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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 9 months

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We talk about how mischaracterized Hobie is - which he is - but I honestly think someone else is characterized REALLY weirdly by fandom

Miguel O'Hara and Misrepresentation of His Rage: a.k.a Miguel has Ken Energy you fools

[this is a breakdown where I examine Miguel's trauma, his relationship with Miles, his role in The Society, and his personality]

I talk a lot of shit about the Hobie tag, but the over-saturation of smut in the Miguel tag is at critical mass.

And like Latino-fetishization aside, I feel like he's not written as a human.

He's written so flat.

I swear ya'll be writing him as the angriest, coldest, most anti-social man on earth. Ya'll be having him rude and avoidant with no friends whatsoever or a romantic soft latin lover and NO IN BETWEEN

which is so funny cause like... I feel like Miguel is Just A Guy

I know they're easy to overlook but I think about moments like these all the time

But I ALWAYS see him written him as friendless, and cold, or constantly irritated and angry but like - I feel like most of the time Miguel is just some dude. Like in a Good Way.

And he's fine with that.

Miguel runs a Society Full of Spider-people, and they're working for him voluntarily. Peter Parkers wouldn't work for someone they didn't think was genuinely, good-likeable, and level-headed.

He compliments Lego-Spider-Man. When Hobie was there he wasn't pissed he was just like 'not in the mood rn ngl'

and Hobie didn't take the piss outta him - because I feel like him and Hobie have a mutal understanding/relaxed relationship. All throughout the movie Hobie isn't talking bad about Miguel in specific - he never says anything about Miguel being annoying or evil - he's always taking about The Society Miguel has made.

Even Hobie - who will openly talk bad about the PM, doesn't really feel the need to diss Miguel's character in specific. Which I find very interesting.

I think this, along with a couple other things shows that the way we view Miguel in fandom is not really how he is, like..when he's not going buckwild insane.

Miguel and His Role as Canon

I could see Miguel taking his role as boss very seriously - the same way he took being a father.

Miguel has assumed the role of 'leader' over these Spider-people. In his eyes, it's his job to lead these people through their canon events to the other side, for the safety of the universe, and for them to become the people fate says they're supposed to be.

Because he made the mistake of 'going against fate'. A lot of the time we say that Miguel's justification is 'because I suffered, you must too'. But in his eyes, it's more like 'I tried to run from who I was supposed to be and it blew up in my face. Please don't make the same mistake - it's not worth it.'

Quiet literally 'Do what you're supposed to do, and things won't fall apart around you.'

And I think that really says a lot about how he feels about his own choices, and his own daughter.

Miguel broke canon to be with his daughter, and because of that, she - and billions of others, died. And Miguel feels directly responsible for that. In his eyes, he killed his daughter and murdered billions of people.

And although he loves his daughter - he sees it as not worth it. He sees taking her father's place as a mistake.

To Miguel, canon events and the pain they cause are much more 'worth it' and 'tolerable', than the pain and guilt of killing an entire universe.

Because with canon events, there is no fault. It's not your fault you couldn't catch Gwen Stacy. It's not that you're not fast enough, it's that it's suppose to happen. It's not your fault.

But in Miguel's case - it was his fault. It wasn't suppose to happen.

That's why Miles sets him off in a way others don't and can't. Because he wasn't supposed to happen.

When things are under control, Miguel is fine. When things aren't, Miguel isn't.

Miguel needs order. He needs canon. Not because he likes it, but because he feels beaten into submission by it. He feels safe in the idea that canon events happen even if you do everything right, because he still feels the guilt of having done something 'wrong'.

That's why he sees letting people die in canon events as 'the right thing'.

It's the trolley problem.

A trolley is hurtling at someone you love, on the other track there are 5 people. Do you let the one you love die, or do you hit the switch and save them - and take the blame for killing five people?

What's the right thing to do? Save your captain father and letting a universe die? Or letting your father die, but the universe will for sure live.

Miguel has already made his choice, even if he didn't know it at the time. By becoming a father, Miguel hit the switch. And he chose his daughter at the expense of a universe. And he regrets that decision. He feels guilt, like he's to blame.

When canon events happen, there's no one to blame. When anomalies happen, there is.

Miles and Miguel

Miles and Miguel have an interesting and unique dynamic with each other, one that I haven't seen anyone mention yet.

When I look at Miles and Miguel, especially in this scene:

I kinda see Miguel and a past version of himself. Miguel trying to stop what he sees - as someone about to make the same mistake he did.

When Miguel met his daughter, he didn't know about it's threat to the multiverse. And although it might be described as the best time in Miguel's life, he regrets it. If he would go back, he would have rather let his daughter live. Fatherless, but at least she would have lived.

Miguel didn't know. But Miles does. And that's what makes Miguel so furious.

Miles is going to go against canon, be with his dad, and threaten the multiverse. And Miguel believes that if Miles does this, billions of people and beings across a universe will die. 100% totality rate, 100% assured.

Miles is in the same position as Miguel once was. Miles has the same choice. To choose the one he loves over canon.

The only difference is Miles knows. He has a chance.

Miguel believes that Miles can spare himself the pain, and the guilt of murdering billions - if he just listened to him.

Miguel is the only Spider-person who has ever killed a Spider-verse. And he doesn't want that for Miles.

Miles being an anomaly was one thing. He was ready to calmly talk about that. But when Miguel sees him going down the same road as he once did, making the same choice even though Miguel is telling him not to - it makes it snap.

Because if Miguel could go back, knowing what he knows - if Miguel could only be in Miles' place - he wouldn't. Like Rio said - Miguel would kill to be in his place.

He sees Miguel like how Rio describes herself, oddly enough. Rio says she'd kill to be in Miles place, and she doesn't understand his 'irresponsible' behavior. But unbeknownst to her - his 'irresponsible' behavior is more heroic than she can understand.

Miguel is just the same. He sees Miles' choice as irresponsible, that he's making all the wrong choices even though people are throwing opportunity at him.

Miles is the only other Spider-person to risk what Miguel risked. And, genuinely believing everyone will die because of this - he's furious at Miles, the same way he's still furious at himself. He loved his daughter, and he knows Miles loves it dad. But having been on the other side of it all, he sees it as not worth it.

Miguel wants to be the only Spider-man who is the way he is. He doesn't want to Miles to do what he did, become what he is. Because he knows theres no coming back from that.

If Miguel could go back and shake himself and scream in his face to leave Gabriella alone, to just leave her dimension alone, he would. But he can't.

So he does it to Miles.

Miguel as a Boss

I don't think Miguel is an outright mean or abrasive person. I feel like outside of Miles, he's fairly calm, albeit a bit stressed. I could see him being really organized and good at time management -

And I can see Miguel being good with people. I don't think he's the kinda boss that'd be like 'Oh, you had a canon event last night? Your girlfriend fell off a building? Yeah, we get that a lot, get over it.'

And if anything - I think he'd want to help the Spider-people when it comes to processing canon events.

Miguel believes that canon events are necessary, not just to the multiverse, but to the development of who Spider-people are 'supposed' to be. So I think he'd set up support systems around HQ to help them process it, and he'd at least be a bit understanding.

I could absolutely see Miguel as the type to ask a teammate "Are you alright?" after something intense, or telling them to sit out. I could see him giving generous leave for Spiders who are going through stuff.

By Jess's response, it seems as if he leaves most of that to her, but I feel like the fact he stops to tell Gwen "Don't worry, kid." shows that he's use to comforting people, or prioritizes putting people at ease.

I mean, what Spider-man doesn't?

Miguel does seem to get along with people (aside from Miles and Gwen when he's scolding her), and it seems like people do like Miguel.

Miguel's Personality

Tbh - I don't think he's nearly as angry as fandom makes him out to be.

He was raising a child. I imagine that for the most part, he's pretty patient.

Like if you call him a name, he's not gonna get pissed. I feel like he's more likely to be like "Haha. Very funny." Or just pinch his nose bridge and be like "You done?"

I mean I know with all the gnashing and clawing and yelling and going apeshit, it can be easy to imagine Miguel as JUST that.

But I also like to imagine that most of the time, he's just like that normal boss as Target.

And a lot of his day is spent doing boring mundane things.

He's not always standing there brooding over videos of him and his dead daughter. He only does that when he's psyching himself up to yell at Miles.

Outside of that, he probably has a lot more things to do, realistically speaking. Organizing missions, checking status reports, looking over intake forms of anomalies, okaying and vetoing different protocols. Approving new technology, taking complaints from members, dealing with Hobie (an extra job in its own right), fixing things MayDay breaks, etc, etc.

And he's completely fine with that. Maybe he even finds calmness in it. When there's order, and routine, and everyone is working together and there's no kinks in the hose per say, he can operate.

Like yeah he's a little irritated and looks like he only slept 4 hours - but he's here and he's going to work with his team and employees, make sure things run smoothly, and make sure everyone gets home safe.

He's gonna try and make the society a nice place to be and make sure people on the team (like Lego) feel appreciated and odd-one-outs like Hobie get to hang and do what they want without much kickback.

The other Spider-people - like Pavi - wouldn't have joined otherwise.

If Pavi had showed up and Miguel was all stern and cold and rude, he probably would've been like 'no thanks my friend'

Miguel knew Peter B. before he lost Gabriella. So he had to become friends with Peter some way. He was putting up with Peter and his humor by choice, and in return Peter must have found Miguel cool enough to hang out with.

I think it's because Miguel is good with people, a lot of different types of people.

He's pretty down to earth, even if he is a work-aholic. He can be fun to chill or hang out with, even if he's a bit of a tight-ass.

Sure his humor may be dry, and his personality tame, but he's just him.

But I can see him as being a guy who you see at the gym routinely and never say hi to but you just nod at each other in silent respect while doing your workouts sometime.

Or the dude at your job you only see at the coffee machine - you know he does other stuff, but you never run into him anywhere else.

Or the dude who'll stop on the street when you ask for the time and lift one earphone before telling you it, then walking away without another word.

DO YOU GET WHAT I MEAN DO YOU GET THAT VIBE Like just Dude He's like a dad but not like a 'Dad vibe' with like sneakers or anything but like 'Dad who comes to PTA meeting but doesn't talk to anybody and quietly leaves when it's over'.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU UNDERSTAND THIS VIBE It's giving Ken.

Anyways stop avoiding Miguel's Kenergy.

#He's just Miguel #no proofread lol #Miguel O'hara #Miles Morales #atsv #Across the Spiderverse #across the spider verse #spiderman #spider man #spiderman 2099 #atsv analysis #marvel

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heart2beom · 1 year

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totally unlabeled kisses

➞ pairing: best friend!beomgyu x f!reader

➞ synopsis: in which you and beomgyu teeter between being normal best friends and well...best friends who makeout from time to time.

➞ genre: fluff, comedy, b2l

➞ notes: i just realized how much im going to exhaust this trope on the blog, with the event + my other big fic...oooh, there's going to be some repetition here. by the time i'm done, won't be able to write anything b2l related. request + request.

taglist: @boba-beom , 700 event masterlist!

Questions you've grown to be annoyingly accustomed to at some point in your life: "What college are you going to?" — that one was a pain for a few months, "When are you getting married?" — this one’s going to be a pain for a few decades, "Is it that time of the month again?" — you sorta learn to filter this question out of your head.

Questions you haven't built tolerance for: "Are you guys together?"

It's ten times more aggravating when it’s always, always about the same person. Y'know, none other than the annoying, but to his credit, somewhat funny, and sorta loveable goofball that is Choi Beomgyu.

Each time, you'd say a similarly repetitive response: "No, we're just friends." Which is exactly what it was. Beomgyu is your best friend. Has been your best friend— for, like, forever.

Starting right from the torturous tween stage that was middle school, to now, it's the question that followed you both to the hells of earth. The era of awkward bowlcuts and invisaligns that fooled no one have been long behind you, yet it seemed that the theory you and Beomgyu were secretly together never passed. Ever.

Sure, you get it, it's the childhood friends to marriage descend that gets everyone swooning, but that was totally not you and Beomgyu.

Even after what happened two months ago. You decided to lean a little too close that day, and somehow, your lips captured his, at a house party, in god knows whose closet. You’re not sure why you went for it—you liked to blame the drinking game you played a little before this, or the darkness of the closet, or the way his breathing was magnified to your ears, how it synced with yours. You don’t even remember how you got in the closet with him.

What you do remember is how the kiss was a little hesitant and trying, tongue testing the waters before Beomgyu decided on his own to tilt his head at an angle, turning the chaste kiss into a little more.

You liked it.

You liked how his lips were soft, yet the slight roughness of the kiss had you forgetting it was Choi fucking Beomgyu you had your arms around—the boy you’ve seen pick his boogers more times than you’d like to count. His rather large hands cupped your cheeks, still kissing you like his life depended on it.

You call it the Closet incident.

…There were lots of repeats of the Closet incident.

On top of a kitchen counter, in front of your flat’s entrance, in the hallway of Beomgyu’s dormitory, on the couch, in a movie theater as your unknowing friends sat a seat in front of you focused on the gore scene, in Beomgyu’s rusted, mario kart that he calls a car. But obviously, no feelings involved. Obviously.

"Can you make me look good this time?"

You scoff incredulously. "I always make you look good."

It’s a Friday and Beomgyu came over to your place to pick you up for your friend dates, like usual. Which consisted of going to the mall, then a trip to the local movie theater, and finally getting your favorite frozen yogurt. His go-to flavor being red velvet, and yours good ol’ chocolate mint. You never hear the end of it from Beomgyu.

"I have something to ask by the way." Beomgyu throws his head back on the couch, staring up at you. He’s situated on the floor, between your legs as you braid his hair. What? It’s therapeutic.

“You know how Heeseung asked you if you were dating anyone yesterday?”

“Turn your head to the left, Gyu.” you mutter, eyes narrowing as you focus on his hair, taking the braiding pretty seriously. “And yeah? What about it?”

He doesn’t budge, arms lazily crossed. “Why’d you tell him no?”

Your fingers stop the braid, blinking a few times down at Beomgyu. “Because…I’m not dating anyone.”

He naively blinks a few times, still staring up at you, before cracking a weirdly conflicted smile, as if he got to his senses. Then he turns his head to the left like you asked him to earlier, “Oh, yeah, I mean… yeah.”

You manage to give him a quick smile back, albeit a little stiff, as you refocus your attention on his hair again. But it’s near damn impossible, thoughts as to what Beomgyu was trying to imply clouding your head too much for proper focus.

What’d he want you to say? You weren’t dating anyone, Beomgyu knew, you knew, everyone knew. But he was still confused in those three seconds, as if that wasn’t true. And that had your head in a jumble.

It wasn’t like this was the only thing he’s done or said that had you questioning what he felt about you was a little more than platonic.

Like, yesterday as an example, when Beomgyu showed up by your side, presumably out of nowhere, a hand wrapped around your waist when Heeseung approached you.

Or the time you were playing truth or dare and Taehyun asked him if he liked anyone that was in the room, and you swear he found your eyes for a few seconds before smiling and downing his drink— choosing to leave the question unanswered, the rest groaning of how he was no fun.

You’re reading too much into things…right?

It’s all you’ve been thinking about at the time of your slumber. And it made the occasional, random makeout sessions that much more impactful. Your finger lingering on your lip, starstruck after just a single peck from Beomgyu, as if you were a middle schooler who just got her first kiss.

“What do you think?”

He looks at himself through his phone’s camera at every possible angle, a genuine smile creeping up his face, “It’s so cute, I love it.” When he practically jumps on you, you fall to a laying position, and laugh. He resembled a puppy. “I told you you should be a hairstylist.”

The proximity of his face near yours doesn’t faze you—or you at least hope it looks like that. You quirk a brow, “Since when?”

He taps his index finger on his temple, “Telepathy. I tell you everyday through telepathy.”

Surprisingly, that gets you to snort, broken completely out of your previous reverie— he was ridiculous.

“I like it so much I want to kiss you.”

He’s quick to follow through, landing a silly peck on your lips. You know it didn’t even look that good, but he still managed to make you feel like you gave him the hairstyle of the century. Which had no business making your heartbeat just a tinge faster. Oh, it’s bad for you.

You adjust your position by attempting to sit up straight. He catches that, a confused smile as he gets off you. You purse your lips, the awkward silence not a bother as you think of ways you could put all your confusion the past few weeks into one simple sentence.

“Beomgyu, do you… like me?”

You can tell that by the sudden question, he’s taken back, the corner of his lips falling. Before he does his habit again, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, a hesitant grin plastered on his face. “I mean, isn’t it a little obvious?”

You furrow your brows. “Uh no, no it wasn’t …obvious!” It wasn’t! Beomgyu was naturally a romantic, how would you catch that he was serious?

He raises his brows. “What, did you think I kissed you all these times because I was doing it for the shits and giggles?”

You think over it for a second. “…Let’s be real, you did have a lot of fun shoving your tongue down my throat in public.”

“Busted.” he puts up his hands as mock retreat, then sighs, “But for reason. This isn’t how I thought this…would go. But, yeah…I do like you. In the gross romantic way. Maybe L-word you too. I don’t know, I just know that my heart dumbly wholeheartedly believes that you’re my soulmate. For whatever reason.”

You feel your mouth dry, looking up at Beomgyu, your movement still. “Since when?”

Beomgyu chews down on his bottom lip, hesitating before he quietly says, “Since you got me the cookie and cream ice cream sandwich as an apology for saying my ex-girlfriend was butt ugly.”

It’s so comically specific yet it’s still funny how you immediately say, “Seventh grade.” Because you also remember, you very clearly remember the day Beomgyu had bawled his eyes out, because he just got dumped, and your attempt of trying to comfort him by saying he had awful taste. Turns out, people don’t like being told that their ex wasn’t good looking fresh out of the relationship.

The fury you felt at the sight of seeing Beomgyu so sad could’ve been explained by just the fact that you were extremely close friends, but you’re now left wondering if you also liked him a little back then.

“I like you too.”

Beomgyu huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head, “You don’t have to say that just because I said it. I don’t cry over rejections anymore.”

Your eyes wander down to his lips for a split second. Then to the man in front of you, his loose fitted signature flannel so…Beomgyu. His quirky styled hair, so fitting on him. No matter how much he matured, his features undeniably handsome, he was still the boy you proudly call a best friend. Your best friend. “No, I like you. In the gross romantic way.”

You’re more sure now in comparison to seven years ago.

He falls silent, staring at you before he lets out a quiet, “Oh.”

You sit there, playing with your hands as you wait for Beomgyu to say something a little more than that. You’re not sure what’s going through his head, you often feel like, even after knowing him for so long, you don’t know what happens in there. At all.

You’re caught off guard when you feel Beomgyu’s familiar lips on yours, but quickly linger against them, letting him take a hold of you, as he was above you again.

You feel his smile break into the kiss and you stop for a moment. "Are we a couple now?" he asks, barely a whisper. You nod.

"We swore to everyone this would never happen." You swore to yourself that you didn’t like Beomgyu ‘like that’. Always so sure, so sure that he was nothing but a friend.

Everyone saw it but you. How idiotic did you look?

"Exactly. We're never going to hear the end of it. But..."

"But... it's worth it?" you finish his sentence.

You like the way his eyes glint under the dim light of your living room. You like the curve of the ends of his lips, the way they create the cutest, most adorable whisker dimples. He lays his forehead on yours. "Like, thirty thousand times worth it."

"People usually say a million..." you tease with a tilt of your head.

His breath fans against your skin before smiling and leaning his head in for another kiss. He catches you by surprise again, but this time you’re a little more prepared, your arms quickly finding their way, hanging off your freshly new boyfriend slash best friend for life’s shoulder. But then he pulls away.

Way too fast. "That was to shut you up for being a smartass." You're slightly left out of breath, your chest softly rising and falling as you look at him confused.

“And this…” He kisses the tip of your nose, “Is for not turning down Heeseung yesterday and making me stupidly, ridiculously sulky."

You catch onto what he’s doing, giggling, but still ask "What are you doing, idiot?"

He doesn't stop, still as smiley as ever. He kisses the temple of your cheek, "This is for all the years I've chased after your oblivious ass."

Your other cheek, "This is for…”

Suddenly, he peppers kisses all over your face and your giggles turn into full on laughter the more he kisses all over your skin— it's ticklish. When he stops and it's silent you feel the energy shift. You ask the pending question with a whisper, "And what was that for?"

Silence overtakes him as he stares down at you, a faint smile on his face.

"For all the decades I'll spend loving you."

notes: reblogging [the little sign by the heart button] helps push this fic! it's the main thing that helps me out and its what tumblr's algorithm picks up on!! thoughts are appreciated, always ^^ ❤

#txt fanfic #beomgyu fic #beomgyu fanfic #beomgyu scenarios #beomgyu imagines #beomgyu drabbles #beomgyu fluff #beomgyu x reader #txt fic #txt scenarios #txt imagines #txt fluff #txt drabbles #txt x reader #txt series

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verm1c1de · 7 months

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Zims entire personality is completely fabricated

Let me explain.

Zim, as we know him, is just a mask made up by.. well, Zim.

Zim doesn’t exist.

Because Zim, at his most genuine, loves.

And Zim is not supposed to love.

It’s been thrown around throughout the entire course of the series that Zim is, in fact, a very intelligent individual. Moreso than irkens, renowned technology-thieves, are known to be. It’s for this fact, that it would make sense, that Zim would not be completely ignorant of how the rest of Irken society views him.

The defect, the worst irken to ever exist, et cetera.

There’s no way to be that obtuse about your own infamy, and if there is, there’s enough hints and clues in the series to allow viewers to come to the conclusion that Zim isn’t unaware of it all.

And no, this is not a “Zim is a genius and knows absolutely everything” post. He’s definitely gullible. He absolutely has the worst priorities, he doesn’t know when to quit, too stubborn and set in his own beliefs, but he does Know a lot more than he lets on.

Multiple instances of Tallest Purple nearly revealing the truth about Zim’s mission or being too careless with his words are brushed away, either spoken over by Red or ignored completely by Zim, as if he didn’t hear it at all. Similarly, Sizz-Lorr exists as tangible evidence of everything wrong with Zim’s falsified identity as an invader. He shows up for one episode and that episode introduces some of the most important building on Zim’s coding and the consequences derived from his destructive actions on Irk. And his response to this, is to flat out deny it. Because with Purple, he has the expectation to not be aware. With Sizz-Lorr, everything he’s done is laid out in front of him, forcing him to acknowledge it. He won’t.

Zim, at his most genuine, is paranoid.

Paranoid enough to fabricate an entire personality from nothing after having the entirety of Irken knowledge downloaded into his PAK, only minutes after having been freed from his tube.

Zim is a bootlicker. Zim couldn’t care less about the Tallest. Zim seeks absolution from the Tallest because he knows that he was Made Wrong and that the things he’s done are unforgivable, but he can’t help himself. Zim only goes out of his way to gain their attention because he knows that’s what the average irken desires. All of these are true.

Zim is only drawn to invading in the most superficial way possible for an irken. He enjoys the idea of invading, not because it is personally "appealing" to him in any sense of the word, but because he knows that it is for others. It's an esteemed title. An invader gets to have respect. An invader gets to be addressed directly by the Tallest.

Being an invader is the best thing. Not for him, but for his act.

He needs the act. The act will save him from his imperialistic society. The act is the worst thing to ever happen to him.

Zim is nothing without it. He’s nothing with it.

He hates the act.

(“Hey, you’re a worse flier than I am!”)

And it’s very, very likely that he hates himself because of it. Much more than anyone else could ever hate him, because their hate for him is as superficial as his allegiance to the Empire is.

Zim does not fit in on Irk because Irk doesn’t need a Zim. Irk doesn’t need an irken soldier whose sole identity is to destroy.

Which is why Zim fits in so much better on Earth as its villain. On Earth, he gets to be a part of the story, not a fool that has to force himself on stage to even have some semblance of a spotlight.

Zim was already firmly set into his role before arriving to Earth; but coming there, and meeting Dib, further instills Zim with the drive to keep it up. Dib exists to be a hero, after all! And heroes need their villains. Zim fits into that role perfectly. And of course Zim, being nothing BUT a role, is drawn to it. He'll feed into Dib's alien obsession because Dib's alien obsession fits into Zim's "character". The big bad guy that needs to be fought against.

Which makes sense.

If he's the big bad that everyone hates, he doesn't have to worry about wondering if anyone loves him, because he knows they don't.

His first words were “I love you.”

The Zim we know does not love.

The Zim we know is nothing but an elaborate, one-irken act, stuck playing the same role in the same show for as long as he draws it out for.

One which would collapse if anything ever brought attention to it.

this post would not have been made without the help of @short-and-ugly and @animatorfun. seriously. like they wrote it. they were my editors.

this is NOT a headcanon post, im for realsies. this is metatextual analysis. i genuinely believe this is what zims character is supposed to be ((even if not necessarily intentionally))

#iz #invader zim #zim #iz analysis #long post #very long post #vermi.txt #Zim Larp Theory #named soafter our google doc about it

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bloompompom · 5 months

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Drive-In Distraction

Tonight's horror movie double-feature won't be the only thing that has you wanting to scream

✩ content: ~5.6k word count. eren jaeger x female reader. modern au, established relationship, porn without plot, fluff, teasing, oral sex (m!receiving), PIV sex, public sex, quiet sex, exhibitionism, slight overstimulation, come fucking, dirty talk, praise, spit, explicit sexual content, explicit language. reader discretion advised. 18+ only

“Eren!”

The scold left you in a harsh whisper, only after you realized where his hand was venturing. Once innocently on your thigh, giving you sweet intermittent squeezes, now traveling higher and higher.

This was not the place to start fooling around with each other.

Earlier that day, Eren tossed you the idea of going to the drive-in theater, said it was the perfect activity for the season since they were showing a late-night horror movie double-feature.

‘Those still exist?’ you asked him. He gave you some sarcastic answer—‘No, I just made it up for fun’—before the two of you were throwing all the pillows and blankets you could find into the trunk of his hatchback.

Eren had pushed the backseats down until they were flat, and you made a makeshift bed, laying out an old duvet first then layering on the rest. It ended up being comfy, at least enough to cuddle up and watch back-to-back movies together.

But you hadn’t even gotten halfway through the first one before Eren started getting antsy, which in hindsight, you probably should have seen coming.

“What? I’m not doing anything,” your boyfriend lilted, that familiar chime of amusement ringing through his voice. It was the tell-tale sign he was trying to fluster you, and he knew he was succeeding.

But he couldn’t help himself; you were too easy to play with.

Despite your warning glare, Eren’s fingers settled in the crease of your thigh. He traced over it, feeling the band of your underwear beneath your leggings.

“C’mon, I’m bored.”

“We’ve been here, like, thirty minutes. How could you possibly be bored already?”

He hummed, straightening out in his seat to snake an arm between your back and the pillows. He hooked his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re distracting me.”

This was his plan from the start, wasn’t it? You wanted to say it was unbelievable, but it was anything but. Either way, you didn’t stop the giggle that left you; a little one, and only because you thought his flagrant attempts at flattery were endearing.

“How?” you challenged, knowing damn well you haven’t done anything besides watch the movie and debate if you were up for the hike to the concession stand on the opposite side of the lot.

“Because you’re so cute—” Eren cajoled.

His breath warmed the side of your neck as he inched even closer. The tip of his nose fit into the dip beneath your ear as he nuzzled into you.

“—And pretty.”

His lips met your skin and a spark skipped down your spine. You shivered, unable to hold it back. Eren gave a wry chuckle as he smoothed over your thigh reassuringly. It was teasing but gentle, irritatingly soft. After another kiss, you finally allowed your eyes to flutter shut.

His lips—then his tongue—were hot as he left lazy kisses, as many as if he were dotting the night sky, taking as much time as he pleased despite being in the open trunk of his car. Not a single inch of you, from the lobe of your ear to your collarbone, went neglected.

You dug a palm into the billows of blankets to keep upright. You had tunnel vision to Eren and only Eren. The movie playing through the radio was white noise, buzzing beneath the drumming of your heart. Your tiny breaths sharpened as you tried to wrangle in the oxygen to bring your head back to Earth.

“Eren.” When you said his name this time, it wasn’t a hiss. It was flimsy on your exhale, nearly dying on your tongue. He shushed you with soft coos murmured into the crook of your neck.

As your head tipped to one side, Eren caught your jaw, holding you there as he licked and sucked and nipped. He was only kissing you, not even on your mouth, and already you felt helpless to him. He had wrapped you up in that sensual minute, or ten, or maybe an entire hour—you didn’t know. You were lost in the tangle of pillows and blankets, twisting the fabric between your fist as if it would ground you. The inky night had swaddled you, with only the old projector ahead illuminating your ever-trembling body.

Eren’s eager hand continued surveying you, exploring down the hollow of your collarbone to your chest, as if he hadn’t touched these parts of you countless times before. His hand followed the curve of your breast tentatively, waiting to see what reaction it’d elicit from you.

When he expected a swatted hand, he was only gifted a wordless sound, almost like a purr. His smirk seared into the thin skin of your neck as he teased your breast. He reveled in how your body reacted to him, sensitive to his touch even through your top; your nipple perking between his fingers and the patter of your heart against his palm. He craved nothing more than to strip you of it, free you of it so he could feel your softness with nothing in between. This would have to do for now.

He decided to push his luck anyway, his hand straying further, lower. Your sternum, your stomach…

Your shoulder scrunched to your ear in a flinch. “I don’t know, Eren. Maybe we should wait until we’re home.”

“I don’t wanna wait that long,” he breathed against you. He couldn’t wait that long, not now. Not with the way his cock was already straining against his sweatpants, aching to feel you, any way you’d let him.

Every word was laced with desire, burning hot against your ear. They pooled in the low part of your stomach and dripped down to your toes. With every raspy syllable, Eren’s voice faded as his need overtook him. Despite your nervous squirming—and your better judgment—your legs began to spread, making room for his hand to cup between your legs.

He only touched you through your leggings at first, but he could still feel your heat, the shake in your thighs when he pressed down, right on your clit. Already, you had sucked in your lip, muffling whatever sound wanted to escape. It was so cute, how easily you folded for him.

Once he stuck his hand beneath, bypassing your underwear entirely, you shuddered when his fingers met your bare skin. Not because they were cold; you expected cold. They were warm, his skin already ablaze with arousal as he brushed the tips of his fingers over you, through you, but never daring to dip further. It would be easy, if he wanted to, what with how wet you were after just a few strategic neck bites. But he wanted to tease you. Just a little.

Eren pinched your chin, angling you for another kiss. There was a certain stiffness about you, only in your lips; the rest of you couldn’t stay still. Between kisses and your little gasps, you whispered, “We’re going to get caught.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

On sheer coincidence (or the universe’s knack for impeccable timing), a blood-curdling shriek blared through the radio and tore straight through the tension in the car. You lurched forward, sitting up as tall as if a teacher had smacked your desk while nodding off—or if someone had caught you with your boyfriend’s hand down your pants.

“Someone’s jumpy,” Eren poked. You dropped your hand from your chest, ready to shove him away, when he held your face again. He brought you back to him in an attempt to quell your rampant anxiety. “Seriously, no one’s gonna come this way. Don’t worry.”

Your eyes flitted from his face, to the screen, then back to him. Through squished cheeks, you asked, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He punctuated it with a kiss on the tip of your nose, then one on your lips. He tilted into you with his hand curving around the back of your head. Immediately, you were his, opening your mouth and tempting his tongue to find yours.

His fingers effortlessly return to your clit. He began to rub circles, slow at first, feeling how soft you were, how your swollen, needy pussy gave beneath. You started to pant harder against him, your moving lips growing erratic. He tightened his circles, quickening them and playing your body as though it were an instrument he’d mastered, knowing which touches had you quivering and which had you whining—most importantly, which would make you come the quickest.

Your hips wiggled against his hand, angling and trying to get more out of him. You wanted him inside you, and you wanted it badly.

As you expected, you felt his breathy laugh against your mouth. “See? Not so scary now, is it?”

Even if you were to humor the question, you wouldn’t have had the chance to before he parted you and pushed a finger inside. A small sound left you, again when he began to drag his finger in and out of you, curling it just the right way. You had to stay quiet. Your throat tightened, desperate to keep your tiny whines from turning into bleats bursting from your chest. You were only capable of a whisper of, “More,” mumbly and wet against his mouth.

Eren maintained his composure, smartly asking, “Feels good, huh?”

He already knew the answer; he didn’t need to ask. He only did it for his own benefit, pining to hear it come from you. To take in the sounds of your croons and cries as you plead for him again and tuck them away for later.

He didn’t wait for your answer; he didn’t have the restraint for it. Eren inserted a second finger, always willing to please his girlfriend, giving her whatever she wanted, even when she was an incoherent mess—especially when she was an incoherent mess.

Once he did, he could practically taste the lust on your tongue, delving deeper and spilling into his mouth. The kiss, if one could call it that, turned shameless clumsy, his fingers pumping until he reached the pace that had you fluttering around his knuckles.

You were lost in a swirl of heady breaths, the air of the trunk growing thick and coiling around you with your lower half sweltering under the blankets. Still, you managed to lift them and reach a hand beneath, caressing over the top of Eren’s thigh. The muscle tensed as you went, grazing up his leg just as he had with you.

You palmed over the front of his sweats, again when you realized how hard he had been for you. His abdomen flexed and relaxed. There was a delicious relief in your touch, even if plenty of layers still separated you. Too many for Eren’s liking.

Riled up beyond belief, it only took a few chaste strokes before Eren was lifting his hips to meet you, instinctively working his cock against your hand in search of more pressure—more anything.

Of course, the heavy petting was fun, but think of how much more fun you could have. Not fooling and fumbling like teenagers who snuck into an R-rated movie, but upping the ante, seeing truly how far you could go without getting caught.

A little risk never scared him off before.

Eren pulled away to catch his breath, smiling at you all big with this wicked look on his face; the look of a winner. He had taken you by both wrists and dragged you along with him, following wherever he led you. In his hands, you were like putty or dough or clay—you were no more than something waiting to be warmed and molded in whichever way he desired, crafted to fit him and only him.

But you were more than willing. And luckily for you, Eren was just as malleable in your delicate hands. Neither of you could turn back now, even if you wanted to.

The flashing screen cast a cool light on the side of your face, catching the sheen of your bottom lip. What was left of your kiss was wiped away by Eren as he thumbed over it.

“You wanna do this?” he asked, still with that same sideways grin.

You nodded excitedly, emphasized it by tugging down his waistband. His hands only left you to help, one shuffling his sweatpants lower while the other expertly held the blanket over your laps.

The blanket was fleecy and thick, opaque enough to block out any lights. You could barely see a thing, but you do make out the way his cock slapped against his lower abs once you had his boxers down. You reached for him, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes flickered to the screen, then downward once more. Not a soul in sight—or at least, you weren’t in their sights.

You took him in your hand and even that, the feeling of your fingertips grazing him, made his breathing stutter. When you wrapped your fingers around him, slightly tightening your grip, you only had to pump a few slow times before you thought you could feel his heartbeat in his cock.

Eren lifted the blanket high enough to steal a peek at your hand on him. He watched the fluid movement of your wrist, up and down, quickening after you thumbed over his tip, slick with precome.

He couldn’t think of a time he’d been this turned on by a hand job, probably not since his first one. Each time his eyelids lidded, he’d have to force them back open to scan the surroundings, just in case. You were a bit preoccupied to care, his hand back where it belonged as he fucked you with his fingers. It made it hard for you to focus on much else, your jaw already falling ever so slack.

Even Eren had to admit the inherent risk had his heart thumping faster. But unlike you, it didn’t frighten him. It exhilarated him. He found himself already fighting back the urge to come from the thrill alone. All the while, you had this nervous tremble in your hand, as if you were this innocent little thing; he knew better than to believe that. Still, he found you extremely endearing, only making it harder for him to not pin you down and ruin you right there. Imagine how cute you would look if you were to really get caught.

Each time he stuffed his fingers inside you fully, your steady hand would stagger. Your effort was put towards jerking him off, but your concentration faltered so effortlessly; you were never one for multitasking. Especially when Eren’s huffs through his nose turned ragged each time you paid extra attention to the tip of his cock, palming and squeezing gently.

“God, I wanna taste you so badly right now,” Eren exhaled. His cock throbbed at the thought.

You tried to respond, but his fingers were unrelenting, thick and dragging against your walls in a way you could only describe as lewd. The pace, the sound—the fact that the crotch of your leggings was soaked through.

“Ah-hah.” You swallowed hard. “A-absolutely not. People will see.”

You didn’t know how it would even work in such a tight space—with plenty of head bumps and leg cramps, you supposed.

“Hm,” Eren muttered, seemingly unhappy with your answer. His fingers slipped from you, collected some of your wetness, then began flicking over your clit. It yanked another sound from you, absolutely pathetic and ripped from the very depths of your throat.

His fingers were drenched in your arousal, smooth and slick, trained on your undoing. He stopped short of it, slithering his hand from your leggings and bringing them to your mouth.

“Guess this will have to do,” he told you just before sucking them, savoring your sweetness on his tongue, “until we get home.”

Eren’s brazen ways never ceased to ruffle you. Your cheeks flared hot, even more once he wrapped his wetted fingers around his length, jerking himself off. Making a show of it, too. The slippery sound of him coating his cock with you, darkened eyes locked onto yours. Little groans fell from him, lips slightly parted like he was high off you.

Ripples of electricity pulsed through you, encouraged you, while your thighs could only clench at the sight. He didn’t even need to touch you for you to fall apart. But just because he couldn’t touch you the way he wanted—couldn’t taste you—didn’t mean you couldn’t.

You perched to your knees and dove under the blanket. Before he could even blink, you had his cock upright in your hand, lapping up the length of it.

“Shit,” he hissed, way louder than he should have.

You poked your head out, still playing with him in your hand. “This is why I didn’t want to do this.”

“I—sorry.” Eren’s voice was off-kilter, his hips twitching unwittingly with your lips mere centimeters from the tip of his cock. “I’ll shut up. Just—keep going. Please.”

You saw the needy look in his eye, and a smile crossed your face. You decided to steal from his bag of tricks, lightly pestering, “Gonna be quiet for me?”

You licked your lips before darting your tongue along his head. He groaned, first in annoyance, but it tapered into a fervorous sound, sultry to your ears. You gazed up at him with big eyes, lashes batting, and waited for him to say anything.

The sight of your pretty face, his cock against your pretty, pink tongue, had him muttering, “Fuck me.”

“Maybe later.” You winked and finally started to take him into your mouth. You heard the thud his head gave as it hit the back of the car seat.

With every bob of your head, you swallowed more of him down your throat. It made your mouth water, had saliva dripping down the length of him and over your fist as you worked the base of his cock.

You had your eyes shut and your attention fixed on Eren and nothing but Eren. Everything else might as well have faded to black. Your ears thrummed with the husky sound of his voice, whispering curses each time you wrapped your lips around him and hollowed your cheeks. You only felt his hand on you, fingertips tickling from between your shoulder blades to your tailbone. He palmed over your ass, groping the fat of it, and had you moaning around his cock. He must have felt it, the vibrating hum of your throat, because the blunt of his nails dug into your skin as if your leggings weren’t even there.

You only popped up when you heard laughter. It was distant, but still enough to make your stomach drop.

“No one can see us right?” you asked through scarce breaths. You turned to look out, crooked your head from side to side, searching for any lurking eyes, but you only saw the cars parked in front of you, entirely unchanged.

Eren leered down at you. Your eyes were wet; the corners of them caught what little light there was. Each time you blinked, a tear threatened to break your waterline as though it were a dam. There was spit on your chin, your lips were cock and kiss-swollen and slick, and dear God did he want to take a picture.

He gulped, only mumbling a dazy, “You’re good.”

You decided to trust him. Before he knew it, you had him back in your mouth, right where you had left off. You focused on breathing through your nose to hold back a gag as you took as much of his length as you could. You swallowed and sucked, and each time he nudged the back of your throat, it’d tighten around him and make his stomach clench. And when your nose finally brushed against his pelvis, you felt him shiver, his hand balling the fabric of your shirt in his hand.

This was when Eren would normally talk you through it. Sugar-coated praises sprinkled between all the dirty things he wanted you to do. Gag on it, choke on it, grunting while he fucked your mouth and babbling about you how beautiful you look while taking him, only him. Obscenities you shouldn’t love but did, each one always warming your chest with that fuzzy-duckling feeling, even though you were in the wolf’s clutches. You missed hearing him, but if you gagged now, it would be too loud, and Eren had already promised you he’d shut up.

Honestly, you were impressed he could bite his tongue even this long. This was the most you’d ever seen him hold back; he was more so the give-it-his-all type, lacking any sort of restraint. You wouldn't think he’d ever heard of the word ‘self-control’ before—which was exactly why you never did anything like this in the past. Never fucking when his previous roommate was home or when you’d visit his parents, even if he begged for it. You knew you’d never be able to look them in the eyes afterward.

You were sure he was only quiet now, besides small groans and tight breaths, because the consequence was that his cock would lose the wet heat of your mouth. No, he couldn’t let himself go right now, not entirely, and it probably felt like a cruel trick he played on himself.

But Eren didn’t need to say a single thing for you to know exactly what he was thinking. You could feel it in the way you held his eyes, like you were too captivating to look away. And whenever your hair fell and blocked his view—a view wouldn’t dare go a second without—he’d dotingly pet it away from your face.

And you certainly didn’t need to question it when he breathed, “God, I fucking love you,” with his head thrown back in ecstasy, your name like a shiver surging through him.

Then, the Eren you knew, and loved, returned.

“Fuck, I need you.”

He said it as though he was submitting, like his carnal impulses had finally bested him—as if they already hadn’t from the moment he got handsy with you, kissing your neck.

He pulled you off his cock, and you choked for air in surprise. His hands immediately went for your leggings, removing them, along with your underwear, in one quick tug.

You squealed—for a lot of reasons, actually. The crisp night air against your bare skin. The lack of consideration he had for your whereabouts. You snatched the blanket to shield yourself, your eyes darting every which way to see if anyone noticed.

Eren’s hands were heavy against the grooves of your skin, weighed down with hunger as he repositioned you to his liking. He had you straddling his lap in reverse, like he thought you wanted to watch the movie while he fucked you.

“That way you can keep watch,” You could hear the cheeky grin in his voice, “so you don’t have to be so nervous.”

You half-laughed because it wasn’t much better at all. It only made you feel dirtier for what you were about to do. That wasn’t about to stop you, though. You could feel his cock, hot and glazed in your spit, against your thigh, and you could only think about how much you wanted it inside you.

“What if the car starts to shake?” you asked.

His hands smoothed down your back until he pinched your ass. When you startled, he only chuckled, “Damn, how hard were you planning on going?”

Eren shoved a hand between your legs. He glided his fingers along your slit, relishing the little wiggle you gave in response. By the time the pads of his fingers met your clit, they were slick, rubbing and slipping against you.

“Eren, please. We don’t have time for this,” you said, but it was hardly a warning. Your voice warbled, the end of it getting pitchy with pleasure. You could pretend all you wanted, but you loved it, every drawn-out second of it.

He could imagine the look of anticipation on your face. You were probably gnawing on your bottom lip, your nose scrunching cutely every time he dared to dip inside you, but only because you were hoping it’d be his cock instead of his fingers.

You had the blanket clutched to you, your grip tightening as he continued to toy with you. Shame heatedly prickled down your neck—shame for how utterly shameless you felt about the situation.

Eren grabbed your ass with both hands, spreading you as he debated thrusting inside you then. He wanted nothing more than to give your cheek a resounding slap with an open palm. He opted for his cock instead, slapping the head of it against you a few times.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he murmured, almost as if he didn’t know if he was talking to you or himself.

Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, so hard that you thought it wanted to break free. You were running on nothing but adrenaline, an intoxicating concoction of danger and being unbelievably turned on by said danger.

Eren always enjoyed the reaction he’d pull from you whenever he’d first slide his cock into you; it hadn’t changed since the first time you had sex. A sharp inhale through your nose, your mouth dropping into a tiny ‘O.’ Your eyes would squeeze close only to flutter back open, but he couldn’t see that part now. And if you could manage it, you’d grab onto him wherever you could. Tonight, you dug your nails into his left thigh. He hardly felt it, more transfixed on the way you tightened around the head of his cock.

He waited for your clench to relax before sinking you down onto him, lower. Choppy moans left the both of you right when your ass was smushed against his pelvis, when he was buried inside you fully. And again, only from Eren, when you started to move before he could.

You took him with long strokes, every inch of him dragging in and out of you with his tip nearly kissing your entrance before you’d repeat it, again and again. Your movements were far from smooth, your legs straining, and your breath still caught up in your throat. But once you realized nothing had changed—the movie was still playing, and not so much as a headlight flicked on—you began to bounce on your knees.

It wasn’t long before the sound of sex began to reverberate off the walls and fill the cramped trunk. The salacious smacking of skin on skin, all those little pants spilling from you, ones you couldn’t stifle no matter how tightly you sealed your lips. So long as everyone still had their radios on, there was no way they could hear you. That was what you told yourself, repeating it with every roll of your hips. Even if they could, you couldn’t find it within you to stop now.

Eren splayed a hand against your lower back, slipping it until it flattened against your stomach. He held you upright as you continued taking his cock; it looked less conspicuous that way, if that were even possible.

The new angle stole a gasp from you, your release already building, a rapturous bloom you could feel in every part of your body. Your toes threatening to curl, thighs shaking like you had just run a marathon. Your shirt clung to you, your sweat like a film across your skin. Inside, you were on the verge of bursting into flames, but on the outside, goosebumps scattered your skin, your sweat like ice in the autumn air. It was almost too much. Too much, but so good. The only thing you could do was keep going with your hand sealed over your mouth.

Of course it went to Eren’s head. He loved it, seeing you physically have to restrain yourself from crying out. But there would be time for that later, when you’d really need it while coming on his cock. Right now, he still wanted to hear you, see just how far he could bend you before you broke.

He kept his voice low while he demanded, “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

Your hand remained firmly over your mouth.

Eren wrapped his hand around your elbow and forced your arm to your side. You gave a short ‘ah,’ finally able to get a full breath.

He asked again, “It’s all mine, right?”

“Yours,” you whispered, quiet, but Eren could still make out the whine in it. “Yours. It’s all yours.”

If you could see it, you would have smacked that lopsided smirk right off his face. Thankfully for him, you couldn’t. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to look at you.

“I—shit,” he hissed, interrupted by another rock of your hips. He couldn’t bring himself to stop you, practically hypnotized by every jiggle of your ass, but after a couple of seconds passed, he continued, “Need to see you. C’mere.”

Eren lifted you off him, turning you as you swung your leg around to straddle him. You draped the blanket over your back, pinning one of its corners to your chest.

He guided you back down on his cock with hands on your hipbones, thumbing small circles against you.

When your eyes met, a smile warmed his face. “There’s my girl.”

He caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, with you nuzzling into him like a kitten.

Eren led this time, holding you there for him to fuck into. He was slow at first, taking you with languid thrusts, letting himself readjust to you before he started pounding into you with hips rising off the floor. From there, well, it quickly spiraled into frenzied fucking, a mad dash in which you were both racing towards your releases.

He shoved your shirt over your tits, placed the hem of it in your mouth not only to keep it out of his way but also to stop you from moaning any more than you already were. His large hands massaged over your breasts, cupping and bringing them to his mouth. He buried his face in your chest, kissing and licking over your sensitive skin, lipping over your nipples and flicking them with his tongue. And when his teeth gently grazed over them, you bit down on your shirt to suppress your whines.

Eren released your tits only to see you hopelessly grind against him. He began to thumb over your clit, trying to tip you over the edge. You were close, your head already thrown back with your pussy throbbing around him.

He admired you then. Your bouncing tits, the slight sheen across your stomach. He watched his cock disappear inside of you, in and out, in and out.

“What did I say before? So damn pretty.”

“Close,” you choked. “I’m close.”

Your head flung forward, chin tucked to your chest as your entire body tightened. Eren’s hand found the nape of your neck, bringing you close enough that your foreheads pressed together.

You were staring straight into each other’s eyes as his hand came between you to clamp down on your mouth. “You gonna come for me?”

You nodded frantically, and that was all it took for you to reach your peak. It bubbled in your core until euphoria engulfed you in its flames. It set your nerves on fire, every fiber of every one, sparking in your chest and scorching through your lower back.

Once your balmy breaths against his palm had steadied, your irises glossing over like you were lost in a rose-tinted haze, Eren knew he wouldn’t last much longer. With that in mind, he didn’t feel so bad for losing control of himself. He only needed a minute.

Eren pushed you onto your back, your head landing toward the end of the trunk. He yanked the blanket with him, over him, as he mounted you, plunging into you to the hilt in one snap of his hips. He watched your eyes widen in shock, but the moment he was fucking you again, you went dumb to everything else.

The car had to be rocking now. There was no way it wasn’t.

You didn’t have the time to worry about it before Eren’s hips became reckless—correction: more reckless than they were already.

“I’m gonna come—fuck,” he groaned, drawing out the curse at the end.

His head dropped into the nook of your shoulder as he thrust into you fully one last time, rutting against you as if your bodies weren’t already flush.

When you were sure he’d spent himself, the tilts of his pelvis growing shallower until they settled, you started to sit up on your elbows.

His voice was gravelly as he grunted, “I’m not done,” right against your ear as he kept you there, fucking his come into you.

Borderline overstimulated, Eren couldn’t stop himself. He wanted you to take everything he gave you, and it still wasn’t enough. When he should be softening inside you, he was still hard, thinking about all the ways he’d have you once you were back at home.

He collapsed on top of you, collected himself, then pushed himself up. You followed, tucking the blanket under your armpits even though your entire body was in a sticky swelter. You wiped your forehead as you watched Eren slip his sweatpants back on before tossing his blanket aside.

He looked from the giant screen and back to you. He no longer recognized the movie, so he assumed, “Look, we even have some of the second movie left.”

You gave him those ‘you can’t be serious’ eyes. “You’re joking, right?”

Of course he was. But he held his silence as long as he could before his smile cracked through. Then he reached to close the trunk.

“That desperate for round two?” he taunted.

Eren started to climb between seats, like he wasn’t too big for it, to reach the front. It was better than facing everyone in the immediate vicinity after what he’d done.

He plopped into the driver’s seat and looked back at you. “If you insist.”

thanks for reading ♡

#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren smut #divider by @/cafekitsune

425 notes · View notes

bunnyreaper · 2 months

Text

wc - 4.6k

warnings - 18+/nsfw (eventually), age gap (older male younger female), bodyguard!au, threat of violence.

notes - another visit to dilfville, a new series, because that's all we need, right? lol. hope you enjoy ♥

Friday nights meant one thing: unwinding after a long week of working in your home office, braving the outside world, and heading to the comfy flat belonging to your friend Jules.

While visiting her place was always a blast, Friday nights were for DnD. Leaving behind Earth for its fantasy counterpart and getting lost in the adventures of your group's merry band of do-gooders.

Saturdays are usually spent drinking coffee, frequenting markets, and then rounding the night off with cocktails and dancing. (And Sunday's recuperating from being up on your feet all night, spending the day in bed reading whatever trashy romance novel is next on your reading list.)

Your weekends are your sanctuary—your freedom from routine and work is your refuge.

You dance around your bedroom, rocking your hips to the music as you pull on your clothes—a white blouse and black bustier to channel the vibes of your character Elora.

When the doorbell rings, it's entirely unexpected. Anyone close to you knows you're just a few minutes away from heading out for the night—maybe it's a neighbour, you suppose to yourself as you head to the door.

On the other side of your flat's door is an incredibly handsome man. Broad framed, ruggedly good-looking yet with a finely pressed white shirt and dress trousers. His features are striking, strong eyes and a brow slashed with a scar, stubble all over, and a neatly trimmed mohawk that strangely suits him. All in all, a sight for fucking sore eyes, standing so confidently and casually in your doorway like he belongs.

You hate how your eyes linger on his form far longer than they probably should, but the handsome stranger is just so enthralling.

"Hello?" You mumble, a little absent-mindedly, as you try to gather thoughts that aren't just lewd and dirty.

His stormy blue eyes meet yours, his cheek tugs into a half-smile that definitely doesn't meet his eyes, the faintest dimple appearing on his left cheek. "John MacTavish, ye maw sent me."

"Oh, the bodyguard." You reply dumbly. Fuck. If you were opposed to the idea before, you certainly were now... or maybe you're not.

On one hand, you have to have a handsome stranger watching over you—on the other, you have to have a handsome stranger watching over you, while you act normal about the entire thing.

You realise that you're acting completely the fool, so you snap out of your thoughts and step aside to allow the older man inside. "She didn't tell me to expect you... probably thought I'd run. Uh, come in."

"Thanks." He nods as he steps through the threshold, ducking slightly as he does.

Once inside, his eyes scan over the open-plan space of your living area, seemingly taking in every little detail.

You watch him, sensing that his training and experience make him focus on the minute particulars of a room that others would completely skip over.

Your mother had already clued you into the fact there might need to be security enhancements to the flat itself, and you assume those requests came at the behest of the man himself. He seems to be lost in evaluating what these might be.

"So, what can I do for you?" You ask, filling the air with some sort of conversation starter. You have no idea what you're doing in this situation on the whole, but especially not when it comes to hiring, negotiating with, and retaining a bodyguard.

"It's what I can do fer you." He turns, taking you in now, and you start to feel self-conscious about having too many buttons undone, too much chest on show.

Something tells you that MacTavish's gaze would make you squirm regardless—his eyes carrying a heaviness to them that seem like a fantastic attribute in a protector. Surely anyone who would even think about coming close to cause you harm would reconsider under his harsh look.

You start to wrack your brains for what he can actually do for you. Again, you have no familiarity in having personal protection, beyond what you've seen your mother undergo. Your work is fairly stable, you keep the same routine, and the biggest threat you ever seem to face is the creeps in the club.

Well, apart from the online threats, but something about the anonymous, cowardly messages doesn't frighten you.

"If I'm being honest,I don't exactly want a bodyguard. I don't see much of a point?" You admit, voice a little quiet. After all, you don't mean to upset or offend the man, but you're not sure he isn't just wasting his time with this job.

He squints, considering for a moment before he answers. "Yer maw sees things differently."

She does, and that's probably the only reason you agreed to go through with this in the first place. You don't want to worry her, especially since her own security has had to be tightened due to said threats.

"Yeah, she's really worried."

John's brows furrow, a small frown appearing on his lips. "Aye, rightly so, considering everything."

He seems serious and said severity gives you pause for thought. His job is to assess and protect against threats, so surely he wouldn't be here, acting the way he is were there not a valid reason for concern. The thought makes a lump form in your throat, makes your stomach twist in a way you'd rather not acknowledge.

You try to cope with it the best way you know how—humour.

"Eh, online threats are nothing new for a girl my age, you know? And it's not like I'm anyone important." You shrug it off, hoping that if you say the words aloud, they'll just come true. As you speak, your phone chimes with a notification from your group chat, reminding you of your upcoming plans—and the fact you're going to have to abandon this little meeting. "Uh, I'd offer you a cuppa, but I'm leaving soon."

"Don't drink it anyway, but thanks." The man smiles slightly, before turning away once more and scanning the room. He cranes his neck to get a look down the hallway, leading to your bedroom and bathroom. "There's a difference between lads online, an' the kinda people that make up extremist groups like those targeting your maw and her party."

"Really?" You laugh, a short, sharp sound that betrays your discomfort. You grab your jacket and keys by the door, desperate for something to fiddle with. "Thought they were all just sad loners, desperately searching for something to make them feel better."

"Except some of them have connections, dangerous connections."

There are a million and one reasons you don't want to go through with this, and very few urging you to. Though, removing a major worry from your mother's life is a big one—John MacTavish's gorgeous blues are another. The possible invasion of privacy lingers in your head, the worry that your father might be using this as an opportunity to have the inside track on your life, on all the things you don't tell your parents. Your mind also revolts at the idea of unnecessary restrictions to your plans, your friends being held under a magnifying glass.

The thought of the threats being real is the only thing more startling. You sigh, resigning yourself to your fate. "If this is what will help her feel better, then I guess I better find a way to make this work."

He nods firmly, joining you at where you hover nervously at the door. "I'd agree."

"Unfortunately, you arrived at the worst possible time, because like I said, I'm just headed out. Can't miss the tube." You force a tight-lipped smile, making your excuse to leave—the thought of being late makes you jittery, the thought of being late continuing this difficult conversation makes you feel worse.

"Where ye going?" He asks, head tilted.

You know it's the first question of many. Where are you going? Who are you going with? The atmosphere already feels a little stifling, the relationship a little strained. You and John aren't friends, never will be friends. He's here to do a job, watch over you, and take your security very, very seriously.

"This is how it's always going to be?" You ask, the question coming out a little snappier than you intend it to.

John takes it in stride, unblinking in the face of your shortness, and yet unrelenting in his need for information. "Aye."

Once more, you sigh. "Right... I'm going to my weekly DnD game at my friend's house, and please, I really don't wanna cancel." You plead, feeling like a child reasoning with their parents rather than two adults on equal footing. You hate the feeling, even if you know his intentions are pure.

"How many friends?" He asks.

"4." You answer instantly.

"How long have ye known them?" His questioning continues, and his focus on the people you trust naturally drives you up the wall, even if again, you know it's just his job.

Your grasp on your keys tightens, your agitation growing. "I'll tell you whatever I can some other time, but please, I hate being late." You gesture to the door, indicating that it's time for him and you to leave.

John grabs the door, opening it for you and allowing you to step through before he does. As you turn to lock the door, you expect him to arrange another time and to bid you farewell, but he doesn't. "I'll drive ye. Dinnae bother arguing, lass."

His words have a finality to them that quiets you anyway, but the use of 'lass' renders you all but speechless.

"Okay..." You mumble, leading the way down the stairs as his hand comes to ghost along your lower back.

MacTavish’s vehicle is parked out in the street, and as you approach the car, you can feel his eyes searching again. He beats you to the car, a sleek black Range Rover, opening the door for you before climbing inside himself.

The action would be nice under any other circumstance, and such propriety is something you're probably going to have to get used to, but right now it just reinforces the annoying, infantilising feeling that you're currently suffering through.

As you give your friend's address to John, he takes off without another word, flicking on the car stereo before he goes. The atmosphere is thick, stifling, and you can only hope that in time the feeling will lessen, especially if your mother makes him a permanent feature.

On the way over, he picks up his questioning where he left off. "So, how long have you known this group?"

"A good few years, since uni."

"We can go over names and details when you're ready."

You take a deep breath, holding it in and then forcing yourself to calm a little. Instead, you try to focus on watching John, the diligent way he drives. "I'm assuming you have a long list of things we'll need to go over."

His eyes don't stray from you. "Aye, that we do."

The two of you fall into tense silence for the rest of the drive, nothing but the music and the sound of the car to keep you company. In the quiet street your friend lives on, John pulls in to park on the opposite side of the road, killing the engine and the radio, making the silence almost deafening.

Your nerves are getting the better of you again, and yet John seems so comfortable, unperturbed by the awkwardness. You're unsure what comes next, what to say.

"Not to be rude but, I'd prefer if you didn't come in." You utter, saying the first thing that springs to mind, despite it probably not being the best thing either. You flash the man an apologetic smile before you continue. "I don't know how to deal with all this, especially when we haven't agreed on how all this is gonna work?"

You hope your earnest admission makes up for your temporary ill-manners.

"Tha's fine, I'll stay here." He looks completely impassive. "Not ideal, but it'll do."

He doesn't look bothered by the inconvenience, and you suppose you should assuage him of the idea it's going to be a quick visit.

"Really? I'll be gone for a few hours."

His brow quirks. "Yer maw paid upfront, so as far as am concerned, my job's already started." Once more, his statement is absolute, and you don't bother trying to argue.

"Right then."

John is out of the car first, headed straight to your side of the door, checking left and right before he opens to let you out.

The action makes you both laugh and curse, perplexed by the deed as you climb out. "You're not my driver, you know you don't need to open the door for me?"

He laughs too, derisive and short as he closes the door a little too sharply. "Not tae be rude, but I believe the words you're looking for are 'thank you'."

"Gonna walk me to the door?" You ask, trying to shed yourself of your nerves and make the situation lighter.

You can't stay tense and subdued for the entire duration of this relationship—besides, now you're moments away from reuniting with the others in Albion Vale and forgetting all about this mess for a few hours. That alone is enough to raise your spirits.

John forces a cheeky, tight-lipped smile, the crow's feet at his eyes crinkling almost condescendingly. "Not feeling tha' gentlemanly anymore. I'm sure ye'll be fine."

"I'm sure." You make your way halfway across the road, before coming to a realisation, stopping and turning. "Oh, what's your number, you know, make this whole thing easier?"

John darts out, his arm falling just beside you as he ushers you across the road and onto the other side.

"Pass yer phone." He says, holding out a large, rough hand expectantly.

"Right, yeah." You nod, probably more than is necessary, as you pass your phone over to the man.

John takes the phone more softly than you expect, typing in his name and number before holding it back out for you to take. "I'll be here when yer done, to take ye home."

"Uh, thank you." You take the phone, before walking away sheepishly heading into your friend's block of flats and toward her apartment.

With each step you take, you try to push John and the threats and everything to do with the outside world far, far out of your brain.

The night passes by in a flurry of laughter and fun, lost in the adventures of Albion Vale and the antics of your party.

The session wraps up, and while you would usually be in no rush to head back—you know you can't sit around and leave John, however much a stranger he is, sitting in the car outside.

You text him to let him know you're headed down in five, and when you make it to the street less than 3 minutes later, he is there, leaning against the car door waiting for you.

"Thank you." You whisper, climbing inside. When John joins you in the car, he scrubs at his eyes before putting the key in the ignition. "Have you not been bored out of your mind?"

"Nothing I'm not used to." He replies instantly, pulling away before you can ask any further.

"What did you do before this?" You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

From your understanding, most bodyguards cut their teeth in the police or the armed forces, and have tonnes of experience under their belt.

John oozes an ex-forces demeanour–his perfect posture, constant alertness, and the scars littering his skin.

It'd be hard not to notice, but becomes immediately obvious with the way your eyes seem to love settling upon him when they can. You have to force yourself to squash down the drunken, misguided lust that flares within you as you watch his large hands on the steering wheel and notice his veiny, hairy, and muscular forearms.

"Army, Captain." He answers, pulling your attention back to him in a more professional manner properly.

Something within the way he speaks makes you think there's more to the story—though you suppose with that kind of background, he has a cache of secrets and tales that he can never really share.

"Oh." You nod, feeling a little soothed. If you have to be protected, you suppose someone with his level of experience is the best man for the job. "I'm in good hands then."

Once more, he flashes a forced half-smile. "Aye."

A moment passes, and you find more questions bubbling to the front of your brain. Naturally, you're curious about this man who is undoubtedly going to become a big part of your life from now on, but the fact that his nature is a little reserved makes your curiosity multiply. You've long been a sucker for closed-off older men—call it a character flaw.

"Why did you leave the army? If you don't mind me asking."

There's a beat of silence where you think he might not answer, but eventually, he does, eyes still fixed on the road.

"Medical reasons. Nothing that affects my ability to do this job." He rushes to add, a slight spark of defensiveness flashing through as his jaw visibly tightens.

You're no expert detective, and you haven't seen your protector in action, but your first guess is that whatever ailment made him leave isn't entirely physical. The fact he's been somewhat open about it puts your mind at ease, the fact that your mother has clearly vetted him even more so.

You offer an empathetic smile that he likely doesn't see. "I don't doubt it."

The drive home passes quicker and easier with a bit of mead in your veins, allowing you to loosen up enough to hum along to the music playing from John's speakers. The little buzz passing through you alleviates that sense of trepidation you felt earlier, luring you into a false sense of security.

When the car pulls up and John lets you out, you know just what to say what needs to come next. "Well, I guess you should come in so we can formalise things."

"I'd appreciate it." He nods, before turning back to the car to grab a bag and follow you into the building.

You and John sit at your kitchen island, tea in your hand and coffee in John's—a neat, stapled stack of papers sits before you.

"Here's the contract I signed with ye maw, but she's given us some wiggle room." John says, tapping the top of the paper where the bold letters of CLOSE PROTECTION AGREEMENT — 141 SECURITY sit.

"Nice of her to allow me a say, if I'm honest." You laugh dryly—you love your mother dearly, but you'd be lying if you said she wasn't overbearing. Your initial protests about this whole arrangement had been entirely shut down, and clearly, she didn't trust you to follow through considering she sprung John on you tonight, unannounced.

"I'm sure she just wants what's best for ye." John offers as you flick through the pages.

The contract outlines the agreement between the Guard and The Principal—with stipulations on activities, compensation, and conduct.

It's weird seeing it all laid out on paper, seeing the hefty cost of John's services, and the fact you'll be giving this man free access to your home and life. All of this to keep you safe from some nebulous threats that have not even been acted upon.

"She does, but this is inconvenient, and frustrating to say the least." You purposefully choose not to include the words 'fucking annoying' and 'torturing me with a hot man I can't have', though your next conversation with your therapist will absolutely include such descriptions and more.

"I can understand tha'." He nods understandingly, before raising his coffee and taking a sip—his gaze unwavering as he does. "You've never had close protection before?"

You shake your head. "No, this is all new to me."

"Okay. We'll start by discussing exactly what kind of protection you're looking for. Part of tha' will be dictated by what yer maw laid out, like I said, we can decide specifics."

"Sounds like a plan." You lean back in your stool, tea in hand as you contemplate. Admittedly, you should have done some research before this, but in your defence, you did think you had more time. You're not entirely sure what boundaries you can set—but you hope that John can lead the process a little. "I don't think I can do something 24/7, and it's not like you can stay here, I guess."

You cringe internally thinking about how fucking awkward that would be—your tipsy brain supplies the image of the world's most uncomfortable sleepover.

In your imagination, John looks grumpy and uncomfortable, still tucked up in bed in that stiff shirt with his boots still on. You are, of course, in little fluffy bunny pyjamas staring at him all gooey-eyed whilst he tries to pretend everything is normal. It takes conscious effort for you not to giggle at the mental image.

"I understand. I'd suggest I escort you anywhere outside these four walls, day or night, work and social events. Conduct security checks on your flat, vet close contacts, update your digital security, things like tha'." John supplies a rundown of potential actions like it's a grocery list, yet a very severe grocery list. His collected nature does put you more at ease.

"Sounds a tad invasive."

"I'll try to make it as little as possible."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." You smile slightly, truly thankful for his consideration and tact.

You give John a once over, thoughts once again ticking over. "If you're going to be with me everywhere, you can't walk around like that, outside of my work, that is. No offense, it's just, all my friends are gonna think I'm a self-important twat if I start showing up everywhere with some posh bodyguard." You stop abruptly, realising how much you're bloody rambling.

"Am far from posh. But, more casual look then, aye?"

You smile a little nervously, hoping you haven't completely offended the man. "Please."

This whole situation is beyond difficult to navigate—untreaded paths, forging new relationships, balancing existing ones. Your friends really are going to think this whole situation is beyond bizarre. They already find amusement in seeing your mother on the news. Having a bodyguard is going to leave you subject to endless teasing, relentless mocking, and attempts to make your and John's life a whole lot harder.

Your head falls into your hands as you rub at the sockets of your eyes, undoubtedly smearing your makeup and making a mess of your face. It'll get easier, you reassure yourself.

With your eyes closed and pressed into the heel of your hands, you don't see the way John's expression softens or the way he moves closer to comfort you before hesitating and stopping short. "Wha's the matter?"

"I'm just... incredibly anxious about how this is going to play out with my friends, with work."

John leaps into problem-solving mode, immediately pulling from his brain some words to soothe you, as well as making note of what bumps in the road to smooth out. "Ye mother said she already consulted yer work, and they're fine to make accommodations."

Of course, she'd already talked to David about the whole thing. "So it'll be fine aside from all the gossip it will cause."

"It's politics and I ken yer not naïve, everybody's talking anyway, no?" He offers, and yet you don't seem assuaged, so he tries a different tactic. "It's my job to blend in. They'll barely notice me."

"With that haircut? Sorry." You giggle—surprisingly you find the mohawk suits his rugged look, but it certainly isn't something you've seen on a man that wasn't walking the streets of Camden. Though, even with a more fitting haircut, the man is so casually striking and ever so slightly imposing that he just naturally draws attention. "In general, you don't strike me as a man who does blending in well, not in civilian life anyway."

His eyes narrow for a moment, before he struggles to fight off a smirk. "Hmm, ye might have a point. Not changing ma hair though, sorry. Nae sure ye family has enough money for tha' one."

His more playful side makes your heart soar, and gives you hope that everything might just be alright.

"I have a crazy idea." Okay, maybe you're more tipsy than you thought you were, as your brain supplies an outlandish plot and your mouth runs away with it.

His eyebrow arches and his eyes sparkle with intrigue. John MacTavish seems like a man who likes crazy ideas. "Go oan."

"I'll tell my friends that you're my boyfriend, and we're just so madly in love that you have to come everywhere with me. Means no real questions."

Your proposition is met with deafening silence, despite the huge, encouraging grin on your face.

John laughs, just the once, before his expression hardens. "Not a chance, lass."

"Why? You don't have to really do anything. Besides, it'll save you sitting outside in the car, or staring from the shadows and making everyone feel uncomfortable."

You realise now that while you noticed a distinct lack of a ring, there's the possibility that John is still attached, and what you're suggesting is wildly inappropriate—but it's not that point he argues on.

"Aye, so I just have to spend ma time socialising instead." He scoffs.

"Well, surely you're not brooding and mysterious all the time." You wager.

Once more, he finds a smirk tugging at his lips that he can't hold back. "No' at all, but it's been a long time since I was the life of the party, and something tells me that me an' your DnD friends don't have a lot in common."

"They might surprise you, but you also might surprise yourself. Maybe you're a secret nerd." You wink, still being jovial before you shift back to your genuine pleas. "It'll make my life a whole lot easier and be one less thing for me to stress about. My friends wouldn't second guess the story much once they got past the shock of me bagging someone older, wiser, and oh-so-handsome. Please."

You flash your softest, sweetest doe eyes and lay the compliments on extra thick in the hopes of swaying him. In the political world, you're used to using charm to try and get what you want, and know that without charisma you'd get nowhere. Perhaps it's a bit low of you to stoop to using flirtation on someone who could likely run rings around you when it comes to negotiation, but it's worked before, and at this point, you're desperate.

John straightens up in his seat, eyes you for a moment, and then lets out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine."

The fact he relents honestly takes you a little by surprise. You're relieved, but yes, surprised. "Huh?"

"Fine, I'll be whoever ye want me to be..." The look in his eyes shifts to something imperceptible, as he leans over the counter closer to you. "As long ye listen to what I say when it comes to yer safety and security. Deal?"

He holds out his hand, and your own feels dwarfed when you reach out to take his calloused palm.

"You drive a hard bargain, John MacTavish. Deal." You shake, and neither of you makes a move to immediately let go.

"Aye, a know." He winks, and the action makes your heart skip a beat, your cheeks flood with heat.

Each second passes slowly, his touch feeling like too much and not enough all at once. You know at that moment that life from now on is going to be especially difficult as long as John is around.

What he says next is the final nail in that particular coffin. "Would've done it anyway, but glad I got ye to agree to ma terms, lass."

#soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #bunny writes #run to you

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hufflegruff · 11 months

Text

Chapter 3: A Knowing Look

Pairing: Sebastian x F!Reader Summary: In which Sebastian is whipped and literally everyone can see from a mile away that this is more than friendship.

“I have it on good authority that Andrew Larson is after your girl.” Sebastian wanted to laugh, because he must have misheard. And if not, surely that was just a jest. Also, his girl? Hearing it (even out of Leander’s slimy mouth) was both thrilling and petrifying. But before he could reply, Leander continued. “Made a big scene about how he’s going to ask her out today.” Sebastian swore he could feel the Earth’s rotation come to a halt and his head spin. “But I guess if she’s not your girl - it’s no bother, is it?”

Chapter 3: Leander

“Distracted Sallow? Never took you for a bumbling love sick fool.”

Sebastian couldn’t help the groan that crawled out his throat.

Sebastian had his suspicions, but Leander’s snivelling face confirmed it.

The universe was out to destroy him.

His day had already been bad enough. Leander had bested him in a duel in Defence Against the Dark Arts— which only fed his gargantuan ego. Even Professor Hecat was surprised at how atrocious Sebastian’s form had been. Every misstep and poorly spellcast, she made sure to let him know.

So it was safe to say that Sebastian did not have the patience nor the energy to humour any of Leander’s buffoonery.

He didn’t even really know how it happened. It was all a blur once he stepped onto the duelling platform. Then all of a sudden he was face flat on the ground. His robes haphazardly flung over his head. His legs strewn across the floor.

Merlin, how atrociously humiliating.

Especially when he was still trying to recover from his last humiliating incident in the library.

His last conversation with Poppy had made a total and utter mess of him. He felt like mush. All sentimental flesh and no bones. His mind and heart was still in disarray from their last conversation. When she had so brazenly implied that it was only obvious to assume he was courting the Hero of Hogwarts, the thought of actually courting her was the only thing that ran laps around his cluttered mind.

That was probably why he lost to Leander in the first place.

Ever since their encounter in the library, his eyes felt like they were moving constantly in conflict. Half of the time, they couldn’t stop searching every hallway and every nook and every corner of the castle in search of her. The other half of the time (when they finally found her), his eyes could never quite meet hers.

How did he end up becoming this silly bundle of nerves and contradictions?

That was how Sebastian found himself moping in the Transfiguration courtyard, with only the idle castle pigeons in his company. He had spent the past hour glaring daggers at any mythical statues that deigned to throw pitiful looks his way. He even ignored Ominis’ owls. He had been perfectly content brooding by his lonesome.

That was until Leander-the-knobhead-Prewett showed up.

“Piss off Prewett,” a migraine brewed above the bridge of Sebastian’s nose, “Go spew your nonsense to someone who cares.”

Leander ignored his protests, and perched himself comfortably on the bench next to Sebastian instead. All Sebastian had wanted today was a quiet afternoon to sulk in peace. He wanted to claw his hair out at how he had even been robbed of that. By Leander of all people. He was probably the last person on the bloody planet Sebastian wanted to share this afternoon in the courtyard with.

“Shame. It seems without your girlfriend around, your duelling skills turn poorly.”

“What are you on about?” Sebastian bristled.

Poorly? How dare he.

Tough talk from a glorified overgrown ginger twig.

Also, not this again. Not today. It was one thing from Ominis and Poppy. But Leander? If even one other nosy Gryffindor came up to him to imply that he was courting the girl wonder, Sebastian was going to throw himself off the edge of the Astronomy tower.

(But complicated feelings aside... Sebastian was grateful that she hadn’t been around to see his sorry arse get obliterated in class.)

“Come on. No need to be shy about it, Sallow. The whole school knows you’re soft on the new girl.”

Leander gave him a terribly patronising pat on the back. Instinctually, Sebastian shoved him off.

Him? Soft? That was utterly ridiculous. Softness was for babies. For defenceless maidens. And Sebastian Sallow was not any of those things. He was smart as a whip. Tough as nails. Sharp as a blade. Softness was not in his repertoire.

“Well then, you’re even dumber than you look, cause I’m not soft on anyone.” Sebastian replied snarkily.

Leander snorted, “Half of the year’s got bets on when you’ll finally be caught snogging in the hallways.”

Great. Just fucking wonderful. Of all the things Sebastian needed today, he definitely did not need the mental picture of him snogging his friend senseless wreaking havoc in his restless mind. And fuck off. Snogging in the hallways? Give him a little more credit. Sebastian was a raging flirt, but he wasn’t an exhibitionist. He was more romantic than that. If he was going to snog her it sure as hell wouldn’t be in plain view for the entire student body to see.

Not that he was going to snog her of course. Not that he wanted to snog her.

It was just hypothetical. Scientific even.

But bets? Snogging? God this was probably karmic justice. For that one time in fourth year when he had spread a rumour that Duncan Hobhouse and Constance Dagworth had a romantic tryst in the broom closet in the clock tower. It wasn’t true of course. Which is why Constance was furious, and why Duncan (unsurprisingly) loved it.

“It’s all good and well if other people want to waste their own money. Doesn’t bother me.” Sebastian replied, trying his best to sound aloof.

“Really?” Leander asked coyly, “Come on. We’ve all seen the sappy looks you give her.”

Sebastian was itching to hex the arrogant look off his face.

Genuinely, Sebastian couldn’t believe how many times he had to defend the status of their friendship this week alone. What business was it of others to speculate on such things anyway? Had Hogwarts, with its endless puzzles and mysteries, become so boring that Sebastian’s private life was now the talk of the town?

“Oh relax. Don’t get your knickers in a twist Sallow,” Leander snickered, elated by Sebastian’s foul mood, “I was trying to do you a favour. I have information that might be of interest to you.”

Sebastian leant back further on the bench as his posture gave up. He was tired. He’d spent the better half of the week overthinking. He didn’t want to talk to Leander. He just wanted to laze in the sun and wallow.

“I can’t for the life of me imagine you telling me anything of use.”

He was positive that Leander had not a single wisdom to impart onto him.

“Oh, I can think of a thing or two.” Leander said, as if he’d just said something utterly hilarious but he wouldn’t say why.

“I’d be surprised if you could even string a sentence that could impress me.” Sebastian retorted. He might’ve lost their duel, but he wasn’t about to lose this battle of words.

But then Leander pulled a fast one on him and said her name.

“It’s about her.”

Of course it was about her. How could it not be about her? But simultaneously, how could it be about her? There was nothing that Leander could know about her that Sebastian already didn’t. The Gryffindor was more than likely baiting him, trying to rile him up.

Which is why he should’ve obviously left it — curiosity never did no cats any good. (But Sebastian wasn’t a cat. And never knowing would’ve likely killed him just the same.)

“Enlighten me,” Sebastian said dryly.

He could tell that pleased Leander immensely.

Haughtily, Leander leaned towards Sebastian and whispered, “I have it on good authority that Andrew Larson is after your girl.”

Sebastian wanted to laugh, because he must have misheard. And if not, surely that was just a jest. Also, his girl? Hearing it (even out of Leander’s slimy mouth) was both thrilling and petrifying.

But before he could reply, Leander continued.

“Made a big scene about how he’s going to ask her out today.”

Sebastian swore he could feel the Earth’s rotation come to a halt and his head spin.

Predictably, Leander was looking at Sebastian awfully smug. Like he had spent years since their first day at Hogwarts mining into the depths of Sebastian’s subconscious with cheap insults and backhanded duelling tactics and finally struck gold. He had found the thing that unnerved him most. Unravelled him into a mess of emotions.

Her.

“But I guess if she’s not your girl - it’s no bother, is it?”

It was no bother. Logically, emotionally, in actuality — no bother at all. Not a single fucking one.

So why did it feel like someone had just flung him mercilessly into the black lake? Tied to an anchor pulling him down into a cavern of endless despair? Like someone had grabbed him by the throat and was choking him with intent to kill? And why did he have this sudden, insatiable urge to beat Andrew Larson into a miserable pulp?

She was not his girl, by any means or definition. And as Sebastian had previously clarified, he was not soft on her either. So logically, if some guy wanted to throw their hat into the ring to court her, there was no issue.

But when Sebastian genuinely tried to picture it: Larson making her laugh; putting his gangly arms around her shoulders; staring deeply into her eyes - it just felt wrong. It felt unnatural. It felt like the ground was flipped on its head. It flooded bile in the back of his throat. It didn’t make sense. None of it. And what could a simpleton like Andrew Larson even offer the girl wonder anyways?

Sebastian had never thought much of Andrew Larson before. And that was exactly it. He wasn’t much to think about at all. No redeeming qualities of note. So what made him think that he was worthy of her? She was the Hero of Hogwarts for Merlin’s sake. She was strong and lovely and unyielding and a tempest and way out of his league.

Sebastian was definitely angrier than rationality called for. But even just the thought of Larson’s weasley little hands touching her made his blood boil.

And when blood boiled, it eviscerated everything.

“It’s none of my business.” Sebastian practically spat with his fists clenched.

The words came out more brusquely than he intended (but less than he truly felt).

To his credit, Leander was surprised, “What? Don’t you want to know where and when he’s going to do it?”

“What fucking for?”

Leander looked at him condescendingly, “Well I don’t know, to save her from Larson’s grubby hands or something?”

“You and I both know she doesn’t need saving,” Sebastian affirmed with an eye roll.

“Come on Sallow. You’re having me on. I know you’re just dying to put that Ravenclaw in his place.”

Sebastian would love nothing more. But he didn’t want to give Leander the upper hand.

Leander scoffed, “Fine whatever. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. I was trying to help you out of the goodness of my heart. Don’t come crying to me when you find out that she’s decided to try going out with Larson.”

Almost dramatically, Leander made his move to stand up and go. But it was all for show of course. He just wanted Sebastian to beg for his help.

But Sebastian wasn’t paying him any mind. Too busy caught in the storm of his own emotions.

Because the more he thought about it — the more he took a mental magnifying glass and really, really scrutinised the damn feeling — the more he was inclined to believe that perhaps he was soft on her.

For starters, he was always worrying about her. Whether she was safe on her adventures. Whether she’d eaten breakfast. Whether she was tired from the weight of being so depended on. Was that softness? Whenever she looked at him, he felt terrified. Like his heart would race out of his chest from the sight of her. Was that softness?

Was softness meant to feel this anxious? That didn’t sound right.

It didn’t sound at all like the romances that maidens sang in their folk songs. They made it sound so easy. Nothing about his feelings for her ever felt easy to understand. For Sebastian, there were no butterflies or angel songs or clouds parting or hippogriff rides off into sunset. It was nothing like that. It always felt urgent. It always felt like endless running and scalding fire and falling off the edge of the universe all at once.

Like she was her own blinding force of magnetism pulling him towards her, off the edge of an unknown precipice. And Sebastian didn’t mind at all. Hell, even if she didn’t tug him, even if she protested — he would’ve marched right up to her, grabbed her hand and jumped off the edge with her without a second thought.

Maybe… in its own complex and twisted way, that meant that he was soft on her.

(And maybe that was the most terrifying thing about it all.)

God. That meant that he couldn’t let Andrew anywhere near her.

With renowned vigour, Sebastian pulled Leander by his robe and demanded.

“Tell me.” Sebastian finally.

Leander stopped his pacing. Check and mate. Hook, line and sinker. He knew that he would cave; Leander had him right where he wanted him — and the fucker had never looked so delighted with himself.

“I knew that you’d need my help.”

Like they had a mind of his own, his legs moved first.

First they walked briskly, and then suddenly they were sprinting at reckless speeds towards her. God knows why, because he surely didn’t. Sebastian was so single-minded in his run that he didn’t hear the complaints of the castles sleepy paintings, nor Imelda Reyes yells to slow the fuck down, nor the screeches from the gaggle of first years running from the madman he must have appeared to be.

He was running headfirst into … god knows what. On the precarious word of Leander Prewett. On the word that some other guy had thought he was foolishly worthy to ask for even a slither of her attention.

The running was endless. It was stairs and narrow arches and stretches of hallways. But he wasn’t going to stop. Not even a radical force of nature could stop him in his path. Tunnel vision would get him to that greenhouse; Sebastian’s blind faith would make sure of it.

Because now that he finally could admit to himself that maybe he was soft on her. That maybe their friendship was dearer to him than most other friendships. That maybe all of this was (at most) a crush — he couldn’t let Andrew Larson derail everything before he even started.

Not that he had a solid plan or anything.

Which was abundantly clear to him now that he found himself standing in front of the towering doors that led into the greenhouse. He was out of breath and logical reasoning. If he did see them... What would he do about it?

What could he do about it?

But with no time to waste, Sebastian guessed he would just have to find out.

So he pushed open the doors.

And once he stepped into the greenhouse, Sebastian couldn’t help but grimace. Of course someone as mediocre as Andrew Larson would pick somewhere as basic as the Greenhouse to try to court the girl wonder. He probably thought that he could woo her with a flower or two. That if she didn’t have any feelings for him to begin with, she was a simple enough girl that a bouquet was enough to sway her with his affection.

But he would be wrong. Because she wasn’t the kind of girl that would go on a romantic dalliance with a boy she hardly knew. With a Ravenclaw no less. She was too smart, too witty, too compelling to be wasted on someone like him.

She had always been better suited with Slytherins anyway. At least they had the cunningness to match her endless ferocity.

(Or — as Sebastian tried his best to avoid saying — she was better suited with him.)

From a distance, he could hear quiet chatter.

And when he looked, between the restricted view of foliage, Sebastian felt a pang in his heart at the sight of them.

They were standing in a secluded alcove of the greenhouse light. She was drenched in sunlight and surrounded by all things flora — and even in these distressing times, he couldn’t help but think that she looked bewitching.

… And beside her was Andrew.

All he wanted to do was run up to her and pull her out of his orbit. The itch in his fingers to reach out to touch her was stronger than ever; her gravitational pull was overwhelming. But she would’ve probably hated him for it. The girl wonder would never fancy herself a damsel in distress.

But maybe she would forgive him if he said that he was saving himself. From the grief of watching someone try to claim her as their own.

Nevertheless, Sebastian refrained and casted a quick disillusionment charm. Staying stealthily behind this fern planter would have to suffice.

As he tip-toed closer, Sebastian heard Andrew’s pompous voice ring out:

“... I mean, it’s no secret. I think you’re absolutely incredible. And stunning. So I was wondering if you would do me the honour of accompanying me to Hogsmeade next weekend?”

When he heard Andrew speak, all Sebastian could see was blinding red. Gone were the lacewing flies in his chest. They were replaced with a feeling more feral and bitter and grotesque.

In the air sat a thick, heavy pause. It was silent. With fear and anticipation frothing at the base of his throat, Sebastian gripped his own hands in wait. So hard that bruises were probably blooming.

Surely she was going to reject him… Right?

“I’m…” She began tentatively.

Just as Andrew leaned in expectantly (patronisingly even), Sebastian leaned in uneasiness. The tension was palpable. Sebastian could taste it in the air, weighing on the crease of his brow, splitting cuts into the skin of his lips.

Surely she was going to say no… Right?

Finally, she replied, “That’s a very lovely offer Andrew, but I’m afraid that I can’t take you up on it. Thank you for thinking of me though.”

After she had spoken, Sebastian let go of the shaky breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding in.

The world wasn’t in peril anymore, he wasn’t seeing red. Her words were like oxygen to his battered lungs; he could finally breathe again.

Her voice had sounded perfectly diplomatic. Polite and wonderfully neutral. No hint of derision, with just the right amount of compassion. And Sebastian couldn’t thank the heavens enough for it.

Thank Merlin. Thank Salazar. Thank any and all of the Gods that looked down upon him.

But almost comically, Andrew’s face quickly sour. Just a second ago, the Ravenclaw had been brimming with bravado. Now he looked like an embittered spoiled child who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. Sebastian could tell that this was clearly not the way that Andrew had hoped that this would go — and he had never been more ecstatic for someone’s flagrant misery.

Sebastian had a feeling that he wouldn’t take the rejection with grace, but he hoped that the Ravenclaw would have the sense to not make a scene.

“Come on. It’s just one butterbeer. Can’t hurt, can it?” Andrew sounded almost annoyed.

From his hiding spot, Sebastian almost laughed. What nerve did this dunce have to be annoyed? It seemed that the girl wonder felt the same.

She forgoed diplomacy, and raised her brow disapprovingly.

“Well, I’m sorry. But I’m simply not interested.”

“Well you’re not taken are you?” Andrew had the gall to retort.

She hesitated. Only for a brief moment, but significant enough for Sebastian to catch it. He couldn’t help but wonder — why did she stop?

“No. I’m not.”

Andrew went to grab her wrist, “Well then the least you could do is not reject a man’s kind offer to take you out.”

Sebastian bristled through gritted teeth. Watching Andrew touch her was the last straw. He never thought twice about him until today, and now Sebastian hated him with every agitated fibre in his being. The nerve of this idiot. How dare he. Adrenaline spiked into his veins and before his brain had time to think, he was ready to punch the living daylights out of him—

But then she wrung her hand out of his grasp, and raises her wand at the ready as an act of defiance. When she glared at him, her eyes were ice cold and pure venom. Sebastian had never seen her so furious, it was almost impressive what Andrew managed to incite out of her.

“I don’t need to do anything. I don’t owe anyone anything. Especially boys who refuse to take a lady’s refusal with grace,” She snapped back.

Sebastian retreated, and stood down. She was comfortably standing her ground and he wanted to jump for joy. He had never been more enthralled by her than in this moment.

Andrew snorted. Which Sebastian could tell displeased the girl wonder even more.

“I think I should go.” She said brusquely.

But before she could, Andrew rudely brushed past her shoulders, and muttered indignantly, “Whatever. Don’t bother. I’ll leave.”

When Andrew began to storm off, she was left in the lurch to watch the belligerent boy walk off in bewilderment. She stared agape, as if she was unsure whether or not to dignify his rude behaviour with a response.

But Sebastian wasn’t about to let him off this easily.

Just as Andrew started to stomp his way up the steps past the pond garden. A wicked idea struck Sebastian. As quickly as the idea came to him, he lifted his wand and pointed at the Ravenclaw’s feet.

“Impedimenta,” Sebastian whispered.

And almost as if he was moving in slow motion, Sebastian savoured every delectably humiliating expression that flickered on Andrew Larson’s face as he fell off the cobbled staircase; face first into the depths of the greenhouse pond.

Splash!

In less than five hours, the entire school had heard all about Andrew Larson’s failed attempt to court the girl wonder. The highlight of the tale was of course, his ungraceful dive head-first into the greenhouse pond.

The rumours first started when the Ravenclaw was seen storming out of the greenhouse annex drenched silly, with a nest of foliage poking out of his unruly hair. He had left a squelchy trail of footsteps behind him, and a flock of Gryffindors girls in speculating hushed whispers.

But then the details became public knowledge; and how that came to be would forever be a mystery.

When Ominis had first found out, he asked Sebastian if had heard the news. Ominis eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing more when Sebastian shrugged in response. He clearly suspected that Sebastian knew more than he was letting on.

At the dinner table, Ominis mused, “I wonder how they found out.”

Sebastian replied, “Yeah. I wonder.”

After expertly deflecting all of Ominis’ questions. He excused and made his way On his way back to the Slytherin common room, just on a corner leading up towards the grand staircase, he bumped into her.

“Oh, Sebastian!” She said warmly.

Hearing his own name come out of her mouth, Sebastian felt his heart literally skip a beat. Which was preposterous, because what business did hearts have skipping at all? Vital functions shouldn’t malfunction at the mere mention of a name.

Sebastian had thought about nothing but her in the last five hours; it felt like he had experienced a lifetime of emotions in that short span of time alone. There were so many words and feelings that he wanted to say to her. So many revelations and just as many answered questions.

“Hi.” Sebastian said.

But that was the only thing that he managed to get out.

“I feel like… I haven’t seen you in a while,” She said.

It had been ages, Sebastian wanted to scream. It had been a week since they had properly spent any time together; since the last time they were in the library. It had been disgustingly too long — but how could he tell her that without sounding like an utter desperate fool?

“It has been a while. I imagine you’ve been busy.”

“Mmhm,” She said absentmindedly.

Her eyes briefly glazed over, as if she was contemplating saying more to him. Sebastian had a feeling he already knew what was weighing on her conscience.

“I heard about Larson.” Sebastian said.

A light blush dusted on her cheeks.

“Oh… You heard about that?” She chucked slightly nervously. In an attempt to hide her discomfort, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, which stubbornly kept falling loose. Sebastian had to tell himself not to reach out and tuck it out of the way for her.

“It’s all anyone can talk about.” Sebastian conveniently left out the part that he had actually been there to witness it all.

She grimaced.

“Oh, it’s nothing newsworthy, I just told him that I wasn’t interested—”

“Good.” Sebastian interrupted (much too) abruptly.

Her eyes shot up to his, startled by the suddenness of his reply. Like a deer in headlights, he looked just as bewildered by the sound of his own voice. Fuck, did he really just say good? He cursed himself for how overly eager that must have sounded, and hoped that she didn’t read too much into it.

“I mean… it’s good you spoke your mind.” Sebastian clarified quickly.

She looked at him dubiously, with inquisitive eyes. Sebastian felt a chill run down his spine. He must have said too much with so little, because she was looking at him rather intensely. He couldn't help but wonder if she could now see through him, peering into his mess of his thoughts and emotions.

Was she looking for an answer to something in particular? And did she find it?

But if she did, she didn’t reveal it.

“Right.” She finally said.

Then slowly, but surely, a smile grew on the edges of her lips. Like a soft patch of shade on a blistering summer day, it soothed his temperamental chest.

When Sebastian had tried to picture her and Andrew together, it all felt wrong. But right here, in this moment just between them, when she was looking straight at him, all felt right in the world. Like peace was at his footbed. Like his contentment was in the palm of her delicate hands.

Sebastian couldn’t believe that he ever denied being soft on her.

And he couldn’t believe it took so many people — including Leander for fucks sake — to see it.

“Join me tomorrow at dinner?” Sebastian said, before hurriedly adding, “And Ominis of course. Feels like it’s been a while”

She smiled and said, “Sure.”

This time, Sebastian didn’t fight the smile on his face, “Great.”

And in that moment, Sebastian did genuinely believe all was great. ——

Notes

This chapter was so fun to write but also it took me WAY longer than I thought it was going to. It's also wayyyy longer than chapter 1 and 2, so I hope you guys enjoyed it.

I apologise for the Leander slander. But tbh in some ways he's team SebxMc! So maybe we're all actually pro Leander

I also apologise for the Andrew Larson slander. tbh don't know a thing about him, so he probs doesn't deserve such hate. But oh well, the things we do for romance.

Shoutout to @wt-fxck @ithinkweallsing @mysticrose1210 @eleanorstaghart @deliciouslyferal @oliviajdjarin @80strashbag @radical-ghostface @tlnyjoong @fall727 @lololpiz @ssimpy for all your lovely comments and reblogs!!!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!! IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY!!!!

#Sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow fanfic #sebastian x reader #sebastian sallow imagines #hogwarts legacy

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yourlocaltreesimp · 7 months

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*insert And Another One meme*

Can I. Request a yandere chain with a reader who gifts them flowers just because they can? Or like, them just subtly courting the chain for a change? (minus wind, who they just flat out spoils because he's babey even though he's a gremlin)

And when I say court, I mean like in ways that they're probably not familiar with? Like, the reader makes up a bs excuse about needing their help to see if they can still sing because then rusty, and then singing love songs to them but it's in a language they can't recognize?

Or like, doing tasks for them? Basically acts of service, since that's an old way of courting from my country that can be easily mistaken for them being helpful, but they're just generally more careful and going above and beyond what's asked for them?

- altumsomnum (forgot to add it in the other asks lmao)

Ofc, ofc I think I miss understood the prompt, but take this in case!

TW:ok well there’s some obsession and yandere as expected, blood mentione

Oh how the mighty fall

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You’d recently found yourself in quite the predicament. Not necessarily a bad one… Just, odd. Long letters of prose and poetry sealed with royal blue wax from Warriors carefully dancing around his plans to stab the others and run off with you. Quiet afternoons curled up as Sky plays you music keeping you safe and distracted as the others slit the throat of the merchant that insulted you. Ranting to Four about whatever interest snagged your mind, he’d listen for hours at your every beck and call, no matter if the sentiment wasn’t returned. Strolling around villages with Time, knowing you’re safest at his side though you didn’t know how deep their feelings went, they’d do anything at your order. Twilight teaching you how to ride a horse, sharing what knowledge he knew you’d benefit from but also so you wouldn’t be near the fight. Fresh hot meals and deserts from Wild, with some added ingredients to let you sleep so they deal with business. Reading with Hyrule in a calm clearing, uninterrupted by the others but he knows the more time you spend together, the easier it’ll be when he steals you away. Sparring with Legend, finally free to move and fight as the others do as he gauges your strength to see how hard you can fight back.

You supposed the real question was why? You didn’t do anything odd or particularly of note. In comparison to the other options they had (there were none, as if anyone could pretend they held light to your sheer divinity) you felt dim by comparison. Sure, you wanted their affection (you already had them, so much blood has been spilled in your name, their reason for living is found within your company) but between yourself and the incarnation of a goddess fool to think she’s worthy of comparison you didn’t know what prompted their behaviour. It was only until you caught a passing conversation from a village girl to her friend that you realised your fatal mistake. This wasn’t Earth. Looking back on your behaviours you felt embarrassed. You’d spent hours reading and writing poetry with Warriors when you found his passion in it. You didn’t question the blush on his cheeks when you read his poetry on love- you knew he loved the romance novels. You asked Sky to play his harp when you were doing chores and even got in the habit of singing softly when you found yourself willing. You turned a blind eye to the look of sheer endearment and adoration when you looked up from whatever you busied yourself with. You’d listened to Four go on and on about the Minish after he found their numbers dwindled in the future. He’d cried, you held him, he went on and on about each and every tiny detail of his journey, pouring his heart out in a way that he was only ever used to doing when split. You welcomed him with open arms the next time he asked if you could talk. You ran whatever errands with Time that he asked, knowing his aversion to such large crowds with no company. You thought the silent agreement to stick with one another in busy cities was forged in the mistrust of the environment you found yourself surrounded with, not out of any further attraction. You entertained the idea of learning to ride a horse to get closer with the group, bridge the gap the lay between you. You didn’t catch Twilight as he noted how quickly you caught on, how easily you’d adapt to Ordon, especially with your compassion. You helped Wild with the cooking mainly because you wanted to be useful, but from what you’ve seen, he always managed to make simple tasks entertaining. He, meanwhile, was falling over himself at the fact that someone is willing to help him, let alone out of the goodness of their heart, let alone you who he’d lay down lives for. Reading with Rulie so you could learn a little more about their lives and culture as he saw you preparing to live out the rest of your days in the Hyrules. Asking Leg for help fighting because you knew he’d be the only one who wouldn’t hold back, while he enjoyed being closer with you, having the excuse to finally be near you without any glares. Looking back, you see why they acted as they did.

BONUS:

In long and short, the chain did a lot for you, for your affections. And it really began to bother you that they never accepted anything in return. They never took thanks, for it is what was ‘expected’ of courting, and yet you felt as if there was more to be done. And so, you decided on a plan. You’d simply have to be stubborn. It was rewarding to see blushes tinting their cheeks as they read the letters you’d written for them in turn. Watching their eyes light up as you goth them all jewellery, tokens that they treasured more than anything Hylia had given them. Finding excuses to take them all on dates and seeing their hearts squeeze.

#linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #yandere linked universe #link x reader #link x you #linked universe x reader #yandere linked universe x reader #x reader #yandere link x reader #firreplies #fir’s library

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 3 months

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"A billion people being fooled doesn't make something true. It just makes a billion fools."

The number of people who believe a thing has no bearing on whether that thing is true or not. Earth was always round when nobody had figured it out. And it'll still be round when there are no humans left to believe that it's flat.

#bandwagon fallacy #Argumentum ad populum #appeal to popularity #appeal to popularity fallacy #religion #religion is a mental illness

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bluelocksource · 8 months

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Itoshi Sae’s trivia (source: twt & Egoist Bible).

"I'll see with my own eyes what kind of FW (idiot) will be born in Japan."

☆ Character's colour: Adzuki bean color (reddish-brown).

☆ Nickname: ‘Japan’s Treasure’.

☆ Birthday: 10th October.

☆ Current age: 18 (3rd year of high school)

☆ Zodiac: Libra.

☆ Birthplace: Kamakura City, Kanagawa Prefecture.

☆ Family: Mother. Father. Himself. Younger brother.

☆ Current height: 180 cm.

☆ Foot size: 26.5 cm

☆ Dominant foot: Left foot.

☆ Blood type: A.

☆ Starts playing football: At age 1. “Before I knew it, I was playing soccer.”

☆ Team before returning to Japan: レ・アール下* Youth FC.

☆ Favorite food/drink: Salted kelp tea (shio-kombucha). “Because I can go back to 0.” (meaning he feels refreshed after drinking it)

☆ Disliked food: French fries. “It’s deadly delicious but it’s deadly to my health.”

☆ Favorite animal: Seagulls. “I like migratory birds that doesn’t stay in one place.”

☆ Favorite season: At the end of summer. "It seems that the world is starting to get lonesome."

☆ Favorite football player: Álvaro Recoba. “The left footer that casts a rainbow (perfect curve) on the pitch.” (Sae was referring to Alvaro quotes: “If today's game is on a rainy pitch, I'll draw a rainbow with my left foot.”. Álvaro is known for his curling-free-kick.)

☆ Favorite music: ‘Mercury’ by tofubeats ft. Seira Kariya. “I listen to this to cool down.”

☆ Favorite manga: Gegege no Kitaro.

☆ Favorite movie: Taxi Driver. “This De Niro is the coolest.”

☆ Favorite TV show: Chibi Maruko-chan. “It reminds me of home.”

☆ Favorite brand: “All of my sponsors. They know they're not crazy for betting on me, they have good eyes.”

☆ Hobby: Analysing data of football players and teams. “It’s easier to see the numbers in visualized data.”

☆ Mushroom shoots vs Bamboo shoots: “Depends on the mood.”

☆ What goes best with rice : Salted kelp (shio-kombu). “They don’t have it in Brazil, so I asked my parents back home to send some here.”

☆ What makes him happy: “A play beyond my imagination.”

☆ What makes him upset: Being forced to carry Japanese soccer on his back. “I’m talking about you guys.”

☆ What he thinks his strength is: He has flat ways looking at things. (meaning he look at things objectively) "People often calls me dry**, but who cares?"

☆ What he thinks his weakness is: The fact that he doesn’t know anything else other than soccer. “You guys shouldn’t live this way.”

☆ Favorite/Best subject: “I don’t know since I’ve only focus on soccer and didn’t pay attention in classes.”

☆ What made him cry recently: “Like I'd tell you, idiot.”

☆ Usual sleeping time: 8 hours (7 hours sleeping + 1 hour nap)

☆ Place he washes first when taking a bath: His bangs’ hairline.

☆ Fixation: Buttocks. “You’ll know an athlete's ability by the shape of their buttocks.”

☆ Number of chocolates received from previous Valentine: Around 2000. “That’s what my manager told me.”

☆ The first time he got confessed to: “I don’t remember which one was the first, octopus.” (here, octopus is just an insult like 'idiot' or 'fool', etc.)

☆ What will he do if received 100 million yen: “I’m not interested in such small amount of money.”

☆ At what age he stops receiving presents from Santa: At age 10.

☆ What was his last wish from Santa: “My own talent that I haven’t yet seen.”

☆ How he spent his holiday: Gazing at the sea.

☆ What will he do during his last day on Earth: Give the world's best striker the world's best pass.

*Not sure about the exact pronounciation but the most of the translation says 'Les Halles'.

** In Japan, there are terms called ‘dry person’ & ‘wet person’. ‘Dry person’ is someone who can think rationally without being overwhelmed by emotions and because of their calm demeanor, they are thought to be cold and unapproachable. ‘Wet person’ is the opposite of ‘dry person’.

note: i want to apologize in advance for any mistake made in the translation!

#blue lock #itoshi sae #trivia: itoshi sae #trivia: profile #bluelocksource #trivia #to those who reblog before changes made i'm really sorry #there was no info on his 'visual acuity'#he doesn't have bad eyeseight #really sorry about that #admin han #our translation

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good--merits-accumulated · 14 days

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do you take requests🧍‍♀️

LMAO I don't know if I would write full versions of these, but I can do some short snippets of each!

I. writer! Todd and vampire! Neil neighbours

Nicolas bared his teeth – and they were not just flashing white as Andrea had seen, but long and pointed, and curved like the canines of wolves. And they were no longer white, but slick and dark with blood. Of course. What a fool he had been. Nicolas moved closer and put one hand on Andrea’s throat, one cold relentless hand, so that they could both feel his pulse jumping between them. Behind him, pinned to the metal wall, Clara’s stake lay clenched in his hand.

“No, no, no,” said Neil cheerily across the space between their balconies, “you’ve forgotten that Andrea wears that necklace.”

If it had been six months ago, Todd would have – and had – turned red, snatched his laptop off the flimsy table, and scuttled away into the sanctity of his own apartment, imposing a state of self-exile from the balcony for several more weeks. Fortunately it was not. He twisted around in the chair, shot a half-despairing glance at Neil’s grinning face, and asked, “Have you never heard of privacy once in your entire life?”

“I have many times heard of l’intimité,” said Neil, grinning wider, “and of einkalíf, and even yǐnsī. Privacy, however. That’s a new one. Pri-var-see. Is that how you say it?”

He was incorrigible. Todd had discovered quite early on in their friendship that Neil had had some huge measure of life experiences which allowed him to come up with a rebuttal to every situation, and even earlier on that allowing him to run his mouth in French was a dangerous thing to do to himself. He was best humoured. “You’re in a boasting mood,” he said, pulling the laptop towards him. “I’ll bite. What’s wrong with his necklace?”

“You’re the one writing with your screen brightness all the way up on an open balcony,” said Neil mildly, but acquiesced when Todd shot him a threatening look. “Sorry. Lips sewn. Anyway – whatever gory hand-to-hand combat scene you’re working on there can’t go if he’s got the necklace on.”

“Well, why not?”

“It’s a fish,” said Neil, with some measure of surprise.

Todd fixed him with a look. “Neil, Andrea is a marine biologist.”

“A marine biologist wearing an ancient symbol of Christ around his neck,” said Neil. “Nicolas – he’s the vampire, yes? – he wouldn’t be very partial to that, I imagine.”

“A fish?” said Todd, surprised. “Well, it's not exactly a cross.”

“Hurts just as bad,” said Neil, making a face. “I mean, I would reckon. You know the ichthys actually predates the cross by two centuries? Bit more power to it, wouldn’t there be?”

He squinted and turned around fully. In the faint light spilling from his flat – the light from his flat was always faint – Neil looked loose-limbed and relaxed, draped over his balcony with his customary easy smile on his face, and his perpetual air of someone who knew more than he was letting on. Infuriatingly, the air was alluring at the best of times. But there was no hint of a lie or a joke on his face. “How on earth do you know that?”

“I’ve got time,” said Neil, “I read.” Then, with a shrug affecting casualness, “Could come over to yours and explain it more to you, if you want.”

“Well,” said Todd, and then, “well.” It had been six months they had known each other. He supposed that was enough time. But it had not happened before. For a moment a terrible feeling of anxiety overwhelmed him – something prickled over the back of his head like a hood, and a cloud crossed the moon, so that for half a second all was plunged into darkness. He shuddered. But then the clouds cleared and a ray of light struck Neil’s face, and illuminated it for him; he looked a little bit sheepish and a little bit pale, with nervousness perhaps. His hands twisted, one after the other, on the railing of the balcony. He was looking determinedly down. “I suppose it’d be helpful,” he said, and Neil looked up with a smile, suddenly blinding.

“Really?” he said.

“Well, don’t make me recant the offer.”

“Of course. Invite me in?”

He jerked a thumb in the direction of the door, standing up. “No,” said Neil, in a voice that was soft but carried nevertheless, and filled with laughter. “I’d like to hear you say it.” He was full of odd little idiosyncrasies like that, and despite himself, they were all endearing.

“You – are – ridiculous,” he said, punctuating each word with a movement; standing up, shutting the laptop, tucking the chair in behind him. “Are you recording that, or something? Come on over to the door. Of course you can come in.” He left Neil’s smile and the laptop behind him and slipped back into his flat, to stack the cushions back onto the sofa and check his hair in the mirror.

It did not occur to him until much later the point that should have been obvious from the start – that their balconies were much too far apart to see well, and that his screen brightness, despite Neil’s insistence, had not been turned up all that much at all. But by that point, he could no longer quite bring himself to care.

II. vampires! Todd and Neil forced to plan museum heists

Languages tended to blend into one another these days; they evolved so much over these many hundreds of years that dialects, once sisters, became distant cousins, and then ceased being on speaking terms altogether. It was awfully difficult to keep up, at least without looking like a fool or a grandfather. Despite that, some languages had, throughout the years, impressed themselves onto certain parts of Todd’s moods. Corsican when he was feeling playful, Old Norse when he had just woken up or was particularly vulnerable – English for almost everything else, except in those rare cases where he felt something unimaginably distressing had happened, or that some unforeseen calamity was tearing at the bounds of his reality, demanding to be given voice and a few more vowels. In those cases it was invariably French.

“Merde,” he said, staring in dismay at the display case, “oh, merde.”

“Fill de puta,” agreed Neil gloomily.

Staring back at him was five sheets of stained paper, covered densely from margin to margin in a scribbling hand he knew very well, seeing as it was attached to his wrist. They had been arranged with the utmost care on a transparent support, and although he had not read the contents of the label next to it, he could, very clearly, see its proud, bolded title: The Met Museum presents – “His sweet mouth”: Love Letters Through Time.

“Fill de puta,” Neil repeated. This time with a touch more horror.

“That must have been one of your letters,” said Todd faintly.

“The first time I used the phrase,” he rejoined, “le Roi Soleil was already dead.” He gestured at the line before them that read 15th century, exact date unknown. “That was you. Remember?”

He remembered, unfortunately, in excruciating detail. That had been a particularly thrilling night – a young man, one of Borso’s hanger-ons – a moonlit chase through the Castello Estense – him and Neil had been younger then, and had spilled more blood than was strictly necessary in the process. But it had been wonderfully romantic, and shortly afterwards, when Neil had gone off to Venice to do something with alum and Todd had remained in Ferrara, he had sat at his desk and remembered the moment; their hands and mouths meeting in that dim corridor of the Castello, the soft chimes of their laughter, the taste of the courtier’s sweet blood lingering still on his tongue. Enamoured, and in a mood much more befitting to a youth, he had written the letter and sent it off with a kiss.

It had been well received at the time; Neil had come back from Ferrara early and they had gone off for a third honeymoon in Milan, and stayed until the whole business with Galeazzo Maria had forced a quick escape. When asked where the letter had gone Neil had only assured him that he had kept it, with the kind of dashing prince’s bow he had favoured at the time. Looking at him now, both of them were remembering it.

He looked a little closer, just making out a particular line of Italian which had not been fit for public company in 1469 and was certainly not more so now, under hundreds of thousands of visitors’ eyes. “You said – ”

“I may,” said Neil, a little shamefacedly, “have lost it.” He rubbed at the back of his neck and added ruefully, “1844.”

He put a hand over his eyes. “The Oregon Trail?”

“It was quite windy.”

He pointed accusingly at the letter, and Neil winced. “Not windy enough to destroy the damn thing.”

“Well, it could be worse.”

“Worse!” One or two people looked over; he pulled Neil with him into the corner of the room, away from the damning glass display cases. “Neil, not only has our property been stolen – ”

“Lost.”

“Yes, because you lost it. Not only that, but now thousands of people are looking at it under this – damn – ” Lost for words, he pointed at the sign above them as they had walked into this particular exhibition room, reading, quite damningly, Eroticism and Sensuality, 1300-1550. He took one deep breath and compressed all the forcefulness and anger into a single, low, “Merde!”

“It was quite a good letter,” Neil offered. “I was flattered. Particularly the passage about my – ”

“There’s nothing for it,” Todd decided, firmly cutting him off. “Does Charlie still have all of his equipment from the ‘60s?”

“Good God,” said Neil smilingly. The good thing about having known each other for over a thousand years was that, at this point, they could have been the same person; he had not surprised Neil in quite some time with his actions. “You don’t mean to break into the Met?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Neil blinked at him slowly, and pulled him a little closer, so that they were pressed close enough together to be mistaken for young lovers. A middle-aged woman pushing a stroller shot them a smile as she walked by, and Todd smiled back, close-lipped. “I certainly haven’t been arrested in quite some time,” Neil mused.

“And you can’t be hung for it any more,” Todd pointed out, putting his head on his shoulder. “The stakes are exceedingly low. Neil, I really do want that letter back.”

When he looked up at him again he was smiling; the wide flashing smile which exposed all his teeth and the fangs jutting sharp onto his bottom lip. The light in his eyes had long since died but in the reflected glow of the spotlights they looked almost alive again, and dancing with mischief. “Well, if you wish it,” he said. “Then I can’t say no.”

Notes:

I: languages Neil uses in succession: French, then Icelandic, then Chinese. Take all the stuff about the icthys with large grains of salt - I did like 3 seconds of research for this and it was all on Wikipedia! Also I do think Andrea wears specifically the icthys, and not just any old fish.

II: Todd is of course using French, but Neil uses Catalan. Maybe I've been reading too much Aubrey-Maturin. The Borso mentioned is Borso d'Este - highly recommend reading more about him if you like Quattrocento things. Similarly Galeazzo Maria is of course the real Sforza who was assassinated in 1476!

#sorry about the delay i was sleeping + debating the merits of consuming jesus' stigmata with some friends. you know how it is #anderperry #dead poets society #anderperry fic #tristan writes #thanks for (sort of) requesting! it was nice to stretch these particular writing muscles #tristan stop bringing everything back to Quattrocento courtly dynamics challenge. failed #ask

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spencerrxids · 2 years

Text

untied shoelaces

fools (chapter 1)

main masterlist | series masterlist | next

pairing : Steve Harrington x fem!reader

genre : angst, Unrequited-Love (or is it? 👀)

warning : contains scene from Season 4 not really a spoiler cause it’s on the trailer

summary : in which you realize that Steve’s feelings for Nancy seems to remains the same even after all these years

wordcount : 2.6k

a/n : i don’t like this one. i wasn’t in the angsty mood half of the time i write this which was tbh frustrating me. i was supposed to be sad but i ended up being pissed cause i’m not sad? idk. i’m planning to make another part if you like this.

Have you ever just looked at someone and went like ‘God, I wish I were you’. If not, then congrats you are definitely not missing out on something important. But if it did happen to you before, then you might find yourself relating to this story more than you thought you would.

***

Steve Harrington is an asshole and she wished that she hated him for that. Instead, she falls for him, harder than she ever did, loving him as if she never loved before. She wished she could hate him for giving her reasons to do that. But no matter how hard she tried, the words that fell out of her mouth would still be lies while the truth remained in her shallow heart.

She is in love with Steve Harrington. There’s nothing in this world that could possibly change that, not even the fact that his heart is set on Nancy Wheeler. Maybe the two of them are more alike than she thought they were, after all, Steve and she are both falling for those whose heart only beats for the one that is not theirs. And there is no greater power out there that could possibly save them from the pain that awaits ahead of them.

She knew Steve for what feels like their whole life, except in this case, she does know him her whole life. Him? Not so much. Steve wasn’t exactly the one who would go around and shake hands with the others even when they were still preschoolers–not exactly the jerk he was going to be in High School, it’s the fact that everyone seems to love him so he never had the time to actually look around and notice her. He probably won’t even remember the first time he ever interacted with her, yet for her, the memory remains fresh as if it just happened the day before.

“Watch out.” She could hear someone yelling while she walked on the pavement, holding her backpack as she got closer and closer to the school. “You. Girl with the red backpack! Watch out.” Realizing that the person was talking to her, she freezes on the spot, eyes widening as it wanders warily around to check if there’s anything that is currently flying towards her.

Not a second later, she could feel the impact of someone crashing onto her back, her feet stumbled forwards a few steps before gaining back their balance. Swiftly, she turned around and found herself looking at a boy with rather voluminous hair for his age. A year older probably, she thought at that moment.

“You should really watch out.” He said, chest heaving up and down, an effect of chasing her down the street. A confused look came on her face, she opened her mouth slightly but her words went silent as the boy suddenly crouched down on one knee. “You really don’t realize it, huh? Your shoelace is untied. You could fell if only I didn’t warn you.” His little hands tied it back carefully before standing back up once more.

“And let me tell you this, falling because of that isn't exactly pleasing. It was rather embarrassing, it happened to me once.” He continues, furrowing his eyebrows together as a displeasing look goes up on his face—the unpleasant memory comes back into his mind. He cringed to himself. “Well, better watch your step next time.”

She continued standing here, frozen in time even though he was no longer around. “Thank you?” The words fell flat on earth as she said it to nothing but the air in front of her. A hue of red covered her face as she recalled the brief interaction. That was the day she decided that maybe, maybe Steve Harrington is someone who goes around and shakes hands with the others. She decided that the next time she saw him, she would express her gratitude for him.

When the day finally comes, she gives up the idea of it as his ‘friends’ drag him away just before she could speak out his name. Whispers about her name flew past her ear. She knows. She knows what those groups call her. Many names just for some stupid reasons. If we’re being truthful out here, she doesn’t really care about it. They were just a bunch of idiots who loved calling other people names to make themselves feel inferior to others. It’s okay, she thought. People make mistakes.

***

It was a random day in Middle School when Steve Harrington approached her for the second time, this might be the memory that comes to his mind when the topic of their first interaction comes up—which is never. She was closing her locker, ready to go back home as he suddenly leaned onto the locker beside her.

She was about to ignore him, thinking that he wasn’t there for her when he called out her name, almost hesitantly as if he wasn’t sure if it was actually her name. “Yeah, hi. I don’t think we were ever properly introduced. I’m Steve Harrington.” He ended that with an unusual smile on his face as if he is up to something not good. She doesn’t like it.

“I already know that?” The statement sounded more like a question instead. “Now if you excuse me-“

“No. No, wait. You live across from my house, right?” She went silent, not expecting him to realize that. When did he start to notice her existence? The thought of that rang in her mind. It is true what he said, that they are in fact neighbors. “And we’ve been going to the same school since elementary school.”

Preschool, she wanted to say.

“And your point is what exactly?” She raised her eyebrows at the same boy who loves to throw a little prank around the school every now and then. He’s not really the jerk she had expected him to be but the boy that goes around and shakes his hands with others.

Steve raised his point finger up in the air. “I need a……….” She couldn’t catch what he was saying at the end of his sentence as he purposely muted himself. Hesitatingly he said it once more. “I need a – I need a tutor. Not really a tutor, I guess. I just need some help with my homeworks. And your house is near and you’re smart. So why not?”

“You want me to do your homeworks?” She asked.

“Help me. Help me with my homeworks.” He replied. “Cause I’m really really really stupid with numbers. My parents are rarely home but when they do it’ll be nice if they have something to be proud of about me, you know?”

Hearing that last part of his sentence, she found herself nodding at his request. That night she went to his house and found herself stressed because God forbid Steve Harrington to understand multiplication or any subjects that contain numbers apparently. “It’s 9. The answer is literally nine. 3 times 3 is 9.” She insisted for the 2749303th time that day.

“Yeah, Sherlock, I know that. But here, it says 3 squared. It has two and three in it which means I’m right. The answer is six.” He looks at her smugly, crossing his arm to his chest as if he just solved the greatest mystery in the world. While she just looked at him, silently wondering how the hell did he pass those classes in the past. With her mouth wide open, she found herself nodding. “Wow. You really should get a brain check, Harrington. You might just solve what even Einstein himself can’t solve.”

That night, the fates decided to write their story altogether, making them quite inseparable as their line of thread stood closely next to each other but never once ever crossed. What began from a stressed tutor-dumbass student relationship grew into a genuine friendship where she found herself getting into trouble with him. Running through the market aisle like some silly pre-teenagers. His hand held hers as he dragged her away from the angry shop owner, throwing their heads back with a wide smiles plastered on their face.

Then high school comes into the picture and ruins them all. Like it always does.

***

It’s really unfair, isn’t it? Fates must be laughing at her right now. Screw them for getting her hopes up. Maybe this is it. It has come to that moment where she needs to accept the fact that their line would never cross and tangle itself with one another–connecting them for eternity. That there would always be a border between them that won’t allow their fate to cross one another.

She had to watch him slowly slipping away from her grasp as he started hanging out with Tommy H. and Carol. It’s not that bad at first, Steve tries his best to make her feel included although clearly, it’s transparent that she wanted nothing to do with his ‘friends’. When the nickname ‘King Steve’ was thrown around she had no problem with it either. Simple meaningless title.

But when he fell for Nancy. That’s – that’s when things started to fall out of place. Even then, she couldn’t bring herself to hate the girl who owns his heart, she could never. Nancy was a nice person and she was also a good friend to her. Hell, she was defending the poor girl after the shitty stunt that Steve had pulled. Driving him to the Byers’ house so he can beg for Jonathan’s forgiveness. If they hadn’t gone there, they probably won’t ever known about the other world that lay beneath them. The dark side of Hawkins. Stories about Demogorgon, Hell-ish creatures, and the girl who apparently has powers.

When Steve passed her and went to Nancy’s side, there was an ounce of disappointment in her gut. But she quickly paid no mind to it, telling herself that in the end, they’ll be the ones who are in a relationship. Her gaze fell on Jonathan as his eyes were fixed on the girl in Steve’s embrace. With a knowing smile, she nudged him. “You too, huh?” Her hand sneaked onto his back, patting him slightly. Why can’t the two turn around and see the one who actually loves them? Good news for Jonathan, Nancy looked over her shoulder for a slight moment.

When the two finally break up with all of the ‘bullshit’ incidents. She went onto Steve’s side like she always does. Keeping the brokenhearted boy close, collecting all the pieces of his heart that have been shattered to the ground the same way she has always been keeping him close to her heart. But she doesn’t think all of her efforts had any kind of an effect on him because at that time she somehow ended up with Steve and Dustin for a few days. She had heard him talking about Nancy again. God, she wishes she were Nancy. In a world full of questions, one stood out the most to her, what does it feel like to be loved by Steve Harrington? If there’s still any chance for her to feel that, even if it were just for a minute, she would trade anything for that.

Maybe I’m not the one.

Seems foolish to feel that much all for a guy whose heart doesn’t beat at the mention of her name. She knows that. She is a foolish girl. But so is Steve for feeling the same way for a girl whose heart no longer beats at the mention of his name. When he started to talk about Nancy to Dustin, she immediately distanced herself far from the two. If only she stayed a little longer, she would have heard how he talked about her.

***

Just when she thought all of those scary things were gone, the vecna problem showed up and here she was standing on the side as her eyes fixed on Steve and Nancy inside the Creel’s house. Hasn’t seen them together side by side for a long time makes her forget how much pain she could feel all at once. She cleared her throat to gain their attention, awkwardly she pointed over her shoulders. “Umm, Max was searching for you. I think she might have got something.”

Nancy throws her an awkward smile as she walks past her. Right, everyone knows. Everyone knows it all but him. She approached Steve who was still standing there looking quite out of the place. She pointed the flashlight to his face. “What was that?” She asked him, quivering her eyebrows. A disappointed look was visible on her face. “Steve, she has Jonathan in California. You should remember that.”

“What was-No. No. Yeah, I know. About Jonathan I mean.” He paused and pressed his lip into a firm line. “It’s nothing. We were just talking.” His eyes avoided hers as he put his hand on his waist.

She nodded slowly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I really don’t. Not again, Steve.” She said with sincerity filling her tone. A heavy sigh got out from her as her eyes downcasted to the ground, frowning at the memory of him after the breakup. “I can’t have you–I can’t have you going back to her after–“ After I almost got you. “After all that happened to you back then. She is already happy with Jonathan.”

“So please I beg you right now. Don’t love the girl who wasted your feelings when there are others who would love you—who have been in love with you like how you’ve been in love with her. When there are others who would trade everything they have just to fill the empty space that was left by her in your heart.” She didn’t even realize how her voice cracks at the end of her sentence or how tears threaten to spill from her eyes. “Don’t be a fool.”

Notice me. I’m right here.

Steve stood there, almost looking as if he were a statue if it weren’t for the up and down of his chest. She shut her eyes, letting the tears escape from them, as she turned her head the other way. Unable to face the rejection of what she just accidentally implied to him. She could feel him getting closer to her. And when she opened her eyes, there he was crouching on one knee, tying the knot of her shoelace together. “Steve, I-“

“Your shoelace is untied. You could fell if I didn’t notice it.” He looks up at her with a sad smile on his face. She just stares at him, unmoving, unsure if this was a memory replaying itself in front of her cause once again, the memory of their first interaction remains fresh in her mind even a decade later. “And it’s not exactly pleasant to fall because of that reason.” He stands back up, now looking down at her with an unexplained look in his eyes. One that she can’t bear to look at cause she knows even if it was filled with rejection, she would fall harder instead.

“Thank you.” She paused for a second, before looking up at him. “For noticing me.”

For remembering what I thought was gone from your memory.

He puts his hand on her shoulder, grasping it softly before leaning down a little bit with a whisper. After that, he flashed her a quick smile before leaving the room. Leaving her alone as she stands there with nothing but pain filling her heart as silent tears escape her eyes. They are both fools indeed.

part 2 (pls tell me if you wanna be on the taglist)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x fem reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #fanfiction #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #angst #fluff #unrequited love #steve harrington is a god #friends to lovers #childhood friends

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manorpunk · 9 days

Text

2️⃣

‘Comprador’ refers to an agent of a large multinational corporation whose typical job responsibility is taking a small underdeveloped nation and turning it into a vending machine for a natural resource - oil, coffee, coal, minerals - then getting that nation so dependent on selling those raw materials to that company that they effectively control it.

Unrelatedly, the Global Logistics Network was the single largest anything of 2069.

They weren’t a monopoly, no, no, no. They were… you see, the crowded and fragile system of intercontinental shipping was simply too important to be left in the hands of any single nation. You all saw what happened when the Brits monopolized it, and when the US monopolized it after them. You’ve seen how nations owning major canals turns them into a hive of corruption. Shipping belongs to the world, which means it belongs to the GLN.

They were headquartered in Qingdao, a major city in the Shandong province of China. Don’t be fooled, China fumbled the past few decades as much as everyone else, but every institution needs a head, and every head needs a headquarters, and the headquarters of the Global Logistics Network were located in Qingdao. The complex of skyscrapers that comprised GLNHQ was large and populous enough to form its own city-state, a closed loop of offices, gyms, fabricators, dormitories, labs, shops, copackers, cafeterias, and warehouses. You could spend your whole life there without ever setting foot on the earth itself. Many did.

Such was the Global Logistics Network. Like capitalism rising centuries ago from the sclerotic and shambling remnants of feudalism, the GLN rose from the old ways of hyper-financialized over-leveraged capitalism to create something new, something so new it didn’t even have a name yet. Much like the transition from feudalism to capitalism, things were better overall, but good lord, what a low bar to clear.

Towering above it all at the top floor of the central skyscraper sat Meng “Harold” Jianli, sole co-founder of the GLN. One might wonder how someone could be a ‘sole co-founder,’ and the answer was that the GLN was so powerful and omnipresent that its leader could have called himself a living god for all the power that sat upon his person. He certainly had more power than those who had historically claimed the title of living god.

But Meng “Harold” Jianli was no god, living or otherwise. Despite the vast power seated upon his person, or perhaps because of it,he looked rather disheveled, with a jowly face like splotchy old parchment, a sagging belly, and a crudely functional flat-top of black hair. His suit was slack and rumpled - his weight had a tendency to fluctuate wildly thanks to the stress.

It was stressful, being in charge. Past a certain point, you don’t really get more powerful, you just have more people to babysit and more fires to put out. He had to keep an eye on Novo Karo Bioresearch, or they’d be so excited to show off their new research that they’d start doing eugenics. He had to keep an eye on Vae Victis Engineering, or they’d get so excited testing out their new tech that they’d start a world war. And now, with his hands steepled and his brow furrowed, he had to keep an eye on the vtuber that the American League had elected president.

He stared at Sunny Roosevelt. Sunny smiled back and gave him a little wave.

“I am willing to work with you, miss Roosevelt. The GLN is willing to work with just about anyone, it’s one of our biggest strengths.” He shifted effortlessly between ‘I’ and ‘we,’ treating the two as synonyms. “The issue is, we are still trying to figure out what your administration actually intends to do.”

“Hmm.” Sunny put a finger to her chin, pursed her lips, and looked upward. An ellipsis appeared over her head. “You got a copy of my campaign objectives, right?”

“Are you referring to this?” He held up a single sheet of paper, on which was written ‘make anime real’ in 48-point font and nothing else.

“Yep!”

“And you think this qualifies as a roadmap for your presidency.”

“Personally, I think it’s quite ambitious.”

Harold puttered his lips. “Miss Roosevelt-”

“Please, call me ‘mommy.’”

“Miss Roosevelt, I understand that you are standing on rather shaky ground. The National Board of Directors is being dragged away from the provisional US government days,” he said, which neglected to mention how half of the National Board of Directors were former GLN big names, “and the new state congress acts more like a rehab clinic for celebrity podcasters than a governing body,” he said, which stood just fine without caveats.

“I understand,” Sunny said, nodding and still smiling, “I’m a bimbo who’s in way over her head, so you’re going to unveil the GLN’s big five year plan and tell me to follow it like a good little girl.”

Harold was already in the process of lifting a hefty unlabeled binder, intending to thump it dramatically atop his desk, but the accuracy of Sunny’s comment left him slightly deflated. “I prefer to think of it as an advisory-”

“And then I’ll kiss up to you during our conversations,” Sunny continued, “but stall and drag my feet when it comes to actually implementing anything, and you’ll say,” she loosened her face and dropped her voice, “dammit Sunny, are you trying to play me for a fool?”

“I don’t sound like that. I don’t sound like Richard Nixon,” Harold protested, sounding kind of like Richard Nixon.

“And then I’ll say, it’s not me, it’s the state governors, they just refuse to cooperate. The new congress is one big old boy’s club. Even the Board of Directors is demanding overly-detailed descriptions of everything before they’ll sign off on it, it’s malicious compliance!” Sunny hung her head and threw her hands, wailing, “you set me up to fail, Harold. You set me up to fail, you rat bastard!”

“Are you done?”

Sunny straightened back up. There was that smile again. “Yep. That was fun.”

“In any case, while I understand you are currently something of a figurehead, even figureheads cannot afford to do nothing. Not when a third of the country is still lacking even the barest measures of centralized government.”

“What, you mean the Midwest Autonomous Zone?” A little question mark appeared over Sunny's head. “I mean, yeah, but it’s not like that started with the fall of the old US. Missouri was a dump long before the thirties.”

“Be that as it may-”

“That’s the 2030s, because we’re in the future.”

“Miss Roosevelt.”

“Please, call m-”

“No. Miss Roosevelt, why did you become president if you are so averse to actually presiding?”

Sunny shrugged and let out a huffy little sigh. “Look, most people weren’t exactly begging to have America back. Not even Americans. They don’t want someone with a bold, inspirational vision. Bold, inspirational visions are what start world wars, for George’s sake. I, for one, believe that bench-warming is not just a good idea but a moral imperative.”

“George’s sake?” Harold repeated.

“Saint George Washington. Oh, right, America’s got a brand new religion now, it’s called Founderism. We took the whole Founding Father worship thing and made it an official heresy. Also, Jesus was a small business owner.”

Harold grimaced and considered leaving the former USA to the wolves for a few more decades.

#Heaven is Falling #writing #sunny roosevelt #meng ‘harold’ jianli

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lizardsfromspace · 3 months

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As search engines worsened, technopagan's knowledge of algorithmancy grew. The faltering code was not faltering code, but the divine asserting itself in new ways. The secrets within the recommendations engine revealed themselves to those with eyes to see. To be shown a flat earth video was a sign to broaden your horizons; Elsagate videos a symbol of danger hidden under the cloak of sweetness; PragerU the knowing fool. The spirits of nature continued to assert themselves through technological decay, through our tackiest post-modern detritus: technopagans learned to see communication from our ancient evolutionary ancestors hidden in NFTs, to hear the half-formed souls powering AI image generators. To hear the whispers of the spiritual Trojan Horse latched like parasites onto our digital hell

#unreality cw #writing

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bleachification · 2 years

Text

hope is the devil’s crux

pairing: chuuya x doctor!reader

warnings: lil bit of gore, not very graphic at all

summary: sometimes life is a bit unfair. other times, life sticks you in an inescapable, abandoned tunnel with the man who hates your guts for betraying him, and who is also bleeding out from a stab wound that only you (the traitor) can heal.

authors note(s): part two can be found: here :*

“Go away. I don’t need you.”

“I am the only doctor in a ten-mile radius; we are stuck underground without a way out; I think you may have a concussion, and—oh right—you are currently impaled. So I would argue that yes, actually, you do need me.”

Chuuya tries to scowl, but it comes off as a stiff grimace instead. “I can handle it.”

You stare at him—a bloody mess leaning against a concrete wall—in utter exasperation. His dress shirt is soaked to the point where it blends into the black jacket wrapped around his shoulders. A foot-long jagged hunk of metal, dripping a sinewy red, juts out from the left side of his abdomen like some kind of sick accessory.

Chuuya’s breaths come in terrifyingly shallow beats, and his complexion is beginning to resemble that of a corpse.

Despite his horrid (and visibly pained) state, he refuses you.

If it weren’t such a tense situation, you would probably roll your eyes.

“Stubborn fool. I’m not going to sit here and watch you bleed out. What kind of doctor do you take me for?” You kneel beside him and begin carefully examining the wound. Featherlight fingers trace the outline of his injury as you assess its severity. The feeling jolts him. You can tell by the twitch of his muscles and the way goosebumps rise from his flesh, prickling as skin meets skin.

Chuuya pulls back, despite the pain moving causes. It is an instinct. A defense mechanism structured to protect and force him as far away from your hands as he can get. He needs space—needs it from your touch, your scent, your voice… from your very existence. Any closer and the throbbing in his chest would soon override every other feeling coursing through his body.

“I told you to get away from me; I don’t want your—“

“If the word ‘pity’ even tries to come out of your mouth, I’ll jam this thing five inches deeper,” you warn.

Chuuya doesn’t reply at first. Instead, he turns his head towards the source of your threat and for the first time in hours; he looks you in the eyes. His gaze is half-lidded, but that doesn’t mask his spite. It also doesn’t entirely hide the flickers of emotions he desperately tries to quell. Luckily for Chuuya, you are too preoccupied with arguing with him to register the brewing sentiments reflected in his eyes.

Beads of sweat trickle down the side of his cheek—all the way down to the edge of his chin—until they fall flat onto the dirt-ridden, moss-infested ground, sinking deep within the earth until all that’s left is a darkened patch. The tension is thick as oil and abundantly apparent—in both his jaw and the air between you.

“I don’t want your fake compassion, Doctor.” The redhead spits out that last part as if merely thinking the word fills his mouth with vile poison. Or at least something vividly similar.

You don’t let it show, but his words pierce the air and cut like a sword through your chest, cleaving your heart into halves during the process. It is a familiar sensation, a tangled mess of emotions that has been following you like a restless phantom since the moment you left—and inevitably betrayed—the Port Mafia.

Guilt. Frustration. A foreign and unpleasant sensation that you aren’t brave enough to put a name to.

“I don’t exactly care what you want. I refuse to watch someone die, knowing I could have changed the outcome.” You feign a quick cough, hoping it covers up the waver in your voice.

Chuuya does not believe you. He believes you would bleed him dry and leave him out to hang. He believes you are the sort of person that would enjoy watching him suffer—as you’ve caused him to do so many times in the past. He believes you to be the same type of scum as that idiot Dazai—a traitor who knows nothing of the meaning of loyalty. But at least Dazai had the decency not to toy with Chuuya’s heart and leave it a bitter, ragged mess. At least Dazai only left physical scars, not tainted marks hidden beneath the surface that are only perceivable to Chuuya and Chuuya alone.

You are lying. Chuuya thinks. You have been lying to me for years.

He almost speaks, a myriad of raw and acute thoughts on the edge of his lips, but stops himself just as quickly. Because voicing that thought will be the same as admitting he cares for your words and the weight they may hold. It would imply that you still occupy a place deep inside his heart, buried underneath the layers of dust and wounds, a weakness he cannot afford. So instead, Chuuya simply asks: “Will you leave me alone if I let you fix me?”

You sigh, and a hint of relief seeps out. “I might.”

What a big fat lie. If you don’t keep an eye on him there is a high chance of Chuuya sleeping himself into a coma, but lying is part of your nature and you will fabricate existence itself if doing so means helping him recover.

Chuuya tilts his head back until it gently rests against cold concrete, closing his eyes in acceptance of what you are about to do. Strangely it feels like he’s accepting you… if only for this one night.

In this damp and eerily empty space, the only perceivable sounds come from dripping water and the both of your breaths; his are much raspier than yours. You hope he doesn’t notice the erratic thudding coming from your chest as you inch closer and closer toward him; until you can feel his body’s warmth wash over you. Ignoring (or at the very least trying to) his overwhelming presence, you begin working.

Chuuya is silent during the whole ordeal. As you peel the rest of the fabric away from the wound and examine it in its entirety, the only hint of discomfort he gives is a barely audible hitch in his breath.

You procure sanitizing wipes from the medical kit that sits skewed on your hip and then swipe them across his skin to sterilize the wound and prep for the next—and most crucial—step: extracting the metal.

“What I’m about to do… it will—”

Chuuya’s voice cuts you off. It's softer this time, perhaps from exhaustion. “Hurt. I’m well aware. This isn’t the first time, remember?”

You do. The amount of times Chuuya had walked into the infirmary with something needing fixed couldn’t be counted on the hands of a dozen people. Back when you still worked undercover at the Port Mafia as their head doctor, half your time would be consumed by Chuuya and his medical incidents. Most of those occurrences were for minor injuries that probably would have gone away with a band-aid or a few hours of rest, but you always suspected he used the petty cuts and bruises as an excuse to see you. You feel your lips lift up in a small smile at the nostalgic memory, back when your relationship with Chuuya was much, much simpler.

Chuuya sneezes, then groans from the motion. It snaps you from your stupor and you start to rip open the left side of your shirt, hurrying as you ignore the onslaught of echoes of the past.

Chuuya’s eyes bug out to the size of saucers.

“What do y—what are you doing?!” He sputters, voice rising an octave with every word. Colour seems to have returned to his cheeks as he frantically averts his gaze away from you.

The left sleeve falls off your bare shoulder as you struggle with tearing off the bottom. “I don’t have any bandages that are big enough. Plus, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“That time was an accident!”

The threads finally break loose as you give a final yank. “You ‘accidentally’ walked in on my private bath?”

“Dazai switched the signs. That prick,” Chuuya mutters, face still turned away from you.

His exasperation makes you laugh—a short, sharp huff that draws his attention to yours once more.

Your laugh falters as his eyes meet yours once again. They shine with something foreign, yet so very familiar. Chuuya loathes you. You know it. He knows it. The whole world knows it. So why does he look at you like a world like that could never exist? It is a terrible and false hope his expression ignites—one that pours poison into your eyes and blinds you to the truth. Hope is the worst kind of temptation—devilry hiding behind the mask of something pure—but it is also the only thing keeping you sane in this moment.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

The heat is making you dizzy, or perhaps it's the tight proximity between you and the man who has taken up almost every waking thought of yours in the last two years.

Definitely the latter.

“I don’t have any numbing agents. But here, open your mouth.”

He does as you say, though hesitantly, and you place a makeshift gag between his lips and motion for him to bite down.

“I am really, really sorry,” you whisper.

Chuuya’s groans, even muffled by the cloth, are loud. They echo and bounce off the tunnel walls until finally fading into the distance. It is a long and arduous operation, but he calms down significantly when you successfully remove the source of his pain.

“That was…” He blows out a sharp breath, “that was rough.”

Chuuya is less hostile now. You’re not sure if that’s a sign to be relieved or worried.

“I’m going to stitch you up now, okay?” Your voice comes out low, as if trying to pacify a frightened wild animal.

A curt nod is the only answer you get. At least Chuuya’s no longer trying to pull away or argue, though it’s probably because the night’s fatigue has finally taken hold of him.

You begin to patch him up and pretend his muscles don’t tense every time the needle pushes through.

Always pretending to be okay, even in the direst of situations.

It’s one of the traits he shares with you—an incredible stubbornness that frequently breeds trouble… and a whole lot of grief.

As you finish bandaging Chuuya’s torso, you sneak a glance at him. He is considerably more relaxed, but more importantly, he is staring straight at you.

“What? Something on my face?” You tease, with zero expectation of an answer.

So imagine your surprise when he scoffs and replies with: “I wish. Unfortunately, I find my sight gravitating to your face more often than not. It’s fucking annoying.”

What? Your head spins as his blunt admission sends your equilibrium askew and it takes a second longer for you to completely process his words, and their underlying implication. What does he mean by it? Is it an impulse fueled by his hatred for you? Or does it mean something else entirely… something that gives rise to flickering rays of hope.

“Are you done?” Chuuya’s raspy voice breaks your train of thought once again and grounds you back to reality.

“Almost. I need to double-check something,” you respond.

You spend the next couple of minutes rattling off questions and monitoring his condition. After checking him over once more and finding no sign of a concussion, you let out a sigh of relief and take a seat beside him against the wall.

“You should get some rest for now, your body needs it. I’ll keep watch and see if we can get a signal and call for help,” you inform, already turning on your phone and checking the service. There’s one bar (thank god), and you begin dialing.

Chuuya doesn’t respond until after you’ve called for backup. “I’ll watch. You sleep.” His tone is flat. Final. No room for discussion.

You shake your head, incredulous. “I’m the one who wasn’t bleeding out a minute ago. You sleep.”

Chuuya’s features contort into an expression of annoyance. “No.”

No? No?

You try a nicer tone—a polite one—a tone you use with your more obstinate patients. “Chuuya, your body needs rest. I promise nothing will happen and I’ll wake you when help arrives. Then I’ll get out of your hair and you’ll never have to see me again. I promise.”

He only stares at you like you’ve suggested disembowelment. It makes your left eye twitch. Just a little.

“I said no,” he argues.

You sigh again. “Chuuya plea–”

“I’m not fucking sleeping.”

You explode.

“God, why are you so hard headed? I’m telling you to rest, not cut off a limb! For fucks sake, Chuuya it’s not that big of an ask!” Your chest—much like your anger—rises as you draw in deep breaths.

“And I told you: I. Don’t. Need. It.” Chuuya grits out.

You glare at each other for a rigid minute before the exhaustion of the night takes over and pulls you to the ground, a fair distance away from Chuuya. You stay silent for a beat before voicing your thoughts out softly and wearily. “Why must you keep fighting me?”

A long and hollow silence fills the dark space around you. Not a single sound other than those set by the environment is heard. You quickly realize he has no intention to answer the question posed.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

“I can’t.”

You jerk and practically keel over from the sudden response, but steady yourself just in time to cock your head and ask: “Can’t keep fighting me?”

Chuuya spares you a glance—it has ‘you are an idiot’ written all over it.

“I cannot sleep.” He enunciates each word as if he was attempting to explain quantum mechanics to a toddler.

What an ass.

You swallow down the insults bubbling up your throat (because you are a good person who exercises patience) and shift your body until you position yourself directly across from him. Toe-to-toe, face-to-face.

“Insomnia?”

One simple word; generally it carries minimal significance, and yet it has Chuuya freezing as soon as it is mentioned.

He hesitates and eventually: “...Yes.”

“Medications? Any therapeutic remedies?” You’re in full doctor-mode, poking and prodding in an effort to procure an empirical diagnosis.

“Didn’t work. Any of it,” he huffs.

“How long?”

He turns away from you and drops his head slightly, as if preparing for his answer. “Since November.”

November? Why would that month be such—oh. Oh.

Shit.

Chuuya turns to look at you and frowns upon seeing your expression.

“Don’t. It’s not—“

“My fault?” Your voice comes out shakier than before, but it’s nothing compared to how rattled you are from the realization that Chuuya can’t sleep anymore because of you. Because of what you did to him.

“It’s not,” he assures. His eyes are still fixated on you, and for the first time tonight he’s the one looking worried.

You can only shake your head, afraid of your voice breaking along with what’s left of your resilience.

“It’s not your fault I’m weak,” he murmurs.

That has you snapping your head towards him. Chuuya? Weak? He may be a lot of things, but weak would never come close to being an adjective that describes Chuuya.

“You… you’re kidding, right?”

He must hear the disbelief in your tone because he laughs—albeit sardonically.

“Please. If I wasn’t, do you really think I would have let you walk out of there alive that night?”

You suck in a sharp breath. He’s referring to the night you left the Port Mafia for good. Even after all this time, the image of Chuuya’s expression as you turned your back and walked away with the Agency members is still freshly ingrained into your mind—furious, disappointed, gutted.

“It was my job, Chuuya,” you whisper.

His next question knocks all of the air out of your lungs.

“Was I just a job to you then?”

No. Hell no. Never.

But you can’t say that. So you do what you do best; you lie.

“Yes. You were just a job, nothing more.”

Chuuya bursts out into short laughter, except it sounds too hysterical for it to be genuine. It winds down to a weary sigh as he drops his head into his head, his signature hat falling onto the dirt beside him.

He mumbles something, but his position and your distance makes it ineligible.

“Sorry?” You scooch closer until your thighs almost press up against his, craning your neck in an attempt to hear.

“I said..” He looks up, and you find yourself staring into his eyes for the millionth time today. Long lashes partially conceal his pupils as he repeats his words.

“You are very cruel to me.”

It is the last thing he says to you before the sound of sirens burst from the tunnel's collapsed entrance.

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