#like this is not a white or black situation
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And once again, you are now acknowledging that there is at least a sliding scale from 'lacking legal protections' to 'actively being exploited', but you did not do that initially - you went straight to "definitely being exploited, so I get to be condescending and judgemental."
I STILL know more about this place than you. I am deliberately not giving details for privacy reasons - theirs and mine - but I know so, so much more than you do about this. I also did research before I went for the first time about what signs to look out for in case of a modern day slavery situation, and not only have I never seen even a hint, I have seen plentiful pieces of evidence to the contrary, including the fact that every time I go I pay the workers directly into their own bank accounts, they all have their own phones that they can use whenever they like (a little too much, in the case of one who once kept stopping my massage to text a friend), and that plenty of them have left and gone into other fields. I literally still have Chris' number. What do you have? A handful of incredibly small talking points that you reckon might mean something.
On top of that, I don't know where you're writing from in the world, but brothels cannot officially operate here. That does not automatically equate to Definite Exploitation, as you immediately decided.
Honestly? I think you can interrogate for yourself why you have identical instincts to a SWERF with white saviour desires. But the bigger issue here, frankly, is that ultimately your motivation with that response was that you just wanted to feel self-righteous and get to be a dick to someone. If you actually gave a shit about the hypothetically exploited people you invented in your head, your response would have been "Hey, I am concerned about possible exploitation. Have you noticed any signs?" And, you know, a list of signs. Not the prissy, sanctimonious comment you went for that did nothing except try to broadcast to the world how Enlightened you are.
Rapidly losing patience in this conversation. I strongly suggest you just take the hit and walk away rather than trying to dig your heels in while subtly trying to walk it back with each new response and pretend you weren't being as black-and-white pseudo-authoritarian as you actually were.
Search is turning up nothing, but that's Tumblr even if there is something, so:
Have I told you guys about my many adventures with the brothel massage parlour around the corner from my house yet?
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the apothecary's rebel - mattheo riddle
summary: hogwarts' bad boy can't seem to find a way to stay out of the infirmary where you're working to become a healer, but as the stakes get higher, you struggle to understand if you're simply a means to an end, or something much more.
word count: 4k
warnings: mentions of severe injury, broken bones, blood, etc.
a/n: this is so tropey and i'm not sorry about it! credit as always to the lovely @pizzaapeteer who has definitively determined that mattheo's favorite quidditch team is the falmouth falcons, which i will faithfully honor in every fic that i write.
The first time you met Mattheo Riddle, he had rivulets of blood pouring from his nose, crimson and amber; it stained his white collared shirt and seeped into his emerald tie and dark robes but despite it, he was smiling, laughing actually as his eyes glinted at Professor McGonagall who was dragging him alongside her into the infirmary.
"Please, Professor" he implored, "I can't help myself when someone runs their mouth like that, I can't, it's like a curse or something, my fist just flew to his face, what was I supposed to do?!" He was smirking as he looked at her, but she ignored his gaze as she yanked him before you.
"Enough, Mr. Riddle!" she said shrilly.
He tugged his arm out of her grasp. "I don't need the infirmary, m'fine" he huffed, rolling his eyes.
"You're dripping blood on my floor" she retorted, pointing to the maroon spots at his feet.
He glanced down and then wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing the blood further across his face.
"Ms. YLN!" McGonagall said, making it clear that he was your problem now as she squeezed her eyes shut in aggravation then spun on her heels and left.
You stood from your desk at once startled and awed by the situation, but Mattheo's gaze followed McGonagall out of the room.
"M'fine, I don't need anything" he repeated as he continued to swipe at the blood that wouldn't stop running.
You begged to differ as you took in the gash on the bridge of his nose, and the early signs of a black eye. You handed him a cloth which he stuffed under his nose halfheartedly, barely glancing at you, and before you could do anything else, he jogged back to the doorway, peered around the corner and disappeared.
Your week went by without anything nearly as exciting occurring beyond the normal bumps, bruises, and burns from spells and potions gone awry before you saw him again, this time of his own volition.
He caught your eye as his large framed graced the doorway. He was dressed for quidditch, still in his shoulder pads and Slytherin practice jersey. His dark curls were windblown and his cheeks were flush with exertion; sweat glistened on his brow and you thought fleetingly to yourself that no one had the right to look that sweaty and that good at the same time.
You stood from your desk to approach him, eyebrow quirked when he held up his hand by way of explanation, where two of his fingers were bent the wrong way, clearly broken. You motioned wordlessly for him to sit on the nearest cot.
He sat and immediately focused his attention out the window, peering like he was hoping to see the quidditch pitch from his vantage point.
You gathered a few supplies and approached him and he thrust out his hand, eyes never leaving the window.
"Go on then, get it over with" he said shortly. "I wanna get back to practice."
Unbeknownst to you, he was no stranger to broken bones, nor the sharp, relentless pain that came with the healing process and he was doing everything he could to steel himself for it.
Your touch was warm and tender as your fingers gently examined his hand.
"What position do you play?" you asked.
"Beater" he said simply.
You handed him a dose of healing and numbing potion, which he chugged in one go, thinking briefly that it tasted much better than he remembered.
"Are you any good?" you continued as you took the vial back from him and continued your work on his fingers.
"Are you joking?" he asked, laughing humorlessly.
You shrugged innocently, a sly smile on your lips, though you never broke your focus.
"Yeah, I'm good" he said. "Best Slytherin has seen in a while. We might actually have a chance at the cup this year if Flynt can keep his head straight and Goyle can stay sober long enough to sit on his broom."
"A daunting task" you teased.
He laughed genuinely this time, your humor enough to garner his attention and break his gaze from the window as his eyes fell on you instead, and you could feel yourself flush under his notice.
"Harpies or Cannons?" you asked, trying to guess his favorite team.
"Falcons" he said, smirking at your knowledge of quidditch.
"My brothers root for Ballycastle, but I'm partial to the Magpies" you replied.
Now he was flat out impressed and had about a million questions for you, but just as he opened his mouth to ask them, you step back and smiled.
"You're all set!"
He thought you were joking until he looked down at his carefully bandaged fingers.
"You should be able to grip your broom just fine. Put some ice on it after practice if you can, otherwise it will hurt like hell when the potion wears off."
You were gathering your supplies as he wiggled his fingers with trepidation. He felt a dull ache, but nothing more, and he could easily grasp his broom despite his mended fingers with the unique way you'd wrapped them; it'd felt better than any mending he'd had before and whether it was your talent or the deft way you'd distracted him, he couldn't stop himself from muttering "S'bloody brilliant."
"Thanks" you said genuinely, feeling the heat return to your cheeks as you shot him a playful smirk of your own. "Best Ravenclaw's seen in a while" you teased, echoing his words from earlier before you walked back to your desk.
The rest of the afternoon you found your thoughts wandering between the books you were trying to study and the boy with dark curls and a smirky grin who seemed magnetized to mischief, how even the brush of your fingers against his strong, calloused hands had had you struggling to focus on healing, the very thing that came most naturally to you.
You were both happy and disappointed that you didn't see him soon thereafter, glad perhaps that he was keeping himself out of trouble and in one piece. You caught glimpses of him occasionally in the busy corridor between classes or in the Great Hall surrounded by his raucous group of friends, but you tried your level best not to stare, in turn missing his equally ardent attempts to catch your eye.
It was perhaps three weeks later that you awoke late on a Saturday night to a muffled pounding on your bedroom door. Bright moonlight shone through your curtained window as you struggled to get your bearings and the pounding relented, heavy and urgent.
Occasionally, Madam Pomfrey summoned you in an emergency and your heart trilled as you pulled a large sweater over your lace and silk pajamas. You moved quickly to open the door, only to find Mattheo slumped and leaning against your doorway.
He swung his head to look at you with noticeable effort and you couldn't hold in your gasp as you took in his face, scraped and dirty with a large cut on his eyebrow that you were already calculating would need stitches, and a smaller but sizable cut to match on his lip. His mouth was bloodied and the gash on the bridge of his nose was back.
"Gods, Mattheo" you whispered as you reached for him. "Let's get you down to the infirmary."
"S'four inthe mornin' m'not gonna explain to them why I looklike this" he said, his speech slurring as he moved to brush past you into your room.
"Can'tyou fix me n'here?" he asked, as he swayed and you moved to support his weight.
"I-I don't have what I need, I don't have any numbing potion..." you tried to say.
"Can't hurt more'n it already does" he huffed as he sat on your bed.
The sight of him there, rumpling your sheets caught every last word in your throat and you busied yourself grabbing what you could to buy time to still your racing heart.
"What happened?" you asked, finally.
"Me'n the boys got into one" he said, not offering more in the way of an explanation as he glanced around your room, making you feel exposed.
"And where are they?" you asked, glancing for a moment back at the door like they might follow him in.
"I wasn'about to drag five ofus n'here" he said with a smirk.
I wanted you all to myself he thought as he tried with significant effort to focus on you as you came to stand between his spread legs. Your sweater was falling off of your shoulder to reveal thin, silk pajamas that covered next to nothing; your hair was rumpled and wavy with sleep, giving you a relaxed and tousled look that had his mind racing with the image of you tangled in your sheets.
You held his chin softly in your hand, turning his head slowly to the right and to the left. You could smell firewhiskey on him, and could see the pupils of his eyes blown wide as they looked unwavering at you in a way that made your legs feel like jelly.
"You might have a concussion" you said quietly, focusing on the facts instead of the fantasy in front of you.
"Probably" he agreed, his voice thick and raspy.
Your eyes shifted from his strong gaze to focus on his hands, attentively wiping away the dirt, gravel and blood from his knuckles, your fingers running down his palms. His eyes fluttered, thinking you had no right to make him feel this good by touching his hands, and then immediately he thought about your touch anywhere, everywhere else.
You leaned further into him to attend to the cut on his eyebrow, softly whispering the spell to mend it, close enough that he could feel your breath against his skin and he closed his eyes in earnest, letting your words wash over him, calming him from what had been an intense and violent night; they didn't flutter open again until you gently touched his lip.
"Sorry, did that hurt?" you asked.
"S'other ways you could make it feel better" he said, smiling widely in way that set a twinkle in his eye.
"Very funny" you said, redoubling your efforts, without realizing that for once he wasn't joking.
He reached out a hand to grab your waist, attempting to pull you into him, but you mistook it for an effort to steady himself and set a hand on his shoulder.
With the amount of alcohol in his system you thought, there is little to no chance he remembers any of this.
Mattheo woke with a throbbing headache and for the life of him he couldn't piece together why his friends visibly looked like they'd lost a brawl, while he looked...fine; his hands and face were clean and his split lip and eyebrow were reduced to small cuts and scrapes, nearly healed.
He had a foggy memory, like a dream, of you tracing your fingers over his lip, a touch he retraced now like he could feel you on his skin, could feel your warmth from being pulled out of bed, and then he remembered how good you'd smelled, like vanilla and amber... Had he really gone to your room in the middle of the night? He would almost be embarrassed if he didn't feel so fucking smitten about it.
The group dragged themselves to breakfast, hoods drawn; Theo even sported an oversized pair of sunglasses, whether to cover his black eye or to abade his hangover, no one was sure. They were talking in rasp whispers about the night before when Mattheo caught sight of you leaving the Great Hall with a few of your friends, his feet moving on autopilot towards you before he knew what he was doing, breaking rank to his friends' bewilderment.
"Hey" he said, catching your attention. "I-uhh, thanks for last night, I guess" he smiled, even as he carded his hand through his hair, a bit abashed.
"I am genuinely surprised you remember any of it" you said, laughing.
"F'course I do" he said confidently.
"So, you'll keep your promise then?" you retorted as you cocked your head expectantly.
Promise? What fucking promise?
"Yeah, of course I will" he said, even as his mind drew a complete blank on what you were referring to.
Your eyebrows shot up as a wide smile graced your lips and you crossed your arms, ready to challenge him before you were interupted.
"—Wait, is this her?" Theo barged in, pushing Mattheo aside, the others following closely behind.
"Can she look at my nose?" Draco tried. "I think that fucker broke—"
"—No. Stop, stop it." Mattheo said, dragging them away from you gruffly as you laughed, waving to Enzo who was waving eagerly to you despite Mattheo's efforts to contain him.
Your cheeks were crimson. He'd told his friends about you.
That giddiness carried you throughout your day. You felt like you were floating from class to class, like a fifth house ghost, your spirits high even as you resigned yourself to the infirmary that evening while the rest of the school made their way to the quidditch pitch for the final game of the season, the House Cup: Slytherin versus Gryffindor.
A dark storm had settled over the mountains and the last of the sun disappeared behind large, black clouds that brought with them torrential wind and rain that you watched cascade in sheets against the windows. You were disappointed to be missing the game, missing the chance to watch Mattheo play, but you were also happy to be inside, dry and warm.
You settled into your book, trying your best to enjoy it, but you found yourself reading and re-reading the same sentence over and over again, unable to clear your mind from the night before, the way Mattheo settled effortlessly on your bed in a way that even now had your stomach clenching, the way his dark eyes followed you in the white moonlight, the way he smiled under caked blood and the warmth and softness of his skin and his lips under your fingertips; and finally the way he'd grabbed you, perhaps stronger than he'd intended, fingers pressing into the thin silk that covered you, leaving imprints on your skin. Your heart was racing and you felt warm at the memory as you set your book down and exhaled shakily.
It wasn't a moment later that you heard a commotion in the corridor, loud voices and shuffling feet before a large group burst through the doors, professors and students crowding around two quidditch players, the sight making your heart constrict in your chest, until you noticed a red jersey on one and the flash of Draco Malfoy's bright blonde hair on the other. You scurried to help guide him to a cot as he groaned, his eyes squeezing in pain as a gash on his forehead dripped blood down the side of his face.
"What the hell happened?!" you asked Professor Sinistra who had a deep frown set on her face.
"The storm is making it impossible to see anything, they should have cancelled the damn match" she said. "These two collided and there's another one coming - he tried to grab Malfoy and took a bludger straight to the knee before falling 60 feet to the ground."
Draco continued to writhe in pain in front of you and Professor Sinistra was still talking but she sounded distant, almost underwater, because dread and fear had settled over you. Somehow you knew before you turned around that the third player was Mattheo, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him being supported between Theo and Blaise.
He was limping on one leg as the other dragged uselessly beneath him. He was soaked through, his hair stuck to his forehead and his jersey stuck to his skin. He was covered in mud and his face was like stone, marble white as he stared sternly at a spot on the ground, jaw clenched.
You dropped what you had been doing, rudely brushing past Professor Sinistra and rushed to his side.
"Here, put him here" you said to Theo and Blaise, leading them to an empty cot.
"Nahh - fuck - get someone else" Mattheo said sharply in a way so cutting and raw that you froze, like his words had struck you like a charm.
"W-What?" you said as the boys lowered him to the bed, exchanging glances.
"You heard me YLN. Get someone else!" he said angrily, almost yelling.
You turned to face the rest of the infirmary which was in a state of utter chaos between the nurses, students and professors running back and forth; the raging storm outside cracked and boomed, setting you further on edge.
Tears welled in your eyes at how overwhelmed you were and how angry Mattheo was. Your head was spinning. Clearly he didn't care about you at all, you had been a convenience, a means to an end, someone who could patch him up when he was too drunk to go to the infirmary, and he'd used his good looks and charm on you like he did everyone else to get what he wanted. You had been an utter fool. Now his injuries were serious and he wanted someone with experience, not some girl to exchange flirty banter with.
Your eyes scanned the room again and you swiped angrily at your cheeks as several tears escaped.
"Well, there isn't anyone else, Mattheo" you said, the realization hitting you simultaneously that you were responsible for him.
He groaned in annoyance and threw his head back on his pillow, which Theo and Blaise thankfully took as their cue to go. You drew the curtains behind them, struggling to calm yourself, to get a semblance of control.
"You took a bludger to the knee?" you asked. "What else, where does it hurt?"
He was silent, face grimaced, refusing to make eye contact with you.
"Suppose I'll just have to undress you and find out for myself then?" you tried. But even that didn't work as he remained quiet and shame and embarrassment set over you.
You took a steadying breath and quickly wiped another errant tear away before approaching him cautiously, moving to unlace his boots as gently as you could, but even that caused him to tense. Delicately, you began to cut his trousers from the bottom and within three snips could you see a sicky swelling letting you know that this was bad....very bad. He'd well shattered his knee and likely broke his fibula and tibia too, his entire leg was a disaster. You had no idea how he'd remained so calm despite it all and you were worried that this might be too complex for you to mend.
You mixed him a strong healing and numbing potion and he took it from you wordlessly, gruffly. Gone was his bashful smile from this morning, the twinkle in his eye, it was like he wanted nothing to do with you, downing the potion in one go, still refusing to meet your gaze.
"Mattheo, I can't imagine how painful this must be, but I'll fix it, I-I promise" you said.
His eyes shifted darkly to you for only a moment, anger and distain clear in his gaze before he looked away again, never saying a word.
You applied just about everything you'd ever learned about mending bones, tendons, muscles and sinew and within moments of taking the potion, Mattheo had fallen into a deep sleep, allowing you to work without fear of hurting him further. It took the better part of two hours, by which time the rest of the infirmary had settled and Madam Pomfrey came to check on you. She was difficult to please, but she scrutinized your work with a sharp eye before complimenting you thoroughly, you had done it.
You were depleted, exhausted, both physically and emotionally but you didn't stop as you wiped the caked mud from Mattheo's cheeks and gingerly cut away the rest of his wet clothing, fearful he'd catch a chill, thinking you deserved some sort of medal for your level of professionalism as your fingers traced his strong muscles, veined arms and faded scars. You pulled a blanket over him, charmed to stay warm before you finally slumped into a chair at his side.
Your entire body was tense, and your muscles were sore. You let yourself catch your breath as your emotions finally caught up with you and you bit your lip to keep from crying at how foolish you felt.
Madam Pomfrey poked her head through the curtain. "You're free to go" she said quietly.
You glanced back at Mattheo before turning to her. "I think I'll stay...just in case" you whispered.
She pursed her lips knowingly before nodding curtly and walking back to her station at the far end of the room.
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but eventually you fell into a fitful sleep riddled with nightmares of falling into deep darkness with nothing and no one to catch you.
Mattheo came to in a haze, enveloped in a soft warmth that brought a smile to his lips; for some reason, it reminded him of you, and it smelled like you, like warm vanilla and amber spice. As if in a dream, a memory came rushing back to him, of another time he was engulfed by you, of feeling your gentle touch on his lips in a way that made them tingle even now.
"How'sthis" he said. "I promise if I'm ever this'fucked again, and you haveta take care o'me, I'll take you ona date?" Your eyes shot to his, shining against the moonlight streaming into your bedroom and he clocked the twitch of your lip, the rose of your cheeks, Gods how he loved to make you blush. "Yeah?" you said jokingly. "Yeah" he said, feeling confident. You refocused your attention on his lip, your touch soaking through him like sunlight. "Well, for your sake, I hope that doesn't happen, you're a mess" you chided. Then, quietly, "But for mine, I look forward to it."
His heart soared and he reached for you only to come back with empty hands. He continued to grasp for you until his eyes fluttered open and he realized where he was. The memory of the game came rushing back to him, the flash of thunder and lighting, the fear of seeing his best mate falling off his broom as he raced to grab him, and then the crunch and splitting pain of his knee shattering, the scream he'd let out that was drowned by the storm.
His stomach roiled as he relived the way his friends had dragged him back to the castle, how every bump of his foot felt like torture. He tensed now, waiting for the pain, nearly nauseating himself with the memories, but he felt...nothing. A dull ached radiated from his knee and it felt stiff, but the sharpness was gone, replaced with a pulsing warmth.
His eyes blinked in the low candlelight, coming to rest on you, curled uncomfortably in a chair next to his bed, and he realized he should have known, should have recognized that you were the constant peace on the other side of his pain.
You were asleep, but your face was scrunched in discomfort, in concern and he clocked the smudge of your eye makeup, the loose strands of your hair falling on your face, and the fact that you were wearing the same clothes from earlier this morning, when he'd made you smile. Now, you looked distraught, upset and his stomach clenched as he remembered the way he'd spoken to you.
He had been in so much pain and pain is weakness he could hear in his head over and over again as he'd tried unsuccessfully to fight it. She's going to think you're weak, pathetic. He didn't want to be weak in front of you, he didn't want you to see him that way. He was proud when you mended his busted knuckles, his split lip, or even his smashed fingers, you didn't need a weak, crying git. But then he remembered the crushed look on your face as he'd yelled at you, and he realized he'd been a git all the same.
"Hey" he said, his voice coming out quieter than he'd intended, scratchy with sleep.
"Hey" he tried again.
You woke, startled. "Are you alright?" you asked, bolting upright in your chair, setting a hand on his arm. "Here, let me check your—"
"—I'm fine" he said, laughing. "More than, actually."
"Oh" you said, settling back down. "Good."
A moment of tepid silence passed between you.
"Look, m'sorry about earlier" he said, his sleep ridden voice coaxing your eyes to meet his as he opened his hand on the bed beside him, stretching it out for yours.
You hesitated, pursing your lips, and he could tell you were hurt.
"Can you keep a secret?" he tried.
You nodded.
"That fucking hurt, a lot" he exhaled as he let his vulnerability show.
"That's not really a secret. You shattered your knee, fibula and tibia, Mattheo, and you also have three bruised ribs and two more broken fingers" you said, pointing to his other hand.
"Well, would you look at that" he said smartly, twiddling his fingers back and forth.
"Draco cried harder over a hairline fracture, you'd have thought he was dying" you laughed quietly as you rolled your eyes.
Mattheo let out an earnest laugh at that before he grabbed his side.
"Do not tell him I said that—"
"—I am absolutely telling him you said that!" he said cockily as you both laughed until you fell into silence again.
He opened his palm again and you moved closer, setting your hand in his, which he enveloped in his warm grasp, gently rubbing a thumb over your fingers.
"I didn't want you to think I'm weak" he said finally, the truth settling over both of you like a blanket.
"Pain isn't weakness, Mattheo" you said simply, and the fact that in one instant you had understood exactly what he had meant had his dark chocolate eyes locked on yours.
"And anyway" you continued, "you don't have a weak bone in your body, your pain tolerance must be through the roof."
He didn't have the heart to tell you he hurt just like everyone else, he'd just had more practice with it, so he shrugged.
"Well all things considered, I feel great... thank you" he said, twirling your fingers together before tugging them gently, pulling you to sit on the bed beside him, close enough to feel the warmth between you. "I do have a couple of complaints though."
Your eyebrow quirked, suddenly serious.
"You got me nearly naked here before I could take you on that date I promised, hardly seems fair" he smirked.
You blushed, opening your mouth to defend yourself. So he did remember after all you thought.
"I'm kidding" he said lightly. "But start thinking about where I can take you. A promise is a promise."
You couldn't hide the smile on your face even as you tried, glancing into your lap, your cheeks Mattheo's favorite shade of blushed red.
"And what else?" you asked, trying to deflect.
"You missed something. I think I fucked my lip up, real bad" he said.
Your eyes twinkled as they looked at him, glancing briefly at his perfect lips, free from any mark or mar.
"I don't know, I don't see anything" you said, jokingly, taking his face in your hand, pretending to examine him.
"C'mon, c'mere you've got to get closer" he teased, pulling you into him, so your noses were nearly touching, your heart pounding in your chest.
He paused, relishing the moment, letting his fingers trace a line from your cheek to your jaw, letting your lips hover a breath away from his before he cupped your face and closed the distance between you.
He kissed you tentatively, softly, with a tenderness that made every inch of you feel like melted honey but it was only a breath before his restraint broke, intoxicated by you and every moment he'd daydreamed about the way you'd feel against him, the way you'd taste as he cupped both sides of your face and pulled you further into him. You grasped for purchase as the blanket between you slipped revealing his bare chest and you wound your arms around his bare shoulders, tangling your fingers into his hair, eliciting a muffled moan from deep within him. You nibbled his lip playfully before you pulled back, and he grasped you harder, fighting the distance.
"How's that?" you asked, breathlessly.
"Still unbearably painful, gorgeous, keep trying" he smiled against your lips before kissing you again.
taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @pizzaapeteer @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @chelawrites @rositxespinosa @longpondlibrary @littlebookbengal @lovetaylorrussellgrr
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PEACH BLACK DESCENT | s. riley/f!reader | 8.4k
SYNOPSIS: Simon thinks you're a bird with a broken wing. You squirm in the hole of the hunters trap. The other wing flapping, air around you contorting as it picks you up and you escape from the jaws of the trap. He sits next to you now in his truck and wonders how he's going to clip your wings.
Tucked away in a far away town surrounded by woods a highway predator—Simon—goes hunting and digs his teeth into you.
WARNINGS/TAGS: Mature Themes, Extremely Dubious consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, Objectification, Size Kink, Size Difference, Marking, Kidnapping, Threats of Violence, Dacryphilia, Unsafe Sex, Manipulation, Butcher AU.
MASTERLIST & NAVIGATION.
You feel as if you were born in a galaxy slowly being ripped apart at the seams. Stars colliding, crashing; kaleidoscopic colors mix into together as they lose their golden ichor of life and dim into nothingness. A black hole drinks it's ichor. The unforgiving crooked teeth bites in the stars and they give into the hold.
A dying nebula. Hot and scorching as it brands your skin because of your sins. Engraved into your soul. It is dirt under your finger nails. Forever stained.
Stained—you think—you'll have to figure out how to clean up the sign perched near the motel wall—Highway Inn. A ironic and obvious name, considering it's situated right next to a highway. The road turns and twists, contorting into something akin to a labyrinth only a few unlucky ones can pass through and make it to this brick fortress.
(Unlucky, pitiful and poor souls,
Never seen again as the road takes them too.)
The bright and blinding fluorescent light of the motel cuts into your eyes like razors. The cold air bites your cheeks and fingers. Your breath chokes out of your mouth and it spreads in the air, swirling and contorting. The soft gray of it stand out against the dim rust-colored and cracking bricks.
You sit behind the dark oak front desk—the surface littered with blooming circles of lighter brown. A dusty bell of dimmed gold hangs above the heavy wooden front door.
You bring your hands to your mouth, huffing your hot breath into them. A futile wish for some warmth to engulf you. The soft murmurs of the few workers echo in one ear and leave through the other. It's an empty and eerie quiet tonight. The roads stay dark and life seems to be ripped away from it.
But, you swear you see light seep through the cracks formed by the curtain by the windows. Your eyes trail up and lock onto the road you can see outside.
A white truck passes. It always does. Like clockwork. A routine akin to a ritual. A never ending cycle the labyrinth road and motel seem to welcome and accept. Although, hesitantly. Your manager never looked pleased to see the truck drive the road in front of the motel.
You don't know why.
But, you think it has to do with the way it seems to slow down when it's near the brick building. The way it simmers to a stop. The way the front seat windows are a little bit cleaner and easier to see through from the inside than the others so you can feel someone stare at you. Their gaze heavy and intense, like tendrils around your neck. They squeeze around the sides. Bruises forming and blooming—a mark—curiosity killed the cat. But, you can't help to watch. You meekly welcome the gaze of the one behind the window. The glass slightly glimmers under the crescent moon.
(You think the person inside is satisfied with the effect they have on you.)
The white surface of the truck is faded white with wheels brown-black, the dirt seeping through the engraved rubbery surface. The windows are obsidian dark and you can't see through them. Only one remains open—the drivers seat. An arm drapes across it. The milky white skin littered with scars that dance alongside with ink-black tattoos. It snakes around the man's heavy arm like a serpent, trailing up to the shirt that hugs his skin so delicately and smoothly—a stark contrast between the tough and rough surface of his skin. His wrist flicks. Calloused hands follow. They move and curl.
(You wonder how'd they feel.)
You still think of the softness of it, them—him—the fuzz of his arm akin to a valley, an Eden you're not supposed to enter, a peach you're not supposed to bite, its ambrosia you're not allowed to drink and let it seep down your chin and chest.
Would his fingertips dance across the plush flesh of yours? Would his nails apply pressure and dig into your skin? You already can imagine the faint red and purples appearing under his hold, the crescent moons he'd leave under his unforgiving and damning touch.
(Like a black hole, alongside the stars it devours.)
Your manager—Roderick, a old and angry man grumbles as his dim and misty eyes settle on the white truck. He tuts. His hands grip the side of his belt, an indent you're familiar with makes itself known. He'd always been unsatisfied and upset whenever the man with the white truck appeared.
It's reached a new high today. The tension in Roderick's forehead is obvious. His brows furrow as he calls out to you, his rough and hoarse voice breaks the previous silence you'd taken sanctuary inside the motel.
"Stay inside," he orders, finger gauged at you, "I mean it. Keep your eyes to yourself, girl. Watch the keys and make sure you have the rooms cleaned," his eyes settle on the truck driver door opening, "we'll have visitors soon."
You stand wide eyed behind the front desk. Caught off guard by his words, your mouth hangs slightly open to question him, but you settle on just keeping any inquiries to yourself.
Roderick doesn't like questions. He never did. Especially about the missing people posters hang up near the motel. Especially about the news echoing information and words about missing people. Blurred faces and names. They simmer in your mind. You've met them here before. They checked in. Some greet you with bright and slightly strained smiles. Some thin their lips and their eyes dart away from you.
It doesn't matter.
They never leave the roads they entered to reach the motel. They get lost in the labyrinth and never leave.
(The black hole has taken another star.)
You'd heard about so called highway serial murderers. The media treats them like their ghosts. They appear to lock their jaws onto their prey, their crooked teeth digs in and the food hangs limp, succumbed to the bloody hold. Their eyes go hazy and dim, the life ichor drips out of them slowly as the predator has its fill, belly satisfied and sickeningly happy. After that they're gone, disappearing on the road again, their trucks their castles.
The opened truck door reveals the man inside. Your eyes lock onto him.
His heavy brown leather boots step on the concrete surface. You notice the scruff marks along the fabric, the lighter color like lighting dancing on the surface. His cargo pants are dirtied at the seams, as if he'd been in the rain soaked woods, moving as the wet dirt coats and sticks to him.
His upper body is akin to a behemoth—a mountain of a man with shoulders like steel, hard and unmoving. His fingers stretch every once in a while. The fuzz on the surface a stark difference to the milky-white surface. The dirt seeps under his fingernails, hammering the nail and making their forever home.
A stark black balaclava hides his face. The fabric old tearing at the seams. His eyes contrast and stand out against the visible alabaster skin—akin to earth brown like the woods and ground that surrounds you. There's a strange look in them. A feeling you can't quite make out as they settle on you through the opened door.
The bell chimes. The sound echoing through the front room. His feet scruff against the welcome mat. His eyes lock onto your figure. Black irises under lidded light blond eyelashes grow in size, almost seeping into the brown pooling around it. There's a glint in them�� a subtle excitement and hunger.
(Like a predators gaze upon its prey,
Akin to a black hole and the nebula right next to it about to burst.)
He nods his head at you. For a moment you lose the sight of his eyes, but you can still feel the tendrils of them wrap around your neck. Though, this time they move further. Your cheeks feel blistered by heat. Your thighs ache as the surface of your uniform rubs together.
Your eyes catch his again. You can see the fabric move slightly where his mouth is supposed to be. He's smiling. Bearing his teeth to you. Crooked fangs glistening in the florescent lights as the smile reaches to high. The crows-feet next go his eyes crease.
He moves closer to the front desk. His frame covers yours completely. It engulfs you behind it and you settle into his shadow. Tendrils seep into the dark surface as it hugs your body. The balaclava fabric slightly moves again. The mans hoarse voice rumbles out of him, it starts near his stomach, belly covered by a hoodie, trails to his cords as it spreads a deep and infectious melody out of his mouth.
"I'll need a room. One bed. More on the bigger side. I'll take 13."
"Of course." You squeeze the breath out of your throat and force your body to move near the keys on the wall.
"Thank you, Lamb."
You can still feel his eyes trail your body. Irises dig into your flesh like razors, cutting into it until it reaches your spine, a soft touch akin to his fingertips dances across the skin and moves down, settling on the back of your waist—you'd call it a lovers protective touch, but you feel it's a bit different than that.
It's almost as if he's testing you, pushing your buttons, his fingers curling around your nerves and tugging, wondering what you'll do if he applies pressure, what noise you'll let escape your pouted lips, what words you'll echo in his ears, how'd you'd grip his skin and what kind of scars you'd add and decorate him with alongside the rest.
(Like a predator playing with it's prey,
An appetizer before it's meal.)
Your hands tug on the key to room 402. You turn on your heel, facing him again. You hesitate for a moment, breath catching in your throat. He tilts his head before raising his hands for you. An invite rests in the tense air, alongside it is a tempting ambrosia, a siren's saccharine call, beckoning you to take a bite, let it seep into your throat and burn inside your chest and untangle the threads in your belly.
You take a bite.
Your fingers graze his. The keys settle on the heart of his palm. The creases in his skin run like rivers and your fingertips linger for a single second to swim in and trace them.
The ambrosia calls to you again in the form of his eyes locking onto the connection between his and yours. His fingers curl again, grazing yours. Nails settle moon crescents into your velvety skin. They glide across the surface, taking in the slight warmth and feel of your skin before breaking contact.
The tangled and aching mess in your belly returns again. Your eyes dart back up to his again and your breath gets caught in your throat again as you see how dark they've become, ink seeking into the brown you saw a few moments ago. They dig into you, just like before—razors cutting, teeth mauling, tongue licking the blood dripping down your skin. He opens his mouth to drink his fill.
"It's Simon."
You swallow down the breath you didn't know you were holding captive in your throat and return his gesture with your own name. It seems like a deal brokered with an entity you shouldn't even look at—a faerie claiming your name alongside your body, a devil clutching your soul and future.
"O-okay, Simon. If you need anything, just see me at the front desk."
You take a bite and taste his name on your tongue. It spreads its blood into you, the metallic taste akin to a bubbling infection you can't and don't want to shake off. You swear you notice the same smile underneath his balaclava, curling and showing you his teeth.
"Oh, I think I will."
He murmurs your name alongside that, finishing his words like a promise to an altar. You like the way your name gets trapped behind his teeth, thrown to his tongue and chained to it, settling on it and spreading the same infection as his own name did to you.
Simon turns his back to you. He trails up the creaky wooden stairs and his steps echo in the room as they do in your mind. His smells sifts through the air—nitroglycerin and charred wood, bleach alongside the ridges of burnt wood. It fills your lungs with black smoke, seeping through the veins and clinging on—branding you like heated metal.
You don't see him again that day again.
A couple check in. A man and a woman. They feel as sickeningly normal as the 60's posters littered across the motel walls—aged with skin swirling on their faces, clothes sewn meticulously clinging onto their still strong clothes. They smile. The light glints on their dull and soft teeth.
(Like prey.)
They ask for room 12, as they booked. You hand them the keys and murmur sweet words—enjoy your stay, call me if you need anything. A verse engraved in your mind, leaving your mouth like you're a broken record.
The night creeps in. Tendrils of dark sift through the motel windows. The rooms are quiet. Only the soft echos of your shuffling feet and the periodic thumps can be heard around the building, for those you don't have an explanation for.
The next day you don't see the couple check out. You don't see them walk the hallways. Roderick shushes your questions about them. The curiosity blooms in your chest. It carves a home in your heart. A hole grows alongside with it.
In the early hours Simon checks out. Thank you, Lamb—he tells you, sweet words about you and his stay—I'll see you soon—you squirm and mumble a meek thank you's and see you soon. His words light fireworks along your skin, the flame dancing on the surface. You feel like a wire caught alight. Electricity sifting through the air between you two.
Your eyes drift to his hands, just like they've done multiple times. You squint, focusing on his short ivory nails.
There's a strange dark crimson stain underneath the nails—a stark contrast. Your eyes lock onto them and Simon notices your stare.
His balaclava shifts again as he smiles at you. His feet carry him to the front door. The bell rings as his hold makes the door creak open. He disappears just as quickly as he showed up.
You still smell the bleach and charred wood where he stood.
The day passes the way you expect it too. Endless cycle akin to a ouroboros swirling and consuming itself—pointless and unsatisfactory.
Your feet carry you through the front room. The bell ringing above you as you step outside. The cold air bites at your cheeks, trying to escape into your heavy coat. You bring the fabric closer and cover yourself even more to escape the unforgiving weather.
Your hands tremble as they dig into your pockets. Nails nick at exposed skin. The anxiety and paranoia grasps at you. Your mind keeps replaying back to your goodbye with Simon. He's a man you barely know, but feel a curiosity towards him that you shouldn't. A pull that seems to wrap around you and bring you to your doom. It is laced with a fear that spreads lightning up your spine.
You tither on that feeling as your feet take you down the labyrinth roads, a black river that is never-ending. The roads are seemingly quiet until a sound rings out in the air.
A truck drives closer to your side of the road. Your shoulder tense and feet quicken. You tilt your head in its direction. The familiar stark white color of the truck flicks a lever in your mind and suddenly you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
It's Simon. It's Simon as you move closer to the truck, now parked next to you. You raise your head, eyes wide as you peek through the darkened windows. It pulls down as you see the all too familiar balaclava stare right back at you alongside the earth-brown eyes with a tinge of an alive amber.
He leans back into his seat, legs spread—need a ride?—he asks, voice louder and reaching out to you. You thin your lips. The steps of the passenger seat beckon you closer—only a step is what you need to take.
You nod—yes, I appreciate it, thank you—you hum, voice soft and mellow. You watch him through lidded eyes, catching note of how he takes unnecessary turns and drives down longer roads.
You face him. A question burns on top of your tongue. You want to and do ask him—where are we going? Where are you taking me?—but, the gaze in which he gives you, alive and high on adrenaline is all he answers you with.
The blood underneath his fingernails are still there. You think you'll add to his collection.
Simon thinks you're a bird with a broken wing. You squirm in the hole of the hunters trap. The other wing flapping, air around you contorting as it picks you up and you escape from the jaws of the trap.
He sits next to you now in his truck and wonders how he's going to clip your wings.
You'd been so sweet to him. Opening your rib cage, moving the white bones and placing your heat on a plate for him. Your saccharine words echo in his mind. He'd never tasted something like it before. You make his teeth ache and belly hot. He craves another bite of the honeyed elixir that coats your body as sweat as your face contorts in something akin to fear and uncertainty.
"You should' have go' in the truck with me, Lamb." His words are like a final prayer, a nail in the coffin as his free hand moves towards you.
The truck stops at a dark part of town. Murky streets tangle into each other. A butcher's shop rests tucked away in the corner. The yellow and blue windows stand out against the dim muted colors of the rest of the street. An almost broken down and colorful sign of a butcher shop hangs perched above the building.
Simon finds your furrowed brows and thinned lips adoringly amusing. His calloused fingertip rests against your bottom lip. He bites back a groan as he tugs it down slightly. You follow his lead almost instinctively. His thumb digs in. Salty surface laid upon your soft tongue. The taste melts into your mouth. Your tongue raises and hugs his thumb to your teeth. Sharp surface digs into his skin. The metallic liquid coats your pearlescent canines.
He smiles—"Lamb has claws, good. It'll be even more satisfying 'o see how much you can do with them." —he presses deeper.
You try and shuffle towards the passenger door, hoping the lock hasn't been closed and you still have an option to escape whatever spider web you've gotten yourself wrapped in.
“I ‘pected you t’run.”
The hoped dies out in your mouth as you hear the lock fasten. You whine and he laughs at you. You can make out a crooked grin underneath the black balaclava.
“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”
Simon's other hand leaves the steering wheel. It grazes the plush surface of your clothed belly and you startle back like an animal protecting it's weak spots. He's eerie quiet now. His hand trails up to your neck, touching the soft and delicate skin. You instinctively shift your head.
"I-I can pay you." You stammer. This is the first time you've been so close up to him. You can see burns and scars across the exposed skin. You shudder at the sight.
"Pay me?" He mimics back to you.
You nod frantically. His hand is still on your neck. You're afraid he's going to sense your pulse and figure out how you're fucking terrified.
Like—
Maybe, at the start you entertained this, but now you are actually a bird underneath a hawk, or more like a flesh eating vulture. It's claws digging and getting ready to bite and feast and Simon looks like a man that doesn't let any bite go to waste.
His eyes dig into you again like razors. He prompts you, asks you and beckons you to answer—will ya try t'run again?
You gulp. For a moment you stay frozen in his hold unable to answer but, his hold becomes stronger, pushing and adding pressure at the sides of your neck. You whimper—where would I go?
"Good girl."
His hand around your throat digs in. You gasp. He closes on the sides of your airway, careful not to push on the front where you gulp and swallow your fear and words. His eyes trail up to yours, watching as your own move and shake. Your hands crawl up to his arms. Your nails dig into his visible marred skin, leaving moon crescents in your wake. He huffs. His breath seeping through the fabric of his balaclava and hitting your face. You take in his smell again— nitroglycerin, bleach and charred wood, fire burning alive at the tips of it.
"Too late for that, Lamb." He croaks out. The words echo through your ears like church bells and a higher power giving you your sentence.
"But I think we can work something else out."
Something else turns out to be his hands gripping you too hard, making blue and purple marks bloom in his wake.
Your feet struggle to take big steps to follow alongside him. You could try and scream bloody murder, alert someone, run for your life, cross and jump fences and escape. Who would help you? Would they hear your pleas—help, this behemoth of a man is keeping me as his little toy.
You grimace at the thought.
He turns his head to face you. His eyes akin to a all too hungry boar ready to pounce.
"Don't get any funny ideas runnin' aroun' in t'head o'yours, Lamb."
"Funny?" You quip, letting it hang in the air as you add, "like getting into your truck and following you to some sketchy butcher shop that looks like a 00's old disco?"
"Cheeky little think ain't ya?"
"This isn't fair—"
"Fair? Life ain't fair, Lamb."
He tugs you closer. A strange look appears in his eye. The white of it akin to sea foam. He hums, taking in your fear and uncertainty. It simmers on his tongue and he swallows it down. There's a hunger in them. A familiar hunger you've always felt and now you see it mirrored in his own.
He moves you to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck. The heavy door closes with a sharp crash. There's a stark smell of bleach hanging in the air suffocating your lungs. There's the tinge of sweat around the room too. The suspicious light brown colored stains lays across the floor. There is a smaller room tucked away he leads you to. A mattress laid across the dirtied floor. You swear you make out chains hung across the room. You wonder if he'll hang you from them.
(There's no escape.)
You remember the crimson underneath his nails. The couple from 12 and Simon— the man in 13. Ironic the number he settles with was 13. It suits him, you think.
"Did you kill them?"
Simon gazes back at you. His hands crawl up to his balaclava and grips the fabric. Your breath clings to your throat. The noises die out as your eyes lock onto him and his appearing face.
He's not—
Not how they describe them in the books.
Not handsome.
More ugly. Disturbing in a way that's obscene. He's more skin stitched together than man. More flesh looking too wrong than human.
You see his Glasgow smile first. The dip in skin alongside the corners of his mouth form a Cheshire grin. His lips look chapped and rough, a cut runs vertically along it, separating skin and showing his crooked almost sharp canine teeth. The dark brown hair stick together and clings to his forehead. It's damp and just about long enough for you to grip it in your hands. Suddenly the calloused hands make sense when you compare it to the face in front of you. Dirtied nails and sweat engraved into his skin.
"Questionin' and questionin'." He tuts, like reprimanding a child. You feel like one right now. His frame eats you whole, engulfed in one single bite. The rumble in his voice goes straight to your belly and lights up that ache in your abdomen.
"What do ya think Lamb? Bette' yet, stand straight." He reckons you to the middle of the room and you follow his words. You stand shaken.
He takes notice.
"Go on now. Strip for me."
Every piece of clothing you slowly let fall down your body you offer him, an exchange—I show you what I hide under layers and peel them off and make myself completely bare for you only standing in panties. He indulges in you.
Riley—you catch his name as he lets it escape his teeth. You ask what he thinks he'll get out of this and what he wants—I already 'ave ya, Lamb, I didn' ask for much more.
His lackluster answers are made worst as he trails closer to you. His eyes rake over your naked body, taking in every inch. You can feel the way his mouth waters because of the way he gulps. He groans and it reaches you down to your abdomen. The silent request he sends your way when he gestures to the mattress laid in the corner. Your shoulders stiff at the sight. Your feet glue to the floor beneath you.
He gives you that annoyed and impatient tut again. His hands clench and veins become more prominent. He shuffles closer to you.
"Do I 'ave 'o do everythin' by myself, huh?"
His hands move to your body. They settle on your waist, slowly trailing down. You whine at first, which he shushes you with a quick and soft—sh—next to your ear.
His teeth graze your earlobe. His fingers play with the waistband of your panties, the only fabric you have that conceals you with modesty. You dig your face into his shoulder as he tugs rips it off. The fabric burns into your skin, too harsh of a pull putting pressure on your skin. It leaves red marks on your plush skin as it comes apart at the seams.
He tilts his head towards yours. His stubble soft and delicate while it scratches on your cheek—a surprisingly saccharine touch.
His fingers trace across the red mark left on your skin. His scarred skin scruffs against your own plush flesh and you shake in his hold. In response his grip on you becomes stronger. It's a precursor to what's about to come—rain before a storm.
They trace bellow your pelvis and abdomen, grazing the surface of the fire that burns and aches inside. You bite down on your tongue strong enough to draw blood as you feel his fingers trace your slick soaked lips.
He hums as he takes in your shaking form. Body spasms and your little gaps ring out in his ears like a melody of a golden music box. Your slick drips down his fingers and spreads to his hand and your thighs like ichor and he swears he can taste your ambrosia on the tip of his tongue.
"You are enjoyin' this, ain't you?"
You hate how cocky and satisfied he sounds. As if you're some experiment to him, bending at his will, but he's right.
You took his form in during your meeting at the motel, shamelessly trailing your eyes hungrily over him, wishing for a bite. You entered his truck, sat near him like the good girl he wanted you to be. You nodded your head when he made it clear there was no escape.
You're getting touched so delicately by a murderer and your body responds for you. It screams out for his touch. Soaked so much it glides down and makes your thighs stick to each other uncomfortably. You step towards his touch, trying to get more friction with his fingers.
Simon sees it all. His eyes follow how you present yourself to him just like the many times before. He curls his fingers and spreads your puffy lips again. His rough fingers scruff against the soft flesh and you whine into his neck. His other free hand trails down your spine, touching the ridges of the bone and settling on the plush skin of your rear. He grips and you're sure he'll leave a mark shaped like his hand.
The sensation makes you almost throw yourself even closer to him. You surround yourself in his smell, the nitroglycerin spreads through your body like a high you subconsciously don't want to fall down from.
His finger teases the entrance of your cunt. Your walls quiver and squeeze around nothing. He feels the muscles tense and move under his touch and you feel against your body how he takes a hoarse breath, drinking in the sight of you.
You keep your faced tucked and hidden away from him. It's the one and only kindness he grants you. It's the sheer burning shame of it all. You paw like a distressed animal on his chest, fingers clutch onto his clothes and nails dig into his skin.
You muffle a loud moan that he rips out of your throat as in his shoulder as he forces one finger inside your cunt. It's rough and it scorches your walls like they're on fire. His finger digs in until the knuckle is almost gone into the hug of your puffy lips. Your pussy feels raw and it aches, skin aflame and red.
And, fuck does it hurt.
It makes you bend and arch into him even more.
Your mouth hangs open and your tongue rest on the fabric of his shoulder. You're sure you've made the surface wet, but Simon seems like a man that likes it messy and dirty.
What he's doing right now proves it all.
Finger with dirt and blood under it curls and moves inside of you like a hot metal rod, branding your insides. His free hand, sweaty and dewy leaves no corner of your body untouched.
He grazes your breasts. No means are they that small, but he still manages to cup one I'm his hand. He pinches the rosy bud in his hand and pulls. You gasp and mewl into him—no more's and mindless calls for god ring out in the room.
He tugs you closer. His mouth opens wide like a predator opening his jaws. Crooked and sharp canines make way for his tongue to trail across your chest. He leaves his spit on your collarbone, tits and buds as he sucks and bites into the soft flesh. You whine and raise your head to stare at the ceiling.
Your moans turn into screams when he adds a second finger.
"Wait—" He doesn't.
You don't like it. It's too much. Your moans become even louder in his ears when his mouth latches on the side of your neck and bites. Teeth dig into the delicate skin and bruises bloom. Marks settle on your skin as he continues his assault. Teeth shaped rings and circles litter your neck and spread to your chest.
He's branding you in every way possible. Outside, his marks form in bites and grips turning into bruises, inside— his fingers work you apart and dismantle your walls, stretching you out with every thrust and curl of them.
He groans as his thumb dances across your clit and for a moment you chase that high, raise one of your legs, bending at the thigh and grazing the side of his hips.
He tuts and pulls his fingers out.
You whine at the empty feeling settling back into your abdomen. The tangled bunch of nerves you subconsciously wished to untie with his touch turn into a mess again. Your body instinctively chase his touch, moving towards him.
He grips your waist, palms on both sides. The touch puts pressure on you and you're sure it'll leave more marks in the shape of his hands, just like the one adorning your bottom cheek. Your eyes slowly meets his. The glint in Simon's eyes have made the brown morph into a burning amber.
"Needy thing, ain't ya? Deserve it, you think? Made me work o'it. You were squeezin' my fingers, ain't that enough?"
He brings the fingers coated with your slick in front of you. They glisten underneath the ceiling's dim light, the milky white skin glowing in the dark room. He brings them even closer to your face.
"Clean 'em, Lamb. Go on."
He beckons you, his fingers lay on top of your lips, tearing them apart. You follow suit. Your tongue sticks out slightly. He takes it as a yes—not like he was ever looking for permission in the first place.
The wet fingers rest on your tongue and he pushes down. You gag and clutch his wrist, but make no attempt to push him away. He digs even further. His fingers swirl and curl on your tongue and the taste of your own slick melts like salt of the sea on your taste buds.
"Bite."
"W-wha?" You croak out, voice muffled by the fingers currently occupying your mouth.
"I said bite, Lamb. Show me wha' you can do."
Your eyes lock onto him for a moment. If you can taste his blood again, make him wince again just even for a moment, you'll take it. Your teeth dig into his fingers. A red ring appears on his skin as indents. You finally break the surface of his skin and the crimson blood seeps into your mouth.
(A taste you're getting used to,
A fact he's delighted to bask in,
He gets to keep you.)
"Good girl."
He removes his fingers from your mouth. You thin your lips, trapping the blood and the sweat of him behind your mouth.
He shuffles near the dirtied mattress near the corner of the room. His hands grip you hard again and lead you to it. You can feel what's to come in the pits of your abdomen. Your body screams at you. Nerves are fried and your mind is hazy from pleasure and pain being mixed into one.
"I go'a do everythin' by myself, Lamb?" He hums as he drops you on the mattress.
Survival. One word rings and echos through your mind over and over again. You promise yourself that is the only reason this is happening. The only reason your knees almost pull away from each other. The only reason your cunt screams at you to present yourself to him, bare and sweet for him to skin himself into.
Your knees shake. He takes notice.
"Fuckin' needy. You love this, don't ya?"
"No." —you whine,— "no I fucking don't."
Tears gather on the waterline of your eyes and they drip down your cheeks before disappearing in your hairline. He brings and fucking licks the salty liquid off your sweaty skin. You swear his tongue lingers and presses in deeper. Your thighs clutch together.
(He wants a bite.)
"Is tha' why you rubbing your thighs, tryna get off?"
You whine and turn your eyes trained bellow, gaze stuck on his waist—anywhere but his face. Anywhere but the asymmetrical flesh of his face where skin and flesh dips and scars dance across it.
(You wonder if he'd let you trace them.)
"You're starin'. Ain't nice. Haven't even taken it out yet, Lamb."
Your mouth waters.
This fucking bastard.
You lay unmoving and trapped beneath him as his thighs frame your rear and upper legs, completely shadowing them. You gulp and try and ignore way your cunt flutters at the sight of Simon's arms gather at the hem of his shirt, at the sight of him removing said shirt and tossing it to some forgotten corner of the room. And, fuck you try your best to ignore how your pussy clenches around nothing as his bare chest is revealed to you.
Burn marks akin to cigarette burns litter his milky white skin. A plush tummy rests softly covered by light blond fuzz that travels down to his pants and turns into a forest of a happy trail. Something tenses under that happy trail, prisoner to the pants that tighten every second your desperate and debauched mewls and moans echo in the room and in his ears.
He smells like war, burnt wood and smoke. His hold freezes you to the spot underneath him, caged like an animal, just like the Lamb he loves to call you. You're forced to inhale his smell. The heavy smoke enters your lungs and heavies your body so you can never leave.
(Ruining you for anyone else.)
"Let's see if y'worth the trouble you put me through, Lamb."
His hands move to your hugged knees. You think,—he's pushing them open, oh my god—but he settles with connecting your legs, pushing them closer to your chest. Your soft thighs and pussy are on display for him. You don't want to admit the fact you can feel your pussy pulse with the thought he has you presented on a plate. Your cunt aches for his fucking touch again.
His crooked grin returns. It looks too wrong. His sly hands move to his pants and you swear you bear a zipper be brought down. You don't know what compelled you, but you tilt your head to the side and glance at what he'd just set free.
You see the faint pinkish-red tip first. It's angry uncut surface glistens with precum and you whine at the sight. The pinkish hue slowly turns into pale cream and the bluish veins dance across the surface of his cock like rivers. You gulp. He laughs.
"You should see how ya clench aroun' nothin' Lamb. You wan' it that bad?"
Something big pokes you where your thighs meet. He's going to fuck you, but first he'll use your thighs and brand himself into that piece of you too.
Your tears pool again. He won't even fuck you yet—
He coos, satisfied with your reaction.
"Don't worry, Lamb, you'll get my cock. Trust me, when I'm in your pretty cunt nothing will tear me out o'it."
You almost black out. Your mind turns putty. You go limp and drip into a puddle on the mattress.
His hips move and his cock pierces the plush flesh of your thighs. You see the head of his dick. He's fucking big. You feel the veins of him along your skin. He groans and first, he throws his head back to stare at the ceiling with a choked groan, next—he moans and falls down back to you. Hands cage you, settling on both side's of your face.
"You're fucking soft, Lamb. Fucking hell, squeezing me like your cunt did the same with my fingers."
You moan like a broken record. The underside of his cock grazes your clit. The hood of the sensitive bundle of nerves is pulled up, brought down with every thrust of his hips.
Your hands grip his arms, hanging onto him. You move closer without been noticing, seeking his clothed thighs to touch your cunt.
He lets our a breathless laugh again. Taking notice of the slick coating your cunt and the buttom of your rear. He catches the way you shuffle closer to him, wanting more and wanting more.
(You call it a bodily reaction,
It has to be.
To him it's you sharing the same hunger he has.)
"Gonna be good f'me?"
He removes his cock from the warm and soft hold of your thighs. He lets out a hiss at the movement before cupping your cunt, his palm dwarfs it it's entirety. You grind against him, seeking any release you can get.
"I expect an answer outta ya, Lamb."
He drifts above and pushes down onto your clit. Three hands rubbing circles onto the sensitive bud. You arch your back into him and your chests almost touch.
"Fuck, yes—" You rip the answer out of your throat. You take in every burst of pleasure he gives you. You swear you see starts behind your eyelids.
(Is the black hole going to take them as it plans on taking you?)
"Good girl."
His calloused hands still dance across your clit. The harsh skin burns yours. It feels as if he's burning you like the charred wood he smells like. It hurts. It aches. You can't take it. It hurts too much.
He moves with intent. His cock comes closer to the bare entrance of your cunt. You panic. Hoarse voice escapes you as you shift away from him.
"Wait—fuck—wait, no condom?"
He stares at you for a moment, a brow raises at you like you're a child asking him a stupid question. His hand grips the sides of your face. You let out a choked poor excuse of a scream. He brings you closer to his face.
"Never fucked raw, Lamb?"
"I-I've never tried this."
You croak out, like you even had the choice to try this.
"You don't know how it feels when a cock comes inside you?"
You let your mouth hang open. Words dry on your tongue. How do you even answer that?
His eyes settle on your lips. His fingers trace along it. Moving closer in your proximity, his own ripped lips touch yours. For some reason you don't push him, you don't scream at him. You stay frozen. You lie to yourself when you try and convince your mind it's all because of the fear.
The moment only lasts for a few second before he smiles again—The sickly Glasgow smile spreads even more. You shudder in his hold. Of course, all because of fear.
"You'll take my cock—"
"Fuck—no, it's too big— it won't fit."
He pushes harder on your cheeks. Your lips contort as you look up at him.
"We'll make it fit, Lamb."
Your mind turns even more hazy at his words. They light a spark down your abdomen. Your toes curl, knees bend and hug at his sides, bringing him in even closer. Simon groans. His head tilts and positions himself and his cock right at the entrance of your aching cunt.
The tip of his cock slowly pushes past your raw lips of your pussy. You move and writhe in his hold under him. Simon is unforgiving in the way he pushes himself into you. You swear he's trying to split you in half. You're sure you'll feel him in your belly, chest and throat by the time he's in.
You mewl and your hands grasp at his chest. Your nails rake down his skin. They move to grasp his shoulders and you bring him even closer, beckoning him to you.
"Simon—"
"Fuck. I know, Lamb. You're squeezing me—"
Simon gasps. His hands grasp the soft flesh around your waist. His hazy eyes take your entire body in. You notice them as they do. You catch the hunger in his eye. Your walls flutter again when you see the possessive glint curling in the burning amber of his eyes.
There's a certain high that spreads through your veins when you see how much he's affected too. He's slowly pushing his cock into you and the moans and groans leave him like hoarse and broken notes. You figure out what the high is that you're currently feeling.
A man like him. A man of his size and cruelty. A man bathed in blood with the crimson stuck underneath his nails no matter how much he tries to wash it off. That man is on his knees for you, bottoming out in you, getting drunk on the feeling of your cunt's walls beckoning him in and fluttering around him. You did that.
Or, your cunt did. Though, with the way his eyes glint when they reach your face.
Yea, you did that.
You're dragged out of your reverie when you feel Simon's cock dig in deeper. You curl into his hold. He moves even deeper into you. He makes a home inside of you, his veins engrave themselves on your fluttering walls.
The room smells of sex. The moans and gasps of both of you echo through out the room. The nitroglycerin sifts through the air. His sweat rolls down onto you and joins your own.
The way his hold keeps you steady and your plush thighs keep him close and cunt keeps him warm is a stark contrast to how he had handled you, how he'd trapped you in his jaws and dug his teeth in you. It is a dichotomy you take like a high and let it spread lightning through your body.
His hips don't give up their assault. They thrust deep inside you and you can see how his cock disappears in your cunt. His unforgiving thrusts carve into you. He moves out and back in—ouroboros of an endless cycle.
He grins and pushes deeper.
Maybe you've gone crazy. You've lost it truly. His length soothes some aching and raw feeling inside you. Untangles your nerves and you let moans ring out like a melody as an answer to the hazy bliss.
You settle your hand on your lower belly where the hotness and the scorching feeling act as a balm and calming oil for you. Your fingers feel the way your stomach bulges from Simon's cock, the way he meticulously moves his length along your clenching walls. You push down on him.
He rolls his hips and groans. A sickeningly saccharine smile grows on his face.
"'m too big for you, huh?"
You can feel him twitch inside you. Result of some masculine high he's on right now. He hangs on his words, but doesn't wait for an answer and digs himself into you again and again and—
You think he likes it — the fact it hurts you and you mewl and struggle to fully take him. It feels his chest with some debauched pride. The fact he's the one working you open on his cock, that he's the one that you're perched and split half upon.
"c'mon, Lamb. Cum on my cock, the one who's makin' you whine and moan f'me."
"I can't—"
"Greedy little thing, ain't ya?"
He removes one hand on the waist he's been using to hold you as he bullies his cock into you and moves it to your puffy clit. He drags shaky circles and you arch into his hold. You whine and mewl. He answers with hoarse groans and gasps of his own.
Your body goes limp in his hold. You raise your hips in a last offering to him. Make me cum, make me—
"Little fucking minx."
Your breath is knocked out of your chest as his thrust becomes sloppy and fast. His voice cracks and he lets his head fall onto your shoulder. His cock deep in you, embedded, full balls slapping at your ass, fingers working your sensitive and raw clit as your pushed to the edge.
Your mind's so hazy you can't count how many times he untangles you with his cock and fingers. Your mind can only focus on the way he pulls you apart with his length, spearing you in half.
His hand leaves your clit. It returns back to your waist and he drags your whole body even closer. His thrust become final. They reach so deep you see galaxy's and nebula's behind your lidded eyelids. He groans and rolls his hips one last time before—a warm and heavy liquid spreads through—he comes, inside you and deep. He settles down onto you, muscles shifting and laying soft by your sides.
Your things once wrapped around him and keeping him warm now rest laid on the mattress. You feel your body tense and the soreness bites at you.
He moves away, pulls out in a agonizingly slow way, just to see your face break out in shame and pleasure one more time.
He shuffles to the other side of the room. You stand as well. Shaky legs move you to your discarded clothes. It earns you strange look from Simon.
"Wha' are you doin'?"
"I'm just—"
"Wait, you don't think you're leavin', right?"
"I thought this was—"
"—a one time thing?" He finishes for you before continuing. "Lamb, you ain't goin' nowhere."
"But—"
"Sleep."
Simon wakes up countless of times. Cock still hard and leaking with cum. The same cum you had stuffed deep and safe in your fluttering cunt. The cunt which you presented him with during the night. You were awake, half asleep, or even blacked out, but still mewling on his cock.
You took everything he gave you like his good girl. You are so good to him.
He'd knew you be. Knew from the moment he saw you first through the window of his truck walking to work in that sad excuse of a motel. Knew from the moment when you'd eye him passing by. Knew when you first met him. Your plum lips and flushed cheeks are engraved in his mind. Knew you'd take his fingers and cock well from the moment you let your sweet words beckon him closer.
He got his answer when you laid naked and bare in front of him. Your arched spine and trembling hands digging and clutching his clothes as he pumped his fingers in and out of your puffy pussy. Your mewls as he fucked your thighs slick with your arousal you tried so hard to deny.
In the end his bites and bruises adorn your skin. It's his cum in your cunt keeping you warm, dripping down onto your thighs.
You're his now. He has branded you. There's a rough similarity to the way he marked you and the way butchers mark the good meat and flesh.
He's not supposed to target locals. Too noisy. People ask and turn their heads, wondering where one of their own is.
Price had made it sure Simon knew this.
But, he deserves you, doesn't he?
Your soft skin around him and his rough arms morphing you so he can carve a place in your rib cage to be the one and only to sit there warmed by your blood.
© PORCELIAN ﹕ I do not give consent for my writing to be posted or used on any other platforms without my permission and proper credit.
#simon riley#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley x you#simon riley smut#modern warefare ii#call of duty#call of duty x reader#call of duty x you#141#tf 141#tf 141 x reader#john price#soap#johnny soap mctavish x you#johnny soap mctavish x reader#kyle gaz garrick#gaz#gaz garrick#simon ghost x you#ghost cod#ghost x reader
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i saw you were taking requests o((>ω< ))o
i hc yukimiya, kaiser, and oliver to have the comfy but stylish fashion sense(lol), can i request them with reader who has a darker style like goth or vkei?
Hiii dear!! firstly in the event i write the characters I will write and unfortunately just kaiser here (I only write characters whose behavior I understand, so I can imagine them, but I don't have enough information about the others sorry(´-ω-`) lets add sae
Kaiser Michael
Kaiser, ever the center of attention with his magnetic charisma and effortlessly stylish flair, strolls confidently through the crowd. By his side is you the striking contrast to his golden aura. Your dark, layered outfit, inspired by a fusion of gothic elegance and visual kei extravagance, turns just as many heads. Your presence radiates mystery, drawing curious glances wherever you walk together
Kaiser grins, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he leans closer to you “I swear, people are staring at us because of me” he teases, his voice dripping with smug amusement “Or maybe they’re just not used to seeing someone as stylish as me with someone so… darkly radiant”
You roll your eyes but can’t help smirking “Or they’re wondering why a golden retriever is trying to keep up with a black panther” The playful jab makes his grin widen “Touché, mein dunkler Stern”
The two of you pause at a stall selling handmade accessories. Kaiser’s eyes gleam as he spots a black lace choker adorned with a silver crescent moon. He picks it up, holding it toward you “This would suit you” he declares with absolute confidence, then adds with a teasing smirk “But you’d look even better wearing something of mine”
You snort, crossing your arms. “You mean like your ego? Sorry, it’s a bit too heavy for my neck”Undeterred, Kaiser steps closer, lowering his voice “Keep talking, and I might just buy it for you anyway. A perfect gift for my perfect little shadow”
The faintest blush creeps up your neck, and you quickly divert your attention to another stall. But Kaiser follows, his laughter soft but triumphant as he takes his place beside you, unfazed by your aloof demeanor
As the night continues, you find yourself grudgingly enjoying his over-the-top compliments and relentless attempts to get a smile from you. By the time you leave, he’s carrying several small items he insisted on buying for you a delicate ring, a black-embroidered scarf and of course the choker
Sae Itoshi
Sae walks in, exuding his usual cool, detached confidence. Dressed in his signature minimalist yet high-end fashion, he glances around with faint disinterest, his sharp eyes scanning the room for anything worthy of his attention. Then he notices you
You stand near a dimly lit display of abstract sculptures, your goth or visual kei-inspired attire making you an arresting contrast to the sterile white walls and muted tones of the gallery. Your layered outfit is a work of art itself dark lace, leather accents, and intricate accessories that seem to tell a story all their own. The black polish on your nails gleams as you hold a glass of wine, your demeanor composed and enigmatic. Sae’s gaze lingers a moment too long
“Interesting taste” he comments, stepping closer. His voice is low and measured, as if he’s assessing the situation with the same precision he brings to the pitch. You glance at him, arching a brow “The art or me?”
He doesn’t flinch at your boldness. Instead, his lips curve ever so slightly a rare hint of amusement “Both, I suppose. Though one of them is harder to read” You tilt your head, intrigued but refusing to let him rattle you. “Let me guess you prefer things simple, minimal, and predictable”
Sae’s smirk grows “Not quite. I just appreciate when something stands out. Like this…” He gestures toward the piece you were studying a sleek, modern sculpture with jagged, chaotic edges “Or you”
You chuckle softly, meeting his intense gaze “Flattery from a guy like you? Color me impressed”Sae shrugs, his tone nonchalant but his eyes sharper than ever “It’s not flattery. Just an observation”
The two of you fall into an easy, if slightly sharp-tongued, conversation. Sae’s reserved demeanor contrasts with your dark, vibrant energy, but neither of you seem fazed. As the evening wears on, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to your unapologetic individuality, while you find his quiet intensity more captivating than you expected
Before the night ends, Sae leans in closer, his voice softer but no less confident “I don’t usually go to these things, but I’m glad I did tonight. You’re… different”
“Different how?” you ask, feigning disinterest but feeling your heart skip a beat. Sae’s gaze locks with yours, his smirk returning “Let’s just say you’re not as predictable as I expected. I’d like to see more of that”
Enjoy!
#micheal kaiser x reader#michael kaiser x you#bluelock kaiser#kaiser fluff#kaiser x y/n#kaiser x you#bllk kaiser#blue lock kaiser#kaiser x reader#michael kaiser#kaiser michael#itoshi sae x y/n#itoshi sae x reader#sae x you#sae x reader#sae itoshi x reader#bllk sae#itoshi sae#sae itoshi#blue lock sae#sae itoshi x you#sae itoshi x y/n#itoshi sae x you#bllk x you#blue lock x y/n#blue lock x you#bluelock x reader#blue lock x reader#blue lock#blue lock x female reader
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Also, intersectionality.
No, I as a white woman do not experience racism. Prejudice, maybe, but not racism, because I live in the US and all of the systems (social and official) are built to cater to my skin tone. So when I face issues, it's either because I'm a woman, I'm queer, or both.
HOWEVER, a black queer woman who faces the exact same situation as me will inherently also be facing racism, because racism increases the likelihood that a black woman will experience misogyny or queerphobia, and vice versa.
That's why so many (but not enough) people will point out that the oppression Olympics don't exist - there's too much nuance between age, race, gender, disability, income, and how visible any of that is for "how oppressed" someone is to ever be quantifiable, and a specific number is irrelevant anyway because the issue is that bigots exist. Nobody is "less oppressed" just because they experience a different kind of bigotry or in a different way/concentration than someone else. All bigotry is bad. That's the point. We're trying to get rid of bigots, not decide where the line between bad and worse bigotry is.
At the end of the day words like misogyny and transphobia are primarily useful for describing patterns. It doesn't matter who the target actually was so much as the motivations of the bigot. Cis butch women getting harassed in women's bathrooms are experiencing transphobia even though they're cis because the bigot is attacking them solely because they think the butch woman is trans. That's why we say it's a transphobic attack - it's based on the bigot's assumption that their target is trans and thus deserves to be harasses for that.
experiencing misogyny isn't what makes someone a woman, womanhood isn't like "the ability to experience misogyny" being a woman is identifying as a woman.
Everyone experiences misogyny. People tend to forget that when it comes to trans men, who are direct targets of misogyny, and yet of course, not women.
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In This Podunk Town — A South Park fanmix about the tumultuous experience of growing up with (and sometimes growing apart from) your best friends in a your insane little hometown.
Cover art by me (an homage to The Great Depression by Defiance, Ohio)
Listen here.
Tracklist ⤵
This Feels Better — Defiance, Ohio | Bleed American — Jimmy Eat World | Bored Teenagers — The Adverts | Feel Like Rain — Motion City Soundtrack | Seattle — Public Image LTD. | No Rest For The Weekend — Orange | Working Title — Mt. Eddy | Knowledge — Operation Ivy | Big Lizard — The Dead Milkmen | Kids — The Frights | Halloween 3.5 — Rozwell Kid | Dry Heat/Nice Town — Cheekface | Familiar Patterns — PUP | Don’t Die In Yr Hometown — Antarctigo Vespucci | Fat Lip — Sum 41 | Minor Threat — Minor Threat | Hey Suburbia — Screeching Weasel | Stand There Until You’re Sober — Bomb the Music Industry! | Let’s Get Breakfast — Walter Mitty and His Makeshift Orchestra | Circles ‘Round the Moon — Nana Grizol
#south park#south park art#south park fanart#south park playlist#south park fanmix#stan marsh#kenny mccormick#kyle broflovksi#eric cartman#south park main four#sp#sp art#sp fandom#mine#this playlist is the more curated version of the playlist i just dump songs into when i have any sort of 'hey this could connect to one of#these guys—' thoughts/what i listen to when i do a lot of my sp art. mostly a playlist in the vein of 'songs that make me think of them'#but i think it also is largely the kinds of stuff i could see them listening to. idk. perhaps thats just me projecting.#also tried for a bit of a mix of silly vs serious songs lmao. like big lizard is just a situation i think they'd find themselves in. yk.#also yes for the little x-ray picture that is based on the kidrobot anatomy figures hehe#also i did all that art in black + white so dont ask for color versions they dont exist. + i reused some random old stuff for the tracklist#but anyway trying to recreate that album cover was a fun little challenge. i prob could have done a little better with the stitching stuff#but i got tired and just wanted this out there sfdhgjf#also yes i did make a separate spotify acount just to post this playlist. i have irl friends who follow my main ok
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You've been distant for the last few days. Dottore sends some friends in hopes of getting through to you. (In other words, Dottore has his crow friends deliver some gifts to cheer you up.)
You hadn't been quite yourself as of late, and it was awfully noticeable. It was something Dottore was struggling to adjust to despite the couple of other times it had happened.
For a long time, the scholar had thought he had everything about you within his grasp. He had studied you like the finest sample that had ever landed in his hands to learn as much as could be learned about you, starting from when you two had reached the status of mere acquaintances. He carefully documented everything that could be known about you, from observing your reactions in various situations and then being able to predict what you would do in others (to some extent, you being ever the enigma), to examining every inch of your body. It was an experiment that could make his head hurt at times or his body burst in pleasure.
But when Dottore really thinks back to the time he spent with you at the Akademiya, he realizes that maybe his experiment wasn't as extensive as he first thought, the reason being that he's never truly seen you sad or upset.
Yes, there were times you were tired, or burnt out, or shed a couple of tears over some harsh words from another, but you seemed to bounce back soon enough. Rather, surprisingly enough, he was more vulnerable on that front, still vividly remembering the night he bitterly cried and spat out how that village had wronged him, stiffening at your feather-light touches.
It turns out a few centuries later, that there were always possibilities that even he couldn't account for. Dottore still remembered when you started full-on sobbing in front of him for the first time. He was, naturally, at a loss as to what to do other than hold you.
Logically he had known that your illness wouldn't have been a smooth ride of course, but he still couldn't have been prepared for this. Even if he was, all the preparation wouldn't have been helpful in practice, considering the lump in his throat looking at your shaking form. He wasn't made for this - to be gentle, to be kind, to be patient and understanding.
However, those were just some of the things that you needed. This wasn't a matter of whether he could, it was that he must.
And so, during certain times, the segments had to gently coax you out of bed and clean you up as quick as they could. One dressed you and one fed you whatever your stomach could handle, while another tried to keep your attention with his fantastical stories.
But then there were days when you didn't want to talk at all. You didn't even want to feel Dottore's hands run along your body soothingly, something you always longed for. It was times like these when the all-knowing Harbinger was at a loss. How can he go about helping you if he can't even see you? How could he help his beloved this time, when you've helped him all those years ago?
He would figure it out for you.
—
The beautiful, snowy landscape always seemed to quiet your deafening mind. For some reason, it sometimes got too loud, making your head ache, but seeing snow slip off tree branches and little critters dart around brought some solace to you. Then again, it wasn't like there was much else to do. Even with those, you didn't feel like doing anything actually.
With a sigh, you lowered your head onto your desk and closed your eyes, still burning despite having slept an awful lot last night. Maybe you should head back to bed and hope a sweet dream will bless you. You idly drew with your fingers, tracing the colors of the wood table, eyelids indeed drooping once more when suddenly a loud tap on your window had you shooting straight up.
Immediately, you noticed the ruffle of black feathers with specks of white dust on your windowsill, tapping to be let in.
... Dottore's crow friends? You hadn't seen them in a long time. Upon closer look, there was something in its beak- but another hard tap quickly made you move to open the window. Then, one, two, three, four... five birds hopped in, shaking their feathers and leaving the wetness of snow on your table. Admittedly, seeing these little guys made your shoulders relax a bit. You shut it as fast as you opened it, and turned around to see a murder of crows cawing at you expectantly, wanting to give you the items they held in their beaks already.
One by one, the birds dropped a Rainbow Rose into your palm, the next a Lakelight Lily, then a Lumidouce Bell, and lastly, your favorite, a Sumeru Rose, quite simple compared to the others. They made quite an odd bouquet, meaning there was only one person who could have made it.
You carefully set the flowers aside to retrieve a small box that the last crow held. Pulling at the tiny ribbon, the lid came off and there lay a few tiny yet expensive chocolates and a card with Dottore's signature handing.
"Beloved,
A new and unusual batch of specimens came in recently. Though we typically don't use plants like these, they have their uses in some areas. Regardless, I remember you always wanted to see some flowers from other nations. I chose the ones with the highest quality. I hope they are to your liking."
The silly and sweet gesture made a small smile creep up on your face, especially considering you already knew what the flowers meant.
Passion and love. An eternal promise. The wish for reunion. Home.
You sank down in your chair and popped the sweet into your mouth, the flavor warming your dry mouth. Prodding at the lily's watery bubble, you really were touched. But you just still couldn't face him again. The gentle caws and nudges from the crows made it seem like they somehow understood your feelings. But then the flapping of wings and sudden drop of something catch your attention. A notepad and pen now were in front of you.
"W-What... you think I should write back to him?" A chorus of caws echoed in agreement and encouragement. "I suppose... it's not a bad idea." Swallowing your nervousness, you put pen to paper but you didn't know what to write, the ink blotting the paper. Rubbing your forehead, you thought hard for a while, until you ended up with the most straightforward thing.
"Thank you, Zandik."
Folding the paper, one of the crows clutched it in its beak, ready to deliver the rather short yet meaningful message. After you petted all of them a few times, they were off once again into the snowy land.
—
Only a few minutes later, tapping could once again be heard but at Dottore's office this time. Of course, he'd expected them, and took refuge in the warmth of his room as well as crowding his shoulders and arm. Seeing as their beaks were empty, he knew they had completed this very important mission. But then a poke at his cheek made him see the small paper.
Opening it up, he read the shaky handwriting that spoke of three words, and then placed it in his locked drawer for safekeeping.
—
After quite some time had passed, you finally found yourself able to ask him a question that lingered on your mind.
"So... did you teach them to do that all for lil old me?" Dottore waved your question off as you giggled, then wrapped your arms around him and snuggled into his back.
"Zandik. I... I..." You struggled to finish your sentence due to how many things you could say - 'Thank you for not giving up on me,' 'I'm sorry to weigh you down,' 'I wish I wasn't like this-'.
But then the squeeze of your hands had you gasping back to reality, while Dottore had remained silent. It was his way of saying not to worry yourself with words, so you didn't. Instead, you swallowed back the lump in your throat and rested your head against him.
You can enjoy this moment, without worrying about what kind of days may lie ahead.
#smooches talks#dottore love notes <3#fragile reader <3#dottore x reader#big fan of dottore being a gift giver tbh#he always has sm trinkets for u#and akademiya him would be so embarrassed abt it he'd be like “here take this idc” and just shove it into ur arms#big fan of the doter being soft in general actually hehe#i really cant wait to see him again so i can develop more soft (and angsty) hcs for him#the doter...!!!#divider by cafekitsune
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it’s mating cuffing season!
cw: hybrid geto, mating, geto in heat, breeding, not really sub geto, also slight dub-con, piv, reader is cisfem, and creds to yerchokito for the hybrid ideas (im ur biggest fan)
solace: surprise and happy new year late.
cat!suguru, who you found shivering at a nearby temple. you brought him home, determined to help him, even though he was fighting you every step of the way.
cat!suguru who you loved with every crevice of your heart, knowing he’d eventually love you too.
cat!suguru who slowly gave up trying to ward you off, wrapping his tail around your wrist or ankle whenever he could.
cat!suguru who loves to sleep on your chest and meows until you crack if he doesn’t get to sleep there.
cat!suguru who’s actually a fox. you were wondering why he was growing to be so long, have such pointed ears and such an elongated maw. his tail, once completely bare, had long, shaggy fur now. but it’s weird. shouldn’t foxes be… orange? or white, depending on their region? why was he black?
fox!suguru who will /not/ be taken away no matter what. who cares if he’s a rare breed of fox? no one will get his claws out of your skin. he’ll yowl and cry if anyone other than you holds him.
fox!suguru who hates going to the vet because there’s a fucking snow leopard there who won’t stop pawing him and they get into fights all the time.
fox!suguru who you named purple because of the light reflecting on his fur.
fox!suguru who you discovered was a human when you came out of the shower and discovered a naked man with long black hair, ears and a tail that matched (all three meticulously groomed), a purple collar (with suguru’s name on it, also too tight for his neck) around his throat who was sitting diligently on your bed. where your pet was supposed to be sat at.
“what the fuck.” is all you said, gripping the towel around your body with sheer fear.
“hi.” he shyly waved, half of his hair covering his face, like he was shameful.
so, fox!suguru who turns out to be human!suguru explained his situation (all after calming you down and assuring you he was, in fact, suguru, proving it by telling you that you have a mole under your left asscheek… weird, but he’s the only one who knew as you changed when he was in the room when he was a fox), from the world of sorcerers, to curses, to what made him become a fox.
“so, how did you…become human again?” you asked, now dry but still covering up with your towel.
“i have no idea. maybe because my cursed energy replenished fully, or i felt comfortable… but either way, thank you for taking care of me. you truly didn’t have to.” suguru blushed, looking down at his lap, that you had covered with a pillow.
“i mean, with how loud you were, someone else less patient would’ve killed you, so i had to.” you smirked, leaning toward him, “also, i couldn’t have let you out into the wild, you were too stuck to me.” his tail hit the mattress like he was distressed, and his ears flopped.
“i‘m really, truly sorry,” he whined, facing away from you.
you put your hand on his shoulder, smiling the way you would if he was still… well, a fox.
“it’s fine. it’s not i minded, anyway. i liked the company.” you weren’t lying, you were kinda dying of loneliness.
“i’m glad you did. now, i’ll… leave. thank you for keeping me, feeding me and taking care of me, i guess. i owe you, now.” suguru sighed, turning to you.
“oh, you don’t need to—“
“once i find my phone, you can call me anytime, anywhere and i’ll be there, and i’ll help you.” he was already writing his number on your hand, holding it gently in his.
“oh.” you flushed, blood rushing to your cheeks. it’d been months since a man even touched you with no bad intentions.
“u-um, suguru,” you prompted once he was done.
“yes?”
“why don’t you stay a bit more? i’ll buy you clothes so you can go out without any weird looks.” it would be weird, some random man, naked with weird ears and a tail.
his tail flicked behind him, you learned that that meant he was interested, but his ears twitching compromised that.
“i don’t think i should overstay my welcome—“
“please.” you cut him off, hand in his.
suguru sighed again, nodding. “it would be nice to be lazy a bit more. you’re sure you’re not doing this out of obligation, yes?” you nodded happily, seems the pet distribution system understood the assignment. and gravity hated you.
“your towel.” suguru pointed to your very exposed chest, shameless in his staring.
the next day, you went out and bought him clothes, cooked for him, and pampered him the way you would an actual pet, which he complained about.
“please, i can do this myself, i don’t want to impose on you.” suguru leaned down, face to face with you.
you flushed, smiling nervously, “i just want you to be comfortable.”
“i know, thank you. but please, let me do one thing in the house so i can repay you.” his ears flopped, and it was so cute you had to touch them, rub them and scratch behind. just like before. he moaned, knees buckling like he was literally liquifying.
you gasped at the sound, and suguru pulled away abruptly, straightening.
“no, wait, come back, your ears are fluffy.” you reached up, on your tippy toes, yet you couldn’t reach them.
“no, this… this was a mistake. i need to go.” he scrambled away, tail wrapped around his own thigh.
“sugu…” you huffed, wrapping a hand around his wrist to stop him. “please stay. i’m really lonely, y’know?” looking down in shame, you knew he might not even bat an eye at your ‘problem’.
“i…” suguru started, faltering when he sees the look in your eye. “it’s not like the jujutsu society will accept me back.” he muttered lowly as he exhales.
“um… what?” you’re confused, rightfully, but… what the hell is he talking about?
“nothing. if… if it doesn’t bother you… may i stay until further notice?” he looked embarrassed while he talked, but you’re very happy that he agreed.
“yes! please stay!” you excitedly jumped into his arms and hug him tightly.
“woah..!” suguru stumbles backwards but manages to catch you, automatically wrapping an arm around you and putting his left one under your ass.
you dropped down, managing a nervous chuckle.
“sorry, got a little too excited.” you apologized shyly.
“it’s fine. it’s been a long time since i even had a hug.” he smiled, and you realize, he still looks like a fox with it.
and that’s how you got a roommate. suguru has been here for about two months and you’ve never been so happy for days upon days consecutively. you celebrated christmas and new years together, drinking the worried away happily.
you’re now laying on the couch, lounging around, waiting for suguru to return home from the grocery store. your eyelids feel heavy, and before you know it, you’re falling asleep, snuggled up in his sweater. even though it was mid-january, it was still chilly enough to wear two layers under a blanket.
“i’m home.” suguru’s tired and breathy voice pierced through your sleepy haze.
“welcome home…” you yawn, stretching and flicking the blanket off of you.
his eyes zero in on his sweater, narrowing.
“did you get everything?” you get up, oblivious to the stare.
he takes off his bonnet and frees his twitching ears. he lifts his sweater after taking off his coat, revealing a tiny teensy bit of skin to let his tail loose. “yeah. but the usual brand of milk we get was out of stock so i bought the other one, hope that’s okay.”
“oh no, yeah it’s fine. c’mere.” with your hands outstretched behind you, you bend backwards over the couch’s back rest and make grabby hands at him.
suguru walks toward you, waist fitting your hand perfectly as he leans on the couch.
you flip over, facing him correctly, “i wish there was a way to hide your ears and tail when you go out. because these,” you rub the tips, causing him close his eyes in satisfaction, “are for me to see. only me, okay?” you joke, scratching behind the fluff.
“mhm…” he pushes his head in your hands, almost purring.
later, when both of your bellies were full and the tv show you watch every week comes on, suguru lays his head on top of your lap, enjoying the attention you gave to his furry parts.
he laughed tiredly at one of the jokes while your hands carded through his silky hair.
“what do you wanna do tomorrow?” you detangle a knot with gentle fingers as you ask him.
“i don’t know.” he shrugs, then looks up at you. “how about we just stay in? i don’t think i’ll feel energetic enough.” you chuckled.
“energy? who’s that?” and suguru chuckled back, squeezing your thigh.
“so, stay in tomorrow?”
“let’s stay in.”
you kept your word, sleeping until the late hours of the afternoon. but when you woke up and went to kitchen, you didn’t see suguru. weird, considering he wakes up very early naturally. so, you head to his room, knocking softly, in case he was still sleeping, but you still wanted to see if he was home.
a low groan answers your knock.
“you okay, sugu?” the nickname rolls off your tongue easily, like you were addressing an old friend.
however, instead of answering, suguru just throws something against the door, making you yelp.
“suguru?” you open the door with great effort, and, much to your surprise, it wasn’t an object that hit the door. no, it was far worse. it was suguru himself.
“oh god, suguru, what happened—?!” the mass that once was your roommate leaps onto you, sending you tumbling on the bedroom floor.
suguru’s hair tickles your face as he scans it with dilated pupils. he looked bloodthirsty, teeth sharp, shown by his open mouth.
“you’re finally here. i need… i need you. now.” he growls, hot breath hitting your face.
“what are you talking about— suguru!” you yell when he drags you to his bed, throwing you like a rag doll, like you weighed nothing, bouncing on the mattress.
“need…” he pauses to pant like he just ran a marathon. “need to mate.” mate?! is he going insane?!
“w-what do you mean ‘mate’? are you okay?” you ask again, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. gosh, it was burning. “i think you have a fever, sugu—“
he cuts you off with his explicit behavior, biting your wrist.
“suguru, what are you doing?” you sigh, figuring he was just pranking you.
suguru doesn’t respond, only rips, yes rips your shirt in half. and, knowing you didn’t wear bras to sleep, attacked your nipples until they hardened.
“suguru!” you should push him off. you seriously should. this isn’t appropriate.
.
.
.
who says you can’t fuck your roommate?
certainly not you. suguru is on top of you, suckling on your nipples like a newborn, humping your thigh like an animal. well, he is an animal, but this is basically your wet dreams, intensified by a thousand. and it wasn’t a dream.
“i need you.” he huffs on the hickey he created, sending shivers down your spine. “want you…” suguru trails his clawed fingers down your navel, stopping where your pants met your skin and pulling them down to press down on your panty-clad pussy. “here.”
your cheeks heat up, hands grasping at the sheets, “don’t just say that…”
“but it’s true. and i can feel you throbbing. you want it too, right? please tell me you do.” his rough tongue flattens against your core, and you could feel it dragging through the fabric.
“sugu—!” you push his head away reflexively when he reached your clit, making you jerk. he groans, forcing his face back in between your legs.
“don’t. you can’t take me without this.” he doesn’t waste time, shoving his mouth onto your pussy and slobbering all over it, even going so far as to nibble on your cute clit.
you mewl, back flopping against the mattress as suguru ate you out like his life depended on it, and he didn’t hold back. he inserted two fingers inside of you, curling them, pulling and pushing and making a disgusting ‘squelch’ sound each time his calloused fingertips left your slightly agape pussy.
once he deemed it prepped enough, he licked a stripe from your hole to your clit to gather the slick, straightening to undo his embarrassingly tight pants.
“that’s not gonna fit.” you back up against the wall fearfully, with reason, because the monster he pulled out was terrifying. did the curse make his cock bigger or something? that’s inhumane!
“i prepped you. it will.” suguru puts his hands over your knees and spreads your legs, kissing your entrance with his tip.
“um—“ you were already losing your mind with it all, unable to form coherent sentences as you grab his shoulder. “be gentle. i swear i’m gonna tear if you don’t go slowly.”
“don’t worry. i’m not a monster.” or maybe he was, pushing into your pussy so fast you almost didn’t feel the pain. almost.
“SUGURU!” you claw at his forearms, writhing in his arms.
“i- i’m sorry—“ he curses, tongue lolling out to lick your neck apologetically. “i c-can’t… control m-myself— oh-fuck!” your dearest roommate, who you have cared for for more than 3 months, was turning out to be the most vile dick you’ve ever had in your life.
suguru trembles as he holds your waist like it was his lifeline, pushing deeper and deeper until he couldn’t anymore. not that he was small, but because he reached a point in your cunt where he could not go deeper.
he growls to himself, thrusting in and making you yelp in pain.
“suguru, be careful, it’s sensitive.” you warn with your fingers in his hair.
“i need to go deeper if i wanna breed you correctly.” the dark haired man snaps, his thumb spreading your folds that were already bulging around his thick length.
“what? oh, no, no, no—you are not breeding me. what am i? breeding stock? don’t fucking—“ suguru cuts you off with a kiss, rubbing your clit as he pulls out achingly slowly. you were already so close to cumming even after the mind blowing one he had just given you, legs twitching around his waist.
he tuts, hands under your knees to push them against your chest and presenting your cunt to him. “much better. maybe i’ll even go deeper.” you try to protest but he’s right, you realize that because when he sinks inside of your dewy pussy, you can feel all of him. and it’s evident that he feels all of you, too, letting out the most pathetic whine you’ve ever heard, right in your ear. you might’ve gotten just a bit wetter at that sound.
“o-oh my—“ suguru gasps, finally thrusting the last inch into your warmness.
you’re struggling to breathe yourself, nails dragging his skin red for the nth time. at this point, people would ask him if he had a cat instead of you.
“thank you—thankyouthankyouthankyou—“ he babbles, roughly licking your jaw and chin as an attempt to kiss you. “you feel so good— i don’t know how i’ll live without you, please-“ you don’t know what he’s pleading for, but his tone had you in a chokehold and you’d do anything for him right now.
“please let me knock you up, please— i need it, i’ll die, i swear i’ll be good for you.” oh, it’s so dangerous. his whines combined with his strokes made your brain mushy and your thought incoherent. you would give in sooner than you thought you would.
“f-fuck, cum inside—“ you moan, hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. and suguru is gone. he’s gone and a mindless, pussy drunk version of him has replaced him.
he plants his hands on the mattress and smacks his hips into you, balls slapping your asscheeks in a resounding plap!
he can’t control his eyes, rolling to the back of his skull as he bites his lip to keep his whimpers in check. but it was so hard, the way your walls clung to his cock, the wetness, the way—
“fuck!” suguru bites your shoulder, breaking skin as he paints your cunt white from the inside out. you wince at the bite, gritting your teeth.
your roommate comes back to his senses after a minute, panicking for all the wrong reasons.
“wha-what’s wrong?” you ask, trying to gain his frantic attention.
“it’s leaking.” he brings his fingers to your pussy and pulls out, scooping up the cum that was expelled by your walls spasming and stuffing it back in.
“are you serious? get off me.” you don’t know why you’re irritated, but you’re all wet, sweaty, and you smell like sex. unless he wants a second round, you don’t want to stay dirty like this.
suguru’s ears flop, he looks so pathetic, you don’t know what to do.
“what’s wrong with you?” you finally ask. why is he acting so needy?
“i don’t know.” he grumbles, cuddling up to your chest.
“agh, don’t hug me, i’m dirty!” you try to gently push him away but he’s stronger than you, caging you in his arms.
“i don’t care. let’s make more babies. we need to be sure—“
“we are not making children. i don’t know why you suddenly want to fuck so bad, but keep it down. i need to shower.” you order firmly, after all, an owner needs to be nice but not lenient… right?
“babies.” suguru pins you down on the bed, spreading your legs like he owned your body.
“suguru.” you shut your thighs. “no round two. i’m sore.”
“but… we need to make sure it takes. plus, you didn’t cum.” he makes a point. but that doesn’t mean you want to have children. even if you have a not so obvious crush on him.
“you made me cum once already.” you remind him, patting his head and rubbing his ears the way he adores. the man just purrs and leans into your touch just like he did before he turned back human.
“but—“
“but no. get off me. i’m serious.” he pouts uncharacteristically and rolls off of you to sulk.
smiling, you kiss his shoulder and saunter to the shower, pleasurably sore in all the right places. it’s been a while since you’ve been fucked well.
after showering (and cleaning out your pussy, unfortunately you would have to take a plan b since your roommate/situationship/whatever the hell you were didn’t use a condom), you cover up with a fluffy towel and see suguru on his bed, jerking off.
…jerking off?!
“oh—! i’m so sorry!” you jump back and hide your gaze. you would forever have the image of his pink veiny cock in his hand, but for his dignity you didn’t watch.
“what’s the- the matter? i told you… i needed a round two. i’m not satisfied.” his tail quivers underneath him.
“are you in heat, you dog?” you lightheartedly joke, mouth already watering at the sight. but you can’t give in yet.
“yeah. mating season. aren’t you supposed to help me, master?” suguru breathes as his hand blurs from how fast he jerked himself off, the precum beading at the tip along with your shared juices being used as a lube.
this is going to be a long night.
#jjk#jujustu kaisen x reader#jjk smut#solace's works#jjk suguru#jujutsu suguru#getou suguru x y/n#suguru x you#suguru geto#suguru geto smut#getou suguru x reader#jujutsu kaisen suguru#geto suguru
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Jason had met his fair share of incompetent goons. And incompetent teams. He's not entirely sure if the GIW fall into that category, they did manage to knock him out and drag him here, but it's very obvious they both had been expecting something different.
They had seemed shocked by his resistance to their weapons and equipment, as well as flummoxed by the human biological function of bleeding. Jason was shocked by how easy the defensive tech was to disable, and the very non-human figures locked in the hallway he'd just stumbled into.
They stared at him from behind thick glass, skin white and grey and blue and green. Hair in thick clumps and flame whisps and glowing.
One, woman shaped, colored blue slammed her fist on the glass. "Hey! Hey look at me."
Jason did and something about her brightened.
"Can you get us out?"
"I'm not sure, sorry. It's just me and-"
"Can you get one of us out?" The figure who spoke dressed like a noir detective, down to the black and white color scheme, pressed against his cell wall. He spoke like Gordon, assessing situations from a public safety standpoint.
Jason pegged him as some type of cop, but more importantly a leader. He seemed desperate to help. Jason marched toward him.
As he did so, figures at the end of the hallway came into view. Three children, or child-like beings. The youngest dressed like a pirate, red eyed and staring. A grayscale teen, slumped against a wall, eyes closed. And another teen the color of a photo negative aside from the gaping wound on his chest dripping viscous Mountain Dew. He looked at Jason but didn't see him. Not really.
Still, he repeated the cop's question. "Can you get one of them out?"
One. Jason felt like he could save one. Had the time to break one cell door, help one person out of this complex. But not just any person, a kid. It had to be a kid.
He locked eyes with the cop, who flicked his gaze up and down.
"Ah," he said. "They would start capturing strong liminals, wouldn't they."
"I can save one kid."
"Take Youngblood," the green-bleeding kid said.
"Take Phantom," the adult said, pointing towards the boy holding his chest together.
Phantom bristled. "The others-"
"Need protecting." The cop nodded. "And you're the best protector. But not if you stay here. Not like that."
The teen swallowed, and the hand on, no, in his chest twitched. Jason felt nauseous, watching the kid look down at his chest cavity as if seeing beyond his skin to his heart.
"I don't, I don't think I can leave," he whispered.
He said it with such certainty, Jason immediately blew out the keypad and then fired three shots in the glass. It wasn't bulletproof, and shattered. The kid was free, but he stayed on the floor, leaning against the wall, hand twitching as if forcing his heart to function.
Jason had never wanted to save a kid so bad.
"I can't leave," Phantom repeated, staring at the cop ghost in white.
Jason knew the statement had nothing to do with his ability to stand. He was missing something.
But the GIW weren't prepared for him, and Phantom wasn't either. It was nothing to pistol whip the kid and scoop him. They'd already wasted time.
"Thank you," the grayscale teen whispered, opening his eyes. "I'm glad someone is escaping these bullies."
"Tell him he can protect us once he's healthy again," the cop yelled as Jason booked it down the hallway. "We can last longer here."
Jason would come back for the other kids soon.
Prompt: Prison Break
Walker wouldn't have expected it, but one of the worst parts of being imprisoned by the GIW was watching Phantom suffer through the descending stages of violent obsession failure.
All of them were feeling it, obviously, but for most of them it was a slow decline - the pull of longing, developing over days and weeks into a sharp ache. Ember, ignored and silenced, was lashing out, kicking the glass walls and screaming for attention, even when it hurt. Johnny and Kitty, kept out of each other's sight, pressed against the walls closest together. Walker's whole body throbbed with frustration and self-loathing, needing to return to his territory and drag everyone back with him, away from this place of torture.
But Phantom, not three years dead and with an obsession that demanded that he keep everyone completely unharmed, had declined rapidly. Sure, for the first week or so, he'd been preoccupied with troubles of his own, strapped constantly to a table with hands digging through his insides. But then they'd started to spread out their attention.
At first, Phantom didn't seem to realize what was happening. He cried out in anguish and fear, trying to break open his cell and being punished for it, collapsing under the shock collar's control. Walker could almost see when he figured it out, when he started to clutch at his chest, and scribble constellations onto the walls and floor in his dripping ectoplasm with hands that trembled, trying to ease the pain in his core.
Then he started to curl up and choke on his tears, shuddering in pain whenever screams echoed down the hall. Finally, in between his own turns on the table, he started to shove his hand into his open chest, clutching his burning core directly, moans of pain rising into yells in nearly perfect unison with whoever else was the victim this time.
(Sidney had declined in nearly perfectly unison with Phantom, which a part of Walker hoped the punk hadn't noticed.)
If Phantom wasn't a halfa, he probably would've shattered into dust by now. It probably would've been a mercy.
When the yelling started, Walker almost didn't notice. Phantom, delirious with pain, for sure didn't. But before long, most of the rest of them had stirred to alertness, dragging themselves closer to the glass to peer down the hall. A troop of GIW stormed down the hall without glancing at any of them, and an alarm started going off. Phantom whined and rolled over, his hand buried in his autopsy wound while he shivered. (The scientists had tried stitching it closed, but Phantom just clawed it blindly open.)
"What's happening?" the Lunch Lady croaked. (Youngblood and Phantom were starving, and it was doing her no favors.)
"Prison break," Walker rasped. He recognized the signs. "Someone's here." He'd never imagined that it would be a relief.
#dp x dc#danny phantom#jason todd#dp walker#giw#whump#Jason's obsession is protecting kids specifically#walker clocks that#my fanfiction
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It's Just Pretend ; L. Howlett ⚔︎
Pairing: Logan x Female Reader
Summary: Reader has a formal work gala she needs to attend and she's spoken to her colleagues that's she's newly married and they wish to meet her husband. Push comes to shove Logan attends the work gala with Reader and the night ends with an exploration of each other.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Unprotected schmex (wrap it before ya tap it, gents), Oral (F! Receiving), Fake marriage.
Word count: 2.4k
MDNI
a/n: okay, hi! i legit haven't written in SO LONG ! buut, this has been in my notes for like three weeks and I wrote this after watching Deadpool and Wolverine for the second time and i legit was half drunk off of six raspberry twisted teas, but when i say i had an entire h o r n y episode about logan, gnawing on the iron bars (or whatever brittany broski said) plus i don't know how to do summarys and warnings and correctly.
this is not spell checked / grammar checked don’t come for me
anyway, enjoy yall 𝜗𝜚
⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆
“Please Logan, for the love of God, can you please just get dressed? I will leave alone.” you shouted more at yourself than at Logan, you were still getting ready in the mirror, with a large white light surrounding your reflection. The bathroom counter was scattered with your makeup, your straighter, and possible perfume options. “This is stupid, I don’t look right in a goddamn suit,” You could hear him mumble in the hallway outside of the bathroom. “Look, a lot of important people are going to be there, I just want to see like it’s like I have my life together, with a good job and a husband, please !” at this point you're gritting these words through my teeth.
“A husband !? You don’t even have a goddamn ring? How are people supposed to believe that!?” The temper in his voice only seems to get higher. “It doesn’t take a fucking genius to order one online.” You snap back at him. Letting out a breath and stare into you reflection, your dark hair perfectly straighten out, your eyes surrounded by the color of sage green eyeshadow, black satin dress clung to your figure perfectly hugging ever curve and contour out of your body. Turning around to look over your shoulder to see yourself from behind and in all honestly, you're happily with your results of your own talent with your hair and makeup.
You could hear Logan huffing, he can be so goddamn stubborn. “A fake marriage, how fucking cliche can y-“ his words were cut off, he stood in the doorframe of the bathroom and the energy changes in the room, the air stiff, no movement, no friction. Turning your head slightly to see Logan in black dress pants, no shirt, no shoes. His toned torso, rising and falling with every breath he took. “Shit, if I knew you cleaned up this good I would’ve made you my fake wife months ago.” His mouth slid into a smirk, his hazel eyes raking my body up and down. Suddenly in that moment you felt way too exposed, collarbones exposed, the way the low-cut satin hung between your tits. “Look, you need to tell me now if you’re going with me, I need to leave in like ten minutes.” You huff out at him, eyes would dart from his chest to his eyes, his lips. “If you weren’t so busy eye-fucking me, we could’ve left two minutes ago, bub.”
— *after the work gala* —
“A fake wife, what a fucking idea,” Logan buried his words into your neck, his lips slightly nicking at the sensitive skin. The work gala ended up being filled with tequila and champagne, seeing a fake three carat diamond ring on your left hand being left to pretend this perfect married life with Logan brought me to this very situation; slammed into his bedroom door here in the X-Mansion. “I could make you mine, bub.” His voice vibrates against the side of your neck. "Y-yes Logan, I’m yours, please.” the words came out more as a whine than they did words. His scruff tickled the sensitive skin near my pulse point, he snuck in a laugh against my skin. “Look at you, so desperate for me.” He trailed kisses down my neck and near my collarbone. My breath hitches in my throat. My thoughts were messily left all over my mind, this was so wrong, but fuck, everything felt so good, so fucking right.
We were on the outside of Logan’s bedroom door, “Logan, someone could hear us, s-someone could see us.” Your eyes fluttered, his lips felt so good against the tender skin of my collarbone. “Shh, it’s two in the morning, nobody’s up.” Just fucking us. “Wait, wait, wait.” Grabbing on to his face, to pull him away from my skin. “Please, behind closed doors.” Your breath was heavy, and Logan's hazel eyes looked into mine with lust and need. “Do I need to pretend we’re fucking married? I can do that.” He raised an eyebrow at you, in mere seconds he crouches down and buries his arms behind your legs, with the sudden movement you squeal. “Shit! Logan!.” He manages to open the door and we head through the doorframe.
There was no denying the way you felt about Logan, why would you think I would choose him as a husband. Well, a fake husband. Logan kicked the door closed and took a few more steps until we reached his bed. The room smelled of whiskey, musk, and cigars. The smell was undeniably him, the definition of a man. “For the love of God, you look too fucking good in this dress,” He was gentle, placing you down on his bed. His eyes taking in every detail of your dress and your body. Your chest rising and falling with the amount of sheer intensity of what this was. “Too good to fuck me in?” The words left your mind before you could even process them. Your left hand flew to my mouth, not believing what you just said. “Oh my God.”
You could see Logan’s eyes fall to the faux wedding ring, “Is that what my wife wants?” My wife, fuck that sounds so good. He snakes his way between my legs, his face meeting mine. He takes a deep breath in, a smirk curling upon his lips. “I can smell how fucking wet this cunt is for me.” he sneaks a hand between my thighs, playing over the delicate fabric of your lace panties. “Mmm, so fucking wet. Tell me how you want me bub, hmm ? My wife, how does she want me?” His pointer finger swirls little circles on your clit through the thin fabric. Logan may be over two hundred years old, he may know is way around a woman’s body but fuck this was heavenly. “Fuck, please Lo- fuck me please.” Your plea rung through his bedroom like a prayer.
“That’s my girl.” He placed rough kisses on your shoulder, biting down on the strap of your dress, his finger still swirling circles on your sensitive bud. You could only manage to hum back positive hymns back to him. He pulled down a single strap until your chest was revealed. He managed to do the same with the other side until your entire chest was exposed, your nipples hardened under the feeling of the cold air in his room. “Fuck, look at you, so fucking beautiful.” He buried his head between your tits, his breath against your sensitive skin. Placing kisses across one of your breast, licking over your nipple, a ray of electricity struck through you. He places his warm mouth over your nipple, his teeth nicking lightly, sucking you in softly. Grabbing a pillow and placed it over your face to keep myself from sounding like a fool. Your nipple came from his mouth with a comical pop, he laughed to himself and moved to the other side. In a way you wanted to laugh at that sound, tossing aside the pillow off his bed.d “Do you know how hard I tried to control myself tonight? With you looking like this?” He looked up at you through his thick lashes. Again he places his warm mouth against your sensitive skin, in that same moment I could feel him push your panties to the side. Skin to skin, his index finger meet your clit, circling the sensitive bunch of nerves.
“Oh my god,” everything felt like heaven. Logan let go out go of your nipple from his mouth to move to the part of your dress that had still been hugging my torso. He trailed kisses down your stomach, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, dragging you towards the edge of the bed. He lowered himself between your thighs, feeling his breath against your core. You could hear him breathing you in, his chest heaving. “Look at her bub, fucking soaking for me.” His voice hums against the walls of his bedroom. He inches closer to your clit, taking in small kitten-like licks. Even the slightest amount of friction was ecstasy. Your hands traveling into his brown hair, peppered with grey strands. He hums against you, he licks through you folds, leaving you a moaning mess “Fuck, yes Logan! Please baby!” Your back arches off his king sized bed. His tongue laps over your clit time and time again. He dives two fingers into your aching core while his tongue laps over your bud. “Fuck, fuck, yes, yes!” You praise him, your words linger in throughout the room. His fingers steady in your cunt, curling up to reach that sweet fucking spot, your mouth falls open like a goddamn fool.
“Look at you bub, you wanna come for me?” He came up from in between my legs, his eyes meeting yours. “Yes, L-Logan, please, baby, let me come. Don’t stop.” God, you couldn’t have sounded anymore needy. His fingers pump into your cunt like his like his life depended on it. His thumb tracing over your clit. Your breathing was erratic. Your chest heavy with ecstasy. Your stomach was tight with emotion and warmth. Your chants echoed like a perfect prayer. The warm coil snapped in your stomach and your mouth fell open with the sound of Logan’s name. “Holy shit, fuck me.” You breathe out.
You could feel the heat in your face flush, you swear you were seeing stars. Your eyes raked over Logan’s body, his chest, his stomach, your eyes meet where his waistline laid perfectly, the outline of his slightly hard cock. “You want me to fuck you huh? Anything for my wife.” With his words he undoes his belt to under his button on his black dress pants. He pulled down his pants slowly, leaving his cock to spring up. He’s not even fully hard and it’s fucking huge. “Oh my god,” Once again the words leave my mind before I could process. He palms himself, his head falling back with the smallest moan. “You gonna be my good girl? My good fucking wife taking my cock?” His words like velvet through your ears. Your voice was barely audible as a hum, you shook your head. He pulled down his boxer letting his cock spring free, coming up to nearly hit his stomach. His tip was this deep red leaking pre-cum. “L-Lo, I don’t know if you’re gonna fit baby,” In all honestly, you did process that thought. “Oh baby, you can take, you can tell me if you wanna stop okay?” His words were soft as he pumped himself.
Logan wanted to learn your body as he went, and what he knew as of right now if that you’re just a sensitive bunch of nerves, he passes the head of his cock through my folds, playing against your clit, leaving you a whimpering mess. Moving your hips against his cock until he’s lined up against your cunt. “Look at her, begging me to fuck her,” His cock was at your sensitive entrance of the your cunt, “Please baby, fuck me.” Your brows furrowing together. Logan pushed into you ever so slowly, your cunt hugging around every inch of his cock. He groans out your name. “Goddamn it!” He cursed out. “You’re so fucking tight,” He pushed in another inch into your cunt. “Fuck, fuck, Lo, stretching out my fucking pussy, fuuuck.” The words fell out of your mouth. Logan’s hips moved ever so slighty, energy pulsing through your sensitive cunt. “Do you want me to stop.” The genuine concern brought you back to reality, looking down to find that he had inches to go into your cunt. Shaking your head no, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth. “Please, please, go deeper.” Fucking whines left your lips. He pushes deeper into your cunt, his thumb lapping over your clit. This was fucking ecstasy.
Each movement was carefully done by Logan, his hips jerking slightly, every advancement into my care was heaven. “Fuck, baby. She’s takin’ me so fuckin’ well.” He gritted through his teeth. The delicate praises ring through my ears nearly take me over the edge. “Fuck, give me more, please Lo-“ a pathetic please, a beg, a whine. “As you wish, sweetheart.” He pushes his further into you, reaching that soft spongy center in your sex. He curses out, learning to tower over you. Snaking a hand underneath your thigh to cradle the soft skin, sneaking his lips to meet the crook in your neck. His tongue tracing a line up to your ear, taking your ear lobe between his teeth. Rocking his hips into you, setting a steady pace and leaving you to chant his name like. hymn. “So … fuckin’ … good.” Each thrust kept tightening the warm coil in your core, getting ready to snap.
“Yes, fuck … Lo, please … don’t stop.” The pathetic plea left your lips barely audible. “I hear you baby, you wanna come on my cock?” He brings his head out from the crook of your neck. His forehead meeting yours, leaving your chest heaving, you hand snaking from the back of his neck to his messy chocolate brown hair. His pace quickens, causing your mouth to fall, Logan looks at you with those determined eyes. “Come on baby, come for me,” His cock was nearly hitting your cervix, your brain became foggy, he was fucking you stupid, you could see the stars, the coil in your stomach would grow tighter and tighter. “You can do it baby, go ahead.” Logan’s soft words fell into your ears. “Oh my god, fuck fuck, Logan! Fuck! I’m coming, I’m coming!” Your legs shook around Logan’s waist, your chest trying to find all the air to breathe in.
You tried to find any to say anything, but all of your words came out as mumbles, barely comprehensible. A smirk curled up amongst Logan’s lips. “Look at you baby, such a good girl.” His lips came very close to grazing yours. “So good for me." He places a kiss on the top of your forehead. Your legs fell on the bed, feeling more like jelly rather than bone and flesh. "You okay?" Logan asks, laying next to you, covering the both of your bodies' lower halves. Turning your head to look into his hazel-green eyes. Sighing out, "Yes."
"Let's get cleaned up for the night huh, bub? You should stay with me tonight." He began to sit up, your eyes tracing over every muscle along his back. "I am your wife after all, Lo." You sit up with him, going in to kiss him on the cheek. "Might just have to make your my real wife." The amount of oxytocin flowing through the both of your brains could wake up a tiny village but both you and Logan ended the night tangled in each other's bodies, fitting into each other perfectly.
⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧
the end
⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧
#logan howlett#wolverine#deadpool and wolverine#james howlett#logan howlet smut#logan howlet x reader#smut#x men#comics#fanwork#fanfic#writng
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So in the original 1977 run of What if...?, issue 44 covered the topic of "what if Captain America wasn't discovered in the ice until the 1980s." And the answer is that in the interim, a fascist, segregationist junta comes to power in the USA using the assistance and iconography of William Burnside- the white-supremacist reactionary successor to Captain America who was created by Marvel editorial to retroactively explain Cap's handful of abortive appearances as a red-scare communist hunter in the 1950s, when he was supposed to be in the ice. Most of the superheroes get neutralized, assassinated or co-opted, the real Cap is rescued by the crew of a Navy Sub that's on the verge of defection, and the comic ends on the verge of the second American Civil War. The issue oscillates rapidly between competent, prescient commentary and the exact cornball pablum you'd expect from a bronze-age one-shot trying to suss out the "real meaning of America", but either way I've always been interested in this branch of the Marvel universe getting more than just the one issue of table-time. Superpowered urban civil war in 1980s America is a compelling concept!
One of the reasons I like this comic is that it's one of several works from the late 70s/early 80s - mainline Captain America itself among them- that hit upon the idea that it would be comically easy to sell the American populace on strongman authoritarianism if it came wrapped in a cape and domino mask. This scene is an example of that; "Captain America" at a rally parading his team of all-American jackboots. Two of the members are, to the best of my knowledge, new characters: Golden Girl (later called out as an untrained actress kept on the lineup to illicit a very specific strain of nostalgia for Bettie-Page styled cheesecake) and embodied-specter of racist violence The Hangman (who... might be black, based on this coloring job? Potentially either very smart or very stupid depending on the level of thought put into it). But rounding out the lineup you've got... Hawkeye, which is the beat from this comic that I really like and the reason I decided to write this post.
Because Hawkeye, Clint Barton, has developed over time into the default scrappy underdog hero that gets to be one of the holdouts in dystopian alternate-universe situations like these- Old Man Logan, House of M, Next Avengers, Age of Ultron, What If...? S1ep8, Spider-Man: Renew Your Vows, Age of Apocalypse, Marvel Universe Vs. The Avengers, these are just off the top of my head. It's a fun contrast, the dynamic of the "shit, man, this superhero war is fucked" hardscrabble carnie being the last man on the wall against something that would give Superman pause. So they do it a lot. Not here, though! And there's a level of honesty to that that I really appreciate. We're dealing with a guy who became a superhero in the first place because he was annoyed that Iron Man upstaged his carnival act, he almost immediately pivoted and agreed to try and kill Iron Man because an attractive woman asked him to, he tries to steal the armor to sell it, and even when he initially went straight there was an undercurrent of celebrity pursuit and showboating to his decision to join The Avengers. Absent the character development that was a direct result of falling in with the real Steve Rogers, all the assumptions about the character that have formed downstream of that, is it that insane that a guy with his early mercenary characterization would throw in with a fascist regime that paid him well and let him peacock? I don't think so!
#this was written way closer to “Hawkeye as a self-absorbed fickle jackass” than however you'd call what he's become#So I think Gillis remembered and extrapolated#neat detail!#what if...?#hawkeye#clint barton#marvel#marvel comics#captain america#steve rogers#thoughts#meta#what if 44
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Hello there! I recently discovered your blog and it's really wonderful resource. I have a question and maybe you would be able to answer. From what I know the mourning garments are white, and I've seen some in movies or dramas. But I also saw many hanfu or hanfu-like costumes in dramas that predominately use white as a color for characters. So I am a bit confused, if what is considered mourning garment is much different (in style or in cut)? or the white clothes in dramas are just something modern and for aesthetics? I hope I'm making sense here.. Anyways, cheers and thanks in advance!
Unf, such amazing questions, I love it ❤️❤️
I'm going to answer this one very carefully because I don't want to get screamed at for "gatekeeping" 😆 Right off the bat I'm going to put a disclaimer:
Whatever show you enjoy, whichever actor/actress you like, you do you and have a good time. What I'm going to write is ONLY some trends in Chinese TV/movies over the past few decades, I'm not saying any show isn't "good", please don't hate me.
You're absolutely correct that historically, Chinese mourning clothes are white, but not just white, the material is also important. The actual term for mourning is "披麻戴孝" so if we break the words down:
披 (pi) = to wear on the body (like a cape) 麻 (ma) = hemp (fabric) 戴 (dai) = to wear, to hold, to have 孝 (xiao) = filial piety, show honour and love towards one's parents
So it's wearing white hemp and some sort of white fabric on the head to express one's respect for an elder. Mourning wear is only for those who are older than you (ex. parents, grandparents, older siblings, etc.), of a higher rank, or in some cases your superior (ex. solders in a battalion wearing mourning clothes when their captain passes).
I'll use some screenshots from the 1994 version of Romance of the Three Kingdoms as an example:
Pic 1-3: The emperor has passed away in this situation so everyone is in full mourning attire. His court (pic 1), his concubine (pic 2), his kid (pic 3). If you enlarge the image, you'll see the material they're wearing is quite rough-looking (best seen in pic 3, the other images' resolution aren't great).
Pic 4-6: In this funeral, the Wu Kingdom's Commander of the naval forces has passed away, so almost everyone is in full mourning because that's a very high rank.
Pic 5: You'll see the man on the right isn't in mourning because he's head of the Wu Kingdom, so his rank is higher than the Commander, therefore he doesn't wear mourning clothes.
Pic 6: This man is a visitor and frenemy of the Commander. He's coming from the Shu (Han) Kingdom and because they're not from the same Kingdom, there's no consideration of whose rank is higher or lower. Therefore, he's only worn a strip of white cloth over his hair out of respect (he technically doesn't even need to wear that). Now, obviously, even though he's not required to wear white hemp mourning clothes, it's not a good idea to show up in flashing pink or electric orange (very disrespectful), so he's gone with a soft, pale blue
Pic 7: In this image, a distant relative of the leader of the Shu (Han) Kingdom has passed away (at this point in the show the Kingdom hadn't been established, so he's only the head of a province). This particular relative is younger than everyone present, so; a) he's not ranked above them b) he's not older than them
Therefore, none of them are in full mourning, but they've tied a white cloth to their belt to express respect.
The man in blue, on the right, with the black hat is a visitor from the Wu Kingdom, so much like in Pic 6 he's coming to pay respect to someone not from his Kingdom (doesn't matter the rank) and not his senior) so he's not in mourning clothes (he doesn't even have a white cloth at his belt when he turns around).
So yes, white is traditionally a mourning colour but not all white coloured clothing is for mourning. If you're wearing a white silk robe with embroideries and designs, that's not considered mourning clothes.
Now, having said that, traditionally people still tried to stay away from full on, completely white outfits from head to toe. It's just not a lucky colour to wear. A jacket that's white, or a skirt that's white with a coloured border or some colourful accessories, not a big deal, but if you're going full white in everything...just, no, lol.
As for the Chinese period dramas/movies of today...that's a really deep well to dive through. I'll try to summarize it here and do more detailed posts later on.
TV dramas/movies are never 100% historically accurate, I'm sure everyone knows this, and we don't expect them to be. But for the Chinese entertainment industry it's been becoming less and less accurate in the last 20-25 yrs or so. In terms of clothing/make up/hair/set design/aesthetics in general, there's debate on why these changes have occurred (some say video games, some say foreign aesthetic influence, etc.) but the final result is a LOT of the costumes you see in period dramas today are very, very not historically accurate or even fitting to what is considered "traditional" Chinese aesthetics.
There's a LOT of these "Xianxia" shows going around, stories about immortals and "Gods", "xian/ 仙". I guess the character designers today feel that white somehow makes the characters feel more "immortal", more other-worldly, an imported aesthetic mainly from the West where "white" has been associated with "purity". There's actually growing push-back from the Chinese audience inside China against the character designs in recent years because people are beginning to feel like we're losing OUR aesthetic, these designs aren't what OUR Gods and immortals traditionally looked like. Here's a comparison:
On the left we have some shows and movies from the 80s and 90s, on the right we have more recent shows.
I'll be honest...some of the clothes on the right I barely consider "Hanfu". That's not to say they're not pretty, but the Hanfu influence in them is so small at some point I start thinking, "You're essentially wearing a large-sleeved dress...". In addition to the clothes, there's the hair, the makeup, even the buildings...they're...kind of East Asian styled but not really? I can't even say they're Chinese-styled because it's so generically East Asian some of these set designs.
Traditional Chinese aesthetics favoured bold colours, and the more power and wealth you had the larger the hair styles for women, with rich, beautiful accessories. Gardens and buildings are not minimalistic at all (that leans more Japanese style), rooms are not large and empty, even in large buildings each individual room are sectioned to be fairly small. There's a running joke on Bilibili (Chinese youtube) that the Heavens have gone bankrupt these days because the costumes, the hair, and buildings look so...bare xDD
Some audiences will say these shows are fiction anyway, not set in any particular time or country but...I mean, clearly they're not writing about a Western immortal or an African God, these stories are set in the frame of Chinese characters.
In any case, basically what I'm saying is, take the Hanfu you see in dramas/movies with a grain of salt. Sometimes with a whole bag of salt. It's absolutely no problem to like them, enjoy them, cosplay them, buy them, but don't link them to anything with history unless you do some research.
And again, not saying any show is good or bad, enjoy whatever you want, this is only an opinion regarding trends in Chinese period dramas/movies. If you'd like to see what a traditional Chinese image of "Heaven" and immortals look like, here's a video from the 1986 version of Journey to the West. This is a show I would say over 80% of Chinese people have seen, most of us watched it as kids. Many, many people think it recreates the image most Chinese people have of what our "Heaven" looks like:
Src: 嗑学家与挑剔学家 【86版西游记演出了中国传统神仙该有的样子】 https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1DV4y1g73N/
#hanfu#汉服#china#中国#chinese hanfu#culture#history#fashion#clothing#historical clothing#披麻戴孝#86西游记#西游记#天庭破产了#买不起好衣服了哈哈哈#mourning clothes#journey to the west#chinese period dramas#守着金山要饭吃
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"GIRLS"
college au! denki kaminari x reader
cw: recreational drug use, bad language, sexual tension, wet and messy public handjobs, men whimpering
wc: 2.5k
loosely inspired by the dare's album "what's wrong with new york?"
girls that's mean just for fun, i like girls who make love, but i like girls that like to fuck
THAT'S WHAT'S UP
"she doesn't like you, y'know."
denki gasped semi-sarcastically, like its obvious that you don't like him and anyone with eyes can see that but it still shocking to hear out of his best friend's mouth.
jirou turns to him with barely concealed mirth in her eyes and she looks up from her phone where she'd been texting momo, asking for her whereabouts.
they were at a party, a sleazy rich kid house party, one of momo's friend's sisters' or something like that. the kind that involved lots of expensive alcohol, shitty bass music, and sweaty hot rich kids that did too much coke and no survival instincts or a general sense of humiliation. one guy had already thrown up twice, two girls had passed out, someone's boyfriend had punched someone else and denki was absolutely fucking loving it.
he and jirou had smoked some good shit with hanta after pregaming and had enter the party at its pinnacle, completely crossfaded. the good kind that makes you feel like hot shit, like you're the baddest on the planet, and that you could fuck anyone you wanted if you tried hard enough.
that was about two, maybe three, hours ago.
he hits the vape he stole from jirou and scrunches his face at her.
"where even is momo?"
he's chosen to dodge the topic. the topic of you.
he only knows you as one of momo's ex talking stages. you run in the same social circles mostly and somehow, you're still amicable, friendly infact, its some weird sapphic thing that denki doesn't get. how you're friends with jirou, denki really doesn't get. like how can jirou be friends with her girlfriend's ex-situation?
well that's what he thought.
until he met you.
and wow.
you're across the kitchen from him now, chatting it up with some guy you just met, and he's laughing at something you said because you have this effortless wit and charm about you that everyone in your vicinity can sense. it rolls off you in waves, your aura is so attraction, so is your hair, and your eyes, and your smile, and the dress you're wearing-
and now you're looking at him, or maybe at jirou, yeah never mind, you're looking at jirou, and before he knows it his best friend is whacking the back of his neck.
"you're staring," she teases in a singsong voice, fucking annoying habit that she stole from him and just for that he snatches her drink from her and downs it in one gulp. "hey, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
denki fake gags slightly before smiling all teeth "you never answered my question, when's your girlfriend getting here?" jirou rolls her eyes at his obvious diversion from the topic "i want her to make me that weird drink she makes with the tequila.... and i'm pretty sure i left my lighter in her car."
"momo won't care y'know." she looks at him with full seriousness and nods in your direction. "you should be more worried about how you're gonna talk to her."
denki says nothing in reply, only sighs and send jirou an affirmative hum so that she knows he's not being pissy and ignoring her.
his eyes cut to you again, the guy you were talking to has gone back to the friends he came with and you're pouring yourself a drink.
and jirou was right, by the way. at first you didn't like him, he laughs too loud at his own jokes, bums cigs off of everyone and everytime you've seen him in passing, at parties like this or nights at the club when jirou's band plays, he's always chatting someone up.
girls of all kinds, tall girls, small girls, girls that do drugs, girls with dicks, blondes, brunettes, gingers, white girls, black girls, brown girls.
you wondered about him. there's gotta be something that he's doing right, because from what you've heard from momo his cool guy persona is simply that, a persona, and he's actually a massive loser who spends most of his time playing pokemon go or holed up in his room watching anime. so how he can pull so many baddies, most of whom speak of him fondly, is a mystery to you.
but damn, he is cuteeee.
like cracked, horny, stoner, twink that would probably beg for it cute.
and you're obsessed.
that's the real reason why you've been throwing shade at him all night, making sly biting comments, getting into dumb senseless arguments, you're playing with him, working him up slowly, and he's enjoying it.
but contrary to popular belief, denki is not the sleazebag everyone thinks he is. sure he's had a few flings with a few friends, drunken nights never spoken of again, and there was that one time where a girl he slept with lied to him about having a boyfriend. but like, aside from that, he's not like horrible.
and momo is his friend, and idk, isn't flirting with her ex kinda weird, and won't you think its weird that he's flirting with you, and omg, what if you think its weird??, and you actually don't want anything to do with him, and this highly charged game made of mean banter and heated stares, is actually just a game and he's been reading all the signals wrong, and you actually don't want him, and he's gonna have to jerk off so hard tomorrow morning to forget about you because the look you gave him after you called him a senseless idiot for spilling vodka on the counter early was sooo hot and he-
"you're spiralling."
jirou rolls her shoulder and starts riffling through her jacket pockets, probably looking for the vape denki has concealed in his right hand. she pauses and looks at the blonde before sighing. "momo's here. she's got your light." she gets up off the counter and pauses. "and maybe drink something before you smoke, you look like you're about to vom all over the floor or somethin'."
"you dirty bitch, i am not nervous, i swear you're so-" jirou leaves him in the kitchen with a resounding cackle and goes out into the main house to find her girlfriend.
the sound of jirous laughter calls your attention over to denki, who's attention you already had, he'd been counting the piercings on your right ear, and a smirk creeps onto your face, as you pick up your cup and make your way over to him.
"do you have a staring problem?" straight to the point, your voice so close to his ear it makes him jump. "huh, oh, what?" he splutters "staring? me?? why would i be staring at you, of all people?"
the red on his cheeks makes you snort and you regard his fake non-chalant lean against the kitchen counter.
"well that's what i'm trying to work out," you say as you inch closer practically caging him in, still keeping direct eye contact.
his breath hitches slightly as his eyes lock onto your own, determined to win whatever game it is your playing, despite the twitch in his jeans.
you're so close you practically taste his breath, he smells like bud, expensive foreign perfume and bubblegum, your hands splayed either side of his hips creep closer to him.
denki can hear the gulp he takes when your hands finally make contact with his body, your thumbs just slightly grazing his outer thighs, he thinks he might actually have a fucking heart attack or something. he keeps his eyes on yours, but trying to centre himself in your gaze seems to have been the wrong decision to make because the way you tilt your head and smile so innocently, like you don't know what you're doing, is sending him to space. and it's your smile that makes him blink and drop his eyes entirely to the curve of your lips, just for a second.
you notice immediately and let out an obnoxious 'ha!' before reaching up and plucking the joint that he had tucked behind his ear, and yeah it was part of the fit, the pink rolling paper matched his shoes, before taking a step back from the blonde.
he responds to your laugh with a scoff and a roll of his eyes which makes your smile grow even wider. you hide this as best you can by taking a sip of your drink effectively finishing it. he looks at you, amber eyes regarding you curiously, like he's awaiting instruction.
"you wanna go out back?" you smile cheekily brandishing your prize, "go smoke this baby before jirou gets back?"
he sniffs and stands at his full height, stuffing his hands in his back pockets before nodding to the exit. and you lead the way to the garden with a giggle.
"it's not my fault. you're the poser walking around with a joint and no lighter." as you finally stamp out then end of the joint. you'd just had to beg some snotty marlboro gold smoking guy for the use of his lighter. "honestly it was more of an accessory than a zoot, you didn't even roll it well."
"you're so mean to me," denki flushes, honest to god his voice sounding more like a whimper then anything else.
you scoff at him. you're not mean, this guys just an idiot, generally easy to make fun of, and has the most adorable reactions whenever you take the piss out of him. you can't help yourself. he's so easy practically throwing himself at you, demanding all of your attention all night and then whining like a kicked puppy and retreating back to hide behind jirou when you don't give him the response he's looking for.
"oh, i'm sorry," you ask soflty and the change in attitude gives him whiplash. "are you alright, denki?" he's growing crossed eyed as he watches your lips getting closer to his.
his knees buckle "yeah, just uh, my iron deficiency."
you pull away to raise your eyebrow about to make a sarcastic remark when he surges forward and captures your lips in his. your hands travel up the back of his neck, and the way you thread your fingers through his hair makes him groan into your mouth. you push against him effectively pining him against the cold stone wall, and he just takes it, lets you control the momentum of the kiss, like he's in the middle of a storm just being thrown around and carried by the waves, and he's fucking loving every second of it.
you swear once you break for air, your lips plump, and wet, and juicy, and soft, and he's already diving back in, he needs more of you. more of your taste, fuck, you taste so good, your lips are so soft and syrupy against his, he feels like he's melting into to your hands.
"careful," you murmur directly into his ear and he keens as you grip his hair tight and tilt his head back to give provide acces to his bare neck.
"please, please, please, please, fuck."
you tug harshly on his blonde locs, his eyes fluttering open at the feeling as you hold his gaze. "what do you want denki? use your words."
he can't think of how to reply, not with your right hand itching at his scalp and your left hand drawing circles on the skin above his waistband. "oh god, i don't- i don't even know- i- fuck."
your left hand has dropped, finger only slightly grazing the front of his jeans but it's enough for him to whine so prettily in your ear and cant his hips upwards into your palm.
"fuck, please-"
you cut him off by mashing your lips into his, he accepts gratefully pouring every inch of his desire into your mouth.
"you're so desperate."
he's nodding, he wants you so bad, your hand feels so good even through the layers of fabric covering his most sensitive parts, but its like his skin is on fire, and the only thing that can put it out is your touch. his hands run along your torso, his finger only just brushing over your nipples, enough to make you gasp into him, as he wraps his arms around your body to deepen the kiss.
as good as this feels, the sounds he's making, the whimpers leaving his lips as he grinds into your hand, are increasing in volume and your entirely conscious of the fact that you are outside, out the open, for anyone to hear or see.
you hiss out his name, but just hearing your voice turns him on more and you have to grip his face with you fingers for him to stop moving and pay attention.
"if you want me to keep going," punctuated by a squeeze to his jaw, "then- look at me when i'm talking to you, then you're gonna have to shut up." your gaze is so intense he's nodding before he's even fully comprehended the words you've said.
his pretty amber eyes roll back into his head as your hand finally slips underneath his boxers and you grasp his hot, sticky, dick with your cold soft hands. "oh wow," you snicker, "you're so messy."
your words make denki whine, silenced by a stern look before he pouts. "what so you can talk but i can't even-, oh fuck-" you squeeze him, the weight heavy in your hands.
"yeah, because you're leaking all over my hand."
he holds in his whine this time cussing under his breath and looking at you. his pretty face obscured by strands of hair all wild and messy sticking up at odd angles. his lips are pink and swollen, drool threatening to spill out of his mouth, cheeks flushed.
"that's not fair," he hisses at you but you remain largely unbothered by his attitude as you thumb his tip. "you're teasing."
"i'm not doing anything, you're the one that can't keep it together."
"i-" he starts but you pick up speed and cover his mouth with your free hand so he's free to buck and whine all he wants.
"look at you, are you gonna finish like this? i've barely even touched you."
its like your words are directly fuelling the grind of his hips, he humps against you furiously, drool spilling all down his face, soiling that hand as well. like he can't help but make a mess in all directions.
you can tell he's close when his eyes start fluttering and his body starts twitching crazily.
your hand drops from his face, quickly wiping the drool onto his tshirt before snaking your way back up and applying light pressure to the base of his neck.
"thank you, thank you, thank you-"
that does it for him as he comes with a whine of your name, followed by jagged breath and the crazy stutter in his hips.
you give him a second to catch his breath before you start tearing into him about the mess he's made and about how he better not have gotten any cum on your dress.
"always complaining about something, i swear," he rolls his eyes and before you can bite back he slips your cum soiled fingers into his mouth and runs his tongue along each individual finger before giving a hard suck. you watch him mouth slightly agape, and the pulsing heat in between your thighs makes itself apparent to you.
"you are such a slut." he grins mouth full and you press down on his tongue. "you wanna get outta here?"
heyyyyyy guys sorry ik i said i'd do part 3 of dealer reader WHICH WILL COME but this was a random burst of inspiration i got last nigjt when i was omw back from the last sesh of the season before all my friends fuck off out of london but and one of my mates is super obsessed with the dare and made us listen to the whole album while we were out on the field ANYWAYS IK U DONT CARE but this was so yummy and juicy to write so i hope u enjoyed 😝😝😝😝😝
#denki kaminari x reader#denki kaminari smut#denki kaminari#denki kaminari x black reader#mha x black reader#bnha x black!reader#mha smut#bnha smut#mha timeskip#mha college au
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also just rq re: my tags on that post. I would never be caught dead saying black americans are colonizers at the same level as white americans. bc it just straight up is not true. black americans and other colonial minorities are miles below white americans in terms of harm they've done to indigenous peoples. but there is still harm there, and it is largely the cause of colonial minorites actively colonizing. chinese-american immigrants were a key part of the construction of the US rail system during the 19th century. like i said in those tags, non-tribal black USAmericans were allotted land seized from native nations during the allotment era. there's only so long we can kick those cans down the road before we gotta talk about it. if we don't, we're gonna end up in the same situation we always have where some colonial minority will be given an opportunity to strengthen their position in the USAmerican heirarchy at the expense of indigenous peoples, and they'll take it. so i sincerely hope we can manage to get over ourselves at some point and talk about these issues like mature adults who all want the end of the USAmerican empire. cause there can be no real solidarity until we can talk about how we've hurt each other and move past it together.
#spinning my web#anyways. time to turn my brain off and get high#no reblogs rn bc i dont wanna deal w any drama#from people inevitably pissing on my poor#but replies r on so moots feel free to pipe in if u feel like it i guess
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The Interweaving of Desmond & Eloise
an analysis on how they have been established as a pair
Collection of all essays so far
At the stage we are currently at, the end of chapter one with around thirteen hours of content to watch and even more outside of direct canon to examine, Desmond and Eloise have established themselves as a pair in a similar vein to Damon and Eva or Mark and Jett. Their pairing feels obviously deliberate and indicative of deeper meaning, which we’ll no doubt see more of as the game proceeds. In this essay I want to cohesively lay out all of my current thoughts on them - developed from TikTok posts I have made (x / x / x) with other newer points from my notes that do not appear in said posts.
While I personally enjoy their relationship in a romantic context, this is not intended as a ship post, and you are of course free to interpret it how you like. It’s just looking at how they relate to each other as characters and their canon relationship and giving my thoughts on what that means for them! Regardless of how you interpret the context of their relationship, that these two are being set up as close is undeniable.
SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER ONE AHEAD!
Firstly, I want to establish the significance of pairs in Project: Eden’s Garden overall. So much about the game circles back to pairs: the killing game ‘officially’ ending when only two remain, everyone waking up in pairs, Toshiko being the Ultimate Matchmaker, Tozu and Mara being a pair, bunking in pairs, splitting off into pairs… and much of this can be put down to the theming of the Garden of Eden with Adam and Eve. With everyone’s animal motifs, another Biblical story in Noah’s Ark comes to mind. The point is that the abundance of pairs is both relevant and very deliberate.
Fundamental design
From the moment we first see them in the train CG, Desmond and Eloise are together. When we first formally meet them, they are the only ones in the courtyard. They are a pair from the beginning in the same way as Mark and Jett and Wolfgang and Grace.
And, on first looks and first meetings, I’ll begin my thoughts on how they as individual characters relate to each other as foils with their visual designs and names. Being fictional characters, there was an entire design process filled with intent that went into creating them, and I really think Desmond and Eloise were created with the other in mind to make them both contrast and complement each other.
Their contrasting colour schemes of blue and black VS red and white immediately relate them to one another and put them in proximity of one another. Through their colour schemes they have been designed to be seen next to each other.
It is also their colour schemes that give instant insight into how they contrast each other in personality. Desmond’s blue suits his cool, composed disposition, his observant nature and how, although he is more reserved, he still integrates with the group and is a primary contributor. Throughout the situation and throughout all the suspicion he endures based on his talent, Desmond remains calm, in part, I think, because he knows he cannot afford to appear angry lest it confirm people’s biases. Considering how prominent that idea of prejudice has been with Desmond so far, I also heavily doubt him being designed as Black is coincidental or without connotations. Especially when you consider just how irrational the suspicion and assumptions placed upon him are.
(Desmond’s third Free Time Event, talking about how difficult a confined space like the academy is for him) Damon, internally: And yet, that cool demeanour of his never falters - even when talking about his situation. Is this what he means when he talks about discipline…?
Conversely, Eloise’s red speaks to her being more volatile - prone to outbursts of fear, panic and, notably, rage. It is interesting to me that Eloise’s colour scheme is primarily white/grey, with her reds as secondary and, in her clothing, beneath her uniform. But her eyes, the “windows to the soul”, are red. Eloise at first impression seems only timid, and this leads both characters and audience alike to assume that she is weak, and she is also reserved and rather closed off especially in conversation with the likes of Damon. But Eloise has a strong fortitude that manifests later in chapter one as she gains confidence in the setting - standing up to and threatening Grace, leading the accusations towards Grace in the trial, and her Free Time Events most notably. Her red is closed off until triggered. Damon notes that “the most confident she’s ever sounded” is when she’s expressing her belief that the runners of the killing game should receive the death penalty which so starkly contrasts with Desmond’s focus on resolving things peacefully. Similarly to Desmond being Black, I also heavily doubt that Eloise being designed as fat is without connotations regarding this theme.
The meanings of their names push this even more blatantly. Desmond’s name is of Anglo-Saxon origin and means “Great defender” which adds to how spelled out the theme of guarding, protection, defence becomes in his character during chapter one - notably in relation to himself and Eloise. In his blackmail, which I will go into in more detail later, it explicitly says he “guards the only one he trusts”. This defence finds contrast with offence in Eloise’s name being of French and Teutonic origin meaning “Fierce warrior” which speaks to how assertive she becomes when pushed. Her Free Time Events serve as good indication with how she says outright to Damon that she plans to fight back if targeted for murder and expresses anger when he starts “prying into [her] personal life” in an outburst of “It’s none of your f-fucking business!”. Down to their names they present as foils.
Linking to this talk on personalities and first impressions is how these two contrast in how they are perceived by other characters and audience alike - their shared theme of “judging a book by its cover”.
While Eloise has a talent centred around combat and wielding a blade, she is not nearly suspected the same way Desmond is due to her appearance as pale and soft in conjunction with her timidity, with the decision to make her fat adding to this as well. She is actually afforded first impressions based on personality, where Desmond is instead defined by potential threat in his marksmanship - the first thing Wolfgang ever says to him is, “With all of those weapons, I must ask…you…haven’t killed anyone, have you?”, and Eva’s belief that everyone is out to get her and have marked her as an easy target merges with preconceived notions about Desmond’s character and talent to lead her to assert that telling Desmond about his blackmail could “put [her] in danger”. Contrasingly, in building up to their confrontation of Grace, Damon perceives Eloise as “bumbling”, “uncoordinated”, and not of “any help in a verbal shutdown”, and he proceeds to be utterly proven wrong - with the use of “uncoordinated” in reference to the Ultimate Fencer giving great indication of his poor judge of character. This contrast, then, makes it notable how they stick together and understand each other in a way others do not.
(RE his bunking idea: Eloise understands what Desmond’s intentions are while others assume ill of him) Cassidy: I mean - hey, don’t expose us! That’s unfair! Desmond: Hold on, I’m not trying to expose anyone…! Eloise: Um, I think I get what he’s trying to say. Eloise: You just want everyone to be honest with each other…so we can cover all our bases…right? Desmond: Yeah…that’s right… (During the chapter one investigation as Grace guards Wolfgang’s room and denies everyone entry) Desmond: That’s what I tried telling everyone else, but they pretty much gave up. Jett and Mark went to the dining hall, Diana went to the laundry room, and Toshiko and Ingrid went to the courtyard. Desmond: Eloise and I, though…we’re not gonna let this slide.
When going through their Free Time Events, it becomes clear that Desmond and Eloise even contrast each other when it comes to their backgrounds and honing of their talents. Desmond comes from a notably wealthy family who have a history of Ultimate Marksmen - that talent being as hereditary as literal genetics. From the start, Desmond has been showered in opportunity - he mentions having an expansive field that puts the academy’s courtyard to shame, a personal shooting range, a personal tennis court, and a personal swimming pool. He used to attend competitions on a local and regional scale until he got the opportunity to compete in the Olympics.
Comparatively, Eloise had no such influence when it came to getting into fencing and simply joined a club and her honing of her talent was defined by a lack of opportunity. She rose through the ranks via forfeits - her opponents were so afraid they point-blank refused to fight her and so she had to take matters of improving into her own hands by practicing alone or with her teacher. Her lack of opportunity stems from how her family is certainly not as well-off as Desmond’s and she comments on giving her prize money to her mother and sisters. This is a point of similarity between the two - they both disregard the money they have earned through their talent for themselves and instead place focus on their families. Desmond cares more about making his parents proud, and Eloise cares more about giving the money to her family.
Beyond every aspect in how Desmond and Eloise foil each other is how similar thematically they are in a way that allows them to understand and trust one another in a way they don’t seem to lend to anyone else. They understand that the other is perceived by strangers in a way that doesn’t necessarily align with their fully realised selves, Desmond’s calmness soothes Eloise’s volatility, Eloise’s sword takes the front while Desmond’s guns and bows take the rear - they are an inversion of each other and interwoven as a pair.
To finish off with their fundamental designs, official art for Project: Eden’s Garden is, in my opinion, interesting to look at. Desmond and Eloise are depicted next to or interacting in some way with each other in every piece of official art they share which pushes them further as a ‘pair’. It really emphasises how rarely in-game they’re apart - with the only instances of that being during nighttime, every free-time after the first one, and most prominently the Prologue’s investigation. Otherwise, they are always at least in the proximity of each other. I don’t think official art and seeing which characters appear together the most and how exactly they are interacting is insignificant at all - two sets of Halloween official art stand out to me as entwining Desmond and Eloise by their talents. In one, Desmond is dressed as Link from the Legend of Zelda and wielding a blade and, in the other, Eloise is dressed as Artemis from Greek Mythology - the Goddess of the Hunt who was known for her archery, a choice that becomes especially interesting once you remember that Artemis’ fellow archer brother, Apollo, was heavily associated with swans.
Blackmail, blackmail
“With his weapons at hand, Desmond guards the only one he trusts.”
Since I posted my initial interpretations of this on TikTok, I’ve seen more discussion on it, and I don’t think it is controversial at all to suggest that the “only one” referred to here is Eloise. The only other options, to me, are this “only one” being someone outside of our main cast or Desmond himself. However, I have found myriad evidence that points towards it being Eloise that I’ve spread across different videos on TikTok but can now relay all in one place here.
First, what is meant by “weapons”? As the Ultimate Marksman, Desmond has access to guns and bows in the literal meaning of that and this is how Eva, Damon and everyone else interprets it. It is also true - Desmond is always depicted with his quiver slung over his back, so he does indeed have his weapons at hand. However, there is another way of looking at this - Desmond’s “weapons” do not have to be literal.
During chapter one’s trial, Grace admonishes everyone for “trusting Desmond so easily” after he defends himself from accusations based on the taser gun and Damon has the option of commenting on Desmond’s charisma that persuades people to trust him (or… “charm” as he puts it). Desmond’s “weapons” could refer to his rhetoric, especially with how he utilises the angle of ethos in comparison with Damon’s logos and Diana’s pathos - that being, focusing on getting across and defending his character, something that as previously discussed Desmond is exhaustively used to doing. His “guard” could manifest in him coming to this “only one”’s defence in verbal bouts just as much as it can be taken literally, something that we have in fact already seen if you subscribe to the idea of that person being Eloise.
Next, the meaning of “trusts” should be dug into. It is easy to assume that because Desmond behaves cordially with everyone and seems to possess a vested interest in getting everyone out of the killing game and to safety this means he is openly trusting in the way Diana is, but there is a lot once you start looking that proves otherwise. Desmond does not vehemently deny the possibility of murder like Wolfgang or Diana do but instead accepts the reality of their situation and approaches it with the knowledge of murder in his mind. He is against exploring the Alpha Sanctuary due to whatever Tozu has hidden within it, he takes note of the dangers of the pharmacy and what drugs could possibly be used to murder - even saying that “we should all start paying more attention to our food” - and is the one to come up with the bunk buddies idea due to the broken locks. Desmond does not trust that his peers absolutely will not be tempted by murder. Most illuminating is during his second Free Time Event when Damon tries to use the trustworthiness of the other students as a debate topic and Desmond becomes noticeably uneasy and closed off.
Damon: How about… we debate the trustworthiness of the other students? Desmond: Huh…? What do you mean? Damon: Isn’t it self-explanatory? You and I argue about whether or not the others are trustworthy. Desmond: Uh… I don’t know, dude. I’m not really comfortable with that. Damon: Why? Desmond: W-what do you mean why? I can’t just say my… (own emphasis) Desmond: I mean, I can’t just throw doubt at people for no reason.
Despite this, he still wants said peers to trust him. His motivation to escape the killing game and prevent murder, I believe, is genuine - however, he remains beneath the veil of hypocrisy in how he expects everyone to trust him without him trusting them.
So, how does this link to Eloise?
From the prologue, the theme of Eloise and Desmond being each other’s alibis and backing each other up is established. Wolfgang asks Desmond to keep a shaken Eloise company and he does so for the duration of all the other introductions. When the fake body of Cara is discovered, Eloise insists that she heard no screaming from the courtyard nor did anyone run out, and calls on Desmond to back her up, which he does. This is the first exchange of trust and reliance between them, and it only strengthens during chapter one.
The first major instance is in relation to Desmond’s idea of sleeping in pairs. Knowing his distrust towards his peers and that he has this one person he has an interest in protecting, it is notable both that he would be the one to raise concerns about the broken locks and that he would proceed to input that, “As the one who suggested the idea, I’d say we just pick our buddies ourselves-”. Desmond wanted to choose his bunk buddy, ostensibly so he would be able to more readily “guard” them, and this, I think, is crucial as evidence that the “only one he trusts” is someone among the class. While he doesn’t respond outwardly negatively to Toshiko’s desire to be in charge of the pairs and Ingrid’s subsequent assertion that they split by gender, this is easily explained by how intent he is on maintaining a calm disposition.
Eloise’s behaviour in this scene is equally noteworthy. She defends Desmond from accusations that he’s making people vulnerable and that she alludes to ideas of honesty and understanding Desmond’s intentions speaks to a building closeness between them. Much like Desmond, Eloise appears selective with her trust through how focus is repeatedly placed on her as ways to assign bunk-buddies is discussed, combined with how her character profile notes how she is “always ready to make her escape if anyone gets too close to her”, which I believe can be applied in both a literal-in-regards-to-fencing and figurative sense. We can discern from her Free Time Events that Eloise holds her privacy close to her and that she has certain people that she openly does not trust nor like - she doesn’t want to have a decision like who is going to be with her at her most vulnerable just chosen for her.
Toshiko: Fear not! In all my infinite wisdom and kindness, I shall pair the rest of you! Eloise: Ah… that’s not really necessary… (...) Ingrid: Strangers’ll usually be more comfortable spending the night with the same gender. Eloise: Then… we’re splitting it by gender…? (...) Wolfgang: We won’t have Ms. Kayura’s help, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out. Let’s go. Eloise: …
Furthermore, it does not feel at all coincidental that the scene directly after Desmond’s blackmail is revealed by Eva sees Grace pressuring Eloise to hand over her blackmail and Desmond attempting to defend Eloise before she reassures him. Eloise’s silence after Grace says that she better not have shown anyone speaks volumes - from the map during Free Time and their alibis for the time of Wolfgang’s murder alike we can explicitly see the amount of time these two have been spending around each other in the courtyard.
Grace: That fencer girl has been giving me the side-eye ever since the blackmail was announced. There’s no other explanation! Grace: Give it! Desmond: H-hey, stop that! Eloise: It’s okay…I’ve got it…
On the morning of Wolfgang’s murder, Desmond and Eloise spent all their time together in that courtyard, paralleling their positioning in the prologue. Just as then, they are each other’s alibis and they are the main one backing the other up. They proceed to stay by the other’s side literally throughout the investigation and figuratively throughout the trial. It is notable that textually Grace and Kai underscore how defensive Eloise and Desmond have been of each other throughout chapter one’s investigation and trial to accuse them of working together - ostensibly, Desmond being the murderer and Eloise his accomplice. When the two of them and Damon confront Grace during the investigation, they are largely backing each other up and adding to each other’s points while Damon chips in on his own - even going as far as to threaten Grace, knowing that she was shot at by Mara before.
Eloise: Um…for us to believe that, we need to see it ourselves… Grace: You think I’m lying? Desmond: There’s a chance you could be, unfortunately. (...) Eloise: Also, um…couldn’t this be considered breaking the rules…? Eloise: Tozu wants this game to be fair, but… being prevented from searching every room doesn’t seem very fair… Grace: …Even if it isn’t, what are you gonna do? Eloise: … Eloise: I’ll…report it to Tozu. Grace: A-ah? Desmond: Nice idea. What do you say we look for him now? Desmond: If Tozu agrees this is sabotage, he might call Mara to help…
In the trial, when Eloise first accuses Grace, Desmond backs her. When Grace’s innocence is proven and Eloise apologises for accusing her, Desmond continues to press Grace when she shouts at Eloise by insisting she “must know something about [Wolfgang’s] last known whereabouts”. When Desmond brings up the golf clothes and equipment in Wolfgang’s room, Eloise backs him. When Mark accuses Desmond of having access to weapons like the taser gun, Eloise reacts before Desmond does. During the nonstop debate about the taser gun, Eloise brings up her and Desmond’s shared alibi as they were together the whole morning. If the player takes the Pathos Route during the trial, it is Eloise’s voicing of her doubts in voting Diana and wanting to hear her side of the story that then leads into Desmond’s own agreement to hear her out. This series of events, I think, proves a degree of trust that has built between the two that they have not extended to anyone else - even during Eva’s execution and Diana’s speech, the two are depicted together.
The nature of Desmond’s blackmail combined with how he and Eloise are written in this chapter as consistent supporters of each other and consistently shown together leads me to be rather firm in my belief at the moment that Eloise is this “only one” his blackmail refers to. Their relationship is given as much focus as Damon and Kai and Wolfgang and Grace, which indicates the importance of it and really, really doesn’t bode well for their survival. My personal speculation at this current moment sees Eloise killing in self-defence, in which instance we will see Desmond’s ‘guard’ come to fruition.
Sharks and swans
It can’t be a P:EG analysis without looking at the characters’ animal motifs - especially with how chapter one confirmed their relevance with the focus on Wolfgang, Eva and Diana in particular!
Desmond’s animal motif is a shark as represented by his shark’s tooth earring and this is immediately notable in tying into the dominating theme of prejudice and “judging a book by its cover” that has presented itself in contrasting ways in his and Eloise’s characters. Desmond being instinctively assumed to be dangerous and a ‘threat’ due to his position as the Ultimate Marksman directly correlates to how sharks are perceived in the media and, by extension, society. One way his shark motif is relevant lies in how it conveys this theme of being misunderstood.
As previously noted, the first thing Wolfgang ever says to Desmond is an interrogative question about whether or not he has killed someone before, it does not take any amount of mental gymnastics for Eva and Damon to agree Desmond’s blackmail makes him dangerous, and it does not take much convincing for the majority during the trial to agree on his likelihood of murdering Wolfgang due to the taser gun originating from his room. Surely, we are instantly reminded of how sharks are similarly misunderstood as obvious killers due to how they have been negatively sensationalised by the media - leading to a general consensus in society to view them as an inherent threat.
“Sharks have been vilified in human culture for centuries, and negative attitudes toward sharks continue to pervade mass media, perpetuating stereotypes, often conveying inaccurate information [7–11]. One way the public’s fear of sharks, which resonates deeply and viscerally, manifests itself is a pervasive overestimation of the likelihood of being ‘attacked’” (Andrew Nosal et al, 2016, The Effect of Background Music in Shark Documentaries on Viewers' Perceptions of Sharks, p.2)
Eva asserts that Desmond finding out about her having his blackmail could make her a target and, generally, the other characters are quick to assume ill intention from him. For example, him bringing up how everyone’s locks to their dorms are broken raises accusations of him exposing people and him testing people’s locks sparks similar reaction - with Wolfgang even denying him future agency by saying Desmond should go to him first.
Desmond’s shark motif combines with how his talent is perceived to beg us as viewers to deconstruct assumptions of him being this ticking time bomb waiting to explode - to pick apart preconceived notions, examine what makes you think that way and why. It is simultaneously fascinating and frustrating to see predictions from fans about how the rest of the game will play out position Desmond as an ‘obvious’ killer due to his marksmanship and because his animal motif is an apex predator painted as a “man-eating monster” by the media, ignoring how his talent has been handled thus far and contributing to the dominating narrative about sharks that does not reflect reality.
The majority of shark attacks on humans are results of curiosity bites on the shark’s end or mistaking humans for, say, seals. In personifying sharks and acting as if they have the same moral decision making as humans and go out of their way to maim and kill, they have become severely endangered themselves. In an article on shark conservation that analysed how sharks are portrayed in American and Australian media, it was identified that there were “four types of risks from sharks and fourteen types of risks to sharks in the articles” and that “Forty-four percent of the articles mentioned elevated public risk perceptions or fear of sharks” (Bret Muter et al, 2012, Australian and U.S. News Media Portrayal of Sharks and Their Conservation, Conservation Biology, Vol.27, No.1, p.190), which is to say that humans are more of a risk to sharks on the whole than sharks are to humans such as through overfishing, finning and habitat destruction and that this can directly parallel the ‘attacks’ on his character that Desmond has endured so far in the story.
In direct contrast in this respect, there is Eloise and her swan motif represented by her hairpin. The dominating cultural perspective on swans is that they are uniquely beautiful and elegant, they are symbols of purity and aristocracy and are a protected species in many countries including the US, UK and across the whole of the European Union. This places them at the utter opposite end of a general consensus scale to sharks and their features in popular culture reflects this from Hans Christian Andersen’s Ugly Duckling fairy tale to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake ballet.
Swan Lake is of particular note to me due to its duality of the white and black swan that can be applied to Eloise’s characterisation. Through her white clothing, fencer-defined elegance, and timid demeanour, Eloise brings to mind Odette the white swan - or the Swan Princess - who was cursed to be a swan by day and woman by night and who is revered for her beauty and purity. Contrastingly we have Odile, who impersonates Odette while she is bound to her swan form and is the ‘black swan’ - more conniving and wicked. Traditionally, Odette and Odile are roles performed by the same ballerina and so represent this idea of duality even more. Now, Eloise is neither conniving nor wicked, but she certainly is not the ‘Odette’ that people perceive her as on a surface level, and has assertive and, really, quite aggressive talons that unsheathe when she deems necessary.
(Eloise’s first Free Time Event, unprovoked) Eloise: If…if you ever try to do something to me… Eloise: …then…I’m going to fight back. (...) Eloise: Once, I completely overpowered a person using just a pen… Eloise: And, uh…if you don’t believe me… Eloise: …I…can give you a taste of what that person felt.
Additionally tied to this is the Medieval moralist view on swans as symbolic of hypocrisy. The idea stems from Hugh of Fouilloy’s Aviarium where he asserts that swans’ white plumage concealing their supposedly black flesh is reflective of a sinner who conceals their sins with a faux pious front…this line of thinking of “white = morality, black = immorality” is notoriously flawed and susceptible to challenge, and this specific idea alluding to black flesh even more obviously so. However, as a spiritual Christian belief, it is relevant when considering Project: Eden’s Garden not least because the game’s religious allusions ask us to question the very concept of Eden and how Western institutions use religious imagery - especially in how they distort it and use it for their own narrative. Every image of nature in the academy being artificial highlights this. Thus, this old idea about swans and hypocrisy may be taken into account… it is not so much direct hypocrisy that relates to Eloise, but the theme of appearance not reflecting reality and a warning to “not to be deceived by outward appearances” (Natalie Jayne Goodison, Introducing the Medieval Swan, p.12). Eloise’s character profile outright tells us to “not be deceived” (by her “size”, but this can apply generally).
And this neatly leads into the fact that swans themselves, despite their innocent and pure iconography, are fierce - especially when it comes to defending themselves or their nests. As Aristotle puts it in his (outdated by over two millennia yet still incredibly interesting) work The History of Animals, “[swans] will repel the attack and get the better of their assailant, but they are never the first to attack” (Trans. D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson, 9.12) and Eloise explicitly references this in her fight against her own underestimation and to combat the perception of her as weak both in form and fortitude. Despite what Damon believes, I refute the idea that Eloise’s volatility makes her emotionally weak because chapter one’s trial proves otherwise as does chapter one’s investigation that instantly sees Eloise disprove Damon’s idea of her. Speaking of Damon, it is interesting how he comes to respect and almost understand Desmond who is misunderstood as a threat by others much like himself, but cannot extend the same to Eloise whom he has no axis of relatability to.
“Still, it is significant that the administrative and agricultural experts voiced concern that aesthetic, cultural, and sentimental ideas about swans guide the birds’ protection in a strange or illogical way, and the resources expert agreed that the main—if not the only—value associated with continued protection of the whooper is sentimental value.” (Shauna Laurel Jones, 2018, Feathered majesty in the grainfield? Conflict, conservation, and the whooper swan in Iceland, p.39)
Desmond’s shark motif presenting through a shark tooth earring is not merely an aesthetic choice and instead possesses symbolic connotations. It is the choice in his design of a shark tooth earring that allows us to connect indigenous beliefs about sharks to his characterisation, as in indigenous Hawai’ian culture, shark teeth are traditionally worn as protective talismans, and certain species of sharks in indigenous Hawai’ian culture also relate to the concept of ‘aumakua’ where under certain conditions a deceased person is reincarnated as a shark and acts as a “beneficent guardian spirit” (Leighton R. Taylor, 1993, Sharks of Hawai’i: their biology and cultural significance, p.19) towards their family, both of which link to the increasingly potent theme of “guard[ing]” in Desmond’s character.
Similarly, we find ideas of “guard[ing]” with the swan, especially the idea of being guarded. Most blatant is the fact that swans are a protected species in many particularly Western countries such as the United Kingdom, the United States, France, Denmark, Germany, and Iceland, meaning it is illegal to kill or injure them. In a literary sense, the Finnish national epic Kalevala wherein the hero Lemminkäinen is tasked with killing a swan that swims and sings in the Lake of Tuonela that surrounds the underworld, but instead he is killed - not textually because he has attempted to kill a swan, but the context of swans as a protected species and how they are symbolically viewed certainly influences this narrative.
However, as a point of contrast, while sharks can be associated with life in the sense of survival and their integral position in ecosystems, keeping them intact, swans are associated overwhelmingly with death. Firstly examining the former, it is notable to me that Desmond’s animal motif is one heavily concerned with conservation efforts to protect against endangerment and extinction, conditions that are in no small part due to human impact. When one sees apex predator their mind tends to swipe to violence, to these creatures being bloodthirsty, instead of taking it for what it really is: an animal that plays an indispensable role in regulating ecosystems. Already, Desmond has cemented himself as a secondary contributor in trials alongside the likes of Jean, Ulysses and Wenona, and within the group he assumes a position not the extent of leadership like Wolfgang and Jean but certainly as a prominent initiator. Sharks have lived for millions of years and their survival is integral to the smooth management of marine ecosystems, to remove them would cause a disastrous knock-on effect. In tandem, the condition of its ecosystem is integral to the survival of the shark, which raises the aspect of Desmond’s Free Time Events that has him lament the lack of open space in the academy.
“As apex predators, sharks play an indispensable role in regulating marine populations, maintaining biodiversity, and preserving the health of our oceans (amongst many other parts they play in the tapestry of life that is below the waves). However, despite having roamed our oceans for millions of years, they currently face a myriad threats that of our own doing, including overfishing, habitat degradation, and climate change.” (Melissa Cristina Marquez, 2024, Exploring the Intersection of Indigenous Knowledge and Shark Science)
Turning to the association between swans and death is the ever-omnipresent swan song. The myth that swans are silent their whole lives until just before they die, when they sing their haunting song. Eloise can be interpreted according to this in how “silence” can be applied to her initially reserved and shy nature, with the more she develops across the story akin to the theme of transformation found in many European folktales and, unfortunately as a result, becomes closer to death her development in becoming more openly confident will be her “song”.
My personal speculation at the moment is that Eloise will become the blackened through killing in self-defence - something I find fitting for her characterisation, predicted character arc, fencing talent, and swan motif all in one - and so her swan’s song will manifest as her final plight during her trial before she is inevitably sent to death. Relatedly, the conclusion of Swan Lake sees Odette, the swan princess, and the Siegried, the prince, die together. I view Desmond and Eloise’s relationship to end in one of two ways - either one of them kills/is killed and the other kills/is killed the chapter after, or one of them kills/is killed and the other survives. Either way, they cannot both live.
The silver Swan who living had no note, When death approached unlocked her silent throat; Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, Thus sang her first and last, and sung no more: "Farewell all joys! O death come close mine eyes, More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise." (Unknown author)
And so arrives the final point to wrap this whole essay up in one neat bow: Eloise’s swan motif presents in her unwavering loyalty as a pair with Desmond. This is so unsubtle that it is underscored by Grace and Kai in the chapter one trial, sending accusations of them working together to murder their way. As has been reiterated, the two are seldom not depicted together, react to accusations towards each other with the same intensity were they to be directed at them, and defend each other with a consistency they do not afford any other character, with only Diana coming close in Eloise’s case. Like swans who mate for life, Eloise and Desmond have essentially become pair bonded. This happening so quickly is not necessarily a cause for doubt either in my opinion as that also connects to swans who bond as a pair even before they reach sexual maturity at twenty months despite living for a good two decades, and we know Eloise and Desmond’s time is far shorter than that.
“Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” (Richard Siken, War of the Foxes)
With everything we have of them so far, regardless of how Desmond and Eloise’s individual stories play out, they will be in one way or another entwined.
Thank you for reading, and I would love to know your thoughts!
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
Aristotle, Thompson D. W.,The History of Animals
Goodison N. J., 2023, Introducing the Medieval Swan
Hugh, 1172, Aviarium
Jones S. L., 2018, Feathered majesty in the grainfield? Conflict, conservation, and the whooper swan in Iceland
Lönnrot E., 1835, The Kalewala
Marquez M. C., 2024, Exploring the Intersection of Indigenous Knowledge and Shark Science
Muter B. et al., 2012, Conservation Biology, Australian and U.S. News Media Portrayal of Sharks and Their Conservation, Vol. 27, No. 1
Nosal A. et al., 2016, The Effect of Background Music in Shark Documentaries on Viewers' Perceptions of Sharks
Taylor L. R., 1993, Sharks of Hawai’i: their biology and cultural significance
Tchaikovsky P. I., The Swan Lake Ballet
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Hi saintsenara, I’d like to know your thoughts on the Trace etc because you always seem to have a a really lucid and informed perspective of, well, everything
I never liked how the Ministry and Hogwarts are able to automatically and infallibly detect muggleborns. I feel like the ramifications of that aren’t properly dealt with but I also think that it’d be more interesting and plausible if muggleborns had to be looked for.
I also feel like the Trace is dealt with very strangely. When is that integrated? Is it just automatic for muggleborn students or would the school’s representative (ie. Dumbledore for Tom and McGonagall for Hermione ) place it? If they can place these restrictions on children remotely then why couldn’t they for, say, Death Eaters or Sirius Black? It doesn’t make sense to me that there is anything about the Trace that would make it only applicable to underage wizards and witches. If they need to do something to the children to place the Trace then why can’t they do that with all Azkaban inmates as a preventative measure? Is it simply too outrageous to do that to adult wizards? Is the Trace too easily broken? If the Trace is easily breakable then the Order would’ve broken it for Harry in Deathly Hallows, wouldn’t they?
The lack of thought enrages me!
the thing which has to be borne in mind with the trace is that its narrative purpose is primarily as a coming-of-age experience - it's the threshold which wizarding teenagers need to cross to become legal adults.
and not only this, it's primarily an allusion to the real life coming-of-age experience which defines [or, certainly, which defined in the 2000s, gen z are famously more abstemious] british and irish teenage life...
becoming old enough to legally drink.
when i was a teenager, eighteenth birthdays were a big deal precisely because of the opportunities they afforded to get legally boozed. i was in the supermarket at 10am on mine, passport in hand, buying a disgusting bottle of own brand vodka [which i don't think i or any of my friends ever touched] just because i could.
but the word "legally" is important in this context. because, while the legal drinking age in the uk and ireland is eighteen... that doesn't mean that most teenagers wait until then for their first sip. and nobody - adults in positions of authority such as police, teachers, social workers, doctors etc. included - thinks they do.
and that's because the law is actually more ambiguous than it seems. in the uk, it's legal for children as young as five to drink alcohol in a private residence [!]. in england, scotland, and wales [but not northern ireland], sixteen year olds can legally drink some types of alcohol in licensed premises as long as they're eating a meal.
as a result, the legal penalties for underage drinking are basically non-existent [for the drinker, that is; they can be reasonably hefty for anyone caught selling to under 18s]... if there's nothing else in play which might attract the state's attention.
or: i went to a house party at a friend's when i was fifteen, drank a bottle of rose, broke up with my boyfriend, and ended up sobbing in her garden at the top of my lungs about how men are dogs at 2am, and was then sick.
this friend and i were both white, grammar-school-educated, generally-perceived-as-sensible teenage girls, whose families were well-known and well-liked. the neighbours, seeing me having an absolute flop of a night, could say "ah, the folly of youth, we were all young once, the lasses are in high spirits etc. etc."
but without the protection afforded by social acceptability, maybe they'd have interpreted the situation very differently, and called the police or contacted social services about my friend's mam letting us drink there, or so on.
the trace functions in the same way. the actual law on underage magic - that it's totally illegal - is obviously nonsense. we know in canon that children in wizarding households can use magic before they're seventeen, because - as dumbledore says - the ministry is happy to trust their parents to regulate them doing so.
that is, in families which have the standing afforded by conformity to social convention [especially in living separately from muggles], underage magic can be seen as all a bit of a laugh.
but muggleborns are viewed in the eyes of the state as risks, until they reach adulthood and - in all the cases we meet in canon - remove themselves from the world of their birth entirely. the ministry's main aim - the thing it's preoccupied with - is preventing muggles from learning that magic exists. therefore, anyone magical who lives in a muggle household is subject to much more surveillance than those who don't.
[if the weasley twins do magic in the burrow's garden, who cares? if harry does it in the middle of little whinging, countless muggles might see!]
when it comes to how muggleborns are detected, i actually quite like the extra-canonical information jkr has given about the quill of acceptance and the book of admittance [which is on pottermore]. where i don't agree with it is that i don't think all muggleborns are admitted to hogwarts.
i've said a few times - and, for my askbox girlies, i will write the longer meta on this, i promise - that i think hogwarts applies some form of selection process, which explains why the class-status of the intake [including the muggleborn students we meet in canon] is near-uniform.
as a result, i think that muggleborn students are looked for - they're observed and vetted to make sure they'll fit in at hogwarts - and the interview they have with the deputy head is the final stage in that process.
when they're accepted to hogwarts [or when they actually start at the school, to give hermione the summer of trying spells she mentions in philosopher's stone] i think it's fair to imagine that the trace comes into effect, but that it's only ever going to cause alarm at the ministry if it's broken when students - of any background - are in muggle areas.
which means very little for wizard-raised students - who can do magic at home whenever they want - but restricts the freedom of muggleborn ones.
when it comes to restricting adult magic... we know - because sirius mentions it in prisoner of azkaban - that inmates are deprived of their wands. jkr has retconned how possible magic is without a wand in her post-series writing, but the evidence of canon is that all but the most basic, unsophisticated magic is impossible without one.
losing access to a wand - and, therefore, losing access to magic - is how the state restricts adults' use of magic [which is what happens to hagrid when he acquires his criminal record for manslaughter]. and this is actually a more strictly enforceable and much harsher punishment - it's basically the permanent deprivation of the wizarding world's fundamental marker of liberty - than the trace, which, while it is enshrined in law, basically amounts to nothing more than a fairly loosely-enforced social barrier between childhood and adulthood for 90% of the population.
#asks answered#asenora meta#surprise! it's the class system!#although slightly more obliquely this time
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