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scoutofmymind · 10 days ago

Note

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

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alexisntedgy · 1 year ago

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alison cooper my outwardly unhinged queen

“is it playing an april fools prank on a bunch of dead people, maybe?” “it isn’t not that”

*plays the piano with a taxidermy dog from over 100 years ago*

*to pat of all people* “so how did you die :p”

*uses a ghost to cheat at poker*

“julian you were in politics, you must know a few dirty tricks”

*gets dead ww2 officer to spy on houseguest*

*tries to fake a haunting in an actual haunted house because all her ghosts made a ghost-union and went on strike*

“accept you’re a better poet than you are a teacher and that is really saying something-”

“it’s hardly fair to single out kitty, is it-“ “is there something you’d like to share 👁️ 👁️”

“i’m just taking robin for a walk”

*watches a bunch of ghosts perform a panto of cinderella*

*does a handmade repair job on a painting of a deceased relative that’s over 100 years old*

she used julian’s drink mixing tips at an actual party????

“my great aunt died” “oh I’m sorry” “no it’s alright i never met her”

“they found a stuka divebomber in the woods 👀” (no they did not)

yea nothing will go wrong if I give a ghost internet access- ah he’s spent all my money on mobile game upgrades

“I’m just talking to one of the ghosts that live here”

“-nobody will let slip any detail about the little lad- damn it.” “so it’s a boy then?” “what?” “damn it-“

“WHO U GONNA CALL? 📞 👻”

#love u queen #bbc ghosts #ghosts #alison cooper #six idiots #greatest hits

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moontyun · 3 months ago

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Stray Kidz: The type of...

☆ stray kids masterlist ☆ ...partner ☆ requested?: no ☆ warning(s): none ☆ genre: fluff, slice of life ☆ requests are open!

៚ Chris

spoils you rotten

loves to listen to you ramble on about your day

He was laying down on top of your stomach, listening to both of your gastric sounds and you talk about how busy you had been with school and work. You played with his hair, absentmindedly. He was dozing off, humming in response showing you he was listening to you. Every now and then, he was asking you questions, “And what did your friend say?” You fully knew he was only half listening but you let it go, considering how hard he had been working lately. Sooner or later, he fell asleep on you and you settled in in your spot, falling asleep too.

៚ Minho

constantly tells you he loves his cats more than you

brings you home little sweet treats almost every time he goes to the store

“[name]!” He shouted as he walked through the door of your apartment. You peaked around the corner, smiling as soon as you saw your handsome partner’s face. “Here, I got you these cupcakes. You said you were craving some last night.” Your face lit up!

“Thank you!” You shouted, kissing his cheek, taking the cupcakes to the kitchen. He playfully made a disgusted face. You knew he secretly loved it when you did little things like that. He was just a little too prideful to admit to it.

He sighed, “Yeah, yeah.” He followed you to the kitchen, opening up the cupcakes and stealing one (he bought them for himself too).

៚ Changbin

has your back 100% of the time, even when you are wrong

talks about your future together all the time

After years of people who were with you for the wrong reasons, you had finally found someone who valued you the way you deserved to be. Someone who took the time to really get to know you and to read you. To understand you. Right now, the two of you were cuddled up in bed, you slowly were dozing off as he rambled on and on about: what kind of house you guys were going to get, how many pets you were going to have, where you were going to spend the holidays together. Never had you had a partner like Changbin talk so enthusiastically about your future together. It was comforting to know he felt you were the person for him.

៚ Hyunjin

paints/draws you every chance he gets

let’s you put his hair in whatever kind of style you want.

Today, you were thinking of putting little space buns in. Tying them up in cute white lace ribbons. Oh how you had a plan to accomplish this style on him. You thought he would look so cute! You walked over to where he was in the kitchen, starting dinner for the two of you. He chuckled a little bit as he saw you approach with a mischievous smirk on your face. “Oh no, what do you want now?”

You shook your head, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Can I do your hair after dinner?” You asked, with puppy dog eyes. You knew he couldn’t resist that look in your eye. He was weak to it no matter how much he refused to admit it.

He sighed heavily, “I guess. What are you thinking about doing this time?”

“Don’t worry about it, you’ll love it!”

៚ Jisung

shy when you first met

now he never shuts up but you don't mind

When you had first met him, he barely spoke a few words to you. For months, you had gone on thinking he had hated you and was just saying 'hello' just to keep civility. It was just a matter of appearances to you. So when he had approached you, well more like pushed into it, you were surprised. He smiled nervously at you. "Hi," he nervously chuckled. You greeted him back with a bright smile on your face. "Do you, and you can say no," Oh that's what he was going to ask. "want to go on a.. you know, date with me? Like get coffee or something?"

Your usual poker face was not doing it's job right now, so you gave him a confused look. "I thought you hated me?"

He was taken aback by you, "No! I-"

"He just sucks at talking to cute people!" His friend shouted from a little ways away. He begrudgingly agreed.

You laughed, "Sure. A coffee date."

៚ Felix

cuddles are a must!

bakes you your favorite sweet treats after a long day you've had

Oh how you needed him. You wanted to be wrapped up in his arms. You just wanted to be comforted by him right now. Being yelled at all day by your boss was not how you thought today would go. So, as soon as you walked through the door of your apartment, you walked up to Felix, wrapping your arms around him and tried your best not to cry. Felix turned around, hugging you back, looking at you in the eyes. Immediately, he knew something was up, "Come on, let's go to the couch. We can watch some movies. Seems like it was rough today." That was more than enough for you.

៚ Seungmin

will win you claw machine prizes or at least give it his all to try and win

doesn’t want to give up even when he’s spent way too much money on a silly little key chain you liked

You both had walked by a claw machine after your dinner date. You mentioned how cute the puppy keychain had been and not even a second later, Seungmin was pulling out his wallet and inserting some money into the machine to try and get it for you. He had spent the last half an hour and who knows how much money on this machine. “It’s okay, we can try again some other time.” You had told him, was he going to listen? No.

“No, I almost had it! You saw that!”

You sighed and took a seat on a bench nearby. It was going to take a while. He eventually did get it but after spending 2 hours and who knows how much money. But you did treasure that expensive keychain before it broke 3 days later from getting caught on a door knob.

៚ Jeongin

could not wait to introduce you to his family, because they couldn’t believe he had a real life partner

your personal photographer

“Right there! Don’t move!” he shouted at you as he took pictures at golden hour. You guys had been out here for the past three hours. You had just gotten your hair done and he wanted to capture it in all of it’s fresh glory but now, you were just exhausted. You appreciated the effort he was going through to get the perfect shots but right now, you just wanted a fat nap.

“I think we got the shot, babe.” You shouted, as he took one last picture.

“Just a few more minutes!”

#stray kids fluff #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids #yang jeongin #kim seungmin #lee yongbok #lee felix #han jisung #han skz #hwang hyunjin #seo changbin #lee minho #lee know #christopher bang #bang chan

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popironrye · 9 months ago

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The Lost Boys

Leisure Headcanons

💋 David 💋

Is a skilled fire arm shooter. (Loves the cowboy aesthetic)

Has his own gun hidden in the cave.

Doesn't get the chance too often, but will ride a horse when the chance arises.

Likes wood carving. Mostly non specific whittling into basic shapes or animals. It helps him relax.

Movie nut! When the boys go the Max's store to fool around, David makes sure to tuck a movie or two that catches his eye in his coat. Tends to watch them alone, all the questions from Paul would just grate on his nerves too much.

I imagine David would be like REALLY good at origami for no particular reason. He doesn't even try, just once the boys do it just because and he's just the best at it.

I don't know if vampires can emerge in water in the lost boys lore, but if they can David loves to swim. Chilling in water clears his mind.

💀 Dwayne 💀

Skater boi! Does a lot of sick tricks, but when you can levitate it's less impressive. XD

Doesn't care for guns, but likes archery. Hammers his own arrow heads. Dwayne and David like to pick a spot in the woods to shoot make shift targets.

A real book worm. Will spend a lot of time just silently reading for hours.

Takes up knitting from time to time. He prefers hand knitted blankets and throws rather then the store ones.

Likes to make jewelry. Made his own necklace.

Enjoys all types of puzzles. Cross word, jigsaw, and brain teasers.

Can sew and offers to sew up holes made in all the clothes the boys decide not to get new ones.

🌿 Paul 🌿

Can play the guitar.

Also likes to sing, and is pretty good at it. Wanted to start a band, but the other boys weren't up for it.

Has the biggest music collection and is always hogging the tabletop/cassette/cd player.

Amateur photography. Just likes to take photos randomly. Some are really artsy.

Got really into tie dye for a while. Although he might have just been high.

When he wants to relax, Paul really likes to stargaze. Laying outside the cave looking at the sky and hearing the waves of the ocean just makes him feel at peace.

When David isn't using the tv monitor, Paul enjoys quite a few video games. He also likes to take on the arcade and carnival games at the boardwalk.

🪶 Marko 🪶

Aside from pigeons, Marko will try to domesticate a number of animals to the cave, including stray dogs, cats, deer, badgers, squirrel, foxes, bats, and even a black bear once.

He in fact did NOT domesticate a black bear, but he did wrestle one.

He does his own patchwork on his jacket.

Like David, he likes to sculpt into wood, but he usually carves patterns and landscapes into more grand pieces.

He's also a skilled painter. Mostly he'll paint murals on sections of the cave David says is ok for him to paint on.

He collects sea shells on the beach.

He'll style the others hair. Especially David who he'll cut and dye in the way he likes best.

🔥Pack Activities🔥

Dart throwing. The bigger the target the better. David and Dwyane are very competitive at this one specifically.

Rollerblading. Put wheels on shoes, what more can you want?

Listening to music. The boys have very wide music tastes and sometimes they cross over and they all like the same stuff. They take turns around the player of their choice to just smoke, drink, and listen to the sounds of the music plays.

Card games. Specifically poker when they're all together. They make things more interesting when they make bets.

And of course motocycle cruising and board walk loitering.

Something that always strikes me with vampires in fiction and indeed with any immortal creature with the high and emotional intelligence of humans. IMMORTALITY IS FUCKING BORING!

I mean, think about it. Imagine you're given all the free time in the world with very little responsibility with no fear of getting sick or tired allowed to do pretty much whatever you want. What would you do? Cause I would go stir crazy. So I came up with these dumb little head canons on how I image the boys specifically would pass the time in their little vampire lives that doesn't revolve around murdering and feeding off of people.

Of course cruising on their bikes come to mind. And there's a couple in the movie we get to see like Dwayne's skateboarding and Marko's fondness for pigeons but I wanted to throw more possibilities out there. :3

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #david tlb #david the lost boys #dwayne tlb #dwayne the lost boys #paul tlb #paul the lost boys #marko tlb #marko the lost boys #tlb headcanons #my headcanons #headcanon #hc #share your thoughts

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dgdraws · 23 days ago

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A Water-mew, featuring all my brother's cats past and present

Adapting this classic into "cats playing poker" was a fun challenge! Process pics, details and original reference under the cut :)

Did you know there is actually a series of those dogs playing poker paintings? They were commissioned around 1900 to sell cigars. After picking one to reference based on the number of cats I needed to include, I photobashed myself a reference using pictures of my models:

Made a rough base from that and resized to a canvas big enough to print in good quality

Then I painted the cats, thinking I was nearly done, but of course setting myself up for two solid weeks of background and props and refinement. Also the two at either edge needed to be mirrored since I flipped the photo to make the ref! Reaaally glad I caught that early on.

Here's a side by side of the original A Waterloo and my version:

Now, you may be wondering why my expressive cat is not seated where the expressive dog is. The explanation lies in two factors, the story of the painting and the dispositions of these cats. [content warning for animal/pet death]

If you know about poker, you can interpret this scene. If you're like ma and you have no idea how poker works, you need someone to explain, so here goes:

based on the cards laying first in the middle, from right to left the dogs have in front of them a good hand, a nothing hand, a decent hand, an amazing hand and the last one has no cards before them, just chips.

That chips only dog won the round, and you can see their cards in the middle on top of the others, a pair of twos, which is an absolute dogshit hand (if you will pardon the pun).

Paired with the title of the piece, A Waterloo, we gather the leftmost dog just bluffed their way into a big win, and the expressive dog next to them just folded a stellar hand that should have won easily.

Part two, the cat's dispositions.

Left to right we have Bubbles, Sophie, Winston, Tater and Kali.

When I ask myself, which of these cats would take advantage of the rest? a clear winner emerges,

Bubbles, the bird boned runt who ate her siblings to survive before she was rescued from the trailer they'd been abandoned in. She is tiny, she weighs all of three pounds and she has the attitude of a cat 30x her size. She would 100% do this poker move and then she'd rub it in all their faces.

And poor Sophie ended up being sat in the chair with the best hand bc Kali is a weird beast like rightmost dog and Tater is that border collie in all but form and Winston is literally the doofy patriarch of this little clan

so, Sophie goes between him and Bubbles the Bluffer. And well, Sophie simply would not go 😱. She was the most tranquil cat. She just wanted to lay somewhere comfy and occasionally get pet.

In every single picture I have of her from 8 years of holiday visits she is making that same vacant stare as depicted. That is just who she was, so if she got tricked into folding an amazing hand in poker, at most she would do her weird grunt meow or squeak indignantly before waddling off to lay somewhere more comfy.

RIP Sophie, you were a real one.

RIP Winston, too, for that matter.

They were siblings and our family's first cats. It was really nice to spend some time with them this holiday season, just like the old days :)

I can't end this without pointing out my favorite detail:

I created different suits especially for a world where cats are the dominant species. For black we have fish and pawprint and red has cat heads and yarn balls. It was incredibly tedious getting all these on the cards, making sure they still had the right hands because that's actually important to the story, and creating two face card designs (😭) but it was worth it!!!

#my stuff #reflections #cats of tumblr #dogs playing poker #cats playing poker #artists on tumblr #cat drawing #cat art #digital artwork #digital painting #cat painting

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mistyresolve · 2 years ago

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| Sunder - Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (Edited)

Word Count - 2.2k

Summary - Y/n is caught of guard when they discover a stray soldier had stuck around after his mission. Curiosity piqued, they decide to stay and talk with Ghost to figure out why he never went home.

Warnings/Tags - Fluff, Angst, Explicit language and description, Mentions of death (including a child and his family), Ghost is morally grey in this one

A/N - sometimes writing about Ghost makes me sad :( also i don’t know if this is fluff or angst my apologies

Masterlist ❤︎ Tag List Form

You hadn’t expected anyone to be lingering in the 141 barracks with most of them having left for home after their recent assignment. You expected all of them to return home actually. But Simon Riley was slouched on the couch in the common area.

He was still in his gear, save his bulletproof vest and gun. The zipper to his black tactical shirt was undone, the chain to his dog tags peeking out from beneath the fabric. His mask was lying on the couch beside him, and he had yet to wipe off the black paint, faded from wear and time. It still lined his eyes and smeared down his cheeks. Not a single light was on but you could still make out enough to recognize it as him with the help of the moonlight leaking in through the windows.

“Oh,” you jumped, the stack of mail in your hand flying up to cover your eyes. The mail you collected for both Price and Gaz as they requested, and you came here intending to just leave it on the table in the commons room for when they return. You were a close friend of Gaz’s and spent every Friday night at their barracks playing pool or cards with him and whatever other member wished to join in that night. You’ve met Ghost a couple of times and played a game of cards with him a handful of times. He won poker every single time, his ability to bluff and lie always floored you. He’s taken hundreds of dollars from you.

Not a single one of those interactions has he ever removed his mask.

You waved the envelopes in front of your face, your eyes squeezed shut for added reassurance, “I’m just dropping off some mail for Gaz and Price,” you told him. If only to make sure he didn’t think you were trying to sneak in thinking everyone was gone and snoop. This time when you dropped the mail from your face, your eyes were on the floor.

He huffed a laugh, the sound deep and reverberating. There wasn’t a hint of humour in it, “You can look up. I’m not going to bite,” he lilted. He sounded exhausted like he was latching onto consciousness with a death grip, forcing it to remain with him.

You hesitated, turning the thought over in your head. He knew that you knew if you so much as thought about revealing his identity he would hunt you down and string you up to use as an example.

You dragged your gaze up the length of his body. He was pure muscle and long limbs. He wasn’t built with cosmetics in mind but with the need for unbridled strength and power. His broad shoulders and chest were on display as he rested his arms on the back of the couch. He devoured the space. He looked like he was made too big for this world.

You lingered on his face for longer than you’d like to admit. He’s always caught your attention but you had your reservations as to why you never actively pursue him. He didn’t seem like the kind of man you’d take home to meet your parents for Christmas. He didn’t seem like a man capable of something like love. He always left you with the impression that he was a ticking time bomb. His humanity held together by sheer will and spite.

But looking at him now, nil the mask, he looked so mundane. He wasn’t at all like his many nicknames and reputations. He wasn’t Azrael, an angel of death. He wasn’t the Grim Reaper. The scars on his skin were evidence enough that he was capable of pain, injury, and eventually death.

He wasn’t Death because it was Death that stalked him; It followed him into his sleep and it hovered over his shoulders as both his ally and foe.

Without the mask, he was just like everyone else. He was also handsome. The type of handsome someone has to grow into. Hard lines and dark features. The oily black paint and dark room made it harder to distinguish every one of his features but you didn’t need to see them. Now, a small part of you wished you had tried your shot with him.

“I thought everyone went home?” you placed the mail on the table, sorting through them by person so you had somewhere other than him to look at.

“They did,” he quipped. His patience was evidently thinned, not by you, but by something else.

The inquisitive side of you perked up, ears turning in on him. You eyed him from your spot at the table and your attention snagged on the glass in his hand, the amber liquid inside tilted to one side, “Everyone including you,” you specified.

He leaned his head all the way back on the cushions, his face pointed to the ceiling, “No. Not me. I usually don’t.”

“Hmm,” you moved the kitchen and opened the fridge to find the sparkling water you left at the bottom. The can cracked and fizzed and the faint smell of strawberries and pomegranates wafted up, “No one you want to see back home?” it wasn’t that uncommon for someone to not want to return home, some people joined just to get away from it. Maybe he was one of those people.

“Nope,” he popped the p, his head rising back up to look at you. He wasn’t much of a talker to begin with but this was different.

“No movies at the theatre you were looking forward to?” Since there wasn’t any source of entertainment at the base most of the soldiers raved about the movie theatres once they got back from leave. Although, the thought of the man sitting in front of you going to a theatre and eating popcorn was laughable.

“I’m more of a show kind of guy,” he followed you with his eyes as you made your way to the couch opposite him.

“How was the mission?” you went for the elephant in the room. Gaz had stopped by your office on his way to the air stripe, he sat with you for an hour to discuss the mission. You knew the result of the mission, but you had a feeling that even Gaz was leaving bits and pieces out. Leading you the conclusion that something had gone awry.

“A success.”

Okay. Not really what you were looking for.

“I would expect nothing less from you and the 141, and you don’t usually come back to base until you’ve done your job. That’s why I didn’t ask if it was a success,” you tilted your head at him, “And if it was a success why are you not celebrating? Instead, you’re sitting in an empty barracks, in the dark, drunk. So, tell me, How was the mission?”

“I’m not drunk. I’m drinking,” he pulled at the syllables with his tongue, emphasizing each one.

Temper.

“Hang me on a technicality,” you deadpanned, he needed a little pushing, you just had to be careful not to poke any bruises when doing so.

“I don’t need a psychologist to be psychoanalyzing me and writing ‘unfit for work’ all over my file,” His teeth flashed white in the dark as he snarled. He was never this volatile, not that you’ve ever witnessed anyway. He was like an injured animal back into a corner.

“I was a counsellor, not a psychologist. I didn’t make diagnoses, I just listen and give advice where it’s wanted,” you reply, referring to your old civilian job before joining the force and working with the soldiers here. You had shifted career paths to health promotion and providing resources to anyone who came and asked for them. You were passionate about it, and wanted to help every last one of these soldiers. The only issue was that not many of them wanted the help, and Ghost fell into that category, “Whatever is going on in that head of yours, I can assure you I’ve heard it before. If not worse. Besides, I’m off the clock. Nothing you say will be repeated or recorded. Nothing anyone ever says is.”

“Have you cornered anyone else from the 141?” he looked at you from beneath his brows, suspicion creeping in on him.

You shrugged. The truth was that every member of the 141 has visited your office at one point or the other. All except him. He was on your radar but you were going to wait until he came to you. For now, you were extending a hand towards him. Whether he took it now, later or not at all was entirely up to him and you’d back down the moment he expressed that he had no desire to open up.

You waited, folding your legs underneath in a show of, I can wait for you all night.

He was completely still, his gaze glazing over in thought, in remembrance. There was a long moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that was making room for something else, something heavier, “They killed a little girl. She couldn’t have been older than eight,” he finished the last of his drink, “Didn’t want her to talk, so they shot her in the head and left her body for us to find. I stepped right over her and I still couldn’t even look at her face. Seems like the world’s greatest sin, right? Killing a child like that,” his gaze dropped to his feet, “But I’ve been thinking…I would have done the same if it meant protecting a mission. Seems like a pretty good trade to me, a single life to protect the rest,” He poured himself another half glass of whiskey in preparation to nullify whatever feelings were bubbling up, “I’m really, uhh,” he cleared his throat, “I’m really no different from the men and woman I’ve killed. We go out there and believe we’re doing the world a favour, but who’s to say we aren’t the villain in their story?”

“You have to make some of the hardest decisions a single human has to make, and no, it’s not fair. Sometimes there is no right answer, no better option. You sacrifice every part of yourself for the sake of peace. So of course you’re going to lose in the end. Even if the mission was a success, you still lose. There are no winners in war, Ghost,” You pulled one of the decorative pillows to your chest. It was a harsh truth, but it was one that you wholeheartedly believed, and he didn’t need pretty or sugar-coated words.

Devastation rang as you noticed his expression. He had been expecting you to hate him for his confession. Be disgusted with him. This man thinks he’s fighting this war by himself, that’s he’d completely alone in this world. To think he’s been dealing with these thoughts and feelings by himself. Ruminating over them till there is nothing left but self-loathing and abhorrence.

“You’re not the monster you think you are. Maybe a little fucked up, yes, but who isn’t in this line of work?”

He was quiet, his mouth a thin line as he contemplated your words. You could see he was listening, hearing you, but he didn’t necessarily believe you. That was okay though, you weren’t expecting him to. He’s tormenting himself for so long that cracking through that kind of damage would take time. Either way, you formed a metaphoric bridge to him, and gave him an alternative.

His shoulders loosened after a long while, “I’m not going to become a regular,” he stated, meaning this kind of conversation was not something he planned on making a norm for himself and he wasn’t going to be showing up at my office anytime soon or very often.

“That’s a real shame, I quite like your company,” you tossed the pillow to the side, stretching out your legs before standing up to leave.

You were just picking up your can of sparkling water when he said, “Stay.”

It wasn’t a question or a demand, but rather a submission. He didn’t want to be alone right now. Knew that he needed someone else's voice to drone out his thoughts.

You slowly slid back into the couch, understanding what he was needing at this moment. Inside your head, you jumped into the air and clicked your heels together, “And do what?”

He sighed and his eyes fluttered shut, “Just talk. About anything. Not this, but anything else.”

You pondered for a second, “You know, I’ve always wanted to see what you looked like under that mask. It’s been one of life's greatest mysteries.”

His eyes popped back open, a smile tugging at his lips, the hint of a dimple appearing, “Not a word to anyone else, you hear me?”

“A word about what?” you feigned ignorance.

His smile grew the slightest bit, “Exactly.”

Masterlist ❤︎ Tag List Form

A/N - I used Ghosts Azrael skin religiously on MW 2019

Tag List - @thychuvaluswife ❤︎ @shuttlelauncher81 ❤︎ @lostinsideourminds ❤︎ @purplefishingline ❤︎ @v1naco

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod #cod ghost #cod fanfic #modern warfare two #MW2 #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley fluff #simon ghost riley angst #MistyGhosties

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whataboutsimple · 4 months ago

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Dad! Gabriel headcanons?

Aha! Dadbriel! We love Dadbriel here, right, chat?

But beware, dear Anon, those headcanon are pure random with no indefication of who the child is.

LGBT? He has no clue, how that works, though he knows he himself is a part of it. Still very supportive! It really doesn't matter for him who you are, as long as you're his child.

He probably is that one dad, who everyone tries to flirt with, so you always ready to jump between him and some lonely women to say "Fck off, that's MY dad."

Like playing cards? Maybe poker? Great, he loves those to and would be more than happy to teach you the rules! Though somehow he's always the one to win. Sometimes you think he cheats, but you can't catch him doing this.

Sometimes you both are to lazy to do anything, so pizza for dinner? Great! Two cheese with pepperoni please.

He will always try to participate in your hobbies, of course if you'll let him. Skiing? Cool, he loves it! Football? Not his thing, but he will gladly cheer you from tribunes. Art? Oh, it'll be fun, he'll probably end up all messy in paint or glue.

He will happily go to pride month with you and probably ride you on his shoulders.

Someone's bullying you in schoo/collegel? Smack them in the fa- oh, wait, he supposed to be a responsible adult. Let's talk to the teacher and parents! Didn't work out? Okay, now you can smack them in the face, don't worry, daddy will deal with everything else.

He will help you with math or history, but when it comes to languages, better go and ask uncle Soren.

Before you'll even consider the thought of dating, he will have the talk with you. Not that kind of talk, but something more like "You can date whoever you want, but remember: in the end of the day it's you who should have the last word in a relationship, deal? And you can always come to daddy if they're not good."

He will try to teach you how to cook! If you're good at it, than great! You will usually prepare meal together the way you both want. But if you're not good, he will pretend he doesn't see you stealing the ingredients from the table.

You can get any pet you want! Crocodiles, snakes, frogs, cats, dogs, panteras. Just remember that it'll be your and only your responsibility.

If you had a fight with him, he probably will be the first one to come with apologize and somehow will make it up to you. Though you know you probably were too harsh on him, while he was just caring and worrying.

Daddy always got you, no matter what! So if you, for example, have a friend who need to stay somewhere, you know he will let them in without too much questions. Teachers are being unfair towards you? That's okay, he'll handle it. Maybe boss from your workplace behaving strange? Don't worry, he's got it.

There will be lazy days, when you two do nothing, but watch TV and eat leftovers from what you had before.

He will be strict towards your health, so if it means you need some veggies, than you two will eat veggies, and no, puppy eyes won't save you, he hates it as much as you do, but health is important!

You will have the coolest birthday parties ever! The preparation will be started months before it, but if in the last minute you won't feel like celebrating, that's okay, you can just eat some pizza and throw pieces of cake at each other.

He will cry when you'll be moving out. It doesn't mean he will try to hold you from that, but he totally will cry "My baby is an adult now."

He probably lost you once or twice in the mall, and was so panicked while looking for you. Meanwhile you print fell asleep between clothes while hiding from him as a prank. He won't be mad in the end, but totally will be scared.

He will ask you to teach him videogames! But probably will fail miserably everywhere expect Stardew Valley. His favourite bachelor is Harvey!

It's kinda easy to prank him, but he'll always return it with twice a strength, so you don't do it that much.

Sometimes he'll be sad, but that's okay! He's a human too. All you need to do is to hug him, while he's mind is resting.

That's all I can think off rn. It can be about you, but it can be about Petra and Jesse as well! Hope you enjoyed, dear Anon!<3

#mcsm #minecraft story mode #mcsm gabriel #mcsm dadbriel #mcsm dad!gabriel #simpletalks #simplegoingcrazy

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musettastone · 5 months ago

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Nobody asked, but here are some of my personal headcanons for various Lucky Luke characters hehe

Lucky Luke

☆Luke is short for Lucas, but nobody ever calls him that except his mother

☆Luke's father (who wasn't in his life, ditched before he was born) was actually an outlaw (though not a very successful one). Unlike Luke, he was a terrible shot.

☆Luke got Jolly imported from London and initially found Rantanplan as a puppy in Texas (before he became a prison "guard dog")

☆Luke is 24

☆Luke's dream vacation spot is Belgium (which is why his outfit is based off of the Belgian flag 🇧🇪)

☆ Fingers helped Luke to quit smoking (semi-canon I guess because "Fingers" was the first issue where he stopped smoking completely)

☆Luke was born in Colorado, but his true home is ✨️Texas✨️

The Daltons

☆William and Jack are identical twins, although Jack is taller because he ate healthier growing up lol. They both like to confuse other people on who is who and often switch names and pretend to be each other. Even Luke can't keep up with who is who.

☆Joe has NRP2 dwarfism, a rare type of proportional dwarfism. He is about 4' 5" due to this condition, although he has never received an official diagnosis (because it's the 1800s, lol). Averell, on the other hand, is 6' 8" and often has to bend to get through doors.

☆The only food Averell hates is chocolate

☆Joe would never admit it, but he has a hobby for stargazing and often likes to analyze constellations

☆William loves to cheat at cards while Jack prefers to play fair

☆Ages: Joe: 26, Jack and William: 24 and Averell, 22

Billy The Kid

☆Billy's full name is Henry McCarty (just like the real Billy The Kid lol), but he will smack you (or try to at least) if you call him Henry

☆Billy has a secret passion for baking. He loves sweets, especially pastries, and will often make them by the dozen

Fingers

☆Real name is Freddie (he ALWAYS spells it with the "ie", he insists)

☆Always getting his nails done, and he always has on 2 inch blinged out acrylics (another reason why they call him Fingers, lol)

☆Born in the West Indies, specifically Martinique.

☆Fingers is a traveler by heart, so he is always going to and from different countries, his current residence being the United States, his previous being France.

☆Best friends with Pat Poker, they love doing card tricks together

Pat Poker

☆Born and raised in Chicago (pre fire), which is where he learned to play cards. Cheating runs in his blood, as his father, grandfather, cousins, and siblings were also huge card sharks.

☆Builds card houses for fun with his gang

☆When he doesn't cheat, he actually hates poker just because it is too unpredictable for him, lol

☆Favorite colors are pink and purple. He has his office painted pink and has rhinestones with his initials on his gun

Others

☆Phil Defer is like 7 feet tall, even taller than Averell. He is also best friends with Elliot Belt.

☆August Oyster and Calamity Jane secretly would like to befriend each other but would NEVER admit it

☆Waldo Badminton has a blackbelt in jujutsu

☆Mad Jim spent hours in the mirror just trying to get that Lucky Luke combover right lol

☆Ma Dalton and Pa Dalton often went on robbing sprees for their date nights

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gerbelx2000-blog · 2 months ago

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Headcanons For P5 Villains(Shadow Forms)

Shadow Kamoshida/Asmodeus: Hates wearing anything that isn’t a cape and a speedo(in other words, shirt, pants, or god forbid tuxedos) Has a secret crush on Kaneshiro. When he gets excited or frisky, he wags his demon tail like a dog. This causes demon ears and horns to sprout, and…I think you know why. Is friends with Belial, only due to the fact that they like causing chaos in the Malten City. Is scared of Leviathan.

Ichiryusai Madarame/Azazel: Is actually an ink covered chameleon that can detach his body parts with each facial painting of his boss form. When in human form, his tail is tucked away underneath his dress. He gets harassed by Asmodeus into painting “like one of his French shadows”. Enjoys a nice little tea with Mammon.

Junya Kaneshiro/Bael: Usurped Beelzebub(original demon of Gluttony). Incredible bug whisperer that has a habitat for his bug minions. Since he’s an insect and a demon of gluttony, that means he’s attracted to sweets. Has beef with Leviathan after a falling out of poker, ultimately leading to getting kicked out of the Deadly Sins. Both Asmodeus and Bael would find ways to manipulate each other, but it ultimately fails into them having an attraction to each other.

Futaba Sakura/Abbadon/Real Name: Classified: A narcoleptic necromancer that speaks in ancient forbidden tongue to anyone who dares wake her up. Her true form would melt one’s mind, but she’d rather not show it to anyone due to her laziness. Sleeps in a tombstone.

Wakaba Isshiki/Belphegor: Speaks in memes and riddles, is a huge alcoholic, expert tele-porter, and can easily pop out of nowhere in the middle of a group during conversation. Every time someone mentions something sensitive, like her daughter, she would melt their bodies with battery acid, drain their souls, and turn them into marketable plushies(due to the fact that she likes to stay away from “the curse”). Will sometimes spam Mammon spams on emails “Cute Single American Ladies Near You. Click Now To Chat With Them.” and beg him to let her puke in his toilet when drunk, much to his chagrin. Is a fan of game shows and 90s commercials, Calls Samael Oedipus—much to leader of the Deadly Sins’ ire, and lastly is a giant cat centaur with wings.

Kunikazu Okumura/Mammon: Can breathe in space due to his body having unique physiology adapted to survive in extreme environments. His vacation spots is the Planet Neptune, due to its icy waters and atmosphere. His hair can turn bright light like a star when angry and not contained by his space suits. Is commissioned by several people regarding his professional technological skills, such as Bael’s piggy bank, Leviathan’s armor, and Samael’s canons.

Sae Nijima/Leviathan: A avant gambler that follow the rule of “The House Always Wins” will murder you if you disobey her rules, a perfectionist that hates anyone that isn’t her, swims in the darkest, coldest pits of the ocean. Is loyal to Shido, and expects everyone else to get their shit together and be loyal to him as well. Is the most fashionable compared to all other shadows.

Patricia Ivanya Utsunomiya/Belial: Rock and Roll musician of the metaverse. Gets into squabbles with those decades older than her, including Mammon and Azazel. Wrestles Asmodeus for fun. Hates long lectures and baths, but loves pranks and demolition. Because of Belial’s Russian descent, she speaks in Russian to which Mammon can understand. Her boss form is a giant colored feathered raptor.

Masayoshi Shido/Samael: Ultimate leader of the Deadly Sinners. Extremely competitive. Will play chess with Leviathan on their off days. Has Chimerian superpowers—the ear shuttering roar of a lion, the deadly kill of a snake, and the eloquence of a sheep. Hosts many galas and boat-related parties. Telepathically uses his treasure as the steering wheel for his palace and can cause floods with his hands when needed to. At first he is careful and composed, but when the chips are down and he is cornered, he will freak out and cause some stupid irrational shenanigans that can harm in Malten City.

That’s all the Headcanons, let me know what you guys think and if you want,tell me what your Headcanons for them should be.

#persona 5 #persona 5 royal #suguru kamoshida #ichiryusai madarame #junya kaneshiro #wakaba isshiki #kunikazu okumura #futaba sakura #oc tag #sae niijima #masayoshi shido

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everythingwasalreadypicked · 4 months ago

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Alabaster Corey Torrington meets the Persea Elizabeth Jackson when he's nine and the other boy is eight. They have just become neighbors on the landing and their apartments are seven steps away from each other.

Al is six apples tall and his bones peek through his freckled skin, Percie is even smaller, but he has a small but healthy amount of baby fat and a sparkle in his sea-green eyes. Al's father is a hardworking man who works tirelessly, but this doesn't make him a good father. Miss Sally, with her kind blue eyes and the smell of sugar dough, feels it's her duty to feed and care for the neighbor's strange boy, just as she does for her own son.

And Percie, who has almost no friends because there are very few people under twenty-three in their house and those who are either already working teenagers or babies screaming at night, is happy to see him. No one has ever been so happy about the very fact of the existence of Alabaster, it strangely warms his heart.

The first question that Alabaster asks Percie is: "why do you have a girl's name?", Percie laughs and it sounds like a surf whisper almost like on TV: "Mama didn't have the money to find out who I was when I was in her tummy. And she was sure that I was a girl". Any other boy would have been embarrassed by this and Al might even have gotten a broken nose or lip, but Percie seems to react to everything with laughter and fun.

Their friendship is like spring flowers. They spend every spare minute together because Percie's stepfather is not very good and he plays poker all the time, and Al's father may not be home all day, and he is always too tired to think about his son.

They take care of the flowers in the window sills, walk around the block holding hands for confidence, feed stray dogs who wag their tails at the sight of them and happily lick their faces, paint in a small attic under the roof on old papers with old paints and with absolute pride hang their drawings on its peeling walls. They spend the night together sometimes, when neither Gabe nor Miss Sally are in the Jackson's small apartment, falling asleep on the unfolded sofa under a warm scratchy blanket, Percie's soft cheek on Al's sharp shoulder and Al wants it to last forever.

Alabaster Corey Torrington is twelve, Persea Elizabeth Jackson is eleven when Mr. Torrington's efforts finally bear fruit and he and his son can move to a more prestigious place closer to his new prestigious job. Alabaster impulsively does stupid things with a valley of despair, Persie has soft lips and tastes like a cookie, after his cheeks turned red and his eyes opened wide like a doll, Alabaster shamefully runs without words.

Lieutenant Kronos Alabaster C. Torrington is seventeen, and the hero of Olympus Percy Jackson is sixteen when they meet again. Their lips are burning and they are both shamefully silent.

Cuteeeeeeee

I'm not immune to baby Al I fear

#childhood friends to lovers AND childhood friends to enemies?#hell yeah #pjo #alabaster torrington #percy jackson #percybaster #watermagic

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bvckbiter · 4 months ago

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Lieutenant Kronos Alabaster C. Torrington is seventeen, and the hero of Olympus Percy Jackson is sixteen when they meet again. Their lips are burning and they are both shamefully silent.

CHILDHOOD PERCYBASTER???!/!/?/ THIS IS SO CUTE OMG 🥹🤲🏼🤲🏼 tbh i always love the idea of alabaster getting taken care of (as he deserves) by sally, that boy is in need of so much normal, healthy parental guidance

thank you for sending this in!! 💕

#percybaster #my asks #alabaster torrington #percy jackson

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popculturebuffet · 1 year ago

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Art Therapy

Charlie: Okay guys, I gave you a few hours to express yourself with art, to help work through your pain let's see what you have. First up is angel Angel:(unveils a canvas that's dog's playing poker, but with dildos) Ta-Da! Charlie: okay... I don't think you got the point of the exercise but it still looks... goooooddddd? I think? Sir Pentious? Sir Pentious: I prefer a more hands on medium (Unveils a statue of himself with over the top muscles with eggboys at the base... that's also weeping uncontrollably and wearing a backwards cap) I call it "Sir Pentious' true masculinity" Charlie: oh okay your showing both how you wish to see yourself but also your vunerablity underneath. Very good. Sir Pentious: This is how I look every day. Underneath this suit is a row of rippling muscle. (He flexes.. as alastor casually burns his suit off.. and also starts burning sir pentious, revealing his skinny ass snake physique) Vaggie: (Sighs) I'll put him out. Again. Alastor: I wouldn't rush, his tears will do that. While we wait, it's time to show MY piece. Charlie: Oh you particpiated.. that's ... lovely. You really don't have to. (Alastor unveils his painting.. which is made of real demon blood and shows allistor in his more demonic form eting a unicorn) SHITWHATWHYNOOOOO Alastor: For the look on your face. It took ages to get all the blood. Charlie: That poor unicorn... Alastor: Was delicoius Vaggie:(Having put sir pentious out, whose standing ashamed and shirtless.. and lightly singed. ) Alright cut it out. Your lucky I don't stab you. Alastor: What a concidence that's what I tell all of you every night while you sleep. Vaggie: Okayyyy since Charlie is Charlie: (Sobbing uncontrollably) Vaggie: Let's.. move on to someone less disturbing. Who's next? Nifty: (Raises her hand excitedly) Vaggie: Fuuuuuuckkk Nifty: (lifts curtain over her scuplture without anyone asking. It's her, in her dominatrix gear, standing atop a gagged and geared up sir pentious) Vaggie: Okay that's ... fucked but in a diffrent way than I expected? good job? Nifty: (claps excitedly) Sir Pentious: I... have mixed feelings about this but nonmetheless with yoru permission it shall go in my gallery. Eggboi: You mean the closet boss? Sir Pentious: Yes my closet gallery! Nifty: I'd be honored. I promise to visit every night. Just like I do for every last one of you. Vaggie: O-kay. we're getting better locks. Husk you do anything? Husk: Fuck no Vaggie: Terrific. We're done. (Drags a still sobbing charlie off) Let's go get you some ice cream champ. You tried your best.

#hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #vaggie #angel dust #husk #nifty #sir pentious #alastor

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futureplayboibunnie · 2 years ago

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‘’WICKED GAMES PT.4’’

Dr Strange x fem! reader

-it felt like i was writing a script for a movie with the dialogue in this. i need to write angst more often fr. i’m so excited to work on more chapters but this one is already a fave hehe xx

Casino nights weren't a mystery to you- playing the game was a skill that came with an undescribable ease and that only seemed to beam when you were a vipress at poker and blackjack. You weren't worried about Stephen either, the fact he actually brought a tux along with him was delightfully surprising. It was a completely normal thing to envision him in a suit- or better yet loosening up his bow tie...or making him wrap that bow tie around your wrists and make you struggle against-

You mentally kicked yourself as you smoothed the santin of your dress, locking eyes with the reflection of yourself in the mirror to ignore the direction of the way your thoughts were heading. Hm. The dress was too tight, it felt like you were suffocating your waist and tits but at least the oozing sex appeal would be somewhat useful. You kept a semi-automatic handgun on you if things went sour- you especially hated how cliché thigh holsters were but it was a tragic necessity. Having Stephen as your plus one would give you a moodicum of protection at least, you were expecting him to use his magic if everything fucked up but knowing him he'd rather die in a ditch than raise his finger to hurt a fly. You looked…fine? Your ass looked absolutely fantastic, you couldn't lie- you appeared rich and that was a much needed plus.

Enough scrutiny, you had to leave for a spectacular night with criminals playing Texas Hold'em.

When you creaked your bedroom door open, you stole a glance at Stephen who was already cleaned up and at his wits ends waiting for you to finish getting all dressed up. He was drinking the whiskey that you tried to stash for yourself, it was as if alcohol was the only constant you had with him. As your eyes raked up, you absolutely hated how tall he was. His presence obliterated everything else in the vacinity until he was the only thing you could focus on. As attractive as he may be, he was such a royal pain in the ass. When you said 'right’ he went 'left’ and when you said 'leave', he stayed. But your pride won out.

Stephen was just twiddling his thumbs like a bored housewife on a hot summers day, fucking hell you were taking your time and he would rather watch paint dry than wait around for you to finish whatever makeup and hairstyle your mind was set on. Stephen's ears pricked up when he heard the creak of the door, swivelling his head around he saw you in the doorway, nimble fingers putting liquid gold in your earlobes. His iced eyes were intent scanning your figure: swanlike neck and collarbone, smooth skin akin to liquid gold under the shitty ambient light, hair tumbling down like a waterfall and a banging body underneath that dress.

His eyes were tearing your clothes apart, he was foaming at the mouth like a savage dog with rabies. Instead of walking you into a lions den, he could just take that whiskey you both drank like water and take it as a body shot before watching the look of violent pleasure etched on your face when-

‘’I told you about the gawking, stop doing that.’’ You walked around him, heels clacking in a steady rhythm that echoed in the space of his head.

‘’I'm not, you just took a lifetime. Plus, you stole my whiskey. I'm not gawking, I'm glaring.’’

His mind was still racing with the thought of what he did the night previous. When he came home with blood tainting his marred fingers….

The guilded and blaring lights of the casino machines were slicing your eyes, the rich expensive tang of perfume and cologne hit your senses like a blinding brick wall and you had to tamper down the urge to roll your eyes at such a glaring need for attention. You were feeling a little out of your league and Stephen caught onto it. His eyes flickered to his side to see you and he bit the bullet and offered you his arm and to his consternation, you took it. You started walking into the function and the bulk of Stephen's bicep bewildered you- no it didn't, of course he was built like this, built in a way that would make even the Greek God's jealous. You had never experience the unexpected pleasure of being this close to Stephen which was weird considering you were practically living together. He didn't smell like the obnoxious scents the men around you harboured- his scent was of pine, spice and a dark wood- intensely real, authentic and incredibly heady.

‘’Wow, I can practically smell the entitlement.’’ You raised a brow when you murmured.

‘’Say that too loud and they'll have your ass for breakfast.’’ He taunted. To your dismay, he was right.

‘’I prefer my ass uneaten.’’ You were deadly serious and it made Stephen splutter.

Your eyes scanned the room and it immediately set to the glazed planes of the dancefloor where a small jazz trio were playing for a smattering of couples swaying to the sightless invisible music. Before you could think, you dragged Stephen along with you like a dog on a leash.

‘’What are you-?’’

‘’Shut up and follow me.’’ You gritted.

It was like you were showing a toddler how to ride a trike. Your grip on his hand was ferocious when you trailed him along with you to the dancefloor. You took his hands and placed them on your waist, he almost wanted to gasp with the sheer gall and certainty of your actions. What was it with him and unreliable, spontanious women? You immediately leaned in and positioned your head on his shoulder, enough to find the source of that intoxicating heady scent that was so irrevocably Stephen. Your lips were so fucking close to his ear and he felt an unnerving shiver course through his body, and with that you moved yourself in flow with the tender smooth jazz. What is it about jazz that made every single atmosphere so fucking sexy?

‘’What's your play?’’ Stephen questioned lowly and your heart started hammering against your chest already. God, he really made you that pathetic. The question could be applied to anything going on here: what was your play with the mafia? And what was your play with Stephen?

‘’I'm buying us some time. I don't want to charge in guns ablazing infront of these pricks, we need to lay low and scope before we swim with the sharks.’’

‘’I definitely see the Natasha Romanoff influence.’’ He grumbled in your ear with a boyish grin and you bit your lip to conceal your laugh.

Stephen's grip on you was loosening and it sent alarm bells ringing through your body.

‘’Hold me tighter.’’ You whispered in his ear like a siren.

He was hypnotised, his cock concurred.

Stephen knew you would be the death of him. The death of his self control, his professionalism and any sense of preservation he thought he had. He was a very sure man and he had never been sure of anything else when he said he wanted you. Being this close to you confirmed such a fact but when your hands flew to his hair when he was dancing with you, he was fucking done for and for that reason he held onto you tighter. You fit his body perfectly, tailor made. Like you were deliberately antagonising him. A purposeful act disguised as carefree flirtation.

‘’You're play is decent at best but what are you doing?’’ He said softly but it was the kind of nonchalant question that required an answer

‘’What do you mean Stephen?’’ You asked impassively. He retracted his face from near your ear to stare at you right in the eyes.

The way his eyes immediately locked with yours was slightly unsettling, it was as if you were going under intense inspection and analysing. Stephen was so closed off, his face had this remarkable ability to never reveal a single passing thought that was crowding his buzzing brain. You were both challenging each other with mere gazes, if this was what he got out of you already you were embarrassed to find out how you'd feel after he- Your eyes immediately dropped to his lips.

‘’What is it?’’ You repeated softer this time, breath warm and flowery with that little hit of the whiskey back home. That whiskey

‘’Are you going to get yourself hurt this time around?’’ Stephen finally responded with a huff. You rolled your eyes but you knew deep down in your heart that you were being incredibly reckless with yourself, it was only natural that people would get somewhat defensive.

‘'I can take care of myself.'’ You were a broken record at this point, but it was the only excuse you had that you truely believed in.

‘’Say that again and I swear to God.’’ Stephen scolded at you.

You took a breath before responding to his patronising threat, thinking carefully about what to say next.

‘’You're being very noble, Stephen.’’ You complimented him instead of berating his undermining comments about your work. Only an asshole wouldn't take it with shit eating pride. "Whatever for?’’

Stephen didn't know what to say, a good half of him was aching to be honest with you but you were making it so damn difficult.

He cocked his head and squinted his eyes before saying, ‘’The whiskey?’’

You stifled a knowing grin and instead gave him an agreeable smirk. The whiskey. You normally didn't like whiskey but the one Stephen picked out was simply incredible, it only proved he had impeccable taste. What was jarring was that it was dirt cheap, it made you wonder if he was actually the kind of man he was hellbent on getting across to others. On some days you have fleeting visions of you and Stephen sipping and drinking the dusk away on the balcony of the Sanctum, all expensive and shit- just how Stephen seems to live his life. And then on others, it seemed that the sheer crapiness of the motel, the whiskey was the perfect constant- homely. The only place where you had any kind of connection. It took you a while to realise in all this idle thinking you were staring blankly at his face.

‘’I'm resilient.’’ You stated, unknowing of what else to ease such a heavy mind.

‘’Then don't make me be.’’ Stephen was sincere and what made your heart dampen was that it was etched all over his face.

‘’Then tell me you trust me.’’

‘’I do. I do trust you.’’

It felt like the world was spinning the wrong way when he said those words, those fated words.

‘’I haven't given you any reason to be and I'm sorry about that.’’ You threaded your hands through his hair again and he had to stifle his urge to still his body at such a touch he longed for. It made him feel pathetic that you could get him in such a state so easily.

It felt...romantic in a way. It felt sad in a way too. Dancing with you to a distant sound of jazz and strings, pretending to be like the smattering of couples on the marble floor when in reality none of it was real. Maybe he did want to dance with you. Like any other type of boring banal vanilla couple but Stephen felt his troubled waters surge already. He could break you. And he doesn't want to be responsible for that when the day does inevitably come. Was he okay with hypocrisy? He had no idea.

You cut him off from his unnerving thoughts. ‘’Sometimes I worry about you Stephen. You drink all day, you're up all night. I-.’’ You breathed, your face twinged with anxiety if you looked close enough- and Stephen was very close. He didn't know how to talk anymore. Your face went from compassionate to hard and cold within a matter of mere seconds and that's when you leaned into his collar to inhale that frustrating intoxicating scent. Stephen's nose was nestled in your hair- you smelled fresh, sweet with heavy spiced layers. A confusing combination for an equally confusing woman.

‘’Feds found the guy that cut me up yesterday.’’ You said coolly.

‘’They did?’’ Stephen's tone was bitter. And he knew exactly why.

‘’His hands were cut off.’’ You leaned back to assess his face, eyes flicking from one feature to another. ‘’And he was beaten to death.’’

If he lied to you, there was no trust between you. You knew exactly what he did. But you didn't know why for.

‘’Were they.’’

‘’They found markings that they didn't understand. From what I recall, Eldreitch markings.’’

Shit. You didn't sound pissed. Or angry. Or any sort of primitive emotion. You looked lost, like a deer in the headlights. Stephen was desperate to tell you what he did for your honour, he wanted to recall the hours he spent cleaning the blood on his hands. He couldn't remember the last time he threw a punch let alone kill someone with his fists. It was worth it though. He'd do it over and over and over for you.

Humans as a species want a lot of things: money, sex, fame. In every heart though, there beats one true ineffable desire. One that shapes every thought and action. And in that moment, Stephen's was vengeance. Sharp, cruel, blood-thristy.

‘’Is this why you snuck out last night?’’ Your eyes were searching his, desperate for an answer that you knew he wouldn't give you the privilege of offering. ‘’ You think I'm that stupid that I didn't notice the bruises on your knuckles?’’ You were sad. That was all.

‘’He hurt you.’’ Stephen said thickly. He was furious just being reminded of it. He was alive with it, he was pulsating with it. Your gaze was weary as you took him in.

The hammering of your heart stopped in its tracks and your mind drew to a crisp white blank.

‘’So you're playing white knight? Protecting my honour?’’Your tone turned biting, the conversation took a U-turn and headed straight to harsh and brutal.

It took so much strength to not take him by the collar and kiss the mouth off of him. You hated being a damsel in distress, a princess in the highest tower but through all of these revelations you couldn't deny that it made you feel safe. Stephen made you feel safe when all of your life was different paths and shitroads of danger and pain. Everyone suspected that he didn't have the ability to harm any sort of life, let alone take away a grown man's... His grasp on you was even tighter than before.

‘’I did this for myself.’’ Stephen tried to reign you in but he was sure he was making it worse. ‘’I've been…angry. I'm furious, all the time. And I'm comfortable with it. I want to be angry, I wanted a reason to be angry. A reason to get my hands bloody, a reason to use these fucking hands that left me a broken man for months. I didn't really care what I was angry for but when that asshole touched you, hurt you.. and made you bleed- that wasn't the reason I was looking for, anything but that actually. I did this for myself because the idea of someone else touching you makes me feel hollow. So yeah, I cut his fucking hands off. I haven't had the pleasure and formality of finding a healthy outlet when all I can think about is you.’’

Stephen was spilling himself like blood pouring from a wound, quickly and uncontrollably. His heart was willing out. You left him as exposed and bare from the first time he saw you; your eyes were wide with certain deep set ferocity when his words finally soaked up.

Yet, you didn't know what to say. The air hummed with the silence you weren't filling.

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