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charliemwrites · 2 months

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Soooo a while ago I introduced a “rabid reader.” A reader character with a (non-sexual) body count and a nasty temper.

Anyway, I started thinking about her - and the discord does what it does - and realized that Pathetic Stalker Konig would be a great pairing for her.

So, CW for light stalking, violence, and slightly mean reader

You have a stalker.

He’s… not a very good one.

For one, you know he’s there. Have known since pretty much the beginning. He’s a big fucking Austrian that covers himself head to toe. Not even in subtle colors, but in primarily black. Maybe at night he’d stand a chance, but he follows you in broad daylight too. So, there’s that.

Then there’s the fact that you’re not really bothered by him. What’s there to be bothered by? He keeps his distance, doesn’t interfere with your life. Even when he finally does work up the courage to enter your home, he puts things back where he found them. So, again, not a big deal.

You keep waiting for the escalation. For gifts or letters or some obvious sign of his presence that even the most oblivious person couldn’t ignore. But none comes. Partially, you figure, because you’ve shown no interest in anyone. You have friends, yes, but those are so obviously platonic that even your stalker doesn’t seem jealous. And the few times someone else has made a pass at you, a quick and merciless shutdown follows. Your lack of romantic intentions for anyone seems to be coming him semi-level.

You wonder if this is how religious people feel, that vague sense of being watched. Though you don’t think your stalker is judging you. Be a hell of a thing if he did.

Then one day, things change.

You have this new coworker, Brandon.

Your other coworkers already seem to like him. They say he’s funny and charming and handsome, that he’s such a great fit for the team. You have no particular opinion because most people just aren’t interesting to you, and Brandon is Most People incarnate.

But Brandon seems to have an interest in you. Which, really, is such a poor choice.

He keeps ending up in the break room at the same time as you. Or passing by your desk for a quick question, only to try to lengthen the conversation with the casual chat. Makes a point of saying hello to you in the mornings and walking down with you in the afternoon.

You’re not annoyed yet, not really. It’s a change in your routine, but you’ve been told those are good, so fine. He’s about as bearable as anyone else (besides the rare few you call friend) so you don’t think anything of it. Even when your coworker giggles that he was asking after your romantic life, you tolerate him.

A few months later is the annual office party, a celebration of… something. It seems different every time. Record profits, company anniversary, CEO’s birthday… it doesn’t matter, really. Free food, socialization. It’s something to do.

You go, of course. As ambivalent as you are towards the majority of your coworkers, they do seem to quite like you, and insist that you come.

So you go. You plaster on that mild, practiced smile while they chat and joke, contributing readily when prompted. At the end of the meal, you’re wheedled into going out for more casual celebration. Again, you agree.

Brandon comes along.

And somewhere, throughout the night, Brandon thinks it’s okay to start touching you. An accidental brush here and there is fine, unavoidable really. You’re not opposed to touch as a rule.

But then the occasional bumps and grazes become more frequent, consistent. Purposeful. A hand on your arm, then your shoulder, then your back. When you step away, he somehow ends up right back by your side. So you resort to telling him not to touch you so casually. He scoffs, already past a healthy buzz, and dismisses you as being “uptight” because you’re still treating it as a “work thing.” That you just need some more drinks in you and everything will be fine.

You can feel it bubbling up in you, that inky rage. Maybe something flickers across your face because your coworkers are quick to divert his attention. Smart.

But twenty minutes later you’ve had your fill of socializing. The bar is too loud, people are getting too drunk, and you don’t like the looks you’re getting from more than just Brandon.

You say your goodbyes while he’s in the restroom and leave.

You’ve only just made it to your car when you hear quick footsteps, turn just in time for Brandon to catch up. It’s all just noise to you now, his tense laughter that you left at the worst time, that you’re mean for not waiting. That he wants to walk you to your car like always.

He tries to curl an arm around your waist. It takes restraint you don’t usually employ not to break it. To just step away and repeat (fuck you hate repeating yourself) that you don’t want to be touched.

And then he makes the fatal mistake of just not fucking listening. Of insisting. Of doing what he wants anyway.

So you break his hand. And while he’s still screaming in pain, you notice the shadowy flicker of your stalker ducking out of view.

It’ll stay your secret, you figure, and go home. Expect that to be the end of it.

Until you hear glass break when you’re just about to go to bed. You step out of your room, shoes on and knife in hand, to a fuck-off sized Austrian strangling Brandon. Oh, and stabbing him with a large piece of the lamp someone seems to have broken.

There’s water all over the floor because it started raining an hour ago. It’s mixing with the blood, diluting it pink on your floor. You retrieve a towel from the kitchen to mop it up before it reaches the rug.

All at once, things go quiet. Your stalker is kneeling over a still, dead-eyed Brandon, breathing hard. But his eyes keep flicking to you and then away, shoulders slumped and head ducked.

“You’ve made a mess. Clean up.”

Your stalker jumps into action. Seems to already know where all the housekeeping supplies are. In the meantime, you go digging through your closet for clothes. Can’t find any, so you settle for getting the washer and dryer ready. Order yourself a new lamp online.

By the time you’re done, the body is gone, the floors are clean and dry, and your stalker is fidgeting in the living room.

“Strip.”

He startles. Stares. You arch your eyebrows. Wait him out. But then he does as he’s told. Peeling off cold, wet layers with mechanical precision, until he’s got a damp pile at his bare feet. You give his mask an unimpressed look. That comes off too with an audible gulp.

You don’t really get attractiveness, as a physical quality. You understand proportions and features, and recognize that this man has some pleasing, if atypical, ones. Even with the scar.

“Good.” He shivers. “Now shower.”

He nods, ducks past you to the bathroom - again without having to be told where to find it. You gather up the clothes and toss them in the machine with a little extra detergent.

Walk into the bathroom and ignore the way he tries to cover himself, flushing tomato red from head to toe.

“Your name.”

“Konig.”

You narrow your eyes, but don’t press.

“Are you military?”

He’s built like it. Thick with useful strength, not aesthetic muscle. And he’s scarred all over. Some new, some old, all earned through violence and suffering.

“Military contractor,” he says. Then, quieter, “please don’t stare.”

Your eyes snap up to his. He can’t even hold it for longer than a second before dropping his gaze. You cross your arms.

“You’ve been watching me for 7 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days. Put your fucking hands down.”

He twitches, but drops his hands to his sides. His cock - and it is, you acknowledge, very impressive - is filling out slowly but steadily. You consider it for a moment while he fidgets beneath the steaming spray.

“If you fuck me, will you be satisfied?” you ask.

Like touching, you’re not against fucking by default. It’s just one of those things you don’t think about often because you’re not especially interesting in most cases.

This - Konig - is not most cases.

But konig’s eyes dart up guiltily before he shakes his head. Surprised, you tilt your head.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

He nods so hard the back of his skull bumps into the shower head.

You hum. Stand there and watch him while he awkwardly shuffles until the washer buzzes.

“Finish showering, get your clothes from the dryer, then sleep on the couch,” you say. He swallows again and nods. “You can get blankets if you’re cold. Be here in the morning.”

With that, you turn to switch his clothes over. Then head off to bed, wondering if you’ll see him come sunrise.

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #konig #konig cod #konig x reader #rabid reader #pathetic stalker konig

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dr3c0mix · 11 months

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Yandere!Alpha!Jock x Student Council!AMAB!Reader who tries to keep their relationship a secret so that they can remain popular and get re-elected, but neglects the dangers of leaving a horny yandere with no attention for entire school days

Yandere! Jock x Student Council! AMAB! Reader

this might be a bit more fluffy than smut but idk man this boy needs some soft love rn istg-

CW: smut, blowjob, reader has a pepis

🏈 You learned the hard way that sometimes, helping others gets you more trouble than you bargained for. You remember that every time you hear Brandon's voice from across the hall as you were heading out of a student council meeting.

🏈 It was only supposed to be a few weeks of tutoring, just minor hours of helping out a fellow classmate, but god you were very wrong.

�� Rumors and gossip spread around the school about what kind of relationship you had with the star player in the football team, and no wonder considering how he acted when he was around you.

🏈 He started following you everywhere you went, always asking how you were doing, if you ate yet, how a meeting went, like how a concerned lover would be. You would always give him the cold shoulder, but he knew how you really felt. He's seen you out of school, you were a completely different person.

🏈 This seemingly cold and level-headed council president melts away the moment his hands wander around your body. Cold stares are replaced with half-lidded eyes begging to be loved. Your stern tone turns into little whimpers and coos for affection.

🏈 He loved knowing that you could be comfortable around him to shed the facade that you put up for the school. He loved how no one knew you like he did, he had special access to the real you.

🏈 And he was a bitch about it.

🏈 "Hey Hun! How was the meetin-"

🏈 "I told you not to call me that in public!" You whisper-yelled as you held a hand over his mouth.

🏈 He pulls your hand away and drapes an arm over you as you two walk to lunch, he knew you loved being in his arms. You anxiously look around in case people stared.

🏈 "I already told you Brandon, no one can know we're..you know.."

🏈 "Oh come on babe! You never even talk to me anymore! Am I really less important than head of student council?"

🏈 He gives you a pout which you return with a cold stare. He blinks and sighs, leaning a bit onto you, pulling you close to his side, he wished you leaned onto him too.

🏈 "At least come over so we can continue our movie marathons! I miss you so much baby~!"

🏈 His hand trailed down to your crotch, but you grab his wrist with a strong grip and turn to him with a look that could kill.

🏈 "Fine. But approach me like this again in school and I'm ignoring you for a week."

🏈 "Y-yeah ok sure haha yeah! Love you!" He stutters happily before giving you a quick peck to the forehead before running off.

🏈 "I said no!- goddamnit..."

🏈 Brandon waited patiently in his living room for you to arrive. You texted him that there was an emergency meeting you had to attend and he was happy to wait. He ate a few of the snacks he bought for you two though, he hopes you don't mind.

🏈 Finally, his doorbell rang and there you were, still in your uniform and looking around nervously. You looked tired with the dark circles under your eyes.

🏈 "Hey babes! You good? You know, I don't think anyone would be crazy enough to follow you ho-"

🏈 "Just shut up and kiss me please!" You said with a red face, your hands gripping the strap of your bag. It looked like you were about to cry.

🏈 His joking tone immediately drops as he sees you stressed out. He pulls you inside and closes the door, guiding you to his couch before pulling you close to his chest.

🏈 "Hey, hey baby what's wrong? Did something happen during the meeting?"

🏈 You grip tightly to his shirt, staining it with your tears as you press your face against him. "N-no, it was fine it's just.." You wipe a tear away from your eye as he looks at you with worried eyes.

🏈 "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner..I-I really missed you..that's all.."

🏈 Oh my god

🏈 He's dead, you killed him he's dead oh my go-

🏈 His face goes red as you say that before a goofy smile appears on his face. He laughs and hugs you tight, cradling you in his strong arms as your sobs turn into small sniffles.

🏈 "It's alright honey, I don't mind, I know you're really stressed with all your important council stuff or whatever, I shouldn't have teased you like that." he says softly, running his hands through your hair.

🏈 "It's alright, I just get mad over not being able to kiss you back." You joke. He laughs as well, cupping your face in his hands and peppering your face full of kisses.

🏈 "Well, no one's here to stop you now is there?" He whispers into your ear, his hands going down from your waist to your thighs.

🏈 You yelp as he carries you two his room, the two of you giggling as you kiss passionately. He enters his room and closes the door behind him before falling onto his bed with you in his arms.

🏈 He makes out with you, caressing your face and body while you rut yourself against his growing erection under him.

🏈 He pulls away and quickly takes off his shirt and pants, revealing his abs in the light of his desk lamp. You get up to kiss him again, removing your clothes and tossing it in the pile along with his.

🏈 He lays you down and kisses a trail down to your neck, licking and biting you like he did countless times. His hand goes down to your underwear and he starts stimulating your cock. You moan as he slides your underwear off and pumps your cock, rubbing his own against your thighs as you thrust into his hand.

🏈 You moan his name as his kisses trail further down to your member before he starts licking your throbbing cock.

🏈 You whimper and thrust into his mouth.

🏈 You feel the vibrations of him chuckling to himself before he works his tongue around your shaft, he revels in your taste while his hands keep your legs open for him.

🏈 You could almost see stars as you near your climax from him blowing you before he suddenly pulls himself off of you.

🏈 You beg for him to let you cum, but he smirks at you, having other plans for you.

🏈 He gives you a kiss on your dripping tip before getting up and taking off his boxers, his hard dick springing up, dripping with precum

🏈 He teases your hole before sliding his cock inside of you, a loud moan erupts out of your mouth as he begins to thrust into you gently, kissing your neck and whispering affirmations to your ear.

🏈 Suddenly he gets faster, pushing his member deeper and harder into you.

🏈 As he's about to cum, he pulls your head close to his chest as he relishes in your pleas and moans for him to fuck you harder.

🏈 He spills his hot cum inside of you and you grip onto his now stained sheets. You catch your breath as his thrusts slow down and turn gentle once again.

🏈 He looks at your tear-filled eyes and laughs sweetly, kissing your tears away and pulling his blanket over the two of you.

🏈 "You did so well, Hun, god I love you so much.."

🏈 He cuddles you as you inhale his scent.

🏈 After you both calm down and clean yourselves up, he takes out his laptop and you two watch movies together in each other's arms. Brandon relentlessly kisses and whispers sweet things to you as you lean on him as you watch.

🏈 The next day was just the same as yesterday, all his attempts at getting your attention leave him with the familiar coldness you displayed last time.

🏈 But of course he knows better.

🏈 He won't ever forget the feeling of you begging for him last night.

🏈 And it won't be the last time he'd feel it.

🏈 Let's hope his smug smile and your slight limp won't give your night's escapades away...

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streamsofstardust · 2 years

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got the fattest urge to watch the crow again

#brandon lee was fine as helllll #eric draven is my husband too idc

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halfdeadfrognerd · 8 months

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HOT TAKE on the episode 6 conflict

I see posts about how Blitz and Fizz making up was too rushed and how Fizz shouldn't have forgiven Blitz because he "made him lose his limbs and burn alive" etc. and. Like, don't get me wrong, valid points, but.

1. It's been 15 years

2. It's been confirmed to have been an accident

3. It was obvious Blitz still feels guilty and super bad about it (those lines from Brandon Rogers were just *chefs kiss*)

Like, I think the main reason why Fizz was upset with Blitz in the first place was because he thought what was done to him was on purpose and maliciously. But after seeing Blitz in distress and actually apologising for it, that was cleared up. Maybe if Fizz's life wasn't good he would hold more resentment but like he said, he's doing pretty well overall and makes the most out of his situation. And he isn't alone, that's very important!! He managed to move past his trauma enough to be able to have a healthy relationship with Ozzie who "understands him". The same cannot be said about Blitz who is pretty much alone in his suffering.

I'm not saying that if someone fucked you over you need to forgive them if the person is super pitiful, but if that's the one thing that keeps you both from moving past the trauma and deciding to close that chapter? Maybe it's for the best. It's been 15 years, yo. And the conflict was based largely on a misunderstanding. Yeah maybe it was underwhelming that the feud that's been presented from the beginning of the series could have been solved by one single conversation, but that's kind of life.

Personally I have a shit ton of conflicts that could be solved if me and the other person just sat down and heard eachother out, but it's just not happening. It's realistic. Just because you technically CAN solve the problem by talking doesnt mean you will actually talk. Both people need to be in the right headspace.

So I think based on all the facts we got it's not surprising Blitz and Fizz made up. This doesn't mean they will be besties or anything, but it's a start. They can let go of the resentment and steess and guilt over the broken relationship and start moving forwards. It was incredibly mature of Fizz, and hopefully it's gonna help Blitz get more in touch with his feelings and maybe get a bit of courage in trying to keep others in his life (*cough cough* Stolas *cough cough*)

I'm prepared to get mixed feedback on this and if you disagree thats fine! Let's have a convo if you're up for it, I don't have that many people in my life who I can discuss HB with :D

#helluva critical #helluva stolas #helluva blitzo #helluva spoilers #helluva fizzarolli #blitzo #stolas x blitz #fizzarozzie #fizzaroli helluva boss #fizzarolli #stolitz #stolas #vivziepop #vivzieverse #helluva boss

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the-kipsabian · 7 months

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#kip sabian #evil uno #brandon cutler #bte #being the elite #aew #all elite wrestling #aewedit #wrestlingedit #wrestling #night gifs #you could hear kip throughout this match at ringside actually he was delightful #i could say a lot more but.. lets leave it at that cause i will get out of hand <3 #my beloved #kip in a box #(rp blogs dont reblog; saving and other personal use with tag credits is fine)#okay nvm im too neurotic i remade it yay

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dragonnarrative-writes · 2 months

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Part 8 - Romance Isn't Dead

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Bones, flashback, high anxiety/panic, violence and gore, brandon being brandon (assholery), crying, manic pixie dream ghost (assholery), MREs, descriptions of knives/multi-tools (not in use)

You can’t fucking breathe. It’s like your diaphragm is frozen and you can’t pull air into your lungs. Your vision is tunneled onto the skull in the box, the bright blue scrap of painters tape with Simon’s messy scrawl. Behind and under you, you know he’s saying something. All you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears.

The last expression you’d ever seen on Brandon’s face flashes before your eyes.

A big hand closes over your mouth and nose.

You flail. Before you even know you’re doing it, your elbow comes up to slam against the man behind you. The hand disappears. Using the momentum of your swing, you pitch yourself sideways. But a huge arm wraps around your waist. You’re trapped. You’re trapped. The killer is at your back and you’re trapped.

Simon’s voice cuts through the panic. “Stop squirmin’ before you hurt yourself, precious. Or I’ll make you.”

Every muscle in your body locks up. You burst into tears.

It’s awful, the way he coos at you. But when he gathers you in this arms and cradles you, you can’t help the way you cling. You’re torn between burying your face in his neck and being too terrified to close your eyes.

Images from that night at the ski lodge flash behind your eyes. Finding Stacy bleeding out from her shoulder, already too weak to stand. Your manager, propped against a wall with his guts spilled in his lap. Amber, her throat slit long before you and Brandon stumbled across her. Brandon, who’d followed you downstairs as you looked for matches and candles. The same Brandon who had been trying to convince you to share a bed with him when the power went out.

“To conserve warmth,” he’d said, with that that stupid smirk on his face as he followed you into the kitchen area.

“No, Brandon,” you’d finally hissed at him, whirling on him with a long, unlit white candle in your hand. You poked him with it as you whisper-shouted, sick of his shit. “No. No. Fucking no. What do I need to say to get you to get it? I don’t sleep with my co-workers. And even if I did, I wouldn’t sleep with you because you’re an asshole who can’t take a hint. Go find Amber if you’re so hard up. She’s actually interested in you.”

“Amber’s a slag,” Brandon said, not bothering to whisper. “What, you’re not actually fucking Riley, are you? Won’t fuck a co-worker, but you’re fine shagging a neighbor.”

“I’m not fucking Riley,” you’d snapped, still at a whisper because you weren’t about to be goaded into shouting.

“Then what’s the problem?” Brandon’d snapped right back. “Stop being so stuck up. I bought you drinks, I walked you home more than once-”

“I told you not to!”

“-I’ve brought you flowers and chocolates. I got you coffee from your favorite spot, and a pastry-”

“You think I’m interested in dating you because you picked up a danish on your way to work?” You’d wanted to pull your hair out. Wanted to wrap your hands around his throat and shake. “Brandon, I fucking hate cherries and you-! No, that’s not even the point. I’m not interested. I’ve never been interested. Leave me alone.”

His fingers closing around your upper arm, tight, had made you push him away. Not as hard as you could, just enough to startle and put some distance between you. But he’d slipped in something on the tile and fallen to his knees.

“Shit,” he’d yelped. “What the fuck? Ugh, the floor is wet. You’re lucky I didn’t break something.”

You had snorted, turned your back and picked up the matches that were laying on the counter. Lighting one, and then your candle, you’d turned back as you heard him getting up. You’d opened your mouth to say something scathing, but… “Brandon, what… is that?”

There’d been something dark and wet on his hands, his sleeve. Whatever it was, he’d slipped on more than a trickle of it, coming from under the table. And when you rounded the table, there she was. Amber, in a pink pajama set and a pool of her own blood.

Yours was the first scream of the night. Brandon’s had been the last.

And now the man that had killed both of them is petting your hair and shushing you. You gasp as you pull yourself from the flashback, teeth chattering with remembered cold. A wave of goosebumps sweeps over you. You’re very aware of the gloved hand that rubs up and down your calf.

“A couple of deep breaths now,” Simon murmurs. You can feel his lips on your forehead through the cloth of his balaclava. “Deep breath in, there you are, precious. Let it out. Slow yourself down. That’s it. There’s a good girl.”

Another memory flashes through your body. Simon’s hands holding your hips steady as you rode him, just last night. His voice smoky and soft, “Easy, easy. There’s a good girl. Let me do all the work, yeah?”

You’re wracked by another wave of sobbing.

Eventually, you tire yourself out. Your limbs are suddenly just so much dead weight. Your eyes are so sore it hurts to blink. Every hitched breath shakes your whole body. You don’t fight it when Simon makes you tip your face up so he can see how puffy and red your face is. Only let out a shaky breath when he lifts the bottom of his mask just enough to let him taste the tears on your face.

“That was the worst night of my life,” you rasp.

Simon hums at that. “Worse than the hospital?”

“I thought I could trust you,” you say. You sniffle, then continue. “I knew you weren’t safe. But I thought I could trust you.”

“Can’t you?”

You think about that for a long moment. Have to concede, “Don’t think you’ve ever actually lied to me. Well… you lied about your name. Fae rules.”

He chuckles at that. “Callin’ me a fairy?”

“Equal opportunity serial killer,” you murmur. If you weren’t so tired, it might have been funny. Right now, it feels like the words are all that carry you from one moment to the next.

“Cute.”

He lets you sit in his lap for a little while longer. It reminds you of being locked in his apartment that first week after the lodge. You’d sobbed yourself empty so many times. Felt hollowed out just like this. You’re going to need water, soon.

Finally, you put your feet on the ground, so you’re perched on Simon’s knee. He lifts a water bottle to your mouth, tips a mouthful at a time for you until you feel ready to hold it yourself. When you look at him, the skull is less menacing than in your memories. But his eyes are just as cold and dead.

“You’re fucked up,” you say to him. “You know that?”

The way his eyes crinkle at the edges means he’s genuinely grinning. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“That’s good, clever girl. Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

You shrug. “Any time I try, I get it wrong. So tell me.”

“I’m thinking,” he says, leaning in to kiss your cheekbone. “That you have eleven minutes left.”

Everything in your body freezes. “What?”

“Haven’t found the key,” he says, kissing your cheek again before pulling his mask back down. “Clock’s still ticking until you’re out of the cuffs.”

The urge to burst into tears again wars with the urge to scream. You take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out slow. “Why are you like this?”

“Probably all the trauma,” he drawls. His hands lift you to stand and he pats your ass. “G’won then. Key’s in the box. You have plenty of time.”

Looking back at Brandon’s skull makes you feel ill. “Can I have the key you have?”

“Too late for that, precious. Don’t have enough time left to trade.”

“You fucking fucker,” you mutter around a hitching breath. A few deep breaths and you make yourself look at the skull again. Try to look at it as an object, a pile of shapes, not the remains of a person.

It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to step closer to the box. But you do. And you realize that the skull is on top of something. Cloth is folded up under it. On the left side of the box is a small, black hard case. You step over to that side, crouch down to pick the box up. Avoid the profile of the skull as much as possible. It has simple clasps. You take a deep breath and hold it before you open it.

Inside, surrounded by foam lining, are what look like three folding knives.

“It’s not in there,” Simon tells you. “Once the timer stops, you’ll have plenty of time for those.”

You don’t bother to answer, just put the case down next to you on the ground. The only other option for looking for the key is to move the cloth and, by extension, the skull. You clench your hand into a nervous fist, take a deep breath, and let it out. The cloth, when you touch it, is stiff. A gentle tug wiggles the skull a in place, just a bit.

You put your hands on the edge of the box and close your eyes for another few deep breaths. Fight the urge to vomit. Try to think.

Simon put it there to get a reaction out of you. Labeled it so you’d panic and cry. He knows you, so he probably knew you’d have to interact with the skull with a time limit. The key is in the box, somewhere, under all of that cloth and the skull.

The key… is under the skull.

Before you can let the nausea set in, you open you eyes and reach out to poke the skull hard with one finger. It tips, the bulk of it falling away from the jaw. And there’s the key, taped to the palate. A tiny metal cylinder, just like the one around Simon’s neck.

Even though you know the answer, you ask, “Do I have to touch it?”

Simon, of course, doesn’t say anything. You tug the cloth closer to yourself so you don’t have to reach too far and lay your fingers on the cheekbone. It’s cold, solid, and dry. You’re not sure why you expected different. You use your thumb to pick at the tape, focusing on that and nothing else. It comes away remarkably easily. The key falls from its spot with a soft clack against a tooth and lands on the cloth.

Unlocking your cuffs feels anticlimactic after all of that.

“Three minutes to spare,” Simon says. He sounds impressed.

You sniffle a bit as you rub your wrists. “New personal record.”

“You did yourself proud, Precious.”

The truth bubbles out of you before you can think better of it. “I can’t think of a reason not to hate you right now.”

“That’s because you’ve got some sense in your head,” Simon says. He stands, turns his back to you to go to the table. He picks up two of the MREs, reads off, “Chili with Beans or Mexican Rice and Bean Bowl?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Gotta eat more than crackers,” he says. “Might as well have some while I tell you about the rest of our little adventure together. Come sit at the table.”

You stand, look at his back where he’s picking grapes from the bag. “What’s outside the door?”

“The not-so-safe zone,” Simon says, without turning. “You go out that door, the next part of the game starts.”

Hunting trip three-point-oh. You sigh and walk across the mattress to the chair at the table. “Mexican rice, please.”

He passes it over. “Good choice.”

He’s quiet while you reacquaint yourself with the heating element and examine the rest of the package. He opens his own MRE and cracks open a bottle of water, offers it to you first. You use it to start the heating process, watch him do the same.

“So,” you huff, crossing your arms. There are a few minutes until the food will be hot. “What’s the next part of the game?”

“We’re gonna play a bit of capture the flag,” he says. “You ever been paintballing?”

You stare at him, jaw dropped. A headache starts to form under your left temple. “Have you lost your mind?”

It’s not often that Simon looks affronted. “Paintball is fun.”

You can’t help the disbelieving laughter. “Then why didn’t you take me to paintball?”

“Gotta train you on gun safety first,” he points out. “And most places make you play on teams.”

“And the guns aren’t real,” you counter. “That’s the real reason, right?”

He shrugs, “I prefer knives. But yeah, I’d want you to have something real.”

That reminds you. “What are the knives for?”

Simon goes to retrieve the little carrying case, snags his chair on the way back. He places the box on the table, turns it toward you and opens it. He picks up the leftmost blade and flicks it open with a quick motion. He hands it to you, black handle first as he takes a seat.

The handle is thick and the whole thing is a bit heavy. You turn it in your hand and realize that it’s a multi-tool.

“This is a Leatherman Free K4,” he says. “Decent multi-tool, lots of uses. How does it feel in your hand?”

How are you supposed to know? “Fine? It’s a knife.”

“Show me you can close the blade?”

You find the mechanism pretty easily, close the knife without incident. Simon nods, presents his hand, so you give him the knife back. He fiddles with it for a moment, and out pop a pair of scissors. And he hands it back.

“This one,” Simon calls your attention to the second item. It has a black handle as well, but the frame is open so you can actually see the tools. “is a Leatherman Skeletool CX.”

It’s impossible for you not to poke around. There are 8 little tools attached the the knife, including the scissors. A few you don’t really understand, but there are three separate screwdrivers and a bottle opener. You can think of a few times in the last couple of years a multi-tool like this could have come in handy.

You snort. “Skeletool?”

“Hush,” he chides you, smile audible in his voice as he hands it over. “This one has pliers, and a few other tools the other one doesn’t. Shorter blade, a bit lighter.”

“I can kind of feel the difference?” you offer.

“Don’t worry too much about it. Open and close it.”

You do. Pliers first, because you can. Then the blade. “Cool.”

He hands you the last one, a tiny thing that’s all silver, as he takes the second from your hand. “This one is the Skeletool KBX.”

You flick it open and closed without him asking. “Itty bitty.”

“That one’s very straightforward. Just the blade and a bottle opener on the handle.”

You pick up the little package of pretzel nuggets that came with your meal and cut into it. The plastic splits like butter. “Dangerous.”

“I dunno,” you admit. “I haven’t used them yet. You gonna tell me what they’re for?”

Simon hums, a noise you secretly have categorized as one of his “happy tiger” noises. You look up to see he’s got those eye wrinkles that mean he’s pleased. He’s looking at the little blade in your hand.

“Do you like them?”

“They’re gifts,” he says. “One for your usual purse, one for your backpack. The little one for the next time you want to go out dancing. After lunch, I’ll show you how to hold them.”

Staring at him, you think that you’d call the way his shoulders come up toward his ears bashful if he was anyone else. “Did you get me romance knives?”

“Skull’s got me in the doghouse,” he mutters, picking up his now-hot food. “Gotta give you something nice to balance it out.”

“Drugging and kidnapping me got you in the doghouse,” you correct him. “The skull has you under it.”

“I’ve got experience digging myself out,” Simon says with a shrug. “Eat.”

You grab your food and start extracting it from the heat pack. “You want to get back into my good graces? Tell me what the fuck happened in 2007. What the fuck does Roba mean?”

Simon chuckles. “That’s not a story you want to hear while you’re eating, sweet thing.”

“You made me touch Brandon’s skull,” you point out as you tear the packaging open. The smell of hot food makes you suddenly aware of how hungry you are. “So you had better start talking.”

“Promise I’ll tell you more when we’re home, Precious.”

“Swear it.”

“Cross my heart,” he says, flat blue eyes staring into yours. “Hope to die.”

“The whole story.”

“Promise you a summary that won’t make you vomit more than once,” he offers. “And I’ll rub your feet.”

You scoop a spoonful of rice and pop it in your mouth. “You’re going to rub my feet regardless.”

Simon gives a dry little laugh as he pushes his mask up over his mouth. “Yes, ma’am. Now eat. I’ll tell you the rules of capture the flag.”

#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction #cod #fanfiction #simon ghost riley #dark fic #simon riley x you #slasher handler #simon riley x you smut #manic pixie dream ghost #fun fact - in the charmed slasher ghost series by charliemwrites ghost doesn't lie to the reader. only brandon

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bethanydelleman · 4 months

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New Year's Resolutions for Jane Austen Characters (mid-novel)

Emma Woodhouse: Find a new man for Harriet Smith No more matchmaking! Admit Knightley (and his brother) were right. Meet Frank Churchill, finally.

George Knightley: Just feeling thankful for everything I have. I don't think my life needs to change.

Mr. Woodhouse: Finally convince Isabella to live at Hartfield instead of with her husband. Poor Isabella!

Harriet Smith: Marry Mr. Elton 💗💗💗 *unable to read tear-stained writing*

John Knightley: Spend more time at home with my beloved wife. Why do people invite us places???

Elinor Dashwood: Find a way to get over the most perfect man I've ever met.

Edward Ferrars: Find an honourable way to get out of the engagement with Lucy (same resolution he's had for three years now)

Robert Ferrars: Build a magnificent cottage

Marianne Dashwood: Marry the most perfect man to grace this earth with his beautiful presence, John Willoughby. Also, read more poetry.

Colonel Brandon: *stares at the paper in despair because he cannot bear to give form to his ambitions which seem already impossible*

Elizabeth Bennet: I don't really think there's anything I need to improve about myself. I'm really a great judge of character.

Fitzwilliam Darcy: Remember that duty comes before ephemeral feelings of affection.

Jane Bennet: Find a way to get over the most perfect man I've ever met.

Charles Bingley: Buy an estate (resolution submitted by Caroline & Louisa)

Caroline Bingley: Encourage Charles to finally buy an estate (not in Hertfordshire), get Charles and Georgiana Darcy engaged, get engaged to Mr. Darcy, attend a party with at least three members of the nobility... (too many goals to record here)

Mrs. Bennet: MARRY OFF AT LEAST ONE OF THESE DARN DAUGHTERS

Anne Elliot: find a way to be less awkward around Captain Wentworth... Prepare myself for Captain Wentworth to marry Louisa... Try to endure Bath with a smile

Captain Wentworth: Get out of the obligation to marry Louisa Musgrove by any fair means. PLEASE GOD I AM BEGGING YOU

Captain Benwick: Mourn Fanny for eternity Marry Louisa Musgrove

Catherine Morland: Henry Tilney 💗💗💗💗 Henry Tilney, Northanger Abbey 💗💗💗💗 Henry Tilney & Mrs. Catherine Tilney 💗💗💗 *doodles ideas for wedding gowns*

Eleanor Tilney: Marry the love of my life (same goal for the past three years)

Henry Tilney: Keep being awesome

Frederick Tilney: Keep being awesome

General Tilney: Have all my children disposed in marriage to wealthy individuals (goal since Frederick turned 21)

Mrs. Allen: Purchase some very fine lace

Fanny Price: marry edmund Be as unnoticed as possible

Edmund Bertram: Marry Miss Crawford

Mary Crawford: Marry Edmund Bertram

Henry Crawford: Promote William Price, marry Fanny Price. Rub my excellent treatment of Fanny in the Bertram's faces.

Tom Bertram: *never wrote anything down, never does his years are always awesome*

Mr. Yates: Finally put on a production of Lovers' Vows third times the charm!

Mrs. Norris: Save more money than last year by furthering economy. Keep Fanny in her place. Become more necessary to the Bertrams.

Lady Bertram: sew a cute little jacket for Pug

Lady Susan: Keep being the best Gaslight Girlboss *kisses paper*

(if Christmas happened within novel, I tried to place the resolutions around it. If not, I made up a time)

#new year's resolution #happy new year!#jane austen #mansfield park #pride and prejudice #northanger abbey #sense and sensibility #emma #persuasion #lady susan

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dduane · 7 months

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Re: Magic systems

kosmonaunt asked:

I have the weird hyper-fixation of wanting to know all their is about The Speech and just how everything works!! I love learning about how power systems work, and it helps since I’m trying to develop my own. I’m always stuck on soft or hard magic systems. Since I don’t know all there is to really know about my system. Do you have tips on crafting magic systems? How do you feel about someone being inspired by pieces of your system?

Inspiration is fine! What you want to make sure you do with whatever inspires you, though, is to work hard to make your own take on it different from or better than what you borrowed. Around here we refer to this as "the magpie principle:" if you're going to pick up and play with/make off with a bright and shiny idea, you need to be working to produce something even brighter and shinier as your part of the "exchange". Whether or not you succeed at this (or can succeed), either sometimes or never at all, isn't the point. The point is to always be trying.

As regards building magic systems: there were three different ones in the foreground or background of my first novel alone—all of them with features that at this end of time I can recognize as being inspired by elements of magic systems in other writers' work. But by the time I'd more fully developed them, each had become something unique. The system I'm probably better known for—the system based on the wizardly Speech and its use—sprang more or less automatically from the increasingly complex answers to the question, "What if there was a manual that could tell you the truth about/the secrets of what makes the world go?". (Because once you answer one question, another pops up. "Where did that manual come from? What're you supposed to do with it? What's wizardry for?" Etc., etc.) I've spent the last few decades, on and off, answering that question in ways that (intentionally) mirror the main characters' exploration of the art of wizardry, and what it means to engage in the business of errantry in a world that mostly thinks wizards are a fairy tale.

Before getting into describing my own approach to building a system, I needed to take a little time to look around and make sure I knew what you meant when you mentioned hard and soft magic. My best guess is that you're referring to what a lot of people are calling "Sanderson's Three Laws of Magic" (fairly enough, as Brandon calls them that himself). I had a look, and have come to the conclusion that they're more general guidelines than laws... as in each of his three essays on the subject, Brandon no sooner names his basic laws/principles than he starts punching holes through them to make room for systems that don't follow them rigidly. (And frankly I find this kind of endearing.)

With his first one, in particular, I have no quarrel at all: the concept that in one kind of magic, which for his purposes he defines as the "hard" kind, rules are extremely important. (Which is why I'm kind of horrified that he apparently got dogpiled about this take on a Worldcon panel, because to me it seems so intuitive. Some of the best fantasy storytellers I know, like this one, would agree with him.) Then later he gets on to the equally valid ideas that limitations on magic are really important, and that culturally interconnecting multiple systems is useful; and here too we're in agreement. This is reassuring to me, considering that I built my first four systems—all of which feature approaches resting on similar concepts—while Sanderson was between four and six years old. :)

People using Sanderson's Laws will look at the three systems in the Middle Kingdoms books and classify them as varying sorts of relatively hard magic, with their power rooted in two or maybe three different sources. (The blue Fire is a gift of the Divine, nearly lost since ancient times and much damaged, but now slowly being recovered: sorcery is a language-based art in which no one's terribly sure where its power comes from: and the so-called "royal magics" probably started out as a blood sorcery that over centuries was shifted toward very specific uses by the power of the demigod-descendants who employed it.)

The Young Wizards novels, though, feature an extremely hard magic deeply rooted in science and (more or less under the hood) very, very rules-intensive... while its power relies on correct use of the language used to create the Universe, and the active cooperation of the Powers still busy about that work. And this is the reason why, though people are going to naturally be curious about the Speech itself, no one's going to hear very much from me about its actual words.

This is because the Speech is canonically described as so powerful that its use is something you can feel in your body and mind (and theoretically your spirit): bone-shaking, life-changing, unmistakable. And there's no way that made-up words on the page can realistically be expected to evoke physical sensations like that in the reader... or like the sense of the universe going silent around you, leaning in to listen, as you speak your spell. The careful writer knows that it's unwise to attempt to produce responses in the reader that, when they fail, will only emphasize how that thing is not happening, and stands a good chance of shattering the illusion one’s trying to weave.

So a Speech-word gets dropped here and a phrase there, but no one's ever going to get enough of it out of me to try to build a spell. Readers are better at doing that work for themselves in their own heads, out of hints and whispers. Over ten books and their interstitial material, there are plenty of those scattered through the text: not to mention the most basic principles of wizardry, which are laid out before the end of the first chapter of the first book in the series. So I'll leave you to get on with deducing what you can from canon.

Meanwhile, if I was about to build a new system, I'd look at my main characters—in the setting of their home cultures—and ask myself for answers to these questions:

What do they want more than anything?

Why can't they have it?

What kind of power will help them get it?

When they do eventually get within reach of the power / the desired thing... what will its achievement cost them?

And will they pay the price?

...Because the payment of such prices is where you find out what your heroes are worth. (Or aren't.) The above arc succinctly describes, in broad strokes, both The Door into Fire and So You Want To Be A Wizard, and a good number of the books that follow them. (Because why abandon what works, or try to fix what's not broken?) :)

With answers to the questions above you can start feeling your way toward what you need—always looking closely at the cultures your characters spring from, and how those cultures will shape their response to the magic they seek. (Or that finds them.) Maybe it's no surprise that the preferred arc structure of a writer who was a psychiatric nurse will be deeply involved with questions of motivation: because motivation is at the heart of almost all human behavior. Find the motivation and you find the character's heart—and, often enough, what kind of magic they need to make their desire and intention overflow into triumph.

...There are quite a few "How to design your magic system" pages out there. You might glance at these to see if there's anything useful in them for you:

How To Build An Amazing Magic System For Your Fantasy Novel

How To Create A Magic System In Six Simple Steps

Building Your Magic System: A Full Recipe

How To Create A Rational Magic System

However, my favorite is the "So You Want To Write A Functional Magic System" page at TV Tropes, which is nicely arranged yet also completely nonprescriptive—a pick-'n'-mix jar of prompts, things other writers have done that've worked, and generally useful ideas. (And try not to vanish too far down the many interconnected rabbitholes...) :)

Now get out there, build the world, and make the magic(s).

#magic systems #building magic #magic #writing advice #fantasy

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