#my boy you are a trainwreck | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kefiteria · 1 month ago

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Hello! I hope you’re having the most marvelous day, your sebek coat fic KILLED ME

I’m not sure if you take requests or ideas, so sorry if that’s listed somewhere, but this mini series is so good! I need to know what happens when this awkward boy’s feelings come to a head and sebek just accepts he’s down bad and attempts to commence courting PLS I beg 😭

If I Kneel, Let It Be Here

pairing: Sebek x Reader

summary: Sebek Zigvolt: professional knight, amateur disaster in love, who can’t stop writing angsty letters he never sends and flailing like a cat stuck in armor every time you breathe near him. He’s basically one awkward confession away from a full meltdown—and honestly, we’re all here for the trainwreck.

There is a silence inside Sebek Zigvolt that no sword can cleave.

It begins the first time you say his name—not in command, not in jest, but casually, like a thread pulled loose from an ancient tapestry. The syllables hang in the air and nestle in the hollow beneath his ribs. His breath stutters, his fingers curl then uncurl as if grasping for meaning in empty space.

From that moment, he is lost.

He tries to bury it beneath the armor of routine, reciting the knight’s code until the words grow hollow, until even steel feels less sharp than this ache. But you arrive each day, a presence clearer and more luminous than the one before, like a star steadying against the dusk.

You ask him for help with spellwork. His pen slips, scratches a jagged line. He swallows a curse, pretending the flutter in his chest is nothing more than wind.

You brush past him in the corridor. His breath stumbles. His fingers twitch beneath his sleeves, betraying the cool calm he fights to wear.

When you laugh—soft, unguarded—he hears it in the silence of his mind, the echo pressing against the inside of his ribs like a caged bird beating its wings.

He writes you letters. Never sent.

The first is stiff, clipped, formal as a summons. The last, a trembling confession.

To [y/n], the individual whose proximity has become a matter of internal catastrophe,

I am beginning to suspect that my heart was designed not for battle, but for ruin. Yours. Yours entirely.

I cannot look at you without trembling. This is not metaphor. My fingers tremble. My breath becomes disloyal. You speak, and the world disappears behind your voice like a city swallowed by fog.

Please remain unaware. Your knowing gaze would undo me.

He burns the letter and writes it again, and again.

Three days pass.

He avoids you as if retreating would stave off the inevitable collapse.

But avoidance is agony.

You find him in the gardens, where the sun sifts through leaves like golden dust. Holding a book—the one he recommended—lightly, like a secret. You look at him with calm patience, and his knees threaten rebellion.

He stammers, voice thick and uneven.

“I—Do not be alarmed—I am not avoiding you—I mean, I was, but not deliberately—that is—”

“Okay…” you say, steady and soft. “But don't forget to breathe, Sebek.”

He inhales sharply, as if air were an enemy. Then exhales, only because you asked.

Lilia watches him unravel, his eyes fond but sharp.

“My darling knight,” he hums, “your love is warping the air. Birds circle in confusion.”

Sebek growls, a sound caught between frustration and surrender.

“I cannot tell [y/n],” he mutters. “They are calm. Unshaken. They walk through my chest like it is a battlefield with no flags.”

“And yet…” Lilia says, voice lilting, “you kneel.”

He says nothing.

He kneels.

So he tries again.

In the garden, you read beneath a canopy of dappled light, the sun tracing cathedrals on your eyelashes.

Sebek approaches, slow and hesitant, like a soldier crossing enemy lines.

He bows, too quickly—the motion jerks, off balance.

“I—I have something to declare.”

You lower your book, unfazed.

“Mm?”

“I am… experiencing profound inner disturbance.”

“I find myself compelled…” he continues, words catching on their weight, “compelled to attend to your presence, to guard it, to remain in it.”

His hands clench then release, his pulse drumming against the skin of his wrists.

He sways. A man caught in the tempest, he cannot command.

“I wish to—court you.”

“I know.” Your smile is small, unmocking, almost tender.

“You… knew?” He falters, a breath lost.

“You’re not very subtle.” you answered.

A low sound escapes him—a groan? A prayer?

You close your book, eyes soft. “If you want to court me, Sebek… just stay.”

He does.

He writes again, but this time, the letter is not meant to be burned.

Dearest—

What word can I use that won’t betray the trembling inside me? You, whose voice quiets the screaming machinery of my soul—what am I to do with you?

You do not reach for me, and still, I am reached.

You do not kiss me, and still, I am undone.

There are nights I imagine you beside me—not in lust, no, that would be too easy—but in stillness. You would rest your head on my shoulder, and I would not move. I would remain perfectly still, for days, if it meant you stayed near.

This is madness. I know it. And yet—

I would let the world burn if you so much as whispered that I mattered.

You walk together sometimes now. He keeps a careful distance—two steps behind, like a shadow sworn to watch.

“You don’t have to trail like that.” You glance back at him with a soft smile.

“I mustn’t impose.”

“You already are…” you chuckle shaking your head. “Come closer.”

He obeys. Always.

One stormy afternoon, you find him by the old tower. Rain slicks his hair. His fingers twist a pendant, white-knuckled.

He says nothing, only looks at you like you are the last star above a crumbling world.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, soft as a page turned before the storm.

Sebek stiffens, as if struck by the weight of your attention. He doesn't speak at first. Instead, his eyes shift downward—somewhere between the hem of your robes and the terrible precision of his thoughts. His throat moves around the words before they arrive.

“You smiled at someone else today.”

You blink, not confused but in calm. “A child…” you say. “They dropped a coin. I picked it up.”

He nods once. Twice. As if the act of agreement might lessen the sting.

“Yes. I know. I saw. And still—” His voice breaks like glass beneath bare feet. “I felt something awful, something vast. As though I’d failed you without ever being chosen in the first place.”

He breathes in a stuttering rush. His hands—so often folded behind his back with militaristic precision—now hang at his sides, fingers curled in helpless rhythm.

“It’s shameful…” he mutters faintly. “The way I… ache. The way I unravel, just from the idea of you giving a kindness elsewhere. I know it’s irrational. I know.”

You say nothing. You only step forward, careful not to frighten the trembling creature his love has made of him.

“Sebek.”

Your voice is a hand on his shoulder in the dark, a warmth that doesn't demand but waits.

He looks up—finally—and it is the face of a boy who has built a cathedral of devotion from nothing but restraint and breathless panic.

“I don’t know how to love you quietly…” he says, barely above a whisper. “I only know how to fall—loudly, painfully, and with no promise of grace.”

You reach for him, not to stop the falling, but to be the space, he lands in.

“I don’t need your love to be quiet,” you say, voice low and impossibly kind. “Only that it stays.”

In the end, there is no declaration, no applause from the heavens.

Only the hush that follows survival.

You read beside him, the soft rustle of pages like a prayer for continuity. He sits close, impossibly careful, as though your nearness is a thing that might vanish if disturbed. His fingers wrap around yours—not possessively, but as though anchoring himself to the fact of your existence.

His cheeks burn a quiet red, a confession blooming where no words are needed.

Breath comes slower now, as if learning, for the first time, that he is permitted to breathe where you are.

And for once, he does not prepare to flee his feelings.

He remains.

Still—not from peace, but from awe.

Still—not because the longing has left, but because you’ve allowed him to feel it in your presence.

And in this small stillness, he is—impossibly, unbearably—happy.

Postscript, unsent:

If I should vanish tomorrow, I want this truth carved into the stone of the world: That I loved you with a knight’s discipline, and a poet’s despair. That you ruined me in the gentlest possible way.

And I thank you for it.

a/n🍨: thank you for requesting!! im sorry it took me a while to write this because i was trying to balance out flustered sebek vs his inner self hehehe~ i hope it's to your liking 🩷

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hsnlv · 5 months ago

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strawberry lemonade | s.jy

pairing: bestfriend!jake x reader

teaser: “have a pack?” you ask, cocking your eyebrow at him. jake is confused, utterly. a pack of what, exactly? but the question in his head is quickly answered by you. “cigarettes.”

warnings/others: suggestive!!!!, mentions of smoking and vaping (and the actual action of doing it too lol), smoker!jake agenda (?) somehow…

wc: 1.3k

a/n: pls enjoy this hello?? my chest feels so warm (not in a cute way) when i wrote lmfao!! comments are reblogs are highly appreciated! anyways, happy reading lovelies🎀 here’s my masterlist!

"this movie is shit," you groan, letting your head fall back against the leather couch in jake's living room.

you don't know what's worse-the absolute trainwreck of a film playing on the screen or the fact that you and jake's science project is an utter failure. either way, both are enough to drive you insane.

beside you, jake chuckles softly, the sound sending a flicker of irritation through your already sour mood.

“have a pack?” you ask, cocking your eyebrow at him. jake is confused, utterly. a pack of what, exactly? but the question in his head is quickly answered by you.

“cigarettes.” you reply with a well-no-duh tone, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world to ask about. but jake’s confusion turns deeper when he heard you.

"you smoke?" he asks, head tilting just slightly.

oh, fuck. why is that hot?

everyone tilts their head when they're confused, but jake? it's different. there's something about the way his sharp features soften just a little, the way his glasses slide down his nose ever so slightly, the way his dark eyes fix on you with pure curiosity-it's almost infuriating how attractive he is.

you've always thought so. al-fucking-ways! the feelings you have for him-buried under layers of playful teasing and feigned indifference-have been there for as long as you can remember. and seeing him now, with that confused yet intrigued expression on his face, does nothing to help the situation.

"yeah, sometimes," you say, shrugging like it's nothing. "only when i really need it."

jake swallows, and you don't miss the way his throat bobs. his mind is running wild, you can tell. maybe it's the contrast of it-you, the one who always nags about health, casually revealing this habit. he doesnt take you as someone who particularly smokes.

he still remembers the night where you would clean the overall of his room before you slept on his bed because you said “boys are dirty and disgusting” but in reality, you did it because the thought of sleeping in the same bed as him freaked you out —or turned you on—and you just wanted something to somehow distract you from the pooling heat on your panties. spoiler not so spoiler alert: it failed!

he clears his throat, breaking the brief silence. "i don't have any."

he can feel his throat goes dry at the mental image of you puffing out the white puff from your mouth. oh oh, sim is in trouble!

his reply makes you sigh against the couch. and as if you hear the bell of the ice cream truck, you excitedly sit up from the couch, remembering that you always carry a disposable pod with you.

quickly, you dig into your bag, fingers brushing against the smooth plastic before you pull it out. a small, pale pink device. a guilty pleasure. something you keep just in case you need one. and that ‘just in case’ happens to be now.

you flick it on, settle back into the cushions, and take a slow, deliberate inhale. the sweetness of the flavour fills your mouth and lungs, smooth and almost intoxicating.

strawberry lemonade.

you hum in satisfaction, tilting your head back as you release the thick, milky cloud of vapor into the air. it feels good-too good.

but what feels even better is jake's reaction.

his eyes are darker now, hooded as they watch you. his breathing is slightly heavier, his lips parted just barely and his cheeks flushed. you can see the way his fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for you but is holding himself back.

you lift the pod, offering it to him. "want some?" and your voice clicks him back into reality. he replies with a soft ‘yeah, sure’.

maybe it’s the stupid nicotine that messes up with your brain or maybe you’re just purely stupid when you take another long drag, letting the vapor sit on your tongue as you crawl up to him.

slowly, you shift, climbing into his lap and straddling him with ease.

jake stiffens under you, his hands instinctively finding your waist, fingers digging in slightly as you settle against him. his breath is shaky as he mutters a soft yet whiny ‘shit’, his eyes wide, and when you lift a hand to tap gently at his cheek, signaling him to open his mouth, he obeys without question.

you lean in, closing the space between you both, lips hovering dangerously close to his as you part yours, exhaling the white cloud into his mouth, your lips almost touching his.

and fuck, that almost makes his heart bursts— so does his growing dick!

his lips wrap around the vapor, drawing it in, and fuck-he groans. it's quiet, barely there, but you hear it. feel it.

his grip on your waist tightens. his head falls back against the couch, his adam's apple bobbing as he exhales, savoring the feeling, the taste of the sweet strawberry lemonade, and the intensity of the moment.

and god, the sight of him like this-his chest rising and falling, his jaw clenched, his lips slightly swollen-sends a rush of heat straight between your legs.

he gently lifts his head up back again, cocking an eyebrow at you, his gaze calling you in.

and before he can speak, you do it again.

another hit, another lean in, another slow, intimate transfer of smoke.

but this time, jake doesn't let you pull away.

instead, his hands slide up your back, firm and sure as they press against you, keeping you close. and then-he kisses you.

it's slow at first, exploratory, lips brushing over yours in a teasing, featherlight way that makes you whimper before he deepens it.

his tongue traces the seam of your lips, tasting the sweet remnants of strawberry lemonade before slipping inside, tangling with yours.

it's intoxicating. dizzying. the way he kisses— deep and consuming, like he wants to devour you whole-makes your head spin.

they should make flavour that tastes as sweet and as good as him and named it “jake”. because hell, how can someone taste this good?!

his hands are everywhere. gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, brushing against your thighs. and yours are no better, fisting the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, pressing yourself against him, needing more.

a quiet moan slips from your lips, and jake groans in response, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you down harder against him.

you can feel him. every bit of him.

the realization sends a shiver down your spine, and when you rock against him ever so slightly, he curses under his breath, hands tightening their hold on you.

"fuck," he murmurs against your lips, his voice breathless, needy.

his hands shift again, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other pressing against your lower back, holding you firm against him as he kisses you deeper, harder.

it's too much. not enough.

your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly, and the groan he lets out is nothing short of sinful.

he's losing control.

and you love it.

but then-he pulls back, panting, his forehead resting against yours as he tries to catch his breath.

his eyes flicker open, dark and filled with something you can't quite place.

without a word, he moves.

slowly, effortlessly, he shifts, standing up and lifting you into his arms with ease.

you yelp softly, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, legs around his waist as he carries you.

"jake-"

"shh," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. "just let me have you, please?”

his voice is soft, but there's a hint of desperation behind it. and how can you say no?

instead, you let him carry you, let him press gentle kisses to your skin as he walks, let yourself melt into his hold.

and when he finally reaches his room, gently placing you down onto his bed, his eyes filled with nothing but want and adoration-you know it’s going to be a long night.

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10000year-old-child · 5 months ago

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Do you ever think about how Shen Yuan was completely valid for his reaction to PIDW?

If you've ever wondered how Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua might've experienced PIDW (whether writing, reading, living it.. etc) just watch Supernatural.

I was watching some Supernatural episodes and I just realized this is our real life PIDW, we have like 15 seasons?? (Literally nobody else I know have even watched or finished the series except for me. My family & friends thinks I'm delusional for watching this very long trainwreck)

Plot? Is so long and rich that I genuinely discover new things every time I decide to rewatch ANY of the seasons... Everytime I discover I forgot some pretty major events. but sometimes it's also lowkey bad writing and we have BIG plot holes that nobody addresses even after the show ends.

World building? Magnificent. If not for the new cool creatures (new wives) added left and right never to be mentioned again.

The main wives_ ahem, creatures..(Castiel, ALL the angels, Lucifer, Gabriel, "the prophet"... you see what I mean..?) were really cool and powerful at first until they got lost somewhere in the plot.

As for Characters? Don't get me wrong I love my boys, but you have to admit Sam and Dean were ridiculously overpowered. They killed every single being under the sun (HOW did the universe in Supernatural not collapse??? You cannot convince me all that messing around did NOT cause some catastrophic power imbalance in creation Itself!!) including themselves like an unreasonable amount of times and just came back to life completely fine after and kept walking.

Honestly OG Luo Binghe could only dream of reaching that level of plot armor. No wonder my guy Shen Yuan was pissed.

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asidian · 1 year ago

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One thing I haven't seen talked about is Crystal's character arc, and specifically the way the timing of it interacts with Charles' arc. They stumble over each other in the worst possible way en route to their respective character growth, and from a narrative perspective, it's absolutely genius.

I'm going to preface all this by saying: none of this is a criticism of Crystal. Part of what makes her such a dynamic, refreshing character is that you don't get to see women in fiction written the way she's been written. You don't get to see women with her flaws that aren't throw-away mean girls or villains. You especially don't get to see women with her traits who learn and grow and become better people. So yeah, I'm going to talk about Crystal's character flaws. No, this isn't Crystal hate. We love our girl in this house. Okay? Okay. Let's start.

Crystal's character arc, at its heart, is all about her learning to be a better person because she has good influences that love and support her for the first time.

When the show starts, Crystal is not a nice person. She's abrasive in a way that's specifically designed to push people away. She's used to getting her own way, and it shows. She's used to having no meaningful connections with anyone, and it shows. She's breathtakingly selfish, in the very literal sense of the definition. She is focused on her self. Her problems are front and center to her; everything is about what she needs, and what she wants, and how she's struggling.

Jenny calls her out very early on. In episode one, Crystal is complaining about the boys, and Jenny, for all her cynicism, strikes right at the heart of the problem. She tells Crystal, "Everybody is always thinking about themselves, all the time." People only care about their own problems. And she says, correctly, that that's what Crystal is doing, too.

This moment is a revelation for Crystal. For the first time, she considers what her behavior looks like from another person's perspective. As she says, she gets mad at herself over it, and that awareness allows her to do something selfless for the first time in the series. She takes a step back and insists that instead of focusing on her problems, they go to help a little girl. It's a big moment for her.

But importantly, she's not done growing as a character here. She's only just getting started.

On my first watch through, I didn't realize how often, over the next few episodes, Crystal redirects things to her problems during conversation, but it's quite a lot. She's still focused on herself – selfish, in that most literal definition of the word. The issues most important to her are her issues. She's starting to learn to think about other people, but she's not there yet. The process is still underway.

Which brings us to Charles.

Charles' arc is a different sort of self-reflection. He's terrified that he's a bad person the way his father was and the way the boys that killed him were.

During the course of the show, he gets systematically stripped of his confidence and made to feel helpless, and just like Crystal needs outside influences to help her reach a more stable place, Charles does, too. He desperately needs reassurance that he isn't everything he's afraid he is.

But my goodness, the timing in their arcs is such a trainwreck when you put them together, and it is brilliant.

Let's start with the Devlin House.

Crystal has some amazing character growth here. She displays genuine concern about Charles, makes an attempt at comforting him, and learns to work with Edwin even though she still doesn't particularly like him at this point.

Charles, meanwhile, is beginning to fall apart. He's just had the worst night of his afterlife. He's been viscerally reminded of how helpless he is. He couldn't stop the Devlins from being killed over and over, just like he couldn't stop his own father's abuse. He messed up his attempted rescue so badly that he was completely out of commission until the case was finished. He managed to help not one single thing. He made no impact at all. He couldn't help those girls any more than he was able to help himself, while he was still alive.

So they get back to the butcher shop, and what do we see? Monty immediately coopts Edwin. Niko doesn't know what's happened because she wasn't there and Charles has been all fake smiles with her. And Crystal goes off with Niko, leaving Charles to flounder on his own in the wake of everything. She's still learning how to support other people. She isn't there yet, and it's extremely on display in this moment.

Then we get the lighthouse episode, and they both get put through the wringer here. Crystal gets her hopes and expectations jerked around by the Night Nurse in the very worst way, and Charles gets hit with a whole pile full of trauma. All that helplessness wells to the forefront again. Combined with being forced to relive some of his worst memories and the desperation to keep Edwin safe from hell, Charles lets himself act on his anger for once.

And what does he get in the aftermath? Horror.

Everyone who cares about him is horrified by what he's done. Edwin goes so far as to call it extreme. They don't know the half of it, of course; they haven't seen what the Night Nurse just put him through. But in this moment Charles is at his absolute lowest, and all he sees is confirmation that he's exactly as terrible as he thinks he is.

That's why Charles shrugs off Edwin's attempt at comfort, here. When he needed to be able to do something to protect Edwin and also himself – when he needed to believe that he could be better than what his father always was – all he sees is the confirmation from the people he cares about most that when push came to shove, he really is a bad guy.

Then comes the aftermath. And this moment is such a brilliant, awful clash of both of their character arcs. It is so delightfully messy.

Because Charles starts to open up to Crystal here. He starts to lay himself bare, the way he ends up doing with Edwin in episode 5. He's on the verge of admitting something that he's been worried about for literal decades. He tells her, "I've been angry for such a long time."

And what does Crystal do? She's still in the midst of her own character growth. She's still struggling to support other people. She's still learning how to. In a lot of ways, though she's made progress already, she's still that selfish girl that Jenny called out in the very first episode.

And she shows it here it with the absolute worst possible timing. No sooner has Charles started to talk about what's bothering him than she cuts in with her own problems. She's tired of riddles and spirits and demons and not knowing who she is. And the look on Charles' face. The moment when he visibly sets aside his own problems, because Crystal doesn't need any more disasters on her plate? It's heartbreaking. You can actually track the subtle change in his expression there. The actor does a phenomenal job.

And then comes the kiss. And what spurs it? Crystal saying she needs something real.

This moment isn't about light-hearted attraction, the way the earlier flirting is. It's Charles setting aside what he needs – comfort and reassurance and a moment to talk through the things that have been tearing him apart – to give her what she says she wants. He can't even feel it. And Crystal isn't far enough along in her character growth here to realize how selfish she's being. Like Jenny said way back in episode one, she's only thinking about herself.

And then comes the absolute unmitigated disaster of episode 5.

Straight out the gate, Charles leans in for a kiss. From his perspective, they have something together; there's affection there. Charles "I think I'd miss kissing" Rowland, who has been starved for meaningful physical contact for thirty years, is not in a hurry to give this up.

But Crystal is fresh out of a nightmare where she conflates Charles with her abusive ex. She withdraws; she calls what they had a distraction. She cuts it off almost as soon as it's started, so focused on her own worries here that she misses how damn fake Charles' smile is, to cover up that he's coming to pieces.

To be clear, she's absolutely not in the wrong here. It is 1000% her prerogative not to jump into a relationship again while she's still struggling to work through what happened with David. But the arc of her narrative is still early enough that she does it all without so much as the awareness that her focus on her own issues has hurt Charles terribly.

And then the episode really kicks off, and both of them are in shambles in very different ways.

Crystal is projecting her issues with David onto Charles. She has a lot of history, and David seems as though he's exactly the right sort of toxic to leave lasting a lasting impact. But Charles hasn't done anything to deserve her assumptions, and he takes the brunt of her temper here and throughout the episode.

Charles is desperately projecting onto the dead jocks. He very badly wants them to be good guys, because he sees himself in them and he needs himself to be a good guy. He snipes back at Crystal for the very first time in this episode, and he does it in the worst way possible, accidentally prodding her where it will do the most damage.

They're both hurting. They both say some truly painful things to one another.

She does not need to hear that she has unsorted hangups about David still plaguing her while she's unable to move past them. He desperately does not need anyone to tell him that he has rage issues while he's still struggling to think of himself as a decent person.

They apologize, in the end. They start to move past it.

But it's telling that Charles doesn't try to open up to Crystal again. He goes to Edwin instead, even though Edwin is the one who called his actions regarding the Night Nurse extreme. He gets the reassurance he needs so badly; he gets the connection he was looking for with Crystal from Edwin, instead. (I have a lot of thoughts on why Charles initially tries to open up to Crystal so quickly, but it is very much an aside, and this is already extremely long, so it will have to wait for another write-up.)

But the important thing here is, Edwin is the one to offer Charles what he needs to overcome the self-doubt eating him alive. Edwin provides the physical affection Charles was seeking in the form of that long-overdue hug. Edwin is the one who's able to reaffirm for him that he's not just a good guy, he's the best person Edwin knows.

And for all intents and purposes, Charles' major character arc ends here.

Charles has a few last little moments to go on the path to rebuilding his own self-image, after this, but for the most part his concerns have been resolved. He saves Crystal in episode 6 and Edwin in episode 7, proving to himself that he's able to make a difference in the face of overwhelming odds. He's not helpless, no matter what the Night Nurse told him; he can be a force for good in the world. By the end of the series, his crisis of self-doubt seems to have been largely overcome.

But it's the conversation with Edwin at the end of episode 5 that really allows him to work through his most pressing issues. Edwin is there to help support him when he stumbles. Edwin provides him the comfort he was looking for while Crystal was too worried about her own problems to notice how badly he needed the help.

Crystal, meanwhile, still has a ways to go after episode 5. The last three episodes are where she does her most important character growth.

In episode 6, she learns some hard lessons about keeping secrets and letting people help and appreciate you even when you can't offer them anything in return. And Charles, importantly, is there for her every step of the way. He consistently offers her physical and emotional support. He models for her, in a very real way, what it looks like to have someone prop you up when you need the help.

And in turn, Crystal steps in to save the boys. She's the big damn hero at the end of this episode.

The breakthrough continues into episode 7. She's so intent on helping to get Edwin out of hell that she literally goes to face her own demons, not for herself for once – not for her own purposes or needs or wants – but because she wants to help someone else.

And episode 8, at long last, brings her to the culmination of her character arc.

Crystal is at her absolute lowest here. Her family, the people who were supposed to love her unconditionally, didn't even realize she was gone. Her precious memories, that she's spent the entire series trying to regain, have showed her that she's not the person she hoped she would be. She's overwhelmed enough that she means to flee, to cut herself off from her new friends entirely.

Then the boys get kidnapped. And just like that, she makes up her mind.

For the first time since the start of the series, she sets aside her most important issues in order to let what other people need take precedence. She disregards all of her own personal concerns and focuses instead on others. She's finally stepped out of those selfish impulses that Jenny calls her out on, all the way back in the first episode. She's finally learned how to support other people when they need it.

Crystal has finally figured out how to be there for others, despite having troubles of her own.

It's a lovely arc, and it's beautifully done.

Charles' is just as touching.

And god damn, but it was a brilliant narrative choice to have their character arcs line up in exactly the wrong way.

#dead boy detectives #dbda #dbda spoilers #charles rowland #crystal palace #edwin payne #meta commentary

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hummingbird24220 · 3 months ago

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Can I request Sanji and reader having a competition about who is more flexible but nobody (including Sanji) is normal about it at all? <3

(Also Neko reader was totally right about taking panties out of the equation lol)

Hello. Yes. Yes you can. I love Sanji bbyboi

I had a lot of fun writing this - don't worry if you cant understand the stretches completely, i cant either.

Enjoy!

Stretch Goals

One Piece x Reader (Technically more Sanji x Reader)

You were bored. Like, “make questionable life choices just to spice things up” bored.

Which is how you ended up perched on the rail of the Thousand Sunny’s deck doing a full split while eating an apple and trying to spark a reaction out of literally anyone walking by.

And it worked—because you made eye contact with Sanji, who froze mid-step, dropped his tray of freshly cut vegetables, and blinked like he just saw God herself do the splits on his kitchen counter.

“Mon dieu…”

You grinned. “You like that?”

His mouth opened. No words. Just vibes. Questionable, chaotic vibes.

“…Are you mocking me?” he finally blurted, flustered and weirdly competitive for someone blushing that hard.

You snorted. “No. Just showing off. Bet I’m more flexible than you.”

Oh. Oh no. That did it.

His eye twitched. A storm of sparkles exploded behind him. “You dare challenge the flexibility of me—Sanji, whose high kicks are more glorious than sunrise on All Blue?!”

“Okay but can you high-kick while in a backbend?”

His jaw dropped. You smirked harder. Around you, several crewmates were beginning to drift closer, drawn in like flies to extremely unhinged honey.

Zoro passed by, caught half a sentence, and immediately turned around. “Nope. I’m not getting pulled into whatever weird mating ritual this is.”

Usopp poked his head out of the workshop. “Did someone say mating ritual??”

“NO,” Sanji and you shouted in unison—before immediately going back to your Flex-Off.

“I’m serious,” you teased, rolling back into a bridge position. “I can out-bend you any day.”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed. He pulled off his jacket with a dramatic flick. “That’s it. Flexibility duel. Right here. Right now.”

You blinked. “…Is that a thing?”

“It is now.”

Chopper trotted up with an enthusiastic, “I’ll be the judge!!” Robin sipped her tea from a deck chair. “This should be... enlightening.” Nami folded her arms, watching like someone about to witness a live trainwreck. “You two are so weird.”

“Ready, mon chéri?” Sanji purred, one leg already lifting above his head at a frankly dangerous angle.

You grinned, not even pretending to hide the sparkle of mischief in your eye. “Let’s bend.”

And thus began the most uncomfortably sensual, overly dramatic, completely unnecessary contest the Thousand Sunny had ever seen.

Sanji was in his element. His leg was straight in the air, toes pointed, shirt open, collar popped like he thought this was a modeling gig, not a flexibility duel. The sea breeze dramatically tousled his hair. The sparkle effect? Unexplainable. Possibly supernatural.

“I’ll start us off,” he said suavely, flipping into a handstand with unholy grace. He bent one leg, extended the other, and winked at you from upside down.

There was clapping. From himself.

“Oooohhh~!” Brook whistled from the upper deck, adjusting his violin. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we are witnessing… ballet in battle form.”

Usopp was crouched beside Chopper, scribbling on a notepad like a sports commentator. “Sanji’s opening with the Scissor Swan Split—classic. Good form. 8.5 in showmanship.”

“He blew me a kiss,” Chopper said, blushing and confused. “I don’t think that was for me.”

You popped your knuckles. “Alright, Leg Boy. My turn.”

Your hands hit the deck and you swung into a no-hands bridge, then smoothly transitioned into a standing pose by lifting one leg completely vertical up beside your head like gravity meant nothing.

Sanji choked on his cigarette.

“Are you okay?” you asked sweetly, balancing like a human compass.

“I—YOU—THAT—!!!” He slapped a hand over his nose like a nosebleed was a legitimate threat. “You can’t just do that in front of a man! I am barely holding onto life here!”

“Bro. You challenged me.”

Robin tilted her head, smirking behind her book. “This may be the only duel Sanji has ever regretted starting.”

“You’re welcome!” you called, now in a full split on top of the railing, arms lazily dangling over the side like a cat sunbathing in the middle of a fencing match.

Sanji started pacing like a man on trial for war crimes. “Okay. Okay. Time to bring out the secret weapon.”

You blinked. “You have a secret weapon?”

“Oh, yes.” His voice dropped a full octave. “Prepare yourself.”

And that’s when he jumped. Like a pirouetting demon, he launched into the air, spun, and landed perfectly in a full split. Shirt flying open. Arms extended. Head tilted back with the sun directly behind him.

If he had landed on a plate of roses, it wouldn’t have been out of place.

There was silence.

Then:

“…IS HE CRYING?” Usopp screeched. “Why is HE crying?! I want to cry! That was beautiful!”

Chopper fainted. Brook began composing a ballad.

Even Franky, who’d walked out for one second to grab a wrench, paused and muttered, “That’s… SUPER illegal.”

You clapped slowly. “Okay. That was good. Real good. But I hope you're ready—because I'm about to pull out my final move.”

Sanji gasped. “There’s more?!”

You locked eyes. “Oh yeah. The move I swore I’d never do again.”

Behind you, Nami groaned. “You two are going to break something. Possibly each other.”

Zoro stomped past, eyes shut. “If anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”

You smiled like a demon summoned from the depths of Cirque du Soleil. “Ready?”

Sanji held onto the railing. “Never. But do it anyway.”

You moved.

And the world would never be the same.

The deck was quiet. The kind of quiet that settles before an earthquake.

Sanji stood, legs trembling—not from the stretch, but from anticipation. Sweat glistened on his temple. He gripped the railing like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m ready. Hit me with it.”

You nodded solemnly, shook out your limbs, and cracked your neck like an elite gymnast about to destroy the competition and probably a vertebrae.

Everyone leaned in.

And then—

You jumped.

A full backflip. Into a handstand. Into a one-arm arched handstand split where you hooked your foot around the ship’s mast while casually sipping the juice box you had pulled from your shirt.

“WHAT IN THE HELL—” Sanji screamed, hands on his head, spiraling. “THAT SHOULDN’T BE HOT. THAT SHOULDN’T EVEN BE LEGAL.”

“I call it,” you sipped, “the Juice Box Dropkick.”

Brook’s jaw literally dropped off. “I—I think I’m in love.”

Usopp slammed his notepad shut. “Nope. No score. I’m not scoring this. I don’t even understand this anymore.”

Chopper wheezed into a paper bag. “Y/N has joints like a snake. Like a stylish, flirty, unholy snake.”

You dismounted with a flourish, landing perfectly upright and striking a pose like this was Chippendales: Sunny Edition.

Sanji fell to his knees.

“I have been bested,” he gasped, clutching his chest. “I am destroyed. I am... aroused and defeated.”

Zoro stood nearby, face hidden behind his hand. “I’m leaving. I can’t be part of this crew anymore.”

“You were never part of this crew,” Sanji snapped, dramatically draped over the railing like a Victorian widow.

“I was here, and that was my first mistake.”

And then—

“Ohhhh is this a stretchy game?!” Luffy landed with a thud between you and Sanji, arms flinging out to the sides like a noodle possessed.

You both froze. Sanji recovered first.

“No. No. Absolutely not.”

“I WANNA TRY!” Luffy yelled, immediately contorting into something that looked vaguely like a starfish having a breakdown.

You blinked. “...Did his shoulder just rotate the wrong direction?”

“It’s fine! I’m rubber!” Luffy cackled, suddenly balancing on one toe while his other leg bent behind his head and slapped Zoro in the face.

Zoro punched him in the shin. “Get me out of this crew.”

“Wait, wait,” you said, cracking up. “I’ve got an idea.”

Sanji looked at you like you’d just suggested marriage and public execution at the same time. “You have another idea?”

“Team flexibility competition. Me and you… versus Luffy and Brook.”

There was a pause.

Brook raised his hand. “May I remind everyone that I have no muscles?”

“You also have no shame,” Sanji gritted out.

“Exactly,” Brook said cheerfully. “Let’s make this indecent!”

Nami facepalmed so hard she might’ve concussed herself. “I hate all of you.”

Robin didn’t even look up. “I’m just waiting for someone to pull something. Probably a groin.”

There was a crowd.

An audience.

At least six crewmates had snacks. Brook had his violin. Robin had summoned extra arms specifically to hold up numbered scorecards. Chopper stood off to the side, holding medical supplies and muttering, “Someone’s gonna tear a hamstring. Someone’s gonna cry.”

And in the middle of the chaos stood you and Sanji. Team "Unholy Tension."

Opposite you: Luffy and Brook. Team “What The Hell Is Going On.”

You cracked your knuckles. “Alright, Sanji. First move is the Double Pretzel Bind.”

Sanji blinked. “I—what?”

Too late.

You grabbed his arms and spun him like a dance partner, locking your legs around his waist and pulling him backward until your torsos were pressed flush, both of you bent at 90-degree angles, looking like a yin-yang symbol designed by horny gymnasts.

“OH SWEET MOTHER OF—”

Sanji’s soul physically left his body. You were 99% sure you saw it float upward.

“Relax,” you said innocently, shifting slightly. “You’re too stiff.”

Sanji made a strangled noise. “I AM TRYING.”

“Not hard enough,” you teased, your breath ghosting over his ear.

Behind you, Usopp was openly screaming. “THIS IS NOT A FAMILY-FRIENDLY SHOW. I REPEAT. ABANDON SHIP.”

Nami shoved popcorn in her mouth with a vengeance. “You could leave, Usopp.”

“I can’t. It’s like a train wreck. With abs.”

Meanwhile, Luffy had twisted his entire torso into a loop and was hula-hooping Brook. Like. Using Brook as a prop.

“I call this move the Skeleton Spiral!” he cheered.

“I feel ALIVE!” Brook wailed.

“No, you don’t!” Chopper sobbed.

Robin, ever the supportive chaos enabler, casually raised a "9" and smiled.

“Okay, new round,” you gasped, having dismounted from Sanji only for him to collapse on the deck, face flushed and steam practically whistling out his ears.

“Sanji, are you okay?” you asked sweetly.

“I am...not okay,” he mumbled into the floorboards. “I am... experiencing every emotion known to man. And several that shouldn't be legal.”

You nudged him with your toe. “C’mon, Casanova. Final pose.”

He looked up. “What kind of pose?”

You grinned like the devil.

“Couple’s yoga.”

Sanji stopped breathing.

Brook immediately played a romantic waltz. Luffy yelled, “I WANNA DO A KISS POSE WITH BROOK!” Brook screamed, “I DON’T EVEN HAVE LIPS!!”

And then you sat on Sanji’s lap. Back to chest. Legs tangled. Arms up and curved into a heart-shape above your heads.

The deck exploded.

“THAT’S NOT EVEN A STRETCH,” Zoro bellowed from somewhere very far away.

“It is if you do this,” you whispered, twisting slightly and stretching your spine—your head lolling back against Sanji’s shoulder.

Sanji died. Just flatlined.

Brook kept playing. Chopper cried harder. Luffy attempted to mimic you both and fell off the deck.

“Sanji?” you murmured, glancing back.

He was just lying there. A gentle smile on his lips. Nosebleed imminent. “I saw heaven. She’s very flexible.”

The Sunny’s deck was wrecked.

Not physically—yet—but spiritually? Emotionally? The vibes? Ruined.

Chopper was sobbing quietly into a first aid kit. Usopp had duct-taped two planks together and was pretending they were “emergency blinkers.” Nami had stopped watching entirely and was just muttering, “I don’t get paid enough for this,” even though no one on this ship actually gets paid.

Brook was still playing violin. You were not sure when he learned the Titanic theme.

And Zoro… Zoro had made a critical mistake.

He came too close.

And Luffy grabbed him. “YOU’RE MY NEW PARTNER!”

“No—”

Too late.

Zoro was in a headlock, Luffy’s legs wrapped around him like some hellish rubber vine, and now both of them were rolling across the deck in what looked like a very violent—and extremely bendy—game of Twister.

“I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS—” Zoro barked as he went airborne.

Chopper screamed. Nami cackled. Robin politely gave them a “7.”

Meanwhile, Sanji had recovered.

Barely.

And was now leaning casually against the mast, one hand dramatically ruffling his hair. “Alright, mon amour. One final pose. Let’s end this right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got a move in mind?”

“Oh yes,” he said, eyes smoldering. “I call it... La Fin de Moi.”

“…That sounds like a dramatic way to die.”

“It is.”

You didn’t have time to process before he scooped you up bridal-style, spun you once like he was dancing through a storm of flower petals (there were no petals—only stunned silence), then dipped you into a perfect backbend, his hand at your lower back, your faces inches apart.

You blinked. “This isn’t a stretch.”

“It could be,” he purred. “If you lean a little closer.”

“…You mean like—”

And then he did it. He bent backward too, supporting you with one hand while you both formed a perfect mirrored arch, noses brushing, breath tangled.

“NOW THAT’S FLEXIBILITY,” Sanji grinned, eyes locked with yours, every fiber of his being screaming "kiss me, you absolute menace."

Everyone lost it.

“OH MY GOD—” Usopp threw his hat. Brook fainted. Just straight-up keeled over. Nami stood and started clapping like it was Broadway. Chopper yelled, “SOMEONE’S GONNA BREAK THEIR SPINE—BUT IT’S BEAUTIFUL.”

You laughed breathlessly, still arched in Sanji’s arms. “So… who wins?”

He leaned closer, eyes fluttering half-lidded, voice husky. “Who cares?” His breath ghosted over your lips. “We both got… flexible.”

And with that, he passed out.

Just full body limp, collapsed like a starfish with a romantic death wish. You ended up awkwardly cradling his head, laughing so hard your ribs hurt.

Zoro, bruised and tangled in Luffy’s arms like a cartoon pretzel, snarled from the side. “Next time I’m throwing both of you overboard.”

You wiped a tear from your eye and grinned.

“Only if you can reach us, Stretchy.”

#x reader #one piece #luffy #reader insert #sanji #nami #nico robin #tony tony chopper #usopp #request

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housemdork · 11 days ago

Text

house md rewatch: 2x05, "daddy's boy"

motorcycles, lying, daddy issues, and gay people.

i'd completely forgotten that house's parents much such an early appearance! i spend too much time revisiting 5x04, i guess. overall, i enjoyed this one for the intrigue it built toward information about house's parents (which we expertly get so little of) and for a very definitive glimpse into house and wilson, the season 2 version. but like i said above, i can't believe how sidelined the patient and his father are in this one; the kid dies! for house's character development, of course.

i'm gonna break form and talk about house and wilson first (the gay people in question) because we get motorcycles, dinner dates, and evil little games all in one (which tie back to the larger theme i'll get to). look at their color synergy!

let's bullet point this part of my recap. and pretend for now that the loan was necessary for house to acquire the motorcycle:

wilson loaned house $5k. this already seems like an exceptionally stupid decision, yet later on, he reveals that he never even expected to get it back. point 1 for needing neediness.

house md unique symbolic use of vehicles (and the hilson roadtrip motif) is very apparent and interesting here. by driving a motorcycle, house is both subverting ableist expectations and experiencing freedom. but, here, that freedom is contingent on wilson's loan, which complicates things.

in the distant, microscopic background of this episode, wilson's marriage is collapsing: "you'd rather have dinner with your wife?" "yes, i would...if she were speaking to me." "unlike her, i can make it worth your while." "fine." push comes to shove, the other shoe drops, etc. in a few episodes, but this is another example of wilson flocking to house (the reliable trainwreck) when he needs A Fix.

in conclusion, this loan/dinner arrangement (a total farce, btw) is associating freedom with a necessary breaking of heteronormativity. for wilson, marriage is excessively transactional, yet this exchange with house is a net-negative for him on all superficial accounts. as we'll find later, they're actual equals in how they've been lying to each other.

i like how they represent this equality visually, too, house with the fruits of the $5k loan and wilson with the vestige of house's mobility:

LATER, all of this meta becomes somewhat undone when we learn that the only reason why house really wanted to go to dinner was to avoid his parents, that he didn't need the $5k loan and was only testing wilson's attachment to him, and that wilson lies to house just as much as the inverse. i adore this scene, you guys.

i think it's natural for audiences to assume, at first, that wilson would be hurt by the fact that the $5k loan wasn't necessary, but his real takeaway is way funnier and more deranged than that: "you're trying to objectively measure how much i value our friendship?" (my notes say "here we go" after that line). wilson is more so fascinated by house's motives, and we, the viewers, get an inside look into how these 2 operate: it's always a game.

the way they dissect this game is what sets this conversation apart from the remainder of the episode, as well as the show's longstanding theme of lying. house confesses to the lie; wilson reveals that he only cares because he wants to know more about house and his family; house acknowledges that, had wilson just left well enough alone, they both would have stayed happy. this is quite exactly how one would describe a "typical" (cynical) marriage; lying so the other one isn't harmed or inconvenienced. this realization hits wilson like a ton of bricks:

this is where i'll circle back to the episode at large. the transparency between wilson and house is what the other characters cannot figure out; only wilson seems aware of the novelty of their arrangement here. 2x05 asks the following questions about it's central theme of "lying":

can we love the people we lie to?

if the truth is hurtful, should we say it to our loved ones?

what should remain unspoken between loved ones?

can we love unconditionally?

because it's house md, we don't get a singular answer, just myriad versions of potential answers. the patient, carnell hall, and his father, ken hall, seem incapable of telling one another the truth unless certain death hangs over their heads. as the episode continues, it gets increasingly difficult to stand their lies, but when it's revealed that a gift ken gave carnell is what's killing him (a radioactive piece of metal from ken's scrapyard), there's no doubting the love between them:

ken bold-face lies to carnell that he'll be okay, but nobody could ever doubt this decision in good conscience. so sure, we can love those we lie to, but does this imply that ken and carnell needed conditions to love?

we can look to house and his parents for the opposite scenario (and, for argument's sake, i'm only working with the info we get from 2x05 regarding john house). earlier, house claimed that parents "lie to us because they love us" in the pejorative. while ken and carnell avoid each other, john and blythe house are dead-set on visiting house before they leave on their trip. they don't afford him any privacy, invade the precious environment that is PPTH, and something really nasty gets said along the way:

"last i checked, you still have 2 legs. you know what you're problem is, greg? you just don't know how lucky you are."

thanks, john (what's up with dads named john being the worst @ supernatural?)

john is unabashedly honest with house (not that what he's saying is true; they are just his honest feelings) and nothing good comes of this. it's hard to imagine that john loves his son, especially not with the way he looks down his nose at him, and seems so repulsed by his son using a cane. after the entire episode insists that house endures his parents company for just a little while, 2x05 abruptly recants - maybe it's not worth the truth; maybe the truth isn't kind, and ought to have been concealed. maybe we need some conditions to love here.

i'm gonna give wilson some flowers here - i think he makes up the murky grey area between these 2 extremes in 2x05. house deeply values transparency in most cases, but not all. he understandably would have preferred his dad to keep that ableist remark to himself. in that moment, unconditional love would have sufficed. someone who loves unconditionally would not have felt so compelled to drop that bomb. someone who loves unconditionally wouldn't even feel the need to lie like ken hall. they would live and let live. they would lie about the superficial and cherish the deeper parts.

i offer, again, house handing wilson his cane:

but what really drives home this point about wilson for me is he and cameron's subplot in 2x05. when they figure out why house wants to go to dinner with wilson so badly, they concoct a scheme to force house and his parents together, along with the chance to tag along and do some psychoanalysis.

however! when cameron realizes the delicacy of the situation between house and his parents, she, too, recants. she forgoes her chance to get an inside look at house and "how he got this way." she decides to not answer the first and second questions i posited earlier. she errs on the side of the unconditional. however house got "that way" is not necessarily her business.

and this is exactly why she's rewarded with information from him.

"thank you for not eating...my dad's just like you. not the caring till your eyes pop out part. just the insane moral compass that won't let you lie to anybody about anything."

in house's purview, cameron may just stand in the true middle of honesty and lying when it comes to someone's capacity to love. she can care enough to back up the demands of her moral compass. this doesn't make it sustainable, however, and i think this is one of the main reasons house and cameron remain so incompatible. she seems confused by the remark, touched and a little bit haunted, because part of the comment is a compliment, while the other, the association with john house, certainly is not.

it helps, then, that wilson is house's broken moral compass that only points correctly a few times in a year (i think i left an identical comment in the tags of one of my recaps).

my final comment is totally separate from the other parts of the episode. i just have to mention that chase telling ken hall that carnell isn't going to make it is the second time i've cried this rewatch...and the first was when chase hugged his dad, rowan, back in 1x13. idk what they put in this blonde australian doctor but it's certainly working on me. it's certainly significant that the son with deceased father (chase) is the one to tell a current father that his son is soon to be deceased, especially since their relationship is on the rocks.

#i try to keep my hilson backed up with some textual evidence lol #they have to game-ify everything #house md #malpractice md #greg house #james wilson #allison cameron #robert chase #house md rewatch #rewatch 1 #season 2

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asleepinawell · 26 days ago

Text

absolution was so funny. the whole squad was just a trainwreck 24/7. we got livia running around with her 'i can do what i want' permit and the rest of the squad's reaction progressing from 'livia don't you dare use legavo, hey! livia, i'm talking to you, oh my god there she goes again' to 'livia use legavo right now!!! ahhhhhhh!!!! livia please!!!', and then anise having a nervous breakdown because her mursaat boy toy died and the livia thing is giving her an ulcer, and isgarren continuing to make everything about himself and have a hissy fit every .0005 seconds, and the commander whose career as a junior chef and fish gutter was cut short by all this nonsense and now has to play The Adult for a group of ancient morons having petty drama (with occasional help from waiting sorrow at least), and poky is just there watching and eating popcorn, and bengt tovasson whoever the fuck he is just showed up and is like haha what the fuck this is the best job ever

and then mabon shows up and is like oh you guys lol

10/10 no notes

#the writing in this game is strongest when they have the ensemble cast of idiots and don't take things too seriously #i wish they could have made it longer #there was so much there that i'd like to have heard more about #gw has a lot of great worldbuilding and lore and it feels like they never have enough time to really do justice to it #also justice for livia she was right #and has never done anything wrong in her life ever #i know this and love her #guild wars 2 #gw2 #gw2mp #mp #janthir wilds spoilers #guild wars 2 spoilers #oh my one note is the whole jennah comment about logan #thumbs down emoji #girl you can do so much better #also it's a crime caithe went home she would have loved all of this #shared the popcorn with poky

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monayen · 10 months ago

Note

Ouuu maybe something where Sebastian finally snaps ( ´ ▽ ` )

there is like no fics about him x reader!

Hungry | Sebastian

➷ Paring - Sebastian x Fem!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ CWs - Noncon, fingering, choking, breath play, rough, mental break, unsafe sex

a/n - sometimes it hits me that im writing freakiness with a character who has de tomato smith chicken legs in his name. yes i'm still writing... inbox open for any requests or ideas, i love to see them still :3 (oh and if you like charlie from smiling friends i have a fic uploaded on my ao3)

Sebastian doesn't know how long it's been since he's had a good meal. His stomach aches for something delicious, and he can feel how his body slightly trembles at the growing malnutrition.

He's gotten used to a lot of things since his “adoption”, but hunger isn't one of them. The mush Randal attempts to give is questionably edible (and probably not safe for the human body) and Luther believes a “sustainable” mixture of bland, flavorless ingredients is enough to satiate.

The pressure in his head can also be accredited to Randal’s voice. He's lost track of what he's rambling about today. Something about ghosts, he deduces, and he much prefers not to listen. He just wants to go to sleep, he really does, but his throat itches and he's reminded that Randal has neglected once again to refill his water bowl.

“Can I, uh, get some water?” Sebastian asks, interrupting the trainwreck-train of thought spewing out of Randal’s mouth. “I thought you got water like three days ago! You thirsty boy.” Randal cocks his head to the side and Sebastian can only sigh in response.

“I need it every day. Food and water every day.” It's fruitless to try to get him to remember, but his lightheadedness is getting worse, and he just wants to be properly taken care of.

Randal shrugs, turning his focus to one of his dolls, tugging at the flimsy cloth arm before it completely rips off. A dark, small thing crawls out of the fluff, and immediately scampers into a vent in Randal’s room. He doesn't note it and tosses the torn doll to a shadowy corner in his room, probably not to be seen again.

“Eh, go ask someone else.”

Sebastian doesn't waste time to exit the room, already cycling to the next person who could actually listen to him. He grits, the ache growing in his stomach and head becoming almost unbearable.

He just needs to find you, which… he doesn't actually know where you are. As much as he’s tried to understand this house, it's complicated and confusing. It brings him back to his thoughts of you.

You're everything this house isn't.

You’ve been here longer than him, listed as one of Luther’s pets. However, you’ve seemed to actually gain some independence from that. Different from the adherents that are Nyen and Nyon, instead being more akin to a housemate.

You also don't seem to have any of the… oddities that everyone else has. No crude whiskers or unblinking eyes. You’re allowed your own wardrobe, nothing like the frills and puffs he has to wear. It's almost taunting how pretty and kempt you are.

It’s actually a bit interesting how Luther could allow this, but he assumes you pull your own weight enough to be well fed and unbothered. Sebastian scoffs, how fortunate is that?

Both of you haven't actually interacted that much, and it only serves to add to that untouchable status he's framed around you.

You are in your own world, independent and capable of leaving. But you don't. You continue to stay and wander around the house without a care. While Sebastian is stuck as a poor entertainer at for a bizarre young man, scrambling for any chance of freedom.

Despite this, you don't actually torment him in any way that matters. His envy does run deep, but you're the closest thing to a saving grace right now. He knows the catmen don't really care, and Luther might just shoo him away like the nuisance he is.

Finally, after checking room after room, he spots you sitting on a vintage leather couch with an unmarked book resting on your lap that definitely would be hard to read with how dim the lights are.

He hovers in the doorway, unsure how to start a conversation. His eyes also don't know where exactly to look, do you realize your skirt is riding up?

You beat him to say something, looking up at him through your lashes, “Hi Sebastian. Do you need something?”

You're as courteous as ever, offering a small smile that doesn't help at all to calm Sebastian’s nerves.

“Do you have anything to eat?”

You set aside your book and give him a look he can't place. Now up and off your seat to get closer to him, he can see how your brows furrow and lips purse. Suddenly, soft hands grip at the side of his face, and he stammers reactively.

“God, you look terrible. You poor thing.” It comes out sickly sweet, the proximity only heightening the warmth spreading over his freckled face.

“I–I know…” He sighs, not moving from your touch, “Please, can you just feed me?”

It sounds pathetic, but at this point he's practically begging for something, anything from you. He relaxes when he hears you giggle, hands leaving his face.

He sees you walk over to the nightstand drawer beside the couch, rummaging through it before pulling out… a stick of jerky and a juice-pouch, setting it on top in all it's glory.

It isn't much, but it's enough for Sebastian to practically salivate and let out a sound of relief. It could be stale for all he cares, as long as he can taste the added sugar and salt, he’s happy. He almost wants to jump into your arms and thank you.

“Ah, that's perfect–”

You cut him off, a smile planted on your face, “What are you going to do for it?”

It catches Sebastian completely off guard, mouth agape, “What?”

You don't falter at all, sitting on the couch as you stare at Sebastian’s shaking figure, “C’mon, you play with Randal all the time, don't you? How about we play something?”

Sebastian doesn't know how to respond. He's tired, hungry, and growing frustrated. Your voice stays sweet and it provokes a realization, how stupid is it to think you of all people could give him some slack? You aren't any different than the rest of these weirdos, no matter how you hold yourself.

His stomach growls on cue, and Sebastian can't seem to shake this feverish feeling anymore.

You notice the lack of a response, his face shaded by the dim lighting. Deciding to only poke him further, “...Unless, you aren't really that hungry.”

You don't realize how his fists ball on the side of him, teeth slightly gritting to push out his words, “Just give it.”

A small laugh leaves your grinning mouth, teasing and like nails on a chalkboard to Sebastian’s ears, “Ooo,” You sing, “feisty!”

Sebastian’s nostrils flare for a second, seemingly thinking something. He’s red, and his lips tremble ever so slightly. You stare intensely as he pauses and huffs before making his way towards the nightstand.

“Another time.” He simply states, an unrecognizable irk coating his words. You don't allow this, grabbing his arm as he reaches out for the food.

“I said,” The same saccharine smile stays across your face, “what are you going to do for it?

A switch almost seems to flip in Sebastian’s brain. You don't get to comment on the deep redness that adorns his cheeks, before he suddenly grips you by your shoulders and pins you down on the couch.

Yelping, you trash against his grasp as he hovers over you. He's breathing heavily, his chest drumming up and down as you push your hands against it.

“W-wait!” Sebastian doesn't care about what you have to say. It's all stupid words, stupid words out of your pretty mouth. His head is still reeling, and he doesn't know where the strength to keep you down is coming from.

All he knows is that he's the one with control right now. Something he hasn't had for a long time.

“Stop moving!” He huffs, eyes wide as he grasps the bottom of your shirt and bra, flipping it up to expose you.

His movements are almost thoughtless, as if a ghost possessed him to cup your breast and snake fingers between your thighs. Thoughtless doesn't make it any less rough, and soon enough your bottom half is exposed too.

“Listen, Sebastian, you– you can just have it! I was only messing around!” You try to excuse yourself, but his hand remains groping at your body like you're the first soft thing he's had to hold in forever. As if you're going to be ripped away from his hands at any second.

His erection pokes at your pinned down hip, the fabric of his outfit practically straining him. “I don't listen to you.” Sebastian spits, nor loud or quiet.

It's directly for you to hear.

More words sprew from his mouth. “You think you can just taunt me? Mess with me? Like everyone else?” They come out faster than you can respond, jaw hanging open to croak out any excuse.

“Shut up, I don't wanna hear it.” He suddenly moves and flips you over onto your stomach, head pressed down onto the aged leather of the couch, hands forced behind your back.

“I need this.” Those words are whispered to himself, low and dark. If you could look at him directly in the face, you’d see the cloudy look overcasting his eyes, the sweat that builds on his forehead, and the furrow of his brows as he looks at your figure. The dim room isn't enough to hide you.

All you can see is leather and flipped strands of hair in your vision. Instead you can only focus on the sound of his deep, shaky breath. Along with the sound of him shuffling to remove his own clothes. He moves on top of you, lanky body pressing against your behind, practically caging you. So close that it's hard to thrash around. And even if you could, you'd only be pushing up against him more.

You gasp when he puts his skinny fingers between your thighs, spreading you apart with a swift motion. Sebastian doesn't waste any time in pushing his fingers inside of you, hunched over as he continues to whisper to himself.

The pounding of your heart is loud in your own ears, you're sure he can hear how it patters against the couch more when he decides to curl his fingers. You whine, almost unintentionally arching at how good it shouldn't feel. But it does, and he knows because he lets out a laugh, “You like this?” It sounds both mocking and genuine.

The leather muffles you, but you manage to moan out a “No–” to which Sebastian seethes at. He leans into your ear, fingers still pumping into your heat. “Don’t lie. You– you wouldn't be this wet if you didn't.”

You’re unsure if Sebastian is trying to convince himself or you. The slight waver in his voice pairs with the hastiness of his fingers, itching to draw out more moans from your mouth. It’s impossible to ignore the several digits Sebastian pumps into you, him noticing how your thighs begin to quake and muscles tighten around his fingers. As quickly you're brought to the edge, Sebastian retracts. You whine at the now empty sensation, practically huffing like a brat. You don't even realize. Now his hand grips at your side of your hips, your own wetness uncomfortable on your skin.

“Maybe you’ll like this more.” Sebastian whispers, prodding at your entrance with this length. It’s hard to speak with how he continues to push your head down into the cushion, though any denial would fall on deaf ears even if you could. He slips in too easily, practically bottoming out the second your tightness wraps around him.

Sebastian is all too loud, words and moans mixing into pure nonsense. You wonder why nobody has heard anything yet. The door isn’t even locked. He doesn't care at all it seems, too engrossed in the feeling inside you to even consider the consequences of being caught.

Sebastian’s hand on the back of your head releases, and you think maybe he’ll let you turn. Maybe you’ll actually be able to scream properly for Luther with air properly filling your lungs and mouth not pressed against leather. He isn’t slowing down at all though, his hips snapping roughly against your ass. A hand snakes around the back of your throat and squeezes, your heart dropping at the growing pressure on your windpipes.

Sebastian's grip on your throat tightens, the need to claim something, anything, overtaking him. He's spent. He's so close, and he's not about to stop now. He's on the brink, and the feeling of you tightening around him, the way you're almost helpless under him, only serves to push him further.

You can't breathe, your eyes widening frantically, and the only thing you can manage to do is grip the couch. The lack of air is making your vision blur as Sebastian continues to thrust into you, not seeming to notice or care. Your mind begins to swim, the dim room now spinning in your vision.

It's a terrifyingly intense sensation, being so close to the edge yet being choked, the mix of pleasure and pain leaving you feeling dizzy. Your body betrays you, arching and pulsating at the rapid thrusts. Croaking out whatever air left in your lungs, you come with a shudder, your muscles gripping Sebastian’s cock as he continues to pound into you.

Sebastian follows with a guttural moan, thrusts becoming more erratic as he reaches his own climax, shooting into you. The hand around your throat tightens momentarily, before finally releasing, sending you gasping for air. He practically collapses on top of you, his own breath heavy.

He still holds you against the couch, though you wouldn't have the strength to move him to begin with. You feel the shuffle of him getting off on top of you, finally pulling out with a small groan and letting you at least get onto your side. He now lays beside you, body wrapped over yours. The couch barely fits you both, all you can feel is the heat of both your bodies and the sensation of wetness dripping between your thighs.

Sebastian nuzzles against you like a baby. He looks exhausted, eyes shut and brows furrowed. You look to find any empathy—any guilt. It isn't there. If anything, he looks content. As if you both will stay like this forever.

“You're right.” He murmurs, a soft rasp in his voice you aren't used to. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

#ranfren #randals friends #dark blog #dark content #sebastian de tomato smith chicken legs #sebastian de tomato smith chicken legs x reader #ranfren x reader #sebastian ranfren #tw noncon #tw breath play #tw choking

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julietsbody · 2 years ago

Text

girlnextdoor

( chapter one :

studyme.png )

words: 3,525

tags: 18+!!!! mdni , camgirl ! reader , camming, sex worker ! reader , masturbation , falling in love , body worship , religious / greek imagery , voyeurism, semi ! sub coriolanus , fantasizing

p.s : this is also on my ao3! ( divider by i92-93 )

a/n : i don’t know how i managed to make this an emotional story with greek references, but i did it somehow LOLL hope u enjoy!!

PROLOGUE : COMPETITION .

festus had an irrational mouth, he had dared coriolanus to do stupid things before, like asking girls out, or to have one night stands with them. it was awful, coriolanus hated being around festus because he was like a fly buzzing around in his eardrums, circling around his head and refusing to leave no matter how many times he swipes at it. coriolanus wasn’t the only victim unfortunately, sejanus was the main one for festus, because sejanus was weak, pliant, and could easily be peer pressured into anything.

“i dare you to ask her out,” he points to a girl in the library, a girl with clemensia and arachne.

dear fucking god, save us all, this is going to be a crucification performed in the middle of the academy’s library.

“you’re joking, right?” sejanus coughs out an awkward laugh.

festus’ eyes narrow, a dangerous seriousness, “no, it’s not that hard.”

“why don’t you do it then?” coriolanus slices in the conversation.

“i have a girlfriend,” festus shrugs, “can’t.”

coriolanus barks out a bitter laugh, “who would date you?”

“okay, that’s fucking rude, and she’s hella hot, so fuck off, please,” festus rolls his eyes, “go on, sejanus!”

sejanus frowns, festus was talking so loud that the girls were now looking at them, with their judgemental, pristine stares.

so he sighs, and raises to a stand, making coriolanus’ eyebrows furrow, he knew sejanus was weak, impulsive, but not to this level, “you aren’t actually gonna do it, are you?”

“i am,” sejanus sounds confident, but he isn’t. poor, sweet sejanus.

what a trainwreck, like something you try to hard to look away from, but you just can’t. your eyes follow him as he moves over to the girls, a small smile curving his lips when he finally approaches them, an opposite to their sharp eyes. clemensia’s head tips to the side, “yes, sejanus?”

sejanus inhales, trying to remind himself that he does have a way with words, so just use that.

his eyes move down to you, “i was wondering if—“

“no,” you respond quickly.

he swallows, “okay.”

and festus is laughing, god it’s more of a cackle than a laugh.

but the girls don’t laugh, they know festus’ game, if anything they hate festus more than any of the poor boys that are dared to ask them out for dates.

“who’s your girlfriend?” coriolanus asks, having a feeling that he’s lying.

festus’ laughter immediately calms down, “she’s a pornstar, and she’s like super in love with me.”

“does she even know you exist?” coriolanus scoffs, “‘m sure she’s just doing her job.”

“shut the fuck up,” he rolls his eyes, “you’re just mad you could never get with a girl like mine.”

“let me see her,” coriolanus offers, and of course, festus pulls up a picture of a girl who hardly shows her face.

you can only see her lips, and from then on she’s in very tight and revealing clothing, coriolanus stares at the picture for a second, then looks at festus.

festus smirks cockily, “hot, right?”

hot, is that all he views his so called girlfriend as?

“you can’t even see her face,” he confronts, and festus rolls his eyes.

“that’s not the point—“

“then what is?”

“her videos, dude, they’re so good,” festus’ voice becomes a loudly hushed whisper now.

coriolanus’ jaw ticks, “you sure she even knows you?”

“okay, she doesn’t— but like—“ he groans, “why don’t you try to get her to notice you, asshole?”

“i don’t watch porn,” coriolanus shrugs simply.

festus coughs out a laugh, “yeah, say that again when you’re searching girlnextdoor tonight.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

coriolanus, in his own defense, should be saying that it was curiosity. at first it was, yes, pure innocent, unshielded curiosity. then it became what it truly was underneath all of his guards, admiration. with each video, each picture, it had his teeth gritting. he didn’t want to pay to see your exclusive content at first, but with how little you showed on every other platform, it almost felt necessary. girlnextdoor, what a peculiar name, he was itching to know more about you.

maybe it was the competition festus had set him up for that had him wanting this, coriolanus was never one for porn, or for jerking off. but god, he might now be. it was disgusting, how much his mind raced with every suggestive picture, ones where you teased the contents underneath your bra, or a video where you were taking off your panties but still showing nothing.

he went back to your original website, only to find, in bold letters, LIVE.

live? he swallows thick, cursor moving to click on the maroon enticing him.

the sight that came nearly had him clicking off almost immediately, you had been moved into a cowgirl position, riding a dildo. your moans filled his eardrums almost immediately, each whine, each movement of your hips delivering a squelching sound. he felt like a dehydrated man, throat run dry, tongue devoid of any saliva. aphrodite, in her natural habitat, sex, love, devotion, she is putting herself on display— yet with the camera placed to show everything only from below her nose, she is so hidden at the same time.

he was biting the delicate skin on the inside of his cheek, peaking near the metallic taste, but he didn’t even realize over the heat rushing to his dick. he breathed out, wondering what it would feel like if you were to be on him, with those experienced hips, that body which looks like it was crafted from the gods himself, your pussy swallowing his dick whole—

he clicks off as soon as the thought sears in his mind, he doesn’t need to be thinking of a pornstar like this.

his eyes close for a minute, and all he can see in that darkness is the shape of your body, the bucking of your hips as you ride the dildo, and he sighs.

he should sleep. it’s late.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

INTERLUDE : HAUNTED .

adoration, a statue by stephen abel sinding, made from delicate marble. it depicted a man at a woman’s feet, as she sat upon a pedestal. he was on his knees, eyes staring up at the goddess in front of him, as she sat with her back straight, eyes falling upon the man that worshipped her. he kissed her legs with care, admiration, hands slipping onto her calves as he plants his lips upon her shins. she was gorgeous above him, allowing him to take every part of her into his hold, to kiss her and devote his whole pride to her.

coriolanus swallows thick, he thought that when his eyes moved to a close, his thoughts would dissipate.

they got worse, so, so much worse. they were more vivid now, dirtier, his longing worsening.

he imagined what words would spill from your mouth as your hips swayed on him, he allowed you to take the lead, restraining himself from fucking into you like a desperate man. to be honest, he was desperate, he was needy, the feeling of your puffy walls closing in on him had him almost whimpering himself. a god is no match to his goddess, he will always fall to his knees in front of her, no matter what. coriolanus had pride, surely, but the idea of your clit rubbing against his abdomen as your hips stuttered on him had his pride becoming weak façades.

say that again when you’re searching girlnextdoor tonight.

fuck you, festus. he was the reason that coriolanus even knew this camgirl existed, the reason for the painful stains on his mind.

festus wouldn’t be so cocky if the girl he calls his girlfriend had coriolanus’ dick in her mouth.

the feeling of your mouth on his dick became vivid as well now, he could see it so clearly, your doe eyes staring up at him through those velvet lashes as your pillow lips move to press sloppy, open - mouthed kisses onto the tip of his cock. you were teasing him, surely, and he couldn’t take it. he would grit out a small plea for you to actually suck him in, and he would feel your lips curl onto his tip, “beg.”

begging, coriolanus always hated the idea of it, he thought it was weak, gross, submissive.

but in this moment, he was so clouded with lust that he didn’t care for the repercussions of a simple please.

“please, just fucking— god, i need—“ he couldn’t even get his words right, it was sweet. your eyebrow cocked at him, his piercing blue eyes staring down at you through dilated pupils and lazy lids. you finally took pity, lips parting further so your tongue could snake out and slide underneath his cock as you take him in finally. the warmth was all too much for coriolanus, wetness, warmth, his fingers move to thread through the weaves of your hair, his bottom lip falling tight underneath his top teeth.

his hips buck ever so slightly, again, desperation. you don’t react though, if anything, you just moaned around him.

no gag reflex? dear god, you’ll be coriolanus’ ruin.

god will not be present in this moment though, as though this is a reenactment of the martyrdom of saint sebastian. arrows shooting at him as he falls to his fate, he was strung up, shot with the painful spears, and left for his death. isn’t that so alike to now? festus had tied him up, fed him stories of this woman and allowed him to fall into sin, then left him for his own demise.

apples began to taste sweeter, even with their poison, as coriolanus finds his hand dipping below his waistband, his long fongers fell along his painful hardness. he mumbled a curse into the gentle air as he finally relieves himself from all of his sins, as of he’s sitting in the confessional of a church, whispering all of his sins to the judgemental priest. the scales tipped as his fingers moved to curl around his cock, fist moving up and down on his length.

the pictures continued, he thought of how he would take care of you first, now if he was the one dominating.

he would go rough, he always loved the idea of fucking someone senseless, making every vein buzz with only pleasure, mind forming thoughts solely of lust. he imagines holding you close as his fingers curl inside of you, he doesn’t push them in and out fast at first, but when your hips buck up against him— he becomes harsher, the intention of bruising your lips evident.

next, he moves to press you against the mattress, fucking you senseless into it.

he hums into the air, “ah— fuck..”

his breathing is labored, eyes scrunching shut as the pictures of your eyes rolling back becomes a mere oil painting in front of him, perched on the walls of the most pristine museums. his fingers would pass through your hair again, now the back of your head, pulling you back so your spine is flush against his chest. you’d lean back against him, melting into his skin and begging for more. surely, you had enough experience from your dildos and other sexual toys, or partners, but none of them could compare to coriolanus as his hips snap into you.

he groans into the air, seething in the pleasure, “i’ll fuck you so good..— mm.”

he moves to now fuck into his hand, imagining his hand a depiction of your velvet walls around him, clenching as you near your high.

you moan against his flesh, his fingers moving from your hair to your neck, pulling you until your flesh molds with his, adoration and lust merging you two together.

he went faster, harsher, fucking into his hand until his thighs grew sore, finally reaching his high.

he spills into his hand, sighing into the humid air.

“my god—“ he mumbles, eyes fluttering open.

what the fuck is his problem?

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

INTERLUDE : DARE ME ?

“so, did you talk to her?” festus interrogates him, per usual.

coriolanus’ eyes are heavy, he hardly slept after the events of last night, “no, i didn’t.”

“fucking loser,” festus snears, “she was live last night.”

“i know,” he swallows thick, the image of you riding the dildo returning to his mind, “did you talk to her?”

“yeah,” he shrugs, cocky, again, “i’m texting her right now.”

coriolanus’ eyebrows furrow, he leans over to see festus sending a message.

a phone goes off in the library.

as soon as the message is sent.

coriolanus blinks, once, twice, “send another.”

so he does, he types out another message and send it.

the same phone goes off again, just as the message says delivered.

coincidence?

coriolanus doesn’t believe in those.

“you’re so fucking weird dude, don’t try to read my messages,” festus pushes him away.

coriolanus groans, he couldn’t care less to read festus’ messages, “are you paying her to talk to you?”

“yes, but that’s not the point—“ festus quickly tries to save himself from the humiliation.

coriolanus scoffs, “she’s not your girlfriend, you can’t even get one, like ever.”

“and what about you, virgin?” festus leans in, a smirk growing on his lips. coriolanus knows what that smirk means, it means coriolanus will soon be sealing his fate, “why don’t you try to get one?”

“i’m good,” coriolanus shrugs, “nobody’s here for you to even dare me to ask out.”

“clemensia is,” he points to the table where you and clemensia always sit at, and of course, you’re both there, “and her friend.”

“i’m not asking them out,” coriolanus moves down in his chair.

“yes you are, i dare you.”

“no, you’re so fucking stu—“

“i’m gonna tell everyone you’re a virgin.”

coriolanus’ weakness was people knowing all the humiliating things about him, one of those things was the fact that he hasn’t had sex yet. coriolanus was an attractive man, he could get women if he truly wanted to and spend his nights with them, but he refused. and that made festus’ dares easy.

coriolanus’ jaw shifts, “you’re an asshole.”

every step he takes is slow, calculated, yet confident. it’s a certain stride that coriolanus always has, where he knows what he’s doing, but unsure at the same time. especially now, especially when your hair falls off your shoulder as you turn to have your eyes fall on him, sensing his approach. maybe it was a common thing for you, knowing festus would be daring his friends to come up to you, clemensia, or arachne.

always on high alert, he assumes.

his eyes fall the exposition of your shoulder, a key to one of those tight shirts that you always wear, even when it was against dress code.

a tight skirt and a short skirt, your motto, clearly. your twist underneath the table when he stands next to your seat, close, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. one thing he does notice though, is the strap of your bra. pink? a familiar shade, and as he follows it down, he notices the lace that starts on your bra. it looks an awful lot like the bra that the camgirl wore last night, the bra that coriolanus imagined you taking off for him.

his eyes narrow, he seems distracted, and you stare at him like he’s dumb, “hello?”

his eyes snap to your face at your words, “sorry— i—“

“what? are you gonna ask me out?” god, were you always this bitchy?

“i was planning on it,” his jaw shifts, eyes dipping to the plush of your lips, coated in that sparkly, strawberry gloss you always wore, “would you have said yes?”

“no, god, what is with you assholes?” you roll your eyes, pencil tapping impatiently against the desk.

“hm, not even a study date?” his eyes trail down to the book on your desk, “i saw your score on the test last week.”

“ew, fucking creep,” you snap, “i don’t need your help.”

“you sure?” his eyebrow cocks, your no isn’t stable yet, so he’s persuasive.

“coriolanus,” clemensia cuts in, “she said no.”

“did she?” he whistles, a cocky smile curving his lips, one that you want to slap off him, “must’ve not heard that.”

“then get some hearing aids,” you laugh, “i’m not sucking your dick.”

“didn’t ask you to, but we’ll see, sweetheart.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

we’ll see. he didn’t even know where those words came from, or his cockiness, maybe it was the fact that he suspected you to be the girl he had on his mind last night. if so, then he would know things about you that many don’t, and that gives him power.

greed : an insatiable desire for material objects, wealth, and power.

coriolanus snow was a greedy man.

he kept a closer eye on you now, eyes pinning to the back of your head, memorizing the way you style your hair, so that he can see if the hair that drips off your shoulders in all of your secret videos were the same. or if your lips were as sparkly and glossed in those videos as they are in person. did you wear the same mini skirt you wore to school in your videos? that would be dirty, wouldn’t it? capitol girl, dressed in her pristine clothes as she fucks herself in front of thousands.

what a slut.

he had to figure it out, it was an untamable hunger that not even the most holy prayer could exorcize out of him. rosaries dripped around the fingers he used to curl around his cock the night before, and even in his most innocent prayers, his mind reflected back onto the idea of pulling the rosary around your neck as he fucks into you. his eyes snap open, and now just another thing that he had done so clearly before was plagued with your existence.

was this you calling out to him? beckoning him to pray for you?

if so, he might just do it, dedicate all of his rosaries to you, replace virgin mary with yourself, and look at every cross and think of you moving onto it, sliding the wood into your womanhood.

coriolanus’ throat was dry again, his own thoughts making him want to vomit.

those were the kinds of things festus would be fantasizing about, not coriolanus— and yet, here he was, on his knees, imagining you on the pedestal. your hair dips past your shoulders as you look down at him, those judgemental, buggish eyes, now bleeding onto his skull. his fingers dip behind your calves, memorizing the touch of the flesh that smoothed over muscle and bone. his eyes cascade up your legs, past your breasts, to the eyes that look down on him.

he has a certain look in his eyes, a look that is saying he’s doing this all for you. dropping his pride for you, allowing his walls to crumble for you, tarnishing his name for you. sometimes snow doesn’t land on top, sometimes it melts and becomes weak in the sky, sometimes it crumbles underneath itself.

he plants gentle kisses to your shins, admirations, soft praises and prayers.

goddess, did you hear about the man who roamed lost? the man who fell weak? tell me of his efforts, what brought him to this point, the people he met, the worlds he crossed, to now be brought to his knees in front of his muse. he was complicated, hidden, and yet you peeled him apart like a pomegranate. the juice splatters against your face as he opens himself to you, and something about it is so very special.

scratches fall down his back, and again, he’s blinking himself to reality.

his fingers on the keyboard, he finds himself at your profile once more, now beckoning you to him. a twisted game of tug - of - war, isn’t it? pieces fall into place as he clicks on the link which leads him to paying for your exclusive content.

research purposes, of course.

he spends his money so easily, he doesn’t even take a second thought to it as the page reloads with his newfound access to all your hidden secrets. his fingers pry as he pulls down the website, scrolling through each aspect that you hold in the reflections of who you really are.

a whore? no, a temptress.

he sucks in a breath at the sights of you bending over in front of the camera, fucking a dildo into yourself, or the next one of you in a missionary position with a vibrator on your clit. or the next one of you fucking a dildo between your tits. coriolanus rasps out the breath he sucked in earlier, adjusting in his seat, this wasn’t another invitation to jerk off, it was studying.

he scrolls past a few more videos and then, his eyes catch it, the skirt.

a small smile curves his lips, power.

he has it.

or so, he thinks he does, you have his money, his admiration, him on his knees, have him confused on whether or not this is truly you. skirts and coincidences don’t tell much, he just likes to jump to conclusions. the hair didn’t even match up—

so does he really have the power?

we’ll see, sweetheart.

#coriolanus x y/n #coriolanus x you #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus smut #coriolanus imagine #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus snow #tbosas #tom blyth #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #smut

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