#the guy doing gymnastics in the back is KILLING. ME. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gaoau · 4 months ago

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i've been thinking a lot about Suo and i need it to stop, so i wanna analyse him a little bit and say things into the void. normally i like to psychoanalyse characters in fics but i've seen that side of the fandom and i do NOT wanna go there, so i'm saving myself by pulling the same thing i did with Nanao ig.

disclaimer: this isn't necessarily a theory about his backstory as much as it is what i personally wanna see happen. see, if i were writing him, i'd do very specific things that could go in various directions, but since i am not, unfortunately, writing him and he's not my character to fuck with, all i can do is yap. which, also, probably won't be very eloquent.

manga spoilers for literally the whole manga up to date btw.

i don't think we won't be getting a backstory on him, to be honest. with a character like him, yeah, the mystery is part of the charm, and having this much anticipation can suck ass if once the secret gets revealed, it doesn't stick the landing. but i doubt Nii Satoru doesn't have something planned for him. why would bro be leaving Suo's room illustration out of the fanbook if there wasn't something there to talk about? what is in his room to talk about? but that's not what this is about.

anyway i'm gonna be so fr Suo's built like a dog. he's clearly full of shit, and yknow, that's fine, good for him, but there are things that are so painfully obvious he's just straight up lying about. after his fight with Kanuma, which is deadass the first time we see him fight, he says he "doesn't usually get so emotional," which ?? shut the fuck up? that's not true.

i know a liar when i see one. we've seen him fight five times? six if i wanna be generous; in three of those he got crazy emotional (Kanuma, keel, and Endo), and just a tiny bit miffed with the gymnast guy idr his name fuck that freak. which, listen, to be fair, if someone touched a single hair on Nirei's head in front of me, real me too i'd kill a guy. but look me in the eye lil bro don't lie to me. real talk, though, he was more than ready to kill the keel dude, and was going to. he wanted to. he was shaking while Sakura held him back, don't play with me. he wasn't gonna stop just cause someone was interjecting.

bro was itching to kill, side-eyeing Sakura, spitting snark cause how's the hot-headed mf who jumps head-first into a brawl without a second thought staying more rational than him, the rational one? Sakura's talking to him the same way i talk to my dog after she tries to kill my cat. i'm ngl my dog has better self-restraint than this kid. he also just straight up xd's his way out of it? like "oh whoopsies! mb gang! i was just feeling silly goofy! 🤪" like he forgets he's not supposed to glare at people with murder in his eyes.

speaking of murder! this is where i want him to have killed someone before Bofurin. he's, like, 15? so there's not much time to work with, but the same way Kaji was going feral at idk 8 years old, i can see a world in which Suo actually went overboard when he was a younger kid. (i'm not saying this is what things are pointing at, but i want this to be the case. i would do this myself.)

he is emotional, i don't think that's up for debate. i understand why he gets so emotional and i do think it's very noble and cool and swag of him, that's a good person, somewhat, he cares about his friends and it pisses him off when they get hurt. i fuck with that. that's great, get him an ice cream (if he even eats fucking weirdo). but why are we acting like "i am chill ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ" when, clearly, that's not true?

here's where his teacher comes in. for how much grief i'm giving him, i don't think he's all lies at all. i don't think him liking Nirei and Sakura enough to not only speak highly of them, but also fuck a guy up for them, is a lie. i think he is as kind as Umemiya describes him to be, cause honestly, if Umemiya says someone is kind, then they probably are.

i don't think this is necessarily fake as much as i think it's borrowed. it's learned behaviour. it's teachings passed down to him by his teacher. it's discipline. it's not something that comes naturally to him, but it is something a person he respects and looks up to taught him, so he tries to live by it. he's very clearly been disciplined, probably got beaten into the ground by his teacher, got his ass handed to him again and again and again until he sharpened his reflexes and learned how to control himself in a fight.

he talks a lot about adulthood, talks a lot about maturing, talks a lot about self-control and whatnot. which, by the way, this is a child? lil bro you're fifteen go play on your switch idk. but i'd like to think this comes from someone telling him, "hey, what you did was not okay. you have a lot of strength and you're not an animal. use it wisely so you can one day grow into a proper adult." solely cause i want him to have killed someone. that's all i want.

i think it would make sense, really. how funny would it be if he was living similarly to Sakura? i've seen people headcanon him as a rich kid, but he lies a lot, and i wouldn't put it past him to be living in a sad, lonely one-room apartment. there's a billion ways things could be done with him. maybe his parents didn't care to try disciplining him, maybe he grew up with no parents at all. he has a short fuse, that's easy to tell, even if he acts like he's got everything under control. it's a very Suzuri type of situation, so maybe it's not the direction Nii Satoru is gonna take things, but one can dream.

as for the eyepatch, i haven't really thought much about it. the way i see things, he's gotta come from a neglectful background, so losing an eye would make sense. or maybe he did it himself, i'd love to see that (i would do that with a character like this if he was mine). if his eye is even missing at all, cause all things considered, it might be sort of just a way to give himself a handicap to remind himself not to go overboard.

which, circling back to the self-restraint thing, i like to think that's the reason he doesn't really use much excessive force. not to say he doesn't kick and punch, cause lil bro packs a mean punch, but he doesn't gravitate to hitting people. he's usually using his opponent's weight and momentum against them, which is why i was decently surprised when i saw him grab the keel dude and wind back to bash his face in. he's not violent, until he lets go of what little self-restraint he has, and then he is. it's values and principles that come from someone else telling him how to behave, except he still struggles to hold himself back.

to put it in simple terms, if he were my character, this is what i would do. i'd have him kill someone by going overboard as a kid, have him be taken in by this teacher, have him disciplined and clean his act up by beating his ass, and then have him parrot all these teachings at people he meets later. cause that's essentially what he's doing, he's just repeating things someone else told him. what does bro know about being an adult he doesn't even pay taxes go do your trig homework. but he tries, and you can tell he's trying, even if it doesn't come natural, he cares about his friends and he cares about becoming a better person, he's just a little too quick to snap.

you know what i mean? he cares about Nirei in particular, he loves Nirei, he tries to learn from Nirei. (guys i love Nirei i wont shut the fuck up). but fr, he's got that Nanao complex where he instigates things or sets things into motion and doesn't quite participate. he watches from the back, for better or for worse, but he doesn't necessarily involve himself in things. he keeps a distance. he feels like the other side to Sakura's coin sometimes, learning about people and how warm they actually are. he's all prim and proper and nonchalant, but he recognises he's no match for Sakura and maybe even Nirei. after all, it's always Nirei the one grabbing both of them by the arm and dragging them places.

he talks so big and maturely about not meddling too much with people who can't quite handle friendship yet, and then goes "!" when Nirei tells him "? fuck are you talking about? that's the more reason to teach Sakura about friendship." it's the look on his face after Nirei, despite Suo's long-winded and logical argument, goes to Kotoha and insists they help Sakura anyway. he's learning from Nirei too. also Nirei's crazy endearing so real me too but that's beside the point.

i don't think these parts of him are fake, but they might just be artificial. he's still integrating them into his own person and making them his, but he still slips here and there. he's not quite there yet. i hope he killed someone when he was 8yo. that's all thank you for reading thumbsup

#wind breaker #hayato suo #nirei akihiko #me when nanao has nothing to do with wind breaker but i still find a way to bring him up #real talk tho um ?#idk suos a little weirdo #excited to see what nii satoru does with him #knock knock sensei let me in i have ideas!!#i love nirei so much you dont understand #kids get behind me ill fight these mfs for you #if this doesnt make sense then idk skill issue or smth

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bearw-me · 7 months ago

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Lute x really flexible/gymnast fem reader with toned abs and legs that she's a little insecure about?

ORRRRR

Idk if you watch helluva boss, but: Lute reacting to her gf snapping a neck/suffocating a demon with her thighs like Millie did to that agent?

Your choice!!! (You might be able to combine these, idk)

i do watch helluva boss! blitzo's probably my spirit animal lmao. So i decided to do both! ( your request also strikes a nerve that may or may not include milly + moxxie )

𝐋𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐆𝐲𝐦𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫!

𐐒 includes : lute x fem!reader 𐐒 cw : fluff, hurt/comfort, swearing, lute struggles to be soft, suggestive 𐐒 summary : Lute can tell somethings up with you, she just has to confront you 𐐒 word count : 757 𐐒 note : hcs i wrote at the start of this are included! loved working on this request it just took some time to get out p e r f e c t l y ~

The lieutenant picks a spot next to you on a cool cloud, her black wings folding in on themselves firmly.

"Hey," she starts.

"Hey," you repeat.

And the way she stares at you make you feel like she knows somethings wrong. That classic, sharp stare of hers. It makes you shrink a bit more into yourself, hiding parts of your skin from her as if they were wounded.

Lute looks ahead, mushing the cumulus under her hands as she stares ahead towards the training grounds. You had been watching her train. . . but only watching.

"So, you aren't going to train anymore? You know I-. . ." Lute catches her voice with a hiss. Its so incredibly hard and so awkward for her to get her words out.

WHY

You watch with a little smile as she rips two little chunks of clouds out. Gripping them tightly against her face in frustration.

If she were scolding her army, or telling Adam to watch his mouth, this would be so, easy! But. . . she was talking to you. Her girlfriend, and she knew something was wrong.

Getting there, to that honest softness inside her was- fucking hard!- but she had to try.

With a new found determination, she turned her whole body towards you, eyebrows hardened into a flat line.

"I love you," Lute sat forward, letting her warm hands rest on your legs, "and I want you to tell me what's bothering you. . . You know you can tell me anything. I can handle it." She offered a reassuring smile.

With a shaky sigh, you turned to face her, watching as the dark angel now took your hands in hers, rubbing little circles into your skin. It felt like a barbed wire was clutching at your throat, nerves clamping around your heart.

Maybe she'd think its stupid.

With a long, shaky breath, your lips parted in soft confession.

"I'm just not feeling that confident in. . . in how I look," your tone broke from the weight of the truth, head falling with shame.

Lute let her grip slip of your grasp, the pair of pale hands cupping your face instead, insisting that you looked up at her.

Your eyes popped open with surprise.

The way she was looking at you: her golden eyes held an unspeakable softness to them, edged with those dark lashes that made her intimidating. . .

She's only ever looked at you like that.

And now, there was a little patch of scarlet blooming across the bridge of her nose. The sexiest blush that made your heart speed up.

"So that's why you didn't want to train huh?" Lute tsked you, wiping tears from your eyes you didn't know you had with her thumbs. "You remember that sinner I saw you kill?"

It was your turn to blush this time. Vaguely remembering that guys neck you snapped with your legs. "Oh god," you mumble, trying to hide and squirm from her hands.

"Hey!" Lute laughs, pulling you closer into her lap.

God she's strong.

She lifted your legs over hers, motioning for you to put your arms over her shoulders whilst she nestled hers around your waist. The dark feathers of her wings expanding like a protective wall around her back to yours.

Honesty is a virtue, she reminds herself.

"Seeing you kill that sinner was- literally the sexiest thing I've ever witnessed."

"Lute!"

She laughs, giving your middle a firm squeeze "You're the sexiest thing in heaven, and there's not one thing about you body that I don't worship." This time, she sighs, glancing you shamelessly up and down.

"Gods, I'm horrible at this. . ." Lute lets her head plop into your shoulder, glancing up at you in order to gauge your reaction.

"I love you, and its for a lot of reasons," she mumbles, straightening up in your arms. So close you can feel her breath on your lips. "Just don't forget that."

Lute biting her lip until it bleeds

physical affection all the way with your body (she'd have trouble taking her hands off you when no one else is around)

And to put it simply, she may not tell you all the time that she adores your body, but she definitely shows it

supports you in anyway and always shows up to watch you during practice or competitions (on that note she'd be the one cheering the loudest for you)

she's super proud to be your girlfriend / call you hers

squish her head like a watermelon whattt

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nova-is-a-writer-now · 3 months ago

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Hidden embers

Chapter 2

Chapter summary: Tensions rise during a church fundraiser, unexpected closeness with Joel begins to blur the lines between what’s right and wrong.

A/N: It took me so long to post this, school has been killing me lately, my sincerest apologies. This is a fun little chapter, wrote it a while back. I’m currently writing chapter 4 and I can’t wait for you guys to read that one. I hope you enjoy this 🤍

Warnings: No outbreak AU, Age gap, DBF!Joel, some accidental physical contact lol

Series masterlist

Two days after the barbeque, you’re woken up by the gentle touch of your dad stroking your hair.

“Hey, sweetheart.” he says almost in a whisper

You squint at the clock on your nightstand, its red numbers flashing in the dim morning light. The faint glow through your curtains barely illuminates your dad’s face. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, kiddo. Just wanted to let you know I’m off to that church fundraiser we told you about. They need me and Joel to help with setting up lights and whatnot. Didn’t know if you’d wanna come”

You groan, rolling onto your back and closing your eyes. “Dad, it's 6:30 a.m on a Sunday. The only thing I wanna do right now is burrow myself in this bed for at least three more hours.”

He chuckles softly, standing up from where he was crouching next to your bed. “Alright, you’ll have to help your mom with the baking then. She’s gonna be selling all those pastries today and I bet she could use a sous-chef”

Before he can make it any closer to the door, you sit up in your bed and rub your eyes “I’m up. Be down in 5”

You cradle a hot cup of coffee to your chest, the summer heat creeping in very slowly this early in the morning. Your first stop is Joel’s house and even the struggle to keep your eyes open doesn’t distract you from the nervous flutter in your stomach at the thought of seeing him again.

You've been doing mental gymnastics, trying your damn hardest to keep your mind off of him, convincing yourself this is just a silly fixation and will pass as soon as you get used to seeing him around. Just push through it, and eventually, your heart will get the memo.

Your dad pulls up to his driveway and parks right next to his truck. The front door is in your direct line of sight when Joel opens it, carrying a couple boxes and a toolbelt slung over his shoulder. You have to make a conscious effort to not stare at his arms, at how big they get whenever he carries heavy things around—that proves to be a lot harder when he’s walking in a straight line towards you.

Thankfully, your dad gets out of the car to help, sparing you from further gawking. You hear him ask if there are any boxes left inside and from the way he heads back towards the house, you guess the answer is yes.You roll your window down to ask if he needs any help just as those strong arms you were trying to ignore rest themselves on the window frame.

“You didn’t strike me as an early bird.” Joel says, his eyes now leveled with yours, much closer than you had been two days ago.

Your cheeks betray you, flushing a shade of red that now feels reserved for him. “Do I strike you as my mom’s baking assistant for the entire day?” you retort, a grin sneaking onto your face.

You’d be lying through your teeth if you said you weren’t trying to earn another one of those earth shattering chuckles with your comment. Turns out you’re pretty good at it, because a second later he’s dropping his head, a low rumbly chuckle escaping him. “I reckon you don’t.”

His eyes come back up to meet yours, holding for a beat longer than they probably should, like he’s giving you one more tiny bread crumb to follow the trail, to figure out the riddle. Or maybe you’re just losing your mind, which is entirely possible.

Just when the tension between you two is about to reach a breaking point, your dad reappears with more boxes.

“A little help, pal? It wouldn’t kill ya,” he calls out, breaking the spell.

As your dad parks the car in front of the church, you spot Mrs. Calloway, the lively old lady you spoke to at the barbecue, waving energetically. The early morning sun casts long shadows across the church’s lawn, the air carrying the faint smell of freshly-cut grass.

“Oh good, you’re here!” she greets the three of you as you step out of the car.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Calloway. How’s the day treatin’ you?” your dad asks, hauling open the truck's tailgate.

“Oh, busy, so much to do. I see you brought me an extra pair of hands here,” she says, sidling up to you and giving your arm a friendly squeeze.

“Yeah, he was very convincing, couldn’t refuse the invite,” you reply with a polite smile. You've taken a real liking to Mrs. Calloway. She never talks about your parents when she chats with you. Instead, she asks about your life or shares stories about her cats—which is a refreshing change of pace.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t, pumpkin. I have a bunch of decorations to put up inside.” She leans in closer and half-whispers, “And for all their virtues, I wouldn’t trust these ones with decorating if it was my last day on earth.”

You can’t help but giggle just as a voice comes from the back of the truck. “Heard that.”

You turn to see Joel balancing a couple boxes with practiced ease “Is she wrong?” you ask, a teasing smile on your lips.

He grins, shaking his head. “No, she’s very right.”

“Oh, Joel could help you out” Mrs. Calloway suggests. “There are some pretty big containers stuffed in the back of the storage room with everything you’ll need. Why don’t you go grab them while we start setting up the tables out here?”

“You got it,” you say, trying to wave away the thought of being alone with Joel again.

You walk into the church with Joel trailing just behind, his presence is a comforting warmth against the cool morning air. The quiet of the church envelops you both, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly. You spot a door in the back corner “That’s the one?”

“That’s the one.” Joel confirms, taking the lead as you reach the storage room.

Inside, you find a mountain of containers piled up against the wall, with big brown boxes and plastic bags teetering on top.

“So, how many of these do we need?” you ask, hoping to distract yourself from how close he is.

“Just a couple to start with,” Joel replies, handing you one of the containers. “We’ll come back if we need more.”

You both carry the containers out of the storage room, the clatter of plastic echoing through the empty church hall.

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Joel says, setting his container down and opening it. You follow suit, pulling out strings of lights, banners, and a variety of festive decorations.

“I didn’t think we’d be doing arts and crafts today,” you joke, unfurling a particularly colorful garland.

Joel smiles. “Yeah, not exactly my forte, but we’ll make it work.”

You pick a banner out of the container, large enough to hang from one column to the other, and spot metal hooks screwed all the way up—clearly where it’s meant to go.

You notice a small ladder pushed against a corner and leave Joel’s side to fetch it.

He only seems to notice what you’re up to once he hears the ladder scraping against the column

“Leave it, I'll take care of that.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. I’m not a lady in distress, I can hang up a banner on my own, Joel.” You reply stepping up on the ladder trying to test out its stability with a little bounce

“I know you can darlin’, but I’d rather do it myself. That ladder—”

“The ladder is fine, Joel. Go back to untangling those lights.” You’re not quite sure what you’re trying to prove – maybe this was an attempt at stripping away that childish image he had of you.

He disregards your comment and walks right to your side, his hands slightly stretched out like he's preparing to catch you.

“You’re being so dramatic,” you say climbing to the highest point of the ladder.

Sure, it’s old but if it held up this long it could hold for a little bit longer. “See? I’m just fine, I just gotta hook this up here…”

As if on cue, the ladder starts creaking ominously just as you stretch your arm out to reach the hook. Not half a second later, the rusty metal piece that was holding all your weight up snaps and Joel’s arms wrap around your body, pulling you safely against his chest.

For the second time that day, you could say that was the closest to Joel you’ve ever been. His face just inches away from yours, both arms holding you securely, the woody, musky scent your brain had labeled as uniquely his, overwhelming your senses.

Words failed you as you stared into those deep brown eyes, and every part of you wanted to believe it was just the shock of the fall, but it was getting harder and harder to keep shamelessly lying to yourself.

When he finally breaks the silence, it’s pretty much a lost battle. “Will you stop being so stubborn and let me help you now?”

“Favorite color”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Joel chuckles once again, and at this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve pulled that off. With Joel Miller, even a small chuckle feels like a major accomplishment.

After spending the entire morning decorating the inside of the church (most of which you spent explaining to him he couldn’t mix the red decorations with the green ones because it wasn’t christmas), you were both assigned raffle duty. You sold the tickets and Joel put them in the big raffle draw, using the lever to mix them up as he went.

The two of you sat behind a little stand, and in your best attempt to hear as much as you could of that sweet, caramel-y drawl, you convinced him to play twenty-questions. Each of you took turns asking the other whatever popped into your heads, and the other had to answer honestly.

Your questions ranged from what animal he would choose to turn into if he could shapeshift at will, to his favorite subjects back in high school, and even who in your family he would take to a deserted island if he knew he’d have to partner up to make it out alive. (He picked you, obviously. Your dad was terrible at functioning in high pressure situations). His questions on the other hand had been generic at best, deadly boring at worst.

You leaned back in your chair, the wooden slats creaking under your weight, and gave him a playful glare.

“You said any question that popped into my head,” he defends himself, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Oh and you’re dying to know my favorite color, are you?” you ask back, dripping with sarcasm.

“I’ll lose sleep over it if you don’t tell me” his voice gets low and serious in complete contrast to how ridiculous his statement is.

“Blue,” you admit, “but not the default shade of blue everyone thinks of, more like a ‘clear water lake’ kind of blue” you look back at him and he just kind of stares, like he's too distracted by you to even register the answer to his question. “What’s your’s?” you ask, pulling him out of his trance.

“Brown.”

You laugh at his answer.

“Something funny?” he asks

“Only you, Joel Miller, would have brown as your favorite color.”

“It’s a perfectly normal favorite color.” He says defensively, a little frown creasing his features.

“Joel, it’s the most boring of colors, it’s not even a color in itself, it's all the colors mushed together.” you giggle at the absurdity of the conversation, leaning in closer, enjoying the banter more than you care to admit.

“It’s practical, goes well with everything, looks good in any house—an easy, simple color.”

“But your favorite color isn’t supposed to be about practicality, it’s supposed to be about which one you like the most.” You argue back.

“You tryna tell me how to pick my own favorite color, kid?” he teases you, receiving only a death stare in return.The warmth in his eyes makes your heart skip. “Fine, it’s green.”

“See? That's a normal favorite color”

“Yeah, and you’re a piece a’ work.” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips that tells you he’s enjoying this as much as you are.

Just like that, Joel Miller makes the rest of the day easy to get through. Even with the awkward feeling of being an outsider, looking through a window into a room full of people who’ve known each other their whole lives, he manages to ground you. He’s either pulling you into senseless conversation or letting you bask in a comfortable silence, and both feel like a lifeline.

By the end of the day, you walk around helping Ms. Calloway clear out the tables, throw all the empty cups and disposable plates into a trash back and group up the chairs so your dad can take them back inside.

During one of your ‘picking up leftover trash’ rounds, you see your mom standing next to Joel’s truck. He’s right beside her loadingback up the tools he’d brought with him this morning. You knew Joel was a lot colder and closed off with other people—that's what earned him his grump reputation in the first place—but in the short time you’ve been around him since you came back, you’ve never seen him be so stiff around anyone like he is with your mom.

That is certainly a rare sight, given your mom was one to charm any and everyone who crossed her path. Pageant queen, cheerleader, hair larger than life type—your mom is a sight for sore eyes, even you have to admit that. It was hard to engage in conversation with her and not be dazzled by her looks and also by her bubbly personality, or the persona she put on for others at least. It almost seemed like she hadn’t been told no once in her entire life.

But Joel seemed immune to it, no warm smile on his face, no polite small talk, not even gentleman-like behavior beyond the strictly necessary. In fact, something in his face told you he couldn’t wait to get on his truck and leave. He stands with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, every line of his body screaming discomfort.

You watch the two of them from a distance, your mom batting her eyelashes up at him, her body leaning towards him slightly, trying to close the gap he’s so obviously desperate to maintain. Meanwhile, Joel looks like he’s doing everything in his power to keep his distance, stepping closer and closer to his truck’s tailgate. His jaw is set like stone, eyes flicking to the side as if searching for an escape route, and you can almost see the tension radiating off him in waves.

Your mom leans in closer, her voice dropping to what she probably thinks is a conspiratorial whisper. Even from a distance, you can see Joel’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something like annoyance passing over his face before he schools his expression back to neutral.

An unshakable uneasiness tugs at your chest that won't allow you to walk away, against your best instincts you decide to barge in.

“Hey, Mom!” you chirp, sliding right up next to Joel. “I think Mrs. Calloway is looking for you. Something about the pies?”

Your mom turns to you with a bright smile, though there’s a flicker of irritation in her eyes that’s hard to miss. “Oh, I’m sure she can manage without me for a moment,” she says, but you can tell she’s not thrilled about being interrupted.

Joel gives you a grateful look, his eyes meeting yours with a silent thanks. You catch a slight relaxation in his shoulders, like he’s the one being thrown a lifeline this time.

“Actually, Mom, she seemed really insistent,” you retort, trying to sell the urgency of the situation. “You know… with the wrapping things up and all.”

Your mom hesitates, her gaze flicking between you and Joel. Finally, she relents with a sigh, though the look she gives you says this conversation is far from over. “Alright, I’ll go see what she needs. But we’re not done talking about this, Joel,” she says, her voice carrying an edge that makes your skin crawl, before turning on her heel and striding away.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Joel exhales a long breath. He extends you one more polite nod and jumps into the truck without another word. You don’t like the feeling it gives you, not one bit.

Before you can dwell too much in your thoughts, you hear your mom’s voice calling your name, and you turn to see her motioning for you to join her. Here comes the earful.

With a resigned sigh, you make your way over to her, bracing for the inevitable.

“Sweetheart,” she begins in a voice that’s both sugar and vinegar, “you really shouldn’t interrupt when adults are talking. It’s important to know your place.”

You nod, biting back the retort on the tip of your tongue. “I know, Mom. I just thought you might want to check on Mrs. Calloway.”

She narrows her eyes, as if trying to read your mind. “If you go around behaving like a heathen, it reflects poorly on me. You’d do well to remember that.”

You stare back at her, head high and an unfaltering cool facade. She used to intimidate you, this tone used to make you feel so small and insignificant, but it doesn’t anymore. Hasn’t for a good while now. “Got it,” you reply, forcing a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

#dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #tlou joel #joel x reader #joel miller #joel tlou #Hidden embers

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mamirhodessxox · 10 months ago

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Daddy Dearest <3

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Girl dad!Leon x Mom!Reader

Blue for Leon pink for reader & purple for D/N

Desc: Despite his career path Leon has been developing pretty well to his girl dad life & revolves entirely around world around his wife & sweet little angel babygirl

Tags: Tooth Aching fluff, Dilf Leon, No smut ‼️‼️‼️, Just dad Leon living his dream! No use of y/n, D/n stands for Daughters Name

I'm very serious with you guys interacting with my writing!!!! it would make me so happy & excited, the more comments & reposts the more inspiration i have to write :) Votes and comments are strongly appreciated!!!

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Leon Loving his life was an understatement, He was a miserable guy not so long ago but it all changed once he met you & had his very first child! Of course after first he was worried about being a deadbeat father, but eventually he suited up and prepared for everything was to come, dropped his drinking habits, went to therapy for most of his trauma from working on the most messed up cases world wide known to mankind & even baby proofing the entire house you two shared for over 4 years.

He even went out of his way to take random target trips with you during your pregnancy to stare at nursery furniture and random trinkets and toys he found, holding up gender neutral baby clothing before knowing the gender & asking “you think this is cute sweetheart?” It was amazing how he became so obsessed with the thought of having his own little family with a white piket fence & beautiful front lawn garden (He started gardening as a coping mechanism which would soon be one of his top hobbies he brought onto his daughter.)

During the gender reveal he was nothing but pure excitement and joy to have a little baby girl that the next day he even went back to target and came home to baby-proof the entire house, testing objects to see if they would fall on a random baby doll etc, so much so that you had to go downstairs at 12 am and force him to take a break and come to bed, “You don’t think she’ll hit her head on the table one day right? I really wouldn’t want my little princess to get hurt” “I think you need to put down the baby proofing tools for the night & actually come to bed hun, it’s almost 1 o’clock”

Some days you would be in pure anguish because D/N would be doing pure gymnastics in your belly that Leon had to ‘have a talk’ but most of the time during your pregnancy he was always talking to your tummy, Asking her to relax on the jumping around in there, Sometimes waking up super early in the morning to talk to your belly & sometimes waking you up & hearing you tell him off a little bit in a muffled voice since you were buried in your body pillow. “Hi babygirl, you excited to get outta there & see your new room? Yeah? Oh I know your excited angel but you can’t keep kicking mama like this sweetheart it hurts her!”, “Can’t keep jumpin’ around in mommy’s belly sweetness your driving her insane sweetheart” “oh yeah!?You excited babydoll?” “Good morning my sweet girl, I can’t wait to see you y’know, mommy & I are so excited to meet you & hold you & love yo-“ “Leon what the hell are you doing awake at 5:30??” “Uh oh I woke up mom” “leon I swear to god if you don’t go back to sleep.”

And then came along the arrival of his awaited babygirl, he was so excited he even set up a little mini red carpet infront of her nursery & stars next to the door & even putting a little sign on your guys’ front door in bold glittery pink ‘Welcome Home Princess D/N” He even brought a little camera to make a home tape for every memory he makes with you & your daughter so when she is finally old enough she can watch, this tape includes her birthing where your shouting & screams could be heard such as “GOD FUCKING DAMNIT LEON!!” “I’M GONNA KILL YOU IN YOUR FUCKING SLEEP!”& his light crying of when she was born

After your daughter was born it was extremely difficult for you two to set a fair sleep schedule so for the first few weeks Leon would wake up at 2:30 AM whenever D/N was crying on the baby monitor and move the rocking chair placed in her room right next to the crib “What’s the matter sweetness? Can’t sleep again? I know babygirl it must be so tough trying to get your little beauty sleep huh?” He would slip his hand through the little bars of the crib and smile giddily every time she would wrap her little hand around his thumb, growing up was the most difficult for him, he cried every-time his sweet angel took her first steps, said her first word which was obviously a strained “da-da” which was to be expected since D/N was a total daddy’s girl. most of the time when he was off he would let you go to work so he could spend his days with your guys’ daughter, take her to the petting zoo, a random aquarium where she discovered her favorite animal was a sea horse, Leon’s entire existence revolved around D/N to the point where if her little fist was directed at something she wanted he bought it, she starts crying? He jumps right up to take her off your hands so you can relax, his entire world was revolving around her & you loved to see it, sometimes when you got home from work you’d see Leon on the living room floor with your daughter as she babbled playing with a random stuffed animal monkey “Hi honey, Took her to the petting zoo today, we discovered she really loves monkeys”

Some mornings when you would all sit at the table eating before the day started Leon would watch her in her high chair chew on whatever she had in-front of her causing a small mess where he would chuckle & clean up after her “Your just one messy little girl huh princess? Gonna have to teach you manners now little lady.” And then came the day where she got her very first booboo, I’m sure you can imagine what happened, Little D/N was running around the backyard chasing a butterfly while you & Leon just finished harvesting this falls apples and then randomly you heard a tiny little wail behind you causing Leon to jump up from the ground and scoop up his baby girl “Baby she has a cut on her knee we need to take her to the hospital now! Get in the car!” “Honey I think she’s alright nothing a little rubbing alcohol & a band aid can’t fix.” When the two of you went inside and into the bathroom he sat on the edge of the bath tub and sat little D/N on his knee while you rubbed some alcohol on her knee which reasonably made her wail out more than she did beforehand causing Leon to start tearing up and kissing the top of her head “I know angel I know it hurts but we can’t let your lil’ booboo get worse & nasty now can we?” Once you finished that 1 minute of anguish you two sat in the living room holding her close as you slightly teased Leon for his light crying “You love making daddy cry now don’t you honey? You know you have him tied up around your little finger huh” You joked while Leon grunted while worryingly making sure she didn’t hurt herself again

One day you caught him in her room when she was around 4 years old having a little tea party, he was sat in a chair next to her that was far to tiny for him to fit in as he wore a pink tiara around his head that was again to tiny for him & a pink fluffy tutu around his waist while fake sipping tea from the tea cup while causing her to giggle, You had just gotten home from work & leaned against the doorway smiling and holding in a laugh but Leon smiled back and stood up and had the tiny chair stuck on his ass causing you & D/N to laugh obnoxiously especially after he eventually was able to pull it off and walk over to you mumbling “shut up.” Before kissing you lightly & asking how your day went. Obviously because of his career he had to miss some important events at school for D/N and he felt AWFUL. He cried in your arms one night after returning from a 1 week trip where he missed father daughter school day where he imagined his poor babygirl sitting at her table in kindergarten watching everyone else with their dad while she had a confused expression. And every single night after that for a month straight he would have little sleepovers in her room where he read her bedtime stories, you know that one 3 little kitties book from despicable me? He obviously read that to her with the brightest smile on his face and once it was time for bed her would sleep on the floor right next to her toddler bed “Goodnight babygirl, daddy loves you so so much y’know that? You got his heart right in your little fist”

By the time she was 10 he was always helping her with school projects & homework & even going to father daughter dances with her, if

D/N wanted something all she had to do was ask and bat her little lashes, some days when he went to go pick her up from school with you in the car he would see her talking to a boy before running off to the car leaving him with a puzzled face “who the hell is that little twerp near my daughter? She does know he is not good enough for her right?” “Nuh-uh Leon, Don’t start let her have friend alright?” “Sweetheart just look at the little shit! He’s practically blushing looking at her right now!” “Oh stop it.”

Just imagine what it would be like when D/N is finally a teenager and brings a boy home for the first time..Leon makes it VERY clear nobody is good enough for his little girl & never will be, he is the entire reason why her standards will be extremely high…

xtripleiiix’s Masterlist

🏷️ List: @ginswife @coolpastelartshoe @greatkoalawizard @cokolin044 @kotoriarlert

#leon s kennedy rp #leon s kennedy fanfiction #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fluff #dad!leon kennedy #girl dad!leon kennedy #god fucking help me #i made this

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wisteriagoesvroom · 7 months ago

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helloooooo :)) sliding in with a generic marvel-esque vaguely criminal organization landoscar au with background lestappen because I am nothing if not predictable

Oscar is their resident poison specialist (he makes new poisons, tests them, makes antidotes, etc. for the organization to use). His preference is plant based poisons, like belladonna and nightshade, because he graduated college with a botany degree and therefore has a lot of knowledge about them that he can put for use. He spends most of his time in his greenhouse full of toxic, beautiful plants that he tends too very, very carefully. They’re his babies.

There’s a whole backstory involved with how he came to join the organization that involves him accidentally killing his college roommate

Lando is a former gymnast turned espionage guy who also does theft on the side for funsies that works for the organization. Like vaguely cat woman-y? Obviously he’s super flexible and super good at his job because duh.

His favorite hobby is breaking into Oscar’s greenhouse via the windows and watching him work. Oscar is super fascinating to him, and he’s enamored with how absolutely brilliant this quiet, stoic boy, with maybe five facial expressions total is.

Lando sits there and listens to Oscar ramble about his complex science things. He doesn’t understand most of it ngl, but he loves the way Oscar’s face lights up when he goes on a long tangent about the chemical properties of cyanide and why it’s superior to arsenic.

Also sometimes lando brings Oscar random pretty shiny things that he stole that he thinks Oscar might like and leaves them on his desk, kind of like a crow. Oscar keeps all of them in a box under his bed. He looks at them when he feels down (he doesn’t tell lando that)

Oscar is equally obsessed with lando but this is already wayyyyyy too long so 😭 you just gotta trust me on this one

And then eventually, the rest of the people in the organization pick up on the growing landoscar feelings situation. Alex and George give lando a bunch of (loving and caring) grief about it. A bet between them is born. “$50 lando is too chicken to confess to Oscar by the end of the month”

Yada yada time skip a week or so and lando and Oscar FINALLY do something about the tension between them one night late in Oscar’s greenhouse, lando freshly back from a mission. Boom they kiss and then lando, being the idiot that he is, as soon as they pull apart, goes “lol George and Alex owe me $50 now”

Cue misunderstanding trope. “Oh you only kissed me for a bet?? You don’t actually have feelings for me 😔 I knew it was too good to be true.”

Lando realizes his mistake but Oscar’s already out the door, disappeared into the night.

And then Oscar gets kidnapped by the enemy 🤗 because he’d normally be more aware and vigilant and stuff but his emotions are really going through it so. The ransom note comes through the next day.

Gonna leave it on that because otherwise I will spiral into a full blown fic when I already have too many wips to finish

I'M SO????? HOW DID U JUST RANDOMLY SLIDE IN HERE WITH THIS???? i am so obsessed with these details my god the POISON? CATMAN ESPIONAGEGYMNAST? christ. and then lando leaving him little gifts like a crow. OSCAR ACCIDENTALLY K-WORDING HIS ROOMMATE (and possible guilt)?? the classic misunderstanding thingy "but oscar gets kidnapped" leading to a climactic rescue oh oh oh this is the stuff of dreams.

idk what to do with myself exactly cus this is so gorgeous. anyway have a moodboard for your efforts cus like my goodness this was lovely to read.

#landoscar #814 #lemonadedino get back here #how can you craft something so beautiful and then leave me in meltdown #wiz.askbox #this is so fun ahhhhh #i am so...#rly love the vibes #thinking fondly of They

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chickenbyday · 16 days ago

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11 and 13 for andreil...(@stabbyfoxandrew)

this uh.. drabble. got away from me. and is also most definitely not what you intended.

Prompts are "I thought you were dead" and "We're going to get arrested for this". Enjoy!

The chain link fence gives under Andrew's boot in a way that sends his stomach swooping towards the cold hard ground below, but he manages to keep his balance long enough to prevent the ten-foot free fall. Aaron huffs from the ground, although whether it's from amusement or annoyance at Andrew's plight is up in the air, and Andrew refuses to look down and check. When he swings his leg over, his jean snags on the top where the shitty wire isn't folded over, and Andrew swears under his breath. He's going to kill the man when they finally get to him, and this is going onto the list of reasons, right after the fake death and the ghosting.

Andrew finally spares Aaron a look. "Sometime before the sun comes up, if you don't mind," he whisper-yells, and Aaron drags his hands over his face roughly before dragging his feet over to the fence and following Andrew's lead.

"We're going to get arrested for this," Aaron mutters, and Andrew rolls his eyes, although he knows Aaron can't see him. It's more likely to be the FBI considering the man Andrew is trying sneak up on, and apparently, they've been handled.

"I know the guy," Andrew says instead when he gets two feet on the ground, and Aaron jumps from the top like the asshole he is, landing next to him, snow crunching under his heels.

"Then why the fuck are we breaking and entering?" Aaron asks, trailing Andrew to the fire escape stairs. The bottom level ladder isn't completely lowered, and Andrew turns to look at Aaron head on. Before he opens his mouth, Aaron shakes his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"You owe me," Andrew says, which technically is true, and the only reason he got Aaron to come. Not that he told him about this part, because, well--

"I don't owe you this much," Aaron says, eyeing the drop-down ladder. Also, arguably, technically true. "I'm not going to jail for this."

"What, don't think Nicky would post our bail?" Andrew asks snidely, and Aaron glares. He's rubbing at his temples again, which means that he already knows that Andrew isn't budging and is trying to decide whether or not it's worth that argument in the middle of the night after they've already broken into the place.

"I'm not going to be the one to do it," Aaron says instead of arguing again, and Andrew shrugs. He can salvage this.

"You think you can give me the boost?" Andrew asks, because he really, really doesn't want to do this part.

"It's not like you're tall," Aaron says, rolling his shoulders and gauging the distance between the ground and the ladder.

Andrew huffs at him but doesn't have a rebuttal to that. It's not like he is tall. Andrew shakes most of the slush off his boots, because as much as he wants to be a dick about this, if Aaron loses feeling in his fingers, Andrew will be the one to pay for it.

He'll find a way to get him back eventually. Probably when Aaron cashes in on what Andrew will owe him for.

Aaron moves to stand under the ladder and drops to one knee. Andrew comes up behind him and clambers onto his shoulders, and Aaron slowly stands up, tipping Andrew in the process.

Andrew yanks his hair when he regains his balance. Asshole. Andrew would have done this part smoothly. "Fuck all the way off," Aaron says, swaying in a way that makes Andrew's stomach twist and turn.

When Aaron finally finds his footing and braces for it, Andrew does the shamble of an amateur gymnast that it takes to get to something that resembles standing, Aaron gripping his ankles hard enough to make the leather of his boots creak.

"Why are you wearing these shoes to do this?" Aaron complains, and Andrew ignores him in favor of reaching up to grab the-

The ladder is still too tall.

This is why he didn't want to be the one to do it.

Andrew pauses, and Aaron looks up to see what the holdup is and groans.

Andrew knocks his knee against the side of his head. "Let go of me," he demands, and Aaron to his credit does, and Andrew says, "Watch your shoulders," before jumping to the bottom rung. The ladder slides down half a foot in a jolt, Andrew's intestines falling to the floor, but when it settles again, Andrew is still dangling in the air.

He pulls himself up enough to grab the next rung and manages to get to landing without crashing back to the ground. When he gets there, he undoes the latches holding the ladder in place and sends it down for Aaron to follow.

They climb up the rest of the steps, and they get to the fourth floor before Aaron finally asks, "So who's apartment are we breaking into?" Only took him three hours. That's two and a half hours later than Andrew was expecting, but small mercies he guesses.

Granted, Andrew did show up at his apartment at ten o'clock at night and told him he was cashing in and nothing more.

"This guy's," Andrew says in answer, and Aaron kicks the back of his heel. "We were... friends," Andrew continues, because Aaron still wears steel toed, apparently, and Andrew doesn't want a repeat. He grumbles something about not knowing Andrew had friends, but Andrew ignores him. "He disappeared off the face of the earth a year ago and turned up here two months ago with a different name. He deserves a kick in the teeth."

None of that was quite the truth, but it was as close enough as it could get with the distraction of the task at hand.

"What makes you think it's the same guy and not a look-alike?" Aaron asks, which if it was anyone else, might be a reasonable question. Andrew shrugs at him the best he can over his shoulder, and Aaron rolls his eyes at him with a huff.

When they get to the fifteenth floor, Andrew pauses, startling when Aaron runs into his back. "Are we there yet?" Aaron asks, not quite out of breath, but in the vicinity of it.

"Door one or door two?" Andrew asks, gesturing at the two windows on the landing, and Aaron whips around to look at him.

"How do you not know which one?" He asks, voice reaching an octave that Andrew would be alarmed about if he didn't know that Aaron was a dramatic little bitch.

"Renee works in mysterious ways," Andrew says cryptically, because the real answer is that he does know, probably, if he was paying attention, but the answer is lost somewhere in his memory and Andrew has no idea how to pull it out.

"Why does Renee know where your secret friend is?" Aaron asks, because, well. Her line of work has never exactly been one that you want to get mixed up in, never mind that these days, she works to break up the gangs like the ones she was running with as a teen.

She had to pull a lot of strings to figure out where the FBI dumped him when they were through getting his testimony, and she told Andrew that she wouldn't be able to find him again if he fucks it up and gets him relocated. He told her not to worry. Andrew wasn't losing him again.

Andrew ignores Aaron's question and picks a window to peak into. He finds himself looking into a darkened living room, at a plush couch with tasteful pillows and photos of dogs on the far wall. Definitely not. Andrew remembers the state of the apartment he had a year ago.

The other window proves more promising, the furniture looking like it's probably been in this building since the old woman who lived here last kicked it, saving the FBI from having to figure out how to get this man a furnished apartment. Or maybe they picked out the most god-awful stuff they could find after having to deal with him as some form of revenge. Andrew can't say that he blames them if the latter was the case.

Andrew shimmies one of his knives through the crack where the window is latched down, carefully pushing the latch open. When it eventually gives, Andrew slips his knife back into its band and carefully slides the window up, letting in the powdery snow lining the sill. Andrew turns to Aaron, and Aaron shakes his head.

"What?" Andrew hisses at him through his teeth, and Aaron gestures emphatically to the window.

"I'm not breaking and entering this guy's apartment!" He hisses back.

"We haven't broken anything yet. It's still just trespassing," Andrew says, one foot already halfway through the window. Not technically true, because breaking and entering includes if there's intent to commit a crime, and Andrew plans on committing a murder before this night is over. But Aaron doesn't need to know that.

"That doesn't make this better," Aaron argues, following him through.

"Actually, according to the law, it does." Andrew turns and stops dead in his tracks.

The bluest eyes Andrew has ever seen in his life are staring back at him, a deer caught in the head lights, a flash of a knife caught in his fist.

"It's going to be the same call from jail," Aaron says, spinning around and promptly freezing. For a moment, no one moves.

"Neil," Andrew says, as absolutely flat as he can muster. He's not sure he manages it if the way Neil inhales sharply is anything to go by.

Neil says nothing, still staring at Andrew like--

Andrew turns to Aaron. "You can leave," he says, and Aaron gestures between the three of them wordlessly.

Andrew points to the window. He does not say please, but Aaron must be less of a jackass than he lets on, because he catches it anyway. "I'll be in the car," he grumbles. Andrew tosses him the keys, and he leaves after shooting Neil a look Andrew isn't quite sure how to parse.

Andrew watches the window slide shut, and then watches the closed window for good measure, carefully clenching and unclenching his hands into fists.

"Andrew," Neil finally says, and Andrew flinches, whirling around to face him.

"What are you doing here?" Andrew spits, his breath burning hot in his lungs and igniting the dark coal in his chest.

Neil keeps staring at him, like he has any right to be looking at Andrew like that right now, and says, "I could ask you the same."

Andrew wants to break his face more than it already has been since the last time Andrew has seen him. "I keep my promises." Neil's eyes cut down to the floor when he hears the unspoken, unlike you.

"There wasn't another option," Neil says instead of answering Andrew's original question. Andrew's nails dig into his palms hard enough draw blood, a sudden burst of warmth he wasn't expecting.

"Thought you were the optimist between the two of us," Andrew says, glaring at the spot on the carpet where his shoes are melting into the floor, because if he looks at Neil right now, he'll kill him.

It's starting to hit Andrew that he might not have been a hallucination after all, and he doesn't know what to do with that revelation.

"I never pretended to be," Neil says, and he sounds as tired as Andrew feels. "I was just... stupid."

Andrew's eyes snap up to his. "So that's how it is?" Andrew asks, clinging to the apathy settled into his bones.

"I'm sorry," Neil says, dragging his hands through his hair, "for dragging you into this."

"I don't care." The forest fire in his chest has gone out in a haze. Andrew wills his eyes not to water in the smokey aftermath of it.

"I know," Neil says, and there's something wrong with the lilt of his voice.

"Also irrelevant," Andrew says, instead of addressing it.

"I didn't have another choice." Neil puts the knife away into the drawer in front of him.

"Bullshit."

Neil walks around the countertop that separates the living room and the kitchen and sits on the couch. They would have killed you, if I had fought back."

Andrew plops down next to him, crossing his arms and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Neil wrinkles his nose at Andrew's shoes but elects not to say anything. "They would have tried."

Despite himself, Neil huffs a laugh. "Andrew," He says, and Andrew can't believe it's been a year since he's heard that voice, "These people were employees of a man known as The Butcher."

"'Were'?" Andrew asks, and the mirth on Neil's face vanishes, mouth forming a thin line. It gives Andrew a moment to study the other new lines carved into Neil's face from up close, but Andrew can't think about it too hard, because there madness lies, and he just managed to cool the embers of his rage.

"Were," Neil responds firmly, and Andrew lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"What happened?" Andrew asks after sitting in silence for a long moment of listening to Neil breath next to him, a sound Andrew didn't even know was possible to miss.

"They got me on my way out of work. FBI caught up some twelve hours later." Neil picks at the scars dotting his hands, and it's a familiar enough sight that Andrew smacks his hands lightly without thinking. Neil looks up at him and smiles softly, and the back of Andrew's neck tingles in a way it hasn't in a while. Still, this isn't adding up.

"Why didn't you come back?" Andrew asks, and Neil drops his gaze to his hands.

"They had your address and were going to get you instead if I fought," Neil says, and Andrew rolls his eyes.

"This martyr shit isn't cute." God. The fact that this didn't occur to Andrew as a possibility months ago is ridiculous.

"It would have been my fault," Neil says, like that's any kind of defense or justification. "If something happened to you, it would have been my fault."

"I don't care," Andrew repeats, catching his eyes again.

Neil narrows his eyes, an anger that Andrew hasn't seen in a year that he didn't think he'd see again. "Someone needs to care about your life," Neil says, an edge to his voice that hasn't been there.

"I thought you were dead," Andrew says, matching that edge.

Neil blinks before shaking his head roughly, ignoring him. "I couldn't lose you," Neil says, like that's a thing he's allowed to admit out loud, like that's a thing he's allowed to feel about Andrew, like that matters at all when it means Andrew has to lose Neil.

"Then don't," Andrew says, eyes still locked on Neil's, and Neil is still fucking looking at him like--

"Yes or no?" Neil asks, and Andrew crashes into him without bothering to answer.

Andrew isn't losing him again.

#aftg #aftg fic #andreil fic #andreil #andrew minyard #Neil josten #all for the game #the foxhole court #Aaron is in this partially because I could not envision a scenario in which either neil or andrew were particularly concerned with the law.#and partially bc my brother and I do the shoulder lift thing and it felt like smth the twinyards would learn to do while bored.#stabbyfoxandrew

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fiuworks · 5 months ago

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timsasha au mind explosion emoji

SEASON 3-4-5 SPOILERS BELOW i mean it

erm anyway welcome to my au where timsasha survive season 3 somehow ive been thinking about it (im 100% sure people have done this before this is just me thinking about it) just some tidbits about it before i sleep:

tim survives the explosion but endures horrible burn scarring all over his body and has to have a leg amputated due to the extent of his injuries

daisy still goes huntpilled coffinmaxxing

the biggest thing i think about with this is that not!sasha was trapped in the tunnels by leitner until 158, but in this scenario ummmm. i dont know really? my working idea is that not!sasha is destroyed but the kind of entity that is not!them is still in the tunnels and sasha as her own person is exhumed from the destruction of her doppelganger and returned to the archives and this way the not!them can still attack everyone in 158

it also lends to a bit more emotional weight if sasha is in the archives when peter unleashes not!them and while distracted with the others she can have a bit of a cathartic whomp on the not!them for ruining her life and the lives of the people she cares about but really im spitballing here

both tim and sasha are helpless to martin's descent into the lonely because tim is in recovery for a while, sasha is in a coma for a week or so (LIKE A NORMAL PERSON) post restoration and is in the hospital for a little longer than that and is mostly occupied with helping tim in his physical recovery and while doing that sasha can't reach martin at work other than a curt few sentences and when tim is back with her neither can he (they both don't know about martin's mothers passing as well)

timsasha rekindle their romance because i want it to happen

tim and sasha i feel would try to reach out to basira and melanie and georgie but i just know that would go nowhere and it becomes frustrating for everyone involved

when jon returns i think they'd try to unionise with him to get answers out of martin but that would not work and it just splinters the archives further

unfortunately i dont think anything they could/would do changes anything as s4 ends and the Change starts

tim is trapped in the not!them's domain and taunted with the trauma of his past and is slowly losing himself and his self-identity, sasha is originally trapped there too, but in a kind of jonmartin-esque uno reverse situation she manages to regain herself in the not!them's domain and can wrangle tim from his stupor and she tries to kill and fight not!them by herself but when jmart roll up there jon eviscerates not!them as planned and the core archives gang are reunited because i like having fun here

they do split up as jmart go on their little apocalyptic couples councelling sessions and travel toward london but they probably don't bump into basira

they might meet up with the what the girlfreinds cult and just check in with them but for the most part i think they're just trying to Survive

they do join everyone at the end and do survive

thats it really if you hate anything i just said im just a guy and my braincells are doing all sorts of gymnastics to make sure my ship stays winning so i mean whatever i love them im still workshopping this as i brainrot about it im writing this at 3am so just stay with me here really

#SPOILERS FOR TMA SEASON 3 4 AND 5 #timsasha #tim stoker #sasha james #tma au #tma #the magnus archives #tma podcast #magpod #daisy tonner #melanie king #georgie barker #basira hussain #martin blackwood #jonathan sims

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dellalyra · 1 year ago

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FAMILY FORMATIONS PART THIRTEEN

Summary: Megumi asks you about the strange unknown man he fought in Shibuya.

CW: sad, soft, canon typical violence

A/N: this is short and kinda shit but I thought of this idea and it wormed into my brain and now I’m here :) I liked the idea of a moment between reader and megumi between *the megumi bad thing* and Shibuya, Satoru’s gone she’s vulnerable megumi is vulnerable just raw yaknow

Recommended Listening:

Favourite Crime - Olivia Rodrigo

10am Gare du Nord - Keaton Henson

You rifled through the cupboards in the kitchen of some stranger – long gone now, avoiding the destructive chaos of the culling games.

Yuuji, showering. Everyone else, resting maybe? Dead? Stuck in a box like your husband? You don’t know.

The empty pit of fear swirling in your stomach was driving you to madness, but you were grounded by the presence of a tall, raven-haired boy leaning on the counter beside you.

You found some ramen, throwing it into a pot so you could at least manage to feed these boys after all of you had been trying to navigate this cruel imitation of a reality show all day.

Megumi, out of the corner of your eye – was staring holes into the ground by his shoes.

Asking him what’s up seemed futile, what wasn’t up? Everything had fallen apart, and you were using every fibre of your being to hold everything and everyone together until you could figure out what the fuck you, we’re going to do.

“Spill it, Mr. Fushiguro.” You say, elbowing his side.

He rolls his eyes at you, half-heartedly.

You sit on the stool by the bar in this stranger's kitchen.

“‘Gumi, it’s just us now. Talk to me.”

He kicks his shoes against the linoleum floor. He’s silent for a moment and you think maybe, he’s not going to talk.

“Back there, in Shibuya. When we were all separated. There was a man. I fought him. Only for a minute but… he, he acted like he knew me.” He looked at the ceiling.

“You’re a talented sorcerer in your own right, a Zen’in by birth and adopted son of the Gojo and Y/L/N clan. People are gonna target you, no matter how much I try to stop them.” You smile sadly.

“No, not like that. It was like – he knew me. He asked my name; I told him, and he just said “Fushiguro huh? Good for you, kid.’ And then he…”

The pause was enough to tell you it was bugging him.

“He what, honey?”

“Stabbed himself in the head.”

Well, fuck, that wasn’t what you expected. You tried to think of who it could have been, was it fear of Megumi’s strength, of the battle that drove this man to suicide? Why did the Fushiguro name affect him so badly.

To try and place the man so your son could put a name to the face and end his mental gymnastics, you ask.

“What did he look like?”

“He was tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than –” Satoru. An inch or two shorter than Satoru. He was worried about your reaction to his name.

“Really strong, built like a wrestler. Dark hair, kinda looked like me to be honest. Had this scar on his lip?” He finished.

You dropped the bowl in your hand, and it shattered to the ground in tiny pieces as everything you’d believed was questioned in a millisecond in your frazzled mind.

The crash made Megumi jump.

“What? Do you know him?” He asked.

You turn to him, face like you’d seen a ghost – but it wasn’t you who had seen the ghost.

“He, looked like you and had a scar on his lip?” You ask, Megumi looking at you with concern and surprise.

“Yeah, who was it? I’ve never seen you this jumpy – who was that guy?”

Fuck, you wish you had Satoru here. Do you tell him? How do you tell him? Should you tell him? There had been no parenting book for raising the kids of the man who’d killed your husband and then your husband had killed – and there was certainly no guidance on how to tell your son that the man who committed suicide in front of him so he wouldn’t have to fight him – was in fact, his father.

But Toji Fushiguro was dead. You’d seen the body.

He was very, very dead.

If he was dead, how was in in Shibuya?

The séance.

It clicked into place. A ghost from the past, the sorcerer killer. The old woman. But nobody would dare use Toji Fushiguro as a pawn or a puppet - he’d regained his sense of self and found his son.

His blessing.

Your blessing.

You had to tell him; he deserved the truth.

Snapping from your trance – you motioned the boy to sit beside you.

“Megumi. The man you spoke to, the man who asked your name. He was happy you’d taken your mother’s name, instead of Zen’in. Megumi, that man, my sweet boy, – was your father. It was Toji Fushiguro.” You clasp his hand.

“But he’s dead. Dad, Satoru, killed him.” He said, in disbelief.

“He was resurrected as a puppet, but your father was a stubborn man – so I’m guessing he retook control.”

“But then why did he kill himself.”

“He killed himself, Megumi, because – he refused to fight or hurt his own son. He knew it was you, and returning to death was a better option.” A part of you prays thanks to Toji – for having the sense to not put his, your, son through that.

Megumi was silent for a moment.

“I didn’t recognise him.” He spoke.

“You were so young when he died, it’s not surprising.” You push his hair out of his face, a fruitless endeavour really.

You let him soak it in for a moment.

“It’s okay to be sad, he was your father. No matter what else he did or didn’t do.”

“I’m not sad, I pity him.” He spoke.

“Me too, Megumi. Your father was a lost soul, but one thing I do know – is he didn’t name you his blessing for nothing, he loved you – but losing your mother broke him. I can tell you one thing for sure, that I’m certain of: he is proud of you. I know that because he barely knew you and felt pride. I know you like the back of my hand and pride isn’t a big enough word for what – what, Satoru and I feel.” You turn his face to look at you, and you smile softly.

“Thanks for telling me the truth. I’m, um, gonna kick Itadori out of the shower before the hot water runs out so I can have one too.” He stands from the stool.

You know he needs space to process.

You nod and mention continuing making some food. As he reaches the door the the bedroom with the en-suite, he turns.

“They may have been my mother and father, but um, they - they’re not my mom and dad.” He says, eyes downcast but flicking up to look at you. Your throat constricts with tears and before you can reply, he’s gone inside the room.

You look to the sky, sending thanks to Megumi’s birth mother – for allowing you the chance to raise the blessing that boy is.

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #anime #dad!gojo #jujutsu kaisen megumi #megumi fushiguro #megumi angst

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afairytalestray · 11 months ago

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OK so on Saturday I got to go to Milan to see the Cats Il Sistina tour and HOLY GOD IT WAS AWESOME. I'm glad I studied the character designs in advance because a lot of the costumes are really different. I'm not typically a huge fan of nonreplicas but Il Sistina may well change that!

I've compiled my thoughts on the show here! Nb, I do not speak Italian so I'm not sure how close to the original lyrics the translation is 😅

There were no green goggles, but the Cats did come in through the audience. I had an aisle seat and Cassandra walked right past me! She was right there and so beautiful omg.

I've gotta get in right at the start that Simone Ragozzino is my new all-time favourite Mungojerrie. The most ever! A little guy. He got most of the acrobatics that Tumblebrutus usually does - apparently Simone used to be an acrobat/gymnast so that makes sense. He and Rumpleteazer were sufficiently chaotic but also clearly valued and beloved members of the tribe. Idk man Simone just got it. Tumble-jerrie ftw.

The cathedral from "round the cathedral" was changed to a Colosseum reference which I loved 😍

I'm obsessed with Demeter’s makeup from this tour actually. I'm personally not the biggest fan of cryptid-style makeup and looks in Cats in general, but I feel like Deme was balancing just on the edge and it really worked and I loved it. Maybe it was Viviana Salvo's acting as well - she was fabulous at toeing that line between stunning and unnerving!

Tugger and Munkustrap were super close! Munk was less annoyed by Tugger’s antics than normal and they did this thing at one point where Tugger was holding onto Munk who leant fully backwards off the edge of the stage - it was like a trust exercise and I was a fan. Their rendition of Old Deuteronomy was lovely and their voices worked so good together! Tugger was definitely Munkustrap’s second in command of the tribe. I wish Tugger was a bit more Tugger in appearance, he seemed very yellow with not a lot of detail on his costume, but the personality was hundo p present and accounted for. He did the "bite is worse than your bark" line in Jellicle Songs and legit barked at the end.

Jennyanydots was fabulous! Instead of a big coat she literally wore a giant ball of wool, and one of the props was giant knitting needles and the start of what might have been a giant scarf - it took 6 of the Cats to carry it. It actually worked super well for Milan, which is known for fashion and fabrics - there's even a giant sewing needle sculpture outside Cadorna Station! It was probably a happy coincidence but I enjoyed it!

Victoria's role was changed quite a bit, her solo was totally different and the pas de deux was gone. There also kinda just... wasn't the big small first touch Vic and Grizabella moment, which I was sad about, but if Griz's big moment wasn't "TOUCH MEEEEEE" in the translation, I'm not so bothered by it. I wish Vic had a bit bigger of a role because I love her, but she was killing it whenever she was on stage.

We are all stan pink Jemima, she had such a lovely voice too. Her and Alonzo were playing with a tennis ball during the interval and it was adorable.

My beloved Coricopat and Tantomile were lying in the Mouth of Truth prop after Moments of Happiness; they had their usual role of translating Old Doots through Jemima so I thought their placement here was deliberate! They weren't always fully in sync which I kinda liked, it was like they were allowed to be their own characters rather than just "the twins". I definitely got the impression that Tantomile was the older sister which hella backs up my hcs about her!

Gus was absolutely WILD. He comes in after Jellylorum has done her whole first part of the song in this raggedy old tradiotional Sherlock Holmes-style beige plaid coat instead of being there but kinda out of it the whole time. At first he wasnt keen on replaying any of his roles, but then all the others were like please please please and he relented. I think they were calling him (or his role) Romero? Idk if that's an Italian reference I just don't get? They did Pekes and Pollicles (one of the above had been changed to chihuahuas!) and then the bold Rumpus/Romero appeared... in a red satin bath robe and holding a sabre??? I need to look up this reference! Dude didn't just intimidate the pollicles, he straight up cut a couple of them down with his sword! Grandpa woke up and chose violence 😂

There was no trash train in Skimbleshanks 😭😭 there were giant glowstick things that changed colours though. Skimble and Bustopher were played by the same actor which is a combo I haven't seen before. Skimble was definitely still everyone's favourite train dad, all the characters were totally hyped for his song. HE DID TAP LIKE IN 2019. It was really cool how they did it, all the music stopped and he started a call and response tap dance with some of the other characters. The background showed an animated video of going through a train tunnel, like from the perspective of a train driver! The tap was gradually speeding up and became the sound effects of a train setting off and moving through the tunnel. I'm not explaining this super well but it was SO cool.

The Macavity Fight was quite different. There wasn't him disguised as Old Deuteronomy and then unmasked. What happened was he showed up and caused some shenanigans and then disappeared. There were about 4 of him around, so it looked like he was teleporting around the stage and audience! Bombalurina and Demeter performed his song which was absolutely fantastic (seriously how do these actresses actually manage to dance like that and sing at the same time?? Goddesses), after that he showed up again and the full cast was involved in the fight. Munkustrap still got the good choreography, but the whole tribe was involved trying to protect Old Deuteronomy. Tugger was definitely a protector in this production, he was very involved. Jerrie got KO'd a good few times, and Macavity absolutely destroyed poor Jenny! It felt like all of them were trying to protect their family and I really liked that. Despite that, Macavity was still able to win and successfully kidnap Old Doots!

"Mungojerrie, RUMPLETEAZER, Griddlebone" they let my girl do crime again!

Mistoffelees and Quaxo were besties, and Misto was REALLY enjoying Tugger's song I'm just saying. Delighted to announce Il Sistina Misto was a fruity little guy. He didn't get the terrible bore line, sad face, that went to Quaxo, but tbh idk how they translated that so it could be totally different! At one point Alonzo was holding him back at the start of Tugger’s song! We then saw a sponge-like Misto who picked up behaviours from the others around him, like he wasn't too sure of himself. This is actually one of my favourite Misto hcs so i was so chuffed to see it so clearly. He then helped Alonzo rein George (at least I think it was George!) in from going mental fanboy at Tugger. He was originally curious about Griz but then adjusted to hissing upon seeing the others. This fully went forward into his song. They did some big choreo changes. It was significantly less dance-heavy than traditional Misto performances and had a stronger focus on him being magic. There was a levitating box that they spent a lot of time with - Magician's Assistant Cass got in, but then she didn't disappear? She just popped back out again after the box had been rotated a few times. Some of the Kittens were waving their hands under the box to prove there was nothing holding it up and looking amazed which was adorable though. There was also a bit where Misto put some cards into a hat, the hat got passed down a line of Cats and then at the end they just sort of flew out? Like idk maybe they changed the lyrics where they're describing different magic tricks and it all makes sense! I THOUGHT THE CONJURING TURNS WERE GONE, but they were just moved to the very end of the song and cut down quite a bit.

Ok BUT LISTEN, à la 2019, the poor boy tried and failed twice to bring back Old Deuteronomy and then just sort of flopped in the corner all defeated but then BOYFRIEND TUGGER HELD HIS HANDS AND GOT RIGHT UP CLOSE AND WAS LIKE I BELIEVE IN YOU BABE and omg for real those actors knew EXACTLY what they were doing Tuggoff nation RISE. I'm always a red-sheet-turned-cape stan but I can definitely get behind the sparkly tail coat and playing card bowtie. He also had this handkerchief that he threw up in the air and it became a magic wand. I have no idea how and it was very silly so obviously I loved it. Although I wasn't massively into the choreo changes (ballet dancer Misto 5eva), Pierpaolo Scida was a magnificent Misto and I adored him - he was so cute! The little background actions and looks he did were so in character with how he interpreted Misto! Also he was beautiful you can't change my mind.

Malika was such an intense Grizabella - 10/10. She was proud but so vulnerable. She walked right past me when she first came in and lads, she did the whole show in these massive stilettos - absolute queen. At one point it literally rained on her on stage! During her first Memory, Old Deut was really watching her, and at the end of it he approached her, but she ran off when she saw him. I thought it was a super cool character moment, like she knew she wanted to be accepted, but wasn't quite ready for it. Even after the big Memory and Old Deuteronomy declared her the Jellicle Choice, Victoria approached her, but she was still too scared to let her, and it was Jemima who finally was able to reach her and bring her in. At the end she just kinda disappeared off stage - there were no flying tyres or magic stairs in the circus tent!

During the bit after the bows some of the cats were out in the audience and Tugger scared the absolute crap out of this one woman by poking his head in between her and the person sitting next to her. Iconic. Also during the latter part of the interval the audience was allowed to come up to the edge of the stage where some of the actors were goofing about in character. This mf pretended to cough up a hairball and now I have it on video. I also got some close ups of Teazer and the beautiful Bomba!

The Italian Junkyard was fabulous! It was mostly roman landmarks like Piazza Navona and Bocca della Verità, but there was also Michelangelo's David (which I'm pretty sure is in Florence) above the orchestra! There was also a giant marble foot, an Italian-style water fountain, and a broken column. My favourite prop was the bench, it's elevated at the back left of the stage and the cast were using it like a slide to enter the stage! Also it seemed to be Misto’s preferred location to lounge.

In conclusion, I will never get over this.

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theredofoctober · 1 year ago

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MANNA— CHAPTER FOUR: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense). Cannot stress the ED/anorexia warnings more strongly for this chapter guys!

This is chronologically the fourth chapter in the series

You sit with your back to Dr Lecter as he readies himself to leave for his morning appointments, feeling like an ancient sacrifice to some forest beast, blindfolded and anointed, its snail-fed bride; the dread of unseeing, of not knowing what he does as you stare at the wall is so clever a punishment that you comprehend entirely why more brutal forms were inflicted before it.

He is ingenious in his malice, this man. The fear of the worst of things is the stick that will make you the supplicant to his merest whim.

In cyclical paths you think of Hannibal’s attack at the breakfast table, how he had intuited your intent to cut his throat before you had finalised the thought. The gymnast's grace with which he’d caught you, the psychic recognition of revolt— he has held others captive, before you, surely.

Likely he has killed.

There are many like Dr Lecter, in the medical field, rapists and murderers in their masses, scything the weak, and allowing their names to fall through the cracks in the system, where few care to retrieve them. Already you feel yourself staggering into that hopeless black, soundless as your gaoler guides you back into the en suite by a hand at your nape.

“You may take a bath, if you wish,” he says— how had he known you’d only stood at the sink that morning? “I have provided toiletries for you. No razors, I’m afraid. If you desire to shave, then Will or I must be present, which I doubt you would prefer, at this time. Besides, I have to leave for my first appointment in a few minutes. I trust that you will enjoy the solitude.”

You keep your back to him, half-swooning under your dread of those pitiless eyes.

“I hope that you will not do anything unwise, while I’m away,” says Hannibal, into the frigidity of your silence. “There is no mention of active suicidal ideation in your records. I would be surprised if you drowned yourself; of all the poetic figures you resemble, Ophelia, in her madness, is not of their number.”

“Why?” you whisper. “After what’s happened, I should want to die.”

Hannibal’s arm glides past you, twisting the faucets of the bath until water beats a war drum rhythm against the porcelain.

“But you do not,” he says, his voice so close to your ear that you jump. “Death, to you, would be an unfortunate symptom of the habits you keep. You are ambivalent about life, at the best of times, yet your goal is not to leave it. Your inherent belief is that you can maintain starvation at such a balance that you defy both those who have hurt you and God Himself.”

You watch hot water spin the air into steam, and a tear condenses on your left cheek, quite as warm.

“Does God even exist?” you ask. “If He did, He’d get me out of this.”

Dr Lecter unscrews the top of an expensive soap bottle and pours it into the bath, smoking the room with the scent of dusky vanilla; of course, his perfume for you would be gourmand.

“God kills and aids with equal relish. Who is to say that it is not your suffering that he would prefer?”

“That’s what you want?” you ask, in a whisper like a fragment of snow. “For me to suffer?”

“No, little one,” says Hannibal, touching your quivering lower lip with a gentle thumb. “If that was so, I would have left you to die in your parents care. What I want is for you to eat, and gain trust in those that yearn to help you.”

He straightens, smoothing down an imaginary crease in his suit.

“I have prepared lunch for you to eat while I am at work. I expect to see that you have eaten it.”

Your stomach, hard with breakfast, is nevertheless hollow enough to moan.

“All of it?” you ask.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “It is only a light portion. Will is joining us for dinner tonight.”

You sit down on the edge of the bath, your voice rising to a petulant note, as though Will were an unsavoury family friend, and not a man driven to rape by a whisper in his ear.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Nevertheless, you will,” says Hannibal. “Like hunger, he is the spectre you must face, regardless of your fear of him.”

Hannibal switches off the taps and smiles down at you, undeterred by your unchanged, fearful disgust.

“Goodbye, little one,” he says. “And be good.”

You don’t reply, refusing to turn as he pats your shoulder and quietly retreats from the room. His leaving should be a relief, but his presence drenches the house like blood through a shroud. He scarcely seems to leave it at all.

You bathe rapidly, loathing to be at one with your nakedness, seeing it through your captors’ eyes.

Another set of clean clothes has been set out for you, a perfume of further vanilla, a clear bag of cosmetics, a weighty tome by Dostoevsky, and lunch in a pristine Tupperware box, which you avoid as you would a sleeping asp.

The bedroom door is locked, the sole, small window barred— new additions, you note from the shine on the steel. Hannibal has made definite your inability to escape; the only hope left bare to you is to draw attention from passers-by.

Desperate, you write a haphazard ‘HELP ME’ message in lipstick upon the window, hoping that the letters are large enough to be glimpsed from below.

That done, you sit in a convent-goer’s silence, cowed by the enormity of danger that has found you. The only thing that protects you from the engulfing depths of your abjection is anger, defiance that Dr Lecter thinks himself dictator of what may enter your body, food or flesh.

With a reedy surge of courage you vow to challenge his every attempt on your autonomy, even if you must do so quietly.

You begin with lunch. With a percussive gusto you throw the Tupperware into bathroom bin, thinking you’ve done well to avoid another round of narcotics, and to deny yourself what you do not think you deserve, after failing to abstain at breakfast.

The pasta smells delicious, of cloves and some ingeniously mixed sauce you know would break across your tongue in a tide of exceptional flavour. You pace from the bedroom to the en suite, close to retrieving the plastic tub from the clean trash bag and eating from it, unashamed of such a low; you’ve done worse, in your time, giving in to an animal urge to forage.

You lean against the wall, breathing in and out with trembling difficulty. Then you prise the Tupperware from the trash can and empty it out into the toilet bowl, flushing again and again until every remnant of food is washed down where even you cannot salvage it.

You are exuberant in your resolve, barely weakened under the burden of your captivity.

You shouldn’t be hungry, so soon after breakfast, yet you are— not in the way other people feel hunger, the ordinary cues having been lost to illness, long ago. Your desire for food is like that of a man-eating animal, driven more by a taste for flesh than necessity to eat.

That Will and Hannibal have given you a secondary conflict to wage war against your obsession is almost a gift— there is no longer much room amidst your crowding fears to pine over the food in your stomach.

Yet, there is enough. Purging has never been your particular habit—you’ve found it too difficult, requiring water you are too afraid to drink more than a glass of for fear of the added weight on the scale.

The French toast lies upon you like a sleep paralysis apparition in its density. Hanging over the toilet bowl, you choke on acid spittle, and promptly abandon the venture. Had there been laxatives, they would have been a fair alternative, but Hannibal has kept you as simply and functionally contained as a vivisectionist’s subject, which, to him, it seems, you are.

You bow to your defeat, on this count, allowing yourself another indulgence of tears. Only the fear of the calories you must burn thrusts you back on your feet, striding laps of the room until your vision swims with sparks.

Light-headed, you sprawl on the bed—the same that you were raped in, you think, and move to lie on the floor instead, comforted by the changed perspective of the room.

As a child you used to lie on your back like this, imagining that you could walk upon the ceiling. You’d lived years in such imagined lands, and would have remained in them, still, had they not grown dark, and overgrown by infiltrating matter. As you stare at the ceiling now it seems to blacken at the edges as though with a quickening mould, or else the fingers of some unseen thing, folding over your eyes until they shut.

You start from unsettled sleep to the gentle purr of an expensive car drawing in at the front of the house. Recalling your lip-sticked message, you blunder in a drowsy panic to the window and rub at the glass with your dress sleeve, spitting on the hem when the cosmetic merely smudges obstinately under your ministrations.

You cannot tell if the monster in the sleek Bentley below can see the window clearly, but you work rapidly, your breath sawing a panicked melody through your throat.

Though your dress is black, the cosmetic shows tellingly on the fabric. You wrestle the garment over your head and hide it at the back of a drawer, shoving on an almost identical item as movement stirs in the house below.

You sit down on the bed, picking the skin at your fingers as Hannibal approaches. When his key clicks in the lock you start, tearing a hangnail up to the cuticle. You suck your thumb like a child to soothe the wound, aware how infantile you must look.

“Hello, little one,” says Hannibal, politely, as he enters the room.

“I ate it all,” you say, in an all too eager rush. “The food. You don’t have to punish me.”

Your jailer looks at you levelly. His eyes are crow’s eyes, clever, and gelid.

“Let me see.”

He picks up the Tupperware, examining the box. Abruptly he circles the room, then the en suite, his slow tread an axe-man’s gait.

“You have lied to me,” he says, suddenly. “Lunch was disposed of. The toilet, I presume? Please do not insult me by claiming to have eaten it.”

You stare at him, nonplussed.

“I... how did you know?” you falter.

“I have a keen sense of smell. The scent of herbs is very clear in the air. An unusual aroma, for this particular room.”

There is a humour in his voice, but of a sinister kind you know well to fear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t. I already ate so much, and you said I have to have dinner, so I...”

Hannibal shakes his head gravely.

“You must never waste food, if you can help it, little one.”

On a whim, you reach out to sieze one of his hands in yours.

“I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me, Dr Lecter.”

He shakes his head regretfully.

“That is not for me to decide.”

You squeeze his hand as tightly as you are able, aware of how cold your fingers are in comparison to his hale warmth.

“Please, I’ll stay in solitary, or... or forfeit stuff, like they do at regular hospitals. Just don’t... touch me again. I can’t take it.”

“You discredit your endurance,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “It has presented itself as your greatest strength. It would be startling to see it fragment so early into your induction.”

You snap your hand back from him, cradling it as you would a broken bone.

“What’s wrong with you?” you hiss, and Dr Lecter releases a little grunt of amusement.

“I can only echo the interrogative. You have never opened up to any therapist about the most crucial traumas in your past. I am intrigued by their mysteries.”

You glance away, lips tightened. You will give him nothing of your secrets, not even the sheerest slip. He will use them against you, this you know.

“I must prepare for dinner,” says Hannibal. "Come along, little one. You will assist me. It will do you good to be in the presence of food through its preparation.”

As anticipated, your presence in the kitchen is fraught with excruciating temptation. As you grate vegetables and slice meat you often clear your throat to mask the thunder of starvation in your abdomen, which Dr Lecter politely ignores.

Though he maintains a flow of light, one-sided conversation, you know how narrowly he watches you, analysing every twitch and attempt to mentally detach from the scents and sumptuous plenty spread out on the countertops before you.

At last, he relents, an unexpected mercy.

“That’s enough. You may wash your hands and sit at the dinner table.”

You linger, gawking at him, not quite believing in your release.

“Go on,” says Dr Lecter, chuckling slightly. “I will join you presently. Our guest will be arriving, soon.”

Blinking, you say, “I’m... allowed to sit in there alone?”

With an almost fond glance, Dr Lecter says, “Certainly. You will not run, for you know that I will follow.”

Will arrives half an hour later, smelling of night rain and cologne. His expression is sullen and furtive as he greets you, his eyes floorwards, lashes fluttering behind his glasses.

You clutch the sides of your chair, silent, sickened, resentful; the man behaves as if it is he who was injured by the assault, as though the shame gnaws down to the core of him, leaving him raw and naked before you.

He sits in the chair closest to the door, whether to guard the exit or to forge the path to a quick egress you cannot say.

Hannibal sets a glass of wine before him; you he only gives water, as though you are not old enough to drink.

“The first course will be served presently,” he comments, surveying the tension at his table. “I hope that you will both enjoy it. You must be hungry, little one.”

You shake your head, afraid that if you open your mouth to speak you will only scream. This meal isn’t meant to tantalise the senses, but to torture: you know it from the unwilling reunion of his guests, of the punishment that leers from a narrow future upon you.

A quivering shrew, you stare at your untouched glass as Will clears his throat, pressed by the pains of your silence to speak.

He invokes your name, making it as foul as a curse.

“I don’t claim to be a master at first impressions, but the other night...”

“Please don’t talk to me,” you whisper, and Will flinches, pushing his glasses up his nose with bumbling fingers.

You’ve upset him, you realise, with a cold start of revulsion. Him, the violator, bruised by his own brutality, as though he’d no choice in the matter. Had he expected you to be his friend, to care for his sensitivities?

There is something wrong with Will Graham, you think, like a flaw in some creaking ship apt to annihilate the vessel, under pressure. That, or bleed all around him in his shrapnel, while he tends to their many pieces with all the moroseness of Beauty’s beast.

It strikes you that you should make him your ally, this hopeless Caliban, if you can stand it. You will need his favour, against Dr Lecter, to convince him to set you free.

Still, you cannot yet bring yourself to earn it. When Hannibal returns to set the first of many plates upon the table you are wordless in your terror, your fork as slippery as a salmon in your grip.

Will and Hannibal make conversation about a murder case in the area— both seem intricately involved in the psychology of the killer, discussing at length his motives in the poetic lexis you are becoming accustomed to, in this prison.

Still, their eyes and words wind back to you with a potent eventuality, displayed before them in your borrowed dress like a goldfinch chained to an elaborate perch.

Your food remains on your plate, flattened beneath your knife, a childish attempt to conceal your inability to eat it. There is too much weight in these scarce morsels, calories that would swell you into some fantastic horror, or so your thoughts inform you.

If you could eat, you would do so; even to save yourself it is beyond you.

Only water do you swallow, the bottom of the glass thick with a bitter sediment.

“We should talk about her, shouldn’t we?” asks Will, reluctantly, his gaze darting to your plate.

"Indeed we should," says Hannibal, his hand tracing the stem of his wine glass as he would the length of your throat. “Specifically, your response to her residence here, and to her treatment. You feel guilt for having carried out a punishment you feel was not entirely deserved.”

Will swallows, the click of saliva in his throat like the folding of a leaf underfoot.

"That's the problem," he says. "It did feel deserved. Violence for violence. There was a righteousness in defending you. I've felt it before, with GarretJacob Hobbs."

The name holds significance you cannot grasp. Who was this man, and what does he mean to your wardens?

"And like that day, protecting Abigail," Will continues, "I'm left looking at my own hands, repulsed by my own readiness to engage in a taboo and... enjoy it. But she isn’t like either Hobbs."

This, directed at you with a glance of murky guilt.

"She's unwell. Confused. And, as far as your patient was concerned, she was as in her right to protect herself as I was in correcting her."

"Stop,” you say, quietly.

Both men turn to you, startled by your sudden interjection.

"You disagree with Will's analysis of last night's events?" asks Hannibal, with interest. "By all means, tell us what you see. There is no sole analysis of any art; what picture do you glimpse from within the canvas?"

"I'm not yours," you say. "You can't correct me, like I'm something you own, that you made."

Dr Lecter examines your face with a dangerous patience.

"But we are making you. Or remaking, it you prefer. That is why you are here: a construction of what we two will define from mortar and broken glass."

You cannot respond to such unhinged logic without lowering yourself to entertain it, an undeniably clever tactic.

Hannibal brings another course to the table, another, another; Roman emperors could not have gorged like this, yet the two men—both lean, and Will particularly small—clear their plates as though swallowing mere air.

You pretend to eat, chewing food and spitting it into napkins or an empty glass when the other diners look away. It is only when Will barks at you suddenly that you realise he's been watching you, all along.

"What are you doing?" he asks, sharply.

"Nothing,” you mumble.

Will scoffs.

"Nothing? Nothing is not why you're here. You’re starving yourself. Why?"

Disgust pours from him like a vapour, tainting the air you breathe with his unearned judgement.

"Because... it's just what I do,” you say, limply. “It... helps. It's taken over everything.'

“Then stop letting it,” snaps Will; you don’t understand why he’s so affronted, why he has suddenly taken up the reigns of the game. “You're giving into this, letting it cut holes into you. You'll die trying to achieve some abstract state of being that you will never reach. Do you want that?"

Strange, the echo of your conversation with Dr Lecter by the bath.

"I— don't know,” you say, after a strained pause. “Sometimes I'm not sure if I care what happens to me. And sometimes, I get scared."

Will speaks through gritted teeth.

"So let go of it."

You could laugh at so preposterous a command, but instead you say, "I can't."

The atmosphere at the table has subtly changed, all players on the board at last.

"Why not?” asks Will, softly.

You perceive something like care in his voice, an impossibility.

"Because it makes me feel better," you say. "Stronger. I don't want it to go away."

Hannibal sits back, listening in purposeful silence.

Will removes his glasses, placing them into his pocket.

"Today, at this meal, you’ll try,” he says. “Appreciate the effort that was made for you."

At this you do laugh, a soft, broken sound.

"Go to hell. You're a monster. You did what he told you to, and— and you jumped like a dog to do it. Aren't you ashamed?"

Dr Lecter’s posture tightens slightly, and Will flounders, losing a little of his confidence.

"I know it's probably not what I should have done,” he admits. “It’s a radical treatment. And dangerous. But I— we can't take it back. And if I can contribute to you evolving from this then I'll do whatever it takes."

There is honesty in this confession, somewhere, even empathy.

"Don't act like you care about me,” you mumble, and shove your plate away from you, across the table, knocking over your glass in the process.

The effects of whatever drug was in the water are taking hold, making you feel loosely unstable, your inhibitions cast down, and forgotten.

Hannibal’s smile has fallen.

"Will,” he says, curtly. “I think you have tolerated quite enough from our obnoxious guest. I suggest that you consider discipline. She has already broken the rules in place for her today. A meal discarded, a message for help written on her window— It is fortunate that no one came close enough to the house in my absence to see it."

You stand up from your seat, swaying slightly, your heart shuttering like cards on a bicycle wheel to find yourself caught you in your efforts to escape.

"I hate you,” you say. “I want to leave. Let me go."

"Hannibal,” Will cuts in; his face is white, and greasy with anxiety. “I'm not ready to handle this again."

Dr Lecter’s expression shifts darkly.

"Then I will fulfil that responsibility on your behalf."

He rises from his seat and is behind you for the second time this day before you've the sense to run. Shunting you forward onto the table top, he tears your dress methodically up your back, his free hand holding you down with the same carelessness with which he’d handle unsatisfactory meat.

"You are sure that you do not wish to participate?" he says, over your shrieks of protest.

Will shakes his head. His eyes are rolling like a bull’s in his distress.

"No. I— can't."

Hannibal stills; you feel his hand between his belt and your behind, on the precipice of setting loose his sick lust.

"Then should I choose another punishment? There are many at our disposal."

"Don't leave it up to me to decide,” croaks Will. “I feel... precarious."

"I forgive you your uncertainty,” says Dr Lecter. “I, however, have none."

A drugged swell flows through you, looping a weird ecstasy about your abdomen as Hannibal leans down to speak to you directly.

"You are a very disobedient girl. You know the consequences, and yet you do not abandon your misdeeds."

"I'm not playing your stupid game,” you whine, dimly away of how foolish you sound. “I'm not playing.”

“Of course you are,” says Hannibal, coldly. “In time you'll forget that it was ever a game, to begin with.”

He forces himself within your cunt in a smooth and gliding viciousness, sending another brocade of sensation through your loins. The drug you’ve ingested makes the pain a most succulent wonder, playing your nerves with all the sinister beauty of the Theremin.

You sob as he fucks you, slow, and sure, and deep. It should not possibly be pleasurable, is intended only to exert power, and to humiliate— but he cannot help but create art, casting you on the stage of his design.

As Hannibal hurts you, he is looking at Will, whose face bears a quickening darkness. It strikes you quite suddenly that Dr Lecter wants the other man’s approval, perhaps even his jealousy; you understand that you are a disposable object that holds the temporary interest of these two.

It may not last.

Should they tire of you, what then? Thrown back to your parents, perhaps, more broken than you arrived. Surely not, for you may spill their secrets to the world, and ruin their lives.

Something worse, then.

You circle back to that earlier thought, and terror flies back in all its night glory.

Suddenly you twitch and shake in horrified spasms, and though Hannibal continues to fuck you something alters almost imperceptibly in his pace.

"Stop," says Will, suddenly. "That's enough."

"You cannot leave a deer half-killed, Will,” says Hannibal; glancing back over your shoulder, you are horrified by how calm he appears, even now. “Maimed, it will stumble, weakened, until another predator picks it from the herd. I must hunt her to the end, Will. It is all that can be done."

You see your tears soddening the tablecloth, mucus pooling beneath your cheek.

"Don't kill me," you whimper. "I don't want to die."

Hannibal stills a moment, pulling your head back to look into your eyes.

“We do not intend to kill you, little one," he says. "Only for you to accept what you are. You will humour what we ask of you?"

"Yes!” you cry, with a delirious bray in your voice. “I— I’ll try!"

Blue eyes, black eyes, both pairs so equally bright.

"Good girl,” says Hannibal, and resumes his use of your flesh, his cock making a gauntlet of you, every thrust grinding you against the elaborate tablecloth with such intelligent pressure you groan beneath him, juddering with the effort it takes not to come.

Will's gaze has changed, and there is colour in his cheeks. He grips the edge of the table as though to prevent himself from falling, or else rising to join his companion in your debasement.

"Please stop," you stutter out, wanting to bite your own tongue off for the embarrassment of the utterance. “I won’t be bad anymore.”

Hannibal slows deliberately, his cock withdrawing to the point it almost slips from your cunt before he sinks it in the lake of your arousal again.

"Come, then," he says, simply. "And you may go to bed."

In a wailing convulsion you climax at once, scrabbling at the floor on steepled toes as the pleasure rolls from your cunt through your thighs. Hannibal waits for your last twitch to cease before he finishes within you, utterly soundless as he leans down, kissing the back of your neck in a gesture that is curiously gentle.

He steps away from the table and helps you stand, holding you to his chest as you whimper in the after bursts of sensation.

"Are you still troubled, Will?" he asks, over the top of your head.

The other man looks shell-shocked, his pallor an almost grey.

"I'm... undecided."

You pull away from Hannibal, remembering with a flare of insane joy that you are released from the table, that you need not eat, after all.

"Then I am mistaken in perceiving another response in you," says Dr Lecter.

Will looks hurriedly away, and it is only as you push past him to flee for your room that you understand Dr Lecter's meaning. The younger man adjusts himself, flushing, sitting as close to the table as space will allow.

He is hard, having watched his friend fucking you.

Will Graham is not so repentant as he'd taken such pains to seem.

#manna fic #hannibal fanfiction #dark fic #tw eating disorders #tw anorexia #tw noncon #dark!fic #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #yandere will graham #yandere hannibal lecter

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juliwuzhere · 2 months ago

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Got any Max headcannons?

I think one of the headcannons I often include in my daydreams or writing is the idea of his parents, before camp had been something they could sign up Max for, making him do a TON of other activities. And it didn’t stop after Max meet the age requirement for camp Campbell. When Max isn’t at camp, he’s doing all the other activities he is forced to do after school or on weekends. Sure, most of them his parents probably signed him out of due to them being too expensive or because Max complained too much, but for the most part, he has done an extensive amount of activities. The first activity that came to mind after reading this post? He’s probably done it and mastered it.

I mean seriously, this kid has only been doing gymnastics for a couple months. He had from august all the way to June to practice gymnastics, and he’s already so good at it the show writers had to make him do the obstacle course off screen?! (Actually it was probably because of the budget, but you get my point.)

And not just that, did you see the way he wielded that spear back in season 1 when Ered took over camp? I’m sorry, but that kind of skill with a spear isn’t just built into baby’s from birth.

Im also of the firm belief that most, if not all, of Max’s clothing is either too big or too small. Listen, I don’t think his parents are extremely abusive, physically or mentally. I think, like Max said, they don’t care. They give him the bare necessities a kid needs, food, clothes, a roof over his head; however, they do just that, the bare minimum. Let’s be frank here, they probably don’t know his size in any piece of clothing. A hoodie is actually a pretty good nod at that fact. Hoodies aren’t very tight like a t shirt, so they could get him an Medium or large and it’s not that obvious how big the hoodie is.

This also leads to my third head cannon. Of course, his parents give clothes and food, but most of the time it’s leftovers or just ingredients. Which means that Max most likely cooks really well.

Another one I have, and this one may get me burned at the stake, is that Max’s hair doesn’t look that bad in the morning. Now, hear me out! I get it, imagining Max having a birds nest in the morning is pretty funny. But I honestly think that after the events that occurred at Spooky Island, Max, Sasha, and Pikemen, whether they want to admit it or not, did grow a friendship. Sure, it isn’t a very nice friendship and Pikemen still attacks the camp, but they are a lot more friendlier towards each other. Because of this, I know that Sasha definitely helped him develop a skin and hair care routine. (The skin routine is more eye bag related since they’re like 11) Before the events of season 4, yeah he probably looked like shit most days, but the year after that? You could give Max shit about his attitude, but definitely not his appearance. For all I know, Sasha bought him some cologne or some crap.

He definitely has insomnia, I mean cmon. This kid has saved the camp from a cultist, the woodscouts, etc. I’m sure he has at least SOME issues sleeping. I sure would if I knew the guy who had brainwashed me and my friends and tried to kill us was still OUT THERE. (In Antartica possibly, but still.)

This technically applies to my previous head cannon but whatever. He can play guitar, just doesn’t want David to know because he will 100% force Max to play at the campfire. Max would thrust himself into the bonfire before you saw him agree to do that.

Max is really good at sports and in term is very competitive. But like, he’s both of these things but…terrifyingly so. Sorry, gonna go on a tangent to explain my thought process but hear me out for a second. I’m actually planning on writing a fanfic about Nerris learning hypnotism (they think it’s the closest thing to real magic) and accidentally actually doing it to Max after failed attempts on all the campers while at a sleepover. David catches them because it’s past there curfew and, to get out of trouble, Nerris decides to compromise with him. They tell David that if he lets all of the campers go without having to clean the messhall or whatever punishment he’s going to give them, Nerris would make Max actually participate in the camp activities. One thing leads to another and Max ends up actually doing all the activities with no complaining. But turns out, he’s way too good. None of the campers can actually beat him in anything, not even there own activities. Soccer, basketball, tennis, pickleball, archery, rock climbing, he can do it all. But like, imagine playing with someone who beats you every time and in less than a couple seconds. Obviously, everyone is mortified and decide to never give Max crap for not participating.

TLDR, Max doesn’t participate in activities because a) He doesn’t feel like playing games with people who can’t serve a volleyball, because you have to remember that most of these kids are probably really un athletic or nerdy, and b) Although he doesn’t want to admit it, he doesn’t want to be that kind of dick. After the events of the last summer, he’s not as rude. But of course, he still talks shit about their skills.

Sorry it took me so long to reply, if you couldn’t tell I got too excited writing this. Thanks for asking! I love answering and talking about story ideas and camp camp headcanons. Especially Max since he’s my favorite character (basic, I know, shut up imaginary hater.)

#camp camp #camp camp max #camp camp david #camp camp gwen #camp camp neil #cc max #cc david #cc nerris #small fandoms #u.p’s little chit chats

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