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dabisqueen · 6 months

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trick or treat

Trick or Treat

Ghost/Dabi x fem!Reader x Konig/Shigaraki

⇢ word count: roughly 3.2K ⇢ plot: It's Halloween and you make the mistake of knocking at the wrong door. ⇢ warnings: Minors DNI, tw smoking, consensual rough sex, rough kissing, rough manhandling, a bit of degradation, slapping, oral sex (m receiving), deep throating, cum in throat, unprotected PIV-sex, anal fingering, deep creampie, Ghost and Konig aka Dabi and Shiggy are actual sweethearts and take care of the reader later ⇢ A huge shoutout to my beta @blankexpressions-and-falsefires. without you, this wouldn't happen. without you, this wouldn't be as great. i am forever grateful for your help!

You and your friends were on your way to a Halloween party, which was going to take place in an old warehouse. The invites had been distributed months ago already, and everyone had been looking forward to it.

What you were wearing wasn't very unique at all: Black high-heel boots combined with a short, ruffled red velvet skirt, a black petticoat underneath, and a matching red underbust corset. It pushed your boobs up so high that they nearly popped out any time you bent over. Thankfully, a white, off-shoulder blouse helped to keep a little bit of your decency intact. The last finishing touch was a red velvet cape.

You guessed it—you'd picked the Little Red Riding Hood as this year's costume.

Getting off the subway station, your group walked down the dimly lit street, the wind blowing leaves and scraps of garbage along the street. The clacking sound of your high heels echoed off the walls and you wrapped your cape tighter around you and hoped that the warehouse would offer some shelter from the cold. Trying to avoid the cracks in the concrete with your pointy heels, you followed the rest of the crowd—as something off to the side caught your attention.

A lone, lit pumpkin sat at a shabby door, a flickering lamp above it shedding just a bit of light.

“Hey girls!” you called out. “There's someone inviting trick-or-treaters over here!”

Your friends stopped and looked at the door you were pointing at. Nonetheless, they turned while your best friend called over “It's just a prank, forget about it!”

“I want some candy, though.” Pursing your lips into a pout, you stalked over to the other side of the street, calling over to the rest of your small crowd, “Go on ahead. I'll catch up to you later!”

You didn't mind them rolling their eyes at you—cause you have been known to have the sweetest tooth of them after all.

Taking a deep breath you raised your hand and knocked on the door. Once. Twice.

No answer.

Okay, you reason, it was just a prank. Just as you were about to turn, you heard voices closing in behind the door.

"Didn't think anyone would fall for this shit.” A dark voice hissed. “What kind of dumbass are they?"

"Beats me." Another husky voice spoke.

The door swung open and you inhaled sharply. Before you stood two men dressed head to toe in combat suits, one of them wearing a sniper hood, the other a Balaclava complete with a hard plastic skull attached to the disguise.

Each of them was a character from the game Call of Duty– Konig and Simon “Ghost” Riley.

The one dressed as Ghost casually leaned against the door frame. His eyes scanned over you, and your gut tightened, watching the brilliant cerulean of his irises take you in. His skull Balaclava, obscuring any other feature on his face, sent chills down your spine. The other's smoldering amber gaze grazed the curves of your body and lingered especially long on your décolleté before stopping back at your face. As far as you could make out, they both looked well-toned, and your gut instinct told you that they were stunningly attractive underneath those masks. Your heart started beating faster.

“Oh, look what we have here.” The man dressed as Konig mused in a sneering tone. “If it ain't Little Red Riding Hood.”

“What a coincidence—" his friend chuckled, his voice low and husky. "Cause you can consider us the Big Bad Wolves—”

It sent goosebumps crawling up your spine, but you still bravely muttered with a shaky voice, “T-trick or t-treat?”

Konig and Ghost looked at one another, chuckling, before their gazes went back to you.

"You really looking for a treat, little red?" Ghost cocked his head, brilliant blue seemingly burning into you.

Both men's lustful stares were unmistakable as they looked at your body with a desire mirroring the feeling that rose quickly in your chest.

"U-uhm, I guess?" You stuttered, heat rising into your ears now.

“Treat it is,” he said. With that, his strong fingers circled your wrist and he pulled you inside, Konig slamming the door shut behind you.

A shriek left your throat when he pressed you against the wall, his ghostly mask hovering right in front of you.

"You really want this?" He asked, tilting his head, "We'll only proceed if you do."

One hand propped him against the wall, the other trapped your jaw between thumb and forefingers. His hips wedged you in place and it sent a jolt of pleasure right between your thighs. You shamelessly squeezed them together, cheeks starting to glow with fear—and excitement.

"I-I don't know," you licked your lips as subtly as you could, and you could swear you felt him twitch in his pants.

His eyes fixated on your lips as he pulled the Balaclava down from beneath the skull, tucking the fabric under his chin to reveal the lower half of his face. His lips alone, sharp and sultry, had you aching for more.

"I think you do," Ghost chuckled, his warm breath fanning your lips, the hard plastic of his mask almost brushing against your nose. His fingertips felt scorching yet delicate when he pulled you in for a kiss.

His tongue pushed past your lips, moving languidly around yours. The kiss turned raw and bruising, growing rougher by the second. His cold mask dug into your skin but the thrill of it all made you forgive it easily. Groaning into his mouth, your hands ghosted over his chest, feeling the taut muscles underneath his clothes. Your legs buckled, but Ghost was quick to react and slip a leg between your thighs to hold you in place. His firm thigh pressed right against you, delivering much-needed friction to stimulate your growing desire.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, half-lidded eyes smoldering with desire when he broke the kiss. He pulled the Balaclava back and straightened up, chuckling at the sight of a wet spot left on his pants. "You really love this, don't you?"

You nodded hazily. You were given no chance to catch your breath as he dragged you to a small, square table nearby. His grip was rough but gentle enough not to hurt you. You shrieked again when Ghost pressed your chest flat against the surface. Konig stepped close, his hand stroking the heavy and full shape of the growing bulge beneath his clothes. Ghost clasped his hand tightly around your wrists, pinning them against your back, holding you down.

“P-please be gentle,” you pleaded, having seen both outlines of their dicks —not small in size— strain against their boxers, ready to be strangled by your tight pussy.

"Don't be a chicken. You agreed to this.” Konig rasped. “So, we get to destroy you, corrupt your little pussy—"

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, and your heartbeat started to pick up as you struggled against Ghost's iron grip.

"Aw, don't scare our little bunny, Shigaraki" Ghost tutted, stroking your back with his free hand. "We aren't gonna hurt you, doll."

Something in his voice made you feel like you could trust him — you felt that he meant it — and your body relaxed, your breath evening out.

"Party pooper–" Konig grumbled behind his hood, as he rounded the table to stop right in front of your face.

"W-what are you gonna do to me–" You swallowed thickly, thrill shooting through your body in a rush of adrenaline.

“You want us to be gentle,” his voice suddenly deepened, “Or should we treat you like the little tramp you are?”

“I am no tramp—” you replied breathily.

“Hm— Am I wrong to think that this turns you on?” Ghost chuckled. “The idea of getting fucked by two strangers just like this?”

Ghost's hand trailed up your thigh, hiking up your skirt and petticoat to reveal the curves of your perfect ass cheeks. A growl erupted in the back of his throat at the sight, his hand stroking the soft skin he found there. The coil inside your stomach tightened as you felt his crotch grind against you from behind. You realized he was giving you a small taste of just how much of a treat you would be getting. Trying to push yourself back against his thick meat, though, earned you a harsh slap against your ass with his tactical leather gloves.

“Ow!” you cried out, the stinging pain driving tears to your eyes.

"Fucking lay still." Ghost growled and you instantly froze at the sheer authority in his tone, a hot pulse shooting straight between your legs.

He leaned over, whispering against the shell of your ear. "So, little Red, what's it gonna be for you?”

Your lips parted in a strangled whimper. You didn’t want them to be gentle. You didn’t want them to be respectful. This was thrilling, you've always dreamed about being roughly taken, about being manhandled.

“Fuck me, please.” You pleaded.

“It's Sir to you!” Ghost slapped you again, the pain searing this time.

"Yes—Sir—treat me like your cumdump!” You choked out, tears spilling from the corner of your eyes.

"Atta girl." He purred and you could almost hear the amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Ghost pulled your soaked panties down until they dangled between your ankles and dropped to the floor with a wiggle of your heels.

"Why do you always get to use the pussy, Dabi?" Konig whined, annoyed even as he unzipped his combat pants.

"Cause you only know how to fuck, boss." Ghost chuckled behind you. "Not how to please."

You swallowed thickly, feeling your heart beating so fast.

His hand gently stroked your ass again as he hummed. "This is supposed to be a treat after all."

A sense of comfort washed through you but you knew better than to rely on it. And oh boy, were you right.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded, moving to stand in between them as you eagerly complied.

Konig freed his hard cock from his pants. It was so thick and heavy that it was hanging low even though it was fully erect.

"Open up. I’m gonna fuck your face," giving it a few lazy pumps, he closed in on your face. His shameful words sent electricity to your nerves, and your mouth started to water as you opened it in eager anticipation.

Konig slipped the fingers of his free hand into your strands, holding your head still as he slotted himself at your lips before pushing his length between them. His spongy tip quickly slipped in and he let it rest on your tongue for a brief moment before pressing deeper.

Groaning against Konig's cock, you barely made out the sound of a zipper being undone behind you. Ghost lined up his cock with your soaked cunt, gathering your slick on his spongy tip, and only then was it that you knew that this really was going to happen. He snapped his hips forward without warning, quickly hitting resistance.

The force pushed you down on Konig’s length further until its tip hit the back of your throat. He was breathing hard, bucking his hips forward, loving the way you loosened your jaw and let him fuck your mouth.

The man behind you slowly started thrusting into you, the metal barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder continuously stroking your insides, his Prince Albert piercing kissing your cervix and making you tighten and flutter around him. Each time he pulled out, his cock was covered in more of your glistening juices.

“Ah—fuck—look at that dripping cunt—” Ghost growled, rocking his hips against your behind, watching how your greedy, sloppy pussy kept taking him, even if he could only fit halfway.

They filled you up so perfectly—Ghost’s thick, pierced cock stretched your whole pussy without getting close to being balls deep, Konig’s heavy one sitting deep in your mouth, his fat testicles slapping against your drool-covered chin with each thrust forward. A gargled moan bubbled up your throat, feeling so stuffed from both ends, with Ghost's piercings rubbing perfectly against the spot that made stars erupt before your eyes.

Goosebumps erupted all over your body as your mind began to swim.

"Aw, are you enjoying yourself?” Ghost leaned forward. "We'll make you feel even better soon...”

Then he started pounding into you, again and again until your brain was shut down. You choked between gasps as every thrust he made knocked the air from your lungs and forced Konig’s cock to slide deeper than before– until it was buried deep down your throat. You struggled to take it, breathing heavily through your nose, pleading watery eyes shooting up to his face to silently beg for a second of reprieve.

"You look so beautiful, stuffed with my cock like this–” Ghost said in a voice that was just a low rasp.

You were dizzy, breathless as he kept filling up your pussy with short, harsh strokes. He watched you writhe in pleasure on the table, your sloppy mouth stuffed with Konig’s dick. Ghost bent his head down and you could feel his breath on your neck as he inhaled your scent.

"You're taking both of us so well, little cockslut." Konig's words made you whimper even louder, glistening eyes meeting his as you struggled to breathe.

With Ghost’s hand still pinning your wrists behind your back, there was no escaping the assault. He slammed his hips harder against your pussy until you mewled out in pleasure, his piercings rubbing your g-spot just right.

The feeling of both men relentlessly working themselves in and out of you was overwhelming. Heavy grunts and growls accompanied the wet sounds of your sloppy holes getting fucked as they worked themselves into a frenzy. Ghost's cock drove deep, but you knew with a little effort, you could accommodate more of him. You parted your legs further to give Ghost even more access to your cunt. His dick began to throb and twitch, his hips bucking back and forth to find the perfect angle to thrust into you.

And he did find it. Your body shook with pleasure, making you squeal deliciously around Konig's length. Ghost let out a breathless chuckle and spread your ass cheeks, wetting his thumb before sticking it into your puckered hole.

His friend watched the scene before him, half-lidded crimson eyes glazed with lust and desire. The sight before him turned him on so much that his hips stuttered and he came without warning. He let out a strangled groan, his hand grabbing your hair tightly as he forced you to take his entire length, his tip slipping past the back of your throat. You moaned, feeling him twitch on your tongue, spilling his hot seed deep inside of you. His free hand rose to massage your throat, savoring the way you gulped and swallowed around his twitching meat.

“That's it, baby, take every drop of his cum," Ghost praises you. "Fuck– you're such a good girl.” He looked down to where you two were connected, his thumb buried deep in your ass, a sticky wet mess covering the base of his cock.

You tried to breathe but Konig didn’t budge, staying buried deep inside of you as Ghost picked up the pace now. He gave you strong thrusts that grazed the right spot, making your eyes roll back in pleasure. You moaned, your vision turning blurry. The lack of oxygen, the continuous onslaught from behind— it was too much. it pushed you over the edge and you came, clamping around his dick while your sounds of pleasure remained muffled by Konig's cock still buried deep inside your throat.

Ghost kept pounding into you while you rode out the high of your orgasm and finally, Konig pulled his softening cock from your mouth, letting you sputter and gasp for the air he'd denied you. He let himself fall back against the table behind him, his flaccid, drool-covered cock still massive in size and twitching slightly. Reaching out, he pushed your hair behind your ear before wiping off the saliva dribbling down your chin as you frantically gasped for air.

Ghost behind you kept up the pace, rutting his thumb in and out of your little pink hole in a contrasting beat to his thrusts. It became too much— you completely lost it, overstimulated and moaning unabashedly like a porn star now. Your cunt spasmed around his cock for a second time and you threw your head back in ecstasy, crying out through your climax.

“There you go, you're so fucking hot coming for us, doll." Ghost praised, continuing to rock his hips against yours. His deep thrusts grew messier and messier, being himself close to his release.

Konig watched, eyes glowing with re-awakening desire as he tucked himself away.

"I'm gonna fucking cum inside of you." Ghost let out with a low growl in his throat, sending goosebumps along your body. “Gonna fill you up, gonna breed you so good—”

He gained speed and with a final snap of his hips, he groaned out loud when he came, his hips stuttering as he shot ropes of hot cum against your womb. You could feel his cock throb with each shot, before he plummeted forward, breathing heavily. His chest pressed against your spine, and you felt his semen seep out, dripping onto the floor below. Silence took over the room while all of you tried catching your breath, hair sticking to sweaty foreheads, cocks sticky with release.

Ghost started chuckling, pulling out of you with an obscene pop. His eyes were still glazed with desire as he watched how your pussy struggled to contain the load of his release. "You look so damn pretty filled up with my cum." he said with a hidden smirk as he kept pushing it back into you with his fingers.

He stepped back to tuck himself away, and you stood back up on wobbly feet, brain foggy from the orgasms. Carding your fingers through your messed up hair, you reached for your panties but Ghost was quick to grab and stuff them into his pant pocket.

"Nu-uh," he tutted, his brilliant azure eyes twinkling with mischief. You sighed in defeat, trying your best to smooth down your skirt.

He pulled his balaclava down, slid his hand into his pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes, and lit himself one. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled slowly. “So, what were you doing here anyway?”

“I was on my way to a Halloween party with my friends.” You coyly replied, carding your fingers through your hair.

“Ya still wanna go?” He cocked his head, smoldering azures taking you in.

“What do you mean?" You looked up at him through thick lashes, still damp with the heavy tears that had sprung from your eyes in the struggle to keep down Konig’s cock.

“What Dabi wants to know is if you wouldn't rather continue our little party.” Konig snickered.

“Oh.” Was your simple reply.

“C’mon doll, let's get ya cleaned up," Ghost pressed a kiss against your forehead. "In the meantime, Shigaraki is gonna get us some drinks.”

He swung an arm around your shoulder, leading you toward the door next to the dimly lit bar on the far side of the room. “We still have more treats for you…”

Happy Halloween and thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! If you comment or reblog, you'll make my day!

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cockslutpadalecki · 1 year

Note

I think this might be more dark!Steve than mean!Steve…

Takes place back in the 40s after Steve took the serum. You’re a new chorus girl/back up dancer. He usually never paid any attention to the dancers, but for some reason he’s always targeting you. He makes comments about your appearance, yells at you if you make the tiniest mistake, that kinda stuff.

When he finds out you’re transferring to a different celebrity’s USO show, he decides to show you where you really belong

Don’t Forget Where You Belong

Characters: Mean!40s!Steve x F!Reader.

Words: 1.9K.

Warnings: non-con/dub-con, non-con touching, bullying, slight body/fat shaming, humiliation, 1940s misogyny, hints of dacryphilia, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), mention of a special guest, 18+. MINORS DNI.

A/N: Thank you so much for this request, I had a blast writing it. Somehow making 40s!Steve mean is super duper hot. Beta: @princessmisery666 but all the general bullshit is entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Please support our content creators by sharing our work.

Your make-up is all wrong. Your hair’s a mess. Your timing is off. Your costume needs letting out.

Just a small selection of the issues Steve has with you during today’s practice. You shrug them off with a tiny smile, telling him, of course, I’ll do better. He seems placated when he strides off, shield in hand as the other girls quickly surround you.

“Don’t listen to him,” Jean soothes, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“I won’t,” you tell her firmly, even though his comments make a home for themselves in the deepest recess of your brain.

“I don’t get what his problem is,” another girl, Rita, pipes up as she strips off her stockings. “He’s never been like this before, at least not until…” she trails off, her eyes lingering on you.

You know what she wants to imply. Not until you showed up.

Slumping down at your dresser, you let out a low sigh, wishing you had some insight into what it is about you in particular that seems to annoy him. You only have to so much as breathe and he’s on your case, complaining that it’s your fault the routine is falling flat.

“Well I heard that he isn’t happy with the drop in sign ups,” Jean whispers conspiratorially. “Especially now that other guy is stealing all of his audiences.”

“Of course, how could I forget?” Rita giggles. “Have you seen him yet? I heard he’s a real dream.”

You feel yourself stiffen as a result of their conversation and you start wiping off your makeup, an obscure sense of guilt washing over you. You’ve only been a part of the ensemble for a little over two months— barely enough time to grow an attachment to them— but you can’t help but feel bad for putting in a request to leave them so soon.

They’re not to blame for your unhappiness, in fact they’ve been more than accommodating, it’s the man who wears red, white and blue who’s had the target on your back since day one.

And if he finds out that you’re transferring out to the very person’s show who has the opportunity to overshadow him, that target is soon to grow bigger and bigger until he has zero chance of missing.

“Your steps are backwards, and because they’re backwards, you keep stepping on poor Stella’s toes,” Steve bellows, marching towards you.

Not a day has passed without him picking fault, and you just want to hide away until it’s time for you to leave. Every morning, you mentally strike off another day, counting down the minutes and hours, yet time seems to pass far too slowly.

“I’m sorry, I-” you start but your pleas are quickly cut off by his curt voice as he reaches you.

“Apologies aren’t going to help.”

“But it’s a start,” you snap without thinking.

Steve glares at you, his jaw tightening. You can tell by the way his nostrils flare that he’s pissed you’ve just spoken back. You can’t quite believe it either. All sound ceases in the room and you can feel the girls’ wide eyes on you as Steve closes the gap between you in one huge stride.

The anger radiates off him in waves, and you can feel it burning at the fringes of your uniform.

“We’re done here,” he yells to the others, his eyes remaining on you. Nobody moves. Somebody coughs. The lack of movement catches Steve’s attention and he turns towards them, shouting at the top of his lungs, “I said, get out!”

They all scurry around picking up their belongings and rush out of the door, trying to pass on their most sympathetic looks before disappearing entirely from view.

It’s only when the room is empty that Steve brings his attention back to you, and his ire with it.

“Do you like humiliating me?” he asks, and the question stumps you. If anything, he’s the one humiliating you.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“The mistakes. The hair. The make-up,” he huffs out. “Every time you put a step wrong, you’re showing me up. Tarnishing my reputation. And now you’re talking back, in front of the other girls, like you think your opinion counts? I’m starting to think you’re doing it on purpose.”

Pain builds up in your jaw as you grind your teeth together, taken aback by his blatant misogyny. Hot tears burn as you blink them away, not wanting him to see how his words affect you.

“I’m not trying to do anything of the sort,” you defend.

“Then what are you trying to do? ‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t dancin’,” Steve remarks snidely.

You stare up at him, his bright sapphire eyes no longer a thing of beauty, but cold and harsh. Like a winter’s frost nipping at your nose. He looks down at you, mouth drawn in a taut line but you can see a smirk threatening the corners of his lips. As if he’s eager to smile. Like he’s enjoying making you uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry my best isn’t good enough, Mr. Rogers,” you mutter dryly, the apology sour on your tongue. “I promise to do better.”

Now he smiles, however it’s anything but kind and warm. “Thank you. That’s the kind of behaviour I expect from my girls,” he reaches out and strokes your arm, sending a cold shiver of fear down your spine. With your fear justified as his caress quickly evolves into a vice-like grip, his tone turns abrasive when his threat pierces the air, “but speak another word out of line, and I’ll shut your prissy little mouth myself.”

You agree hurriedly with a sheepish nod and Steve lets go of your arm. “Good girl.” He flashes you another unnerving smile and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to remain on him. “See, obeying your peers isn’t so bad, is it?”

“No, Mr. Rogers,” you placate softly.

“Run along now, Doll,” he tells you, motioning towards the exit with his head. You try to step around him to leave, but the sensation of his thumb rubbing gently over your bottom lip stops you from doing so. The moment is awkward, and suddenly, you feel preyed upon. The way he looks at you with such… virulence makes your stomach twist, leaving you with a thickness of unease in your gut.

Steve finally drops his hand, moving aside to let you pass, but as you hurry from the room— the intensity of his stare burning a hole into your back— you know the approval of your request to leave can’t come quickly enough.

You’re rounding the curtain after your last practice— anything to keep up appearances—as the girls part like the Red Sea in front of you, dispersing quickly as Steve storms through them straight to you.

Jean lingers for a moment, like she wants to interject— to protect you— but you silently shake your head at her over his shoulder. She pauses, hesitant to leave, but eventually she retreats, leaving you alone in the wings. The curtain curls around you like a shield, but it quickly becomes apparent that no amount of material will save you from Steve’s wrath.

“What’s this I hear about you transferring out?” he bites, his tone sharp.

You suck in a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of disgust. It was only a matter of time before he found out, and finally the day has come.

“Well?” he barks.

“I leave Thursday.”

Steve looks so incensed you think the vein in his neck might pop. “And when, do you suppose, were you gonna tell me about this?”

For a moment, you’re afraid of him, but the realisation that you only have two more days in his presence means that all promises of holding your tongue go flying out the window. “I wasn’t aware I needed your permission.”

He scoffs. “I’m Captain fuckin’ America, sweetheart, everything goes through me,” he’s right up in your face now, rage-thick spittle landing on your cheek as he speaks, “So if you think I’m just gonna let you walk on outta here and represent Soldier Boy,” he spits the name like it’s poisonous, his voice heavy with the taste of Brooklyn, “then you’re sorely mistaken.”

This time, it’s your turn to scoff. “I don’t belong to you, Steve.”

You’ve never addressed him by first name before, and the shock on his face is clear to see before he manages to get his expression back under control. But it’s the same hard stare you’ve grown accustomed to, and even though you’re familiar with it, it doesn’t affect you any less. It still frightens you, and you guarantee that even when you’re on your deathbed, the coldness in his eyes will be the last thing you see.

He lunges towards you, hand curling around your throat in a flash. Your breath stalls in your lungs as you try to fight him off, scratching and clawing at his forearm, but it merely spurs him on. He enjoys the struggle— you can see it in the smile he gives you when he tugs you against him. Hot, salty tears stream down your cheeks as he pins you to the wall behind, heavy folds in the stage curtain cushioning the assault.

“I’ll show you where you fuckin’ belong, sweetheart,” he grits out with macabre promise. His free hand yanks at your skirt, pulling it out of his way and tears into your underwear with one mighty rip.

You continue to cry as Steve’s heavy body covers yours. He roughly lifts your leg, manipulating it to curl around his waist. Your strength is nothing compared to his— like a mouse trying to stave off a lion— and when he frees his cock from the confines of his pants, whatever little fight you have left, drains right out of you.

“N-n-n,” is all you can manage, your voice still trapped beneath his grip around your neck.

“You think Soldier Boy will still accept you into his show after you’ve been tainted with my cock?” he mocks, teasing the head of his swollen erection up and down your slit. You whine in disgust, but it quickly breaks off into a moan when he slips inside you, just enough to feel his girth stretch you out. The contact forces your back to arch against the wall, and in turn, involuntarily pushes your hips towards Steve. He sinks deeper. And when he’s sheathed up to the root, he glances down to where you join with a delighted smirk.

“And here I was thinkin’ I liked it most when you were on the verge of tears,” he tells you, pulling out slowly, before sliding home with a satisfied hum. Your walls grasp and hug his dick, and you can’t help it when your eyes see static. “This is much better.”

He starts to move and instantly, your mind is screaming— this can’t be happening.

But it is. And your body seems to welcome every thrust. Your hips angle further and further towards him, desperate to take in as much of him as possible. Pulses of pleasure ripple deep in your gut and you hate it, but you ache for the next wave, small pitiful moans escaping you each time as they magnify in intensity.

You reach out, gripping the thick red fabric of the curtain for stability, shamefully chasing the inevitable as Steve fucks you raw.

“This is where you belong, understand?” His question punctuates the air. You nod in agreement out of fear, but your true answer appears in wordless form when you eventually come.

***

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#steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #dark marvel fanfiction #chris evans fanfiction

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robotnik-mun · 7 months

Text

Every Deltarune fan by this point has an idea of who the Knight could be. I think just about every theory under the sun has been expressed by this point, and even a few that aren't... mostly because the only concrete bit of information we have about the Knight is that they're a Lightner, if only because whoever they are, they can create Dark Worlds as only Lightners can... that we know of, anyway.

Otherwise we got nada. No hint of a motive, and any possible clues to who they are is conjecture at best.

I myself got a million ideas, but one I keep coming back to comes not from in-game info or hints, but from the very nature of Deltarune... and Undertale, for that matter.

See, as we all know, Deltarune is a spinoff/quasi-sequel to Undertale, though it doesn't quite fit either of those definitions.

Famously, Undertale is strongly inspired by the Earthbound games...

... and Deltarune in some ways is even closer, being a straight up RPG compared to Undertale. But besides that, Deltarune is something of an homage to classical JRPGS in general, including the none other than Final Fantasy.

Heck, our supposed antagonist is basically a boiled down version of Final Fantasy's very first villain- the corrupt knight Garland.

Heck, within the universe of Deltarune itself there seems to be its own version of FF, a game called Dragon Blazers, to say nothing of the small shoutouts you see to the series here and there.

However, Earthbound and Final Fantasy both have a shared plot element down the line, and this fact is the most consequential for Deltarune itself I feel, and hints strongly towards the potential nature of the Knight.

Now, while Garland was (ultimately) the main threat of the very first game, a Knight is ultimately a warrior a service into someone higher than themselves, to a liege of some sort. Symbolically, any antagonist who serves a bigger, badder antagonist is a 'Knight'- think Darth Vader to Emperor Palpatine.

This comparison is no coincidence, because both Earthbound AND Final Fantasy dipped its toes into this dynamic- via Golbez from Final Fantasy 4, and the Masked Man from Mother 3.

Golbez and The Masked Man are eventually revealed to be Theodor and Claus, respectively, the Long Lost Brothers of the games primary heroes.

And this is where things get interesting for Deltarune, and the Knight. Because we have three characters with a sibling whose absence looms over the plot...

Kris, Sans and Noelle alike have a sibling, one at college, one seemingly isolating himself in the house, and one lost under yet-to-be-determined circumstances...

Now obviously, we're too early to make any kind of real judgement call, and what we know is too scant and obscured to have a solid picture of who the Knight is and why they're doing what they're doing.

But given the influences of Deltarune? I got a pretty good pool of suspects that I'm pretty confident about, though in the end we're only going to know when the rest of the Deltarune gets here. I could be entirely wrong, and I kinda hope so... I've grown attached to the notion that the Knight is completely independent from anyone pre-established.

But we'll see.

#Deltarune #The Knight #Kris Dreemurr #Noelle Holiday #Sans #Asriel Dreemurr #Papyrus #Dess Holiday #Final Fantasy #Earthbound

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maxwell-grant · 4 months

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🔥 Fantastic Four

I think the whole "oh they were adventurers in the 50s but then they fell through a time warp and now they're in modern times" idea that's been floated around forever for an MCU pitch doesn't actually do much for them and only kills them further by solidfying the idea that the F4 is a "retro" team. Take it from someone who thinks about fictional (and real) dinosaurs 24/7, "retro" is very very very frequently a poison. It's a cage, it's an Achilles heel label, it's a prison that traps perfectly fine characters into bullshit cycles of repetition and boredom and obscurity, you don't want the Fantastic Four to be the retro guys more so than they already kind of are. I get why this is a popular idea, because it at least addresses a problem that doesn't really have an answer: How do you sell people on the Fantastic Four without pointing them to comics that they will never read? How do you make people care about them again?

I want good Fantastic Four adaptations, obviously, I don't think it's impossible to make good ones, but Marvel has changed so much over the past decades and changed specifically in ways that make it very hard for the Fantastic Four to be anywhere near as relevant or popular as they used to be. The MCU's done such a titanic overhaul of Marvel's entire public image that now, what matters isn't even nominally decided by what mattered at the foundation of Marvel. What matters is the foundation of the MCU, and it couldn't be further from the Fantastic Four. I don't think you're ever really replicating what made the Fantastic Four such a monster hit in comics during their heyday in another medium and it's pointless to even try. I don't think the things that make them so great and lovable and critically important and groundbreaking are as easy to reproduce or adapt as they are with someone like Spider-Man.

I think the MCU film is just gonna be another bomb and I think unless some mega successful game comes along on par with Batman Arkham or Insomniac Spider-Man, I don't think the Fantastic Four are ever really going to be again a thing people outside of comics really care about. I actually really hope I'm wrong here and that the movie works out okay, if only because failing on the world stage of the MCU is way too harsh a fate especially coming off two prior bombs, I don't want the F4 to have that kind of stigma attached to them even though the MCU is already a sinking ship. The Marvel Universe is much worse off without the Fantastic Four than the Fantastic Four are worse off without the Marvel Universe. I've read enough F4 the past months that I'm convinced they really are the best superhero team, and they are really not an impossible nut to crack outside of the circumstances the MCU set them up for. I really don't need the F4 to make Avengers money, I just need them to keep being in good comics. If they get to be in good other stuff like cartoons or movies, that's a bonus.

#replies tag #superheroes #marvel #marvel comics #mcu #fantastic four #f4

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brick-a-doodle-do · 11 months

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I will def be sending more but a lil tied up atm so here is the first one I thought of.

Why is it that Humans always end up with odd socks?

Could it be that perhaps a small tiny finds humour in watching the Human bend over backwards trying to find the missing sock?

(You can do any characters but I think a tiny Tommy stealing socks to prank people would be hilarious! Or maybe even tiny bench trio stealing everyones socks :3 go wild Brick!!!)

ahhh becky thank you! this is a very cute idea :D i'm tackling all the fluffy ideas first because it's easy to keep those short dsfjfsfjd

(might make this a multi-parter or an au because i think i jumped the gun with how quick tommy was found. lmk!)

i'll be unclean, i'll be obscene

cw: swearing, brief panic

wc: 784

—–—

One, two, three, four, five, ah, so on—he's bored now.

Point is: he's doing good. While his little sock-stealing hobby had begun when he'd simply needed the material, he had lived through the humans' frantic responses to when he took only one, and he found the scene to be rather amusing, which immediately struck up an urge to do it just purely for the hysteria it caused.

Now, five months down the line, he's got a healthy stash of mitch-matched socks that sit in unused hallways until he's ready to give them back. His decision to is always spiritic; one day he may decide to toss it somewhere, another day he'll return it to it's exact place, and occasionally he'll keep it to give into his greedy urges.

Tommy usually only does it because a human pisses him off. He can't say he particularly knows the human he's housing with, and he can't say that he can tell them apart all of the time, and technically, he doesn't really know their names apart from an occasional yell that's too incoherent for him to make out, (Techno? That couldn't be right), but he does know who irritates him: all of them.

Living in a house with a middle-aged man and two young adults drew a tough situation; things were either too messy to be considered his time, (Seriously, how is he meant to make a beeline to the thing he wants if it's blocked off by fucking mountains of clothing and trash? Gross as shit.), or too tidy to be able to be hidden in case of an emergency.

Which is why they get on his nerves, hence why he doesn't find it harmless to steal a few socks every now and then!

As of late, a human had obscured his view of the house with a shopping bag, (Which he used for safety), , but not for food—for clothing. The tall one. Wil? Wilba?

So, off he went, down the ramp leading to his spot in the walls and straight through the dim walls, where he followed the path from muscle memory, (The brown-haired human pissed him off a lot), until he saw an opening.

He steps out, smothered by half-darkness and half-light. The hole in the wall was under Wilbur's bed, hidden behind where Wilbur usually kept his guitar.

It was risky, but the stand was enough to keep it hidden, and plus, it was easy to scale up it and find footing on Wilbur's nightstand, which led to the windowsill, which led to a series of shelves, which led to his dresser.

So, he follows that path, digging his nails into the foamy texture of the guitar stand and making a determined move to the nightstand.

He traces the length of the tabletop, then pulls a hook from his cloak and gathers the rope attached to it, winding it carefully and making sure his shot would be easy.

Tommy moves his arm back, then throws the hook overhand. It catches onto the end of the windowsill and he tugs, before moving closer so he can start climbing. His arms lack good strength,(Although at this point they really shouldn't), and he struggles to get up.

He curses out as he slips, but catches onto the windowsill before falling any further. Tommy pulls himself up and gathers his hook from it's spot in the wood, then continues on. He climbs up to a shelf with practiced ease, then jumps down to the dresser.

Sock drawer, next stop. Fortunately, it was the highest drawer in the thing, next to another one that he had little interest in. Socks were his expertise.

He shifts to kneeling down, where he peers over the edge at the handle, which is positioned down, as it often is. Ah, well, he can pry it open.

Tommy does simply that, putting a hand in the crease of the drawer and using all of his strength to creak it open. It's a slow and agonizing process that leaves his arm screaming from the usage, but it gets him what he needs.

Fucking prick will think next time before leaving clothing in the kitchen.

He climbs in, making a quick glance to the door as he does.

Unfortunately for him, as he makes the gesture, a large and impending shadow is bestowed upon his thievery, and he's left gazing up, and up, and up, and...

Ohfuckingfucktheresahandcomingrightforhim—

He yells out as two fingers pinch at the back of him, holding him up by the hood of his cloak as the brown-haired human stares at him in mild disgust, brief curiosity and seeping amusement.

"Ah, you're a pesky fucking thing, then, aren't you?"

—–—

#brickquiries #becky brickling #beckyu my beloved <33 #brickfic #drabbles #short prompt series #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmpt gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!tommy #g!wilbur

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pancake-breakfast · 8 months

Text

These last volumes have so many chapters. But they're relatively short.

It's hard to think there's only two weeks left.

Stream-of-consciousness thoughts for TriMax Vol. 13, Chapters 1-3 below.

Volume 13 Covers

Ugh, Vash is in too much shadows here. But look at Livio! He looks happy! Is it because he's losing part of his shirt again? I don't think this boy likes shirts.

Aaand everyone's plans have bee thwarted by a friendly octopus. He has that many arms so he can give more hugs!

Shout out to pirate Livio's new and improved fish gun.

Everyone on the back cover's got weird eyes for some reason.

I like how only Elendira gets to keep her shape on the back cover. She's ready to be a dashing pirate.

Why is one of the chapters called "Black"? WHY IS ONE OF THE CHAPTERS CALLED BLACK?!?!

Chapter 1: False Mirror

Oooh, fancy Legato vs. Vash page. I like it.

Ey, it's naked, long-haired Knives again. Been a while since we've seen him.

Definitely Legato thoughts. I guess that day made a bit of an impression on him. Can't imagine why.

Man, this is why Legato wears them big-ass shoulder pads. If I had his history, I'd obscure my actual figure, too.

It sure is in character for Knives not to realize the value of the humans around him.

Gods, Vash looks both desperate and exhausted.

Aaaand Legato's fucking with him.

Holy crap, Legato actually asked Knives about killing Vash to his face??

Gods, Knives is absolutely yawning here for show. He's putting work into trying to make Legato feel like he means nothing to him.

Oh, Legato... baby boy.... You were never going to win Knives' affection by proving you could beat Vash in a fight.

Oof, he sees himself in Vash. I don't even think he's wrong. Vash feels like he's lost everything, that even what still remains, he's doomed to lose if only by the slow march of time.

I make a lot of comments about Legato's unhinged smiles, but I really like his pensive looks, too. I think he's one of the more expressive characters in the series.

I mean, if you want to get technical, he didn't kill so many of them so much as he happened to be more or less present at their death.

I'm curious how this coin holder is tied to a "prize" or a "gift" of some sort.

So... this isn't really a game to Legato. It's not even a test for Vash. It's a test for himself. He just can't shake the idea that if he can utterly crush Vash, he'll take Vash's spot before Knives. Gods, this little yandere.... The world doesn't work like that. Knives doesn't work like that.

All the Gung-Ho Guns he went through, and again, we have the mask side of Livio and a suspicious lack of Wolfwood. Even Chapel doesn't appear this time.

Chapter 2: Double Duel

I'm not quite sure what Vash is getting worked up about here. Perhaps he thinks Legato is making too much light of all the deaths of the Gung-Ho Guns?

Legato is not impressed by Vash's threat. He wants him to follow through or not bother.

I'm continually impressed by people's ability to apparently clearly talk around having the barrel of a gun in their mouth.

I'm honestly not sure what all is happening here. How did Vash get on the ground? What's happening with Legato's right arm? What's up with the pole on a chain? I guess Legato is moving the pole on a chain? It's too big to be reflected by the box he gave Vash, so maybe that's where he's putting his effort?

Well, he spat out the gun. Now he has pole.

Ah I thought I remembered it being attached to the weird boobed spiky ball thing. There's a name for this kind of weapon but I have a headache so I'm not looking it up right now. Generally, it doesn't have a humanoid attachment. It's just a spiky ball on a chain.

Heh, this is them getting their own back-to-back.

Yeah, Livio is hard to kill, thankfully.

Clearly, that's not gonna stop her from trying.

Ahhhhh!! It's good to see Livio comfortable with himself. It's easy to mistake him for a brute, but he has enough talent that, while Chapel didn't expect him to win, he did expect L/R to give Wolfwood a hard time.

Ahahahahaha, he's so cute here.

Chapter 3: Corpse Fire

It's ok, these people don't really have a concept of interstellar travel, so it's not like they have a formalized system for space ships landing.

I think Chronica's a bit desperate. And hurt. She definitely didn't take the loss of Domina lightly.

Legato, my boy, now you're just being dramatic. I mean, I know that's how you are... but Vash has never been keen on theatrics in the name of violence.

DON'T LICK THAT IT'S ON THE GROUND IT'S DIRTY EWW

I don't think Vash believes in things like "dying in a blaze of glory." I think he sees death as death, and that's kinda it.

LEGATO!!! This is NOT about who is "best!" KNIVES. DOES NOT. CARE.

Oh, honey. If it weren't for Vash, humanity probably wouldn't have lasted long enough for you to be born. I realize you probably wouldn't see that as a bad thing, so let me further note that if you had, he wouldn't have accepted you any more. He might have discarded you already because he wouldn't need your help wearing Vash down.

What the eff is this thing?! Now it's full of machine guns?!?

Hahahaha, Livio's trying to call a time out in the middle of the fight.

Ok, that's some impressive dodging.

I like how Livio is more annoyed at Elendira than he is mad that she's still shooting at him after he called for a time out.

Livio <3 Love how annoyed Elendira looks that she's been had, too.

Archive

Trigun Vol. 1: Covers + 1-3, 4, 5-6, 7-8, 9-10 || Vol. 2: Covers + Extras, 1, 2-4, 5-6, 7-8

TriMax Vol. 1: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 2: Covers + 1, 2-4, 5, 6-7 || Vol. 3: Covers + 1-3, 4-5, 6-7 || Vol. 4: Covers + 1-2, 3-5, 6-7 || Vol. 5: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 6: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 7: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 8: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5 + Bonus || Vol. 9: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 10: Covers + 1-3, 4-5, 6-8 || Vol. 11: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 12: Covers + 1-3, 4-6, 7-9

Extra Credit: Trigun Vol. 1: Nebraska vs. Vash's Motivations, Vash's Loneliness, Vash's Depression (pt. 2 of post), Soupy Brains || Vol. 2: Coin Factoids || TriMax Vol. 1: Lina, Vash, and a Haircut || Meryl, Vash, and the Pursuit of Happiness || Vol. 5: Knives, Vash, and Hatred for Humanity || Vol. 6: Coping Series: Wolfwood, Meryl, Vash || Vol. 8: The Uncoordinated Counterattack || Vol. 9: Justice, Punishment, and Mercy, The Tolling of an Iron Bell || Vol. 10: Crucifixion Symbology (pt. 2 of post), Merging of Families, Being Childlike (And Why God Hates Chapel) || Vol. 11: New Hair, New Outlook

#it's such a good high note to end tonight's reading on too #i feel like we don't get enough of those these days #trigunbookclub #trigun maximum #volume 13 #pancake thoughts

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katyspersonal · 1 month

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3, 18, 20, 48, 49 for Yura! Tell me about this old ronin!

THIS GUY!! I did not expect the guy!! (Asks from this ( x ) meme)

3) What first drew you to this character?

I did not pay close attention to him at first; as you remember, it was a rough time of me getting used to Elden Ring and I was confused! BB was my first intro to Soulsborne games and whereas everyone were going 'ah yeah DS 4, 5 and 6 in one' I was in pain dhfhsd So I skimmed through him... Until I've learned somewhere what he was doing and realised he was 'male Eileen' as I've nicknamed him! xd I love the 'mercy killer assassin' trope, so I've started to actually pay close attention to him!

18) Do you prefer to see this character suffer or know peace? Angst or comfort? Both?

It is definitely both. The fanarts of him I've seen centred mostly around his relationship with Eleonora, and both wholesome happier times shenanigans and The Drama are enjoyable! His feelings for her are one of his core traits as a character, so this is fair that a lot of him shines here. As for me, I've doodled him two times for now, and in both cases he was suffering, so :') He is both very stoic and very sensitive, my favourite combination! So I just want him to know comfort for one but also want that 'sensitivity' to come through. His crying was so genuine.. :pensive:

20) Do you feel affectionate towards this character?

I do! He is honestly so likeable? I have involuntary thoughts of sitting next to him and hugging him every time I meet him in the game :3 It especially moved my heart when I've realised that him reflecting on always running into reckless fools after we killed a dragon was him thinking back on Eleonora, and seeing her in Tarnished that moment. This is just so deep. And I also really, really love his voice acting. It is one of the most trademark Soulsborne ones in entire Elden Ring.

48) What’s your favorite physical/design feature for this character?

Welll, this is.....

obviously his.......

CUTE OLD MAN FRECKLES!!!!!

(Screenshots from this ( x ) post, I forgor to recreate ER characters data in the game for self-reference myself sorry fdhfds) Apparently his forehead is covered in the old man spots, we just can't see it x)

Also, apparently he has dark brown eyes, but the color is obscured into practically a different one by clouding effect? "Eye color change" is a semi-frequient feature across ER character data. Just something to keep in mind, if the need to draw a fanart of him in earlier times ever comes!

49) What’s your favorite personality trait in this character?

Again, that he has a very big heart. You'd expect someone so old, with so much experience, who has seen people downspirall to both dragonic powers insanity and violence, who has been mercy-killing people that became blood-drunk succumbed to blood-lust, and is on the quest to "liberate" the love of his life to be at least a bit cynical? But you don't see this guy allowing ourselves to run into a dragon and then gently mocking us, in the manner of a man who knows his shit watching a n00b go x) No, he instantly warns us to stay safe and out of it, then sighs at us being a fool, then also warns us to be careful with the dragon powers hunger after deciding it'd be safer to tell the truth about what TO do with the dragon heart. I interpret the latter as him believing that if we are to mess with something dangerous, then at least better do it the 'checked' way. This man has developed NO cynicism and doom-thinking.

My point is, he has a lot of sympathy and concern for someone that should have by now gotten numb and not be attached to another person that will sure just go mad eventually. I like that he still cares while it lasts. He acts not wanting our help in murdering for our own sake, but is still thankful that we helped. Again, reminds me of Eileen a lot. He and Eleonora might even be like gender-bent Eileen and Crow (yet again I am thinking of my alternative theory of Crow having been an infiltrator that wanted to slay Annalise but fell for her charms and blood corruption.... argh is this too late to rewrite my "main" headcanons..? though I guess I don't need to, because the more these pairs of characters are distinct, the cooler!).

#elden ring #bloody finger hunter yura #ask replies #also I am typing this with a clown makeup on my face because I think I forgor Eileen in the list of favs to ask about lol #okay I did list 30+ characters but I still don't have an excuse

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basuralindo · 3 months

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tell me about your baldur's gate favs ill definitely not ask my sister about it and judge you :)

(jk but go off)

gjsjshdshf I will go off thank you (also I haven't gotten past the first stage yet but I've collected all the main cast so far, so, have your sister take that into account I guess)

blorbo (favorite character, character I think about the most): This is so hard to choose! Like genuinely I just can't. My top guys are Karlach, Lae'zel, Astarion, Wyll, and Gale. It's most of the cast.

scrunkly (my “baby”, character that gives me cuteness aggression, character that is So Shaped): Karlach! She so goddamn cute, and so fun. I know everything ever calls her a ball of sunshine, but they're all correct. She's peak himbo energy in a woman and so much more. If you leave her idle she starts dancing. I wanna buy her icecream.

scrimblo bimblo (underrated/underappreciated fave): Wyyyyylllll. He was a little boring at first just for being so noble with no obvious bastard tendencies, but after having him in my party for a bit I've realized he can be a little shit and I'm so much more attached now. I like that he actually cares and wants to do good, and as always I appreciate when a character has a lot of complications under the surface that are hard to spot immediately. I don't know what his whole deal is yet but I'm intrigued, I'll probably try to romance him in some playthrough. I don't see nearly enough fan content of him and it's a tragedy.

Also Lae'zel fits here I think? She doesn't seem to be as popular and that sucks because I'm obsessed with her. Weirdly enough kinda reminds me of Jamil if he was raised worse and like 80% more unhinged. I love that, despite the outward rabid warrior impression, for her culture she actually seems to be kind of a nerd? Girl read literally an entire library, she's insecure about not being strong enough and failing to live up to expectations, she fantasizes about being accepted by her own people and on some level seems to doubt that it'll happen, it's interesting. She's also hilarious to me, and I enjoy the blatant hostility tbh. Eventually I will convince her to fall in love with at least one of my Tavs, I need to know what she's like when she opens up, if she opens up, and I wanna see what her good end is like

glup shitto (obscure fave, character that can appear in the background for 0.2 seconds and I won’t shut up about it for a week): My man Withers. Memeable af. I haven't had any use for him so far but I love having him around because he cracks me up.

poor little meow meow (“problematic”/unpopular/controversial/otherwise pathetic fave): Let's hear it for white boy of the year, wettest cat, most unfortunate little bastard man with the biggest saddest eyes, and absolutely-totally-not-a-vampire-he-swears-on-his-own-grave: Astarion!! This is not a surprise. Your sister is probably sick of hearing about him. Everyone on the internet is probably sick of hearing about him. Half the fans hate him for reasons that range from fair enough, to homophobic, to entirely fabricated. The other half are completely obsessed with him for reasons that range from fair enough, to fetishistic, to entirely fabricated. I do genuinely feel that he's an incredibly valuable character and gives a level of honest nuance to abuse representation that needed to be shown. I'm glad they chose to portray his bad qualities and keep the good more subtle, he feels real and it's meaningful. He's also really funny and fun to get to know. I started romancing him on accident by trying to banter, and I'm enjoying that route so far. I love how bitchy he is and how hypocritical he ends up being about acts of kindness. I wanna see both his good and bad ends. (also I will never stop laughing at how bad he is at hiding that he's a vampire, like every single step of the way)

Honorable mention to Gale for also portraying a severely under acknowledged form of abuse and trauma! The way he expects and accepts mistreatment, the cruel dialog options that you are offered in response to him, and the reaction of fans who find him obnoxious or cumbersome all work so well to showcase the way society treats both addiction and autism to different degrees? Not to mention the reaction to his grooming, which can get pretty nasty. He's not as entertaining to me as the others, but he's important. I don't have the energy to really elaborate on my thoughts here and I know they're scrambled but yeah, I appreciate Gale.

horse plinko (character I would torment for fun, for whatever reason): idk, that one tiefling wizard guy with the shit attitude, I wouldn't wanna be cruel but I'd fuck with him a little just to get his head out of his ass. Also, more maliciously, I'd put Raphael back in the plinko from whence he came.

eeby deeby (character I would send to superhell): The orchestrators of everyone's tragic backstories. Let's be real, who can pick just one?

#ask game #ask meme #i absolutely refuse to look at astarion or gale discourse at this point tbh #I've happened across enough dogshit takes already to know i never wanna wade into that particular bog #it's one of those fandoms i prefer to enjoy from a distance

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ko-fanatic · 3 months

Text

Oh My Savage Empire: Chapter one

Rating: Mature Pairing: Rome x Wales Characters: Wales, Rome, England Content warnings: Grooming, Ephebophilia, Blood and Gore, Violent Intrusive Thoughts, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Strained Family Dynamics Summary: Wales throughout the millennia learns one thing: He is beautiful. Over, and over, and over again. It starts with Rome, and gets volleyed from country to country until it all fizzles out once again. He just wants peace. AO3 link (inc. authors note, with explanation of historical references)

It was cold.

Obviously, Rhydian thought to himself, the rain beating down on his face as he looked up at the black and grey sky. The ground beneath him was reduced to mud, staining the bright hue of his trousers and smearing onto his many bracelets and torc, hiding the shine of that brilliant gold in the washed out colours. The only brightness left on him was the woad, swirling in beautiful patterns around his torso and face, but the darkness obscured even that.

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, strength gone, but he valiantly scrounged whatever he could to just keep holding on. Those bastards could be back any moment, and he couldn’t allow himself to be captured. Not like this. The heavy rise and fall of his chest barely bothered him, compared to the reason why he was laying alone in the mud in the first place.

Gingerly, he pressed his dirty hand to his abdomen, feeling the silky guts that splayed haphazardly from the deep slash through his body. If they weren’t attached to him, he wouldn’t be able to discern them from the pig intestines he’d removed from a carcass just this morning.

They’d eaten well, preparing to fight that man once more, washing their hair and adorning themselves as they would. They’d prayed and danced the night before, fires roaring and the blood of the sheep on the altar. He’d never see the Dryad of Death with his own eyes, being what he was, but he still celebrated with his fellow tribesmen.

Where were they now? The slice through him had been clean and deep, and he’d been very literally floored since then. All he could hear was the yelling and clashing of swords, unable to discern victor or vanquished. He couldn’t even sit up to see how the din had silenced.

He lay there for what might have been minutes, or what might have been hours. All he knew was the sun didn’t shine and the rain didn’t stop, but the rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning came eventually. Great flashes streaked through the oppressive, black clouds; almost as if a warning.

Footsteps approached at the apex of the storm, and Rhydian couldn’t do anything but still himself further. He didn’t dare draw breath, he kept his eyes open and skyward, the only thing he allowed himself to do was grip his sword tightly.

Playing dead. How noble.

Those footsteps were not those of a man, however. They were too light. He wouldn’t call them hesitant by any means, but it wasn’t the resilient marching he’d come to know. All of this, preparing him for something unexpected.

A pudgy hand upon his still youth-bare cheek, turning his head to the side to spy a child. Rhydian’s hair was fair but held a strawberry tint to it, whereas this child’s was nearly yellow as straw. Held the same texture, by the looks of things, as it stuck out and spiked in all directions. The child’s eyes were a dark green and his thick brows pinched, lips drawn in a line far too weathered for someone of his age.

Rhydian could understand. Despite seeing many, many harvests, he looked barely older than fourteen, still unable to even grow stubble and holding a petite frame. He wasn’t a God by any means, and his tribesmen knew, but he also wasn’t mortal. He made up for this in leaps and bounds, using his unusual strength and resilience for the benefit of those around him - hunting, gathering, holding everything he could together.

How many harvests had this child seen?

“You alright?” The little thing asked plainly, “I know you’re alive.”

Shit.

“‘M fine…” He breathed out, so softly, “But… must be quiet… Or he’ll come back…”

“Who?” The child frowned, head tilted to the side like a young wolf pup. He wondered if the other had seen the beast before, whether he’d been hurt by him too, whether this tiny creature had known death for a mere moment before starting once more, like waking from a nightmare.

He hoped he hadn’t. That boy was too young to know the staccato of a heart that stilled then was unnaturally compelled to beat once more.

“The monster… dressed in shining silver…” He ground out, “The one… with the golden sword…”

“The only sword I see is yours,” The boy shrugged, eyes drifting to the glowing runes of his sword - his Caledfwlch, “It’s very pretty.”

Rhydian decided to drop it there, he was simply too exhausted to continue that line of questioning. He felt his sword slip back into the small area of the spirit world it went to when he no longer could hold it, and had no ability to pull it back. The child was the only one there now, and he doubted he’d be able to sit up in this state - much less swing and slice and stab as he needed to.

“What is your name, bach?” He asked the boy, forcing his eyelids to stop their fluttering. To keep his mind rooted. After all, why was there a small child in the wake of a battlefield?

“Albion, but people call me Arthur sometimes,” The child stated plainly, “What’s yours?”

“My people call me Rhydian,” He smiled frailly, the cold of his skin seeming to warm at the memory of fires and laughter, “I have no other name than that.”

Albion hummed, deciding to flop down onto his bottom rather than stay where he was on his hands and knees. Strangely, Rhydian didn’t even feel the cold anymore, his hands, feet and even his nose numb.

The silence was awkward for a few moments, breaths were hard for him to draw in now, and he couldn’t even think of the first thing to say. Perhaps, he should tell the child to go, to not allow such a young thing to see the (albeit temporary) death of a soldier. Although, in the same line of thought, he’d already seen his exposed intestines strewn over his thighs like an odd dress of sorts. Perhaps he was young enough to think he was merely sleeping.

“I like your trousers,” Albion stated plainly, after the silence had stretched further and he’d obviously tired of it, “I’ve never seen linen so bright. I like yellow, too.”

What an odd thing to choose to talk about, really. He was fading fast, and here this child was, talking about the apparently exquisite colour of his trousers. He could laugh, if he could catch his breath.

“Thank… you, bach…”

Valiantly fought or no, his eyes slipped shut, unable to be propped open once again. His vision was blurred and dark around the edges, anyway, but he knew it was close to finished now.

Finished? No, not really. Just this small chapter. This one fight. This one breath.

Then, as always, he’d startle into life once more, and it would all begin again.

He was so, so tired.

“Mr Rome! Mr Rome!” Albion screamed, footsteps scampering off, and didn’t he feel the fool?

Of course, that monster sent a small thing like that to disarm him. He hoped that he’d rot for all the things he’d done to him. Him and his countrymen. His…

“C… Combrogi…” He barely whispered on his last breath.

Then all faded to black.

***

He startled awake during sunset.

The rain had left, the thunder and lightning too, leaving a few scant, fluffy clouds about the pink hued sky. It was cold still, but he was no longer soaked to the skin and caked in mud.

His gaze flew to his torso, meeting corded, cat-gut stitching holding his writhing entrails in place once more. He swore he could still feel them squirming, like maggots under a sheepskin, but even that painful discomfort was overshadowed by his dream.

Rhydian had dreamed of fire, fast and all consuming, igniting the ground beneath him before the flames licked onto his clothes. The soot and ash clouded the sky, and nothing could be seen beyond the thick smog - no sunlight, no birds, nothing. Trees stood as charcoaled corpses in the distance, bare and black, and there he was. Albion. In the thick of it all with a smile much cruller than any mortal child could ever possess.

He’d screamed, then he was awake.

He drew a deep breath, taking a moment to observe his surroundings and generally take stock of himself.

He was still on the floor, though he could raise his head. His hands were bound behind his back - by ropes, not the metal he’d seen these men carry before - arms feeling crushed beneath him from the hours he’d spent in the same position. His fingers tingled as he moved them, blood unable to find its way to the tips, and everything just felt sore.

Not even a few hours of mortal death could give him the respite he needed.

He’d been set next to the campfire to dry off, the mud and woad seemingly wiped from his skin and hair; not to mention he was no longer in his brightly coloured trousers. A plain tunic covered his lap, although it seemed to have slipped from his shoulders during his “sleep”. He wasn’t too concerned by this. His tribesmen mostly fought shirtless with trousers, but barely ten harvests before he would’ve been fighting completely bare, bar his jewellery, of course -

His jewellery.

Beyond the centurions going about their business, beyond horses and whatever else being either pulled or led around the camp, was him. Albion. Those pudgy hands that turned his face to see him fiddled with one of his bracelets, his torc sitting in the trickster’s lap as he turned the gold over and over.

Those horrifically wide eyes almost reflected the gleam of the metal, even at their distance, and he couldn’t keep calm another minute.

“GIVE THAT BACK, YOU VIPER!” He yelled, the other men surrounding him seemed to jump out of their skins as he pulled himself to sitting, guts screaming at the tension put on them, “YOU’D ROB THE DEAD?!”

Albion stilled, bracelet slipping from his grasp as he ran his gaze over Rhydian’s snarl, and the dangerous narrowness of his eyes. A few soldiers ran from it, breaking ranks in the unexpected interruption of their evening downtime, but Albion was caught in the epicentre of the former corpse’s menacing glare.

One of his tribesmen once said it felt like burning alive, to be caught in his fury. He’d made an effort to circumvent his anger since then - around them.

“But… But you weren’t…” The child stuttered, lip wobbling, obviously taken off-guard by the seemingly sudden change in Rhydian’s temperament, but he had little sympathy. Prophetic dreams he can overlook for the moment, but that thing had to steal from the dead to top it all.

“Give them back,” He growled lowly, chest bowed towards the ground, sharp canines bared as if daring Albion to refuse him. He’d gotten a foot underneath himself, telling the boy that he could launch at him anytime he wished - bound or not.

Not a word was uttered by those around them, but Rhydian didn’t dare break eye contact. In the back of his mind, he could perhaps recognise that he was acting more wolf than human, but this… This had gotten every hair at the nape of his neck to stay on end. Every hackle to raise. His heart beat in his ears, and everything was at a standstill.

That is, until a quiet voice on the breeze became louder with the approaching march of footsteps.

“... Golden hair and garb, and such resplendent colours on their cloaks and trousers! Their women are very beautiful, I hear…”

“That’s all, Virgil!” That familiar, grating voice chirped, and Rhydian had his sights on that creature once more.

Broad, muscular shoulders were accentuated by shining armour. Thick thighs and calves had the eye drawn to them by crimson fabric and leather. Tanned skin and dark curls likened the creature to some of his own tribesmen, but it set off sparks of rabid hatred within his newly sewn together guts.

A creature so like him, but who used that same strength for death and conquer. For war. Rhydian was no stranger to war, in-fighting came and went with the seasons, but this was an entirely different beast.

“But you’re definitely right about pretty!”

Rhydian didn’t expect the behemoth to smile so guilelessly, his large hand gripping his face in a strong, vice-like grip and turning it to and fro. With his hands bound, he simply glowered at the man through his eyelashes, teeth bared and a feral growl running through his throat. A warning.

Their eyes lock, his heart skips a beat, and there’s a scream. The monster released his grip, blood pouring from his wrist. The bite is stark and deep, and everyone rushes around like that thing had been savaged by an animal.

He grins wild and red.

***

There was no daring escape, calling his countrymen to action and throwing the glimmering bastard out of their lands themselves. He didn’t even break his bonds. While his thoughts flew with the birds, iron on his tongue, the beast simply wrapped his wound and sat by him once more.

In later years, Rhydian would take the fact that the man kept more distance between them after that as a very small victory. And in the years that came after that point, he’d come to think of that as a very sad minor victory. But, in that present moment, he simply glared at the thing that had killed his kinsmen with every hint of hatred in his heart.

Silently, though. His anger had never been loud. Still, it seemed that silence was all too often mistaken for reluctant compliance.

The man had taken it upon himself to ignore the burning gaze and ramble on and on about things Rhydian will admit he didn’t particularly understand. Duties and procedure and conquerings. He could honestly say that he’d never been particularly interested in the lands that lay beyond his people’s. Perhaps it was the guileless way the other spoke, as if it wasn’t a burden to kill. As if it didn’t affect him.

“It’s my job as a nation, after all!”

“... Nation?” Rhydian questioned, head tilted to the side in thought and his scowl losing some of its intensity, “What do you mean by that?”

A shift in tone. It was like the wind changed directions, turning him with it as the man’s eyes widened, looked him up and down, and grinned.

“What we are. I’m the personification of the mighty empire of Rome, and you the untamed western parts of Brittania,” The man - Rome, he assumed - proclaimed.

Golden hair, long and braided and curly in the midday sun. Murmured words from lips pressed into the short, downy hair of a newborn babe. Weaving and singing and arrows sharpened to deadly points.

A woman screaming.

The vision had hit him quickly and brutally, blanking out his sight. It seemed Rome had gotten impatient, now snapping his fingers in front of his face and an unreadable look on his features. It was jarring, snapping in and out so suddenly, but he had to remain stoic to his enemy. To crack and fall was to lose in this incredibly one-sided battle he was fighting.

“So, are we to fight ourselves and leave innocents out of it?” He challenged, sneering, “I grant you that I’m not mortal, that much is obvious. If you wish to conquer us, kill me and leave them alone; and if I kill you, then your men should return to Rome.”

The laugh Rome let out was hearty and insulting, and all too long. As if Rhydian - West Britannia, perhaps? - were a fool.

“No, no. Who said we were going to kill you?”

The bisection was his first hint.

“No, I can think of something better,” Rome smiled, “Something that will benefit us both.”

***

“Have you never seen yourself?”

There was humour in Rome’s voice as Rhydian observed himself in the polished silver he’d been handed, turning his face to and fro as the older man had that day. He ran a critical eye over his nose, his eyes, his jawline and cheekbones. The way his hair had grown out from his tribesmen’s old style had left him blinking pale strands from his lashes, and had gotten yet another compliment from the man.

Rhydian fucking hated him.

“In still waters, yes,” He answered, tone completely civil, “Not like this, however. You were right, I am quite pretty.”

Rome laughed, then, running a hand through Rhydian’s hair and leaning the boy back to rest on his chest. The younger closed his eyes, swallowing hard, but let Rome do as he wished; he didn’t have much energy to spit and hiss as he’d done when the older man first saw fit to see him settle into the “new home” he’d “so graciously” provided.

The house was beautiful, he couldn’t fault it for that, but it just felt so… unnecessary. Merely decorative. Rome had laughed before about his “mud huts” and Rhydian hadn’t appreciated it at all, throwing the cup of wine the other had given him in his face - staining the brilliant white of his toga - before the young nation marched out of the dining hall and to bed.

“It’s a personal quirk,” He continued, shrugging, “We have mirrors, too. Made of bronze rather than silver, though.”

“You can see the truer colours with silver,” Rome hummed, “See how lovely your eyes are. The rosiness of your cheeks. Your pretty hair.”

The last utterance was punctuated by a kiss, right on the crown of Rhydian’s head, and the mirror clattered to the floor.

At once, he was on his feet, chair falling away as he pushed out of Rome’s admittedly soft hold, eyes wild and heart hammering. He called Caledfwlch to his side in an instant, poised and ready to defend, and Rome only met his aggression with more laughter.

Rhydian dreamed of cutting his throat, letting the blood bubble up every time the older man tried to snicker in that infuriating manner, but he never did. It was better to settle, live alongside the Romans and share their cultures. To just calmly accept it all and roll with the punches. He wasn’t conquered like Albion apparently was. It wasn’t perfect, but an uneasy truce was a truce nonetheless.

And the figs Rome had bought him were sweet.

His shoulders slowly lowered, breathing out the tension, but his sword was still in hand. Just in case. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Has anyone ever told you that you should relax?” The older man asked, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and Rhydian swallowed against glass shards, “Not every touch is mean spirited, or an attack.”

No, but they could be.

“You’re right,” He falsely acknowledged, the flesh of his cheek between his molars as Caledfwlch was sent away once more, “I’ve never been good with uncertainty.”

“You really don’t know where you stand with me, do you?”

The words were spoken in the closest thing to sadness that Rhydian had heard from Rome in the past months, nearly year long they’d been going through this back and forth. It made his shoulders slump further, a faint metal taste in his mouth at the kicked-dog expression the other was wearing.

Am I really the bad guy here?

“I don’t,” He concurred, voice quiet, “Why capture me to release me? Why flounce between Italy and Albion, only to come back here and spend the whole time feeding me strange food and calling me pretty.”

There was that silence again, but it didn’t stretch as long. Perhaps it was the tentative understanding that starts to build from this sort of time together. Not the same as tribesmen, nothing near, but familiarity. Like how he knows Rome will indulge in red wine until he’s sick several times over, and how Rome knows he likes leek with his rabbit and will nibble on cherries for dessert.

“You’re more valuable to me as an ally, I think,” Rome admitted, “Your metal work - both weapons-wise and jewellery - is extremely impressive. You make so many small details look so effortless, and craft some truly delicate pieces. You’re also willing to bite and claw and scratch to keep your freedom, no matter how much it costs you. It’s almost inspiring. Besides…”

Rhydian swallowed once again, that sharpness increasing tenfold, blinking back a sting in his eyes at the praise. At the admittance of how talented and tenacious his people were. Feeling proud and yet so, so small all at once, in a way only Rome could accomplish.

“You have a face that makes me want to dote on you, show you the ways of the world.”

A step towards him, and another, and another until those big hands encircled his own wrists. Looking up at that soft, guileless smile, he felt his stomach swoop in something dread-adjacent. He wasn’t scared, but was certainly apprehensive of what expectation was held in each gentle touch. Body language exchanged in the silence of the newly built villa and filled the empty space with tension.

Rome’s face whispered go on without uttering a single word. He let himself be led to the bed - metal and precious and expertly crafted, topped with a soft down mattress - and Rome took a seat first. A guiding hand pulled him onto the man’s lap, and he put up little resistance, but didn’t meet his eyes.

The older’s hand dipped into the little box on the bedside table, offering its spoils as he was delicately perched. Like he had to be treated gently, like the wind and rain didn’t mould him, like he was soft and sweet. He felt like he was absent from his own body, somewhere to the side of himself, floating in that same space that Caledfwlch disappeared to when he no longer needed it.

Like he no longer needed his mind. Like he could simply float in the ether.

Rome offered his hand, pressed his fingertips to his lips, and Rhydian took a bite.

The pomegranate was sickly sweet.

***

“I’ve thought about what you’ve said. I want to call myself Cymru.”

Rome looked up from the rabbit he’d laid on the kitchen table, seemingly startled by Cymru’s sudden presence. He’d always had quiet footsteps, barefoot on heated tile not producing much noise to begin with.

Cymru had shed his old tunic, yellow and red plaid, to don a bright white tunic and toga, thinly bordered by rich purple. No trousers either, as he had before, and the way Rome looked at him made him want to be swallowed by the floor. His lips were wine-stained from lunch and the rosiness of his cheeks were flushed.

It wasn’t that he was completely drunk, but his younger body certainly had trouble keeping up with the older man. Rome was more pliant when he acquiesced to his whims, and he’d felt unnecessarily wary about revealing his choice of name.

“Who says you need a name?” Rome inquired, going back to skinning the animal in front of him, barely sparing a glance upwards once he did so. It threw Cymru through a loop, really, after what had been said to him that day in the Roman camp.

“If I am a nation, I should have a name. It means… means ‘compatriots’. Like Combrogi. Felt fitting,” He explained, feeling as if this should all be obvious, “You have one, and we’re equals -”

“What?”

Hands stilled once more, placing the knife he’d been using aside. Cymru hadn’t realised before that he hadn’t been staring at Rome’s face, but his large hands as he separated pelt from flesh, soft rabbit fur sodden in the creature’s own blood. Suddenly, the tension was back with the silence, like it had never left, and it was like that night had never happened.

Perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps he was dreaming strange things again. Perhaps he was sorely mistaken about where they really stood.

For two men to do what they did, they had to both be free, and by extension be equals. Rome and Cymru were locked in an uneasy truce, but they weren’t truly on the same level. Rome came over, pressing new foods to his lips, providing him with new building techniques and other advancements, and Cymru… Let him?

Well, that wasn’t wholly true. There was gold, and zinc, and bronze, and fertile farmland. But it was always a hassle, his land rocky and uneven and imperfect. He was a hassle, really.

“Nevermind,” He waved away, “A passing fancy of mine. You know what I’m like.”

He took a seat by the table, balancing his cheek on his hand and looking up at Rome as the skinning started once more. The concentration on the man’s face, his steady hands, his brunette curls highlighted by the setting sun.

He was going to throw up.

Was this Rome’s attempt at fatherly, like those children in those sundrenched lands far away? Was this Cymru wanting what he shouldn’t, taking more than he needed? Was this selfishness, and if it was, which one of them was guilty?

The rabbit’s pelt on the table didn’t even look grey anymore, instead dyed a hundred hues of crimson.

“... I’ll call you Cambria.”

Cymru startled at the interruption of the uneasy silence, looking up once more.

“Why not Cym -”

“It’s easier to say,” Rome explained, hoisting the pink, bloody remains of the rabbit by its hind legs, “Cambria. It sounds pretty, which suits you better.”

Cymru hiccuped, suddenly bending double before retching painfully, wine and acid-bitten fruits splashing to the floor as Rome leapt towards him, hand on his back and rubbing between his shoulders.

“Should’ve known that’d be a bit much for you,” He murmured, and Cymru, with the echo of it suits you better in his ears, couldn’t help but agree.

***

Cymru got into the habit of wearing tunics and togas in front of Rome.

He hadn’t meant to, really. He just wanted the man to stay sweet on him, to stay a little longer and spoil him a little more. Sickening behaviour, really. He shows off the tender flesh of his calves and thighs, feels the appreciative hum in the older man’s throat with the touches, squeezes, pinches.

He should’ve known.

He pinches the flesh of his stomach between his fingers, hard enough to bruise. There was softness there, made of figs and cherries and rabbit and whatever else Rome felt apt to feed him. Gifts he didn’t turn down, that he showed himself off for, and here he is.

He remembers his tribesmen - how long since he’s seen them? How long has he isolated himself? How long has he assimilated? - had rules. The circumference of a man’s waist was not to exceed a certain figure, or he’d be fined. Men were to be strong, hunt and protect and all that. Excessive softness didn’t lend itself to that.

He didn’t remember the number - how long is a piece of string? - but it made something uncomfortable lodge in his chest. What would they think of him? Their proud Cymru who fought and clawed and bit… Allowing himself to be soft?

He scoffed aloud, turning back to his parchment. Rows of latin stared back at him, the reed he’d used to write them inkstained and abandoned by its side. What a joke. Someone gives him figs and he starts learning to write latin, dresses up in their clothes, and gets soft.

A glob of ink drops from the tip of the reed to the table, and his guts churn.

Maybe they were never sewn up properly - writhing and inflaming into this small swell he found himself with. The wound had long since stitched together with silver scar tissue, but the reminder would always be in him, feeling like he was stuffed with mud and leaves slowly left to rot.

He wasn’t - he was stuffed with cherries and meats.

***

“What the hell brought this on?!”

Rome doesn’t swear often, doesn’t yell often, isn’t angry often. It’s enough for Cymru to spiral smaller and smaller yet again. He’s not wearing his tunic and toga, but not wearing his favourite Celtic trousers and tunic, either. They don’t fit him right anymore. He made these himself and, while he’s never been the best at making his own clothes, they aren’t overly poorly crafted. They don’t pinch his soft stomach, and they cover the new swell of his hips and thighs. Sure, the old stuff would close, but not comfortably.

These are a nice blue colour, and he can pretend he still feels so very pretty in it.

Rome is in front of him, brows drawn and teeth grit, and Cymru really thinks he should be paying attention, given how furious he’s made the man with the mention of a single word.

VOMITORIUM.

“So… I take it that you don’t do that…” Cymru swallows hard, heart stuttering, and the disappointment is palpable in his voice, “I didn’t mean to… imply anything, Rome.”

It’s the truth, he really didn’t. Not about Rome, at least. He’d been intrigued, hearing of the method; feather in, food out. If Rome was so insistent about him sharing all these foods, then he could share in this, also. Then the softness would go and he’d be fit to be seen as Cymru once again.

A nation for barely five years, and he’s messed it all up already.

“No… No, I know you didn’t…” Rome pinches his brow as he says it, like he has a bad migraine, and Cymru swallows spit, sour from the few days of fasting he did before the other man’s return from visiting his home country.

If Cymru was cuter, like his boys, would he stay?

“They’re just rumours. Something, something, look how gluttonous and wasteful Rome is, something…” Rome gesticulates vaguely to punctuate his point, but Cymru feels like a stone is tied to him, dragging him down into the dark waters.

The first time he died, he drowned.

“Cambria,” Rome begins, and Cymru wants to scream at him for no good reason.

There’s more awkward silence, in which he pictures Rome dying in various, violent ways to pass the time, and then all’s forgotten.

“I brought more cherries.”

Of course he did.

***

Cymru is a quick study.

His handwriting is flawlessly beautiful. His jewellery is pretty enough to make Rome coo. He can drive a chariot so well it rivals the drivers in the ludi circenses.

He can purge his meal in five minutes, and he can make Rome cum in two.

Though, not at the same time. He feels like the sentiments couple together beautifully, however. Rome will sit him on his lap and feed him, once the box is empty he’ll flip him over and the night will reach its inevitable conclusion. Once the bute’s asleep, Cymru will sneak outside, stick his fingers down his throat, and be done with it.

He doesn’t need the extravagance of a peacock feather. He’s always liked simple and practical.

He’s back to wearing the toga. It’s impractical for daily wear, but it’s not like he does much when Rome is visiting. He just has to sit there and be pretty. Occasionally bend over on the bed and pant and moan, but he tells himself he enjoys it.

Why else would he be back to wearing the toga? He knows where that leads him.

The issue, however, is that with every new thing he shows off, Rome gets more and more distant. His dainty hands, the other leaves for Albion for a week. His pretty collar bones, he leaves for Caledonia for a month.

When he presented his thigh gap, another phenomenon happened. Albion is all but dumped on him the next day, Rome gives some half-hearted explanation of brotherly bonding, and back to Italy he goes. They don’t fuck goodbye, as they had, and he hates that it makes him feel sicker than ever.

When Albion looks up at him, older than before but still as wide-eyed, he pictured kicking the little fucker across the room.

“Why aren’t you wearing your colourful trousers?” Albion asked, innocent as a child could be, and Cymru could only taste blood.

“I don’t like them anymore.”

“But they were pretty!”

“They were old.”

Cymru turned his back on Albion, his long strides carrying him to the kitchen, where he proceeded to put away what had been set out for Rome’s visit. A visit where Rome and he would eat and drink, Rhydian would leave to vomit, and then they would fuck until the older man climaxed. That was supposed to be what happened.

“And the toga’s new?”

“Yes. Yes, the toga is new.”

Instead, if he had no one worth pretending for, then he’d simply put it all away and fast for longer. He didn’t need to be fucked to feel good. He was finally feeling better in himself with a new pair of visible ribs.

“Oh. I don’t really like them.”

“Good for you.”

So what if he was cold, irritable, and hadn’t left the villa in a good month. Perhaps longer. He was useless and unimportant and ruined everything. His countrymen were better for him staying out of their lives. At least he used to be able to distract Rome with fleeting things - wine, foods, jewellery, his body - so everything could be normal!

“If I knew how to make such a nice yellow -”

“Albion -”

“Oh, that’s not my name anymore!” The boy said brightly, a smile that seemed like a distant memory on his own features painted across the boy’s lips, “It’s Britannia now.”

“My precious child. My dearest -”

A crash. Blood dripped from Cymru’s hands, a swear spat from his lips. Shards of terracotta on the floor were streaked with the same red, and Cymru could only stare, eyes wild. One of the cups Rome had gifted him, amongst a speech about craftsmanship and care. Broken amongst his blood.

You didn’t need to be a bard to see the cruel poetry in that. It was even planer as he fisted the brilliant white wool of his toga to staunch the bleeding.

He turned slowly, the child white as a sheet as he stared at the blood on the floor, and Cymru will admit the tug of guilt in his chest, until a simple utterance of:

“Cambria -”

“Get out.”

It was barked between gritted teeth, all but growled. Feral and wolfish and unfair. Still, Cymru just… couldn’t. Rejection had burned, and now there was this insult. The name he’d reluctantly allowed his somewhat-lover to call him uttered by the omen that ended his peace. The trees of their apparent family - if Rome were to be believed - as barren and blackened as his vision.

He felt no affection for this thing that could soften the blow.

“But -”

“I said: out!”

The boy ran from the room, the scream that tore itself from Cymru’s throat seeming to echo across tile and marble. It made him sick. It made him rabid. A snarling animal trapped in his chest, clawing until his insides were ribbons and his ribs shards.

Like the terracotta on the floor.

Still, he was pushed. He was chained and beaten and goaded. It was only a matter of time before it hit breaking point and he savaged again.

Horrible little viper.

#hetalia #historical hetalia #wales x rome #aph wales #aph rome #aph england #hws wales #hws rome #hws england #my fanfiction

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goodbyenorthernlights · 3 months

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and also the one i did for rezo

Visual: Rezo is a 6’3” tall, fair-skinned, human man with purple hair (anime) that sticks out at the sides like a pair of bird’s wings. (Again, anime.) His build is fairly nondescript, although he’s in better shape than you’d expect a scholarly type to be- he can run up a long flight of stairs and not get winded, for instance.

His eyes are permanently shut, making it difficult to discern their shape and impossible to tell the color. If you somehow do get them open without unleashing the Dark Lord Ruby Eye Shabranigdu in the process, you will find that Rezo’s eyes are an unassuming brown, with an upward slant to the shape.

Fashion: Rezo is usually wearing eye-catching red robes, a set of extremely dramatic blue-green shoulderpads, a tabard with a diamond insignia on it, and of course, an enormous red cape that covers his entire body below the shoulderpads if he stands still with his arms down. The cape is very good at swooshing and billowing, and the entire ensemble obscures his figure such that he resembles an imposing red rectangle.

He is also usually carrying around a long staff, slightly taller than he is. It’s topped off with a loop with four rings attached, that chime together when he moves around, and at the very tip is a red gem. (Like a cherry!) It’s essentially a fancy khakkhara staff. The staff serves as a way of channeling and directing magic and as well as being a mobility aid, and he can summon or banish it at will. Magic!

Demeanor: Rezo’s default expression is a smile, small, serene, and seraphic, but with a definite aloof edge to it. Accordingly, in most situations he is formal and kind without necessarily being friendly, usually sticking to whatever business is at hand.

That said, he enjoys teasing people and yanking their chains around, especially when he’s pissed at them, but he usually keeps that under a veneer of Great Sagely Dignity.

His blindness affects the way he moves and interacts with the world, although subtly enough that unobservant characters may miss it- he moves carefully, yet confidently, and pays close attention to sounds. And again, his eyes are always shut.

Aural: Rezo has a deep voice that is usually calm and pleasant, with a lofty edge to it. His cadence is reminiscent of a university lecturer, albeit one who sometimes slips silly jokes into his lectures.

Unless, of course, he’s having a meltdown, in which case there’s probably hoarse screaming involved.

Olfactory: Beyond his natural, personal scent, you may catch a few odd notes such as: Bitter, medicinal herbs; the slightly musty scent of old wood; old books; soap and/or sharp chemical solvent smells.

Mental Information: In D&D terms Rezo would have both a high INT and high WIS score, with his INT being higher. He has a good memory, the ability to make quick mental connections, curiosity about the world around him, and the determination necessary to stick with something until he understands it. He has also lived a long life, mostly dedicated to researching magic and medicine, and from that has gained a very in depth knowledge base.

Unfortunately, he struggles with serious mental health issues of some kind (it is hard to properly diagnose someone when one of their problems is “has a literal demon in them”) which can seriously impair his judgment and pretty much always affects his mood for the worse. He’s very prone to dissociation as a coping mechanism.

He's a messy, messy bitch.

Magical Information: Rezo specializes in white magic, but also can use the broader shamanistic magics and dark magic. The general rule of thumb I go by is that he can’t use holy magic or anything that would call upon the Lord of Nightmares, but any other kind of magic in the Slayers canon is fair game.

He has a considerable amount of magical power and normally can go for days of nonstop casting without expending his capacity. However, a great deal of his power comes from being the vessel for a fragment of Ruby Eye Shabranigdu, a kind of ancient dark god from his world. Without Shabranigdu, Rezo would still be a force to be reckoned with, but not outside of human levels.

The seal on Shabranigdu is very strong, making it normally impossible to detect the dark lord’s presence within Rezo. But crosscanon RP does mean potentially encountering powers that fall outside the rules of Rezo’s setting, so in other words: If you think that your character might be able to detect Shabranigdu/otherwise mess with Rezo and Shabranigdu, feel free to chat with me about it and we can work something out!

Just note that Shabranigdu has a corruptive effect on people who get close to him and can be viscerally unpleasant for any psychic types.

#rezo posting #headcanons

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kouomi · 2 years

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What A Relationship With Him is Like: JJK Boys

Warnings: none! pure fluff, overall just good vibes

Word count: 677

Characters: Gojo Satoru, Getou Suguru, Nanami Kento

A/N: This’ll be separated into two parts (can only put 3 per post because of picture limit) ! This is the older generation!

Blog Directory

Posted: June 22nd 2022, 1:34 AM ET

Gojo Satoru

A very patient relationship. In order to be in a relationship with Gojo, you would have to be willing to learn how to stay by his side. It would take him a while to come around and show you the part of him beneath that goofy exterior, but with a little persistence and a lot of understanding, he would be able to open himself up to you. That’s when you know he’s yours. Gojo would be attached to your hip the moment he decides to let you in; at home, at work, even dragging you to the school — where ever you go, he goes. You would be the most important thing to him, and he would go to the absolute ends of the Earth to protect you. He would definitely spoil you (we know this man has some coin). Dates would be a mix of him smothering you on the couch at home and him teleporting the two of you to obscure places. He may be a little much sometimes and a bit of an idiot, but you stick with him because at the end of the day he’s your idiot and you need him as much as he needs you.

Getou Suguru

So so so gentle with you. He knows how harsh or rough he can come off, but he makes sure he is anything but around you. He had tried to push you away when he initially became a curse user, but you persisted. To be with him, you had to accept every part of him; beliefs and actions included. And you did. You saw all of these little bits of him and watched as they came together to make the man you loved. You would have to put up with a lot in order to be in a relationship with Getou. He wouldn’t be around very often and you would sometimes go months without seeing him while he was away with Mahito and Jogo, but then there would come one night where he comes back and it would seem like no time had passed at all. He would adore holding you from behind, it would allow him to watch over you as well as keep you secure in his arms. The two of you obviously wouldn’t be able to go into public very often, but he made up for this by watching the city from your apartment and whispering to you through the dark. Getou can’t express his feelings very well and it would be extremely challenging to stay in the relationship at times, but it’s all worth it in the end when his hand finds yours once more.

Nanami Kento

Definitely the most mature of the three, especially when it comes to his relationship with you. Now that’s not saying he’s perfect — truly a tad far from it — but it would certainly be a smoother ride. You would become his solace, something for him to look forward to at the end of a long day. While often he may prioritize work and money over dates or quality time with you, he would make up for it (even if it is a month or two later). Like the others it would be hard to get him to let you close, but with Nanami if you just give him his personal space when he wants it and listen to what he says with your full attention he would pretty much be yours. Truly all Nanami wants in a relationship is someone he can be comfortable around enough to relax and let himself release his pent up tension. No work, no mockery, no annoyances, no complications, no stress, just peaceful, comfortable, accepting love. He isn’t very touchy, but the way he looks at you would convey all of his love. Dates to quiet restaurants or the bakery on his way to work is his go to. Communication may be hard with him as well as getting him to see past the surface straightforward parts of your relationship, but all in all Nanami would make a wonderful boyfriend.

———————

Masterlist

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mama-qwerty · 1 year

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Grabbers

I had a website a while back on which I would post movie reviews. I liked how the reviews came out, so I’m gonna repost them here.

When I review films, I tend to pick ones that are fairly obscure, so as to avoid joining in the din of internet yakking about popular, well-known movies. I hope that other, like-minded people (ie, those who love creature features and other “hidden gems”) will appreciate the recommendations, and maybe find a new movie to enjoy.

And I like to let my snark out every now and then. Keeps it well-honed.

Today’s review is for Grabbers, a little UK/Irish indie film from 2012. (That’s GrabBER, not to be confused with GrabOID from Tremors. Which is another great series of movies that I’ll try to get around to reviewing.)

Want the plot in a nutshell? Multi-tentacled, blood-starved alien creatures land near Erin Island and proceed to nosh on anything they come across—man and beast. But seems that alcohol is their Kryptonite, meaning the only way to keep them from draining you dry is to be drunk. Very, very drunk.

That’s pretty much it.

So let’s talk about our main players in this alien-vampire-octopus romp.

Starting from the far left, there’s Paddy, the town drunk who finds the first Grabber in a lobster trap and brings it into his bathtub with the intent to sell it on eBay. (That plan hits a snag when the thing escapes from the trap and attaches itself to Paddy’s face.)

Next is Una, the take-no-crap wife of Brian Maher, who’s standing next to her. They own the pub where everyone will take refuge later in the film.

The dude front and center is Ciarán O’Shea, the resident cop who, incidentally, is an alcoholic (stemming from a bad breakup). To his right is Lisa, the straight-laced, completely by-the-book cop who arrives at the beginning of the film, a temporary replacement for Ciaran’s boss, who’s going on vacation for 2 weeks. Next is Dr. Adam Smith, a scientist studying marine life, and overall know-it-all.

Last is Father Potts, and I’m honestly not quite sure why he’s on this poster, as he’s not exactly a big player in the film.

Anyway, with the exception of Father Potts, these people are pretty much the only ones you need to keep track of.

So monsters splash land on our little planet, and make a beeline to Erin Island to eat and breed. Their genetic makeup means they only need 2 things to survive—water (to keep their bodies moist) and blood. Alcohol burns their sensitive creepy-crawly skin, and doesn’t sit well in their tummies.

Now, you would think, given the premise, that this would be a pretty one-joke movie. “Stay drunk to survive” just screams “Movie full of drunk people doing slapstick or basically acting stupid” gags. Well, you really won’t find that here, surprisingly. And, spoiler alert, just about everyone lives, which is a change of pace from other movies of this type. Usually anyone who drinks is done in pretty quickly and messily by the hungry creature. Not so in this little flick.

Once our intrepid band of heroes put the pieces together and realize that the Grabbers can’t hold their liquor, they spring to action. Seems a pretty nasty storm is heading in, meaning the Grabbers—or, more specifically, the GIANT male who’s always looking for a free meal and some action—will be heading to town to satisfy these urges. The cops lure the locals to the pub and encourage all to drink as much as they possibly can. Hey, even Father Potts can’t turn away free booze!

Soon the entire town is toe-up, but, being Irish, they’re a pretty damn happy bunch. Singing songs, laughing, and just basically reveling in their oblivious-ness to the giant tentacled monstrosity that’s making its way toward them.

The performances in this are very good, with likable characters you care about. There isn’t much backstory to any of them, which usually makes for very 2-dimensional, flat, boring characters, but it works in this. The movie gives you enough to have a basic idea of who these people are, without bogging you down with unnecessary details and pointless angst.

The effects are excellent, and the creature design is believable. They look and behave in a very organic manner, which adds to their creep-factor. Many creature features want to create the biggest, most deadly-looking thing—with teeth that don’t fit in its mouth, and claws that are so long they’re hardly practical. This is simply a writhing mass of tentacles that all lead to a big, round mouth full of sharp teeth. A long, proboscis-like tongue shoots out to stab and drain the blood from the victim, making this part leech, part sea urchin, part octopus. All ugly.

Bottom line: this is a really fun movie, with enjoyable characters, dialog, and great special effects. I gladly recommend it.

#mama q movie review #movie review #grabbers #grabbers movie

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tmisaccidentreportbook · 1 year

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MAG022, Colony

Case #0161203, Martin Blackwood Release date: June 9, 2016 First listen: 16th October, walk into work.

And so we get Martin. I have a tag on my main tumblr, that I employ when I am feeling particularly vulnerable and am feeling a kinship with a character. It is ‘i take my comfort character’s face in my hands and say ‘you and I. we’re going to bleed together.’… 90% of it is Martin. I have a lot of feelings about this man.

- He is our first archival assistant we hear directly from.

- The first line we get from Martin is ‘I just want to make a statement about what happened to me.’ To me this echoes a sentiment that grows in the Archivist through seasons 2 and 3. That of refusing to die a mystery, to fade into the obscurity that clouded Gertrude’s death. Martin wants to tell someone, even if it’s just the tape recorder, even if it’s an (suspected) inanimate object, but it will listen and not judge. I don’t know if he expected Jon to stay and listen or not.

- The pause after asking Jon to speak for his soundness of mind. Now is not the time Jonathon. The probably hurt.

- This is our first ‘hot off the press’ statement, not our first ‘recorded on the same day it was brought to the Institute’ that was MAG013, but this helps us tighten up the in universe timeline a little.

- Feels appropriate that this was all kicked off by Martin following up on statement MAG016, a statement of The Web. The pulling of strings to set everything rolling to lead to the invasion of the Institute and to start the dominoes falling, and it all comes from the Mother of Puppets; the beginning of preparing Jonathon for The Watcher’s Crown, the loss of Sasha in the confusion, the discovery of Gertrude. As Carlos had said, ‘Can you be haunted by the ghost of a spider that destroyed your childhood?’ Appears so yes.

- I think there’s also something about Martin being in this situation and being in danger on the Archivist’s orders. Yes, he had a job to do, but Jon was the one that sent him out into the field like that and I wonder if this will be the start of the guilt of endangering and hurting others that will compound within the Archivist, if it hasn’t already taken root in the form of guilt over the fate of the bully who went to meet Mr Spider.

- ‘I like spiders.’ And so the premise of web!martin first hatched. I very much agree that Martin was forever destined for The Lonely, but the touch of The Web about him was always a wonderful feature. I don’t know if I am wording this correctly or accurately, but the two Entities do compliment each other nicely. If I find myself in the grip of The Lonely and people are caring about me or interacting with me, there’s a part of me wondering how I’ve managed to trick them into it. That voice has gotten smaller in past years, but it used to have very good projection. I think the premise of web!martin has an interesting discussion about survival and being brought up in certain emotional environments attached to it.

- Bless you Martin for describing the commute. Still not 100% where the Magnus Institute is, it’s in Chelsea on the north side of the river, I’d imagine it’s on the eastern end of Chelsea to be closer to the site of Millbank Prison, although the tunnels mean it could be anywhere. But if we assume Martin jumped onto the Central and District line at Sloane Square and changed to the Northern line at Embankment, he’d then take the High Barnet route to Archway.

- ‘I didn’t want to come back to you without due diligence, though – I’ve learned that lesson...’ Jonathan, what have you done? What have you done to cultivate this sort of desperation to please in Martin, who, crush on you aside, has an already compromised understanding of self worth and worthiness in general? Do we need to have words?

- ‘...a worm of some sort.’ I don’t think we ever get a definition of what type of worm these are exactly. And it’s interesting that ‘worm’ keeps getting used when so often if something’s burrowing into rotting flesh it’s typically maggots; flies in a larval form. But seeing as these worms hunt down a victim and aren’t hatched out on a food source… I really don’t want to research but the natural scientist in me is edging towards the keyboard… I’m going to regret this.

- Yeah I regret this. Ok, I’ve gotten a little more insight into the use of ‘worms’ because it look like it can and does get used interchangeably with maggots, even within a species naming convention. Must confess, I was thinking ‘worms’ in terms of ‘annelids’ but then that excludes all sorts of phylum of parasitic worms and sea worms and I hate taxonomy with a burning passion. I understand we need a system of categorisation, but I don’t think anything we come up with is ideal for purpose because nature don’t work like that. Carl Linnaeus, you tried your best, I still want to shake you.

- Ok, back on track. But looking around, I reckon these worms could be the larvae of screwworm flies, a blowfly species that lay their eggs in open wounds and yes, it’s flesh eating. Mainly attacks animals and livestock in particular. Can and will parasitise humans. Martin even says, when he first saw it, he mistook it for a screw. There are two types of screwworm flies: Old World, Chrysomya bezziana, and New World, Cochliomyia hominivorax. I can’t remember if Jane Prentiss mentions anything about travel in her statement and Old World would make more geographical sense, but hominivorax means ‘man-eater’, they lay nearly 8 times the eggs as their cousins and have a significantly higher body count.

- The body does look segmented and screw like and they do look a little charred, like they’ve been held over a candle flame and the smoke has just blackened them.

- I’m not gonna link articles or photos in case you folks accidentality click links when you don’t mean to. You want more information on these creatures that cast aspersions on if there is a loving God, you go looking. Good luck.

- But of course, these things are falling out of a monster sustained by the fear of infection and rot, so who the fuck knows…

- Now, a basement window isn’t going to be big, it is unlikely it is going to be anything other than something you have to effectively post yourself through, but at the phrase ‘I’m not exactly the smallest guy in the world’, the fandom decided that Martin is large. He’s tall, he’s broad, he’s stout. he’s plus sized, he’s fat. And I think this is damn sexy of you all. As a fat person myself, thank you. I have loved looking at all the different depictions of Martin in the fan art and he looks so good. There was a part of me that was very worried because so often in media, ‘fat’ is short hand for ‘unattractive, undesirable, lazy, stupid etc etc’ all the negative things. And while Jon does rant and rave about Martin’s supposed incompetence, although the examples that are given seem to be perceived failures after considerable efforts in the face of impossible tasks, (you gave him the name ‘Angela’ and the 60km² London Borough of Bexley and you were expecting a fucking miracle my guy!), his shortcomings are never attributed to his size.

- ‘…so I take a bit of a tumble onto the basement floor. Luckily I get away without hurting myself and start to have a quick look around…’ looks back at my opening blurb on MAG003 Yeeeeah I’m gonna have to write that thing on the Magnus Archives presenting self-neglect in the line of duty.

- ‘…the place had a really bad ‘feeling’ to it.’ Animal hind brain, kicking in once again. ‘…this musty smell, and the air was dusty and thick.’ Once again, the more ‘animal’ senses coming to the fore to highlight danger before the ‘rational’ brain can recognise it. And I think it’s a fascinating device and trait because if you listen to that instinct every time, odds are you’ll be ok. You may look like a bit of an idiot, but you’ll be ok. You only have to ignore it once, and you are very much not ok.

- ‘… but I didn’t like the way my… shadow moved.’ See the uncanny valley shit, heed the uncanny valley shit.

- Unfortunately, whatever charm he had with old ladies in Bexley doesn’t apply in Islington.

- ‘...slightly more co-operative after I lied to him...’ Ok, seeing more fuel for the web!martin fire now. I’m seeing it now; Jon compels, Tim flirts, Sasha perseveres, Martin lies.

- The landlord seems ‘genuinely surprised to hear about the death’ which seems a mite sus, considering although Carlos was looking to move, me was found dead at the Boothby Road address, after neighbours had complained about the smell. The clean up too, having to remove a body encased in web, surely would have registered with the landlord, unless perhaps, he’d recently take on the property.

- ‘…I was worried I hadn’t really done enough investigation for you.’ Martin… oh Martin, darling. I think both of us need some help understanding ‘work/life balance’ and ‘duty to the job’ don’t we. Also, I doubt this will be covered by paid overtime or time back in lieu, trust me on this. ‘…but… I mean… it’s my job, isn’t it?’ Oh dear.

- ‘…what looked like a human figure.’ Once again, vague bumping up the creep. - ‘She was facing away from me, apparently staring at the corner of the wall.’ Thank you, Blair Witch Project…

- The description of ‘the cough’, yikes. Yikes, Martin, put the poet’s pen away, I don’t need it right now.

- A man finds a strange woman in a darkened deserted room, she drops the overcoat, revealing a red dress. Out of context, it’s… well, I find it unnerving, might be due the aceness, but I can see how that can read as the start of an illicit liaison, a little Mrs Robinson in The Graduate. Which makes it all the more stomach churning when you consider the context of The Corruption is so often wrapped up in looking for love and unhealthy forms of connection. Adding what we know about Martin, that he is a young gay man, yeah, this makes my skin crawl in not just the obvious ways. More than likely, this line of thinking is more and insight into my perception of the world and probably not something Jonny was going for but, thems the brakes.

- The description Martin gives of the Flesh Hive is really evocative and weird, because you’d expect a decaying corpse to be just that; you’d expect to hear about fetid and rotting flesh, blood still wet in the wounds as the body broke down. But as she’s described as ‘grey’, ‘honeycombed’, ‘like a wasp’s nest’, it’s clear she’s dry and empty.

- Martin’s life, soul, very existence is in peril, and all he can think to do is get his phone out to capture evidence so his boss will believe him… Archivist, when I say be gentle and careful with this man, I FUCKING MEAN IT.

- I’ve done a little wiki look at Stockwell, London where Martin lives. Affectionately known as Little Portugal, but also has a significant population of Caribbean and West African heritage. The area has a lot of social housing, and we learn that Martin does come from a low socio-economic back ground, constantly worrying about money and supporting himself and his mother.

- ‘Oh god, maybe I’d left her to die.’ Martin, you are too good for this world and that kinda thinking is going to get you dead.

- Knocking. The knocking at the door. It’s something seen in horror quiet a bit, the idea that the threat asks for permission to enter and you are the one that seals you fate by allowing it, unwittingly or not. There’s the tradition that vampires need to be invited into a building after all. There’s a flavour of Poe’s The Telltale Heart to it too.

- This really is a siege situation. No only physically trapped, but no electricity. No way of contacting anyone on the outside, no distractions, just him and his thoughts and his fear and the knocking. For 13 days. I mean, they used to use sleep deprivation in witch trials as a form of torture. And there’s something terrible about this being Martin’s own home, the turning of sanctuary to prison.

- I appreciate the word choice of ‘she called herself to be a practising witch’. I’m reading that as the definition of ‘practising witch’ is one she is establishing and not a generally held one, not one tarnishing other people who would consider themselves practising witches. Does that make sense? Just makes her feel like the outlier rather than the norm.

- 1. Thank God, for his own sake, that Martin does not appear to live with his mother, and 2. did any of Martin’s neighbours notice?

- ‘What’s that Martin? You feel unsafe in your own home. Come stay at the archives in my personal bolt hole, you will be safe.’ Ok Jon… ok.

- Prentiss must think she’s so fucking funny; ‘stomach problems’, ‘it might be a parasite’. Ma’am take that Alien’s Xenomorph shit and get out.

- ‘Keep him. We have had our fun.’ Oh, the use of the plural. The loss of the self… Lovely…

- Ok, what is ‘the Archivist’s crimson fate’ exactly? Because a lot of the Magnus Archives colour scheme is green, so what is the crimson fate? Is The Flesh Hive talking about themselves, seeing as Jane Prentiss is still in the ragged red dress? Seems very self-aggrandising if that is the case. Does the Flesh Hive know of other Entities movements? The red of the Nikola Orsinov’s ringmaster’s coat? The title lights do go red in MAG119 when The Stranger makes their play. Is there anything else I’ve missed? The hunters storming the Institute at the end of Season 4? Jared Hopworth? Leitner’s murder? These all seem a little more tenuous.

In hindsight, I think I may have found something that had me associating with Martin so strongly from almost the beginning. While was share a lot of traits in common which I will no doubt discuss, we also share an experience. 2020 was the year of COVID 19, of isolation and lockdowns. But it wasn’t our only pandemic, we also had Bird Flu. I work with birds and at the time I was a keeper in a captive collection of waterfowl, an at risk group, see as it is most commonly carried by migratory geese and swans returning from the Arctic circle to winter in Europe. About a month after hearing this episode for the first time, we had a case, we had a death, and I was the one who found patient zero. My life flipped overnight; I was contacted by health agencies for monitoring, government agencies descended on us, the site was closed to the public with the smallest of skeleton crews to keep the place running, and I had to move on site to do my job and take care of the birds I am responsible for. The levels of biosecurity we needed to observe skyrocketed. We had security on the perimeter, I had to go through a sign in check point if I wanted to leave. All the while, we lived in constant dread that the government officials were going to turn around and demand that we cull everything under our care, as they had done when they first turned up before they truly understood what we are; a captive collection and a wildlife reserve, not a farm. And we’d been able to shout them down once but we didn’t know if we’d be lucky a second time. There would have been nothing we could have done, except possibly physically fight them and I considered it. It was a terrifying and exhausting few months. And looking back, sitting on a bed that wasn’t mine, with no distinction between home and work any more, and constant reminders of the threats we were facing, I think Martin and I could have commiserated over that winter.

Supplemental: I don’t have the dates to hand so I don’t know how the timelines shake out, but I’ve just remembered, Mr Alexander J Newall went through something similar too! Asbestos flat!

#The Corruption #MAG022 #the magnus archives

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infraaa · 2 years

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The wheel turns… the blood–pure and warm. Who will take the vial on this winter night?~

Here are some more matchups, some sinful ones for the twst community, once again a lovely gift atop the doorstep of @sugarandmelody! Thank you so much for your purchase! Happy Holidays!

author's notes: i researched animal sex for you

tw//somnophilia, primal kink stuff, bdsm mentions and all that dirty jazz.

NSFW UNDER THE CUT.

→ The Leech Twins

So I get it, you got three characters. But I couldn’t choose between the two of them. So since they’re twins and related and all that I’m gonna collect them as one unit. Floyd and Jade work very similarly in terms of the sexy times. Jade and Floyd are sadists, just in their own ways. To hear that you have a primal kink is quite something for them and they are ready to take full advantage of it.

Floyd is just all over the place with this information. Like an animal on the hunt, he’ll swim for unsuspecting prey, muck like an angler fish would to a blind shrimp. Full of surprises this one is. Cue the jigsaw music! He’s the type to start playful foreplay, being slightly animalistic, teasing you until the real fun begins. Whether it be playfully nibbling on your neck or touching very lightly across the curves on your body, Floyd will be all over it. Oh, but if you cross him, you naughty little brat, you’re definitely going to get it. He’ll flip a whole 180 degrees. He;ll be mean, and he can get mean, watching you writhe in pleasure with a smile on his face, pointy shark like teeth in a twisted grin, heterochromatic eyes agleam.

The confidence boost would come from your inferiority, how small and cute you look under him. But isn't every emotion contagious? He’ll try and share the same emotion with you. Demanding you to try it out, ride him maybe. Do something out of the norm, like fucking in front of a mirror or with a tripod set up. But he’s not as controlling as his brother.

Although Jade is very similar, there’s something that his brother has that he considers as a difference–the mannerisms. While Floyd is very sadistic and has a hunter esque approach, what would Jade love more than that? Corruption. Easy. Jade is a huge fan of that and he will make you cry just to be fucked over and over again. This praying mantis will hunt you, over and over again until you get it. He knows every way to outsmart you, what you like and dislike, you’re like his puppet attached to strings, his marionette, aren’t you? So pretty you are in his eyes when you’re obedient.

He’s also into more obscure things, more dangerous things like aphrodisiacs and complex rope play, so do keep this in mind when he wants to wrap you up like a christmas present that he can immediately unwrap later. But the aphrodisiacs? Let’s talk about that. Sometimes he’ll take mushrooms from his terrariums and feed them to you if he deems them edible. Given the fact that he practically majors in magic pharmacology, he can and will cast a spell on said mushrooms that he picked out, allowing them to have a mystical effect on the brain, similar to the effects of Rohypnol. He could also gang up with Jamil to get some aphrodisiacs from the Land of Hot Sands–the finest in its core.

While teaming up on you is a great pleasure, it seldom happens due to the way Floyd is. Floyd can be possessive, which makes threesomes a bit of a buzzkill. However if he’s definitely in the mood to have some fun teasing you alongside his brother, that’s where it will get interesting. One eel at your feet, tying them up intricately with a coy smile on his lips, and the other eel at your wrists, tying them up slowly, teasing you with making you believe that he’ll make the bonds tighter, when he loosens them up with a laugh emitting from his lips. Teamwork makes the dreamwork, baby! Be prepared to obtain no sleep whatsoever with these proud fishies!

→ Leona Kingscholar

Lions are weird when it comes to sex. Like how long do you need man? What’s funny too is that most of the time he’ll laze away and let you do all the work like the ass he can be.However, when Leona is feeling active, that’s where the real work will begin. Honey, with how long he goes for, be prepared to not sleep. What is sleep anyway with these dudes?

Everything with him is slow, and I mean painfully slow. Lions are known to take their (fucking) time. And oh boy he will most certainly take his fucking time with you. Leona likes the fact that you like the confident type to take control. He’s not shy and he’s not afraid to let ya know, like seriously. Moreso into breeding than the work of primal, bc ol dude doesn't like the chase, he understands that he is a royal heir to the throne of the Afterglow, and thus in this aspect wants to compete with his older brother, now by route of children, which can sound strange we know, but the mere thought is what he goes for, not the actual trying for a kid. Leona is into the risk factor of breeding itself. He enjoys seeing you become so full of him at once, taking his precious time to fill you with his seed before laughing coyly because of how pitiful you look underneath him, little whining mess you are. He’s got a lot more up his sleeve too.

But hey, are you a brat too? Because Leona loves that shit as well. He may not like to fight, he will anyway. (Cue the bitch in him to come out.) But then there’s that moment where he’s like “I’m a leo, worship me instead you little slut” type deal.

Ohohoho, if you have your eyes on Malleus?? The dragon?? OH DEAR. Leona does NOT like that. “Oi, why are you hangin around that damn lizard???” type mf. He will take it personally. If he sees you interacting with Malleus McThot, (AKA M word,) He’s gonna fuck the shit out of your body. He doesn’t know whether or not he touched you, and he’s tryna get that coy smug out of your head, that coquettish prick! He may be a slow one, but when his enemies get involved, there’s a reason for him to be thorough. The constant hair pulling, biting, and digging his claws into your clean thighs is something he’s going to find pleasure in. Oh and the hickies he’ll leave exposed so that when you see Malleus next he’ll also see them. It’s an ego boost for him, sweetheart. They’ve gotta know that you’re Leona’s herbivore now, not that silly lizard’s toy.

Corruption? Corruption. If Malleus somehow gets involved, you may find yourself sandwiched in between them. Both of these princes are hotheaded and competitive with each other. Leona would try in every possible way to make himself appear better than Malleus in the respect that he may know you better, as well as your body respectively. Whatever Malleus does, he mirrors, but he will find a way to make it better. He intends to take your innocence, not hand it over to that pesky dragon fellow. He will dumbify you into his little cumslut for all to see, whether Malleus has something to do with it or not. And the hunts between the two of them and you? Tag teaming? Oh shit, they’re corner you like the hyenas did to lil simba in the lion king. Menacing grin and all. What a fantastic adventure you three will have together. Definitely a delicious romp indeed.

→ Malleus Draconia

THIS MAN IS A FUCKING-

Okay, I may be a little biased here. But Malleus is my husband ok? But Malleus is soooooo good at this shit. Too bad he’s gotta be so complex about it. So this may be a little unusual, but he has rut seasons like deer have. Yes, this man has heat cycles… kinda. Let me explain! The nesting occurs without you even knowing that the hell is going on. He just has blankets and pillows and clothes all wrapped up into a cute little nest. And he's just like “:)” and you’re like “?” That is… until the courting starts.

He wants you to know that he’s confident in the respect that he’s rich. His ego wants you to see that he’s gonna fuck you like a ragdoll. So in this respect he either buys you expensive jewelry, or he gives you sparkly things from his hoard. But one thing stands out among all his gifts over a period of a week: A choker. But not just any choker. It was designed to look like a collar with sparkling rhinestones and a locket in the very center. He asks you to wear it for the day, and when the daylight is just about to disappear, to go to the Diasomnia dorm. Oh god.

So this man doesn’t really believe in sex. Well… most of the time. We’ll get to that in a minute, but, this man is a “making love” type mf. He treats this act as something sacred, something with immeasurable value, and so he treats you as such. But it gets worse. You know how lizards are like… real sure that they’re lover is pregnant or something? Ok so Malleus has two dicks. Two. And oh boy they’re big. He uses both of them–one at a time of course he doesn;t wanna tear you in half, and he’ll take your body over and over again, very thoroughly. The thing is that he’s also into breeding, similar to Leona, but in the sense that it’s to actually procreate. He’s the crowned heir of the VoT–guys being pressured for babies by the Imperial Court. So once you’re committed, you’re committed for life.

Be advised– he will take full advantage of your primal kink. His heat cycles kick in during the spring and sporadically throughout the summer, blasting as soon as September hits. During these months, he will be on your ass. Literally and figuratively. He will make it clear. Very clear, that you are his and his mate to be, so buckle up.

He also has somnophilia and a size kink. The fact that you’re small and cute… adds so much arousal to his mind he doesn’t believe that such emotions are real at first. Seeing that you barely fit his size as he slooooowlllllly slides in, pumping cautiously, his black nails literally trembling on his fingers, quaking with the need to bash your body into the mattress… pure heaven. If push comes to shove, somnophilia may also be inserted into the mix. He gets turned the hell on when he sees you at your purest–the pure form of sleep in your pajamas, clankets curdled around your body as your chest calmly rises and sinks with each unconscious breath. When clearly communicated beforehand, this could be an intoxicating experience, and it adds to the primal factor in terms of “sneaking up on prey at the most unprecedented of times.” This, combined with breeding will make him a drunken mess of a man. He even lets some of his draconic features come loose, like his tail, a longer tongue, sharper nails, and hell, maybe even his wings if he really lets go. He’s not afraid to let go a little bit around you, if that means completely lashing out too then that is what he will do. Now, let’s say he succumbs to the sick desires in his head, what will happen? Your legs. Non existent–you won’t be able to feel the muscles in your legs for a week or so. And with how constant his heat cycles are this can last for a while, the numbness. It’s just from how deliciously hard he’s going at you. It turns from giving your body incomprehensible pleasure into your body being used for his pleasure, and his haughty sadistic mind gets aroused from seeing you squirm, unable to scream anymore, legs shaking and quivering from underneath him. It’s all for fun though, he never intends to hurt you or deliberately cause pain.

Just make sure you let him know of any limitations that you may have, or else he may just lose his mental…~

#infrawrites #infradelivers #infra@212!#twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #twst diasomnia #twst malleus #twst leona #leona kingscholar #twst jade #jade leech #twst floyd #floyd leech #twst octavinelle #twst x reader #twst smut #twisted wonderland commissions #writing commissions #commissions

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party-gilmore · 3 years

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This is still just a half formed thought but @pebblesrus got me thinking bout The Pool Scene and Eliot viewing his body/safety as something to physically exchange for that of others, combined with the commentary about how Eliot was counting the seconds Hardison was without air, like

There's still the thrum of angry tension stretching out from Hardison between them through the night, during Flores's call, on the way in and through the airport... Eliot isn't avoiding Hardison's angry gaze, but he's not seeking it out either. It burns under his skin, a hot coil of discomfort and the sinking sensation of having ruined something unless he manages to make things even.

At some point midflight, Hardison gets up to pace near the bar (because it might have been last minute, but he's NOT gonna make the team fly coach - even though he's still upset with Eliot and may have thought about it for a minute). Eliot follows a few seconds later and catches Hardison on the way back, quickly shoving him into the small lavatory and locking the door behind them.

"Man! What the hell! If you don't get your hands off me, I-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Hardison stops flailing against Eliot's grip around his wrists and just... stares, incredulous.

"...what?"

"You were without air for one minute, nineteen seconds."

"...you were counting." It feels a little like a question, although it isn't. Not really. Eliot's grim expression softens often imperceptibly. Hardison would've missed it if they weren't crammed so tightly in the small bathroom. Eliot answers the non-question anyway, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"Course I was."

Hardison tumbles that around in his head for a bit. Of course Eliot was counting. Probably to know when it was too dangerous anymore to stay in character. Hardison knows how important it was to gain Moreau's trust at the time. In his head, he knows that. Knew it, even then. He was just... so afraid, at almost drowning, and angry at the secrets Eliot was keeping... but he was counting. He would've gone in for him, if he needed. Blown the whole damn thing.

Yeah the situation just sucked all the way around, sure, and yeah Alec's still a little pissed - why wouldn't he be! He's got the right! - but Eliot was counting. That means even though he'd had to put Hardison's life at risk, he was willing to risk even more - his own safety, the entire con - to pull him back out if needed. That was something, right? That was still-

-Hardison's too busy turning the pieces around in his own head to notice Eliot shifting his grip from Hardison's wrists to his hands. Tugging them closer. Pulling them up.

Alec snaps back to the present when his fingertips graze the warm, flushed skin of Eliot's neck.

"What-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Eliot suddenly presses Hardison's hands tight around his throat, guiding his thumbs to the appropriate hollows beneath his jaw.

"You... you can't be fucking serious!"

He tries to pull away, but Eliot's grip holds fast.

"Damnit Hardison," his growl comes rough, grating, as he puts pressure on his own windpipe through Hardison's palm. "You were right! Okay? I risked your life. For one minute and nineteen seconds. So that's what you get. Just... just do it, man! Get it over with, then we're even!"

"Even-... man, do you not realize how fucked up this is? I'm not... I'm not doing this!"

With a growl, Eliot tears his hands away from Hardison's, and Alec snatches his newly freed palms back to his chest. Eliot clearly wants to pace, but can't in the cramped room, so he settles with carding his fingers through his hair.

"Then what the fuck else do you want from me, man!" His voice already sounds ragged, even with how short of a time Hardison (or rather, Eliot by way of Hardison) was pressing around his throat.

"I just wanted you to be honest with us! With me!" Hardison slumps back against the far wall, anxiously rubbing his jaw as he tries to find the words. "Alright, look, I get it, what you had to do at the pool. I do. That doesn't mean my being upset about it is just gonna... go away!"

"I know that!"

Hardison flinches as Eliot slams his fist against the side wall. He knows the strike wasn't meant to be pointedly 'at' him, that in such a small space there's not a whole lot of room to safely lash out in when feeling cornered, but it was still too close to him for comfort. Eliot clocks the flinch, and for a moment the frustration on his face morphs into a clear expression of the guilt he's been masking since the pool.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't... fuck, I'm sorry," he pulls away, shrinking in on himself like he does on the grift, trying to consciously make himself seem smaller. "I just... I just don't want to have ruined us, man. Whatever is we've got... you and me, this team... I just wanna fix what I broke. I want us to be good."

"We are good, man," Hardison cautiously steps forward. He thinks to put a hand on Eliot's shoulder, but that's too close to his throat at the moment, so he goes for the outside of his arm instead. "You don't gotta... let me hurt you to make things even. That's... I don't know where the hell you learned that, but I don't like it. I'm not gonna do it. You just... you just gotta let me feel my feelings for a bit, okay? We'll get Moreau, and that'll feel fucking great, and have a little party, and everything will be fine. "

Eliot looks up at him and the ragged, raw desperation in his gaze about knocks Hardison back against the wall.

"...that's it?" Eliot's almost laughing, with a dry sarcastic bite behind his tone that makes him sound unhinged... well, more unhinged than usual. Although, he did just ask Hardison to choke him, so Alec figures we're not exactly working with the usual state of mind here.

"It's that easy, huh? You just... say we're good, and we're good?"

"Uh, yeah." Hardison shakes his head, tightening and loosening his grip on Eliot's arm in what he hopes is a soothing pattern. "That's how normal feelings work when somebody you care about pisses you off. You talk your shit out, it hurts for a bit while it heals up, then you're good. I don't know who fucking taught you you had to pay for-"

Oh. Oh but then it hits him. The dots finish connecting and he's looking down at Eliot, who's been strung tight and volatile as a clumsily stripped live wire ever since they closed in on Moreau, and in that moment Alec knows who taught him that.

He steps in close, carefully taking the back of Eliot's neck in a gentle grip, and ducks slightly to even out their gazes. Eliot’s whole body is tensed so hard he's almost shaking with it, but his eyes start to lose their sharp edge with Hardison's easy hold.

"I need you to hear me, Eliot. If I say we're good? Then we're good. No strings attached, no games, no doing any 'favors' for me first to prove any kind of loyalty or whatever. You know I don't play that shit. Yeah? You hearing me, man?"

Eliot's body starts to lose a bit of it's tension. A hesitant nod starts, but stops early. Hardison's seen Parker do that before, when she's too nervous to fully commit to a new idea even if she wants to, so he softens his tone and backs up a bit like he does with her.

"You hear me, babe?"

"I hear you," the reply is soft, almost embarrassed, and Eliot's eyes dart away. Hardison let's him go, indulging the gruff 'pretending to shake off the touch' Eliot does a second too late to be any kind of believable, and respectfully ignores the clearing of his throat and wiping at his eyes.

"We, uh..." Eliot turns to the door, fidgeting with the handle for a moment. "So, we'll talk. In San Lorenzo. When it's done?"

"When it's done."

Affirmation granted, Eliot darts out of the room. Hardison takes a few more minutes. Washes his face. Processes all the data thrown at him in the past few minutes as much as he can before filing it away for later. For 'when it's done.'

BONUS:

I feel like later, when they have their actual talk and Moreau is dealt with and both parties are a little more calm about it, Eliot is still like okay, I hear you, I understand that you don't need this to feel like we're square... but I do. Please.

And this time, knowing a little more of the whole story, Hardison is more comfortable accepting that like you know what, okay. If this is what you need, now that we've talked it out in a much less charged scenario and I can trust that you're in (more of) your right mind about this, okay. So long as you know I don't need this, that this is for you, and that if you need to stop early you swear you'll tell me.

Eliot probably rolls his eyes a bit at that like c'mon not even a full two minutes of getting choked out? He's had to go [absurd amount of time] without air in [equally absurd situation] in [obscure country], he'll be fine.

So Hardison sets a timer, and gently presses Eliot up against a wall, hands wrapping round his throat, Eliot's hands around his wrists - the deal is that he holds on for as long as he's good, if he let's go then so does Hardison - and he starts pressing in.

The whole scene is far softer and more intimate than either of them expected. They keep crazy intense but somehow still gentle eye contact almost the entire way through - the only exception being when Eliot's eyelids start to flutter a bit near the end, his grip loosening but not letting go - and when the time's up Eliot almost doesn't want Hardison to let go. He didn't even know that was a Thing for him. It had never been like that before, and like he said it's hardly his first time being choked... but something about trusting Hardison with that level of control... it makes him realize he maybe likes it a little too much. Putting his actual life in Hardison's hands in such a very physical, tangible way.

It kind of scares him, to be honest, how easily he'd be willing to let him do it again. And thinking about Hardison always leads to thinking about Parker, and thinking about Parker always leads to thinking about Parker's hands, and he realizes that he'd even trust "I hang off buildings by my fingertips" hand strength Parker to do it too... maybe even gets excited at the idea of it...

...and realizes he's well and truly screwed.

#eliot spencer #alec hardison #eliot spencer x alec hardison #precursor to the #leverage ot3 #Moreau's mindfuckery

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