#maybe it won’t even be a meat suit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gutsby · 9 months ago

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Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

#NEED DARK!JOEL TO TAKE ME TO HIS PENTHOUSE AND FREAK ME IN WAYS UNIVERSALLY CONDEMNED BY POSTMODERN FEMINISM #IT'S SOOOOO BAD Y'ALL #this might be too niche but i hope at least one person enjoys LOL #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dark!joel

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inkdrinkerworld · 3 months ago

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“Sirius please come see, I won’t put them in your hands. I promise.” Your sunglasses are keeping your hair out of your face as you hold pretty multicoloured shells in your hand.

“I’m coming poppet. I got you a freezie so you don’t pass out.” His footsteps trail behind him in the soft, cool sand - perfect combatant to the heat that has sweat pearling against his chest.

It’s a hot day out at the beach, barely any clouds to shield you from the sun. You’d made Sirius reapply your sunscreen three times already and reapplied his twice as much even though he hated the smell of it.

Sirius holds the straw to your lips, watching you take a large gulp.

“What do you have there, lovie?” He spots something wriggling in your palm, a little grossed out but putting on a brave face.

“Donax clams,” you use one of your hands to drip a little water over the clams so Sirius can see them open. “Look, the meat inside is edible too. Don’t you think this one kinda looks like your eyes?”

Sirius suppresses a shudder. He doesn’t know how you’re so calm about them wiggling in your palm. He also doesn’t really think they look like his eyes, a little too much green for his cool, almost purple silver eyes- still he hums.

“Are you going to catch them and cook them at the house?” Sirius is fearful of your answer, maybe you want to make him try this strange looking meat.

“No! I put them back when I run out of water,” you wait for the tide to come in a little and place your hand in the water, watching the shell wiggle out of your hand and into the sand. “See?”

Sirius smiles, kissing your cheek.

“I see, poppet.”

He wipes sand from your forehead and collarbone, feeding you more sips of the watermelon freezie as you catch and release your clams.

Sirius listens to you whisper to them, ask them how deep the burrow and even ask them if they know where you can find bigger shells to add to your collection.

He suspects it’s a little strange, but he doesn’t think it is. He quite likes that you’re so eccentric about everything. Sirius cups a bit of water and lets it run down your back, smiling when you sigh.

“Wanna go under the shade? I could get you a cold coconut?” Sirius can see the tan lines coming in under your bathing suit- you’d been in the sun for most of the time you’d been here and he worried you might get heat exhaustion.

Your eyes brighten. Sirius might not be a master at knowing all the little creatures, but he is a master at you. “With the super soft jelly inside?”

“Only the best for my girl,” he kisses your lips, watermelon freezie all he can taste. “C’mon poppet, wash up.”

#siriusblack #sirius black #sirius black oneshot #sirius black one shot #sirius black drabble #sirius black imagine #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #sirius black blurb #sirius black fluff #sirius black fic #sirius black x black reader #sirius black x reader #sirius black x witchy!reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x yn #sirius black x y/n

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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istg i check your blog religiously 😭 can i request ghost x reader that is rlly insecure of how she looks and bc shes so shy, so she never expected to be in a relationship bc she doesn't believe she ever rlly deserved that, and thinks that ghost will leave her eventually, so when he finds out he comforts her. so like angst to fluff

—Nervous Eyes

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [No one understands how you two get along - not when you're so different. It makes you second-guess yourself. He notices.] ❞

You sit at the bar and turn around your glass of Bourbon, the amber liquid sitting at the bottom as you blink at your reflection with slow eyes. It was late, but you were far from drunk—not even a light buzz was addling your brain with honied thoughts or actions. No, there would be none of that tonight.

Not when the woman was still hanging off Simon’s arm like a bad rash.

She was pretty, you admitted; beautiful, even. A sort of natural confidence and the looks to pair—ones that most people would go under a knife for without a second thought. Swallowing down saliva and not the alcohol, you tighten your lips and shove down the feeling in your throat. You shouldn’t be acting like this; you had no reason to.

There was no doubt in Simon’s loyalty or intentions, but your insecurities still lingered. He’d tried to shove the lady off of him as soon as she’d showed up—growling a ‘piss off’ and a flash of his dark brown gaze. Anyone without a death wish would have darted away immediately; maybe fled the country to be safe. She’d instead taken up the seat next to him and was talking up a storm as his fingers tightened over the tabletop.

Breathing out slowly, you try not to look at her, generally placid nature a large factor in your hesitation to come out to this place at all.

Simon was…a lot, you knew.

Big, scary; all around intimidating with his balaclava, hoodie, and jacket atop. Black gloves—he screamed serial killer except for the fact of his dog tags that clinked with every swivel of his head to you.

But the allure to his character was what charmed a lot of people, especially in bars when the drinks started to do the talking.

Sometimes you wonder if it was only a matter of time before he found someone better. Better suited to his… demeanor.

Simon’s fingers tapped the table twice to try and get your attention, side-eyeing you with a blank expression of annoyance at the lady’s constant prattle in his ear.

The woman loudly continues to talk about her ex-husband not a foot away from his face, trying to get into his pants unabashedly. Rage simmers deeply in his chest, but he won’t cause a scene—he can’t leave either. Not without you, and right now, you’re not even glancing at him.

When you don’t look up at his tapping, a strange emotion sitting on your normally smiling and bright flesh, Simon goes stiff. His shoulders tighten as he stares; attention entirely on you at all times. He sees your sigh, your intentful staring at your reflection with the occasional darting to the woman’s pristine features.

It puts something into immediate focus, and the Brit’s eyes go to slits.

Just as you decide it would be better for you to be drunk, staring to bring your glass to your lips, Simon snaps out at your side.

“Bloody slag,” the bar pauses at the monotone but subsequently harsh words yet quickly picks back up again. “Would you fuckin’ shut your mouth? Bastard’s runnin’ more than your damn husband did.” You choke on your drink, pulling back to cough into your arm violently with a sputtering inhale.

While you catch your breath, wide-eyed staring from over your elbow, the woman gapes and blinks like a deer that had been shot through the ribcage; gasping out stuttered questions.

Simon, in a wave of deep anger, takes out his wallet and slams bills to the bartop, sliding off his stool before gliding past you—taking the meat of your arm and pulling you along. Gently, only the slightest pressure to make sure you don’t stumble as your feet meet the floor.

In your stupor, you follow after quickly, allowing him to drop his grip.

“S-Simon, what are you—?” When you’re outside, you’re instantaneously corralled down the side of the bar, latched onto, and lifted easily so you’re over one of the man’s shoulders. You yelp, your face burning like fire as your voice goes high-pitched. “Simon!”

“Seen the way you’ve been lookin’ at yourself,” He grunts out, gritting his teeth as your hands dig into his spine for stability. But he knew just the right amount of force to keep you from falling. “What…? You think I’d give that old broad a good shag? Throw away the prize that I’ve got right in front of me?”

A harsh scoff echoes out, and seconds later you’re plopped down onto the top of a stack of pallets, hands slapping beside your hips and a clothed face millimeters from your own. You suck in a gasp and stare, entranced by how the lights burst inside of Simon’s pupils as he towers over you, a wall of muscle and will.

“I-I didn’t…I don’t,” you stutter, mouth opening and closing. “I’m not…”

His eyes narrow, scrutinizing you down to your marrow. “Not what, then? Say it.”

There’s no getting out of this.

“Simon,” you see his lips thin through his mask and you sigh, looking away instantly from the shame that courses your bloodstream. To force the words out was a physical pain to you, a dent in your lifespan. Your skin burns and the sting of embarrassment comes into your eyes.

“I’m not…pretty…” The man stills to near stone, eyes twitching a centimeter wider before they, too, halt all movement. “You shouldn’t have to be bothered every time someone better looking comes over because they don’t realize you’re seeing me—because they’d never think we’d be together. I…I don’t want you to think you’re weighed down by a…a…”

You lose your train of thought, and the only word coming to mind is a sharp knife to your chest. You glare at this chest, at his tags as they swing, and clench your jaw, taking down shallow breaths from your nostrils.

Simon utters the very word you dread in a tiny voice, accent deep, “...burden.”

All you do is shakily nod as the minutes roll past—the shadows grow longer and the night colder. Simon stares and stares, chest pounding with a fast heart and a tight wind of bulk.

His hands at your hips tighten into fists, grunting, “That’s the worst fuckin’ thing I’ve ‘ad to hear in ages.”

You blink away your unshed tears, darting your vision back up before a hand connects with your jaw and angles it up, balaclava shifted to his nose bridge as Simon pressed his lips to yours in a breath-stealing kiss. Opening your legs, he drags you forward by the small of your back and presses you to him with a growl, hearing your small mewl in answer.

His grip is firm and all-consuming, as it always is, and his mouth gives the tinge of alcohol and conviction. Hand on the back of your skill, you shudder and sink into him as he presses deeply, dragging each other back and forth with gasps and smacking flesh. Your hands grasp at Simon’s shirt, trailing his abs as he moves back with a grunt and a lick at his red lips.

Saliva gets caught in the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not leavin’ you unless I get my head blown to bloody bits,” he frowns, dead eyes darting up and down your blown eyes and panting breath. A flicker of a smirk dashes his expression. “So forget about it, Love.”

Simon’s gaze flashes with a soft reassurance, humming under his breath before he leans in once more.

“No one tastes like you do,” you drag him back into you as he mutters on your eager lips. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

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rinhaler · 1 year ago

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NOTSCAREDNOTSCAREDNOTSCARED!

✧˖*°࿐ : 18+ only, no minors. ✧. ┊ ⁭frat boy!oliver aiku x f!reader

Genre: college!au (mostly shameless smut tbh) Notes: first fic on my new blog and it's absolutely disgusting, enjoy. Warnings: 18+, noncon, somnophilia, drugging, virgin killer!oliver, implied virgin reader, tit sucking, pussy eating, biting, fingering, marking, love bites ♡, creampie, spit, alcohol consumption, lmk if I missed any!! Words: 5.3k

What a naïve little thing you are.

That’s the first thing Oliver thinks when he sets his sights on you. A shy, sweet girl wearing the one and only cocktail dress you probably own. It’s so simple but makes a loud statement. You don’t look like the other girls here. You aren’t wearing designer clothes that fit you like a glove, no. The ill-fitting garment you’ve chosen to wear speaks volumes to your innocent nature and your lack of confidence. You don’t have friends, do you? You’re here, alone, in the sleaziest and most prolific fraternity on campus. Of course, it’s a party, and anyone is welcome to attend. But the fact that you decided to come here, alone, makes him think you might be a little stupid.

But that suits him just fine.

He doesn’t approach immediately, for fear of giving the game away too soon. He bides his time and observes your behaviours and mannerisms as you wade through the crowds. His eyes have followed your longing gaze a few times and noticed how you keep looking towards the kitchen. It’s the busiest room in the house right now, he assumes. That’s where the keg and all of the alcohol is.

But almost as soon as you look that way, you avert your eyes and look elsewhere in search of a place to belong. You’ve tried starting a few conversations with the girls, but Oliver knows how catty and mean they can be. Poor thing, fresh meat like you doesn’t stand a chance.

You’re lonely, aren’t you? You’ll feel better with a little company, yeah?

He carefully walks by you in a way that will cause you to spill the drink from your grasp. And with that, this sinful game can begin. The one in which he tells you how sorry he is for causing an accident and ruining your dress. He’s so apologetic that you just can’t help but forgive him right away. And his attractiveness doesn’t go amiss. The kindest person you’ve met thus far just so happens to be so deliciously handsome.

“Let me get you a refill, it’s only fair.” he winks. And you hate yourself because your stomach flits at the casual gesture. It’s probably a line that he uses on all of the girls he meets at parties like this. It’s plain to see that he’s confident. You’re sure there won’t be a shortage of girls throwing themselves at him after a gesture like that.

But you aren’t stupid enough to be the same.

He seems older, by at least two years. He seems comfortable enough here to get you a drink so maybe this is his party. He could have a girlfriend for all you know that is in another room and completely oblivious. You don’t want to make waves before you even experience your first day of class.

People seem friendlier towards you when they notice you with him. Is it genuine? Or could they be laughing at you? His hand resides in the small of your back as he guides you far into the kitchen; until you’re standing between an island counter and the fridge. Your body is warming, and, fuck, he can feel it. You’re so shy. He hasn’t seen a girl like you in a long time. The slightest bit of attention and touching and you’re putty in his hand. What a good girl you are, he’s going to have so much fun with you.

You watch him, carefully, as he rummages through the fridge and grabs a can of beer.

You’re a little deflated as he cracks it for himself and begins to chug.

“I didn’t catch your name.” he states as his unmistakable eyes watch you intently. He has eyes you’ve never seen before, and you’ll have a hard time forgetting. Mismatched purple and green. They’re dull, but not uninteresting by any means. They’re the eyes of a man who always gets what he wants. Those eyes beautiful eyes… they’re bored because they are a prestigious, all access key to gain whatever his heart desires. You hum, hesitating for a moment until you decide you’re too awkward and uncomfortable to hide your name from him. “Oh, that’s a real pretty name. I’m Oliver.” he introduces himself.

“Hey… Oliver.” you smile, unsure of how to respond. You’re so on edge. His peculiar eyes are examining each and every movement you make like you’re being graded. And your heart is pounding… you can’t help yourself. Nobody here has extended so much as a pitying smile. You want to pass his test, he’s the only person being remotely nice to you. But still, there’s a gnawing feeling eating away and corroding your insides and it makes you feel like a criminal, like you’re doing something wrong.

Like you absolutely should not be talking to him right now.

“You’re pretty too.” he smiles, brazenly. His voice is so deep and charming, a sonorous lull as he knows all he needs to do is utter these three simple words to get a girl like you to be completely and utterly captivated. It’s such a pathetic, insipid sentence and you can’t stand that it’s working on you.

You get a full view of his wide, toothy grin and you sense that he’s trying to extend a gesture of trust to you. And you’re encapsulated by it. Pristine pearls almost blinding you and short circuiting your brain as you arrive at the realisation that he might be perfect. His features nothing short of perfection and accentuate his beguiling persona that you can’t get enough of. You haven’t even noticed the way your chest is heaving as you devour a mind-altering cocktail with him as the main ingredient.

And he can’t help but chuckle when he notices how flustered you’ve become from his words, you adorable thing. Three little words are making you squeeze your thighs together and fold your arms over your chest. And don’t think he hasn’t noticed the quickened breaths you’re taking and the dampening forehead you’re suddenly trying to wipe away. He’s noticing everything about you and making mental notes in his mind he will use later.

Do you know how vulnerable you’re being?

You should know better than to be so visibly rattled by him. He may be handsome but he’s hardly screaming upstanding citizen at you. It’s the facial hair. It’s so grotesque and sleazy and wholly unpleasant. And still, the only thought swirling around your tiny, tipsy mind is how it would feel against your skin as you kiss. How would the scruff feel between your inner thighs as he devoured your petalled flesh. You shouldn’t be thinking like this, you aren’t sure what’s wrong with you.

You don’t know how to act, do you?

“Don’t be so nervous, sweetheart.” he tells you, getting closer. The smell of his cologne invading your senses. It’s familiar, it smells expensive and suits him just fine. The type of fragrance you’d save for a special occasion to make an impact and impress people you’re around. Your nostrils flare as you inhale more. More of it. More of him. You need more.

He angles his head as he monitors your response to his proximity. He grins when he notes that you aren’t sure where to put your hands. Moving them a few times before you decide to grip the overhang of the counter behind you until the skin covering your knuckles are taut, turning white. You want to feel his chest, don’t you? It’s so broad and muscular and peaking under his shirt, he doesn’t blame you. You probably haven’t had much experience with a guy like him.

He's more than happy to show you.

You’re starting to think your heart is packing up its belongings and preparing to flee from your own chest as you feel it beating rapidly against your ribs. He’s so intoxicating, you feel lightheaded and overwhelmed by the mere presence of him. His body is trapping yours against the counter. He’s so damn tall, taller than you could have possibly imagined now that he’s pressed against you like this. Your cheeks fill with heat, and you think you might actually faint against him if he doesn’t move away. “There are bad guys at places like this, y’know? Dangerous place to be so pretty.” he warns you, whispering gently in your ear. The tone rushing through your veins and forcing you to shiver. His eyes meet yours after he speaks, his stare willing you to understand what he’s saying.

“T-Thank you…” you mumble.

“Hey, don’t worry so much. I’m the house president, I’ll keep an eye on you.” he assures you, moving away ever so slightly while keeping a lingering hand on your shoulder. A commanding touch to make your body and your mind focus on him. His hand is cold to the touch and you realise it’s from holding the metal can, cold from the refrigerator. The cooling caress of his fingers is polar opposite to the warm smile he’s offering you. You aren’t sure what to do or say, but you need not worry about yourself anymore. He had intended on doing all of your thinking for you tonight, anyway. “Oh, shit, you wanted a drink, right? Let me get one for you.” he speaks, his body moving to act before you can even answer.

“U-Um…” you hesitate, seeing him grab a bottle of rum and a mixer. You hate spirits because they always get you embarrassingly wasted. There are four prominent occasions in the forefront of your mind as you reminisce on the states you’ve found yourself in after drinking spirits. The smell alone is enough to make you gag, but you do all you can to ignore it. You don’t want to make a fool of yourself, you don’t want to do something humiliating that will be talked about for years to come.

You aren’t a prude; you aren’t opposed to getting drunk. You just don’t think it’s a good way to introduce yourself.

He’s moving so fast, and his back is to you as he pours your drink, the red solo cup obscured from your vision as he fills it to the brim for you.

You dumb little thing.

Isn’t this something you’ve been warned about? Not letting your drinks out of your sight at any point, ever. Of course you have, it’s rule number one of going to parties or nightclubs or anywhere that your drink can be tampered with.

You just aren’t thinking straight.

And why would you?

You’re so out of place in this big, intimidating environment. You’re hardly going to suspect the first person to show you a bit of kindness is actually the shadiest guy at the party. But deep down, you know you should consider everyone a suspect after hearing what he had to say. If the guys here are so shady, why does he stick with them? If he’s the president, why doesn’t he tell them to do better?

These few fleeting thoughts have been nothing but. Passing ideas that you thought of and discarded as quickly as they arrived. You can’t live your life in fear or you’ll never make any friends here. And he’s going to all of this trouble for you. You’re nobody to him, and he’s still finding it in his heart to extend a benevolent demeanour to you and making sure you have a drink and a friendly face to keep you company for the night.

So you aren’t going to think twice that he’s slipped something in your drink, you can’t see what he’s doing, but for some reason, you trust him. Would you trust him, still, if he wasn’t so good looking? Would you trust him less if he hadn’t announced he is the fraternity president? He knows you’d never have trusted receiving a drink from him if he just offered it to you out of nowhere.

He’s happy he didn’t have to work too hard, you aren’t completely stupid, but you’re still dumb enough to accept a drink from him like this. You barely even think about it as he flashes you a beaming smile and hands it to you. Hell, it might even loosen you up. You knock half of it back in three seconds and you giggle after the fact.

He’s laughing too.

But it’s at your expense, you poor, sweet thing. You’re going to be seeing so many stars tonight, a sight reserved for Oliver’s favourite angels.

“You’re crazy, huh? You like to party a lot, baby?” he wonders, taking another swig of his drink as he rests against the fridge beside him.

“No, never! This is my first big party.” you confess, and he doesn’t miss the way you slightly cringe at yourself for saying something you must think is a little embarrassing. “I mean, I’ve been to parties… this one is just—”

“You’ll get used to it.” he tells you. “The first one is always memorable, though.”

“Really? How come?” you ask, curiously.

God you’re so cute, it’s killing him. Even he can’t hide the smirk forming on his face as he tries to conceal it with his beer. He decides to not answer. Instead, he admires the way you look disappointed at the prospect of him losing interest in you. He thinks he could bathe in the watery sheen glossing over your eyes as you worry that you’ve said something so stupid that he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore.

He's such a disgustingly vile man. All he can think to do is refuse to put you out of your misery. Instead, he revels in the way you knock back the rest of your drink. The way your eyes widen paints a perfect picture in telling him it was too strong for you. Stronger than anything you’ve ever drank in your life. And that’s without the added ingredient he decided to slip in.

“I— do you have a girlfriend?” your question is abrupt as you wipe the excess liquid from your plump lips. Your watery eyes watching him keenly as you do your best to decipher his intentions.

“No.”

You scoff and shake your head. “I don’t even know why I asked you that, as if you’d tell the truth.” you mumble to yourself, but it’s loud enough for him to hear. And just as you’re about to walk away, he responds.

“I don’t care if you know whether I have a girlfriend or not. I would only care if I was trying to fuck you.” the sentence rolls off his tongue with ease. Like he knew exactly what you were going to say before you even thought of it. And you feel a wave of humiliation crash throughout your body; you feel a current trying to drag you under and suffocate you under the foaming sea.

“Y-You aren’t?” you need to stop talking. You need to stop embarrassing yourself like this. For his benefit. For the other people in the kitchen with you. It feels like everyone is staring at you and laughing at your expense. Maybe you’re just drunk and being paranoid. You should go, you should sprint out of here with whatever small scraps of dignity you have left.

He shakes his head, his hand reaching out to yours to pull you closer to him. It trails, up your side and to your chin as your eyes fixate on his. His thumb smooths over your chin, encouraging you to open your mouth for him. He tilts his can of beer onto your lower lip. The golden, yeasty liquid spills from the metal container and onto your tongue. Your eyes don’t leave his as all you can do is stand there and take it. Your little throat expanding with each glug of the disgustingly bitter drink.

Your body is once again pressed against the counter. He snickers when he feels your body jolt against his as you hear the sound of the beer can he was holding clattering against the tiled floor. And he takes great delight in the way your body melts against his touch as he places a hand on your hip. The other, smoothing the shell of your ear before he levels his mouth with it.

“I don’t need to try, I’m going to fuck you.” he whispers, he kisses against your ear a few times and the sound rushes straight to your clit. You squeeze your thighs together again hoping to alleviate the brewing tension. You pray you were discreet enough for him to not notice.

You weren’t.

And it’s worse as he kisses your neck so openly in front of everyone. He sucks and sucks and sucks until his name is signed in blue and purple blooms against your skin. You bite your lip, internally cursing him for forcing you to have to wear a scarf for the coming weeks until it fades away.

“S-Stop it.” your legs buckle and there is something wrong with your eyes. The room won’t stop spinning. You didn’t drink that much, did you?

“Woah!” Oliver exclaims as you fall into his hold. “You don’t know how to handle your drink, hm? I think you need to sleep it off.”

“T-Tax—”

“No, no. I’d be a terrible host if I made you get a taxi all by yourself. C’mon.” he lifts you with ease, your entire body limp in his arms. And he just can’t believe how lucky he is. How blessed he is to be born so genetically gifted. Because he knows there is no way in hell he’d be getting away with this if he wasn’t attractive. Girls looking at him like he’s some kind of hero coming to your rescue. Him, a hero. It would almost be hilarious if it wasn’t so fucking tragic.

There’s no way you’re forgetting your first frat party.

He’ll make sure of that.

As he passes a few of his brothers on the stairs, they all share a knowing look. Like this isn’t the first time Oliver has been in this predicament. And it surely won’t be the last. He winks at them as he walks by, and he puts you down as he reaches his door, your body dropping like a stone as he lets you fall with no care.

You can do nothing but groan as he drags you by your underarms and into his room. God you want to go home. Not to your student accommodation. Home. You want to be with your parents and under your own roof, sleeping in your own bed. It’s hard to even tell where you are. Are you still in the kitchen? No, there’s no way.

All you can think about is how tired you are.

Suddenly, you’re in the air, being flung onto a nearby bed. You feel like your body doesn’t belong to you. You’re no longer in control and you can’t move your limbs how you want to. You want to use your legs and walk right on out of here and into a taxi.

But you’re lucky, really.

Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. It’s all his. His to do whatever he wants with. You can’t move, and yet Oliver is going to be kind enough to move you however he likes. Maybe you don’t feel so lucky about it. But you’re just confused right now. Oliver knows you wanted this. Wanted him. The pill in your drink was just a little insurance policy to make sure everyone got what they want.

He prefers girls like this anyway.

Nice ‘n pliant.

“Said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” he smiles, lecherous hands feeling each and every inch of your body. A curious hand reaching up to touch the fat flesh of one of your tits as he massages it over your tiny little dress. “Think you can wear something like this and expect me not to fuck you?” he whispers.

“Mmmpf…” you hum, there’s still a little defiance in you. At this point, he wouldn’t mind if you were on the cusp of sleep. There’s something so special to him about extracting salacious moans from unconscious bodies.

“’m just getting you out of this little thing… gonna find a comfy t-shirt for you to wear to sleep.” he assures you. He wonders if you believe him. He almost believes himself. But as he pulls down the strapless bust of your dress and your supple flesh is revealed to him, the thought of covering it again dies an instant death in his mind. “Fuuuuuck, gorgeous fuckin’ tits.” he moans, his bulge straining against his jeans as envisions himself sucking them until they’re puckered and raw.

He climbs over you, your tiny frame beneath his domineering one. He’s sure you hadn’t neglected to notice how muscular he is before you passed out, even beneath his clothes. He must be some kind of athlete. He’s too beefy not to be. And boy, does he use his weight and size to his advantage when he’s dealing with delicate things like you.

His head practically falls from his shoulder as he decides to let his fantasy come to life. He licks and laves over your tits individually until he gets a little rougher. Softly nibbling the tender buds until they are aching and so sore. His teeth bruise your flesh as he marks them. An assortment of canines and molars as well as decorative love bites.

Any chance you had of forgetting this party are gone.

You’ll know what happened to you.

You might even remember who did it.

But there’s no way a sweet, timid freshman like you is going to have the courage to tell such an unbelievable tale. You might think there are steps in place to protect innocent things like you. You’re a victim, after all. You need protecting. But once again, that would just be so telling as to how naïve you truly are. Drugging pretty girls at college parties is never going to end. The staff, the students, even the police are never going to side with you.

And why would they? These false statements issued by the board, talks of ‘standing with victims’ and offering a listening ear are nothing but lip service. The institution you have found yourself in will say anything to seem like a worthwhile choice. The right and most beneficial choice to you and your future.

But the harrowing truth is that they don’t have time to protect girls like you when they are too busy covering up the messes of men like him.

He pushes your dress up to your midsection, exposing a pair of white lace panties.

“Awe, for me? You knew you were gonna get lucky tonight, didn’t you?” he asks. But of course, you’re unresponsive. His finger prods at the thin material, an involuntary laugh leaving his lungs as he is greeted with the feeling of your soaked underwear on the pad of his digit. “Too dumb t’speak right now… good job your cunt is telling me how much you want me.”

His thumb circles your clit over the material. And even he’s a little dumbfounded at the way your body betrays you. You squirm and your brows furrow as you try to stave off the pleasurable feeling. But for all he knows, you could be trying to fight him off.

He doesn’t care, though, your pussy already gave your true feelings away.

Even he can’t ignore the way his cock is leaking at the sight of your tight heat becoming exposed as he peels away your panties. A slick string connecting your sex to the material.

You must be a virgin, he thinks. Virgins get wet so easily. He suspected it from the moment he saw you. You’re so awkward and uncomfortable around people, but especially guys. You fumble over your words, and you can’t flirt to save your fucking life. But he didn’t care. The thought of your first time being with him was enough to make him want you. And even if you have fucked before. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t need to know. The very thought is enough.

He pins your knees to your chest, and he begins to feast on your dripping cunt. You shudder as your body feels the tension building with each suckle and slurp against your clit. It’s unrelenting, he can’t get enough of you. He’s fucking addicted to the taste of your slick and he doesn’t know how he’s gone so long without it. Your left leg ragdolls as he lets go, opting to slip a finger into your unprepared hole without stopping his assault on your swollen clit.

And without hesitation, he’s adding another. He takes his time scissoring you open, and by now he’s convinced you’re a virgin. You’re so fucking tight. There’s no way you’ve had a dick inside of you. Or if you have, it must have been small.

You won’t have to worry about that with him.

Even unconscious, he’s sure you’ll feel how he’s gonna stretch you.

Your lazy groans are like a cheer to him. Your body is telling him what a great job he’s doing. How close you are. How badly you want to cum in his mouth and douse his thick, calloused fingers in your syrupy sheen.

The tip of his tongue lashes over the throbbing button at the apex of your thighs. He doesn’t particularly care if you take him well or not. You’re going to take him regardless. But he isn’t so heartless he won’t try and make it a little less painful for you. He’s urging you to cum for him, his free hand pressing down on your abdomen in a bid to enhance your pleasure. With each whip of his tongue against your clit and every press of your spongy insides with his fingers, he’s trying to drag you over the edge.

Your lifeless body surprises him once more.

He pulls away and observes the way your pussy pulses and your walls tighten around his fingers as you begin to cum for him. Your spent little cunt drooling around his thick digits and coating them in your slick. You even moaned for him. Not loudly, of course. A few tell-tale grunts to let him know you were happy with his work.

His eyes ogle your tits once again, admiring the way your chest rises and falls as he sucks his fingers clean. You’re so fucking cute. You must be heaven sent, the way you stepped into the frat may as well have been a gift with a garish bow from Santa Claus himself.

He unbuckles his belt with one hand whilst squeezing and pinching your nipples once again. They’re so pretty, the prettiest pair of tits he’s ever seen. He’s rock hard in his jeans, leaking like crazy and desperate to be buried to the hilt in your sweet little snatch.

And his heavy cock springs free, the tip leaving evidence of just how desperate he is on his v-neck shirt. Pearly pre shimmering against the black material that is soon to dry and harden and meld with the cotton fibres. But he can’t find it in himself to care. He pulls it over his head and throws it into the corner of his room, he’ll deal with it another time. There’s something much more entertaining lying atop his sheets right now.

“Mmm… think this is gonna hurt sweetheart. But you’re gonna be good ‘n take it f’me, yeah?” he lines himself up with your entrance and gives your still body one final look before breaching your insides with his thick cockhead. “Fuckin’ hell you’re tight. You’re so fucking tight, might cum just from this.” he speaks.

He knows you can’t understand him, but he can’t stop himself from communicating with you anyway. He needs you to know how special you are. That out of all of the girls at the party, he chose you. Don’t you feel special? He’s sure you will when you’re stuffed full of his cum. It’ll all dawn on you tomorrow and you’ll feel so honoured that the one and only Oliver Aiku fucked you open and covered you in so many pretty patterns and was even kind enough to pump you full of his cum.

You have no idea how much restraint he’s showing by not instantly splitting you open on his thick, heavy cock. He can’t help but feel that slowly plunging into your virgin walls is a better display of claiming your body. It’s almost torture for him, easing in inch at a time at an agonising pace.

And when he’s fully sheathed inside your suffocating walls, the pleasure is almost too much, he could shed a tear at the feeling. But, of course, he won’t. He’s prioritising the task at hand.

He holds under your knee and pushes it further into your chest and begins to slowly roll his hips. It’s hypnotising, the way even out of consciousness your eyes can still roll back into your skull. He takes note of how he’s moving when your eyelids begin to flutter.

“Oh baby… right there? Like it when I fuck you there?” he wonders, experimenting with his movement and speeding up ever so slightly. His cockhead is nudging your g-spot so perfectly. It’s so deliciously soft, and those saccharine expressions you’re donning are about to drag him to an early demise.

His grip on your thigh is harsh. Another galaxy of purple bruises forming under his fingers on your doughy skin. He hasn’t noticed. It’s second nature to him to be a little rougher than intended. But it’s part of the fun, right? More little discoveries for you to find in days to come.

He’s entranced by the way his cock vanishes inside of your cute cunt. He’s being swallowed whole by your sticky lips. The sound reverberates throughout the room. The suctioning sounds of you pulling him inside and the tackiness of your pussy and his cock meeting again and again and again.

Your eyes squint as he yanks down your jaw until he sees your tongue. He’s so abhorrent and even at this point he knows this to be the truth himself. He just can’t fucking help it. He wants to do anything and everything to you. He wants to humiliate you because you’re just that special to him. With a cartoonish ‘ptuh’ sound, a glob of spit has landed on your tongue and is slowly sliding down your throat.

With a few more presses of his tip against your sweet spot, you’re spasming around him again. Maybe you liked it after all. You wouldn’t cum if you didn’t. Do you like being taken advantage of by reprehensible scum like Oliver Aiku? Do you like being unconscious while getting your insides pummelled? This might warp your tiny little mind. Maybe you’ll think this is love and this is what you’re meant for. It is, as far as Oliver is concerned. He doesn’t let up humping into your tiny hole. He spits in your mouth again, and it’s the final straw to pull him into his oncoming bliss right along with you.

“Little slut,” he pants, his hips faltering as he feels himself reaching the precipice. “Mine. My little slut. My fuckin’ cunt. H-Hear me? Mine.” he practically growls as he shoots load after load into your unprotected womb. “Ah— fuck. Fuuuuuck—” he finishes, fucking his viscous seed back into you.

He pulls out immediately after, admiring the way his sperm drips and squelches out of your spent cunt. You’re clenching around nothing, poor thing. You must miss him.

But you don’t have to worry. You won’t have to miss him for long. You’re not done, after all. He just needs some time to recharge. He wasn’t just going to fuck you once and be done with you. Not a perfect little pussy like that, no. Those drugs will be in your system for a few hours.

He’s far from done with you yet.

#oliver aiku x reader #oliver aiku smut #oliver aiku x you #aiku x reader #aiku smut #aiku oliver x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock smut #bllk smut #tw noncon #tw somno #tw drugging #tw biting #tw marking #tw spit #tw alcohol

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terra-sketches · 2 months ago

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EXTREMELY LONG CHARACTER ANALYSIS OF GEN NARUMI (ft. his one-sided beef with Kafka Hibino)

(Spoilers for the Kaiju no. 8 manga!!)

Maybe I'm just missing smth but i can't for the LIFE of me gauge Narumi's feelings about Kafka.

Before Isao's absorption, Gen is irritated at the suggestion that the First Division needs help from a daikaiju. He insists that he can handle No. 9 on his own and would rather have Kafka turned into a suit. Harsh. He straight up just sees Kafka as another kaiju and doesn't give a single fuck about Kafka's personal reasons for joining the force.

After Isao gets absorbed, Gen backtracks and is like "never-mind, actually I could use your strength now that I know what we're up against" and that's nice and all but then he's also like "I don't care if you turn into a kaiju, I'll just kill you". So you know, two steps forward, three steps back. He still doesn't want to humanize Kafka and that's??? bizarre to me?? Like Kafka has NEVER wronged Gen or done anything to offend him and yet Gen refuses to acknowledge his humanity more than a simple "We really shouldn't let a solider keep fighting to their detriment.... but I'm gonna ask you to stay anyway"

Gen isn't a heartless asshole, we SEE how chill/informal he can be with Kikoru and the rest of the First Division at times, so wtf is his weirdness with Kafka about? His feelings are a little TOO cold when they realistically should be more on the neutral side (like how Isao felt, a very "nothing personal" vibe).

Then Kafka asks Gen to help with private training and Gen's expression is so unreadable??? Is he mad? Does he care? Wtf is going on? Why is he always glaring at Kafka? Is that just his "serious captain" face? Why'd he activate his kaiju eyes? GEN WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? DO YOU SEE KAFKA AS AN ALLY OR A FOE? AND WHY?

UPDATE: ok so I’ve thought about it while this sat in my drafts and I can answer my own musings.

I take back what I said about Kafka never upsetting Gen.

Yes he did lol, he TOTALLY did.

And Gen won’t get over it anytime soon but he’s making an effort post-Isao's death. To sum it up, they got off on the wrong foot and Gen is still huffy about it.

Gen’s first impression of Kafka amounts to “Dangerous Daikaiju! Almost killed Mr. Isao >:(“ and that negative sentiment bleeds into every future interaction with Kafka. That’s why he’s unusually hostile and apathetic toward Kafka.

I mean, put yourself in Gen’s shoes.

A 9.8 fortitude (highest fortitude recorded in history) daikaiju is discovered to have been living among the humans (huge red flag) at the third division and your mentor (whom you care about a whole lot) wants to poke at it to test its humanity. You would rather just neutralize the threat while it seems docile but noooooooo, everyone wants to see what it can do. So you’re on standby to watch it plead for it’s life to your mentor. First it's a little pathetic, pretty human actully, but then it goes fucking bonkers on your mentor. You’re waiting for the signal to jump in. But Isao won't give the signal even as he's getting his shit rocked. And you’re like, ‘holy shit am I about the watch this man die!? I gotta get tf out there!” Then No. 8 stabs itself in a freak display of "self-control"??? And finally you arrive ready to kill it but Isao tells you not to?? Like “ok, you’re the boss” but now what?? What are they even gonna do with this unpredictable freak?

Next thing you know, Isao wants you to WORK ALONGSIDE the thing that almost killed him? And you’re like “no wtf, I don’t need its help” bc hello?? You don't trust this unstable thing (and you're kinda prideful). However, Isao insists and you respect Isao enough to reluctantly go along with it. You make sure No. 8 knows its place though! If it makes one wrong move then it’s DEAD MEAT!! No. 8 tries to gives some sob story but you don’t care. It proved how dangerous it can be to humans and that makes it just like any other kaiju. It's past as a human doesn't matter anymore.

End scene---

I understand Gen now omg?? He’s just being cautious, protective even. He doesn’t want someone else to fight No. 8 and get themselves killed (also killing one of the strongest recorded daikiaju in history would be a massive ego boost). That’s why he makes it crystal clear that he’ll kill Kafka if anything happens and that's also why Kafka knows to go to Gen to train his kaiju form.

Gen really will just fucking kill him if things go wrong. And Kafka’s okay with that because he gets that he's a threat. (ouch)

Kikoru doesn’t share Gen feelings and that’s only because Kikoru knew Kafka before the Isao vs. No. 8 fight. Kafka saved her twice so she knows he’s a good man. (Even though he beat the shit out of her father LMAO)

#Or I could be reading too much into it and Gen's just an ass to Kafka but I like to imagine he's a three dimmensional guy #gen narumi #narumi gen #kafka hibino #terra talks #This is what happens when I think about fictional characters too long

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tenok · 9 months ago

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Still fuming about «Crowley’s so queer it makes Aziraphale looks straight» take. I saw some people saying «queer is not a political identity» as an argument against it... and actually I disagree. Queer is an identity that’s as much about politics and community as is about gender and orientation. «Queer as in fuck you» indeed! And while I’m pretty sure that if you’ll ask Aziraphale he will say that he’s queer because mentally he still in times where it was term preferred by community as whole (or he’ll say that «gay» is his gender because he still links gender and orientation together and it’s a habit thats hard to break), I’ll argue that he’s definitely queer by definition. And I won’t say that one of them more or less queer, I want to vomit just from thinking this, but he and Crowley definitely different flavors of queer; and the point is community.

See, the Crowley we see is not the very community-oriented being. He despises angels and demons alike, he’s not close with humans, through whole series we saw him connected with Aziraphale, maybe Warlock, Shadwell to some point and only as a subordinate he’s not really interested in (Aziraphale actually remembered all the names of soldiers Shadwell pulled from his ass, on the other hand [book, also in script if I remember correctly]). But for Aziraphale community is the whole deal. He links himself to communities: community of book collectors, for example ([in book at least]), community of angels (even in season two he regretfully said that he misses reporting back to his lot), as soon as he put his roots there he become part of British and specifically London community (immediately clocked as British by everyone, for better or for worse). And he’s clearly consider himself and considered by others as part of queer community. For example:

He’s clocked as specifically effeminate gay man (which is part of queer umbrella oh my god stop misuse of political slogans gay are not some kind of others that are lesser for being gay!!!) by everyone, to the point of getting called homophobic slurs (twice in book, once in series) and being targeted by literal Nazis. He’s not arguing or denying, he reclaims it: he’s not calling himself gay, he’s proudly declaring that he’s THE southern pansy (not very «hurray establishment» of him hmmm?). He looks so gay and safe that cemetery man from season 2 doesn’t see a problem in telling him he uses grindr!

Tied to this: he can present as anyone else, he chooses to look soft, gay, effeminate, he chooses to make silly sounds and flamboyant gestures, and as soon as he gets comfortable he likes to go a little campy (can you imagine Crowley in ribbons and frills? do we see male-presenting Crowley in pink silky shoes? would he fight to the death before you put him into pencil-drawen moustache and bright cape with shiny starts? yes he’s GNC! there’s more then one way to be GNC and one is not better then other because it’s in black and sexy!). I’ll argue that him choosing one comfortable presentation and stick to this is no less groundbreaking by heavens standards then «hoarding all the genders» since he’s not treats his corporation as «meat suite», he really had an identity tied to it!

And using this identity he becomes part of 100 guineas club. Part of gay/queer (it was in times where this distinction was meaningless) community with fellow queers, where he learned queer ways, such as dances, becoming part of queer culture as a whole (and should I remind you that back in days drag was mandatory part of such clubs? if we measuring queerness by how close it to cross-dressing apparently). He also collects literature by queer authors, immersing himself in this culture, again. Do I remember correctly that Oscar Wilde gifted him one of his books specifically? So we can safely assume he hangs with queer authors as well? Correct me if it’s not in canon (I’m freely mixing tv and book canon there btw although usually I treat them as two different things)

He also lives in Soho. He specifically chooses to live there, knowing perfectly well what a neighborhood it is (even back in 1600s it already had a Reputation). He knows what it says about him and he aims for it! (Crowley lives in Mayfair because it says something about him too — remember that while Aziraphale constructed himself around being soft and gay, Crowley intentionally made himself look as irrating rich asshole. If this asshole has vibes of sinister gay that would gladly corrupt you if you ask nicely, that’s another story) He is a part of this community! As a word of god, he: speaks Polari freely because he used it… with other queers (as oppose to Crowley that knows «bits» because he hangs out with criminals); he hide incriminating things from fellow Soho residents back when there were police raids (breaking law to help those in need is reacurring theme with him!). He still part of this community, he knows people, people knows him, he literally gives place to lesbian women for free so she can have her dream shop (supporting your local queer business!) (also great call back to Edingurg minisode! Aziraphale, personal saint of broke lesbians!)

I’ll also argue that letting in first Gabriel and next Muriel was a very queer of him. Queers help other queers: he may not like Gabriel, but «he has no other friends» (and he's homeless after being kicked out from heavens after disaster forbidden love affair with other queer being, hmmm? paralleles with reality of being queer much?), so he steps in. And Muriel, while being the same age as those two (we're NOT child-coding Muriel in this house), vibes as queer youth in needs of guidance, and Aziraphale, that had every right to be suspicious and cold to them, immediately lets them into safety of his shop and tries to be nice and supporting in both older queer and older ND cousin way.

So, in conclusion: Aziraphale is a queer being, that likes to make it clear that he’s queer and queer GNC man specifically; he’s part of queer community for at least couple hundred of years, participant in queer culture, and he watches out for other queers, helping his own as much as he can, using his money and other resources and breaking law to do so when needed. What there can make him look straight even as a joke?

Crowley is absolutely a queer being too, in very queer love with other queer being, and I'm sure he has a blast pocking into rules and boundaries of genders, orientations and all kinds of relationships since he loves questioning and testing so much. He also has a cool rebellious aesthetic and «fuck all» attitude, so it’s understandable that he becomes tumblrs queer icon (and being played by David Tennant helps for sure). But if you ask them both where’s local shelter for homeless queers located, one of them will have an answer and it won’t be a Crowley, or he wouldn’t sleep in his car (I'm joking), and this is as much of the part of being queer as having cool aesthetic or being kicked from home (I'm joking again). And it's a shame that some people want to make a competention out of it, because it gives us infinity possibilities to discuss their different experiences and choices, down to what their respective aesthetic choices says about them, and how they can use their strong sides to support each other! But alas.

#good omens #aziraphale defense squad #bad takes that won't let me sleep at night #makes Aziraphale look straight my ass #that's a nice post! bitchy one will stay in my head!#btw I wouldn't spend my time at it if person that wrote that take made a honest mistake trying to joke but apparently it's not their first #bad take so while I don't want to pick a fight I want to at least rant

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hope-to-hell · 7 months ago

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The Quiet Game. Hector Munday x Reader. Noncon, coercion, exhibition kink, naked top clothed bottom, all around poor life choices (but this is smut so we do what we want). Mr. Munday is the strong, silent type. He is inventively cruel and yet. And yet he has needs like any man, even if his methods of satisfying them are more than unorthodox. And now that he has you, well, you’d better keep quiet. Unless you want everyone to hear.

———

You’re in his web now, you unlucky little fly, and now you play his game. Shiver here in the chill of his director’s suite and know that every ripple of fear across your skin only fuels his hunger.

Hush, now. Don’t make a sound. Match him breath for breath and maybe you’ll get out of this alive. Be still. Let him bend you down and spread your legs apart; let him cut and tear until you’re bare to him, clothing in shreds and ass prickling gooseflesh in this cold room. All the truly important parts of the console are switched off; there’s just an unblinking red light in front of your nose.

Is that— yeah. Yeah, that’s a mic and it is hot and that’s the game: take it quietly or every moan and whimper’s gonna be broadcast throughout the house. Bite your tongue bloody— or don’t. He doesn’t care. And which would be worse: your companions thinking all your little sounds are from some cruel torture, or them knowing just how gone with need you are? How could you explain the war that rages between mind and body, between the chill of fear and the thick wet heat of anticipation?

Oh, you pathetic little thing. So weak, so lost. He doesn’t even need that knife to keep you here, although it’s sharp and firmly in his grip, shining silvery right where you can see it. Point being, it’s a threat but it’s nothing against solid warm flesh and the soft whisper of cambric and wool as he digs the fingers of his free hand into the meat of your ass. It’s a dull bruising ache, leaving its echoes deep in your flesh when he flexes his fingers to get a better grip. Yeah, you like that, enough to push back as best you can into the feeling. You want it, yeah? Bad enough to beg for it?

Tch.

Giving up so easily? He isn’t even in you yet but anticipation is a bitch. And wouldn’t you know it, but he feels it too: he shifts closer and oh, he is hard— all his bulk is just a solid wall to cage you here, as his cock burns hot like a brand even through his trousers. If he ever smiles at all, if there is anything within him beyond implacable grim fate, surely something of it must be present here, teased out by the interplay of wanting and taking. If you’re lucky— if you make it through this to emerge aching and sticky in the predawn gloom— you’ll see what he looks like when he slips enough to let his human side show, and won’t that be a treat. So are you gonna play the game, sweet thing?

Shame might be one side of the coin, but the other side is animal need. It’s instinct: the kind of bone-deep wanting that’s got you biting your lips bloody to stop yourself from gritting out just fucking give it to me already. And yeah, he’s gonna fuck you raw; how better to conquer you completely than to bury his seed as deep as he can get. There’s the scratch of wool over your ass when he opens his flies just far enough to take himself in hand. Can you picture it? The way he stands silent, dressed like a man out of time, palming his cock for just a moment before he lines himself up and pushes in deep? Is he thick? Long? Does he know the angle that’ll tear your last bit of resolve to shreds? Oh, honey. This isn’t his first time around.

Quiet that mind of yours. Don’t try to hold those thoughts; let them blow away like smoke until all that’s left is pure sensation. Were you an animal, your entire life would be like this: fleeing, fucking, living with no thought to a future so uncertain it might as well not exist, each successive moment belonging only to itself.

There, can you feel that? The brush of his cock against you, slipping through your slick: one thrust, two, and he’s home. There’s no mercy in the way he shoves himself in you to the root, crushing you down against buttons and dials, hard enough that if tomorrow comes it’ll find you brushing fingertips over a pattern of aches in the shape of the console. Sweetheart, can you feel it? He may be cold behind the mask but he still breathes, still shudders with the pleasure of conquest, still exhales a hot wet ah into your ear. And then he moves. He is greedy, selfish; he takes and takes and takes but he’s crushing you down against the console just so and listen. Listen. If you think he doesn’t know what that does to you— if you think he doesn’t mean to hold you here in such a way that the very motion of your body sends lightning through your veins— then you’re a fool.

I can’t. I can’t. Please. It’s too much; you can’t possibly keep quiet any longer, not with the way he curves over your back, smearing sweat and slick and wouldn’t that be a sight: his vest and trousers rumpled, shirttails half-freed, with your shining wet need stained all across his front. The image bites its way into your core and wouldn’t you know it but he’s just a little more urgent, a little more ferocious when he feels the ripple of your walls around him. I— I need—

What do you need? Release, certainly, but your mind is unwinding and all your thoughts spiral out into nothingness. The only thing left is pure sensation: heat, desperate breaths, the chorus of your nerves that screams too much, too much, let me— let me— make me come.

Please. It’s soft, nearly inaudible, breathed out with the wispy unh of a body with no more room for air. It’s not a plea to let you go, but to give you more, and for a moment he is caught off-guard. This wasn’t in the plan.

His hand over your mouth, covering at first and then adjusting. Fingers dragging down, past your lips to rest heavy on your tongue, his hand bridle and bit and gag at once. He tastes of leather and salt and a whisper of blood. The razor’s disappeared somewhere but it doesn’t matter; all your senses now belong to him. The game he’s playing is distant, unimportant; you are filled with him from end to end and with each stroke he digs thick fingers into your mouth, holding your jaw open wide. Like this he pulls you back hard onto his cock, leaving spit and bruises at the corners of your lips. This is mercy.

This is torture, and it is sweet.

You can’t fight what’s coming, so let it happen. Let that lightning work its way up from your toes to curl brightly in your center. Relinquish yourself unto him; he has your mind already and now he will possess the undoing of your flesh as well. Feel the delicate balance between pleasure and pain, and know that neither exists alone but is only a mirror of the other.

Collect yourself. Nevermind the discomfort of your jaw relaxing back into place, or the gooseflesh that prickles your skin when he no longer rests heavy at your back. Breathe for a moment. You did so very well. And now the door is open, leading out to the warrens between the walls. He stands straight-spined and still at the console, armored with mask and apron to conceal any evidence of sin, but now he cannot hide how his blood pulses hot beneath the surface.

And now you have a choice: you can run shaky-legged and stumbling back to your companions and retake your place as quarry in the hunt. You can dive for the razor that’s on the floor just out of reach, and hope that you’re faster than he is. Each is expected. Understandable. Or you can turn against all reason and look him in the eye. You can tell him the least you could do next time is get me a blanket, and mark the way he tilts his head with interest. The choice is yours.

#hector munday #hector munday x reader #hector munday x you #hector munday fic #hector munday smut #granthem du'met #granthem Du’Met x reader #granthem du’met x you #granthem du’met fic #granthem Du’Met smut #the devil in me #the devil in me fic #the devil in me smut

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krillissue · 9 months ago

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19 or 6 for merylwood

19. a kiss to shut them up - merylwood

these are the stampede versions, just good-old-fashioned pigtail pulling. for mwahrch! please send me more of these!!

Nicholas D. Wolfwood was a massive pain in the ass. She’d thought so from the very time they’d met. Meryl hadn’t meant to hit him with her car, of course. But he tried to blackmail her $20,000 to not sue. Absolutely ridiculous. But Vash had taken him in, immediately infatuated with the shady priest. Oh yeah, that was another thing that pissed her off about him. He claimed to be a priest but he drank and smoked, he flirted, generally lived a life full of sin and violence. What was his problem?

They were both at the bar, drowning their sorrows in cheap beer. Vash and Roberto were off playing a game of cards, of which Vash seemed to be losing. Probably on purpose, he was nice like that. But Wolfwood was getting on her nerves, arguing about pointless things just to get a rise out of her.

“C’mon, shorty, why won’t you try worm meat? It’s good for ya and you can’t be too picky out here on the road.”

“Shut up, already. I’m an adult, I can make my own choices.”

They had snipped at each other all day in the truck and now at the bar, several patrons steering clear of them both. It wasn’t getting heated, not really, until Wolfwood touched a nerve.

“I bet you’d eat it for Vash, huh? If he pats those pretty blue eyes at you, you’d melt for him?” Wolfwood smirked around his shot of whiskey like he’d won, way too proud of himself. Meryl saw red, wanting to knock him down.

“No, but I bet you would. You’re the only one weak to Vash’s charms.” How she felt about the legendary gunman wasn’t any of his concern, he should keep that big nose of his to himself. Wolfwood scoffed, that poker face of his shit with his big expressive eyes. He thought those shades of his hid them but she could read him like a book.

“Watch it, little lady.”

“Why? You started it, I’m just being honest.” Meryl crossed her arms, huffing. Wolfwood stood and started for the door without another word, clearly pouting. “What, running away already? Scared to admit it?” She pursued him, much to his irritation. But she was testy and frustrated, he’d been getting under her skin all day.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” He growled out, that gruff voice of his all gravely from his cigarettes. She wished he wouldn’t smoke so much but there was nothing to do about it. He was too stubborn. But so was she. Meryl followed him outside and down the street, the night dark and chilly.

“What is there to know? You--” She never got to finish her sentence, Wolfwood yanked her to his chest faster than she could register what happened.

“Watch where you’re going!” Wolfwood was yelling at the motorist who would have hit her had he not grabbed her out of the way. Meryl’s face was pressed to his chest, that little triangle of his open shirt showing just a hint of chest hair. She blushed, his arm firm and strong around her, his large palm dwarfing her shoulder. “Are you okay, little lady?”

“Y-yeah, I am. Thanks,” Meryl mumbled, not even correcting him for not using her name. She looked up at him with wide eyes and he let her go, suddenly bashful.

“Good, you need to watch where you’re going. You’re gonna get killed.” They went back to arguing, just like that. But Meryl had enough. She grabbed his suit jacket and pulled him down, kissing him silent. She expected Wolfwood to get all shy about it but he returned her kiss with more heat than she expected, backing her up against the wall.

At least he finally shut up. Wolfwood might drive her crazy but maybe she could forgive it for this.

#trigun stampede #trigun fanfiction #meryl stryfe #nicholas d wolfwood #merylwood #stryfewood #mwahrch #writing prompts #mouse writes #ask krill

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kingofkingsschizo · 9 months ago

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If you are a schizo like me and need to work to make ends meat pick your job wisely. As a schizo that worked I noticed I couldn’t work full time. While I went to college I worked maybe 3 days out the week on the weekends. I had to learn to structure my life with my symptoms. I had sleep issues and because of the antipsychotics I had fluctuations in the time I could fall asleep or I would wake up real late afternoon. I worked at night because these were the hour I had peak energy. I also found out I couldn’t work high pressure jobs like being a line cook. While I worked I did have episodes on the job and I couldn’t be consistent even though I was a hard worker. I found out something, clerical jobs suited me better for some reason. As I got older I had earned enough credits through social security from working that increase my social security benefits and it was best for me to live within my mean off the fix income then all the stressors that I encountered working. One thing I forgot to mention was that I had extreme social anxiety but being in a small town that was highly vested in the tourism industry, service jobs like food and beverage restaurants and hotels were the only options to work. I forced myself every time I entered the employee entrance to swallow my anxious feelings and proceed with the responsibility and duties assigned to me. In retrospect I think it might have conditioned my tolerance level to function with anxiety. I now do things like music and art these things bring me happiness and it’s true if you find something you love doing you won’t have to work a day in your life. Good luck schizos, I say go for it and work and go to higher education because you want to not just because this what others suggest or expect you to do. Protect your sanity and peace always.

Wally aka DEFIANT

#kingofkingsschizo #working while disabled #life experiences #good luck #go for it #mental health #schizophrenia #actually schizophrenic

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castillon02 · 1 year ago

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Fried Pie at the Flying J

Angela put her phone down and looked alive behind the counter. The suits who had just come in were different than her usual run of weathered old Texans, although they had the familiar road-stunned look of long driving in the past and long driving ahead, same as most people who came into the Flying J. People liked to stop here in this place so deep on the highway. The gas was reasonable and the food was good. If you had time to stop and eat, the attached Denny’s had the cleanest bathrooms for fifty miles, but she figured that wasn’t what these guys were after.

Sunglasses Suit---he hadn’t bothered to take off his designer shades when he came in---made a beeline for the door that wasn’t to the Denny’s, and he put his hand on the other suit’s arm when the man made to follow him. “Hang on. You won’t want to go in there.”

“Hmm? Why?” Ooh, a British accent!

Sunglasses Suit jerked his head at the sign on the door: The Original Fried Pie Shop.

“Oh.” British Suit made a face. Rude. Don’t knock ’em till you try ’em, bud. Especially if you’re from England. Even Angela had seen enough TV to know about bangers and mash. (Her opinion? Needs more barbecue sauce.)

“They’re basically empanadas,” Sunglasses Suit said, sounding defensive.

“I dare you to tell Camille that,” British Suit replied, arching his eyebrows. The hint of playfulness lightened his old boot of a face, made him look suddenly handsome.

“No deal,” Sunglasses said, maybe ruefully. “Anyway, Mama liked them, so---” He swallowed. The past tense hung heavy in the air. Poor fella. He had a black shirt on beneath his black suit jacket, and now that looked more like funeral-wear than Johnny-Cash-wannabe.

British Suit briefly put his hand on Sunglasses’s shoulder.

Sunglasses cleared his throat. “Anyway, just stay out here and find something that will suit your picky palate.” He went in to buy some pies---which, yeah, were basically empanadas, but with fruit in them. Or meat. Or cheese and pizza sauce. The Original Fried Pie Shop didn’t discriminate when it came to fillings.

British Suit perused the aisles---something military in his walk, hard to peg what. He ignored the candy and the Hostess stuff, stopped in front of the nuts and jerky, and stared with what might have been horror at the hot food station.

Angela pursed her lips. Sure, their jumbo breakfast burritos weren’t exactly gourmet, but she had made them fresh only two hours ago! And there was always the breakfast croissant if the guy missed Europe so bad. Jeez, wait until he got a load of what they had at the Exxon. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked with her most professional cheerfulness.

British Suit turned and approached her. “Angela,” he said, his eyes glancing off her name tag, “I’m afraid I don’t know what a ‘tater tot’ is and why it should be in a burrito.”

Angela eyed him. Bless his heart. Was he serious? “Fried grated potatoes. They add crunch,” she said, and added with sweet vengeance, “Would you like a free sample?” She wanted to see his judgy British face when he found out they were good.

Sunglasses Suit chose that moment to exit with his bag of pies. “Come on, Bond,” he said. “I got you beef and vegetable. Don’t pretend you don’t eat beef pies in the motherland.”

British Suit, Bond, smirked at her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get that sample,” he said, flashing his eyes up and down at her.

Jesus Christ. Had he somehow turned a tater tot into an innuendo? And was she really thinking that it was a shame she’d missed out?

Bond turned away from her. “Got what you needed, Felix?”

Sunglasses Suit, Felix, nodded. “Yeah. It’ll be good to---you know, the family will appreciate it,” he said. “Anyway---come on. Burnin’ daylight,” he added, his accent heavier than it had been. More familiar than it had been.

A small-town boy, Angela realized, who’d grown up and left for the big wide world like so many kids around here did. Had his mama driven him to DFW to send him off to college, and they’d stopped for pies on the way? How often had he come home after that, in between traveling the world and making friends with British folk?

Well, Felix was here now, and he’d remembered the pie. There was probably a good son under that suit, buried deep, in the same place he kept the accent. She worked in a gas station in the middle of nowhere---she saw every day that some things buried deep were worth coming back to, even if it was an effort to get there.

Less of an effort when you had company, at least. She was glad this Felix had someone with him---even if it was that weird Bond guy.

#castillon writes #007 fest 2023 #team00 #felix leiter #OC Day #scavenger hunt: local landmark #cw: mention of funeral

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yuzukahibiscus · 2 years ago

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ZUKA LIVE (MINAMI MAITO)

(Hey this is Hibiscus! This is a scheduled post but happy Shonichi for Minami Maito’s dinner show “ONE AND ONLY”! I’ve pre-translated this 2-page feature from Takarazuka GRAPH March Issue in 2021. Hope all is well for Maiti and other performers today!)

— Stars respond to readers’ questions and requests!

Q: Please tell us your routine before you go on stage! Usually when I want to focus, I’d eat my favourite lamb congee! (~From Summer is Lamb Congee)

A: I see~ What would I be doing…2 hours before the performance I’d have entered the dressing room, done some warm up and my makeup…it’s usually set with this rundown, but depending on my conditions and feelings on that day, the specific routine would change. If there was a way that would make my performance better, I won’t however decide it on that “this was it!”

Q: If you were an athlete competing in the Tokyo Olympics, what sports event would you join? (~From Maiti’s Eyelashes)

A: You’re my eyelash!? (LOL) Then I’d hope you’d be a longer and thicker eyelash type (LOL) What event would I do…if it’s gymanstics, maybe something closer back to the gymnastics that I’d do. I want people to be surprised [with the event that I participated] that it suits me, and finds it amazing I can achieve that kind of balance! I’d like to do those that involve the “mattress”, but my back is hard so I think if I were to do a back flip, I’d probably break my bones (LOL).

Q: I can always receive Minami-san’s cheerful energy. So my question is, have you eaten something that would make you feel good? Also is there something you’d see as a treat to yourself? I want to know what keeps Minami-san so hyped up. I will keep on supporting the cool and wonderful Maiti♡ (~ From Hikaru Mama 🐣)

A: Thank you! Hm, I just realised this but I don’t think I’d get hyped up from eating…But in rest days and before the long holidays, when I’m having grilled meat, Korean dish, pasta and could eat food with garlic without worrying about it, the feeling of “Oh, I’m taking a rest” really becomes so real to me and that would be a treat [for myself].

Q: Was there the funniest thing that happened recently? (~From Aachan)

A: During the Special Live “Aqua Bella!!”, I sang a song in “Senhor CRUZEIRO!”. During “Senhor” when I sang this song, I’d go down to the audience so there was no choreography for this song, this time I thought since it’s just myself so I was teaching everyone around me how to do the Samba step. When I tried dancing and singing this out during my self-rehearsals, I added unnecessarily excessive vibrato to my singing (LOL) and everyone was erupting in laughter.

Q: Could you do a pair of sexy pose and cute pose that fans would feel happy about, please? I’d like to see the gap! (~From Norino)

A: How should I do the cute pose…Tadaa~

Q: Do you have a quote or motto in your heart that you would encourage yourself to cheer up when you faced some setbacks? (~From Yuri)

A: This is really difficult because I have plentiful quotes (in mind). Rather than a motto, I’d say that I have to believe myself even more in this time. If I thought “I can’t do this”, then I really wouldn’t be able to do it, and I’d be overwhelmed by that absence of confidence. Frustrations are the next thing to conquer, but honestly if you’re feeling down for a long time, you really can’t finish one good thing out of it, so the next thing should be trusting in yourself, and thinking of how to make things work in the time to come.

Q: In the Senshuuraku (last day) performance of “Haikara-san ga Tooru” you said to Tamaki, “You’re in love with me, right” did you think over that line when you said it? Also, did you think of saying this line before Senshuuraku? (~From Girl S who couldn’t forget that line)

A: After the marriage scene where (Shoui saves Benio from the fire), the order of the cast members saying the lines are all ad-libs. We really didn’t think about it beforehand but I was thinking if there was anything I could say during the Senshuuraku, so I asked Kurisu (Oto) who played Tamaki if she thought of anything, but she didn’t and we were quickly entering into Act II (LOL). I wanted to allow the audience to enjoy the two’s relationship, how Tamaki is somehow trying to pursue (Onijima) but not in a “clingy” kind of way…I kept thinking about it, and then it clicked my mind when it was my turn to go out!

Q: I’d like to know about your awareness when dancing with the musumeyaku, or the enjoyment you felt when dancing in pairs! (~ From Erina)

A: It’s really~ fun because when I dance in pairs (with my partner), I’m dancing while feeling their gaze and also their breathing and the nuance of the dance itself! And beyond anything else, musumeyaku-san are cute! We’d constantly have the awareness to dance well in order to let our partners look well, so when if it’s about the timing to lead the dance, I’d think about how to lead my partner well and practice many times with them, so when I can fully demonstrate it, the dance won’t feel too heavy and it feels great!

Q: In the Takarazuka 1st photobook, Seo [Yuria]-san praised you saying, “Before the summer she was still skinny, then after the summer she became a Muscle Man”. It’s around 1 month for the summer…? How did you gain muscles in this short time? I know this is done by accumulative effort, but could you please tell us? I’m looking forward to know! (~From Dry Eye)

A: I’m sooooooo embarrassed [about that comment], but I’m probably just chubby (LOL). In those strict Yokasei days, in order not to fall asleep I thought “I must eat”. Anyway, the outcome of all those calorie intake [from eating] is having firm muscles in May already that are “buff! buff! buff! buff!” and thus coming to the condition where I was having muscles all over my body. Seo was probably busy that she didn’t realise it before, so when she has free time and finally realised it, she said that [in my photobook] (LOL).

#minami maito #flower troupe #senka #takarazuka #takarazuka revue #hibiscustranslation

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missmastectomy · 6 months ago

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Hey again lol it's the anon who asked you the misogyny question. Thank you for answering, btw. Your explanation makes sense. I guess I always thought misogyny had to be overt but when you explained it, it makes sense that it would be soft as you described.

I did feel pressure in the male-spaces considering I'm a girl, that's what I meant by "stand out". It was more about "are they gonna let me hang out with them? Will they treat me like their guy friends?" I think a lot of misogyny was painted as a joke to me as well, and I was unaware of how disproportionately bad women were really treated which is why it didn't bother me as much, but there were times where it didn't feel like a joke and I asked myself why they hated women. I'm also a racialized female, there's an extra layer of feeling unwanted by everyone.

I also had a bit of body dysmorphia. I had severe social anxiety and worried about people judging me, and I could never wear a swimsuit without a shirt over. It's when I started wanting privacy a lot more. That's probably one of the hard parts about puberty because I felt it drew attention to me, especially since I was still young (around 10 or 11) Even if I did transition I would probably still hide it. Maybe it's just a personality thing, could be outsider factors too.

Totally. Soft bigotry is hard to detect sometimes because it gets covered up with “it’s just a joke.” A lot of the times people aren’t even malicious, they just have prejudices and they parrot them without thinking about it. Regardless, it still hurts people and can lead to feeling dehumanized, in this case when it’s misogyny.

A lot of women are in this boat. Misogyny is so normalized that even women don’t recognize it. Someone thinks you’d be less capable for a technical position compared to another man, despite no evidence he is more skilled? That’s misogyny. Men and boys refuse to have female friends or won’t engage with women unless they’re sexually interested? That’s misogyny.

Women constantly have to navigate this. What you said about wearing clothes over a bathing suit resonates a lot with me. I did the same to avoid being sexualized. The sad thing is it sometimes works. Like, if you cover up your body men often won’t leer as much at you vs if you wear something very slightly revealing, like a tank top. It’s because our bodies are inherently sexualized in a way that male bodies are not. In reality, most women have visible breasts/curves and it’s not fair to us that we should “hide” it hoping that men won’t treat us like meat. It’s a sad state of affairs, but I think the best way to start dealing with it is to understand yourself as a female mammal with a body. No moralizations need to be made about it. It is neutral in and of itself, and even if society won’t see it that way, women can take steps to understand ourselves as humans first, not as ornaments.

#detrans #gender critical #detransition #mail #radblr

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anjanettexcordonia · 2 years ago

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Chapter 5

Juliette

It fucking stinks in here. I don’t think anyone has stepped foot in here in two centuries. The stone walls are damn. There is straw on the floor. Like a barn. I am in a cage like an animal. It’s freezing in here and I am still in this godforsaken evening gown. What is happening? Have I been abducted? I press my back to the wall and slide down the wall, my head in my hands. I completely misread this situation. My parents will come. I just have to wait.

Ransley

She will stay in the dungeon all night. Maybe tomorrow she will see. Maybe she will behave. She will have no choice but to understand. I will make her. I will break her. But I need to feel her. She may be hungry.

“I’m not fucking hungry.” She pushes the plate of meats and cheeses back at me.

“Eat.”

“No, I don’t care who you are, Prince, let me the fuck out of here.”

My anger starts to rise at the tone of her voice. No one speaks to me like that.

“Then don’t eat, I don't care.” I lock the cell door and leave the food just out of reach outside of her door. She can stare at it all night since she wants to be ungrateful to her future fucking king. I slam the dungeon door and march to my greenhouse.

“Everything okay,sir?” Bernie comes into view as I turn the corner.

“She won’t eat. She wants to starve apparently.” I roll my eyes. She really pisses me off. But I can’t seem to stay away.

“Maybe be nice to her, wine and dine her, ya know, instead of holding her hostage.” Bernie says around his cigar hanging from the corner of his deeply wrinkled mouth.”You're a good man, sir, show her that side. Don’t take by force or set expectations she can’t meet. She doesn’t know you.”

I huff. “Invite her to dinner tomorrow. Take her to a room. Preferably mine.” I beeline to my greenhouse without another word.

After my nightly ritual among the roses, I head to my quarters of this ancient castle. It’s going to get some major updates, or I am going to have to change the primary residence of the monarch to somewhere less dreary. I swear this place is haunted. My quarters I updated as soon as possible while I was away so when I came home, I wouldn’t have to suffer without modern luxuries such as heated floors and better insulation.

“Hi.” My head snaps up to the honey blonde that was once locked in my dungeon and is now sitting on my bed. Wearing my shirt and..

“I hope this is okay. Bernie told me to pick a room, and well.. This is weird.. Maybe I should..” she stands up.

“Tell me.” I step towards her.

“This castle. It’s creepy. Your room was the least creepy.”

I unbutton my shirt and toss it on the floor. Her eyes lock with mine. It’s a battle of wills. Who will look away first? The tension between us is unlike anything I have ever felt. It's a biological pull towards her like she belongs to me, a part of me. I unbuckle my belt and pull it from the loops and let it drop. Never losing eye contact, I unbutton my pants and let them pool around my uncles. We stare each other down. I walk to the en suite and turn the shower on. She follows my every step with her eyes, she looks like she's barely breathing.

Tags: @txemrn @tessa-liam @kingliam2019 @twinkleallnight @kristinamae093

#fanfiction #theroyalromance #trr #choices #fanfic #ff #alternateuniverse

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aarcanegrimm · 1 year ago

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9. The Dragon Valkyrie

Masterlist

Ella's getting to Yami, she just knows it... but she hadn't expected such a wonderful surprise from her new family... but why does she feel strange when she meets the masked man?

Warnings: swearing, tears, absolute FLUFF

Noelle could admit that as Ella brown hair suited her… as Noelle it was such a strange change, one Lyra was more than happy to help with after a couple of days asking. Nothing overbearing but she wanted to know what dye felt like, what colour would suit her- things like that. She’s gone with a pretty golden brown, something light and easy to get used to for now- maybe in the future she would choose a darker shade… just as long as it hid her silver-white hair.

No one seemed to question her further about the change, which she was extremely grateful for during the last month of her living with the Black Bulls. She wanted to leave as much of her life as Noelle Silva behind as possible… at least for now. With this different hair colour it now decreased any risk of a Silver Eagle even thinking it’s her at all and on the smallest chance she ever ran into a family member (or even Cordelia) there would be no way to recognise her.

Right?

Of course luck was not on Ella’s side as Yami grabbed the girl by the scruff and dragged her outside the base. All she wanted to do was train! Hel she may not actually know what day it was but still!

“Yami let me go!” Ella groaned, not even fighting the giant man.

“I need you to get shit for me at the Capital while I’m in a meeting.” Yami grunted.

“Can’t you get Morgan or Lyra too- or even Vanessa she’s new make her do it.” The woman having joined about two weeks after Noelle had (not that she counted yet apparently) and as the water mage had expected was a wreck- having met her mother she honestly understands why.

“Morgan and Lyra are on a date, Nacht is busy and Vanessa has a hangover.” Yami countered as he hoisted the girl onto his broom with him balancing precariously behind her, feet planted against the magical object. Her small hands grasped the broom tight as she made herself comfortable. “Don’t go expecting free rides all the time kid, this is just because you can’t fly yet.”

And then they were off and Ella couldn’t help but feel utter wonder as she stared at the world below with one stray thought passing- Was Vanessa even allowed to drink alcohol yet?

~~*~~*~~*~~

“Be back here in an hour you got it kid.” Yami instructed as they landed before the Wizard King’s base of operations. “Here’s the list, it shouldn’t take you long to find everything so if you have the time wander around, get some lunch or whatever. Here Lyra’s given you some Yul for the trip.”

“Sir yes sir.” Ella offered the magic knights salute, her nose scrunching and tongue poking out at the man. He gave her a warning look as she took the Yul from Yami. “See you in an hour.”

“Don’t get lost.”

“I won’t.” She called, rushing down the steps and passed the knights at the gate- she barely registered an awfully familiar voice greeting Yami with distain as she vanished into the streets. She wouldn’t look, wouldn’t turn to see him… she couldn’t. Ella shook her head of any thoughts, any memories, sucked in a deep breath as an image of her oldest brother’s face as she was dying echoed through her mind.

She wasn’t Noelle anymore… at least for now.

She needed a kilogram of Ash bark, ten sprigs of Rosemary, some varying meats- chicken and beef had been written in a different scrawl which she can only assume was Yami instead of Lyra’s neat writing- a pound of white salt, bags of flour and sugar and whatever other cheap herbs and charm ingredients Ella could find. Lyra was handy with her charms, using twine and sprigs to make anything from a lucky charm to warding off attachments- not that the young girl knew what she meant by that and she hadn’t wanted to ask Nacht who’d only looked pained that it had to be done at all and Morgan had only snickered at his twin… so whatever it meant was probably not something she needed to ask about.

The now brunette sighed as she wandered the market, her hand trailing to the dagger pinned to her hip while the other grasped the basket she now held. Her pezzottaite eyes eyed the dark alleyway at the end of the market, the entrance to the Black Markets… a place she has no business being in nor wanted to be in- especially so young now. With a huff she made her way towards the butcher, having just enough Yul left for the portions written on the note and a nice snack on her way back to Yami.

“Hello Lil miss what can I get ya.” The older man greeted, he reminded her of Mr Cook with his broad smile and crooked grin.

“Hello Mr Butcher.” She greeted in kind. “Can I please get these portions here of beef and chicken. Thank you.”

The old man laughed as he took the note she handed him. He squinted, reading the order before he looked down at the girl.

“That’ll be about fifty Yul.” She beamed, passing him the shiny gold coins. “All good, wait five minutes while I chop up the goods.”

“Alright sir.” She nodded, stepping to the side in case any other customers came by.

Five minutes later and her basket was full, now all she needed was her snack and to make her way back to the Wizard King’s base. She spotted a bakery and made a run for it, skilfully dodging everyone as she did- she didn’t want to be in a long line just for a chocolate pastry.

“Hiya kiddo what can I get you.” A woman greeted as Ella panted before the stand.

“Just a chocolate pastry please. I have about twenty Yul here.”

“The pastry is only ten, keep the change… busy with errands I see.” She smiled down at Ella.

“Yeah, my… guardian had a meeting so he brought me here to get some stuff.” Ella replied, exchanging her Yul for her delicious pastry.

“Ah.” The woman nodded. “Well kiddo if you ever find yourself running errands here again you’re welcome to hang here for a while. Name’s Selene.”

“I’m Ella, nice to meet you Selene… oh sorry I have to go now. His meetings almost over.”

“All good, stay safe Ella!” The honey blonde woman laughed as she waved the girl off.

Apparently Ella had been closer to the base than she’d thought with fifteen minutes remaining in Yami’s meeting. She found a seat beside Yami’s broom as she nibbled on her pastry- it was delicious. She really should have taken her time, being so close to Nozel and the Wizard King was making her mind tick and she didn’t like that… and so she people watched- with Alder now sitting on her shoulder.

“Hey kid!” Ella jumped turning towards the voice of her Captain (whether he liked it or not). “Didn’t get lost?”

“Nope. Got everything Yami.”

“Good. Wait a few more minutes and then we’ll go. Gotta talk to Goldie Guts first.”

Ella can only hope that Nozel didn’t appear, she didn’t want to see him, wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of them… Plus what kind of shitty luck could a near ten-year-old have for him to even show? Alder vanished as she moved closer to Yami.

She saw the masked Captain step out of the shadows and a chill ran down her spine… something about him was off. She took a deep sidestep behind Yami, only peaking around him to see what he wanted… she could see Nozel further back- gods she hopes he didn’t notice her. Vangeance looked down at the mess of brown hair behind his friend.

“Hello there.” The Captain greeted with a laugh. “Who’s this Yami? A bit young to be a knight hah.”

“Eh? Ella’s just some brat who wouldn’t leave me alone… lives at the base with us now though.”

“Yeah but you care- we know you do.” She poked her tongue at the man, ignoring the way her fist tightened against his Grimoire’s holder.

“Ella, nice to meet you then. I’m William.” The masked man smiled, it was warm and kind but… she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was off. Her eyes darted towards the Silver Eagle Captain who’d been ignoring them for the most part… until his eyes met hers.

Nope.

She tugged against Yami’s pant leg, she couldn’t control the gut wrenching feeling she had as he looked at her. Her heart hammered in her chest, she felt like she was going to throw up, even at the slight chance he could tell who she was… what would he do to her? What would any of the Silva’s do? Would they beat her senseless? Scream and cry over her reckless plan to run away…

“What’s wrong with you?” Yami grunted ruffling her short hair. She only turned around and reached for the basket of items she had brought, ignoring the question. “Kid’s probably tired and grumpy now.”

“It is midday so I don’t blame her.” William laughed. “This wasn’t going to take long anyway- just wanted to see if your squad was up for a joint mission?”

“Ah? Yeah Lyra and Morgan would probably be happy to do it. They can drag Vanessa along too. Why?” Yami questioned- though keeping an eye on his young ward (not that he would call her that aloud).

“Lord Julius wants to send some of my knights to a dungeon but my only available people are new and have very little experience.” William stated. “We may be rivals my friend but well we are… friends. Thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

“I’ll talk to them and let you know. Send them the mission details when I do.” William nodded before offering his goodbyes to the Black Bulls Captain and ward.

Noelle… Ella wanted to leave, before Nozel got closer, before he spotted her. It seemed Yami was just as eager to leave as he hoisted them both onto his broom, the basket looped over the broomstick so that it wouldn’t fall.

“You okay kid?” Yami asked after a few minutes.

“Fine.” She replied. He grunted out a laugh.

“You aren’t going to get far in my squad if you lie to me ya know.” He said. Ella blinked owlishly and snapped her head back towards the Captain.

“So I’ll get to join? You’ll train me properly?”

“Who said I’d train ya!” He scoffed. “Lyra’d skin me if you didn’t join after all ya effort.”

“Morgan’d help ‘er.” Ella added with a grin… ah she’d picked up his inflections- how nice.

“Probably… don’t change the subject what’s wrong?”

Ella faced forwards again, eyes darting across the sky as the broom glided through the air. Her thoughts were swirling like a whirlwind… what could she even say? There was no way in Hel she’d tell him about Nozel… not yet at least… maybe one day. Though perhaps-

“I don’t like the masked man.” She shrugged. Ella could practically feel the way Yami’s mana shifted, and she couldn’t say Captain Vangeance because he didn’t introduce himself as such and it would be weird if she knew his name right? Though she did know Yami’s so perhaps that was redundant.

“Why? His mask scare ya? I’ve never seen him without it so I can’t tell you why he hides his face.”

“No… it was weird, like… my spine got really cold?” She didn’t know how to explain it, how off it felt just being around Captain Vangeance.

“That’s weird.” Was all Yami said, she just shrugged again.

~~*~~*~~*~~

The base was dark… really dark. Not a single light was on nor an open window in sight as Yami and Ella landed. The Captain said nothing as he grabbed the basket and Ella by the scruff of her shirt and pulled them in. It was just so dark… and weird and

POP! BANG!

The lights were back on.

“SURPRISE!”

Ella jumped, her head near reaching Yami’s shoulder as she let out a high-pitched squeak. Alder re-materialising mid-air, a small stream of hot water splashing against a nearby streamer.

“Surprise?” Ella questioned after a moment, the squad trying desperately to hold back their laughter from scaring the poor girl. “What’s this for?”

“Happy birthday kiddo.” Lyra snickered, hand musing against her golden-brown locks. “You’re ten now.”

“Oh.” Ella said, stunned that they even remembered. Her eyes welled up a little, she hadn’t expected this… hadn’t even remembered what day it was. “Thank you everyone.”

“Aww.” Vanessa cooed (Ella wouldn’t be surprised if she’d already had some wine). “We love you little dragon!”

“Love you all too.” She said, and she meant it with her whole heart.

“Come on into the living room- we have presents.” Morgan smiled, Nacht’s face echoing his twins as his shadows pushed the now ten-year-old mage forward.

It wasn’t much but she loved everything they bought her- and now she knows why Yami decided to take her to the city today she’s happy that he did. This meant so much to her, no one had ever done anything like this. Vanessa bought her a charm to tie to Gloaming- a little silver dragon with black ribbon that managed to resemble Alder (who was very happy with this). Nacht gave her some new cleaning equipment for her knives and sword while Lyra and Morgan both bought her some books- one was about Valkyries, another dragons and the last one was a fantasy story about a runaway princess… how ironic. Yami, however, he surprised her with a book as well… a book with sword techniques and fighting stances, but that wasn’t all.

“One last gift!” Lyra announced, pulling forward a small box that made a slight jingling noise. “We all pitched in for this and we hope you like them.”

Ella grasped the box, opening it carefully. Two plain silver bands sat on a velvet cushion.

“What are they?”

“Weights, they’ll help strengthen your wrists and arms for your sword fighting. They can be imbued with as much mana as you need to help with flow and movement.” Nacht was the one who answered and she could only smile wildly- ignoring the way Alder tried to lick at her tear-soaked-red-cheeks.

“Thank you… thank you so much.” Ella’s lip wobbled as she looked between each knight. This was her family, this was her home… and she loved them so, so much.

“Happy Birthday.” They all said again and Ella couldn’t stop herself from barrelling towards the dark-haired couple, hugging them tight- Vanessa reached over and ruffled her hair while Yami and Nacht watched silently (both fighting off a smile).

“Thank you.”

#black clover #black clover angst #black clover fluff #black clover oc #black clover crack #noelle silva #black clover noelle

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kingmabry · 1 year ago

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T.K.Sundaresa Iyer (1896-1965), a school teacher at Tiruvannamalai, acted as an interpreter for English-speaking visitors at the Ashram. He also helped the Ashram in regard to its correspondence on spiritual matters, under the Maharshi’s guidance. At the Feet of Bhagavan records his reminiscences.

'In 1908, when I was 12 years old, Bhagavan was in the Virupaksha Cave. My cousin, Krishnamurthy, used to go to Bhagavan every day and sing before him songs of devotion and worship. One day when I asked him about his daily visits, he told me, “The Lord of the Hill Himself sits there in human form. Why don’t you come with me?” I too climbed the hill and found Bhagavan sitting on a stone slab, with about ten devotees around him. Each one would sing a song. Bhagavan turned to me and asked, “Well, won’t you sing?” I agreed. The substance of my song was: “Oh Lord, grant that my tongue may repeat Thy Name even when my mind strays.” Bhagavan felt happy and said, “Yes, that is what must be done”, and I took it to be his teaching for me. From that time on I went to him regularly for several years, never missing a day.

One day I wondered why I was visiting him at all. What was the use? Going up the hill was a meaningless toil. I decided to end my visits. After three months when I could suffer no longer, I ran up the hill. When I fell at his feet, I could not restrain myself and burst out in tears. Bhagavan pulled me up and asked, “It is over three months since I saw you. Where were you?” I told him how I thought that seeing him was of no use. “All right,” he said, “maybe it is of no use, so what? You felt the loss, did you not?” Then I understood that I did not go to him for profit, but because away from him there was no life for me.

Whenever I went up the hill, I used to take some eatables as an offering. One day I had no money. I stood before Bhagavan in a dejected mood and said, “This poor man has brought nothing.” Bhagavan looked at me enquiringly and remarked, “Why, you have brought the main thing. All else is unimportant.” I wondered, not knowing what I brought. Bhagavan said laughingly, “Don’t you understand? You brought yourself.”

In those days, Bhagavan’s figure was like a statue of burnished gold. He simply sat and sat, and rarely spoke. He was an enchanting personality, who shed a captivating lustre on all, and a life-giving current flowed from him, charging all those nearby, while his sparkling eyes irrigated all those around him with the nectar of his Being.

The mantra ‘Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya’ had fascinated me greatly in my early days. After coming to Bhagavan, I thought when Ramana is himself Vasudeva, why should I worship Vasudeva separately? I found ‘Om Namo Bhagavate Sri Ramanaya’ had the same number of syllables. I told this to Bhagavan who gave his approval to the new mantra.

On an Amavasya, as I had to perform my late father’s ceremony, I refused to take breakfast at the Ashram along with others. Bhagavan said as my father was already in heaven, nothing more need be done for him and my taking breakfast would not hurt him in any way. Accustomed as I was to the age-old tradition, I hesitated to sit. Bhagavan got up, made me sit and eat some iddlies. From that time onwards, I gave up performing ceremonies for ancestors.

Once someone placed the Periapuranam in Bhagavan’s hands. He began reading out of it. Now Bhagavan was a past master at storytelling. His solo acting was ever the admiration of his devotees. His modulation of the voice of different characters, suiting gestures and postures of each incident, were wonderfully effective. His devotees never missed a chance of being in the hall on such occasions.

Bhagavan began with the life of the hunter-devotee Kannappan who worshipped Sivalinga with water carried in his mouth, flowers taken from his hair, and meat prepared for his own meal. The way in which the priest resented the intruding defiler of the sacred Sivalinga was embellished by Bhagavan with his own explanations of the rites and the meanings of the mantras used in the worship. Then came the scene of scenes. The Lord in the Sivalinga tested the devotee by making blood trickle from the eyes on that Linga. Kannappan ran to and fro for herbs to treat the Lord’s eye with them. Finding them useless, he plucked out one of his own eyes and fixed it to that in the Sivalinga. Seeing that the treatment was effective, he ran into ecstasy of joyful dance.

When Bhagavan came to the story of how the forest devotee was plucking out his second eye to heal the second eye of the Lord, and of how the Sivalinga extended a hand to stop him, saying, ‘Stop Kannappan’, Bhagavan’s voice got choked, his body perspired profusely, his hair stood on end, tears gushed out of his eyes, he could hardly utter a word, and there was pin-drop silence in the hall. All were dumbfounded that this great jnani could be so overpowered by emotion and ecstasy at the hunter’s devotion. After a while, Bhagavan quietly closed the book, dried the tears with the end of his towel and laid aside the book, saying, “No, I can’t go on any further.”

About 1920, Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni came to reside at Tiruvannamalai. He used to discuss sastras with Bhagavan and get his doubts cleared. He was a mighty scholar, while Bhagavan was just literate, yet the Muni would say, “Without Bhagavan’s grace, the intricacies of the scriptures are beyond one’s power of understanding. One word from him makes everything clear.”

When Ganapati Muni would see someone sitting in front of Bhagavan, meditating with his eyes closed, he would scold the devotee, saying, “When the Sun is shining in front of you, why do you need to close your eyes?”

At the Skandasram a peacock would follow Bhagavan everywhere. One day a huge black cobra appeared in the Ashram and the peacock attacked it fiercely. The cobra spread its hood and the two natural enemies were poised for a fight to death. Bhagavan went near the cobra and said, “Why did you come here? The peacock will kill you. Better go away at once.” The cobra lowered its hood and slithered away.

In 1933, on my 36th birthday, I sat in Bhagavan’s presence in a pensive mood. I addressed a prayer in Tamil to him complaining:

“O, Bhagavan, I have completed three and half decades, and yet have not had the experience of the real you. Pray, let me have this day the touch of Your Grace.” Handing over the slip of paper, I prostrated before him. He made me sit down and gazed steadily at me; I was still in a pensive and meditative mood. All of a sudden I lost body-consciousness and was absorbed in the Maharshi. I got turned inward, and the voice of Bhagavan made me see whatever I desired.

I was very much devoted to Sri Rama; I wanted to have his darshan. Immediately I saw Sri Rama with Sita, Lakshmana, Bharata, Satrughana and Hanuman. The ecstasy of the vision defied description. I simply sat on, with the Maharshi gazing at me. Two hours may thus have passed in pin-drop silence, lost in the vision until it vanished. I prostrated at the feet of the Maharshi, with tears of ecstasy in my eyes and my hair standing on end.

Bhagavan gave us a tangible demonstration of God’s omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence.

Though outwardly we seemed to remain very much the same persons, inwardly he was working to destroy the deep roots of separateness and self-concern in us.

A couple from Peru, who had heard of the Maharshi’s greatness, came to the Ashram. Being poor they had to save enough money for a few years to become deck passengers. To the couple, the Maharshi’s presence on the earth seemed the second coming of the Christ himself and they longed to see him.

One evening when they sat before Bhagavan, the talk turned to Peru. The couple was describing the seacoast and beach of their town. Just then Bhagavan remarked, “Is not the beach paved with marble slabs, with coconut palms planted in between? Are there not marble benches in rows facing the sea, and did you not often sit on the fifth of those with your wife?” This remark came as a great astonishment to the couple and as they were wondering and were at a loss to understand as to how the Maharshi could know such minute details, Bhagavan smiled and remarked, “It does not matter how I can tell. Enough if you know that the Self is not limited by space and time.”

Knowles, an Italian, well-read in both Eastern and Western philosophies once came to the Ashram and had many interesting talks with Bhagavan. One morning, Bhagavan was describing the state of a jivanmukta: “He is the ever-aware Self, the witness-consciousness transcending space and time and causation, the fullness of Being. How he is the non-actor, non-enjoyer, and yet at the same time the greatest of actors, the greatest of enjoyers and so forth.” This was too much for Knowles to digest. In the heat of the discussion, he put a straight question to Bhagavan, “Are you or are you not speaking to us?” Bhagavan gave Knowles a meaningful look and said in a most emphatic tone: “No, ‘I’ am not talking to you.” In an ecstatic mood, Knowles echoed: “No, Bhagavan is not talking to us. He only exists. That is all.”

In the late 1930s, when Bhagavan’s Nool Thirattu (published as Collected Works in English) was ready for the press, it was proposed that a preface be written to it. But no one came forward for the job, each one excusing himself that he was not qualified for the task. This drama, which went on for long, was watched by Bhagavan quietly. At about 10.30 p.m., as I was passing beside the hall, Bhagavan looked at me and said, “Why don’t you write the preface?” I was taken aback, but meekly said, “I would venture to write only if I had Bhagavan’s blessings for the task.” Bhagavan said, “Do write, it will come all right.” So I began writing at the dead of night, and to my great surprise within three-quarters of an hour I made a draft as if impelled, driven by some Supreme Force. I altered not even a comma of it, and by three o'clock in the early morning, I placed it at the feet of Bhagavan. He was happy and approved it as all right.

Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi, entry dated July 20, 1936, records:

T.K.S.Iyer, a disciple , was agitated because someone in the town (Perumal Swami) had spoken disparagingly of the Master and he had failed to retort. So he asked the Master what penalty should be paid for his failure to defend him. The Maharshi replied, “Patience, more patience; tolerance, more tolerance.”

- Face to Face with Sri Ramana Maharshi

#ramana #bhagavan ramana maharishi #arunachala #sanathanadharma

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