#excellent voice acting though! just bothers me

[crabbrangoon]

finally met astarion and he immediately struck me as something tumblr would absolutely love and sho nuff

#this is semi derogatory #Bc y’all use to swear up and down that them British actors was hot #and tbh I just don’t see it with him he kind of annoys me lmao #his voice bothers me #excellent voice acting though! just bothers me #very tumblr coded #[derogatory] #Bc I’m gonna be honest #tumblr has the most annoying taste in characters sometimes #and also the whitest

[idolatrybarbie]

for my fifty follower celebration! @bastardmandennis asked: dieter bravo and prompt no. 5— "ghosts aren't real, except when they are." it's scary story experiment...i haven't written horror in probably two years. enjoy the pretty graphic if nothing else.

rating & word count: mature | 2.8k

warnings: referenced substance abuse, mentions of alcohol, dieter is sober, one song-based joke (please get it plsplspls), reader is gender neutral, a good ol' haunting tale.

It’s late. How late? Excellent question.

You’re technically on vacation—one week out of fifty-six, when your boss takes his annual trip to Seoul to “unwind.” You’ve never asked him what that means, exactly. Better not to know what Dieter Bravo gets up to in the name of relaxation.

For the past thirty-four months, you’ve been working with the Hollywood troglodyte, following him around the world and across productions to take notes and document the goings on of his life. All of this in the hopes of ghostwriting his tell-all book. Technically, you were supposed to start outlining a manuscript this spring. The publisher doesn’t think you have enough material yet to make the memoir appetizing. What they don’t realize is that Bravo is not a very appetizing man.

He’s…odd. From the moment you first shook hands with him, you’ve felt an off presence surrounding him that you still can’t quite place, even almost three years later. He treats you more like an assistant than anything, asking you to fetch him coffee or an eight-ball; the request varies based on his mood. His actual assistant, Carla, is a bit of a shadow. Still, she’s there to share anxious backseat smiles with you on the way to Dieter’s red carpet appearances, a silent shoulder to lean on.

Sitting on the broken couch of your one bedroom apartment, you’ve lost focus of the Word document on the screen of your laptop. You’ve been transferring the last two months of paper notes to digital copies for the last three hours, resenting the task the longer it takes. Dieter wanted to experience the Swiss Alps before the first day of autumn, dragging you to the mountains for a six week stay. Apparently, they don’t have mobile connection at four thousand feet.

The thought crosses your mind to call it a night, leave the rest ‘til morning. This is your only real time to rest, after all. Before you can act upon it, though, your phone buzzes beside you. “Entry Of The Gladiators” blares from the pinhole of a speaker. The song has a Pavlovian effect on you, meeting the song with a sigh and the tick of your jaw.

“Dieter,” you answer, holding the phone to your ear. 

“You picked up,” he says.

“Why are you calling?” You can’t hide the irritation in your voice. Shifting your laptop off of your thighs, you stand and stretch, wedging your cell between your cheek and shoulder. 

“I just—I thought—”

“Aren’t you in South Korea?” you ask. Aren’t you supposed to be bothering someone else?

“Came back early. Got a bad vibe,” he says.

“A bad vibe?” you ask. “Come on, Dieter. That trip was important.” Important for you to have a social life for a sweet seven days, but also for him, too. If you remembered correctly, he was supposed to have a business meeting with Genesis Motor about starring in their new campaign of overseas commercials.

“I rescheduled with Genesis, everything’s fine. Don’t bitch at me,” Dieter says.

“I’m not—” you stop yourself, pausing mid-pace on the worn shag of your living room. Thirty-four months, and this is how he’s treating you? “You know what, fuck you. Fuck you, Dieter. My one week off from your crazy goddamn antics, and you’re fucking it all up. I’m done. Done.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he urges.

“Calling the publisher in the morning, so you can find yourself a new ghostwriter.” Satisfaction rolls through you as you hang up on him, the tiny button on your screen giving you power. Yeah, fuck that guy. You plop back down on the on the couch, pulling your laptop back to you. Going through your hard drive, you start to load every file from the past three years with details on Dieter into the recycling bin.

Cold air rolls in from the window, cracked ajar to keep patchouli incense smoke away from the dingy plastic alarm on your ceiling. The rattling outside barely catches your attention, another noise lost to the wind. You blink. Blink again.

You know that feeling, like someone’s watching you? It’s a sense you’ve become mighty acquainted with in the last handful of years. Following a megastar around like a toddling penguin in his entourage tended to pull some attention back on you. When you look up your name, there are a handful of Variety articles, a PopCrave tweet or two that show up. A snapshot of your professional life, all in relation to Dieter. Over time, it’s gotten less uncomfortable. People love celebrities, and they just want to see them. Harmless.

But this feeling…you don’t want to look up from your screen. Continuing the task of putting every last document on Dieter in the desktop’s recycling bin, you switch over to a new tab when you’re done; search for something unimportant, waiting for this to pass. Your breath catches in your throat, heart skipping a beat. Finally, when you can’t fight the urge anymore, you turn and look.

Nothing. The smog-ridden navy sky of Los Angeles meets you with the pathetic twinkle of a far off star. You breathe in through your nose, then out again in a deep sigh. Nothing. Nothing’s there.

Exhaustion claims you when you aren’t paying attention. Your sleep is dreamless, for the most part. You hear a subtle dripping the whole night, searching for the source in the dark. With your eyes closed, the task is impossible. You let the noise come closer, long and loud enough now that you learn to tune it out. Nightmares of a leaky faucet; how odd.

You wake up in the bathtub, laptop beside you, pressed between your clothed thigh and the fiberglass. The faucet leaks steadily above your head, water dripping down onto your skin. It’s gotten all over your face, at the edges of your hairline, in your eyes. Spluttering, you sit up. Your scalp is damp. Water has seeped into the collar of your shirt. Certainly you didn’t settle on the idea of a bath in the middle of the night.

Before you can question it more, your cellphone rings from another room. Scrambling out of the tub, you almost slip and fall against the wall tiles. Getting a grip on the edge of the tub, you step a foot at a time onto the bathroom floor and pad to the living room. Your phone is wedged between the cushions of the couch. Wrenching it from the fabric, you answer on the last ring.

“Hello?”

“I need to see you.” Dieter. Again.

“Dieter, my mind hasn’t changed since last night.” Looking at the clock on the wall, it hasn’t even been twelve hours.

“This isn’t about that,” he says. “Can you just come over?” It almost sounds like he’s begging…almost.

“Look, I’m busy today.”

“Tonight then.” His voice cracks, and you can only imagine the wiry, wide-eyed man on the other end of the line. “Please,” he whispers.

In all of your time spent with Dieter Bravo, you have never heard him use his manners—much less ask for something with such desperate politeness tacked onto the request.

“Okay. Okay, fine. Tonight. Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?” you ask.

“Yeah. Okay,” Dieter agrees. Then the phone call dies.

You really don’t have anything to do today, the Friday of your week away from Bravoland. Sitting on the couch, you look around your apartment, taking stock of the life you’ve cobbled together here. Instead of pride or nostalgia, it fills you with dread. The glassy frames holding photos of family and old friends make your skin crawl, their resin paper eyes boring holes into you as they stare. A chill crosses over your body, prickling at your arms. You go to close the living room window to find it already shut.

You stay out of the living room, hiding away from a sense of unease in your bedroom. Still, it lingers in your doorway. That watchful sense returns. Your eyes stay open, glued to the ceiling as you lay down. You can’t leave, but you can’t sleep. Keeping your eyes open seems to be all you have—like letting them flutter closed would be an invitation for the unease of the apartment to waltz in and consume you.

Time slows to a drag, the sun absent from the sky as the day passes you by. The grey light from the window bathes everything in an uncanny dullness. Your laptop still sits in the bathtub. When night finally falls, you exit the apartment without looking back. The door closes behind you with a slam. You don’t even touch the handle.

The drive into the Hollywood Hills is the only moment of peace you’ve had since you woke up in that bathroom. You refuse to acknowledge whatever is going on at your place. You’re overreacting. All the work has set you on edge, and now your mind is playing tricks on you.

Yeah, that’s what it is—the work. Fatigue. All those late nights transferring and taking notes, or following Dieter to club after club, waiting for him to finish snorting a full 8-ball outside bathroom doors. Most nights blur together these days, the only thing that differentiates them being the photographs you take and the date you write at the top of your notepad. Your calendar is dependent on what colour tie Dieter wears on The Tonight Show or Kimmel every handful of months.

The Bravo mansion is modest in comparison to some of the architectural monstrosities out this way. Still, it manages to intimidate you every time you see it. Slowly, you pull up to Dieter’s place and park in the cobblestone drive. If you squint, you can see the Hollywood sign through a thick pack of warbling trees.

The sun is not shining down on the house today as it usually is. Even here, on land deemed the pinnacle of both the American and Hollywood dream, the sky is painted an ugly pewter. The building looks shadowy in its height, the twin pair of art deco doors no longer a quirky, eccentric detail of the house but a gaping maw. The small windows that frame them, a result of Dieter’s obsession with triangles, look like raw and jagged teeth. You don’t bother to lock your car when you approach the front steps, using the metal knocker at the door.

It only takes a few moments for Dieter to appear, opening one door and giving you a once-over. He’s still in his pajamas, missing his usual lounging robe. The lack of sunglasses present on his face indicates to you that he’s not hungover (yet).

“You look like shit,” is the first thing he says to you.

“I can still go home, you know.” Taking a step back, you raise a brow at him and angle your body back towards your car. The threat is empty, of course. Nothing could send you back to that place; might as well sell it now.

“Shit—sorry. I’m sorry, come in,” Dieter corrects himself.

The door opens wider with the length of his arm, and you duck in past him. The air inside the house is permeated with must, a mix of mildew and unsettled dust. Usually, the sight of Dieter’s mansion reminds you of general unwash, not a horrible monster house. Today is special.

“So?” you ask, faux-irritation lacing your tone. “You wanted me over here. You know it’s my week off, right?”

“There’s something wrong,” Dieter says immediately. He peers around the edge of the front door before it shuts. He locks the door, then reaches up to fasten the deadbolt.

Immediately, that tells you that this is serious. Forgetting the unease at your own apartment, you ask, “Is your stalker back? She’s out there, isn’t she?”

“What?” Dieter asks. “No, it’s not that. Nothing outside.”

He walks past you and deeper into the house, leaving you no choice but to follow.

“What do you mean, outside?”

“There’s something wrong in the house,” he explains.

“Like…”

Dieter looks around, giving each shoulder a hyperbolic check. Then he walks closer, so close that you can smell his breath—bubblegum toothpaste and cigarettes. Your heart speeds up a little, the proximity eliciting a light jog in your chest. It’s not like man has never been this close, but the last time…

“A haunting,” he whispers.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, an airy chuckle that pushes Dieter back a few feet.

“Come on, Dieter,” you say.

His face pulls tighter, look severe. “I’m serious.”

“Are you high?” you ask. “I don’t smell any alcohol on you. Did you take something? Because I can call your sponsor if—”

“Will you listen to me?!” he roars over you. In the three years you’ve known him, Dieter has never yelled. He gets a little wild, antics more than slightly crazy, but he doesn’t raise his voice. You watch him closely, eyes wide, as he recomposes himself. “There is something wrong in this house. I can’t sleep, can barely eat. It feels like—like I’m never alone. Moreso than usual, okay? I’m waking up in strange parts of the house, and my shit’s in places it shouldn’t be. And I called Brad,” his manager, “and he thinks I’m full of shit. Thinks I’m on another bender. I just…fuck. I just need you to believe me.”

You blink. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dieter parrots. His eyes are all glossy, ready to spill with fresh tears. You thought that you had seen all of this man, the barest and ugliest parts of him. Now, you see you were wrong. He looks sad. Scared.

“I believe you,” you sigh. “I believe you. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could leave,” you suggest.

“No, no,” he insists. “I don’t think it’ll like that.” It.

“So then, what?”

“Stay here? With me,” Dieter says.

You should say no, heart racing now as blood rushes hot through your brain. Instead, you nod and follow him to his home theater, where he seems to be camping out. Dieter has too many candles lit not to be a fire hazard, with bagged snacks and bottles of water strewn about the floor and the plush horseshoe couch; the middle is stuffed with the same plush cushion as the back of the seats, making it more of a circular daybed than anything. Blankets are balled up at one end, two beaten up pillows next to them.

Dieter has the radio playing off of the luxury sound system, the large projector screen dark.

“I don’t think it likes noise,” he explains.

Dieter asks you to sit with him through the night, listening to shitty pop songs, car commercials, and every once in a while, FM radio static. He says the static is it, a creature he refuses to elaborate upon. He fists his hand into the blankets each time the station cuts out and turns to white noise.

This goes on for almost two hours. You start to get bored, and more pressingly, tired. Sleep calls to you, your mind settling the weirdness before as your imagination, and whatever is going on here a facet of Dieter’s. Is it possible for two people who haven’t seen each other in days, and live on opposite sides of town, to share in the same delusion? Surely. They had a name for it—folly of two.

That must be it. Working for a celebrity has finally driven you mad.

Leaning heavy against the cushions of the couch, you allow your eyes to slowly slip closed. Before the world disappears entirely, something is shaking you awake. No, not something, but Dieter. His wide palm is grasped over your shoulder, swaying you back and forth violently in his grip.

“What? What is it?” you growl.

“You can’t sleep,” he says.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Your irritation skyrockets as you sit up, pulling out your phone to scroll through your contacts.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling your goddamn sponsor, so he can do his fucking job and I can get some shut eye.”

Dieter says your name; you ignore him, pressing ‘call’. “Please, don’t do that.” He tries to grab the phone from your hand, but you get up from the couch, out of reach. You want to believe him, you do, but you have no faith. You can't do this anymore; won't entertain the delusion any longer.

The line rings for thirty seconds before the sponsor finally picks up.

“Hi, is this Jo—” you stop yourself. A deep, heavy breathing sounds off from the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“Hang up,” Dieter whispers, shaking his head. You raise a finger at him. “Hang up!”

He moves from his lax position, kneeling up far enough to snatch your cell phone away and end the call.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s—”

“There is no it!” you yell. “There is nothing here, Dieter! No one is out to get you, or watching you. No one cares, okay? Ghosts aren’t real.”

Dieter watches you, and you watch him back. Holding a steely gaze, you don’t register the fizzle-pop of light bulbs around the two of you until they’ve already exploded. Shards of hot glass fly from the fixtures and land on the carpeted floor. All at once, the flame at each wick of Dieter’s candles is snuffed out. You stand still, frozen in complete darkness.

Dieter uses your phone for light, the screen illuminating the hollows of his face.

“Except when they are.”

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedrostories #50 followers

[seijorhi]

Scion

yakuza arranged marriage anyone??

Oikawa Tooru x female reader

wc 8.5k

tw dubcon, noncon, drug use, mentions of murder, torture, minor character death, implied infidelity, human trafficking, blood, general yandere themes, smut, nsfw

“You know we’re not actually in a relationship, right?”

Oikawa grins, “The big, sparkly diamond ring I’ve got in my back pocket begs to differ.”

You fix him with an unimpressed look, which only serves to make his grin widen. He really can’t help himself when you get all worked up like this. 

“I’m serious, Oikawa. Ring or no ring. Contract or no contract, I think it’s better for the both of us to just act like–”

“Act like this isn’t happening?”

“That’s not– you’re being difficult,” you huff. “I just meant that we don’t need to pretend to be all… coupley in the meantime. You’re free to see and do whatever you want, and… and so am I.”

It’s not a question exactly, there’s something distinctly uncertain in your tone. Are you seeking his permission or trying to reaffirm to yourself that you still have some semblance of freedom – romantic or otherwise – until the moment you walk down the aisle to bind yourself to him?

Neither thought sits particularly well with him, though before Oikawa can open his mouth to deliver a retort, you’re cutting him off. “And I’m not wearing the ring.”

“No? But I haven’t even shown it to you yet. I picked it out myself, and you know I have excellent taste.”

Your scowl deepens. “Would it kill you to take this seriously?”

“Like you are?” he parries. “You understand that you’re essentially giving me a free pass to fuck whoever I want while we’re engaged.”

He doesn’t miss the flicker of distaste that you try (and fail miserably) to hide. You’ve always been like that; wearing your emotions on your face, bare as the light of day. And while that’s an admirable trait in somebody else – one he admittedly finds more endearing than he should as far as you’re concerned – it won’t do you any favours in this world of his. The world you were born into, loathe as you seem to be to accept your part in it.

Admittedly, it does make it so very entertaining whenever he decides to push those delightful buttons of yours.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself perhaps, and lift your gaze to meet his. 

“I don’t know why you even agreed to marry me, and honestly I don’t care. I'm doing this for my family, but if this whole thing falls apart before I ever make it down the aisle, I’ll sleep just fine. So by all means, fuck whoever you want, whenever you want, I promise you I won’t stop you – so long as you hold up your end of the bargain.”

Though you never raise your voice, there’s a fire that burns in your eyes, unwavering. Unflinching. And far from being put off by it, Oikawa’s thrilled. 

“Fine,” he purrs, “but you’ll be wearing the ring.”

—

You’d asked for a year, and graciously, he’d agreed. 

Oikawa’s waited a long, long time for this, another twelve months will hardly make a difference. Besides, there’s nothing stopping him from stealing you away every now and then; there’s meetings with the wedding planner, picking out a venue, organising caterers, going over the guest lists – all responsibilities he could technically pass off to someone else, but why deny himself the pleasure of your sparkling company when he has the chance? 

And of course, there’s special occasions that people would traditionally want to celebrate with their soon to be spouses. Days like today; his 30th birthday. 

He doesn’t bother informing you of this, because then he’d miss out on seeing your bright, sunny grin when you open the door, and how it falters when you realise that it’s him. 

“Oh, Oikawa…”

Though it’s an admittedly poor effort, he’ll give you credit for trying to pretend that it’s not blatant disappointment leaching from your tone as you grip the edge of the door, your gaze darting over his shoulder quickly.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Ah. His eyes drift downwards, taking in the short, summery dress, the light sweep of makeup across your pretty face. Spies the ‘fuck me’ heels sitting by the door, ready for you to slip on before you leave. 

Date night, then. And on his birthday no less.

“Did you have plans?” he asks, plastering an innocent smile across his face. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

The answer is obviously yes, even if it weren’t clear from your outfit, he can see it written all over your expression. 

Your fingers tighten a fraction on the door, “I assumed– I thought tonight you’d be out with your… friends.” Friends, bodyguards, lieutenants, brothers. His family, soon to be yours. “To celebrate, I mean. Today’s your birthday, right?”

Oikawa’s touched that you remember. Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t be – ever since he was a teenager, your father had essentially enforced your presence (yours and your brother’s) at any of their events, birthday celebrations no exception. 

Another glance risked over his shoulder.

He shrugs easily, “We will be, later. For now I want you all to myself.”

You open your mouth, only to abruptly snap it shut, suddenly hesitant. Not without cause, he supposes. One thing to insist that your engagement with him doesn’t construe a proper relationship, another to openly admit you’re seeing somebody else while it’s his ring that glitters on your finger. 

His smile widens. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

“… Not at all.” 

Good girl. 

He takes you to his favourite restaurant in the city. Wraps an arm low around your back and lets his thumb rub slowly – posessively – at your hip when the staff bow deeply and address him by name, ushering you both to a private room, his usual, out the back. 

You’re quiet through dinner, picking at the food on your plate.

Normally it’d irritate him, push him to poke and prod until you came alive and played with him, however tonight he finds it oddly satisfying. Delightful, if only because he knows he’s the cause of your discomfort.

Did you manage to message your jilted lover before he swept you away for the night, or does the poor bastard think you’ve stood him up, he wonders.

“You know,” he begins, idly gazing down at his glass as he swirls the last dregs of whiskey, “I’ve been thinking that we need to amend our contract.”

You glance up sharply, and he only barely resists snickering. “What?”

“I think we should add a fidelity clause.” He pauses, lets the words sink in as he drains his glass in a single mouthful, “You seemed convinced I’d be fucking other people after we married, well, now you don’t have to worry.”

You blink. “But… I told you I didn’t care–”

“This way, if you catch me being unfaithful, both our marriage and the contract become null and void, and you can go on your merry way.”

Setting the now empty glass back on the table, Oikawa rests an arm on the back of his chair. For all your naivety, you’ve never been stupid. He can tell from the sudden tight, apprehensiveness in your features that you understand the subtle threat, yet it never hurts to hammer the point home, “Of course, that goes both ways, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” you echo back, your voice unsteady, and knock back the last of your wine.

Oikawa grins, “Another round?”

—

“Her brother’s outside,” Matsukawa informs him. “Demanding to see you.”

The night before his wedding, Oikawa stands at the sink of his bathroom, a damp face cloth in hand, wiping at the blood splattered along his face and neck. He’s already shed his shirt, dumped it on the floor – it’s likely beyond salvaging, the blood already in the process of drying. Another casualty to this lifestyle, though considering how much of a colossal fuck up this night’s already been, he can’t find it within himself to give a shit about one measely shirt.

Mattsun meets his gaze in the mirror, “Want me to get rid of him?” he asks.

Oikawa exhales, dropping the towel into the sink. His tattoos, the vibrant bursts of colour inked between swirling blacks and greys, stand stark against the pale skin of his torso, rising and falling with each measured breath. There’s a temptation for him to tell Mattsun to simply get rid of him. An even bigger temptation to march out there himself and soothe the monster raging beneath his skin with more blood. 

Instead, he holds out a hand, to which Hanamaki quickly passes him a clean shirt to shrug on.

“No. Let him in.”

In truth, he’d been somewhat expecting a visit tonight, sending your brother to grovel for last minute clemency, though? Oikawa’s almost disappointed, he expected more from you.

Your glowering brother isn’t nearly as pretty to look at.

A few minutes later, dressed and clean, Oikawa makes his way into his study, ignoring the man already seated while he settles himself into the leather backed chair behind his desk. His right hand, Iwaizumi, lingers by the door, arms folded across his chest, scowling silently at their guest.

“Oikawa,” he grits out, his head inclining just a fraction – all the respect he can seem to muster for the man marrying his sister. His soon to be Oyabun, considering that after tomorrow, all that he was poised to inherit becomes Oikawa’s. 

His answering smirk is practically vulpine. “Come to play white knight? Leaving it a bit late, don’t you think?”

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” he spits, eyes narrowing. “Tell me what I need to do to end this.”

“And what makes you think I’d be interested in that?”

And Oikawa has to give him credit; he doesn’t waste a beat, “Because you’re a greedy little fuck who enjoys manipulating people. Stop playing games and tell me what it is you want in exchange for breaking this engagement, and I’ll go.”

He laughs, lazily drumming his fingers along the edge of the ornate, wooden desk. “Always a charmer, Eita. I’m curious, though, are you here begging for her sake, or your own? Because you know as well as I do what’ll happen to you and your father if this wedding doesn’t go ahead.” There’s nothing kind in his expression as his lips curl upwards, “Is the price worth it?”

“God, you’re an asshole.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” 

Eita’s eyes narrow. “You know she hates this, right? Wants absolutely nothing to do with any of it. She had to beg our father for months just to be allowed to attend a normal school, and flat out refused to have any part in the business, to even be in the same room when it was being discussed – which was fine because he had me to do all that.”

“The prodigal son,” Oikawa mocks, earning himself a sneer in response.

“She wanted out, and we were so close to convincing him when he had to go fuck everything up. And because he’d spent years making bad decision after bad decision, running our family into the ground and then decided to screw over the wrong syndicate, he comes crawling to you, begging for help.”

“Such gratitude, as always.”

Eita scoffs, “Am I supposed to be grateful? It wasn’t enough to take over our territory and operations, was it? You had to take her too, and because she for some fucking reason loves the old bastard, she’s going along with it. I don’t give a shit about losing any of it, but she’s not gonna throw her life away for his sake, or mine. So I’ll ask you again, Oikawa; what do you want in exchange for letting her out of this?”

Interesting. Nothing he didn’t technically already know, or at least suspect, nevertheless… interesting. And with glittering eyes he leans in close. Smirks. 

“As tempting an offer as that may be, I have everything I want.”

—

As the head of one of the largest Yakuza syndicates in the country, a small wedding was never an option. Hundreds of guests pour into the estate, all with the sole purpose of witnessing the two of you tying the knot in a beautiful, lavish ceremony. And it is a beautiful, lavish ceremony. Champagne towers and endless floral garlands falling between the glittering chandeliers, a string quartet plays as the wedding procession begins. 

Your dress was technically the only thing he hadn’t had a hand in. He’d wondered earlier, staring at his reflection as he fixed the cuffs of his tuxedo jacket, what kind of wedding gown you’d chosen for yourself. After all, despite you agreeing to this marriage, you’d made no secret of your ambivalence towards the entire day, only giving input when Oikawa prodded.

There was always a possibility you’d choose something plain and dull, simply because you didn’t care enough to pick otherwise. As you walk down the aisle on your father’s arm, however, he realises he needn't have worried. 

You’re perfect.

Heart-stoppingly beautiful in ivory lace and tulle, and though Iwa leans over, claps him on the shoulder and says something in his ear, Oikawa can’t hear a word of it. Can’t focus on anything – anyone – but you. 

And your eyes are shining for all the wrong reasons, and yet he can’t bring himself to care when the elder Semi places your trembling hand in his. A perfect fit.

From there, the rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. Vows are spoken, yours somewhat apprehensively, and rings exchanged, and when the time comes to kiss his lovely bride, Oikawa obliges, his arm snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against him, dipping you to a flurry of raucous cheers and clapping.

You stand dutifully at his side as the hoard of well wishers come to congratulate him – the both of you, technically – and pay their respects, saying little beyond the expected pleasantries. All the while his thumb strokes along the back of the hand you have placed in his. 

Cocktails. Dinner. Toasts. The cutting of the cake. Tossing your bouquet. Necessary traditions expected of you both, Oikawa suffers patiently through each of them until finally, it comes time for the two of you to leave.

The moment he has you alone, in the backseat of the wedding car, the last frayed tether of his self control snaps, and he’s on you.

Leaning across the seat, one hand cups the back of your neck, anchoring you in place as his parted lips crash greedily against your own, the other pulls at your skirt, blindly seeking the what awaits him beneath.

Oikawa can taste the notes of champagne on your lips, the sweet tartness of the chocolate dipped strawberries he watched you swipe from the dessert table before you left. Will your cunt taste as sweet, he wonders, his tongue sliding into your mouth in search of more.

“Tooru,” you gasp when he eventually draws back, a thin strand of spit connecting your mouths as you struggle to catch your breath. “Wait, just–”

“No,” he growls, tightening his grip and dragging you back in. 

The force of it, his kiss, the weight of him bearing down on you has you sliding awkwardly back in the seat ‘til you’re almost horizontal. Despite that, you make no further attempts to dissuade him, letting him kiss you senseless. 

Letting him ruck up your skirt and run his fingers along the seat of your lace panties.

Maybe because you know it’s pointless to fight when Oikawa’s made it clear has no interest in stopping or slowing down, maybe because you knocked back one too many glasses of champagne at the reception, or because you’re getting swept up along with it too – he doesn’t care for the reasons. 

He’s been waiting all day to finally have you, and for years before that, and now that you’re irrevocably his, Oikawa fully intends on taking – and enjoying – what he’s owed. 

The drive is fifteen minutes from the reception to the hotel, and by the time the driver pulls to a stop out front, Oikawa’s sliding those same panties off your smooth legs, pocketing them with a wicked grin. “Ready, sweetheart?” he purrs.

A little dazed, a little drunk, you only manage an unsteady nod, taking your husband’s proffered hand to step from the car and hastily adjust your dress, smoothing out any wrinkles. A waste of time, in his opinion, considering what he has planned for you, still, sort of cute, in its own way.

The clerk behind the counter is friendly enough, smiling politely and congratulating the two of you as he passes across the keys to the honeymoon suite. The second the doors to the elevator slide closed, Oikawa’s on you again, shoving you back against the mirrored wall, latching onto your neck, sucking and nibbling on the delicate flesh and palming at your tits as you throw your head back and heave a breathy sigh. 

Your wedding dress, beautiful as it is, doesn’t make it much further than the front door, Oikawa’s fingers scrabbling to rip open the fastenings at the back, buttons scattering across the floor as it yields to him. And he’s enough of a gentleman to help you out of the wreckage of your dress, though he makes no effort to hide the way he stares hungrily, eyes darkening as you’re bared completely before him. 

The curve of your breast, nipples peaking from arousal, those lovely, soft thighs he’s been waiting to dig his fingers into, the pretty little pussy you shyly try to hide from him, glistening from his earlier attention–

His cock twitches in anticipation. 

Fuck.

“No bra?” he teases, as if his voice hasn’t dropped an octave at the sight of you. “And here I was looking forward to unwrapping my pretty bride on our wedding night.”

He watches your brow furrow as the soft dig works its way through your tipsy haze, and before you can let yourself get upset by it, Oikawa grabs you again. Kisses your lips fleetingly and grings, tugging you towards the bed covered in rose petals, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket and tossing it aside as he does so.

“Lie down for me,” he commands, working on the buttons of his shirt, his bow tie already lost somewhere in the fray. “On your back.”

Obediently you settle on the mattress, propped up on your elbows as he sheds that too. Through glazed eyes you stare at him. At his bared chest–

No, he realises belatedly. You’re staring at his tattoos, your eyes trailing from his forearm to his bicep, rounding his shoulder and down his pectoral, following the snarling red dragon that curls up his right arm, the oni and the twin snakes baring their fangs on the left.

This is the first time you’ve seen them, yes, but they shouldn’t come as a surprise. Both your brother and father have their own, it’s the mark of the Yakuza, and yet you seem entranced by his, staring at them with something akin to wonder. 

“See something you like?” he asks, chuckling when you pointedly ignore him.

His ego stroked, he settles down on his knees at the foot of the bed. Holding you by your hips, Oikawa hauls you forward, ignoring your startled squeak, and nudges your thighs further apart. Licks his lips and lifts his lust darkened eyes to meet your own.

He watches you inhale, a flutter of trepidation teasing at the edges of your expression.

All you can seem to manage is a shaky, “Please.”

And he doesn’t know if you’re asking him to stop, or slow down or if it’s a plea for him to hurry up and get on with it. Again, it hardly matters – he has no intention of letting up tonight.

Leaning in, his nose skims along your inner thigh before he comes face to face with your pussy. Warm and glistening, clit nice and puffy, he’s waited long enough to taste you. 

His mouth descends, tongue dragging along your pussy with broad strokes that have you gasping, jerking in his hold. It’s not the sweetness of your lips, still, there’s something heavenly about the taste of your cunt, the soft, feminine musk that envelops him. He moans against your sex, the vibrations drawing another whimpering breath as your hips arc up, gently rolling against his face in search of more friction.

Fuck that’s hot. 

Oikawa teases at your clit, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently, letting the very tip of his tongue flick at it, before returning to lap at your folds. 

“T-Tooru–”

A moan slips from you, your hips bucking as his tongue delves deeper, pushing between your slick folds, sucking and slurping, waggling his tongue back and forth to drive you to the point of madness. Your hands fist at the white sheets, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to try and stifle all of your pretty noises while he eats you out, tits heaving with every stuttered breath. 

Now that just won’t do. 

Adjusting his grip, Oikawa breaks away and instead brings his fingers to your cunt, teasing at your lower lips, before finally sliding two fingers inside of you with a smirk. 

And your pussy’s so wet, so fucking needy, clinging to the digits as they slowly stretch your tight little hole out. It’s not enough. He knows it’s not enough, sees the frustration pinching at your face every time you chase his fingers when they withdraw. He can’t resist holding out just a little while longer, though.

Call it male pride, the twisted satisfaction that coils deep in his guts at the sight of you desperate and fighting against yourself to beg him for what you truly want– and he hasn’t even started fucking you yet. 

“You wanna cum, don’t you baby?” he croons softly, “Just tell me what my pretty little wife needs.”

It takes a minute or two of that slow, agonising pace, but as you writhe and whine and jerk against his hold, finally your pride gives way. “Please!” you pant. “Please Tooru, more. I-I need more. Just hurry up and fuck me!”

He chuckles darkly, curling his fingers inside of you to rub at your g-spot as he leans down and resumes sucking at your neglected clit. 

Whatever his wife wants. 

—

Oikawa takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing cherry red in the dark, and exhales into the cool night air.

“Whose?” he asks.

Iwa shrugs, “Dunno yet. Mattsun reckons one of the Osaka assholes trying to cut into our territory. So far they aren’t talking.” 

Oikawa’s attention shifts for a moment. Sure enough, the last two gang members have been dragged off to have a chat with Makki and Matsukawa. The latter of the two currently straddling one of them, beating him into the ground, Makki tightly gripping the other’s face forcing him to watch. 

There’s nothing but cold certainty in his voice when he simply says, “They will.”

He drops the cigarette to the ground and grinds the smoldering embers beneath the heel of his shoe. Without another word he strides into the warehouse – a makeshift den. 

The bodies haven’t been touched yet, lying where they fell in pools of congealing blood, scattered bullet casings littering the ground around them. Oikawa pays them no mind. Instead he glances at the pallets strewn across the warehouse floor, brick upon brick of drugs, cocaine, meth, bundled baggies of non-descript little pills. More than he can count, at any rate.

And there’s cases of weapons too. Nothing flash or fancy, but guns are guns, and Oikawa’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Iwa’s silent beside him, gazing around the room with a shrewd look in his eye, likely trying to calculate the street value of it all.

Ever the businessman. 

Oikawa smirks.

Drugs will sell no matter what they’re cut with. It’s impossible to tell the quality by sight alone – retrieving his switchblade from his jacket pocket, he slices one of the bricks open, dips a finger in and swipes it along his gums. 

It takes only a second for that familiar rush of euphoria to wash over him, a pleasant shiver rolling down his spine. He grins. “It’s good. Pure.” A glance to Iwa, watching at his side, “How much?”

“Gotta be more than 300 pounds here.”

And fuck if he doesn’t like the sound of that. Oikawa whistles, unable to hide the smug satisfaction on his face. 

“There’s girls too,” Yahaba, one of his men, says, stalking in from the back. “Mad Dog’s with ‘em.”

Five of them, he counts when he follows his lieutenant, huddled up out by the rear entrance, cringing away from the scowling blond who looks as if he’d love nothing more than to tear them apart, one after the other. 

Part of the shipment, or merely entertainment, he wonders. 

He steps closer, grabs one of the girl’s faces and forces it upwards, tilting it this way and that, studying her like a prize mare at auction. Clear eyes. Clean hair. No sign of bruising under the thickly applied – now smudged – makeup. Girls fresh off the proverbial boat tended to be drugged to high heaven to keep them compliant. 

Even their clothes, the scraps they still have on at least, point towards a more established lifestyle. 

Escorts, no doubt, brought along by the men for some entertainment while they guarded their stash before transport.

Shoving her away, Oikawa exhales, bringing his hand to his chin as he ponders the options. 

Nobody will miss the girls if he orders Kyoutani and Yahaba to kill them. Either they’re owned by the same people who shipped in the drugs and the weapons, in which case their deaths’ll be chalked up to being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or they have a pimp, who beyond the loss of income, won’t give a shit. 

No one kicks up a fuss over a few dead whores.

And even if they did, Oikawa owns the working girls in this city, this is his fucking turf. They should know better than to send their girls out here. 

Yahaba and Kyoutani are both watching him carefully, awaiting the order. They wouldn’t so much as blink if he told them to cut the girls down right where they stood. 

If he were feeling particularly generous, he could let them go, run on back home to whatever brothel they crawled out of. Unfortunately for them, he’s all too aware that the only things girls like them are quicker to open than their legs are their mouths, and that just won’t do.

At the end of the day, though, a whore’s a whore; they’ll make money one way or another. Even the ugly ones. 

“Take them back to Hirama’s, she’ll find work for them. Who knows, Mad Dog,” he says, throwing his enforcer a wry grin and a wink, “If you’re lucky, she might even let you fuck one of them first.”

The blond scowls, even under the flickering lights he can’t hide the pink flush that stains his cheeks. 

Iwa raises an eyebrow, snickering at Kyoutani’s expense, “You think so? I thought she was still pissed at him for breaking the last one.”

“Mad Dog just likes to play rough, that’s all,” he smirks. “Hirama knows that, and besides, she owes me a favour.”

The girls are already out of his mind as he turns to leave, carrying on his conversation with Iwa. Tonight’s endeavours have been surprisingly fruitful – enough that he can’t justify being pissed off at getting called away in the middle of fucking his wife.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t itching to return.

He’s almost at the warehouse door when a clamour breaks out behind him. Yahaba curses, a few of the girls shout, and there’s a gasped “Wait!” called out. 

Oikawa whirls to find one of the escorts, a slight blonde with painted red lips and wide doe eyes, ducking out from under Kyoutani’s outstretched arm. 

She ignores the snarl from Kyoutani, the pistol Iwaizumi instinctively whips out, focused wholly on him as she grabs at his arm and clings to it, presses her lithe, scantily clad body close, “Wait,” she says, tears glimmering in her eyes even as she tries for a convincing sultry look, “Don’t send me away, I– we could–”

He doesn’t wait to hear what the two of them could do, backhanding her hard enough that she sprawls to the ground with a ugly cry. 

“Whores don’t get to touch,” he sneers, spitting on her curled up figure for good measure.

Good mood all but evaporated, he meets Kyoutani’s eye as the blond snaps forward to grab her by the arm and roughly haul her back to her feet. 

“If they decide to be difficult, get rid of them.”

—

She made us. She’s pissed.

Oikawa glances up at the approaching sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor. Quick. Agitated. Kunimi wasn’t wrong, it seems.

Mere seconds later, the door to his study is thrown open, and in you stalk; a storm of beautiful fury. “You’re having me followed?!”

Smoothly, he pockets his phone and rises to his feet. “Ah, there you are, sweetheart. I was wondering when you’d be getting back.” He takes a long, lingering look at your outfit; the red knit, halter dress that clings so beautifully to the curves of your body. “Gone for hours at a time, dressed like that… What’s a husband to do?”

The grin on his face is nothing short of a challenge.

“So you think I’m cheating on you, is that it?” you spit, crossing your arms over your chest. “You really think so little of me?”

He comes out from behind his desk and mimics your posture, arms folded as he leans back against the varnished surface and meets your narrowed gaze. “Do I need to remind you, baby, of what’d happen if you were?”

And if he weren’t staring at you so intently, if he didn’t know your expressions and body language inside and out, perhaps he might’ve missed that tiny flicker of fear in your eyes. 

Not a confirmation exactly, yet enough for him to know he’s not entirely off the mark, and oh how that makes him burn. 

“You’d… divorce me and take away my family’s protection,” you mutter, your tone more petulant now than angry. 

Oikawa nods, “On paper, yes.”

“On pa– what do you mean on paper?” 

His lips curl into a cruel smile, “That was our deal, wasn’t it? Either one of us cheats, and our contract becomes void.”

Your eyebrows furrow, “That’s what I just–”

“That’s all. The contract becomes void on paper. It means that if I decide I want to get rid of your father myself, no one’ll stop me. No one would fucking dare.” He pushes off the desk and closes in on you – a tiger stalking its prey. “And that brother of yours. Your shining white knight. What do you think I’ll do to him?”

His voice is soft, sweet almost. A loving caress, if not for the terrible words he speaks. But he wants you afraid, wants you terrified. Two fingers gently tilt your chin upwards, and he basks in the way you flinch from him, the alarm you seem so desperate to tamp down bleeding all over your lovely face. 

“And me?” you whisper. Would you kill me too, he reads in your eyes. 

“You really think so little of me?” he parrots back, sickly satisfied when your stricken expression stutters. “You’re my wife; I love you, you know that. Why would I go to all the trouble of making you mine just to throw you away so heartlessly?” 

He sees the flicker of confusion in your eyes, and the moment your lips part he’s kissing you, tamping down any protest. Devouring, though, would probably be a better word. Kissing to bruise, to hurt. To claim. Teeth harshly nipping at your bottom lip, Oikawa moans when he tastes the coppery tang of blood on his tongue. 

It’s not enough, though.

You make the mistake of trying to wriggle out of his hold, whining pathetically into the kiss, and the last meagre tether on his composure snaps. The desk is only feet away, but he doesn’t have the patience to drag you over to it when the wall is right fucking there. 

Breaking away, he grabs your sides and roughly spins you around, slamming you back against the door hard enough for a pained gasp to leave your lips.

“Tooru– Tooru, wait, please!”

No. He’s never been cruel to you – not how men can truly be cruel – tonight, though, he can’t be bothered caring about the tears spilling from your lashes or the panicked shriek you give when he hikes up the skirt of your dress and yanks your panties aside.

“I haven’t– I wouldn’t–” you keep babbling – he pays it no mind as he hurriedly frees his cock from his pants and lines himself up. 

“You’re mine,” he hisses, sheathing himself inside of you with one hard, brutal thrust. “My pretty wife.”

Your cries are louder now, agonised and wailing, Oikawa’s long past the point of caring, though. His staff know better than to pry, and his men won’t intercede on matters between their Oyabun and his wife, no matter how loud you get. 

This is between you and him. 

“You think I don’t know about the texts you hide?” Another thrust. “The calls, late at night? Your disappearing act last week?” His hips clap against your backside, his pace vicious and unrelenting.

The dryness of your cunt makes it an unpleasant start, yet it hardly takes long before your syrupy slick begins to coat his length, easing his passage no matter how violently he pounds into you. 

And despite your whimpers and hitched pleas, how you struggle fruitlessly against him, the plush, velvety walls of your heat cling to his cock, sucking him deeper with each fevered stroke. He pushes himself closer to you, buries his face in your hair and breathes deep, relishing how you shake and tremble as he stuffs you full, your poor little pussy moulding to the shape of his dick. 

As if he can imprint himself permanently inside of you if he just fucks you well enough.

The door shakes against its stop every time he slams you against it, and that, plus your sweet sobs and the panting breaths you share, is almost enough to drown out the slick, gushing sound coming from your pussy and the rapid paps of his balls hitting your top of your thighs.

Almost, but not quite. 

He’ll never tire of fucking you, not when your cunt’s so warm and you feel this good squeezing and fluttering around him. Oikawa’d rather die than ever give this up, and with a fist tangled in your hair, he yanks your head back to whisper as much in your ear. Drags his hungry mouth over your neck, nipping and sucking at the soft, supple flesh for good measure. 

You shudder around him, and he groans in pleasure. His wife. His. 

“I haven’t… fucked him,” you gasp out, mewling as his cock hits a sweet spot, deep inside of you. “It’s not like that.”

His expression darkens, a scowl twisting at his lips at the mention of your would-be lover. “End it,” he snarls, “or I’ll kill him myself.”

—

Less than two weeks later, Oikawa's being driven to an important meeting when Iwaizumi’s phone suddenly blares to life.

He pays it no mind, content to let his oldest friend handle whatever issue has sprung up while he busies himself with retrieving his cigarette case from the breast pocket of his jacket. Flicking the silver lid open, Oikawa slips one out and mindlessly offers the case to Iwa – who ignores it entirely  – as he pats his other pockets in search of his lighter. 

“When?” 

He knows that flat tone all too well, and glances up sharply to find Iwa staring ahead, his jaw set, face grim. Whoever’s on the other end of the line speaks for a moment more, the volume too low for him to discern what they’re saying. Whatever it is seemingly does little to set Iwa at ease. 

“Fuck… Alright, get back to the house. Tell Makki and whoever else is there not to let her out of their sight ‘til we get back.”

“What is it?”

Iwa sighs, pocketing his phone and pressing the button to lower the partition between them and the driver, “There was a drive-by downtown fifteen minutes ago. Semi Takuma’s dead.”

—

For a man who once helmed one of Tokyo’s most formidable syndicates, your father’s funeral draws a pitifully small turnout.

Oikawa could blame the weather, the dreary grey sky and the rain clouds that show no sign of letting up for keeping mourners away. The truth of the matter, however, is simply that by the end of his life, Semi Takuma’s friends were few and far between. He recognises all bar a few of the faces in the crowd, most of them from his own family, there not to pay respect to the dead – the elder Semi inspired little of that – but in support of you, the beloved wife of their Oyabun. 

Clinging to his side under the awning, your face wet with fresh tears and eyes puffy and rimmed red from the countless that had come before. Perhaps the only true mourner in attendance. Not even your brother, standing stone faced at the temple doors, greeting those who’ve bothered to turn up, seems to be able to muster much grief for the man he called a father. 

Briefly, it occurred to him that you might’ve been the one behind the hit. A cold hearted, calculating move to be sure, still, even you must recognise what you’d stand to gain in removing a bargaining chip from the board.

Could you do it? Kill the man who raised you? Who loved you, and sold you like cattle to save his own skin despite it? You’re not like Oikawa, you’re not even like your brother; you’ve never had the heart for their kind of corruption. He’d never peg you as a killer, even via proxy, but… maybe he’d pushed you too far that night in his study. 

Desperate people do desperate things.

And yet Oikawa hadn’t come home that day to crocodile tears or smirking pride, only pain and heartbreak and clenched fists beating at his chest as you sobbed yourself hoarse and broke against him.

‘You promised! You promised you’d protect him!’

He’d taken the blows, held you tight until the tears subsided. Kissed you so tenderly as your fingers curled into his shirt and you buried your face above his beating heart. 

It’d be a lie to say that he cares one way or another about your father’s death beyond the implication of trouble brewing, but this – your sweet dependency, how desperate you’ve become for any semblance of comfort in his arms (however temporarily) – Oikawa wouldn’t trade this for the world. 

He sighs heavily, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head. “We gotta go in. It’s almost time.”

Finally, you lift your face, lips parting to say something, only to fall silent instead, your expression morphing into one of shock as you spy something over his shoulder. 

Oikawa turns sharply, following your gaze. Sure enough, standing under an umbrella near the old, wooden pillars by the temple gates is a dark haired man dressed in a black suit. Familiar, though when he racks his brain to try and place from where, he comes up with a blank. That in itself is enough to unsettle him. 

And while there’s nothing threatening in his stance, no obvious bump or crease in the line of his suit to suggest a concealed weapon, he knows better than to assume this stranger isn’t carrying, much less that he isn’t a possible threat. 

Oikawa hasn’t gotten to where he is today by ignoring his gut. 

“Tooru,” your voice is quiet. Hoarse. And though you clutch at his larger hand, tugging at it with insistence, he doesn’t budge. “Let’s go inside. Please, Tooru, I can’t– I can’t do this without you.”

Your father was not a well loved man, and they’ve yet to find any solid leads as to who’s responsible for the hit against him. If the man by the gate had so much as a hand in it–

He makes a snap decision. “Stay with Iwa,” he orders, prying his hand from your grip with what little gentleness he can muster. “If he tells you to do something, you do it.” Even as he spits the words, hears the sharp hitch in your breath as your fingers scrabble to keep their grip on him, his attention remains firmly fixed on the dark haired figure. 

Yet the stranger makes no move to enter the temple grounds, seemingly content standing in the rain under the cover of his umbrella, staring right back at Oikawa.

… No. Not at him, he realises after a beat. He’s staring at you. 

“Tooru, don’t!” you cry.

Two words. 

With a painful slowness, he turns back to look at you. Narrowed eyes sweeping across your face, studying it with a frightening intensity. You’ve never been able to hide your feelings from him; he can read you like a book, knows you like the back of his hand.

Your expression is twisted. Agonised, but not with the raw, aching grief you’ve succumbed to over the past few days.

It’s fear that shines in those beautiful eyes of yours. 

Panic.

Two words, a tightening grip, and Oikawa understands. 

“Please,” you beg, clutching at him desperately. “We’ll go inside and just forget all about this, okay? I told him not to come, I swear! I-I told him–”

You’re starting to hyperventilate, short, squeaking breaths shaking your frame. Like a bunny, cornered and frightened, cowering from the jaws of the big, bad wolf. 

He grins. Takes both of your trembling hands in his, lifts them to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the back of each. Kisses the glittering diamond atop your ring finger last of all. “Baby,” he purrs, silk over a razor’s edge, “Do what I tell you. Stay with Iwaizumi.”

His second is already there. Has been since the moment he clocked the interloper, maybe even before Oikawa did. Without a word he takes you from Oikawa, sweeps you back with a strong arm curled around your waist and holds you there, struggling pitifully against him. Mere feet away your brother watches on, jaw set, hands clenched into fists by his side, glaring at the both of them as you beg and cry softly in Iwa’s arms. 

Oikawa doesn’t even bother acknowledging his presence. Eita can glower and sneer all he likes, they both know he won’t interject. Not with this. Not against them.

Not even for you. 

Pulling his umbrella from the stand, Oikawa opens it with a flourish, spares you one last grin, and steps out into the lashing rain. 

“Relax, pretty girl. He and I are just gonna have a friendly chat, that’s all!”

The sound of your sweet begging follows him until distance and the rain drown them out. 

Closer now, he gets a better look at the man who fancies himself in love with you (and he’d have to be to risk coming here, knowing who your husband is).

His face is pretty enough, he supposes, fine, delicate features with eyes a piercing, gunmetal blue. His hair’s short, dark – messy and windswept – and yet the rest of his appearance; the well tailored suit, polished black oxfords, even the watch that pokes out from under his sleeve; they give the impression of someone put together. Methodical, even. 

He can’t be much older than Oikawa, if he’s older at all, and he stands a few inches shorter, his build perhaps a fraction slighter. And if the man has tattoos – if he’s from another syndicate – they’re covered as his are, hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unlike Oikawa, though, he isn’t smiling. 

“You know who I am.” 

It’s not a question, he doesn’t phrase it as such, however the dark haired stranger nods anyway; a short, sharp jerk of his chin. “Oikawa Tooru. I know plenty,” he replies bluntly. 

“Good,” he says. “Now, I have a funeral to get to, a grieving wife to comfort, so I’ll make this quick. Showing your face here today was a ballsy move, I’ll give you that, it was also incredibly stupid. See, the thing is; I love my wife. More than some little shit like you could possibly begin to understand, but I’d sooner chain her to our bed and break every bone in her fucking body than let her touch another man, much less leave with one.

“If I were you, I’d tuck tail and run. Find some other city, some other man’s wife to pant after, because if you don’t…” he trails off, finally dropping his charming smile, “I’m gonna take my time killing you, and I’ll make her sit through every last second.”

The stranger says nothing, expression carefully blank, save for the slight narrowing of his eyes. They shift, sliding past Oikawa to gaze at the temple – or more accurately, at you, watching the interaction unfold from the safety of Iwa’s grasp. 

After a moment, he looks back at Oikawa. “My condolences,” he says, and without another word, walks away.

—

Weeks ago, you’d stormed into his office, claws out and itching for a fight after finding out he was having you followed. 

When he brings you back in the days following the funeral and tells you that you’re not allowed to leave the comfort of the sprawling estate without him by your side, you simply stare at the rug by his feet and in a tight, controlled voice, ask why. 

Sighing, as if your refusal to meet his gaze physically wounds him, Oikawa takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently – lovingly – and leads you across the room to sit. Or, more accurately, he sits, and you somewhat reluctantly allow yourself to be tugged down onto his lap. “We still don’t know who killed your father, it’s not safe for you to be out there without me,” he murmurs, his palm grazing along your thigh in a false show of comfort. 

Not a lie per se.

“Can you blame me for being overly cautious, baby?” he asks, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of you – jasmine and vanilla, the faintest hint of citrus – has his blood stirring, sends a pang of heady want straight to his cock. God, he’d fucking lick it off of your skin if he could. “I can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt,” his fingers creep up under your skirt, his lips littering the curve of your throat with soft little kisses, “I like knowing my beautiful, lovely wife is safe and sound at home, right where I left her.”

…Until one day, you aren’t.

Divorce papers, signed in your name lay atop the mahogany desk in his study. Your wedding and engagement rings carefully placed next to your signature; impossible for him to miss. 

Not a spur of the moment scramble for freedom, then.

The estate is eerily quiet. Not the calm before the storm. The blood on the gravel of his driveway, a stolen wife, Makki riddled with bullets – the storm’s already begun. Ripped its way through his home and family. This, this is the eye of it.

“How?” his voice is ice.

Kindaichi scowls, glaring at nothing in particular. He knows as well as Oikawa does; keeping an eye on you today was his responsibility, and in the wake of your disappearance–

“Bedroom window,” he admits with a frustrated huff. “She said she was tired and wanted to lie down for a bit. What was I supposed to do, follow her in there?”

Oikawa’s eyes flash, and Kindaichi’s jaw snaps shut. “And Makki?” he presses.

“Makki wasn’t supposed to be here. I dunno know why he showed up when he did. I guess he saw her running and tried to stop her and–” he breaks off abruptly, suddenly interested in looking anywhere except at the steaming Oyabun.

“… And?” Oikawa hisses, dropping the papers and rounding on his subordinate. “And what?”

“It was him. The guy Iwa says you’re looking for, the one you ran into at the funeral. Her–” he stumbles over the word, and changes tactics. “… He shot him. Came outta fucking nowhere.”

Fury rises up, choking at him as his blood roars, and for a moment, he can’t speak. Of course you hadn’t been the one to shoot Makki. You, who’d never so much as held a gun. You, who abhorred the more violent aspects of his life. You, who ran off with a fucking–

“Get out.”

He waits until the door shuts before fishing his phone from his pocket. Scours through his contacts until he finds the one he’s looking for. 

It rings once. Twice. Three ti–

“Oikawa,” Eita greets, and there’s something in that tone, beyond the irritating arrogance and barely concealed disdain he usually holds for his brother in law that has him narrowing his eyes. He sounds almost… pleased.

“… You knew,” he surmises after a beat. “You fucking knew?!”

Eita snorts. 

“Are you honestly surprised, Oikawa? Not so easy to keep your wife in line when your leverage gets gunned down in broad daylight, is it?”

Oikawa’s grip on his phone tightens, and he draws a sharp breath in through clenched teeth. “You think I won’t come after you?” he seethes. 

“You’re more than welcome to try, asshole. I watched you hold me and him over her head for too fucking long, watched you hurt her, try and break her. I’ve been waiting for this a long, long time.”

“Tell me where she is, Eita.”

Silence greets him, and when he pulls the phone from his ear, the call’s been disconnected. He swears viciously, tossing it aside. Planting both of his hands against his desk, Oikawa hunches over and breathes raggedly, waiting for the white haze of pulsing anger to abate.

You left him. You left him. You left him. You left him. You left him.

The rings you left behind stare mockingly back at him, and he makes his decision. Snatching them both up, he shoves them in his pocket and rounds the desk, yanking open the right hand drawer to grab the pistol he keeps stashed away in there.

With a cold focus, he slips out the magazine, checks the rounds and jams it back into position, cocking the slide to load it before tucking it in the back of his waistband.

He told you once what he’d do if you ever laid a finger on another man, the lengths he’d go to to keep you his. Told your trigger happy lover, too. 

What happens next; well, you can’t say he didn’t warn you.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere oikawa tooru x reader #yandere oikawa tooru #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon

[pampanope]

Graves Headcannons from Shadows’ POV (Part 3):

part 1 Part 2

((Hey ya’ll, hope the weekends a good one! More Graves stuff~))

The Graves manual made it back to 7-11 a mere two weeks since his last entry.

He groggily left his blanket cocoon of warmth, shambled towards the door, wrenched it open ready to chew out the impertinent little shit who’d been rapping at it incessantly, only to have the massive binder shoved into his chest with enough force to stun him; too stunned to catch the identity of his unwanted visitor, who had the sense to haul ass immediately away from the doorway.

There was giggling accompanied by several voices and boots scampering down the hallway.

Ballsey, noisy, and reckless enough to bother an officer at 0600 on his one day of zero responsibility? Clearly they were the fresh batch of recruits he’d been working on, still too new and wet behind the ears to have callsigns of their own.

If he was any other lieutenant 7-11 would’ve given chase, hunted each of them down and handed out extra drills and the honor of scrubbing one of the barracks’s communal showers.

Alas, he was only himself; lazy at his core and an unrepentant enjoyer of his day off. No baby Shadows he needed to teach, no training with his platoon, and no paperwork. Unless the more senior staff or an act of god (Graves) said otherwise, 7-11 wasn’t gonna exert more energy than he needed to.

Sleep ruined, 7-11 rubbed the grogginess from his eyes and plopped the heavy binder onto his desk. Might as well add some shallow, surface level Graves trivia, because anything deeper was too much for his fuzzy mind.

~~~~~~

-it’s not that he’s ashamed but he’s very self-conscious of his accent; he’s aware of the stereotypes attached to it, so he softens and flattens it a bit when dealing with clients.

-but when he’s relaxed, exhausted, fighting off sleep’s siren call? The accent thickens, sweet as molasses.

-turns red when he thinks he’s been caught nodding off though. Everyone should pretend they didn’t notice and wait for sleep to drag him under. Calling attention will just fluster him.

-some of you’ve seen or heard the boss mumble in his sleep; again, pretend you never noticed.

-He seems to bristle or shy away a bit at showing vulnerability or receiving affection.

(Like a growly coyote that won’t admit to enjoying head scritches, 7-11 mused fondly. Let’s see if we can fix that.)

-although he likes the occasional drink, Graves tries to keep a sober head most times as commander, especially on missions (the Graves Alone Xmas fiasco, as many Shadows have taken to calling it, was a damn fluke, an aberration, and 7-11 will make sure there will never be a repeat)

-he bites. Hard. No, i will not elaborate.

-has a fragrant woodsy scent (it’s fucking distracting, especially during spars)

-Graves is possessive. More on this another time.

-gets severe road rage; Graves will shout, abuse the horn, roll down the window to insult you, your mother, and your shit driving in that order, and stick a hand out to flip you off; he’d flip you off with both hands if he didn’t need one on the wheel at all times. (The Shadows are glad he isn’t reckless enough to try and overtake anyone while cuts him off, he’s just REALLY loud about it.)

-he isn’t bad at cooking, he’s actually pretty good. Just limited in what he makes, but they turn out delicious. (“Hell, if you get stuck with me in some safe house, at least you won’t be swallowing down burnt MREs while pretending you wouldn’t sell my ass for a single corn chip.”) In this, he’s excellent wife material self-sufficient.

~~~~~~~

7-11 decided that was enough writing on his day off before shutting the binder. He got up, did some luxurious, toe curling stretches, and padded towards the bathroom to get the day started.

If he’s lucky, he could find a warm patch of grass to nap on before the sun rose to high. Preferably somewhere pesky baby Shadows wouldn’t find him.

#sorry 7-11 but those recruits like you hahaa #shadow company #phillip graves #call of duty #mw2 #mw3 #my stuff #graves cod #cod graves

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

hi mara,

i was wondering what your favorite books are, anything you've derived inspiration from. or any books you'd recommend to others!

take care

hi anonymous, good morning;

soft promotion but i usually write a little about what i:m currently reading in my end-of-month internet-sin paywall posts on substack -- but i:d also probably just tell you if asked;

any-ways, when i was really young i:d try to read a book-a-day both because 1) i had absolutely nothing to do 2) i thought that by reading as many classic/erudite texts as i could, that i:d become super smart; but i burnt out on reading because of these two things! and because of being burnt out, i have a huuuuuuuge amount of gratitude to the book version of "howl:s moving castle," because i think i picked it up on a whim (before the movie was out, even, i think), and read it, and it just made me fall in love with reading -- and the idea of reading for pleasure, instead of trying to make myself smart and cultured. was just so enamored with that book; read it through every period in HS and in that huge dullness i:d have afterschool (i slept out in a car from 2~7 typically; no friends and no where to go)--just couldn:t put it down, felt so real. zero idea if it holds up, and i refuse to re-read it, but i /loved/ that book and it:s always what comes to mind when someone asks me my favorite book (side-note: i thought the movie was trash; i don:t like ghibli stuff though).

inspirational stuff, though, i:ll use more recent examples! (mostly because it:s easier to remember this stuff); i really adore flannery o'connor and her short-story "the lame shall enter first" largely helped me deal with some of my obsessiveness at adhering to my behavioral etiquette 'perfectly' -- there are these two characters: an older atheist who is doing his very best to behave perfectly and empathetically and understandingly; & a crippled thieving rude christian boy that has fallen into the care of the prior character; any-who, the christian boy admits he has not been saved and that his soul belongs to satan, and tells the adult that he won:t bother being saved till he is ready to live whole-heartedly clean -- and that there is no point in attempting to act perfect (as the adult were trying) as no-one is perfect except christ; the story illustrates the lesson better, but it just made me loosen up on some of my behavioral rules and etiquette in regards to bacterial will and religious law. plus, flannery is a /beautiful/ writer.

then more briefly, i:d toss in cormac and shirley jackson -- cormac:s "outer dark" just really impressed me with how excellent he describes environments and just how /real/ he wrote "the three figures" towards the later half of that story, i love the outer dark so much; shirley jackson, too, just this month i read "we have always lived in the castle" and the maturity of her writers voice just struck me with how concisely bitter it were, and i just thought: wow, this is like the prototypical femcel hiki blueprint, and wow: this story is like the deconstructed magical girl genre before it ever existed, and as it could only exist in the mind of a shut-in agoraphobic american woman in her sixties (i think she was that old at the time of writing, i forget). i:m reading "the secret history" atm and also really loving that, because donna tartt is ace at pacing a story & capturing the feeling of "being left at a dorm for winter alone," and just scene/moments in general -- just super enjoying it :-)). then for more religious stuff that:d make people groan: i like LRH, and mary eddy baker, and ellen g white, and like reading all of them, and usually am left with a sparkling feeling after reading any.

and that:s it! i don:t want to name too many books because it:d water stuff down in meaning. take care, anonymous :-))

[blocksruinedme]

About to go insane. Jimmy SolidarityGaming cannot catch a break in any of the series that he's in. Loser in Empire Smp. And as of yesterday, still a Loser in Life Series. And yet so many of us unconditionally adore him?

So last night, for reasons, I got into the shower to wash my hair at 3am, while decently intoxicated. While the water was heating up I looked at the mcc team list, and started thinking about Jimmy and mcc and the decisions he makes as a content creator and how he has to hustle because he doesn't have natural bonuses like "being good at minecraft" or "being booksmart" or "having a good memory". As I stepped into the shower almost said aloud "I'm worried people don't appreciate Jimmy enough." And wondered if I should go back a "Reasons Jimmy is Great #373-402" tumblr post.

But there I was just standing in the water in the middle of the night afraid[1] people don't appreciate Jimmy. I soooorta thought I would have chilled out about this (gorgeous) wet paper bag of a man with (charming) loser boy swag (and great comedic timing and a kind and loving personality and big heart) nine months later, but *apparently not*.

Anyway to address the ask - I like Jimmy winning things cause it makes him happy. It does not affect how much I adore him, because... I don't care about winning? I'm thinking about why.

I grew up in a Sports Household that was devoted to a team that has not made it out of the playoffs since... many decades. This both gives me "caring about winning is bother a sucker's game and setting yourself up for misery and meh" and "if you drop your team/blorbo because they haven't won in a couple decades, you're Not A Real Fan".

I am very competitive in some ways, but only a few really translate out of "I want to personally excel". This is hard, actually, to think about why I don't care when my first though was "but why would I care?"

Also coming in 40th at mcc makes the 1v3 dodgebolt wins so much sweeter

In the end what I care about is that I adored watching the Bad Boys and Jimmy had a blast. Would I have enjoyed him beating the curse? Yeah! Am I sad he looked so bummed? Well yes for sure. But my boy chose to be silly and jump off bridges *so many times*, I don't even want to count how many times he did it total. He made his bed, and he fell off a bridge into it.

Meanwhile Empires... yeah there's no "oh poor Jimmy" when the whole thing is what he wants. I listen to a lot of streams, mostly of him but also other people, and he's literally asking for it. fWhip once said it's because Jimmy's much more comfortable roleplaying/acting reactively, instead of coming up with the thing. He loves making his shocked faces and using his affronted voice, and he asks his friends to do things for him to react to.

PERSONALLY I'd love if they expanded Jimmy's empires reactions to be less about other PCs being mean to him, I'm hopeful that this fae can expand to a huge disaster where he's totally fucked but it's all by NPC/environment and his friends can help him. (As someone who used to play/run boffer LARP campaigns, it just feels SO larp. spouse and i sit around and point and shout about how we would do these things. 100% the reason i started going here was because last life felt like an awesome larp.)

So my love is unconditional because it's for a silly guy in London who loves his friends and minecraft, is kind to his fans, and makes me smile every single time I see him. If I'm sad, the best thing to do is put on the intro to any Jimmy stream or video, it's his big hello everybody! smile that warms my soul. He makes me happy and he makes me laugh and he could be the worst at everything and it would mean nothing. He is my blorbo, my special little boy, my wet paper bag of a man, and even my therapist thinks he has a good effect on my life. <3 <3 <3

...though I do hate watching him be inefficient at stardew valley, I don't play minecraft but i'm good at sdv and now I think I get the pain of watching him play minecraft. But I'm there for Jimmy, not the games. <3

[1] note: you do not have to appreciate Jimmy! It's fine. Trashed Vee really wants you to, and sober Vee thinks it makes life better to love Jimmy, but please don't take this post as weirder than it already is.

#just vee being crazy about jimmy again #solidaritygaming #solidgaming #jimmy solidarity #solidarity gaming #me #wet paper bag of a man #limited life spoilers #limited like smp #trafficblr #canary curse #empires smp #empires 2 #empires s2

[sly-s-n0nfusion]

Sly’s ✨personal opinion✨ on Octopath Traveler’s english voice acting

Ok it’s been a while since I’ve wanted to do this! I tend to play almost all games with the jp voices when I play jrpgs but that doesn’t mean some English VAs didn’t do a great job! :)

All respect towards them and everyone else who has different opinions; I will simply rate them with ✅ passed and ⛔️ not passed basing on my personal tastes

Octopath 1

Ophilia: ⛔️ not passed - I really don’t like how artificially high-pitched her voice is?? It just sounds a bit fake :((( really not a fan

Cyrus: ⛔️ not passed - Listen I know a lot of people love his English voice and while I do agree that it’s not half bad I also must admit it just doesn’t fit him 😭 compared to the young, honey sweet voice he has in jp I think he sounds a bit too old? If that makes sense. Like he’s 10 years older or something 😂 I like how the VA exaggerated the tone of certain expressions tho, very dramatic!

Tressa: ✅ passed - I LOVE how snarky and bratty she sounds! The VA did a great job, she sounds just tomboyish and childlish enough

Olberic: ✅ passed - ok we’re talking about Patrick Seitz guys what do you want me to tell you!! He’s great and I don’t mind a more booming and intimidating Olberic compared to the quiet and brooding jp one. Fits him so well!

Primrose: ✅ passed - one of the exceptions where I prefer the en VA to the jp one. While the jp voice is sweet an and soft, the English voice has a coldness and edge to it that just fits Primrose’s personality so well. Great job!

Alfyn: ✅ passed - a biiit more soft spoken compared to the deeper, louder jp voice but I still think it fits him. Not much to add

Therion: ⛔️ not passed - I’M SORRY because this is another fan favorite but I really don’t like how the va completely changed his personality, going from the quiet, soft spoken, wary thief to a snarkier version of sonic the hedgehog 😭😭 also malus because they didn’t bother to make him fake the merchant voice during the disguise moment in his ch1 :((((

H’aanit: ✅ passed - MOMMY- I mean I LOVE her en voice SO MUCH. Like her jp voice was also great, but the VA somehow managed to keep the deep, cold sound of her voice and use it in a way that’s just so in character. The “NGAAAH” she makes when you boost her attacks is still implemented into my brain and I love it

Octopath 2

Ochette: ✅ passed - I love how faithful to the jp voice the actress was! She really did a good job also because it was a challenging role imo. Nailed the little growls and rawrs! Adorable!

Castti: ✅ passed - A nice interpretation, not much to say. The eng VA has a sweeter voice than the jp one, who added a bit of raspiness to her I really liked but overall a neat job.

Throné: ✅ passed - LOVE the VA’s voice. Deep, cold, but at the same time you can sense warmth in it. Excellent interpretation :)

Osvald: ✅ passed - The best adaptation in ot2, hands down! I know his Va is also a vtuber and a professional in his job and it shows. SO GOOD MAN! The tone, the personality, 100% nailed. Even though jp Osvald is also great this one HAS to take the crown

Partitio: ✴️ passed (?) - This one was hard to decide for me because while the eng acting does nail the southern accent and the overall vibe it’s also a bit too soft spoken for an energetic and loud personality such as Partitio’s. There’s like a huge difference between the jp acting and the eng one and I’m usually not a fan of that because it completely changes a character’s personality in a way

Agnea: ⛔️ not passed - again with the fake high-pitched voice 😭 idk it might be a pet peeve of mine at this point but. Idk I can tell when a va is clearly trying to fake a tone of voice that is really different from theirs and it bothers me so much

Temenos: ⛔️ not passed - I’m sorry but this one is a big no from me :( I know many others also found his eng voice a bit too emotionless and plain, it really misses that playful and snarky tone the jp VA gave him. Not to mention the part when [redacted] happens in Stormhail ch3, the emotions just… aren’t there. I’ve also heard the eng VA was a novice though so I’m sure he’ll have time to improve :)

Hikari: ✅ passed - I really like his eng voice and interpretation! It’s faithful to the jp one and suits his personality well. A great job!

Well these were my opinions that absolutely no one asked for! I’m sure all the VAs did their best and put a lot of effort in their job ❤️

#octopath traveler #octopath traveler 2 #octopath traveler ii #I wanted to ramble about voice acting tonight #I respect everyone’s job! #I wanna hear your takes too if you wanna talk about them! #just be civil of course :) thank you! #sly rambles

[absolutebl]

This Week In BL - The Rankings have CHANGED

Oct 2022 Wk 3

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs. Organized by which ones (in each category) I’m enjoying the most.

Ongoing Series - Thai

My Only 12% (Fri iQIYI) 11 of 14 - pretty disingenuous of iQIYI to muscle in an ad for its own app and not show it immediately serving ads to the boys. In other news, I still love Peak on screen, the years have not changed my delight in that boy. (I may need to do a Make it Right rewatch.) The question is does Cake feel left behind and jelly as a friend or is he actually in love with Eiw? And if he is, does he realize that about himself? The conflict is so good with this show, so well established, entirely based in characterization, and not an ounce manufactured. I couldn’t be happier it this BL got handed off this this pair, it was made for SantaEarth. I do think, since we got a ton of family life establishment (not to mention Love of Siam reference) that the big separation for these two will be family driven in ep 13. But first we get a whole ep of adorable boyfriends! Yay! 

Big Dragon (Sat Gaga) 3 of 8 - bathroom drama, naturally. This is a true enemies to lovers, these two spy on and bully each other. They even talk about non-consent. It’s the harshest version I’ve seen since China existed the field (aside from the Japanese dark stuff, of course). But also this show is using actual BDSM to drive plot and character (not just touring kink), the stuff Unforgotten Night couldn’t even dream of and Mame has never bothered to research. We got Dom voice, roll play, service submission, orders, humiliation. It all turned out to be a tease but the point was also to show these two have compatible kinks (which means compatible intellectual and physical chemistry, so the narrative arc is going to be around emotional chemistry) and that they both know the scene. Someone behind the camera knows what they’re filming too.The way these two transition between anger, resentment, titillation, and flirting (and the way, with kinksters, this can all be the same thing) is really well done. I guess what I’m saying, ultimately, it that this BL is proving itself to be a lot more sophisticated than I expected. I could not have loved the Domme rep more, quite frankly. I’m excited for next week as Big is playing the faen fatal and I love him. 

The Eclipse (Fri YT) 11 of 12 - A very tense 11 doom ep but also... off. I did see the twist for the teachers but not the students. That’s because the teacher twit was set up but the student betrayer twist was... not. If Thua was so into the truth why never tell it himself? The resolution was abrupt and most of the second half very odd. It made me wonder if this had a really intended to be a 15 episode arc, in which case they compressed the last 5 eps into 2? The pacing felt totally off from all the previous eps and the pool scene felt like reused footage.The rapid fire character and relationship changes and shifts in arcs was rushed and confusing. But the flirting and claiming was cute, I guess. Also horrible suspicion we may get a sad end now? Truth or another round of Bad Buddy suckering?

Ai Long Nhai (Mon iQIYI) 4 of 10 - I don’t know what to say about this show. I’m enjoying it but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be. (This happens to me a lot with pulps.) 

Ghost Host, Ghost House (Weds YouTube) 3 of 8 - Honestly I speed though all the ghost stuff for the few BL moments. But it’s worth it because Pluem delivers the softest most seductive krap ever and watching them flirt over noodles is an unalloyed pleasure. 

Remember Me (Sun Gaga) 2 of 8 - The BL parts are good, and JaFirst excel. But it moves incredibly slowly with way too many establishing shots, just like The Yearbook. If it’s Mean directing again, he’s gotta shake of the New-yoke right quick. 

Hard Love Mission (Sat WeTV) 1-2 of 4 - it’s a short run, so what not? Well because the subs are terrible, everyone looks like they should be in high school, the acting is awful, there’s a dumb feen fattale, the actor/seme seems to have been chosen on the basis of height not talent, and they already leaned in to awkward in a big way. On the bright side the uke is older then the seme and v cute, tropes are dropping thick and fast (there’s only one bed!), and the size difference is vast (if that’s a thing you’re into). All in all, it’s not good but what the hay? 

Work from Heart (Thurs YouTube) 5 of 7 - I like the lead pair better in this show then their last one but its nothing on JeffGame, and the lack of plot is challenging for me. 

Love in the Air (Thurs iQIYI) 9 of 13 - I still mostly think Pai’s a douche, but it’s nice to see him taking care of Sky, especially as Sky clearly needs someone to do it so badly. Still Sky could do better... and Pai still has to. DUMPSTER FIRE TRASH WATCH ALONG HERE.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

My Tooth Your Love (Taiwan Fri Gaga & Viki) 3 of 1 - Honestly it’s such a relief to watch something from Taiwan in amongst all the Thai folderol. I might be liking this that much more because it’s restful by comparison. I could not be happier with the bratty rich kid kissing a waiter to make a point to his parents. I know, consent, but also... great characterization. I fucking love the ultra-grumpy bar manager character. And the dentist with the sad eyes who worries too much. And our poor boy who needs a therapist more than a dentist. They are all so awkward and broken and CUTE. GAH!!! (I’m getting very @heretherebedork​ level emotional about this one.)

Roommates of Poongduck 304 (Korea Thurs Viki) 2 of 8 - Poor JaeYoon, HoJun is so mean to him. The camera work in this drama has much more voyeuristic gaze than most KBL. In other words, the directing of this show makes it feel a bit more genuinely gay than a lot of the other BL that comes from Korea. It is fun to watch these 2 slowly become friends. I wish we had enough time to watch them also slowly fall in love. But since this is KBL, that part will be a rush job.

Kabe Koji (Japan Mon Viki) 3 of 10 - I guess this episode was a little bit better. The show is just so painfully EXTRA. As is often the case with Japanese stuff, I keep feeling like there's bones of great story in this drama. And I get glimpses of it, but then it’s covered again - like tasty steak smothered in Kewpie mayo. Oh, Japan. 

It’s Airing But I’m Not Watching It

War of Y 20 eps - it’s just all too much for me.

My Roommate 32 eps of 2 minutes each + terrible production values? - I’m not bothering.

Fahlanruk (Sun GaGa) 12 eps - I cut my losses at ep 5. Someone can tell me if the 2nd half is worth it, after it finishes, but I’m not gonna bother to watch it every week. I don’t like any of the couples and the fujoshi framing is repulsive under the context of a narrative trying to be this authentically gay. I’ve lost all patience.

Oh My Sunshine Night 20 eps - I’m scared it’s gonna be sad, so I’m waiting for spies to tell me it’s safe, so far reported to be quite the soap opera.

To Sir With Love AKA Khun Chai 28 eps - dito

2 Moons 3 Thai (Mon ??) 10 eps - I searched for it in a lacklustre manner but couldn’t find it legally anywhere convenient. I will watch it if it’s easy to do so. Possibly as a binge. Rumor is it’s quite banal. 

SELF (Thurs ??) - same again without any rumors 

Wish Me Luck (Sat ??) - seems to have be delayed into next year

In Case You Missed It

That’s Work From Heart, The Staircase is back. 

Gossip

I’ll have more for you next week as I process the Nov release announcements. 

UWMA rewatch! The plan was: one UWMA ep a day for the 17 days before Between Us launches on Nov 6. However, I missed the start date (stupid work) so I’ll start tomorrow (Mon 24) and double down on the days when there’s no other BL airing (see calendar below). Wish me luck! 

The UWMA Praise Watch along (opposite of a Trash Watch) will happen here on this blog. 

Next Week Looks Like This:

October 2022 line up is here. 

This week’s best moments?

Ai Long Nhai serving up the Gay Advice Dads! 

That’s Aye for ya, brutally honest. 

I love a bit of self reference. 

I will love her forever. (Big Dragon) Viva la bisexual rep! 

Look could we please get a BL featuring this boy? I love him. 

Gay identity ownership in BL is still so rare, I cheer every time it drops. (My Only 12%) 

Ouch. 

(last week)

Current earworm? N.Flying - The Night (Pairs well with My Only 12%) 

#this week in BL #BL news #BL gossip #upcoming BL #best BL #worst BL #new BL #BL reviews #Thai BL #Korean BL #Taiwanese BL #Japanese BL #live action yaoi #Rakutan Viki #GagaOOLala #GMMTV #uwma #until we meet again watch along #Between Us #My Only 12% #Big Dragon #The Eclipse #Ghost Host Ghost House #Remember Me #Hard Love Mission #Work from Heart #My Tooth Your Love #Roommates of Poongduck 304 #Kabe Koji #N.Flying

[asirensrage]

Demanding It All - Gojo Satoru Oneshot

Title: Demanding It All Rating: Explicit Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Unnamed Female OC Warnings: Slight possessive behaviour. Sex. Mentions of Gojo being an asshole (and ruining her dates with others) Summary: They've both finally had enough. Satoru does something about it. Sequel to Wanting More

Notes: Unbeta-d. I wrote this in a few hours and only looked it over a couple times so forgive me if it's not to my usual standards lol. It's also only the second time I've written him. I used/referenced a couple prompts from this post.

This is dedicated to @nejires-hado and the anon in my ask box who decided to complain to me about @nejires-hado sexualizing anime characters before asking me "Don't you ever look at yourself and feel shame?" The answer, of course, is no and because I excel at spite, I bring you this spite smut. Enjoy!

“Damn it, Gojo! What the hell is your problem?” 

“Hmm?” he asks, looking not at all bothered by her anger. He’s lounging on her couch again, looking as though he belongs there. No matter how many times she’s thrown him out, he’s found his way back. Like some stray cat she never wanted. 

“Why are you ruining everything?”

“Ruining?” he laughs at that. All it does is piss her off more. “What was there to ruin?”

“Don’t you have other people you can bother? Or Elders to irritate? Schools to reform? Some shit that doesn’t require you to dig into my personal life?”

He stares at her. Even if she can’t see his eyes, she can feel his gaze. “Who says I’m not?”

She tries not to scream in frustration. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with him or what changed. Suddenly, he was showing up more frequently, not to mention interrupting all of her dates, throwing his arm around her like she was his and demeaning every man she had met with. It was driving her insane. Especially considering she actually liked the first one he drove off. “I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you acting like you’re not doing anything wrong!”

He sits up at that, long legs bent at the knee with his feet planted on the ground. “When have I ever done something wrong?” He scoffs. 

“You showed up during my date and told him our kids were waiting for us!” 

“Oh, that.” He leaned back, getting comfortable again. “He was boring. I saved you from a terrible date.”

“I didn't ask you to!” she snarls. “In fact, I don’t know why you’re still here! We’re not friends, Gojo.”

He grins and she can already tell that whatever comes out of his mouth is going to irritate her further. “Oh? Then what are we, dearest?”

“A headache.” 

“Aww, come on. You deserve better than them.” He stands up and moves towards her. She glares at him, inwardly cursing the Limitless that keeps him protected. 

“I deserve some peace from you,” she bites back asking if he has other friends. She was angry but that was just cruel. “What is your problem?”

“You.” 

She blinks, surprised by the tone of his voice. Satoru is rarely serious. Even at the brink of death, he finds a way to enjoy himself, to mock those weaker than him. Everyone is weaker than him. “What?”

“You are my problem.” He moves closer and she stops herself before she steps back. She’s not afraid of him. She never has been. 

She glares up at him. “Well don’t stick around on my account.”

He sighs and she gets the sense he’s disappointed. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

“Gojo, leave me alone.” She doesn’t want to play his games. “Or I’m going to find a way to throw you out the window.”

He laughs at that. “Always so creative! Not that it would hurt.” 

She reacts without thinking, shoving him back. Her hands stop before they can reach him. It just makes her angrier. “Fuck you, Satoru!”

He reaches up, grasping her wrists. Her breath catches in her throat at the feel of his skin against hers, the warm grip that holds her. Has she ever touched him before? Has anyone? “Promise?” 

“Just stop, okay? Stop bothering me. Stop scaring my dates off. Just stop!”

“They don’t deserve you.”

“Yeah?” she sneers. “Who does? Nanami?”

His lips are on hers before she can even think. His hands still hold her wrists, keeping her in place as his mouth moves against hers. He pulls back, just enough so that they can breathe. 

She stares at him, confused and uncertain. He kissed her. Satoru, who has strived to make her life hell, kissed her. “What–”

He lets go of her wrists, one hand moving to the small of her back, pulling her into him. The other hand goes to the back of her neck, tilting her head up towards him. His mouth finds her again. The kiss deepens. It’s hard and demanding, almost punishing for something she never knew she was doing.

She can taste the sweetness of the candies he had been eating on his tongue. His grip tightens for a moment and she moves her arms, reaching up to wrap them around him. She digs her nails into his shoulder, feeling him smile against her lips. She loses herself in the kiss, mindlessly wondering how it came to this while hoping he doesn’t stop. 

His mouth moves, trailing kisses against her jaw, down her neck. She presses her fingers into the base of his scalp, trying to keep herself from pulling off his blindfold so she could bury her fingers in his hair. 

“So good,” he mutters against her skin. “-knew it.” 

She’d shove him off for that if she didn’t want him closer. She presses up on her toes, nipping at his jaw for the remark. His grip tightens slightly before he kisses her again. He steps forward, forcing her back. She lets him lead in the parody of a dance, ushering her through her own apartment as he sheds the shirt he’s wearing in between claiming her mouth with his. She doesn’t even question how he knows which way to go. There’s no point. Not with him. 

She pulls off her own shirt, throwing it in the direction of her laundry basket. His chest presses against her, warm skin against hers. Somehow she never thought he’d be warm. His mouth finds her again and the thought is lost as she kisses him back just as hard. She bites at his lip, ignoring the way he laughs against her. He lets her take what she wants, all the while moving them until the back of her knees hit the side of her bed and she’s lying down with him above her. 

Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of his eyes. Darkened with lust, she can barely begin to decipher the look in them before he closes them, distracting her again with his kiss. His fingers move, tugging at the shorts she’s wearing. She lifts her hips enough to help him pull them off. He takes her underwear with them. 

She closes her eyes, unwilling to see his expression as he looks at her, bare under his gaze. Weren’t they always? 

He doesn’t linger long. His hands move, mapping the curves of her body as his mouth traces a trail that only he understands. Her hands grip the sheets under her and she allows herself the satisfaction of digging her fingers into his hair like she wanted. She can’t stop the urge to yank on it, just because she finally can. He bites at her skin before pressing his tongue flat against one of her nipples. Her breath catches in her throat and the desire to hurt him fades against the need for more. 

She hooks a leg around him, pressing him closer. 

“Patience, darling,” he teases. “I want to savour this.”

She groans in frustration. “Don’t play with me, Satoru.” 

“But it’s so fun!” 

Her eyes narrow and before she can lift her leg to kick him off of her, he grips it, holding her in place against him. He presses closer and rocks his hips against her. The friction of his clothed legs pressing against her makes her gasp. 

“Wait,” he orders. He bends back down, mouth on her skin again. He keeps one hand on her leg, keeping her against him. The other skims against her, cupping one of her breasts. His fingers brush against her nipple, tugging at it playfully before he moves to soothe it with his tongue. 

Her head falls back, relaxing into the sensations. Goosebumps prickle against her skin that his fingers brush against. She’s going to be marked, bruises caused by his mouth. It's as though she’s one of those desserts he goes out of his way to find, the ones he lingers in eating, trying to enjoy as long as possible. 

He shifts, moving down slightly and releasing his hold on her leg. His hand goes between her legs and she is left suddenly open as he presses against her carefully. It’s seconds before he finds it, thumb pressing against her clit as her legs clench around him. If he laughs, she doesn’t hear it, her focus only on his fingers and the way they are slowly pressing in. When his mouth joins, his tongue flicks as it replaces his thumb before pressing flat. 

The pressure increases and she buries her hand in his hair again, holding him close as she gets closer to the edge. 

“Please, please, please,” she begs. She’s never begged him before but she can’t stop. Not when there’s more. Not when she’s so close. 

She breaks. He doesn’t protest at the way her legs tighten around him or how she pulls his hair without meaning. It’s as though all he can focus on is her and how she tastes. He finally pulls away, letting her catch her breath and come back to earth. She could finally understand why he called himself a god. Why it might be slightly deserved. Forget what abilities he could have, that alone was enough to redeem him. 

He positions himself above her, staring down at her. His eyes are bright in the shadows of her room. She stares back, any hesitance is gone in the aftermath of her orgasm. 

“Stop looking at me,” she says softly, finally breaking the silence between them. He smiles at her, something softer than his usual smug grin. 

“I can’t.” Seeing her confusion, his smile widens. “You’re so pretty like this.” 

Her nose scrunches up at the compliment. It doesn’t seem right coming from him. She tries to shove him back but he grabs her hand, pinning it down against the bed next to her. 

“Don’t,” he says softly. He leans forward and brushes his nose against her jaw. “I want to see everything.”

“Don’t you already?”

“Not like this.” He kisses her again before pulling back. She sits up slightly, confused at the sudden coldness before she realizes what he’s doing. His pants are quickly abandoned and she can see the condom he pulls out. 

“Can I–” her offer to help is cut off. He moves impossibly quick sometimes and before she can even move, he’s back between her legs. He pauses only to check with her, to meet her eyes as he positions himself. She hooks a leg around his waist, pulling him closer. 

The stretch is uncomfortable at first, despite the preparation. He groans against her skin as he holds himself close. She breathes, trying to let herself relax as he fills her. Did it feel like this before? Were others lacking or was it simply more because it was him? 

His lips move across her neck, an attempt to distract them both. She clutches at him, nails digging into his skin before she demands that he move. So he does. 

Her head falls back as he thrusts forward. It’s so much and somehow not enough. She wants more. She wants to burn him into her skin, some proof that this is real and happening. That he’s really muttering in her ear about how good she feels, how he’s the only one to deserve her. How he won’t let her go. 

She ignores that and focuses on how she feels. He moves one of her legs higher, his elbow under her knee as he tries to get closer, shifting the angle of his hips until her mouth drops open and words become impossible. The noises from them both would be embarrassing if she could bring herself to care. The pressure continues to build and she finds herself plunging into another orgasm before she realizes it. He kisses her, swallowing her scream as his pace increases. She leaves scratches in his skin, drawing blood as he fucks her into the mattress, refusing the ease even for a moment. 

She’s teetering on the edge of another when he finally breaks. He groans, burying himself into her. He holds her tight enough to bruise but doesn’t move. The potential of her own orgasm fades and for once she’s a bit thankful if only for the chance to breathe, to hold off on losing herself to him again. 

He pulls out, discarding the condom before he collapses on the bed next to her. She turns, moving to her stomach while she tries to recover her energy. How did they get here? Satoru and her were friends. Sort of. And now…did they ruin that? 

An arm curls around her waist before she’s pulled into his chest. She glares, regretting the last hour already. His eyes are closed and she’s surprised at the fact that he actually looks relaxed. Not in the way he pretends he is, like when he taunts the Elders.This looks real. 

One of his eyes open, peering at her. “Still hate me?” he asks, sounding far too amused for someone who just tried to fuck her senseless. 

“Yes.”

His lips twitch at that. “Same amount?”

She pretends to think about it. “Hmm…maybe a little less.”

“A little?”

She moves, holding up a hand and showing an inch between her thumb and index finger. “Just a bit.” 

He laughs. “Then I’ll just have to keep you in bed until you love me.”

Her face scrunches up at the thought. “I’m going to throw you off the roof.” 

Satoru’s grip tightens on her, pulling her closer. She thinks she feels his lips against her hair. “You can try.”

“One of these days, Satoru…” she warns. He just closes his eyes, ignoring her. She tries to push him off, gaining a bit of space so she can at least clean herself up. His grip is firm though and he doesn’t let go.

“Not yet,” she hears him say. “Just…wait, okay?”

It’s too soft and she finds herself settling without realizing. “Yeah,” she leans back against him. “Okay.” 

taglist: @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @veetlegeuse @chickensarentcheap @nejires-hado @residentdormouse @endless-oc-creations  @stanshollaand @wordspin-shares @chrissymunson

#as for the rest of the ask...you don't want me to spend my time answering it. it won't go the way you think #spite smut #gojo satoru x oc #gojo x oc #gojo satoru oneshot #ridea acts out of spite

[hotcat37]

25 for käkka and/or 46 for stalker!tommy käsh? 💚💚💚

Jere x Jukka real (I'll do the stalker! Tommy one separately and tag u in it!)

25: as a yes

Jukka has been acting a little off all day. Jere wonders if he should maybe ask him about it but he also knows that the younger man has the tendency to put up walls around himself if he's prodded too much. So he tries not to pry, continuing to ramble about everything and nothing, sitting on the floor by Jukka's feet while the other man strums his guitar. It's become a little ritual between them to hang out backstage an hour before a gig. Before Jesse starts getting stressy about the fact that nothing has been set up yet and commands everyone to get off their asses and work.

Allu and Jaakko are nowhere to be seen, leaving just him and Jukka to laze around together. Jere tolerates his own yapping and Jukka's silence for about two more minutes before he gets agitated with the knowledge that something is definitely bothering his friend.

"You okay?" He asks plainly, blunt as ever. Jukka flinches at the question, halting his fiddling, obviously getting flustered. Jere can tell even with the sunglasses covering those warm brown eyes.

"Yeah, fine." Jukka responds immediately. Only to offer a sheepish smile when Jere raises an eyebrow at him. "Or...well....I dunno."

"Tell uncle Jere what's bothering you." Jere turns around until he's leaning his arms on Jukka's legs, staring up at him, trying to decipher the guitarist's expression from underneath his shades.

But alas. Jukka is excellent at keeping a pokerface. He doesn't budge under Jere's intense staring. His body language implies that he's nervous, though, and even without that Jere knows Jukka well enough by now to be able to tell that something is up. They silently gaze at each other for what feels like an eternity before the bald one between them sighs in defeat.

"Uh....if you wanted to ask someone out, how would you do it?" Oh. Jere tries to ignore the instinctive pang of disappointment in his gut at the question.

He takes the time to think about it for a moment, remembering to push his own feelings for the guitarist aside, to be able to answer the question in a helpful way. The last thing Jere wants is to sabotage whatever plans Jukka has to make this certain someone his. As much as it pains him to know that Jukka's got the hots for someone apparently.

Nonetheless, he smiles reassuringly at his friend. "I think....I'd wait until we're alone together. Make it a private moment, y'know?"

Jukka nods slowly in response, hanging off of his every word, Jere feeling himself get a little flustered under the undivided attention. Alright, stay focused.

"Then....I'd take their hand. Like-like this." Jere demonstrates by gently prying Jukka's hands off his guitar and cupping them with his own. "And....well. No point in stalling, right? If you've got enough guts to take their hands like that I'm sure you'll work up the nerve to ask them out. Worst they can say is no, I guess. Or fuck no! Haha."

Another beat of silence. Jukka's face doesn't seem to change at all. Jere starts to wonder if maybe this is garbage advice. Jukka isn't really the type to be so blunt anyways. But Jere isn't sure how to adjust his tips to make them more shy person friendly. Just as the rapper releases his crew member's hands, the previously statue like man abruptly reaches out to firmly take Jere's hands in his.

"Oh-"

"Would you...." Jukka trails off, voice barely above a whisper and strained with effort. His face has gone beet red all of a sudden. "....wanna go out with me? S-sometime?"

Oh. What the fuck. For a few seconds Jere is so stunned that he doesn't even realize how his silence might come across until Jukka's clammy hands detach themselves from his and the guitarist starts to shrink in on himself.

"Sorry, I-"

Jere braces his hands on Jukka's knees and pushes himself forward, interrupting the upcoming apology with a sloppy but enthusiastic kiss. Jukka's lips are as soft as ever. The one thing Jere always really looks forward to once he's on the stage is for Huhhahhei to be on the set list. To think that he now has the opportunity to kiss this man without needing an excuse is something that makes him delirious with happiness.

Jukka stammers and repeatedly opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of the water, so Jere deems it necessary to clarify.

"Yeah, sure, sounds like fun."

#käärijä #jukka sorsa #Käkka #kiss game #awkward shy Jukka has my heart

[iznsfw]

I must confess to you, fellow WIZ*One l, that I was one of those who wished to see the group disbanded. It isn't because I didn't love them anymore. Rather, it really hurt me to see their well-earned efforts being invalidated by those haters. I believe they only want to make us happy and yet, I for one cannot even do ONE DAMN THING to shield them from trouble since I cannot even approach them.

It really hurt me to see them part ways but still, I'm happy now that they're being recognized in their respective careers.

I wish that someday, when everything's okay, they can do a comeback. WIZ*One out.

I understand your point of view.

People love to invalidate IZ*ONE, especially on social media. I don't bother much with haters because come on, it's useless, but because I love the girls, I felt angry whenever people said their success was just because of a survival show. And when people said that the members were untalented and were only popular because of their visuals, which is insanely untrue.

While IZ*ONE are all beautiful, they each have their own talents that contribute to the authenticity of the group:

Yena, Yujin, Chaeyeon, and Eunbi are the aces of the group, and;

there's Ssamyul with their insane vocals.

Wonyoung's iconic lines and power as a center alongside Minju and Sakura are what draw people into the group.

Hitomi and Nako are the most stable vocal-wise and brought their knowledge of dancing to their Japanese groups after dizbandment.

Hyewon brings a lot to the group with her strong variety show personality and soft vocals that carry IZ*ONE's harmonies.

IZ*ONE went through a lot, too. Due to the pandemic, WIZ*ONEs weren't able to physically be there for them. Hyekkura always got hated on because they had zero lines and because they're falsely untalented. I was glad that they got to show off their voices (Hyem's solo, and Sakura's rap in Ssera.) People were hating on the "rigged" members even though the court declared that the girls were victims in the situation, too. Some creeps were sexualizing Yujin and Wonyoung even when they were minors. The best we could do was be their fans and report the pedos, and we did what we could, so don't feel bad.

I think they were held back in IZ*ONE, although they were excellent as twelve, so seeing them shine on their own makes me both proud and nostalgic. They're being recognized more and more. Eunbi's being called the best post-IZ soloist with her amazing discography. Yena and Yuri got their first win and are venturing into comebacks. Chaeyeon's song KNOCK is charting well. Minju and Hyewon getting modeling and acting deals left and right. Nako's on the path to becoming an actress, too, and Hitomi's shining as AKB's center. Annyeongz and Ssamkkura are now more popular than ever in their new groups and get to be the unnies like they wanted. I'm beyond proud of them and will support them forever.

I can only wish for a reunion, but I'll also support them if they wish to continue on their own paths because I love the girls.

So, I understand what you're saying and can agree with some. Let's all support the girls forever.

iz, out.

P.S. Sorry for the long post. I just love the girls so much.

#ask #anon

[notmorbid]

home, pt. 1.

dialogue prompts from home by marilynne robinson.

why so quiet? you've never heard the truth before?

you take things too much to heart.

so much was never explained to me. we were that kind of family.

the truth has hard edges and sharp corners.

it's like i had a dream of adulthood and woke up here, in my parents' house.

who gets to say what's good and what's bad?

i wasn't always sure i'd live to see a day like this.

you seem transformed, but not changed.

twenty years is a very long time.

i knew i heard your voice, and i couldn't wait to get a look at you.

you couldn't be more welcome here.

what right do you have to be so strange?

i'm something. i don't quite know what i am.

how do you know i'm not a communist?

i don't really want to keep to myself so much. it's just a habit.

do you read palms?

what do people do for work around here?

i need to read my horoscope. i've forgotten what i did yesterday.

'insinuating' is an ugly word. snaky.

everything i do makes everything worse.

i'm always willing to play by the house rules.

you just picked me up and carried me, didn't you?

i'm not who you remember. i know that.

all i need is an eagle to peck at my liver, such as it is.

whatever the trouble is, i'll help if i can.

it never seems to make much of a difference, whether or not i'm at fault.

call me whatever you like. it's wonderful just to hear your voice.

i'm surprised you remember so much.

are you gonna try to save my soul?

i think i like your soul the way it is.

it is art that keeps the demons at bay.

what do you act like when you're happy?

i always thought this was an excellent place to be a child.

even the most virtuous are in no position to pass judgment.

it's remarkable how much you don't bother me.

hope is a valuable thing. there isn't always so much to rejoice about, in this life.

if you could find a way to leave, you'd be gone.

moral complexity was never my strong point.

i hope you're not mad at me, though i don't know why you wouldn't be.

i know i did the wrong thing, laughing like that.

it was all horrible enough to be funny, i suppose. now that it's over.

stupidity isn't a sin, so far as i know, but it should be one.

all my life i've wanted your attention, wanted to talk with you.

if you got to know me well enough, you might not want me around.

do you remember the time you paid me a dime to stop crying?

maybe there is no justice in the world, after all. what a wonderful thought.

you know that feeling you have when you're the reason people aren't talking?

i believe you may be the only friend i have in the world at the moment.

i don't want you to comfort me, i want you to help me.

of course i'll help you, but you have to tell me what to do.

my grandmother said you can always trust a morning dream.

i find it hard to believe these things you say about yourself.

#sentence starters #rp memes #rp meme #ask memes #inbox memes #families #historical meme

[vinegar-on-main]

VINNY!!!!!!!! YOU ARE NOW ELIGIBLE FOR 1 OF MY 3 SACRED STONE INBOX FICS!!!!!! you will become eligible for the other two once you beat chapter 11!!!!! this fic was inspired from how i just spent a comical amount of time grinding in the tower of valni and decided to make some slight eirika angst out of it :3

Leap back. Raise arm. Thrust. This motion was practically second nature to Eirika now. Monster after monster fell to her blade, almost like clockwork. Move out of the way quick once they throw their arms back. Counter while they recover.

This was their… well, she had lost count at this point. It was one of their visits to the Tower of Valni. Her and her comrades had made numerous visits to this foul place in order to make sure they were properly prepared for their journey, as the seemingly endless horde of monsters that flooded this tower’s floors made excellent target practice. After everything she’d gone through so far, she didn't expect anything to go her way or according to any sort of plan anymore. Before they headed out for Port Kiris and whatever awaited them in Rausten, she wanted to be ready.

She had to be strong. She needed to. So many people were relying on her. Looking up to her. People who would die if she made a single incorrect choice. She had to make sure nothing like what happened in Renais would ever happen again. She had to protect those she cares about. So it didn’t matter how much her arm hurt. It didn’t matter how her legs ached. It didn’t matter how the endless attacks of claws and spears got closer and closer to hitting her each time she dodged them. She had to keep going. She had t-

“Eirika?” Eirika nearly jumped out of her skin as she swiveled around to face whoever was speaking to her, seeing none I thee than a certain blue-haired pegasus knight giving her a concerned look. “T-Tana!” Eirika quickly stuttered out. “Yes? Can- can I help… you?” “We were… waiting for your word. We took care of all the monsters, but you looked… out of it.” Tana explained.

Right. Right, they had cleared out this floor. Her memory was getting a little… fuzzy. It was mostly just a blur of dodging and fighting. She was fine, though.

“Are you… doing okay, Eiri? You’ve been acting a little off for a few days now. Is something wrong?” Tana questioned.

“I’m fine.” Eirika mumbled, with a quavering voice of someone who was definitively not fine. Tana knitted her brow slightly. “If you say it like that, I’m not going to believe you.” “I… I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” Eirika stared, hoping to move on from this conversation.

“You’re pushing yourself again, aren’t you?” Drat. Tara did always have an uncanny sense of telling when something was bothering her.

Eirika simply averted her eyes and stood there in silence for a few seconds, hoping that Tana would just… give up, and go do absolutely anything else. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the kind of person Tana was. Eirika let out a shaky sigh “It’s… been a lot, these past few days. I… I want to make sure we’re ready. I want to be ready. But… I would be lying if I said this was not… taking its toll. But I need t-"

Eirika paused as Tana laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Listen, Eirika. I understand this is a lot. No one said war was easy. But you don’t have to do everything yourself. You can rely on us. You aren’t alone, alright? We’re all here to help you, and you need to know that, okay?” Eirika nodded.

Tana let out a satisfied huff. “Okay. I worry about you sometimes, so just… take care of yourself, alright?” Tana shot Eirika a playful wink. “Besides, you won’t be much help on the battlefield if you run yourself ragged, right?” Eirika cracked a small smile for what felt like the first time in days.

“Hehe… right. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Tana.” Tana gave her a quick nod as she headed back to the main group to tell them of their next destination. Eirika finally took a moment to catch her breath, only now noticing how tired she was. Maybe they could call it a day early today. She probably wasn’t the only one who needed a break, and they needed to be prepared for their journey to Rausten tomorrow. A journey they would all walk down together.

BEANNN THANK YOU FOR SENDING ME THIS AUGHHHHH I LOVE THEM THEYRE SO

#asks #inbox fic #fire emblem #fe8 #fire emblem sacred stones #sacred stones #Fe Erikia #FE Tana

[selfdiagnosedeyemotif]

Leap back. Raise arm. Thrust. This motion was practically second nature to Eirika now. Monster after monster fell to her blade, almost like clockwork. Move out of the way quick once they throw their arms back. Counter while they recover.

This was their… well, she had lost count at this point. It was one of their visits to the Tower of Valni. Her and her comrades had made numerous visits to this foul place in order to make sure they were properly prepared for their journey, as the seemingly endless horde of monsters that flooded this tower’s floors made excellent target practice. After everything she’d gone through so far, she didn't expect anything to go her way or according to any sort of plan anymore. Before they headed out for Port Kiris and whatever awaited them in Rausten, she wanted to be ready.

She had to be strong. She needed to. So many people were relying on her. Looking up to her. People who would die if she made a single incorrect choice. She had to make sure nothing like what happened in Renais would ever happen again. She had to protect those she cares about. So it didn’t matter how much her arm hurt. It didn’t matter how her legs ached. It didn’t matter how the endless attacks of claws and spears got closer and closer to hitting her each time she dodged them. She had to keep going. She had t-

“Eirika?” Eirika nearly jumped out of her skin as she swiveled around to face whoever was speaking to her, seeing none I thee than a certain blue-haired pegasus knight giving her a concerned look. “T-Tana!” Eirika quickly stuttered out. “Yes? Can- can I help… you?” “We were… waiting for your word. We took care of all the monsters, but you looked… out of it.” Tana explained.

Right. Right, they had cleared out this floor. Her memory was getting a little… fuzzy. It was mostly just a blur of dodging and fighting. She was fine, though.

“Are you… doing okay, Eiri? You’ve been acting a little off for a few days now. Is something wrong?” Tana questioned.

“I’m fine.” Eirika mumbled, with a quavering voice of someone who was definitively not fine. Tana knitted her brow slightly. “If you say it like that, I’m not going to believe you.” “I… I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” Eirika stared, hoping to move on from this conversation “You’re pushing yourself again, aren’t you?” Drat. Tara did always have an uncanny sense of telling when something was bothering Eirika. Eirika simply averted her eyes and stood there in silence for a few seconds, hoping that Tana would just… give up, and go do absolutely anything else. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the kind of person Tana was. Eirika let out a shaky sigh “It’s… been a lot, these past few days. I… I want to make sure we’re ready. I want to be ready. But… I would be lying if I said this was not… taking its toll. But I need t-"

Eirika paused as Tana laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Listen, Eirika. I understand this is a lot. No one said war was easy. But you don’t have to do everything yourself. You can rely on us. You aren’t alone, alright? We’re all here to help you, and you need to know that, okay?” Eirika nodded. Tana let out a satisfied huff. “Okay. I worry about you sometimes, so just… take care of yourself, alright?” Tana shot Eirika a playful wink. “Besides, you won’t be much help on the battlefield if you run yourself ragged, right?” Eirika cracked a small smile for what felt like the first time in days. “Hehe… right. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Tana.” Tana gave her a quick nod as she headed back to the main group to tell them of their next destination. Eirika finally took a moment to catch her breath, only now noticing how tired she was. Maybe they could call it a day early today. She probably wasn’t the only one who needed a break, and they needed to be prepared for their journey to Rausten tomorrow. A journey they would all walk down together.

have i mentioned that i love your writing style? because i LOVE your writing style.

the characterization is, yet again, on point with this. also, im a sucker for the trope of a longtime friend gazing directly through the "im fine" facade that protagonists seem to love putting up

#i love your writing man #its just damned good #and the void screameth back #beantothemax

[these-detestable-hands]

Leap back. Raise arm. Thrust. This motion was practically second nature to Eirika now. Monster after monster fell to her blade, almost like clockwork. Move out of the way quick once they throw their arms back. Counter while they recover.

This was their… well, she had lost count at this point. It was one of their visits to the Tower of Valni. Her and her comrades had made numerous visits to this foul place in order to make sure they were properly prepared for their journey, as the seemingly endless horde of monsters that flooded this tower’s floors made excellent target practice. After everything she’d gone through so far, she didn't expect anything to go her way or according to any sort of plan anymore. Before they headed out for Port Kiris and whatever awaited them in Rausten, she wanted to be ready.

She had to be strong. She needed to. So many people were relying on her. Looking up to her. People who would die if she made a single incorrect choice. She had to make sure nothing like what happened in Renais would ever happen again. She had to protect those she cares about. So it didn’t matter how much her arm hurt. It didn’t matter how her legs ached. It didn’t matter how the endless attacks of claws and spears got closer and closer to hitting her each time she dodged them. She had to keep going. She had t-

“Eirika?” Eirika nearly jumped out of her skin as she swiveled around to face whoever was speaking to her, seeing none I thee than a certain blue-haired pegasus knight giving her a concerned look. “T-Tana!” Eirika quickly stuttered out. “Yes? Can- can I help… you?” “We were… waiting for your word. We took care of all the monsters, but you looked… out of it.” Tana explained.

Right. Right, they had cleared out this floor. Her memory was getting a little… fuzzy. It was mostly just a blur of dodging and fighting. She was fine, though.

“Are you… doing okay, Eiri? You’ve been acting a little off for a few days now. Is something wrong?” Tana questioned.

“I’m fine.” Eirika mumbled, with a quavering voice of someone who was definitively not fine. Tana knitted her brow slightly. “If you say it like that, I’m not going to believe you.” “I… I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” Eirika stared, hoping to move on from this conversation. “You’re pushing yourself again, aren’t you?” Drat. Tara did always have an uncanny sense of telling when something was bothering Eirika. Eirika simply averted her eyes and stood there in silence for a few seconds, hoping that Tana would just… give up, and go do absolutely anything else. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the kind of person Tana was. Eirika let out a shaky sigh “It’s… been a lot, these past few days. I… I want to make sure we’re ready. I want to be ready. But… I would be lying if I said this was not… taking its toll. But I need t-"

Eirika paused as Tana laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Listen, Eirika. I understand this is a lot. No one said war was easy. But you don’t have to do everything yourself. You can rely on us. You aren’t alone, alright? We’re all here to help you, and you need to know that, okay?” Eirika nodded. Tana let out a satisfied huff. “Okay. I worry about you sometimes, so just… take care of yourself, alright?” Tana shot Eirika a playful wink. “Besides, you won’t be much help on the battlefield if you run yourself ragged, right?” Eirika cracked a small smile for what felt like the first time in days. “Hehe… right. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Tana.” Tana gave her a quick nod as she headed back to the main group to tell them of their next destination. Eirika finally took a moment to catch her breath, only now noticing how tired she was. Maybe they could call it a day early today. She probably wasn’t the only one who needed a break, and they needed to be prepared for their journey to Rausten tomorrow. A journey they would all walk down together.

DING DING DING YOU WROTE EIRIKA CORRECTLY I LOVE IT BEAN IT'S SO PERFECT AAAAAAAAAAJDJFIEJSJSJEEJ your writing style is so!!!! *bangs head against wall while giggling* you know??? Ough and Tana being such a nice, caring friend too :] 11/10 fic Beanie, if I could then I'd delete it from my memory so I could read it for the first time again

#Asks #Beantothemax #Sacred scones #Inbox fic

[decolonize-the-left]

I agree with you about radfems being terrible, but at the same time the bigger issue with that post is that simply being or acting airheaded and calling yourself a bimbo isn't "a feminist act." Not everything any given woman does, even ones that identify as feminists, needs to be feminist. It's okay for them to just exist in a way that makes them happy and make whatever content makes them happy as long as they're not hurting anyone. But even a broken clock is wrong twice a day, so the point of whether or not them making videos and self id'ing as bimbos "is a feminist act" is that it isn't. I don't know if I'd go as far as to call it anti feminist either, but can we stop trying to claim everything a woman does has to be feminist?

I think it's funny you're hid behind a greyface to tell me that "not everything women do is a feminist act" when the beliefs of radfems and TERFs are founded on the idea that happily having a uterus -an organ 50% of the planet have- is the single defining factor in womanhood and who deserves a voice within feminism.

Anyway.

Bimbos are feminists because within sexism the value of women is attached to their intelligence. Either being too smart (like having the audacity to read in the 1700's or making a man look dumb by knowing more than him in 2022) or being too "dumb" (usually just means she didn't know every single little detail about whatever subject people around her were talking about).

It's feminist because it directly challenges that sexist belief. It's feminist because women are inherently valuable. It's feminist because their value should not be attached to their intelligence. It's feminist because taking pride in your intelligence (or lack thereof) directly challenges the control that sexism and patriarchy try to exert over the intelligence of women.

Thinking they can't be feminist cuz you personally don't think being a bimbo is feminist is just a perpetuation of the belief that dumb girls aren't worth listening to or valuing.

But my explanation doesn't actually matter because you don't actually care. You didn't send this in good faith and it's so obvious that I'm offended you thought I'd actually buy your bullshit.

My entire life is trauma, babe. I know when someone is trying to manipulate me and my beliefs, that isn't gonna happen here

To my followers:

The only reason I even posted this was to unpack this ask.

TERFs are deeply manipulative & gaslighting. They will happily placate you until they earn enough of your trust to make you more receptive to hearing & sharing their views.

So let's break this down.

She immediately claimed not to be a radfem and othered herself from them. That's an excellent way to make someone who's normally hostile to radfems feel like they're youre on the same side as them. Lowers your defenses, makes you more willing to listen.

She also talks in a way that makes it sound like she isn't being malicious. She just doesn't agree with me, that's all. Again, a manipulative tactic intended to weaken your defenses and get you to actually consider what the radfem is saying. I mean it's not like she's hostile...right?

While using this tone immediately launches into sharing her beliefs and logic as to why being a bimbo isn't feminist. Which, you'll notice she doesn't actually explain. She states they aren't feminist and says "not everything women do is feminist" as a reason but doesn't even bother to name why she feels that way.

She also owns up to the fact that she shares this opinion with radfems and adds "a broken clock is right twice a day" which she's hoping is enough to gain more trust by being so openly honest while simultaneously making it clear that even though she shares an opinion with them she isn't one of them.

And again, the best way to get me, someone Actively hostile to radfems, to listen would be do exactly what I said above. Placate, align herself as someone on my side, and do her best not to sound like a radfem. So instead of just sending "bimbos aren't feminist" which would have gotten across the Same Exact Message, I get this long winded ask written like a freshman trying to reach the word count on an essay. Because she doesn't just want me to know her opinion, she wants me to share it.

"can we stop claiming everything women do is feminist?" Finally, the goddamn point. After doing all this she wants me to agree with her point. The same exact point radfems were trying to make. Bimbos aren't feminists. Let me clear: the only people on earth who share the same feminist opinions with radfems and have a motive to get other people to share those radfem opinions are radfems trying push their bigotry.

Don't fall for this shit.