends are spent tending to your white coat.”

You tilt your head, looking at him, a small smile playing on your lips. He doesn't bother acknowledging you.

“I give it to the dry cleaners, actually.”

“Ah, busy man. I suppose I should leave you be.”

“..I have an inkling you won't.”

His wings bristle slightly. His halo shines beautifully – a sort of warning that hangs over his head. Sharp edges, blinding gold. Angels crafted to deter the evil.

But you aren't phased. Perhaps it is the alcohol.

“There was a story, I remember. If you're up for it, of course. It's quite old.”

“Ah, an anecdote from your life?”

“I'm not an ancient tablet.”

“I wasn't aware.”

You chuckle, setting your glass down, the glass base clinking as you do.

You take a brief moment; simply to compose and immerse into the present moment. You look over at the man, allowing yourself to shamelessly scan him despite the unreturned glancing or staring.

“Owls and Ravens were once friends. And both had snow-like feathers. As pristine as white clouds on the expanse of a sky.”

His hair is soft, blue and hazy under the warm light of the bar, shimmering the slightest bit. He shifts in his seat, perhaps to get more comfortable.

“They decided, then, to paint each other, since nothing else was there to do. The Raven painted the Owl diligently, in patterns and dots. And the Owl sat patiently through the process.”

His eyes are piercing, golden, yet they rest, conserved and distant.

The alcohol hazed your vision, smoothing out the edges like a loving artist's strokes against the canvas of his visage.

Your fingers circle the rim of your glass, returning your gaze, watching the bubbles clear.

“But when the Raven's turn came, it never sat still. And as the Owl painted, it painted over the Raven entirely, marring it's feathers as black as obsidian.”

“What a shame.”

Your foot playfully taps the side of his, making his leg stop jittering up and down.

“Indeed.”

He hums, his gaze temporarily flitting from your foot to your hand, placed on your knee. He almost acknowledges you.

The background is a warm blur against your view of him, almost as though he's the sole performer on a podium – the light seemed to belong to him, and him only.

“You have a daughter, am I correct to assume?”

His fingers tap, rhythmically, like patters of rain.

“No, just.. a friend. But I consider her as such.”

“She left in quite a hurry.”

“She did, didn't she?”

“has the dream not been to her liking? In the case something has gone awry, The Family hopes–”

“Oh, you know, kids these days. They see someone they like and skitter like a fool.”

He doesn't seem to take your words in stride. But you smile.

“I see.”

You stretch, spinning in the small loveseat, planting your feet down as you rise,

“See someone you like?”

“Already got a view.”

Sunday finally acknowledges you - his eyes trailing your form as you walk away.

——–

“I love you!”

The voice crackles from the plush toy's broken voice box, as Sunday peers down at it. He doesn't move – idly looking at it, and yet not bothering to pick it up.

He stares, for a few more moments, noting the grime and the tears at the seams. The small stains of probably candy or something sweet sticking to its “paws”. The bear had worn down inexplicably from love. The very love it spoke at every press. And from abandonment. He found himself wondering at the fleeting childhood passing by like a reeling ribbon from a child's hands, as if the bear had been dropped unwillingly, and had not been allowed to reunite with it's owner again. A strange dilemma – not alive, yet full of the most humanly feeling. So full, infact, the cotton burst at the seams, and it's button nose was dull.

With careful movements, Sunday picks it up, by its collar behind its “neck” [if you could even say it had one]. His hand holds it at a bit of a distance.

“A fan of soft toys, Mr. Dreammaster?’

Your voice teases him. You watch his arm slightly falter, imagining a plethora of emotions on his face you'd love to pull at like strings of a tapestry falling apart.

“..I am the Head, of The Family. The Dreammaster would be–”

“It's alright. I was joking.”

“I wasn't.”

His voice is still, flat. There is no semblance of emotion.

“Feisty, today. Was your toy missing for a long time? Sour about how it looks, hm?”

Sunday breathes out; an amicable replacement for a drawn out sigh. He turns to you, still holding the bear at a distance, staying quiet.

“Now, that is no way to hold a gentleman.”

You walk forward, and gently grasp the bear in both of your hands. Sunday's eyes flicker to your gloved hands, as though in his own curiosity of your lack of concern in terms of hygiene.

“There. Better. You ought to be respectful to your elders.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies. I should have bowed when you spoke to me.”

He bows slightly in jest, his hand on his heart,

“Hm, that's right.”

Sunday smiles, looking up at you from his bowed state. You seem to pay more mind to the bear in your hands, an array of similar thoughts in your head as you process it's appearance.

“Do you want to take it with you? Who knows, you might come to like it.”

“Please, that's no way to ask someone to get rid of it.”

You eye his non-faltering, feigned innocent smile. He simply closes his eyes and continues smiling.

“Well, turns out it has a nametag. It won't hurt to stitch it up a bit and return it back.”

He hums, watching you fix the bear's little dishevelled bowtie.

And then he clears his throat, catching your attention.

You tilt your head, curiously looking at him.

“Yes?”

Sunday points to his own tie, slightly miffed. You chuckle,

“Well, now. Whoever shall fix that?”

“Perhaps an elder. They know better than I.”

You roll your eyes, setting the bear down gently onto the side, removing your gloves and fixing his tie.

———

“Cozy, cozy.”

Kafka purrs into the phone, the rasp of her voice not blurred by the digital medium, as you stare in the distance at the blue-haired halovian.

“Kafka, I'm gonna have to call you back soon.”

“Just when things were about to get interesting..”

You roll your eyes – she can't see it, but she chuckles, knowing what your silence meant.

“Alright, goodluck. Looks like you'll need it.”

You hang up before she has anything else to say, pulling out a compact mirror, and adjusting your appearance. Just as you snap it shut, a small creak of the loveseat beside you indicates his occasional arrival.

“You're late. And I hoped a man of your stature was more punctual than that.”

You tease, watching his eyes never meet yours. Only this time – you catch it. He swallows, rather thickly, watching his adam's apple bob as he does.

“I don't recall having scheduled any meetings with you.”

“Oh?”

His reply is curt, almost condescending if you weren't the type to brush it off.

“Seems my last story hasn't melted the ice yet.”

“Not an inch.”

“D'aw, alright. Wanna hear more, lovely?”

His wings – not his ears – twitch slightly at the pet name. You notice the faint rush of blood to the tip of his ears.

He doesn't answer, choosing to be chaste in silence. You huff out a chuckle,

“Alright, drink's on me then. I'll tell you something interesting.”

——

In your travels as a stellaron hunter, you've assorted many into repulsions and desires that draw you in.

To fast thrills, versus the indignancy of a dragging present. You find yourself drawn to the bright lights of a night bar, versus the blinding array of a scorching sun. To shallow connections in lieu of heavy and complex relationships. Attachment would be your downfall. Ruin is your saving grace.

However, you find yourself looking for your repulsions.

The grey haired girl stands in front of you once again, shuffling from foot to foot, her eyes low and shy as her hands fiddle with a stray lock of her own hair. You eye her for a moment, before humming, and gently coax her to face you by placing an index finger under her chin and raising it up.

“Little bug, what's on your mind?”

“Um..”

“Script not to your liking?”

You watch her mumble under her breath, her face slightly tilting down as she resists the urge to tuck it away again. As she does, you gaze from over the top of her head; a familiar blue haired man walking into the distance, followed by panicked coworkers. It seems he will be amiss once again, for today.

“I couldn't.. tell them.”

“The trailblazer?”

She hums, nodding.

You huff out a chuckle, patting her head.

“You have your chances, do you not? Rest easy, your time will come.”

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slightly dropping, and her hands leaving the lock of hair to return to her sides. Her eyes are still low, as though scanning the pavement under your feet, as she contemplates. You watch her bite the inside of her cheek before she raises her face again and nod.

There is a fire in her eyes.

It is almost like the Sun.

You are almost afraid of it.

“I'll do it. As many times as I need to.”

You smile, leaning back onto the cold wall behind you.

“We should go shopping after your next attempt.”

You find your jaw clenching after the words slip from your mouth. Your repulsions are your weakness. Yet you still seem to subconsciously seek them out. It's a testament to your human nature.

She nods, smiling at you. She stays in her place for a moment, before she speaks again,

“I could.. ask Kafka to go with you if I don't make it.”

You turn and glance back at your usual spot at the open bar‐empty without you and the man you've been missing lately. Your smile only widens at her perception. Clever girl.

“No need. I'd like some silence anyways.”

She seems a bit unconvinced, as she continues to gaze at you for a brief moment more, scanning you for any deception. Out of worry than any ulterior motives, unlike the woman she mentioned a while ago.

Truthfully, you were lonely. This is what your ruin does to you, regardless of how it saves you. A few conversations lure you into a false sense of companionship, regardless of however brief it must have been, even encouraging you to divulge more than necessary if desperate enough. You find your eyes flitting at anything the colour of pale blue. At anything that glows gold under a light.

You chuckle and wave,

“I'll be fine, honeybee. Go, be on your way, now.”

She nods, smiling at the pet name.

You find your repulsions carry you elsewhere, the bar fading into the background as you walk the opposite direction, once all spying eyes have cleared. You find your eyes flitting to find him. However, no matter how blessed your vision may be, the absence left behind can only be described, not pointed to. Ultimately, it is your mind that hinges on the assessment of what you have lost, or gained.

But it seems this time your heart has taken the hit – a burrowing feeling between the slats and the depths of your ribs as though an animal had sprung from it, and left it behind as a husk of what it once was.

–——

Sunday tuts, his fingers taking a bold graze of your hair, sliding and gently tugging out a lock.

“You ought to take better care of your hair.”

You stay silent for a brief moment, and it's apparent to him aswell that you hadn't expected him to do something so.. casual, considering his formalities. He takes his time to address it in your period of silence.

“I simply noticed and commented on it, no need to look like a deer caught in headlights.”

His eyes flicker to yours for a moment, and avert immediately. You watch his hand fall to his side, his fingers slightly shaking. You can't tease him on it – it would be hypocritical. A slight, excited sort of feeling sparks in your stomach.

You lick your lips, and take a sip of your beverage, feeling your senses dry up a bit. The liquid instead burns at the dryness of your throat.

“You're into haircare, hm?”

You reply, ignoring the brief silence and the tension it carried.

“Often. It comes with taking care of my wings.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence once again. Unlike the pleasant one you two usually shared, this felt different; it felt electric. Thick, a bit suffocating.

“I like your piercings.”

His hand, previously resting on the counter, subconsciously raises up to fiddle with his earring,

“Thank you.”

You stay silent again, almost inviting in the tension that causes him to graze his teeth against the inside of his cheek, a step away from chewing on the sides of it.

You break the ice first.

“Do you prefer gold or silver?”

“Silver.”

He stays silent for a moment. He's often found his mind wandering when it comes to you – wondering how various adornments would suit you.

“Really? Didn't take you as a silver type.’

“Ah, about me?”

“Who else?”

He felt silver suited you; more than your complexion, he simply felt.. drawn to it. Like the faint glimmering of a moon's reflection on a lake. You were someone who's depths were mysterious, almost alluring to him.

You stay silent, too. The question hangs in the air for a brief moment.

You watch his shaky fingers rub slightly at his nose. You've noticed a lot of things about him. The tips of his nose and ears that turns red a bit too easily. The faint fluttering of his ghostly blue lashes. The twinkle of gold – not just of his halo, but the various imprints of it on him; jewellery, and the woven golden threads of his pristine suit.

His eyes follow to your hand, on the bar's countertop, swallowing thickly again.

It seems despite everything, he's still a fool in the grasp of his shame.

He looks away,

“I prefer gold.”

——

Sentience is a curse, he thinks.

His fingers tap and circle the perimeter of the frail glass, a clink accompanying each one. Waves form on the surface of the shimmery liquid from the small force.

Morality is a cruel beast. Because it is unrecognisable. And it knows you.

It follows you, through your ages. A small, ghastly and putrid thing, akin to a shameful, big animal. Hunched over, following you like a chore. Like a lost, stubborn child. It grows with you. It becomes bolder. It becomes aware. It has your voice. Soon, the mind caves and buckles into the grasp of the dastardly beast, that grows like uncontrolled weed on a substrate. It grows and envelops. And it tells you – can you truly allow yourself to do this? And the answer is never yes. Morality is a curse. A big ugly thing, unafraid to show it's face. It fills the room when silence staves arguments in the form of chastened tension.

Yet he finds himself, almost seeking it out. Searching the cruel shackle of his morality, almost wanting it to shame him into hiding.

Your place is empty. He notes. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, fluttering lashes coming to a halt. He envisions the faint waft of your perfume, the dainty clicking of your fingers over the rim of the glass, the cheeky tap against his agitated foot. Sunday would find himself already ashamed, if he'd outright admitted he'd actually been staring at you, from his periphery. You overshadow the ugly beast, drawing out a sort of soft, beautiful serenity with a hollow voice, and an elusive persona.

Angels are, by design, made to stave evil. Somehow, however, it seems he has attracted one. A devil in the form of you. And yet, like a man yet to feel the cold relief of forgiveness on his lips, he wanders aimlessly in his mind, as though in search of you. Sin is unbeknownst, ignorance is plaguing, and yet he revels in it. Even for a moment.

He huffs out a laugh. A novel turn of events. Its his turn to wait for you, isn't it?

Yet it seems easy to do, simply imagining your form beside him once again, telling him another strange tale, either for your own amusement or to reel him in. He disregards the source. His weary face finds an ache, a pleasant one, as it pulls into a faint smile.

As sentience drives a being to deviate from instinct, his awareness has driven him to exhaustion. Yet you are a double edged sword – a balm for his exhaustion yet endlessly pushing him to caution.

——

“You've been gone too long, haven't you?”

You croon, a cheeky smile on your face, Sunday bashfully keeping his eyes locked to his drink. Despite everything, he cannot meet your eyes.

“I have.”

For the first time, the pastor is of the guilty. The devil has come to exorcise him. But exorcism does not mean erasure of sins, neither does it mean cleanly cutting off the strings that attach one to them. You may as well weave more of these strings, and craftily ground him to you.

“How will you make it up to me?’

You drawl, leaning on the palm of your hand, speech slightly slurred from the alcohol.

“..How would you like me to?”

His gaze is trained on his hand – gripping the fragile neck of the glass with a bit too much force.

You hum, twirling your own glass, watching the liquid rush and bubble at the edges.

“Tell me a secret.”

He swallows.

A secret?

“Is that.. truly what you desire?”

“Mhm.”

You take a sip of your beverage. Sunday is relieved, yet almost disappointed.

“..very well.”

He breathes in, and takes a moment to compose himself. His eyes flit to you, a small flicker of boldness somehow making him hover over a line he dares not cross. His gaze wanders to your lips, the slight crinkle beside your eyes, the squish of your cheek against your palm. He eyes your clothing.

A stellaron hunter.

It was as though he was placing himself as the bait in a trap. As though he was the one caught in the trap. What else could he complain about? Except for that of which he can't admit – his unbecoming is his fault.

His fault for unreeling like a ribbon under your daft fingers. He finds himself wanting to spill like an ink bottle, the surface tension of the liquid keeping it from just flowing over the thick, glass borders.

And he breathes in your perfume. He breathes in the expanse of the night's air. And he spills. He spills so cautiously, so quietly, as though he is afraid of staining his own lips with the tenacity of his words.

He has many secrets. Most of which were handed to him, more akin to an heirloom than an actual personal matter. More akin to a treacherous contract than whispered confessions. How he wishes this was a confession to you, than an unveiling over his disgusting innards.

But you listen, unwavering. A lazy smile still gracing your lips, stained with grapes and understanding. It is as though you were stained in so many ways, his words are unflinchingly simple to you. It becomes a confession, rather than a revelation at the altar of the cartilage shell of your ear.

And you keep it. You keep it like a lost prayer. Like a silent vow.

“..want me to whisper it to you?”

You return the sentiment, offering a request. It seems you are no guiltier than he innocent.

———

“Can't convince you, can I?”

“Not at all.” Please don't try, anyway. He lets those words die on his tongue.

You huff out a laugh, a bit forceful, as you look away from him, folding your arms.

“Shit, you don't pull any punches, huh?”

A pang of guilt hits him at the slight hurt in your forced laugh. But he can't be deterred.

Not that you were going to, considering Elio's script. It's on you, really. But you didn't expect it to actually hurt.

You watch the empty audience seats, his back turned to it.

“It's a pity. I wish I could have seen this theatre when it was filled to the brim with people.”

“..it would have been an extraordinary view. It always is.”

“You look forward to it?”

…

“Not anymore.”

You hum, your teeth nipping at the skin of your lips. The quietness of the theatre is exemplified at the rustle of your clothes, as you turn to look at his back. The light of the podium makes him look beautiful. His halo is almost blinding. He looks like the Sun. You'll be lead to your death, at this rate. Wasn't Ruin supposed to be your saving grace? Here you are – disguised as both Icarus and the blinding Sun.

Sunday stands still, a cleancut form, unable to face you. You can stare at his back all day. But the pain resounding in your chest from your heart hurting strings you back into the present. You breathe deeply, and sigh,

“Alright. Goodluck, then.”

With one step forward, you disappear as quietly as you came. It's a trick familiar to your group; as Sunday knows. But even then, he braces himself to greet the empty space you leave behind, his heart sinking further at the loss of your presence.

———

Sunday finds the shackles of punishment more liberating than death on his knees.

He learns this in isolation. He learns many things in isolation.

He learns how to miss you.

Phantoms and taunts of your words echoing the empty expanse of his empty mind, wafting through the many whispers of the stellaron that plagued his mind.

His finger twitches upwards, when his lifeless eyes imagine the faint illusion of your affection, grazing fingertips over his knuckles. You hadn't actually ever gotten so physically close to him, but he indulges himself. He imagine the soft sensations of your lips on his jaw, trailing up to ghost the shell of his.

“Miss me, Mr. Dreammaster?”

He shivers at the illusion. Your voice is close yet far; reverberating in the hollow wasteland of his mind like a single thread of gold.

A lot. He wants to say. He swallows the words, and for the second time, the fruit lodges in his throat. To admit is to acknowledge the sin.

“Make it up to me, Mr. Dreammaster?"

A knock. Your phantom, agonisingly so, vanishes like a mist casted away by a gush of wind. But the interruption is far from divine.

Jade, from the IPC.

——

Like gently settling fog, rumours stagnate over a crowd. The whispers and the hushed words are not elusive to your ears.

Your phone buzzes, but you ignore it. Firefly is accompanied by Silver wolf, you wouldn't have to worry.

As much as your thrills lure you to the lavish party to celebrate the Nameless, your repulsions seem stronger.

You sip your beverage, tipping the glass up, but your eyes stay on your phonescreen. You hadn't ever texted Sunday, and neither had he texted you. You two hadn't even called. There was no history. It would be as though you could keep your phone open for hours and no one would bat an eye. Even for the most prestigious of those in stature would have to occasionally practise patience when it came to him. Who would you be? The vague, elusive stellaron hunter who's suspected of causing trouble wherever they go? Like a stray piece of pebble that's easy to disregard and kick away, who is he to ever glance at you?

And so you stare, measuring in silence, the strange stirring of feelings in your stomach. You could blame it on your beverage, but you hadn't drank enough really, mainly because you couldn't even bother keeping it down.

Buzz

You blink, watching a notification pop up, and promptly retreat as you click on Sunday's contact again.

He messaged you?

No, it couldn't be. It must be one of The Family's members.

You push yourself off of the wall you'd been warming with your back, and take a small step forward in contemplation, your eyebrows knitted as you stared.

Why would they send you to his office's location?

——

Sunday breathes in, the cool, familiar air of his office hitting the back of his throat as he does.

There is a certain pleasure in ordinary things.

The patience of a ceramic cup that stays warm with coffee. The smooth crafting of the surface of a wooden desk. The ambience of the air conditioner accompanying the steady scribbling of a pointed tip on paper. The comfort in reclining back in a cushioned office chair. Things he may as well soon never come across again.

He swallows, his eyelids doing little to shield the overhead lighting of his office, but still keeping them closed to simply savor the feeling.

A shadow emerges, obscuring the light from his eyes, casting a shade on his face. It's soon accompanied by the faint wafting of perfume.

“Miss me, Mr. Sunday?”

This wasn't Ena's dream. But for a moment, he could have considered it.

You're leaned over from behind him, watching down at his face as he opens his eyes. He opens his mouth, but decides to stay silent.

Your hand comes up to gently cup the side of his face, your palm pressing beside his eye, fingers reaching the bottom of his chin. Your thumb lingers around the edge of his mouth. You both stare at each other, simply noticing the dilation of each other's pupils.

“It's just Sunday.”

He tells you. There is no animosity, no hostility in his voice. It's almost a whisper, as though he's unsure if you are real. His own hand reaches up, and cautiously, his fingers graze the side of your face.

Your skin is warm. Your relaxed smile widens as he does so. He shivers.

“Savouring your final moments?”

He smiles.

“I am.”

You stay that way for a moment, before slowly leaning back and standing up straight. Sunday gets up from his chair and moves to stand across you.

“Couldn't let me know where you were a little earlier?”

You tease him, but he can sense the slight irk in your voice.

“My deepest apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

You hum, spinning on your heel and walking around his office, fingers grazing the edge of his desk as you walk beside it, and to the front. You turn, leaning on it, your back facing him.

“A secret won't be enough this time, y'know?”

He watches your hand fiddle with a few trinkets on his desk, your other hand supporting you. He makes his way to you again, rounding the desk, and stands in front of you,

“What may help?”

You hum again, but he knows better. You're feigning your contemplation.

You smile, still leaned back against his desk.

“I wouldn't know. Something special before we depart?”

“Hm.. is that so?”

He steps closer, his hands placing themselves right beside your waist on the desk behind you, caging you in. His eyes never leave yours.

“Mhm.”

You smile, looking at him.

He leans in, eyes falling lower, on your lips, as he asks,

“Now, what shall I do?”

His warm breath fans over the lower half of your face, and the small exposed bits of your collarbone.

“Perhaps do as your seniors advise you.”

“Hm? Who?”

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, push off of the table and swerve him, pushing him against the desk as you lean in,

“You can listen, can't you?”

He breathes in, slightly winded at the switched positions.

“I might need guidance.”

You huff out a laugh,

“I'll guide you, so listen well.”

You lean in, your lips almost brushing his, but pull away when you sense he might lean in, his lips stay slightly parted as he watches you.

“You need to be patient, okay?”

He almost doesn't hear you, swallowing as he eyes your lips, his abdomen constricting, feeling something tighten and coil.

“I will.”

You smile. And lean in, testing his resolve,

“Do as I say, alright?”

His lips twitch, and his breath hitches. He waits, agonisingly, as your lips brush against his, but don't press. He whispers out,

“I will.”

“Good.”

You finally press your lips against his, and it's as though a river rushes through his veins, as he eagerly kisses you back. His breathing is heavy, his hands unsure as they hold onto your waist, but you're made aware of his desperation as his nails unconsciously dig into your flesh, through the thin fabric of your shirt. You suck in a breath at the feeling, and he almost moans, his wings bristling and tensing as he desperately tries to deepen the kiss, almost panting into it as your tongue brushes against his lower lip, eagerly parting them open.

Sunday can taste the alcohol mixed with your sweet saliva, causing his head to spin a bit, but instead he presses further, his tongue eagerly lapping at every inch of your mouth. You pull away for a moment, but his mouth follows close, kissing the side of your mouth and trailing them down the column of your throat. You breathe in, shivering as you close your eyes for a moment, each wet kiss electrifying and going straight down to your core.

He mumbles your name against your skin, his tongue laving at a spot before his teeth nip at it, causing you to gasp. Your hands crawl up to the base of his head, one pushing into his fluffy hair and fingers entangling within the strands.

“It's okay.”

You breathe out, but he shakes his head slightly.

His tongue presses against the base of your throat, and drags up all the way to the corner of your mouth, before his lips envelop yours again in a heated kiss. He parts, panting,

“I wanted to see you. Every second I spent there..”

His hands run up and down your sides, feverish at the contact they'd been restrained from,

“I know.” You say, looking at his dishevelled state, your hands coming to rest on his chest.

"I wanted to return to you."

You feel his hands slide down and rest on your hips, his knee nudging between yours, before he slides up further and pushes his thigh at your core, making you jolt for a moment at the contact. His hands stay firm on your hips, almost pressing you down onto his thigh. Your hands clench at the fabric of his shirt as the contact shoots up your spine, making you arch slightly into him.

He breathes in, leaning down, his lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath coming out in puffs as he whispers,

“I'm yours, aren't I? So go ahead and prove it.”

You smile.

“Alright, then.”

–——

“[Name]!”

Firefly's voice calls out to you, and you smile, looking over her winded appearance.

But you weren't in the state to complain. You looked similar, if not even worse. Your shirt was slightly wrinkly, tie askew, your hair patted down in a rush. You hope no one noticed you wobble.

“are you okay?”

Firefly would be more worried instead of confused if not for the wide smile you've donned. She glances over her shoulder at the bustling crowd, her eyes almost searching for someone, before returning to you.

“I'm alright. Your hair.. seems exciting.”

You comment, and Firefly blushes, patting down her own hair.

“I'll tell you what happened later, but.. we should leave now.”

You nod,

“Silverwolf?”

Her hologram appears without a second's delay, her annoyed resting face almost lovingly familiar to you.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard.”

You both chuckle slightly at her.

The party ends on a positive note.

———

“Quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Greetings, to you too.”

You smile, your virtual form glitching slightly. Although Himeko doesn't disregard you as she does Kafka, she's still wary of you, as are the rest of the crew.

“Settling in well, chicken boy?”

Himeko cuts in,

“What do the Stellaron hunters need now?”

You chuckle, softly,

“Miss Himeko, it's been a while, hasn't it? Regardless, I sincerely apologise, but these questions are solely for Mr. Sunday here.”

Her face shifts, almost unnoticeable, clearly displeased by your words. She sighs, and glances back at the new recruit. The rest of the crew follow her suit.

Mr. Yang's voice flows in,

“Perhaps there remains any unfinished business with the stellaron hunters? It would be wise to address it sooner than later.”

“None of the sort, Mr. Yang.” You reassure, hands neatly folded, as you smile,

“Just a few, simple questions. Think of it as a.. survey, of sorts.”

“A survey?”

Sunday steps forward, facing your hologram directly. You would have blushed if it wasn't virtual.

“3 questions. That is all.”

“..alright.”

You sense his hesitation, slowly melding into trust as his thoughts process. Although relationships between your factors are complex and messy, it is you that's asking him.

“What is your name?”

“..I am Sunday.”

“Where are you stationed?”

“The Astral Express.”

“Are you happy?”

The question makes him hesitate, words stuck in his throat like a grape seed for only a moment.

“..yes. i am.”

You smile. Sunday faintly returns the expression. After a brief moment, you turn to Himeko,

“Kafka will speak to you shortly, Ms. Himeko.”

And you vanish. Just as mysteriously as you'd come into his life.

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shaunamilfman · 6 months ago

Text

Lucy MacLean x Wastelander R HC's

you start looking at her in a new light after she sets off a grenade that takes out a room full of enemies. you're so impressed with her that she doesn't have the heart to tell you that she just accidentally tripped into a row of shelves and knocked an old grenade on the floor.

“you want the head?”/ Lucy, love-struck “i mean if you're offering.” a pause, thinking over what you just said and looking disappointed. ”wait– did you say the head?"

most shocked look ever watching you loot bodies. on her high horse talking about “stealing is wrong” till you agree and say you just won’t be able to have dinner that night then. suddenly she’s willing to make exceptions to her morals, go figure.

whenever she starts talking too much, you start describing the most horrific looking monsters you've fought. she's following silently behind you in horror for a good mile before she manages to shake that description off and starts talking just as eagerly again. the silence was nice while it lasted.

Lucy pretends to not know how to do things so that you’ll teach it to her as an excuse to talk to you but takes it way too far. you’re like, “what do you mean you don’t know how to open a can?” while she looks visibly upset that you don’t wrap your arms around her to show her how like she’s seen in those pre-war movies.

uses your rations to try to tame herself a pet while you're camping for the night. you’re looking everywhere for your last box of sugar bombs only to find a shameless Lucy feeding it to the ugliest animal you’ve ever seen as she tries to entice it to do tricks. She insists that she doesn’t understand why you’re mad about it but you can’t help but notice she never uses her rations for it. you end up getting so mad that you can’t even speak to her, which turns out to be the most effective punishment you ever could have come up with. she’s sitting there and begging you to talk to her because she's going crazy without human interaction (it's been five minutes).

you’re surprised and a little sad to see that Lucy isn’t in the camp when you wake up the next morning but it’s fine. You don’t need her anyway, right? You try not to look relieved when she trudges in halfway through taking the camp down covered in soot and grime and collapses in her cot as she holds up a pristine box of sugar bombs she spent all night searching for.

Lucy sees you smile one (1) time and will not get over it. “you have such a pretty smile, you should really smile more. you know it really lights up your face and…” on and on for like ten minutes. The type to grab for your face to pull the sides of your lips up to make you smile. You’re still visibly frowning, just with your lips pulled up at the sides. Lucy’s so frustrated with you mostly because she realized you’re actually really nice to look at when you aren’t glaring at everything.

Lucy would call you lover unironically. goes through a million different terms of endearment before finally deciding on that one. it was one of the least embarrassing ones that she suggested so you wearily let it happen. walking for miles with Lucy trying them out initially like "honey. baby. teddy bear. big teddy bear of death? murder bear? no, okay, got it. sweetie. babe…”

pretending not to know about things Lucy is referencing to see how long it takes for her to realize you’re messing with her. she's talking about her book club and you’re like “book? what's a book?” and she’s spiraling trying to explain the concept of written word to you

no concept of flirting. give her your absolute best lines and she's like “haha… okay?”. got to be as blunt as possible. tell her you want to fuck and she's like “oh yeah, sure.”

#lucy maclean x reader #fallout x reader

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youling-the-ghost · 3 months ago

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sfth incorrect quotes pt.8 because I have to compensate for not posting these for almost a week even though I just posted one yesterday

AJ: Adulting is hard. AJ: How do I quit? Tom: Time travel. Sam: Die. (yes the time travel was a reference to Tom's lesbian scifi comic) Luke: I'm gonna need a human skull but you can't ask why. Sam: Only if you also don't ask why. Sam: *pulls four pristine human skulls out of his bag* Luke: ... Luke, grabbing a skull: This one will do. Tom: Damn, the power went out. AJ: Don’t worry, I got this. AJ: *shakes rapidly and starts to light up* Tom: What-? AJ: I swallowed a glow stick! Tom, on the verge of tears: WHY WOULD YOU-

Luke: But who gets which pencil? Sam: Since they're my things, I get the good one, Tom and AJ get the broken ones and you don't get one because fuck you. Sam: Why do you not believe that ghosts are real? Tom: Never seen one. Sam: Okay, I mean, there’s a lot of things that you can’t see that are real. Tom: What can’t I see? Sam: You can’t see gravity. That’s real. Tom: Yeah, I can drop an apple. Sam: Fuck. AJ: *is hugging Luke* Tom: Hey! It's my turn to hug Luke! Tom: *grabs Luke* Sam: *kicks down the door* What do you mean, "yOuR tUrN"? We agreed now is my time slot! AJ: No, It's still my turn! Luke, suffocating: Guys, I love you, but just because I'm the smallest doesn't mean you can be hugging me constantly! AJ: But we need the moral support! Tom: And you're small! Which is cute! Sam: If I don't hug you right now I think the depression will kick in and my body will stop functioning. Luke, close to tears: Well- I, I guess. Luke: I hate you with every inch of my body! Sam: That’s not a lot of inches. AJ, texting: Don't worry, I have your phone! Text me when you're gonna come get it! Tom: I have no respect for Santa. Don’t sneak in through the chimney and undermine my authority by bringing my family presents. Walk in through the front door and fight me like a man. Tom: There are three ways to handle a difficult situation. The right way, the wrong way, and the Sam way. AJ: Isn't that the wrong way? Tom: Yes, but it's faster. Hairdresser: How would you like your hair cut? Sam: Preferably with scissors, but a sword could be badass. Luke: What do you call a dictionary on drugs? Tom: If you say "addict-ionary" I swear I will slap you. Luke: I was actually going to say "high definition", but your answer's much better. Tom: *sees someone doing something stupid* Tom: What an idiot. Tom: *realizes it's AJ* Tom: Wait, that's MY idiot! Sam: Can you pass the salt? Luke: Can you pass away? Sam: Too much salt. Luke: I mean, sure, I have my bad days, but then I remember what a cute smile I have. Tom: Say no to drugs. Luke: Say yes to drugs. Sam: It doesn't matter if you say yes or no to drugs. If you're talking to drugs.. then you're on drugs. Sam: Yum, thanks! Kidnapper: *puts more tape over his mouth* I said stop eating it. Luke, to the Squad: If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands! *silence* Luke: Damn, y’all depressed as fuck! AJ: You didn’t clap either- Luke: SHUT UP! AJ: English is CRAZY. Oregano is both a spaghetti leaf topping and a form of paper art! Tom: What is this "paper art" you speak of? AJ: That shit where you make cranes and stuff out of folded paper! Tom: ...AJ. AJ: I honestly feel like some of our conversations here are almost word-for-word accurate to the generator. Tom: Yup. Sam: Maybe the generator is watching us. AJ: Wouldn't that imply this conversation will be added? AJ: ... AJ: Wait— (I just included this because breaking the 4th wall is funny) AJ: This was almost a great idea. Sam: You just described 90% of our stuff. Tom: I’ve never smoked marijuana. I ate a brownie once at a party. It was intense. It was kind of indescribable. I felt like I was floating. Turns out there was no pot in the brownie. It was just an insanely good brownie. AJ: Hey do you wanna hang out this weekend? Luke: Generic excuse. AJ: I can’t believe you said that out loud, to my face. Luke: I can. AJ: Wasn't icarly that guy that girlbossed too close to the sun because he was down for Apollo? Sam: ICARUS? Tom: Is something burning? Luke: My burning love for you of course! Tom: ... Luke: ... Luke: And the kitchen is on fire... AJ: Hey, did you know as a kid I accidentally ate paper? Luke: I feel like we've all done that at least once. Sam: I ate it too- Luke: See? Sam: -On purpose... AJ & Luke: ...What? Tom, texting Sam: Roses are red, Tony Hawk is a skater... Sam′s phone, auto-replying: I’m driving right now–I’ll get back to you later. *Later* Sam, texting back: Fuck you.

#shoot from the hip #shoot from the hip incorrect quotes #I have to keep reminding myself that there has been no actual instances (that I can think of) in sfth skits where luke is an arsonist #and it's just a weird “headcanon” that emerged in my head that I somehow became obsessed with #(I say “headcanon” with air quotes because it's not quite headcanons but also there's no better word to describe it)#luke manning #tom mayo #sam russell #alexander jeremy

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roosterr · 1 year ago

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Do you have any specific headcanons for Nik?❤️

i'm so glad you asked anon, of COURSE I DO!!! >:) here is a random collection of headcanons for our beloved pilot, i hope you enjoy <3

let's start with the obvious; this man is a humongous flirt, and he is BOLD, if he likes you, you will know about it. he wants to see you a flustered mess because of him, he will take literally ANY opportunity to call you beautiful/handsome etc. just to revel in the way it effects you. and if you flirt right back? perfect, the two of you could go back and forth for HOURS (if yk what i mean ;))

leading on from this, i think he's a very open person, he will say what he's thinking and feeling with no reservations. he doesn't embarrass easily, so some of the things he'll say to you may have others groaning and telling the two of you to get a room, but he'll just wrap an arm around you and grin, "no complaints from you though, right милая?"

when the two of you are alone, he's the softest man on planet earth. i hope you like cuddling, because he LOVES it, when you're relaxing he'll rest your head on his shoulder or his chest, his arm securely around your shoulders. you cannot escape once he has you in his grasp.

on the topic of love languages, i picture him being an acts of service and physical touch kind of guy. he loves doing things for you, from getting you a glass of water when you ask to carrying around extra ammo for you, he will do it all. and as previously mentioned, he adores having any kind of physical contact with you, even if it's something as small as hooking your pinkies together. truly the perfect man.

he's very protective of the people he loves, the same way he loves his country and would do anything to protect it. he will put himself between you and any danger, make you walk on the inside of the sidewalk, walk you home or to your car when it gets dark out, the whole nine yards

this man can and will throw hands for you. look, it's no secret that his moral code is less than pristine, he kidnapped a mans wife and son for gods sake, he's more than willing to fight for you.

he's a captain - it's technically a hc since his wiki doesn't say his rank anywhere, but since he's around the same age as price (technically another hc), and he's the leader of chimera, i'm taking the liberty of assuming.

ass man. no i will not elaborate.

i know in my heart that this man does NOT take good care of his hair. he uses 73 in 1 shampoo and somehow still has the most luscious hair of all time. it doesn't make any sense and i am mad about it.

he has an absurdly good memory. you mentioned a food you really like once in an offhand comment 7 months ago? he buys it for you every time he passes a place that sells it. you mention a family birthday party you recently attended, he looks you in the eyes and goes "your mothers cousins sons kid? how old are they now, 9?"

in the same vein, literally human gps, like this mans has never and will never be lost in his entire life. you could drop him in the middle of the wilderness and he'd find his way back in time for dinner

at the risk of being slightly contradictory, i think that when he's off duty or on leave just living life as a civilian, he's actually a pretty introverted guy. something about being in his element, doing what he knows best in the heat of battle just brings out a different side of him; and of course he's a captain, so when he's at work he gives people orders and becomes the perfect leader. but when he's at home he's quieter and keeps more to himself - no matter where you are though, in the middle of an active warzone or just chilling in your home, he always showers you with as much love as he can.

#nikolai x reader #nikolai cod x reader #nikolai call of duty #nikolai cod #call of duty #cod mw19 #mw2 x reader #cod x reader #141 x reader #cod nikolai #nikolai mw19 #nikolai my beloved #roosterr writes

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actual-changeling · 9 months ago

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The Metatron's outfit obviously has meta reasons/the costume department and Neil decided on it for a reason, but I think that there are also in-canon ones we should talk about more.

Now, the thing most people notice immediately is the colour—angels were whites, beige, light colours that match the job and heaven's sterile whiteness. His, on the other hand, is black, a colour usually associated with hell and demons.

As a small meta reason side note: I do not think that they chose the colour to signal that he is a demon and broke them up because he has Big Evil Plans because that goes against everything Good Omens is about. The Metatron is at the top of heaven's hierarchy and only subservient to God (assuming She is actually still involved), he can have bad intentions and universe-destroying plans as an angel, the whole point is that the angel/demon dichotomy is an ideological fantasy.

Why did the Metatron himself choose that outfit though? One would assume that he would have the most pristine white clothes possible, but every single time we have seen him so far, he has been a floating head without a body.

So before he came to earth, he actively made a decision to dress the way he did. We also know that he did his research on Aziraphale and Crowley, hence his knowing that Aziraphale consumes human food and getting that coffee. The entire situation was the Metatron creating the most beneficial set-up for his plan—to convince Aziraphale to come back to heaven with him.

He knows Aziraphale likes food, but what else does he like?

Crowley.

The person we see wearing exclusively black and dark colours.

Give Aziraphale a coffee, make his subconscious associate the Metatron with Crowley based on his clothes, sweet-talk him and lie to get him attached, and then offer him everything he could have ever wanted—heaven, the ability to change heaven, and Crowley and him being angels together.

Just like his off-hand mention about consuming food, the black suit is also meant to make him seem 'other', someone who—just like Aziraphale—doesn't really fit in with all the other angels. Aziraphale sees all of that, and the conclusion he comes to is the following:

The Metatron, the Guy In Charge is like me! He understands me, and we're both different, but he still wants me to be the Supreme Archangel. It IS possible to break some rules and still be a Good Angel, I was worried for nothing, everything is fine, and he will even revise the mistake of Crowley's fall.

Consequently, Aziraphale accepted the offer and didn't even think further than his own moral qualms finally being resolved, which is exactly what the Metatron wanted.

I think he vastly underestimated their relationship though—Aziraphale almost changes his mind—but overall it was a complete, clean success for him.

For my part, I am incredibly curious if he will keep the black suit in season three, turn back into a head, or change into white/lighter clothes. Now that he has Aziraphale where he wants him, he can dial down the persuasion and manipulation techniques.

#alex talks good omens #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable wives #ineffable spouses #ineffable divorce #the final fifteen #good omens meta #alex's unhinged meta corner

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obae-me · 11 months ago

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Yes! Finally someone said it!

At first when I saw the interaction I went- hey he's being such a jerk- Ohhhhh wait! This is literally him wanting us to stay soo fricking bad, but Mr.Pridey McPridepants just can't admit it. OFC HE WOULD TRY TO IMPRESS US (even if this emotionally constipated man can't differ b/w chivalry and being an asshole). He's trying to so bloody hard to sweet talk his way into us staying. Even if he's being forceful and manipulative; it's because he's so shit scared of giving us the choice and then us choosing to go cuz he KNOWS wherever we going must mean a lot to us especially when we are going such great lengths to return.

Not to say, that this behavior is ok or good but at the end of the day isn't obey me about flawed and morally grey characters? Even the ANGELS aren't perfect and morally sound, and if I dare say, sometimes they make decisions even crueler than the demons. We are literally talking about the AVATAR OF PRIDE HERE! XD

Literally as soon as you look past the image that he literally puts up cuz he wants ppl to see him that way, you will realize that he really is just a soggy, pathetic man who can't put aside his pride to ask us to stay like a normal person XD Also to point out a lot of ppl LIKE Levi and Mammon BECAUSE OF their pathos lol.

I have always seen that there is SUCH a double standard when it comes to him. Ppl say that he's being too fake and only cares about his image and not his brothers, but when he does show his softer side, they say he's not being genuine or he's pushy or something of the sort. What most ppl fail to see is that he loves his brothers and mc, probably even more than his own life but he's just so bad at showing it because he is held back by his own trauma and sin. While that does not make him innocent... that does make him like his brothers. He acts this way because thats literally the only way he knows how to keep things in his control and keep his family safe and ppl fall for it ... LIKE IT'S NOT THE REAL HIM! TvT

I have this theory (might be a hot take idk?) that most of the ppl playing obey me are pretty young, so they don't like Lucifer because they are anti-authority (I also am, its not a bad thing) but this man is anything but Authority and Power. I might be a lucifer apologist lol but all I am saying is for ppl to look at him with the same open-minded lens they see the other brothers with and you might find him a lot more bearable and dare I say... likeable?

Phew, sorry for rambling in your inbox but I have some strong feelings for that stupid old man XD Also, this feels a lot similar to how expectations are so high and rigid for the eldest sibling whereas these same expectations become a lot less severe for the other siblings...

Firstly, thank you for calling him a soggy pathetic man, that gave me a good chuckle.

And YES! All of this, 100% yes. He doesn't want to admit that there are other things out there more important than him. Not just because of his Pride, but because he finally let someone else behind the walls he put up around his heart (we saw this around Nightbringer lessons 11 and 12, when he was ready to be THE enemy to protect his family, only to end up admitting to himself that he cared about MC just as much) and now, after all that, MC is determined to leave. I'm sure somewhere in his mind, he feels like he's failed.

He's puffing up his feathers as big as he can and screaming "look at me, look at me, look at me"! The big peacock man is flailing.

He's afraid. He's hurt. And so now these weird (and problematic) safety mechanisms are being put in place to protect himself.

Things in his mind are SO 'not fine' that now he's parading around trying to convince everyone (including himself) that everything is perfectly fine! Everything is perfect, everything is great, the outfits he chose are pristine, the food he settled on is text-book. It feels like he's following some sort of guide, like even the things he's saying have been pulled from a novel somewhere. It's not quite the way he normally speaks. If everything can play out the way he sees it in his head, there won't be room for error. Right?

And this isn't new behavior either. It was the ENTIRE plot of season 1 in Shall We Date. Lucifer locked Belphie away because he was worried of what might happen to his sibling. But in a way, 'protecting' his brother was mostly protecting himself.

He's worked so hard to create what he has, that he can't stand the idea of losing it all.

There's also a whole spiel I could go into about how everyone in the family fills a certain "group" role that keeps everything balanced and running smoothly (as smooth as it can get for them). For example, Mammon is the energy of the group, the drive. Beel is the motivator, the encourager. Asmo is the dreamer, etc. Lucifer has to be the guider, the manager, the authoritarian.

While, yes on multiple occasions, he's dismissed his brother's wild antics outright, there have been so many other instances where his brothers say "I want ___" and he gives them the advice or the structure they need to accomplish it successfully. OR even ending up providing it himself should his brother's wishes be genuine (Mammon's car for example).

When he's more on his own, he can drop that uptightness completely. As we see again in Shall We Date, when they're taken to the video game world, and when he doesn't have the worries and responsibilities placed onto his shoulders, he's capable of skipping classes to take a nap on the roof. And fully enjoys it, with a smile on his face and everything.

At the very root of him, while he needs to fulfill the controlling dynamic, he does not want to. At least not completely.

I've always known this, but Nightbringer actually gave me a big confirmation boost! In Wanders Whereabouts, Barbatos gives Lucifer a video call in which he tells Lucifer about all the recent trouble the brothers have gotten themselves into. Barbatos then proceeds to let Lucifer know that as their guardian, the eldest needs to essentially work harder to keep them in line. Then Barbatos sends the damages bill to him.

If he isn't constantly keeping his siblings in line, he takes most of the blame!

And thirdly, I think you are correct, yes. I think especially with the addition of Nightbringer and the anime, a good portion of the fandom is a younger demographic, which doesn't surprise me (listen I played Mystic Messenger when I was a preteen/teen, I was there when the dark texts were written). And a lot of what appeals to that demographic is the coming-of-age, rebelling against conformity sort of story.

And, I want to repeat, my initial post that you are referring to wasn't meant to come off as a "oh everyone is so stupid thinking Lucifer is this way, you should all love him" but more of trying to explain the fullness of his character since it can be harder to spot.

Like, people in the fandom almost always completely understand Mammon. He's not just, "tough and grumbly man who steals things". He's someone who struggles with admitting his own feelings, someone who lets his ambitions blind him from the troubles they can cause, and someone who at the end of the day, loves his family more than anything. And most everyone in the fandom fully understands this.

And yet, with Lucifer, a lot of people tend to take him exactly at face value.

There's a lot of things I could explain about him needing to play a "Parental Guardian Figure" while also just being their brother at the same time, and in a lot of media where the older sibling is forced to become a guardian, they get a lot of flack for not doing it correctly.

Anyways, I could ramble on and on and on about Lucifer as a character, but I think this a good chunk of condensed thoughts. And thank you for sending this over, I always love a good Inbox ramble! Especially about my favorite grumpy, sleep-deprived man <3

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me spoilers #nightbringer spoilers #obey me lucifer

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moon-buggg · 6 months ago

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Outside perspective

a bit of a look into how the townsfolk view YN and their curious new companions. I... may have gone a bit overboard with making it read like a classic gothic horror story lmao. eventually I will get an ao3 account up and running and start posting these there.... someday

word count: 1113

content warnings: brief mentions of grave robbing, Sun and Moon are referred to as 'it' by the narrator who doesn't know them

I do not know what drives a man to madness, what seed of evil must be planted to allow one to turn his back against all that is right and moral. Men far smarter than I have argued since time immemorial over the root cause of evil; whether it is some inborn trait, a dark miasma that consumes one whole, the work of devils, or simply the nature of free will. I know not from which deep recess of hell such wickedness sprung forth, but I know that I have seen its face. It is a face that haunts my dreams- my very being. A face that looms over the night and seeks to destroy all that righteous men hold dear. A face that is impossible to forget. A face I cannot possibly begin to describe here, for fear of calling it forth to haunt me further.

Should such evils have a singular origin, it is whatever dark corner spawned that wretched doctor.

I still remember the fateful day they first appeared like a grim specter over our small village. The veritable calm before the storm. It had been raining heavily for several days, the roads transformed into a dense mud that threatened to consume any unlucky enough to be forced out of shelter. That day the rain had given way to a cloying fog, out from which stepped a stranger, cloaked in what might have once been a pristine white coat but was currently stained with the evidence of their struggle with the muddy roads.

I wish I could say I had sensed something was wrong the moment they stepped foot into my tavern, but truthfully I had felt sorry for the wet, muddy thing slumped over my counter looking for a hot meal. I know now the error I made welcoming them not only into my establishment but our town.

They were moving into the old manor in the woods, and, unable to locate it in the fog, had resigned to seeking warm shelter and a meal, both of which I was readily able to provide. They avoided talking about themself as much as possible, simply stating that they had business which was to be tended to alone. I assumed they were a melancholic artist or poet looking to escape the woes of city life. It was not until much later I learned they were a doctor, of all things.

They did not leave their name.

Fed, rested, and provided with the best directions I could manage, the stranger was gone. I had tried to offer them board for the night seeing as the rain was picking up again and was sure to make their trek all the more difficult, but they were adamant they did not mind the weather and would rather settle in sooner than later.

I was left with the distinct impression they were an odd sort, an eccentric type, but largely put the stranger out of my mind. Little did I know at the time what would come of that fateful meeting.

Soon enough, a routine was formed. The first of every month the doctor would emerge from their isolation, buy barely enough food to last one person a month, and pick up an order of all manner of strange tools and supplies imported on their order from the grocer, purchase one sweet pastry from the baker, and return on their lonesome to the woods.

No one has ever seen them in town on any other occasion, for any other reason.

No one has ever seen who digs up the graves, no matter how many souls take watch over the graveyard.

So, needless to say, people were unsettled when this familiar routine was so completely altered one spring morning. When on their monthly entrance into town they were shadowed by two towering automatons. The metal jesters, for they were curiously fashioned after circus clowns, followed after their master like loyal dogs.

The first, whose face was fashioned after the sun with large bronze rays that reflect the early morning light in pale imitation of the real sun, moved most jovially down the street, practically bouncing with each step in a manner most discordant with the confusion and dread slowly spreading amongst the townsfolk. As if for an invisible crowd, every movement was performed. For what reason had the doctor fashioned such strange creations, and what fresh terror would they unleash upon our town? It strayed from its companions as the group continued into town, moving its face as if taking in the streets for the first time, its face an unnerving grim permanently etched into painted porcelain. Though uncanny in face and movements, this first jester seemed almost welcoming when compared to its twin.

As if a dark mirror to its solar companion, the second automaton seemed to soak up shadows like the night itself. It hovered just behind the doctor, its face a tragedy mask warped into lunar shape. Rather unlike its brother, this jester seemed to take no interest in observing the town, simply following its master with movements far too fluid and precise to be of man. Whenever a concerned bystander would stare too long or stray too close, the lunar automaton would, without a face capable of expression, turn and stare at the offending party, leaving the distinct impression that it was glowering at you. A most unnerving effect best compared to an overzealous guard dog.

I watched as the trio disappeared into the store, and, as if the spell keeping me in place was broken, remembered my purpose in being out so early. I could not linger and gawk at the mad doctor and their metal entourage any longer, though I was later told by the grocer that the solar automaton was quite chatty. I went about my day, resigned to putting the strange occurrence out of my mind until late at night, when solitude and darkness draw out the shadows of one's mind.

I could not help but ponder the nature of these frighteningly human automatons, and I am sure many of my peers laid away doing the same.

Bodies are going missing, that is the only thing we know for certain, and it only started once that doctor came to town. No one knows what they do sequestered in their manor, isolated in the woods, until suddenly they appear with strange creations that move and talk in a pale imitation of man. Laying awake, staring at my ceiling and overcome with a dread that seeped into my very bones, the nature of these beings haunting me. What wicked deeds mar their creation, what secrets are hidden in their metal exteriors.

#dca fandom #dca au #mad science au #fnaf dca #fnaf sun #dca x reader #dca x y/n #sun x reader #sun x y/n #my writing #moon x reader #moon x y/n

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imagine-silk · 6 months ago

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Fallout men reacting to a sole who's a hitman and has basically a double life? Like, one second he's just your friendly good old sole and then when someone asks him if he could kill someone for a good sum of caps he completely changes? have a good day and stay hydrated!

》I really do need to drink more water. But I love juice. I have the taste of a five year old.

【Codsworth】 "Right away, sir. I'll fetch your tools. I kept them nice and pristine while you were away."

Before the bombs dropped you were a hitman and both your wife and Codsworth knew about it. But unlike your wife, Codsworth was allowed to see you work.

【Pre-BB Danse】 "We have work to do, soldier. There's no time for anything other than what we are here for."

Ever the stick-in-the-mud he won't entertain the idea of following through the contract simply because of time, not morality. Your double life only means something to him because it can get in the way.

【Deacon】 "Wow, cold-blooded."

He's concerned. You were so normal and he knew not to really trust that but he really wanted to, he almost did. It's going to take a little longer for him to trust you after this. He's a wanted man after all, what's stopping you from turning on him for a sack of caps.

【Hancock】 "Did I just hear you say 'yes'?"

He's shocked. You're such a kind and joyful person, how could you agree to do a hit on someone. Just seems so out of the blue.

【MacCready】 "We all need to make a living somehow."

He's not one to judge. He did the same with the Gunners and as much as he understood it was wrong he also understood keeping yourself alive in the Wasteland is the first priority. Sometimes you need to sacrifice for you and yours.

【Nick】 "Can't say I approve but who am I to stop you."

It is face value. If you ask his opinion about it he'll try to talk you out of your double life but as long as he knows who you're targeting and the reason he knows stopping you is a wasted effort.

【Preston】 "How- This is a bad idea."

He fully disapproves and will always try to talk you out of your work. Those are people who haven't even attacked you yet, you don't know them or what they deserve.

【X6-88】 "This seems like a waste of time."

He will help you but he doesn't see the point in taking these contracts. Everything you could want is at the Institute and even after they're gone there is plenty of work to do. No arguing with you though.

#ask and you shall receive #fallout 4 #gender neutral reader #fallout imagines #fallout x reader #companions react #codsworth #paladin danse #deacon fo4 #fallout hancock #maccready #nick valentine #preston garvey #x6 88

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leportraitducadavre · 2 years ago

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Why are the Uchiha considered a non-oppressed group? Naruto's fandom, specifically pro-Konoha readers, tend to claim that neither Sasuke nor his family was actually oppressed nor discriminated against prior to their killing; furthermore, some tend to state that it's for this supposed reason that the massacre was justified, as not only they perceived no injustice when presented with evidence of their treatment at the hands of those in positions of power (who should've had guaranteed their survival at the very minimum, as that was the reason for the village's creation), but also consider their plan to coup a consequence of their "traitorous" nature; a disservice after everything "Konoha did for them".

Some other fans, not much smarter than the first group, are willing to admit some of the discrimination they suffered; but they are reluctant to see such conduct as a learned animosity, labeling it as a "modern occurrence" (when speaking of Hiruzen's timeframe). According to them, the Uchiha had just begun to be discriminated against, so their reaction was disproportionate; apparently, it's mandatory to wait for such bigotry to be repeated for a few generations before considering it a systematic occurrence rather than an isolated event.

Genocide doesn't happen in a vacuum, it's not an option that is plausibly considered if not after years or decades of cultural and political repression and degradation. It's the growth of a slow but consistent process of dehumanization, to the point where those taught under such a regime of thought truly consider their life, rights, and opinions far more valuable and important than those they degrade.

Arresting or even killing the clan members that actually wanted to coup would've been far more understandable had those in power seen Uchiha humane enough for their lives to be considered, to matter; yet the elders quickly saw mass murder as an enticing option, sending one of the kin they wanted to exterminate to do their dirty job so they wouldn't lose "one of their own" and still look pristine.

They were able to do so and still see themselves as agents of peace because they were taught that they were on the right side of history, as the story was told from their perspective; the handwriting of their mentor shines dark and spotless on the parchments of their national library.

And, as for them, there were no real losses that day, their life continued. And those responsible for the death of dozens kept smiling, kept walking amongst the classmates of the children they sent to murder, telling them to fight for their memory, to give meaning to the pain by growing.

The fandom still believes that their death was requited, necessary, and fair; putting the blame of the genocide at most upon two sets of shoulders (Danzo, Hiruzen) instead of (at least) six (Tobirama, Danzo, Hiruzen, Koharu, Homura and Itachi), because they truly think that such an idea can be created out of thin air and it's not the consequence of an oppressive system that it's constantly demoting a specific group's value; because they truly think that the Council is acting on their own volition and isn't abiding the structure set by those before them. To them, four men and a woman created and taught themselves their own moral, social, and cultural parameters for this specific portion of the story before renouncing them and subscribing once again to their teachers (who somehow are painted as ~agents of peace~).

But alas, let's dissect some of their arguments, perhaps like this some of their brilliance shall illuminate us:

Their doujutsu and overall pride as a clan. The Sharingan is probably the most powerful doujutsu inside the Narutoverse (slightly less so than the Rinnegan but that needs the Sharingan as a base to develop), which for them translates into their clan having a “natural advantage” over others during a battle; thus, if they are so strong, how come they are oppressed? For them, that’s a contradiction because they can only phantom oppression if it’s visible, as in physical: literal submission through physical strength. Yet the Sharingan is canonically expressed to be a rare outcome inside the family, a rarity that just a few members of the clan possessed, so it’s a “natural advantage” that not many Uchiha have nor had at the time of their murder. But the tale hasn't finished, because there's a recurrent joke amongst these antis, for "how come the Sharingan is so powerful yet they were whipped by Itachi in just one night!", they shout, hyena laughter amidst their group; yet they don't talk further as not to attract detractors with quick wit, as they don't take into account (can't take into account) not only the prior point but also Obito’s participation -who was in charge of killing the strongest members of the clan but Fugaku (the later who decided not to fight), and without minding the context in itself as Itachi sneaked into clan members' homes and killed them when their back was turned, as he took advantage of the trust they bestowed upon him.

They were the ones who were “entrusted” by Tobirama to make Konoha’s citizens respect the law -summarizing, they were “given” the Police Force. In this specific regard, the police force inside the Narutoverse is directly compared (and therefore, read) to its real-life counterpart, yet: a- The Uchiha’s job was to be carried inside a military state, most of the citizens inside Konoha have tools at their disposal to either evade or fight back the Uchiha's "authority". It's difficult for them to read such phrases for it shatters their self-insertion; how come Naruto isn't about my self-perceived value inside the country I inhabit? b- The Police Force’s power, influence, and control were directly limited by the Hokage, they couldn’t arrest ANBU members (meaning those who were, one in charge of spying on them, and two a big portion of Konoha’s forces). c- Uchiha couldn’t aspire to be something else but members of the police. The only ones who could work outside that specific force were those individuals that abandoned their identities as clan members and swore allegiance to Konoha. Only Itachi (the perpetrator), Shisui, and Kagami (who were luckily dead before the events of the UCM transpired) were shown outside such a limited sphere. No other clan was shown to need such extreme measures to work in their chosen field. The fact that the prison was constructed to be inside their compound prior to them being moved to the outskirts of the city isn’t enough for them to understand that this specific job was forced upon Uchiha. "It's easier for them to keep an eye on the prisoners," they claim, clicking their tongues, yet won't see what it politically entails, for Uchiha members can never detach themselves from their duty, as it was physically adhered to their lands. "It's a duty they could thrive on," they vomit, and they did, yet no one sees -because it all happens inside their own compound. Not a single clan is shown to “have one specific job” inside Konoha but the Uchiha. d- Nevermind the very real and canonic impact that such work has amongst Konoha citizens, as the lesser members of Konoha's militia grow resentful of those that "control" them; in addition, such position also prevents the Uchiha from properly integrating amongst the general population, as they can't commune completely with those they need to keep tabs on. Was the Police Force ever rebuilt after the UCM? ANBU forces were quick to absorb their duties after the Kyuubi attack, decreasing at a much faster speed their position inside the place they built. The Police Force was dismantled and forgotten after the massacre, further proving the real irrelevance of such duty and the actual hidden purpose in its creation. e- How come the Uchiha "monopolized" a force that was literally and canonically given to them? How did they take over and denied anyone else's presence inside that structure when not only did they not create it but the prison was built by the government itself inside their compound? Someone with fewer brain cells than them will think that it's Konoha's government the one limiting the nature of the members that had to forcefully take care of that task, as clan compounds have restrictions on who can enter; but not them -oh no, ah, the wisdom of these people amazes me...

Their members’ popularity. Specifically, Sasuke and Itachi. What they say while fidgeting in their seats is simple: "how come Itachi (prior to the massacre) and Sasuke (after) were so praised by non-Uchiha if they were discriminated against"? And, ah, we could've finally reached enlightenment; yet their worldview is irrevocably simplistic, as systematic oppression doesn’t always translate into direct discrimination at the hands of other citizens. The Uchiha clan was moved to the outskirts of the city without any other family raising any eyebrows, they don’t have to be spitted on by other shinobi for them to be oppressed, that’s limiting the notion of discrimination/oppression to a single factor -the physical one, without minding the others. To explain it in lesser terms, as we must crouch down to speak to them to be on their level, saying that the Uchiha weren’t discriminated against due to lack of physical aggression, and I guess a genocide isn’t enough aggression for some, it’s like saying a man is a misogynist only if he slaps a woman. That way, monetary, social, cultural, and political domination are left out of the discussion, therefore, it’s limiting sexism to individuals’ actions rather than seeing the system these men were raised on and that it built their resolve to, finally, physically attack a woman. Uchiha were the only ones whose value was tied to their biological nature -no other families inside Konoha found as many restrictions as they did (might I remind you that there was a clan that happily enslaved their members and no one seemed to care?), their biology was enough reason to keep them both away of positions of power (meaning that the laws/decisions that influenced their lifestyle were made for them without a single Uchiha consultant), and restricting their movements inside their village. And I know many of these antis will claim “oh, but name one of the other noble clans (but the Nara’s, of course) that are actually in a place inside the Council, none of them were!” And you see, they miss the point by a mile, because the issue isn’t only the Uchiha not having incidence nor right to (at least) vote inside a village they founded, but specifically them being denied such presence under the premise of a biological predisposition that they have no control of. No other clan, whether they are or not at this point in time inside the Council, is denied a future position under those premises, they either can’t achieve it due to their lack of connections (Minato Namikaze, member of a non-noble clan was made Hokage due to his relationship with Jiraiya) or having not enough rank to participate (Morino Ibiki, also from a clan not specifically important, is the Head of the T&I Department).

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