#Puppet Master III | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snailsgoingdowntown · 1 year

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Intrigued With You

i ii iii iiii

Yandere! Pinocchio x Fem! Mechanic! Reader

Warnings: physical violence (towards reader & Howard), mentioned past stalking & threats, blood, very slight mental breakdown, mention of injuries (broken limps & burns & cuts), inaccurate portal of the game demo, when the full release comes out, this work may be completely different from the actual game. Please tell me if I missed any.

This blog contains/creates/interacts with dark content, so if you are uncomfortable with that, don’t interact.

Disclaimer: I do NOT condone any of the toxic and harmful behaviors/thoughts that take place in this piece of fiction. None of this should be romanticized or considered normal as it is extremely toxic and dangerous.

Dead dove don’t eat.

Minors/ageless blogs that are blank/barely have anything, dni or you will be blocked.

Over all story summary: Your uncle’s puppet takes a too much of an interest in you.

Wc: 1992k

---

There are flyers everywhere.

Being handed out, scattered across the street, plastered onto windows – just everywhere. From a butler model bowing to a woman in one, to The Parade Master grinning in another. Advertisements, protests, novels of forbidden love, nearly everything was concerning the puppets. And nearly everything was making you sick, bile rising as you try to pretend that this is okay.

Like the world wasn’t about to be set on fire, Krat getting the worse of it.

You look to your left, Howard walking by your side. Unlike you, he’s smiling sweetly at the view, waving, and taking the handouts. It makes you envious. When he notices your gaze, you swore there was a hint of pink on his cheeks. You almost feel bad, but there was a sense of irritation, too. You should have said ‘no’.

“Is there something on my face?” He finally turns his head, trying to suppress a grin. He fails, miserably so. “If so, please tell. I don’t want to distract you,” he chuckles, running a hand through his hair. You scoff.

“Nothing can distract me, not even you,” turning your head away, looking forward, you resist the urge to laugh. Because if you react nicely, in a way that he’ll like, then he’ll get false hope. False hope that even he knew was nonexistent, but to be delusional, even if for a minute, was better to live in the reality that does nothing but burns. You swallow down the anxiety and guilt. It’s getting harder to stay.

“Hm, our little (name) is all grown up – too important to laugh with us peasants,” he teases, reaching out to ruffle your hair. He stops when you lean your head away. “So cold!”

Rolling your eyes, you ignore him, coat starting to feel stuffy. You’re sweating more than you should. “How far is this place anyway?” You adjust your coat, undoing the buttons, letting the front flutter. It feels like heaven, letting the cool wind cool down your overheating body – maybe you’re coming down sick.

Howard doesn’t answer.

You ask again, twice, before looking to your left, finding that he’s not there – you quickly turn around, only to spot him looking intensely at a particular poster. “Oh, come on…,” you make way towards him, both embarrassed and annoyed. You call out again, this time only a few steps away from him. He finally notices you.

“Hey,” he doesn’t give you room to talk, “just how well-known are you?” You’re taken aback by how his expression hardens; eyebrows furrowed as he jabs a thumb towards the poster.

“I’m… not sure?” walking until you’re directly in front of the poster, all you do is let out a giggle – you knew it was going to happen someday. And it scares you. It seems that the city is going to burn, soon.

The poster was a protest against the puppets. And your uncle is mentioned in it.

You were being stared at in the café. Not by many, but a select few, eyes glued to you, and you try your best to ignore it. Howard does too, pretending that he was unaware of the hostile atmosphere. Like he wasn’t about to become a target just from talking to you.

“– and then, my mother sent her to her room. Really, all my sister had to do was tell her who she was seeing; mother wasn’t planning on telling my father, anyway.” He carries on with his story, and you nod your head along, taking sips from your drink here and there. His shoulders and jaw are tense.

“She’s just in her rebellious phase,” you lean back, taking a glance at the table across from you. Three men, one woman, all staring you down like prey. “But surely, she’ll become mature about it,” you stretch your arms over your head before leaning forward, perching your elbows on the table. Hands cupping your cheeks as you grin at him, nervous.

Just pretend.

Howard gets the message, faking a yawn. Too many eyes and ears to start anything. And besides, they’ll be the ones in trouble, if anything. Even if they manage to get in a hit or two on Howard and send you to the hospital. Chills run down your spine at the thought – grabbing the glass and chugging down the rest of your water, food half-finished. You want – need – to leave.

He goes to pay while you stand idly by the door, breath hitching once the group follows. They don’t do anything, yet, but wait in line, and when Howard’s done paying, you tug on his sleeve, basically dragging him out of the café. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t ask questions – just follows. They follow soon after, and you’re not sure if you’re about to cry or laugh. Maybe both.

This is another reason why you hate being involved with the puppets – the protesters that hunt people like you down, clawing at their necks, gorging out their eyes if they could. You understand, you do, but it doesn’t justify when they beat someone black and blue just because they work with the workshop, especially when they’re minding their business. Attacking when the time is right, and you’re trying to flee before they find the opportunity to land a hit, to throw a rock.

“Sheesh, to think they’d so something like this in broad daylight…”

“It’s worse at night. From what I’ve heard, anyway. Guess I’ll have to add chains to the outside of the door, bar the windows up now.”

For both the house and his personal workshop, you mentally added.

Just to be safe.

You take two turns, different street signs, different shops, and apartments – the group still follows. You look back, only for a second, only to be with the sight of them being closer than earlier. Before you turn your head back, you catch the gleam of something under the woman’s sleeve. Is it a knife?

“Keep your eyes forward and just walk. Pretend they aren’t there,” Howard grabs your wrist, keeps moving and the roles are reversed, he’s dragging you as your heart leaps out from your chest. It’s happened once before, but even then, they gave up when you took a different turn than usual. This group doesn’t care. “Keep calm.”

They’re still following you even after you circled around the block for the fourth time; that’s when passerby’s start to notice. Start to care.

Something hits the back of your head.

And then something bigger hits you, making you wince, biting your tongue to keep quiet. Any reaction would be victory to them, and any damage is also trophy worthy. Howard doesn’t notice. The people around don’t say anything, just look on in shock. Shock, disagreement, agreement, happy, horrified – different mindsets and yet, no-one does anything. No-one joins, no-one stops it.

Another rock hits you, this time the nape of your neck, and it’s sharper than the others. You think you feel blood running down. Maybe you’re imaging things.

“Hey!” one of the men finally speak up, and you shut your eyes, still letting Howard drag you like a ragdoll. You want to cry. “Hey! I’m speaking to you!” You can’t see his face, but you’re sure his face is red in anger. Teeth bared and ready to snap at something. Snap at you if he doesn’t decide to go further and bite you.

“Just ignore them.”

You swallow a sob – for once, you’d rather be surrounded by those dreadful puppets you hate so much. No. You’d rather be alone with that puppet in your uncle’s workshop. It can’t even open its eyes. It can’t harm you, unlike this angry mob that makes you bleed and fear for your safety.

You fear pain more than death.

“I don’t think they’re going to leave us alone.”

Howard doesn’t answer, doesn’t comment on how broken and shaky your voice is. He doesn’t do anything, aside from making sure you don’t end up in an isolated area – a dead end street or alleyway. You needed open areas, full of people who are neutral.

It’s when you’re hit by a fifth rock that you finally let out a sob. And it’s by the fifth rock when one of the men finally catch up, practically tearing into you as he takes you by the shoulder, dragging you towards him. You stumble, whining in pain as Howard pulls you back, grip on your wrist more painful than the stranger’s.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He yells, shielding you behind him as the man stumbles back. You shut your eyes tight.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you – you’re with her! Don’t you realize she’s going to burn this city to the ground?” You can’t see their expressions, don’t want to, and you take a step back when Howard does. The man screams some more.

“These damn puppets – the protocols don’t work on some. It’s only a matter of time before they all glitch out and decide to kill us – “

“They won’t. They can’t – their systems will literally shut down if they break any.”

He’s not exactly wrong, but he’s not entirely right – some don’t shut down. So, you’re the one who scrapes them. You keep your mouth shut, trembling. It’s suddenly too cold. You want to hide.

“Right, right. Then tell me, will that always be the case? You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? No, you’ve seen the results – some owners got injured by their own puppets. On purpose. Burns, cuts, broken limbs – it’s happening too often to be a coincidence.”

There’s some more yelling, and it’s only when someone reaches out from behind you, a person from outside their group, grabbing your hair that some finally interjects. You can’t stop the scream that escaped you, nor can you physically open your eyes – it’s only when the small group and the person pulling on your hair get restrained by some outsiders that you can finally breathe. Another rock is thrown from inside the crowd, this time hitting right above your eyebrow. You think they get pinned to the ground.

Blood is running down your face. You just hope the cut isn’t deep.

The entire situation was a mess, especially when the puppet police officers appear – human ones needed to be called in.

Everything goes black after that, only remembering attempts to hold Howard back as he starts to punch the man in front of him into a pulp.

“Hold still.”

You’re back in the workshop, too scared to go home – it’s an unassuming little shed, with only a selected few knowing the location. Obviously, Howard was one of the individuals. And it was him who was being patched up, his wrists raw and on the verge of bleeding. He winces every time you press the cotton ball on it, tweezers trembling when you can’t stay calm.

You’re scared.

Guilty.

“… I’m sorry.”

He looks up at you. “For what?” his gaze burns into your skull. Your skin is on fire, and you can’t feel separated from the situation from earlier. It still feels like it’s happening, right now. “You didn’t do anything.” He’s right, but it still feels wrong. He rubs your knuckles with his free hand, already bandaged up.

It does little to calm you.

“I know. I know, but fuck… maybe if I wasn’t so involved with the industry, then maybe – “

“They would still go after you, even if you weren’t involved at all. Because you’re Geppetto’s niece.”

You halt, shutting your eyes. It happens, sometimes. You’ll get yelled at, threatened – but you’ve never been hit. They never went that far. The dam finally broke, and now the water is rushing out. It was only a matter of time, but even so, it still hurts more than it should. Scares you more than expected.

You’re so engrossed in everything that’s drowning you to notice the puppet’s ‘heart’ beating faster than usual, on the table.

Tag list

@connorsoddsock

#yandere #yandere lies of p #yandere pinocchio #yandere Pinnochio x reader #pinocchio x reader #lies of p #lies of p x reader #lies of p pinocchio

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fanofspooky · 1 year

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luxlisbons · 4 months

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Voulez-Vous? - part i

Mencken's ego takes a hit when Harriet's eye wanders to the newly elected French president. In response, he engineers a grand state dinner, turning diplomatic affairs into a battlefield of jealousy.

part of the "before there's hell to pay" universe: part i - part ii - part iii

pairing: jeryd mencken x original female character. 4k

warnings: affairs, unhealthy relationships, dubious morality, explicit language, age difference, smut, religious imagery & symbolism, unprotected sex, pov first person, the french

a/n: lmao so... this idea came to be thanks to @rxgirlie and i's obsession with a current french actor known for playing a lawyer in a film (iykyk), so picture him as marcel reynaud (who will make his appearance in the second part). thank you so much to Kels and my friend Lu @nyheartbreak for proofreading and encouraging me to post this.

Read on AO3.

It all started with an online poll. The Buzzfeed type of crap you read while waiting for the clock to strike 5 pm in your crummy little open space office.

“The definitive list of the 10 hottest presidents”

Usually, despite his very alienating politics, Mencken would place number one. What can I say? Everyone loves a bad boy, especially one they can fix with sex. Attention was brought to his steely gaze, the danger and confidence he exuded in his speeches, and his past as a 90s rock band member:

“Okay but 90s Mencken??? Twink goals, honestly😍”

“Mencken got me like 😱🔥”

“I never thought I'd say this, but Jeryd Mencken, you're kinda hot 😅 “

“He is such a silver fox zaddy 🦊”

His unofficial title became “Silver Fox in Chief”, and it gave us tabloid fodder for when we wanted to deflect from his racist dog whistles and controversial actions in D.C., which was a lot of the time for very obvious reasons. We were like puppet masters pulling the strings, orchestrating this wild media circus around Mencken. It was a classic ATN move, redirecting attention from the messy stuff and instead shining the spotlight on Mencken's supposed charm.

We brainstormed catchy hashtags and encouraged people to share their favorite Mencken moments online. It was all about creating a narrative that suited our agenda – making him this irresistible figure, a distraction from the serious issues at hand. We knew how to play the game, and damn, did it work. The internet ate it up, and suddenly, Mencken was not just a president; he was a phenomenon.

The internet had found a new obsession; fancams flooded the internet– from the way he adjusted his tie to the subtle glances he threw at the camera during press conferences. TikTok became a breeding ground for creative edits, with old concert footage seamlessly synchronized to modern pop hits, each video racking up millions of views and fueling the ever-growing fandom.

Twitter experienced a constant Mencken presence. Anytime the president made a public appearance or donned a new suit, his name would surge to the top of trending lists. The online obsession transcended political boundaries; even those who vehemently disagreed with Mencken's policies found themselves unable to resist his allure.

His press conferences were now attended not just by political journalists but also by entertainment reporters eager to capture the latest juicy details about the "hottest president" phenomenon. Mencken, bemused and enjoying the attention, tried to redirect the conversation to policy matters, while also stoking the fires with quips and acknowledgments of his sex symbol status.

His fanbase (which consisted of both ironic and genuine fans) even created a nickname for themselves: the “Mencken Fuckers”. They organized themselves into a formidable online community. They created fan art, fan fiction, and even fan-made music videos that further propelled the president into pop culture stardom. The group's ironic name didn't deter their dedication; they wore it as a badge of honor, unapologetically reveling in their unconventional admiration for the leader of the free world.

One such video caught my undivided attention while doomscrolling through TikTok late at night. It was one created with candid moments in which I appeared beside him, laughing and talking with Lana Del Rey’s song “Let The Light In” playing in the background. The chemistry between the both of us, set against the dreamy soundtrack, fueled speculation and excitement among the Mencken Fuckers. It both amused and mortified me how close to the actual truth they were.

Caption: "Is it just me, or are these two looking like the ultimate power duo? 👀💼💫 #CloseEncounters #PoliticalChemistry"

Comments:

1. @ShipperSupreme: Move over romance novels, this is the love story we didn't know we needed! 😂❤️

2. @CuriousMinds: Are we witnessing the birth of a new power couple? 👫💫

3. @LaughingWithLana: Lana Del Rey's song just makes this whole thing even more iconic! 🎶🔥

4. @Daydreamer_Deluxe: I ship it! 😍💘 Who needs reality when we can have this fantasy?

5. @RealityCheck: Wait, are we calling them #Menkenriet or #Harren now? 🤔

6. @CupidInTheComments: My arrows of love have found a new target! 💘🏹

7. @PoliticalLoveAffairs: Move aside, political drama; we're here for the romance! 🇺🇸❤️

I couldn’t help myself, I sent the link to Mencken, who after some technical wrangling on his part “I’m 54, of course I’m not gonna have Tik Tok installed for fuck’s sake” finally saw it.

The ringing of the phone cut through the silence of my empty apartment, startling General Meow from her nap and sending her scurrying toward the living room. I sighed, muttering to myself about the timing, and picked up after the first ring, feeling like a good little lap dog.

"Hey there, Mencken," I greeted, smirking to myself as I imagined his perplexed expression on the other end. "Ready for a little adventure in the world of internet?"

Mencken's voice echoed through the line, confusion lacing every word, "Harriet, what in the hell is going on? Why are people shipping us? Are we supposed to be getting something delivered?"

Suppressing a laugh, I explained, "No, Mencken, it's not about deliveries. It's a term they use on the internet when people want two characters or real people to be in a romantic relationship. They call it 'shipping.'"

There was a brief pause before Mencken asked incredulously, "Shipping? Like cargo and ships?"

I chuckled, covering my mouth to stifle the laughter. "Not quite. It's short for 'relationship.' They think we're the ultimate power couple, Mencken."

"Is this some kind of secret code or a new political term I missed in my briefings?" Mencken's confusion was palpable.

I couldn't help but tease, "No secret code, just internet slang. They're imagining us as this influential and glamorous duo."

Another pause, then Mencken's voice returned, this time more incredulous, "You're telling me there are people out there who think we're having an affair? With each other?"

"Yep, that's the gist of it. Welcome to the world of shipping, Mencken. It's a strange place," I replied, my grin growing wider. “And they've even given us a ship name – #Menckenriet. Catchy, right?" I couldn't help but enjoy the absurdity of it all.

Mencken sighed on the other end, probably shaking his head, "I can't believe this is happening."

"Embrace the fame, Mencken! Who knows, maybe we'll start a new trend in political shipping," I teased, still grinning.

There was a long-suffering sigh from Mencken. "I don't have time for this nonsense. I have a country to run."

"Your loss, Mencken. #Menckenriet could've been the political love story of the century," I quipped.

As I prepared to hang up, he interjected with a serious tone, "Wait, do they actually know about us... you know, being intimate?"

My playful demeanor faltered for a moment. "No, Mencken. It's just speculation and fantasy. They don't know anything for sure."

Mencken sounded relieved, "Good. Let's keep it that way."

But before I could end the call, he added in a soft voice, "Clear up your schedule. I'm gonna drop by during the weekend."

Since Rome, Mencken's hard veneer had chipped away. He made more time for me, wasn't as mean – well, still an asshole, but, as he put it, "Your asshole, sweetheart.”

“Well, aren't you so romantic,” I mused mostly to myself, a wry smile playing on my lips.

“Yeah, well, I figured life's too short to be a constant jerk. Besides, dealing with you is marginally less irritating than dealing with most people," I couldn't suppress a laugh. High praise, indeed. Looking forward to the weekend then.

As the call concluded, I imagined Mencken shaking his head and muttering, "I'm too old for this." I let out a loud hyena cackle which leaves General Meow staring at me with her wide green eyes.

______________________________________________________________

And then the French presidential election happened.

It was a tight race between three players, each one from a widely different part of the political spectrum. On one hand, the far-right candidate, the heiress of the National Rally, Marine Le Pen, was Mencken's pick. On the other hand, the incumbent President, Emmanuel Macron, stood as a centrist, aiming to maintain stability and balance in turbulent times. The third contender, Marcel Reynaud, a charismatic socialist from the left, caught the attention of many with his passionate speeches and a boyish yet distinguished appearance, with graying hair that hinted at wisdom beyond his years, reminiscent of a Dostoevsky prince.

As the campaign unfolded, Marcel Reynaud's popularity soared. His fiery rhetoric and genuine connection with the people resonated across various demographics. The public, weary of the traditional political dichotomy, found in him a fresh and appealing alternative. The French, tired of voting for the lesser of two evils, began to rally behind Reynaud, drawn by the promise of a new era and genuine change.

Reynaud's physical presence added an extra layer to his appeal. Imagine a man with rugged charm, grey tousled hair that hinted at rebelliousness, and piercing blue eyes that conveyed both intensity and empathy. His speeches, delivered with conviction, echoed a vision of a more inclusive and socially just France.

Election day arrived, and the people of France turned out in record numbers. The results trickled in, each update intensifying the suspense. When the final count was announced, it was Marcel Reynaud who emerged as the victor. The socialist left candidate had secured a historic win, breaking the stronghold of the traditional political forces.

As the news of his victory spread, so did the memes, fan art, and adoring posts dedicated to Marcel Reynaud. Internet users affectionately dubbed him the "French boyfriend," and hashtags like #ReynaudRevolution and #MarcelMania trended worldwide. He quickly dethroned Mencken as the hottest president online, captivating not just the French public but garnering attention on the global stage.

The internet was flooded with swooning comments about Reynaud's “elf” vibes, and fan accounts dedicated to his every move and policy decision multiplied. Memes comparing him to heroes from literature circulated, portraying him as the embodiment of a modern-day romantic lead. His charisma had transcended politics; he had become a symbol of a new era, both politically and personally.

______________________________________________________________

Mencken was not impressed. Despite being in his mid 50s, he still was a petty child underneath it all, mad about the spotlight being taken off him and given to a soy boy from France of all places.

The ping of random texts, accompanied by a distinctive ringtone reserved exclusively for him, never failed to jolt me with a thrill, whether I was immersed in work or drifting off to sleep – a Pavlovian response he found pathetically endearing.

M "Just saw another damn article about Marcel Reynaud. 🙄 Apparently, he's the new poster boy for socialism. What a load of crap."

H: "Oh, Mencken, you're just jealous that Reynaud's stealing the limelight. 😏”

M: "Another day, another interview with Reynaud. 📰 Can't escape the guy. Do you think he practices that brooding stare in the mirror?"

H: "Maybe he's born with it, maybe it's political strategy. 🤷🏻‍♀️"

M: "Thoughts on Marcel's new hairstyle? 💇‍♂️ Trying to figure out if he's attempting a political rebrand or just desperately needs a barber."

H: "Maybe he's channeling the winds of change through his hair. 😂 At least he's keeping things interesting. You should try it sometime."

M: "Harriet, tell me you didn't fall for the hype. 🤨 The French might adore their 'heartthrob,' but I know you have better taste."

H: "Of course not, Mencken. I only have eyes for the 'old and grumpy' type. 😉

To that last text he replied with a hilariously outdated “fuck yea” meme, highlighting how out of touch he could be sometimes.

______________________________________________________________

In one of our romantic getaways, (if you can call secretly meeting in a pre-swept room with Secret Service agents hanging outside the door romantic) he once again brought up le problème.

We had dinner from Dorsia’s to-go in my apartment, with General Meow eyeing our food from her own seat at the table. I tried to make conversation but Mencken's answers were clipped, a subtle giveaway that something was amiss. I took it all in stride, already accustomed to his mercurial moods. I knew that he was stressed about something and that once we fucked, he would relax and the tension would dissipate.

Wanting to make up for missing a couple of our dates, he takes me for a drive around the city in a sleek black car with tinted windows, a partition separating us from the chauffeur. The sound of muffled traffic and a bossa nova playlist was our soundtrack, as we furiously make out like teenagers on their way to prom. He’s quiet except for the sighs that escape his lips. I get needy and he likes it, petting me the same way he does my cat. The similarity does not escape me. His hands begin to go lower until they eventually find my hot center and he smiles against my mouth as he realises I’m not wearing panties. Mencken's voice, low and husky, breaks the silence as he whispers, "You always know how to keep things interesting, Harriet."

I respond with a teasing smile, my voice a breathless whisper, "Well, Mr. President, I aim to please."

His fingers continued their exploration, tracing patterns of fire on my clit. “Mr. President? You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured, his lips trailing hot kisses along my neck as he slips two fingers into me.

The combined sensation sends shivers down my spine. I cry out of pleasure and I am thankful for the soundproofed privacy the partition offers us. Eager to reciprocate, my hand instinctively moved toward his belt, but Mencken halted my advance with a gentle yet firm grip.

“Not here, better in the hotel room,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. The promise of what awaited us hung tantalizingly in the air.

Our destination was a high-rise hotel he had booked, soaring 68 floors into the city skyline. It was quintessentially Mencken, reveling in the sensation of being the most powerful man even during sex. The car eased into a lull inside the hotel's basement parking lot, providing a moment for me to compose myself while awaiting the Secret Service's assurance that the coast was clear.

Mencken eyes me mockingly. “You do realise they all know what we’re just doing in here and what we’re about to do in that room”.

I roll my eyes and reply, “A girl has to keep some secrets. Adds to the intrigue, doesn't it?"

He smirks, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Well, let them think what they want. It's not like we've ever been ones to play by the rules."

With a final nod from the Secret Service, Mencken opens the car door, ushering me out. The hotel's opulent lobby awaits us, and I can't help but feel a rush of excitement. The atmosphere is hushed, with the discreet professionalism one would expect in such an establishment.

He is rough, manhandling me immediately after we cross the threshold of the room.

The door closes behind us, and the plush interior of the room envelops us in a cocoon. The dim lighting casts a sultry ambiance, amplifying the energy that crackles between us.

Mencken turns to face me, his eyes filled with a hunger that matches my own. With a swift move, he captures my lips in a kiss, his hands roaming possessively over my body. In the intimate space, he pins me against the door, a delicious urgency in his touch. His kisses travel from my lips down to the curve of my neck, igniting a cascade of shivers. The feeling lights me whole like a star. He grabs my hand and leads towards the floor to ceiling windows, the quiet city completely unaware of what is about to unfold. Mencken's eyes lock onto mine, a silent communication passing between us. With a heated intensity, he guides me onto my knees, the plush carpet beneath feeling cool against my skin.

My hands find their way to his belt, fingers working deftly to release him. His cock is already half hard, forming a wet patch on his boxers. I pull them down to spring him free and my tongue reaches out in anticipation. In that moment, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving the two of us suspended in time. His fingers tangle in my hair, a silent encouragement to continue the exploration. As my lips inch closer to their destination, I can feel the heightened tension in the room. His arousal is palpable, the air charged intensity. I wet my mouth, preparing to take him in, and our eyes lock as my lips envelop him. A shiver runs through Mencken's body, and the room echoes with his moans of pleasure.

As the sensations escalate, Mencken's husky voice breaks the silence. "Harriet," he says, a blend of urgency and pleasure in his tone. I smile at him, as much as one can smile with a mouthful of cock. Yet, he knows—I look at him with such adoration as if I were in prayer and him my patron saint. The city outside may slumber in blissful ignorance, but within these four walls, I hold the most powerful man in the world in my grasp.

I alternate between licking his length and kissing his tip, his skin flushing to a delicious shade of pink. “Adorable” is definitely not the best adjective to describe him, nevertheless it is the word that comes to your mind. Yes, this man who can be quite vicious and spew the most hateful vitriol can also exhibit a human side. In those rare moments when it's just the two of us, away from the public eye, I get a glimpse of a softer side that few get to witness. This only eggs me on, and I fasten my maneuvers until he can barely keep standing still.

Just when I’m about to finish him off, he jolts me up and pushes me into the bed, covering me with his body, engulfing me. He stays still for a few seconds and places his wedding band covered hand protectively over my neck. He stares at me deeply and suddenly feeling self conscious I look away.

"Harriet…” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. His hand moves towards my chin and commands me to look straight at him. “Look at me, please”.

And I do. His thumb brushes gently over my cheek, and he leans down to place a soft kiss on my lips. "You're incredible, you know that?" he whispers, his words a mixture of admiration and desire.

He seems more expressive tonight, a departure from his usual sour demeanor. “Yeah, I am very well aware of it, thank you for the reminder.” I decide to inject a bit of humor into the situation. While I appreciate this more open side of him, it's honestly weirding me out a bit.

He rolls his eyes, “Don’t get cocky.”

“Shut up. Quick, kiss me again, old man.”

He smirks, leaning in for another kiss. Our lips meet, and the intensity between us reignites. We make quick work of our clothes, and he has me on all fours facing the window. I try to push away the thought of him imagining fucking the city in that egomaniac head of his. As he roams my body, I focus on the sensation, letting the pleasure wash over me. The position lets him get in much deeper, which combined with one hand pulling my hair and the other spanking me on the ass, makes me go crosseyed and incoherent.

“Oh shit, fuck! Oh my god”, I gasp in between moans. This goads him into increasing his thrusts and to reply with possibly the most cliche response ever.

“Nope, just me”, he snarls.

“Ugh, just shut up and fuck me, you asshole”, I groan out both in pleasure and cringe.

He pulls me up while still inside me so my back is against his chest. His calloused fingers come to rest on breasts and my clit, both rotating and pinching me in exquisite pleasure. Inside I get hot white and my vision goes out as the tautness that has been growing explodes. Mencken follows closely, my pussy milking him until he comes inside of me.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathes the room in a warm aura as Mencken and I fall in tangled limbs. With the air thick with a heady mixture of contentment and the smell of sex, Mencken, typically stoic post coitus, couldn't resist diving headfirst into banter.

His eyes wandered to the ceiling, contemplating the subject that had crept into his thoughts. "You know, I can't help but think about the French election."

I turned to him, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Oh, so now you feel like talking. Do tell. Is there a particular candidate you find captivating? Is this why you were so broody this evening?”

Mencken's lips curved into a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Marcel Reynaud, the so-called heartthrob. I fail to see what the fuss is about."

I propped myself up on an elbow, ready for the snarky exchange that was bound to follow.

"Well, Mencken, not everyone can appreciate his charm. Or perhaps, you're just not into the whole 'French boyfriend' craze?"

Mencken scoffed, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand.

“Oh, please! He's just another commie with a mediocre appeal. Looks like he belongs in some sad Eastern European gay porn."

I couldn't help but burst into laughter at his blunt assessment.

"Oh, Mencken, you have such a way with words. I suppose, in your eyes, only right-wing politicians can be easy on the eyes?"

Mencken grinned, his snarkiness unwavering. "Exactly."

Teasing him further, I continued, "Well, you can't deny he's got a certain je ne sais quoi. Maybe you're just jealous that the internet's boyfriend title slipped away from you."

Mencken scoffed again, feigning indifference, “Jealous? Hardly."

Chuckling, I replied, "Of course not, Mencken. Your appeal is far too sophisticated for the masses."

“Wait, you really find him hot? You have the most powerful man in the world in your bed but you still are thinking about some third-rate European lefty? He isn’t even a full president, he has a fucking prime minister!”

“Woah there, I thought you weren’t jealous.”

“I’m just disappointed in you. Really, what happened to your taste?”

He has a plane to catch the next morning. So when he has enough rest, (“I’m an old man, remember?”) he fucks me once again after eating me out, another habit he has picked up from Rome. During the week I have to wear turtlenecks and scarves to cover up the love bites he left over my chest and neck. Immature asshole.

______________________________________________________________

His administration suddenly became very interested in US-France relations. I could practically see the cogs turning in his mind, the wheels of diplomacy greased with a hint of jealousy. The irony wasn't lost on me—the leader of the free world, concerned about a romantic rival from across the Atlantic.

One evening, as we lounged in my apartment with General Meow resting on his lap, Mencken couldn't resist poking at the issue. “Any thoughts on how we can improve diplomatic ties with France? Perhaps organize a state dinner, or maybe I should visit him on a diplomatic mission?”

I exhale a sigh, knowing exactly where he was going with this. “You're the President of the United States. I'm pretty sure there are more pressing matters than cozying up to Marcel Reynaud just because your lover thinks he’s hot.”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, I just thought it would be a shame if our relations suffered due to my charming French competition."

And so it was decided, a state dinner was on the horizon, orchestrated not just for diplomatic reasons but also as a subtle way for Mencken to flex his presidential prowess in the face of a perceived rival. It was not lost on me that, deep down, this was more about asserting dominance. Men and their petty egos.

In the weeks leading up to the state dinner, Mencken's text arrived, a blend of formality and subtle suggestion. "Pick something nice, my dear. You'll be seated with me and Marcel. Let's make it a spectacular evening."

#succession #jeryd mencken #jeryd mencken x reader #succession fanficion #succession fanfic #justin kirk #succession hbo

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reggieblk · 6 months

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Act III of if we were lovers is out! (link to ao3)

Summary :

When Harry arrives at the most prestigious theatrical school in the country, under very suspicious circumstances, he doesn't have many expectations. The most unexpected thing he encounters, however, is one Tom Riddle. Amidst peers of great talent, his worry for his Godfather, unconventional Professors, and a vague sense of unworthiness, Harry falls in love with the only other person who deals with feelings as well as him. But maybe, just maybe, he and Tom will find out that not all love stories have to end in tragedy.

Snippet (below the cut) :

“I didn’t know you could play,” he breathed out as Tom finished. He felt breathless, light-headed.

“Now you do,” Tom said as he turned to look at him, a small smile on his face. He took a drink of wine and patted the edge of the seat next to him, beckoning Harry to come over.

Harry went, leaving his glass on top of the piano as he squeezed in next to Tom. It was a very narrow stool, and they were pressed together from shoulder to toe.

“Can you play?” he asked, his fingers resting on the keys.

“No,” Harry replied quietly.

“Let me teach you,” Tom said, picking Harry’s hands up and placing them on the keys, laying his own on top of them. His face was pinched in concentration, his cold fingers clashing against Harry’s that had already warmed up.

“Okay then,” Harry whispered, feeling the moment intimately. He let Tom move his fingers like a puppet master pulling the strings. It was choppy, and Harry didn’t use the right pressure to press down the keys, but it was still lovely.

Act III, Scene four

#fic : if we were lovers #tomarry #tom riddle #harry james potter #tomarry fanfic #tomarry fanfiction #my fic #my writing

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netheritetanto · 6 months

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TW://sexual assault, abuse

Kosei Shishido is a character that I have seen misrepresented in many aspects. I figured I would go ahead and represent what he actually stands for and the reasons for his always imminent betrayal.

Shishido has, in many aspects, lived a life close to Kiryu’s. He seems to be obsessed to a point with Joryu. He sees right through the exterior of that obviously fake codename. He sees the strength. He sees fully realized the type of man he wants to be, despite the Daidoji label marked deep into his skin. Kiryu still holds a space and carries the weight of the Dragon of Dojima as plain as the clothes on his back. That type of room captivating awe. That mere respect that no one really truly had shown him before was standing right in front of him and he was frustrated at the thought someone would strip themselves of a weight as powerful as that of Kazuma Kiryu. As we move through the story, you feel a profound sense of sadness weighing down on his shoulders. Knowing the yakuza world, it is easy to ignore this. The way he holds himself. The oni mask… Why would someone so powerful in build and bulk and someone who wants power hide their face from the light of day? Then we meet the puppet master.

Nishitani Homare III. A character who I rightfully despise, has taken control from Shishido in every possible concept. A former Jingweon Mafia member himself, he knew the importance of the weight of a name. Of appearance. Of merely existing in a circumstance that had never been born for him to inhabit. He has a stolen name, but not a stolen face. A name that has actual meaning in the yakuza world. He uses it disgracefully to the original owner, Homare Nishitani. I guarantee if Homare knew about the 3rd he would tear him to pieces. As I say this, I shift back to Shishido. His face, pockmarked, dragged, mangled by something. You notice this immediately after the mask comes off. It is a defining feature of a face that is exceptionally handsome. You wonder if this is the only part of his body to hold these deep pits categorized as scars. The pain that he must have felt as the weapon sliced his skin couldn't have been less than searing, white hot. Then Nishitani III unleashes his true villainy. He has Shishido under lock and key. His dog. He’s collared and it was hard to hear such a thing. Why? How?

Shishido was born under a different name. A name that held less weight than dog shit on the bottom of your shoe. He was sold into slavery by his father to the Kijin Clan, forced from fifteen to be in death matches in their coliseum. The more matches he won, the more he caught the attention of the person who oversaw these fights. Nishitani III. He was caught in his “good grace” to ultimately be taken advantage of. Tortured. The scars on his face held that weight. Sexually abused. His mind held this tightly, as you see in the particularly hard to watch cutscene of one of Watase’s guys openly commenting and making fun of him for. This went on for decades a “living hell” that “broke his mind and body”. What did he have to do other than fight? What could he do when he lost, facing the 3rd and hoping he would hopefully do the least amount of damage to him. When did his mind break? Did it take a while of the abuse? Or did he withstand some of it, only to be broken by another thing forcefully done to him? In any case, even the name Watase gave him, with time, degradated and withered. He felt less and less like a human and perhaps more like a monster. An oni, perhaps? Forced and fed into violence, striking down those who would hurt him, would hurt his abuser. This is why he feels betrayed and ultimately would betray Kiryu, his name was not enough for him and he needed to know why.

Shishido, crushed, broken, tired. He was everything when he went into the building to retrieve the note that was to end the Omi Alliance forever. The place that had given him his name, although now it felt and rang hollow, couldn’t end just like that, right? He was dumbfounded. Heartbroken, even. How could they do this to him? How could they get rid of this for everyone who had gained a name from their somewhat twisted profession? What about the legends? What about title and rank and bosses and underlings? He was even somewhat worried about what that meant for Nishitani III even despite everything. He had given him power, even if it was lesser than he would have wanted. The “murder” of the 3rd was framed as a mercy. As if he survived, what would happen to the dissolution plan? Although this pissed Kiryu and Tsuruno off, at least he was gone. Until he wasn't.

The full villainy of Shishido is overwritten by his extreme grief and hatred. He was about to lose another name, one granted by the people who had saved his life and given it purpose. Who else did he have to turn to other than his abuser, Nishitani Homare III. Who also suspected Joryu’s real nature. Whose name symbolized power in the Kijin Clan. Who could overturn the dissolution with sheer numbers, if he desired. Kiryu was their shared enemy. Kiryu was also their ultimate downfall. Joryu isn’t a man. He is a concept. A ghost. When you have hauntings, who do you call? Well, Shishido and the 3rd saw themselves as Ghostbusters of sorts. If he was revealed to be alive, what would happen to the things he was trying to protect? No one knew, but it was a point of contention. If they could get the Dragon of Dojima behind them, if they could reveal he was still alive? The dissolution would come falling down with them. This is the end to which the means are defined. Shishido had to protect his abuser because he had lost every other thing that had given him the little power he did possess. The collar tightened around his neck and with it, he lost his power again.

After Kiryu defeats Shishido, there is nothing left for him. I’m sure he knew, somewhere. Deep down he would lose. But he went down fighting with everything he had. But little did he know he wouldn’t die there. An even worse fate awaited him and his abuser. They were both taken to become Daidoji, to become complicit to their ways, even if they had to keep them half alive to do so. I can only imagine the terror as Shishido wakes up only to find he’s lost not only his name, but his rank and power along with it. The dissolution went off without a hitch. Kosei Shishido was a dead man and to top it all off? He was to be in this organization with a new name, new rank. He would have to fight to be back at the top, although the top is different in Daidoji’s books. There is no top. You are either a good agent or a bad one. The realization he was to spend probably the rest of his life chained to his abuser while simultaneously chained like a dog to the Daidoji was one I could only imagine caused the worst pain in him. I fear it may have even made him complicit to the Daidoji, which will have to be figured out with the release of Infinite Wealth. I hope there is a way to save him in some way, as I think he does deserve peace.

#yakuza #like a dragon #like a dragon gaiden #shishido kosei #nishitani iii #kiryu kazuma #yuki tsunoda #dude shishido is the first character i've written an essay about in a while #he means so much to me and also his story #whew boy #do heed the tw because i do go into it a bit

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