Their favorite way to make you cum | Rory Characters
(not all characters, but if i missed some you want to see i'm open to doing a part 2) (stay safe!!)
warnings: NSFW!! mostly gender neutral reader, kinda ooc at times- let a guy dream ok? Mentions of: use of sex toys, penetrative sex, object insertion, fingering, thigh riding, dry humping, oral sex
Kappa:
- using toys
- whether that be using them on you OR
- making you use them on yourself while he watches
- loves making you ride a dildo in front of him, he gets pleasure out of knowing he's not even touching you yet you still obey every word he says
- will edge you to make the whole experience last longer
- favorite part of his night tbh
- once he gets his fill of watching, will push you down and hammer the toy into you
- doesn't stop even after you cum, he loves overstimulating you
- again, prolonging the experience
- he's mean :( <3
Jack Thurlow:
- his dick :D
- a traditional man ...?
- it's such an ego boost for him, knowing you need no other stimulation to cum
- says stuff like "no one could fuck you better than me."
- when you agree bc he's fucking you so good, it's just stroking his ego further
- he can admit he's a little selfish as well
- not only is he giving you pleasure, he's getting it too.
- it's definitely a win-win for him
Charlie Walker:
- Charlie is pretty much willing and down to do anything for you
- he's absolutely obsessed with you so, duh
- nothing is off the table for him
- his favorite though, is with his fingers
- he adores watching you writhe under his touch, he loves watching you
- knowing he's able to make you cum with just his fingers is a delightful stroke to his ego
- he loves it in any position!!
- You're laying beneath him? Perfect. Straddling his lap on the couch, arms around his shoulders? Just as good. Strewn across his lap, while he's doing it? Amazing!
- and he's good at it too, so you ask him when you're in the mood for it
- and he eats it up every time.
Ollie Sway:
- similar to Kappa in that he likes using stuff on you, but it's not exactly a toy with him
- you guys got drunk together once and he ended up getting an idea
- he ended up fucking you with his empty beer bottle
- he was basically drooling at the sight and has been chasing that high ever since
- begging you every once in a while to let him try it again
- you comply on occasion, letting him get his fix, besides it's not like you don't like it.
Clyde:
- mostly non-penetrative stuff
- not that he doesn't LOVE the penetrative stuff, he absolutely does
- but there's just something about watching you rut against his knee, his hands guiding your hips to do so...
- especially if you guys have smoked a bit, it's so easy for him to sink back into the couch cushions, watching you lazily grind your hips against him
- it might seem a little lazy, and it really is
- but part of the reason it's his favorite way to get you off is how little effort he has to put in to make you finish
- at some point after one of your little sessions, he had a realization of "i can make them feel this good without having to do anything???" and just never looked back
- similar to Charlie, he just loves watching you.
- this isn't to say he can't/doesn't want to put in effort, this is simply his fav way
Danny Cooper:
- HEAD !!!!
- he loves going down on you, and could do so for hours
- and he has
- will eat it from any position
- he's just so good at it, he gets so immersed in what he's doing, soaking in every noise you let out.
- he'll be moaning softly whenever you tug him off by his hair because he's overstimulating you on accident :((
- stares up at you with teary blue eyes and a wet chin, silently asking why you'd interrupt him
- DROOLY BOY !!
- my puppy boy danny agenda >:)
- he loves looking up at you from between your legs, eyes watery from the way you tug his hair
- gets pussy/dick drunk and doesn't like to stop until he's had his fill (he'll stop the moment you ask him to ofc <3)
130 notes
·
View notes
so about the header that proceeded today's statement:
Viability as agent: Low
Viability as subject: None
Viability as catalyst: Medium
i didn't know what to think of this part of the entry at first, but the longer the statement went on... was the institute in this universe trying to manufacture avatars?
the dice can't do anything without someone to use them, they can't be an "agent" by themselves, but might be capable of manipulation, so in that aspect their viability is "low."
the dice could be a "subject" in the sense that they could use further studying, but the statement itself was a very thorough investigation of their workings, so in that aspect their viability is "none."
the dice seem to influence their holder to roll them, or at least find more victims to roll them, and could therefore be described as a "catalyst" for someone's becoming. but, as seen in the statement, their owner can give the dice to someone else (albeit not without consequences), so in that aspect their viability is only "medium."
so what about the line following all this, what does "Recommend referral to Catalytics for Enrichment applicability assessment" mean? if we go by this interpretation, i'd say it could mean the institute wanted to find a way to make the dice even more potent as an artifact, maybe even remove that pesky ability for their owner to reject them.
imho all of this this brings a whole new level of context to the events of episode seven, of unknown violent agents going after an influx of objects that seemed straight out of artifact storage. was that the nature of the titular "magnus protocol" first mentioned in episode four, the one that involved the starkwall group? containing or destroying potential artifacts before the institute could get their hands on them?
it also makes their "gifted kids program," and sam's link to it as one of the kids being studied, all the more horrifying to think about. was it not just avatars in general they were after, but child avatars specifically? no wonder gertrude got so defensive over the possibility of sam and celia dragging gerry back into the institute's business last episode, we all picked up on her clearly knowing more than she's letting on but now we might know the shape of that information a bit better.
and one final bit of food for thought... this statement had a lot of familiar themes, didn't it? free will or the illusion of it, gambling and not-so-random chance, the statement giver being done in by one final hit from what feels like a bit of an addition... all hallmarks of a certain mother of puppets. doesn't it seem fitting that "chester" would use this kind of statement to warn sam about what harm pursuing the magnus institute could bring to him, considering the one his voice might draw from? and doesn't it seem so painfully ironic that his warning seems to have only driven sam further into that web?
304 notes
·
View notes
Time Travel Temeraire snippet
At first, Laurence assumes he's dead.
It's a natural conclusion. He remembers dying, after all.
He and Tenzing were at a function hosted by Wellesley. They were mostly there to support the dragons. Temeraire had long abandoned them to quarrel with Perscitia in the courtyard, with half a dozen ferals watching like it were a jousting match. Wellesley had laid out his grounds to allow room for dragons and men to mingle, but a good portion of the guests retreated inside to avoid the raised voices of the dragons.
Laurence wonders how Temeraire felt about that, later. About not seeing.
He was stabbed. He barely remembers it – just a quick pulse of pain in his chest, looking down. Red blooming over his coat.
Then he was on the floor. People screamed. Tenzing appeared, grappling with a tall and finely-dressed man; he used a dinner-knife to punch a hole in the stranger's throat, in a fantastic spray of blood, and dropped the body at once to kneel by Laurence's side.
He remembers Wellesley barking orders – bandages, water, a hot knife. Have to cauterize it, he'd shouted. Keep pressure -
But Tenzing never spoke. Just pressed down on Laurence's chest, over the wound, without particular panic. Laurence still remembers the grim resignation on his face; Tenzing knew what was coming. Laurence was glad to have him there when he died.
Then Laurence woke up.
The world sways in a familiar way, a rhythmic motion that Laurence registers on a soul-deep level. He's on a ship. But why? Where is Tenzing, Temeraire? Why would they put him on a ship?
“I think the fever's breaking,” says a voice. A naval doctor, disheveled and salt-stained, with long scars down his bared arms. “Oh, and awake too!”
“Well thank Christ,” says another man. One Laurence recognizes.
It's Captain Gerry Stuart – but he looks different, younger than the last time Laurence saw him, with smooth skin and dark curly hair.
Gerry died two years ago.
“Well, Lieutenant! You gave us a scare – how are you feeling?” Gerry asks.
“It's Admiral,” Laurence corrects rather than all the other things he does not dare ask. He hates the title foisted upon him; but it's at least more comprehensible than Lieutenant, and he clings to that rather than demand where did you come from.
Stuart throws back his head to cackle, though the concern doesn't leave his face. “Still perhaps a bit feverish, I think!”
“That might be the laudanum,” says the doctor, also amused. “Why don't you sleep a bit more, Lieutenant?”
“But where is Temeraire? Or Tenzing?”
“I can only assume you had some very vivid dreams,” Stuart chuckles. “You were babbling and babbling for Temeraire – isn't that a ship?”
“Perhaps the flagship of his fleet,” suggests the doctor, and Stuart laughs again. “Get some rest, Mr. Laurence. Holler if you need me.”
They both exit the sick-berth. Laurence stares blankly at the door.
What?
Laurence pats his chest. No wound. He looks down, startled by the pale thinness of his fingers, his youth-soft skin.
Well; not soft. Callouses cover his hands. But even these patterns are different – hard skin in places where he would hold a sword, or pulls ropes. His hands should be more wrinkled, yes; but these callouses faded years ago.
“Where am I?” he asks when the doctor returns. “And what is the year?”
“The year? 1793. You don't remember?”
1793. Laurence was 19 in 1793. A lieutenant for two years, on the Shorewise.
The doctor narrows his eyes. “What's my name, lad?”
Laurence swallows. His stomach churns; for the life of him he can't remember.
The doctor rushes off to retrieve the captain.
_____________________________
Laurence is diagnosed with brain fever, and partial amnesia. Gerry is horribly guilty about laughing, earlier; Laurence could not care less. He is given strict orders to stay on bed-rest for another week, in hope his strength will recover – and his mind.
Laurence doesn't think he'll have any issues working – he's forgotten many of the people around him, true, but he may never forget the way to run a ship. He's far more concerned with learning what happened.
From all appearances, it is indeed 1793. France is undergoing riots, and declared war against Britain in February. Temeraire has not hatched. Napoleon is probably a corporal or general himself, at this point. If he exists at all. God knows, perhaps Laurence is only mad.
But he doesn't feel mad. His memories are too vivid to be mere fever-dreams. A man cannot dream up twenty years of life!
But neither can a man go back to his youth, and live it all again.
I have a dragon, he thinks of saying. There is no war, because I captured Napoleon – an unknown man who makes himself emperor.
Mad. It sounds mad even to Laurence himself. But to imagine that Temeraire was a fever-ridden dream... Tenzing and Granby and China, all of it...
Laurence doesn't share his turmoil with anyone – not even with Gerry, who checks on him fretfully. After a week the doctor declares him well enough, physically. He's paired always with another lieutenant for the first few days on duty, and his shipmates watch him carefully for signs of permanent debilitation; but aside from a moment or two of hesitance, Laurence competently resumes his duties. The oversight lessens.
Laurence thinks about writing letters.
He thinks about writing to Tharkay's late father, who ought to still be alive, inquiring after his son. He thinks of writing to Prince Mianning, asking about the health of Lung Tien Qian. He thinks of writing to young Midshipman Granby, his unwed brother, his dead father...
Not all of them would reply. But he could ask questions. Could verify the truth of things. Unless this, instead, is the delusion.
Is he in 1793, imagining the future? Is he in the future, imagining the past? Or maybe he is already dead, and this is the reality of hell. He came here burning with fever, and now he burns with fear. Surely that is it's own form of torture.
Laurence is ironically given the task of tutoring the midshipman and lieutenant-hopefuls more than any other duty as the weeks pass; his crewmates still look askance, and the more eager of the midshipman become protective. Laurence remains perfectly capable of command; it is only that he can't help but be absent-minded, sometimes, staring at all the crewmen that pass him like they are nothing but moving paintings. Images of a world that no longer matters.
One evening the midshipmen drag him away to a meal with the other officers. It's a noisy crowd; Laurence would find the friendly bustle comforting in another life.
One of the senior officers, Lieutenant Moore, waves him down as Laurence enters. Evidently they used to be friends, given his notably concerned behavior of late. Laurence can't remember the man, and has a sneaking suspicion he died too soon to make a lasting impression.Moore jostles him when Laurence sits at the long table. “Will! Did you get any letters with the last batch?”
A patrolling gunboat brought a satchel of letters just this morning. “I did not,” Laurence says. He's grateful for the fact. He'd found a few pieces of correspondence in his quarters that he dutifully sent on; he cannot imagine writing a letter now, in this confused state.
“Then you've had no news! Robespierre has gone mad. Madder than before, I suppose.”
“Robespierre?” asks Laurence blankly.
Lieutenant Moore double-takes, as does everyone else around them. “Good lord, Will, please tell me you remember Robespierre?”
Right... Robespierre's reign was brief, but this is when he led France. Some of the things the papers published...
Well, at least Laurence has a well-worn excuse for his ignorance. He plays up his malady: “Yes. I think I recall he was... French?”
Groans of horror mixed with amusement echo around the table. “...Well you aren't wrong,” says Moore, looking pained. “He has styled himself the 'President' of their Assembly, which is some stupid way of being king; the French are all mad about removing and adding words right now. I don't know how they expect anyone to hold a conversation.”
“We should... probably educate Mr. Laurence about the war at some point,” some midshipman mutters. Laurence doesn't recall his name.
Moore sighs again. “Anyway. Robespierre is a tyrant, of course. But he's elected someone else to rule France! Barely more than a boy, too.”
Laurence frowns; he doesn't remember what Moore's talking about. “Why would he do that? Did they capture one of the Bourbons?” Declaring himself regent of a child-prince would at least make sense.
“Well, at least you remember them. No; it is some nobody, a young soldier. Not even French! I cannot fathom it.”
It feels like Laurence has been dunked in ice.
For a moment he can't respond. “What was his name? The soldier.”
“Napoleon Bonaparte. He has been chosen as head of their new heresy, the 'Cult of the Supreme Being,' they're calling it; and now de facto head of the government, too. Must be a priest? I don't know, nothing the French are doing makes sense. I expect his little group will be as short-lived as everything else about these riots.”
But Laurence doesn't think so. “...Excuse me; I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he says, rising on wavering legs.
“Yes, you look it! Go on, we'll tell you about the war later...”
Laurence flees.
98 notes
·
View notes