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#it kinda fits in with the rest of the cast so! i guess it's a digimon just like all the others on this blog :)

kitashousewife · 5 months

Note

hii idk if I missed it but did u ever expand on the sakusa perfume ad thought 👀

YES please let me do so (sorry this is so late)

—————

“yes, that’s perfect. right here,” the photographer snaps another shot, clicking sounds echoing through the small set as sakusa lets out an exhale.

really he’s not sure why he agreed to this. some new perfume line contacted the team a few months back, talking about some sort of collaboration to boost each others popularity. a few phone calls later and now, most of the teammates have had their turn behind the camera.

sakusa was last. he really didn’t want to. he was flattered, a little flustered that they thought he would be good for a perfume ad. he’s seen them this whole life, casting movie stars and other famous athletes. the mere fact that he’s now at that level is mind blowing enough.

but now that he sits here, uncomfortably warm and sick of the attention, he’s thinking maybe it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

until you call him.

you’re in your local grocery store, picking up things for the week after work. thoroughly worn out, you grab a magazine from the racks while in the check out line to pass the time. your fingers flip through aimlessly, completely unaware of the contents of the glossy pages, until you are.

staring back at you is sakusa kiyoomi. head rested in his palm, in a partially unbuttoned black silk shirt, with a bottle of cologne to his lips.

you almost shut the magazine. your body feels warm, your head spins. almost ripping it open again, you stare right back at the photo. his jaw is sharp, and his milky skin glistens behind the shiny bottle. and his eyes, they feel like he’s staring right at you. before you can think twice you’re shoving the tabloid onto the belt, and begin to try to catch your breath.

“hell-“

“kiyoomi,” your voice sounds apprehensive, strained even.

“what? i just got back from practice, i need to sh-“

“we’ve been friends for over ten years and you forgot to tell me that you were in a fucking cologne ad?”

sakusa about chokes before he slams the mute button on his phone. he completely forgot, he hadn’t even been told by the marketing team that the ads were out. he feels embarrassed, suddenly worried about everyone in the entire world seeing a completely different side of him than normal.

but he’s also curious.

part of him wished this would happen. while he was staring down the lens of the camera, the thought did cross his mind about how you specifically would react.

he can’t help but find out.

“it slipped my mind i guess, i’ve been busy,” he sets his phone on the kitchen counter. “kinda cool, huh?”

you don’t even know what to say. the most beautiful photo of the prettiest man you’ve ever met is in front of you, and his raspy voice is coming through your phone, making for an incredibly distracting combination.

“you look so irritated,” your voice is quiet. sakusa smirks, only slightly.

“i was. i was there for hours,” his smirk grows for a moment. “i think there’s going to be a short video ad, too.”

you rub your temples. your mind is blank. you’ve always thought sakusa was handsome, but not like this. your tongue feel heavy in your mouth, and you can’t stop staring.

“a-and what do you think of it? what did your mom say?”

sakusa shorts at the desperate conversation change attempt. “she had a fit, you know how she is.”

the thought of how could she not crosses your mind, and thankfully you don’t say it out loud.

“well, it’s really something. congrats, omi,”

sakusa smiles. “thanks,” he can hear you sigh on the other end. “everything okay over there?”

no. “y-yeah, yeah, just fine,” you shut the magazine and toss it onto the coffee table.

“staring at my picture?”

“n-no!” you’re quick, and sakusa laughs.

“miss me that much? jeez, want me to come sign it for you too?”

you pause. he laughs out loud. “shut up, omi,” you groan. “i’ll see you friday anyway, for motoya’s dinner,”

“okay, see you then.”

he hangs up, and he can’t help but snicker to himself. he can’t wait to see you on friday now. and, he even has the shirt from the shoot.

he decides he’s going to wear it, just for you.

#sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #kiyoomi sakusa #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #sakusa fluff #hq fluff #hq drabble #sakusa x reader fluff

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tzuberry · 10 months

Text

zerobaseone maknae line as tropes / cliches ૮ • ﻌ - ა

pairing shen quanrui (ricky), kim gyuvin, park gunwook, han yujin + gn reader⠀⠀⠀details fluff, slight angst in ricky’s and gunwook’s, bulletpoint and written

cw getting stood up, mention of lipstick use in ricky’s ⠀⠀⠀wc 738 696 604 802 respectively (2840 in total)⠀⠀⠀reading time 22 min

note title kinda misleading TBH... havent written on tumblr in a while, so this is a new account and my first post! im hoping this doesnt flop :( i loved writing this so much, so if it flops i might just repost it ... idk.. likes and reblogs are appreciated !!! (only if u want to ofc 🤞🏻)

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ricky 리키

blind date... but you got stood up, and ricky is your best friend

it’s not that you really wanted to go on a date, it’s that your friend assured you this was the perfect guy for you

and your friend swore, cross their heart, that you would not regret letting them set you up

but now you’re sitting at a table alone, with pitiful looks being thrown your way by the restaurant staff and the other groups of people around you and it’s clear to you; you do regret it, and this is the last time you’ll let anyone other than yourself handle your love life

after compulsorily buying a meal for yourself so as to not leave the place empty handed, you slowly chew on your food, wondering where it went wrong

did he see a picture of you and decided that was it? did he hear a story about you that was just unflattering? what was it about you that made them turn around and away from the restaurant—away from you?

in the midst of all this, your phone emits a ding! sound. you’re not doing anything important, so you see it fit to check the notification

ricky 😡🐱: how’s your date going?

terribly. but that’s a little embarrassing to admit, especially to ricky...

yn: good! i’ll text you later

you lay your phone down on the table and pick up your utensils once again to finish your meal, but a shadow casting over your plate interrupts you

“why are you alone, then?”

When you follow the voice (and the shadow), Ricky is standing next to your table, his phone in hand with the screen open on your text thread. He turns it off with a swift click of the power button, and he takes the space on the other side of the table where your date should have been.

You don’t know how to respond. You’re embarrassed; a second ago, you were alone at a restaurant filled with people, and now, your best friend has caught you lying to him about being at said restaurant alone.

“What happened?” Ricky asks as his arm makes its way across the table to your glass of water. He lifts it to his lips, taking a sip and placing it back down. He looks genuinely concerned, maybe even a little pissed, but all you can focus on is how your lipstick stain is on the rim of the cup, and how he drank from that same spot.

You shake your head. “I, um,” you pause, pursing your lips and trying to find a good enough (fake) reason. “Nothing. I didn’t like him, and he said he had other plans, so I just let him go.”

Ricky furrows his eyebrows at that. It’s a very visible sign of incredulity; he doesn’t believe your lie. Nevertheless, he simply shrugs it off. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you reply, still dealing with the aftereffects of being stood up. You poke your fork at the food before you; a lost appetite and an expensive meal don’t mix well.

Ricky leans forward, letting his forearms rest on the surface of the table. He’s looking at you so seriously, analyzing your every move. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, attempting to come off as teasing, but he only waves you off. “I just want to look at you.”

You feel yourself practically melt under his gaze, but you ignore it. This is Ricky, your best friend... nothing more. Right. This is Ricky—you should tell him the truth about why you’re alone.

“He didn’t come,” you admit. “I wasn’t super excited about this date, but I thought– I thought I would at least go on a date. This is... nothing. I was here by myself before you got here.”

There’s a pained glint in his eyes. Is he feeling sorry for you? Maybe you do deserve all the pity you’ve gotten today. He gulps, keeping eye contact with you while biting on a small portion of his bottom lip.

After a while, he sighs. “Come on.”

Ricky begins to stand up, stuffing his phone into his pocket before you hold him back by the wrist. “What?” you question.

“We’ll go do something else,” he says with a bob of his head. Your grasp on his wrist somehow turns into your hands being interlocked. “Let me take you on a date. I’ve always wanted to, and I promise I won’t screw it up.”

gyuvin 규빈

boy next door who you’ve always had feelings for, you just never thought of him liking you back

you’ve always liked kim gyuvin

from the moment his family moved in next to your house, with his bedroom parallel to yours

you could see everything through his window; who he was, what his hobbies were, what he admired, and how he acted with his friends

this all made him seem... unattainable. you felt like you were the audience for a show, and gyuvin was the actor

it didn’t help that you went to the same school, and to further that, he was immensely popular

it was obvious. how could you expect that someone like him wouldn’t be? he’s tall, cute, extroverted, funny and kind—the entire package, if you would say so yourself

you weren’t totally unpopular. you had your fair share of friends, a few social circles that you hung out with. but gyuvin seemed too out of reach for you, even if he was your neighbor

the singular interaction you’ve had was when he came over to ask for sugar. it went like this: “hi!” “hi?” “i was baking, and i kind of ran out of brown sugar. do you maybe... uh...” “oh, sugar? wait, i think i do, hold on.”

it was that awkward. so when your mother told you she became new friends with gyuvin’s mom and wanted to have dinner at their house as a family, you freaked

but it’s not like you can say no, so you found yourself at the kims’ door a few days later

“Hi! You must be [Name]. I’ve seen you around, and I’ve heard about you from Gyuvin, but you’re much prettier up close! I know who you get your looks from,” Mrs Kim says, winking at your mother.

“You’re too kind, your son is very polite, and...”

You tune their conversation out—did she say she’s heard about you from Gyuvin? Why would he be talking about you?

Your mom finishes it (whatever she was talking about) off with, “They’d be perfect together, don’t you think?” Mrs Kim nods vigorously, then pats you twice on the shoulder. “[Name], maybe you would want to go spend some time with Gyuvin first? I’m afraid dinner isn’t ready, there’s still a long way... I’ll call you both down when it is. He’s up in his room.”

You bow, excusing yourself and obligingly treading up the stairs. This is the second time you’re about to interact with him—you better not mess up.

On the final step of the staircase, you start to hear talking from one of the bedrooms. From where you stand, it’s not clear where its origin is, and so you try to listen for the voice. It leads you to a slightly open door, and holy shit—this is Gyuvin’s door.

“They’re coming over today, and, ugh, I don’t know,” he rants. Is that about you? It has to be. Who else is coming over? You move closer to the door frame, nearly peeking your head in. “I just– I don’t know how to talk to them! Last time, I went over to ask if they wanted to hang out and...” he trails off, the regret evident in his tone. “I asked for sugar. To bake.” Oh my god. This is about you.

You take another step, risking the possibility of the door creaking. “I don’t even bake! I came home with sugar and my mom asked why and I just said I found some on the street.” He sighs, exasperated. You inch even closer, toying with the chances of him catching you eavesdropping, when... creak. At the same time, Gyuvin’s rant is cut short. “Gunwook, you have to help me, I can’t be an idiot in front of them–”

His head snaps towards the door, where you are, standing and staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. He quickly hangs up, bidding Gunwook a hushed goodbye through the microphone. “How much of that did you hear?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, flattered and shy at the same time. “I think... all of it.”

Gyuvin’s hand raises to cup his nape, and he gives you the most endearing yet bashful smile. “Would you, maybe, um, wanna hang out sometime? With me, of course...”

gunwook 건욱

friends to lovers, and everyone is sure you both like each other but all you do is deny it

you know gunwook like the back of your hand

although you met a little over a year ago, he quickly became a constant in your life, especially because you saw him everyday at school

he would wait outside your class, eat lunch with you, walk you home (and sometimes to school in the mornings), help you with homework even though he’s always busy with all the extracurriculars he participates in, and additionally schedules weekly study sessions together

this led countless people to think you were dating, even though you’re really not

you deny it, making a gesture with your hands indicating the negative. “we’re just friends, he would never be my boyfriend,” you laugh it off. gunwook tenses up, and the corners of his lips suddenly become downturned. “yeah, we’re just friends...” he agrees, sounding somewhat unsure

that’s what happens every single time someone mistakes you for a couple. you’re the first to refuse that assumption, while gunwook just follows your lead

you thought, “hey, maybe he’s just shy around the topic of dating.” and so you don’t push it, or even ask about what he thinks of the rumors surrounding you two

at this week’s study session, which he scheduled at his house, he can’t focus

repeatedly tapping his pen and running his fingers through his hair—doing anything but his homework, really—he doesn’t even spare you a glance

and so you take the responsibility upon yourself to ask. “is something bothering you?”

Gunwook sighs, looking as if he’s internally debating the pros and cons of unloading his baggage onto you. His eyes dart around his room, from the door, to the desk, to the bed, and finally to you, before he swipes his tongue between his lips and lets out a breath. “Can I ask you something?”

You drop your pen. Why does he seem so conflicted?

Readjusting your position on the bed to face him, you lean closer to Gunwook as you shove your school books and other materials out of the way. “You can ask me anything,” you say, determined to comfort your friend.

He visibly hesitates, biting his bottom lip. He’s still not looking at you, and not so much as a second is allotted for one glimpse. “Do you...” he pauses, trying to muster the courage. “Do you really think of me as just a friend?”

The question almost makes your jaw drop to the floor. What does he mean by that? Sure, you did have a short-lived crush on him when you first got acquainted, but it faded instantaneously. You didn’t know you could be anything more—you thought you had no chance with a guy like him, so your feelings were trivial to you.

Tilting your head, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Gunwook shrugs, also following your actions and pushing all his textbooks away. “I guess– oh my god, this sounds stupid, but,” he groans, “I’ve liked you since last year, since before we even became friends. And whenever someone asks if I’m your boyfriend, you just– you immediately say no.”

He... likes you? You’re dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth actually agape this time. You’re certain your cheeks are red, judging from the heat you feel rush up to your face.

At your silence, he continues. “I know it’s stupid. I didn’t just become friends with you because I like you, it’s more than that, but everytime you say I could never be your boyfriend or something like that, I hate it.

“I’ve liked you for so long, and please answer me,” he sounds breathless as he speaks, “Can I... can we be anything more?”

yujin 유진

first love / teenage crush

you didn’t know when you started liking yujin, you just did

maybe it was when you would watch him play soccer after school, with him alone on the field practicing and you doing your homework on the bleachers

or maybe it was when he bought you a drink that one time. you were thirsty after running to school because you were on the verge of getting an offense on your permanent record if you were late one more time

clicking a few buttons on the vending machine, the solace provided by strawberry milk was nearly yours—until you open your wallet to find that there’s only a thousand won inside

“maybe next time,” you think, “i don’t need to drink anything right now.”

but before you can leave, someone sneaks their two thousand into the slot for you, and the milk drops down into the small metal box below for you to claim

when you turn around, you’re met with yujin

and then a switch flipped. since then, you’ve noticed han yujin wherever you went

you stumbled onto the soccer field on a hot day when you were assigned cleaning duty, and you found that he was the only one there

deciding to repay the favor, after spectating him practicing for a while, you go to buy a drink for him too when you buy your own

you leave it next to his bag with a note, saying: “you’re really good! i bought this for you, make sure to get some rest ♡”

and so watching him practice while doing your homework became a regular occurrence for you, even if you weren’t 100% watching all the time. it was like background music, and your interest in him (caused by him buying you milk) became a full blown crush

Following the steps of your daily routine, you hurriedly arrange your books in your backpack, ready to go see Yujin—the best part of your day—when your teacher stops you at the door.

“[Name], I’d like to talk to you about tutoring someone,” she says, a soft smile plastered on her face as if she wasn’t actively ruining your day. “You’re one of my best students, and a classmate of yours really needs help.”

As hard as you tried to get away, you got stuck in the classroom for the rest of the afternoon, discussing possible tutoring times and the topic outlines where your “classmate” needed further explanation. Not only were you annoyed you missed some time to see Yujin, but when you got to the field, hoping he would still be practicing late into the night, he was gone.

Although you were displeased at the thought of having to tutor your male classmate every day of the school week, you had no choice. In addition, he was at least paying you, so it wasn’t like your hard work was for nothing—just that now, you would have to sacrifice your time with the boy you like.

You started to tutor him after school, and going to see Yujin became a rare possibility. Your tutoring was yielding good results, however, and your tutee received high marks on almost all tests after being taken under your wing.

He runs up to you, showing you his paper with a big red ninety-eight in the corner; he got an even higher grade than you did. “[Name]! Thank you, look at this! I’ve never gotten a grade this high!” You nod, but everything he’s saying is going in one ear and out the other. Since he technically doesn’t need your help anymore, maybe you could go watch Yujin today.

You cancel your session for the day, with permission from your advising teacher. After two and a half weeks, you’re finally back at the field—but this time, he’s the one who isn’t here. You let out a deep breath, deciding to power through and do your homework like normal.

You’re in the middle of trigonometry when a cool sensation is pressed up against your cheek, water beginning to drip down your skin. Flicking your head towards the perpetrator, you discover it to be Yujin holding a strawberry milk for you. He giggles, handing you the small box and sitting down beside you. “Here. I haven’t, um, seen you in a while. Why’s that?”

You take it from him, detaching the straw from the back of the box and poking it through the designated hole. “Yeah,” you say, sipping on the milk for a few seconds after. “I started to tutor Jiwon, so I couldn’t come the last few weeks.”

“Oh, you must be busy, then. Nevermind,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No, what is it? You can’t just say nevermind.” You scoff, a teasing grin making its way onto your face.

Yujin gulps. “Will you, uh... come to my game this weekend?”

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alagaesia-headcanons · 5 months

Text

It's incredibly amusing to consider the things that Murtagh technically would not know about because he fucked off at the end of the war. (i suspect the new book fudges a lot of this, but im not talking about that.) And the "Brom is Eragon's dad" situation is by far the funniest.

Because Eragon drops that bombshell in the middle of the final confrontation and Does Not Elaborate, including when he talks to Murtagh right before he leaves. He has literally no idea how Brom fits into the backstory of his parents. Technically, he still shouldn't even know that Selena ever betrayed Morzan and helped the Varden! He just has to deal with the knowledge that Brom fucked his mom ~at some point~ and he has no clue what was going on with that. And combined with the details Murtagh does know about the three of them, it's even funnier, like Brom had hang ups about BOTH his parents??? I just know it convinces him that all of them were insane. He has the very tip of the iceberg and everything beneath seems Messy, he's not even sure he wants the rest of the story.

Also he wouldn't actually know how the hell Eragon killed Galbatorix. Eragon doesn't explain that either and Murtagh wouldn't have a different way to know. The spell wasn't spoken, and assuming Murtagh was conscious enough to process all the shit going down, Eragon only says "I made you understand" which is incredibly vague on its own. From Murtagh's perspective, Eragon cast some kinda spell on Galbatorix that apparently sucked so bad that he blew himself up. And he just has no idea what it actually did

King of "I don't know what the fuck is going on so I'll just roll with it I guess"

#eragon #inheritance cycle #murtagh #hes just gone through so much shit at this point hes like 'you know. im not even gonna ask.'#the brom thing is so fucking funny to me tho #he Cant have any complicated feelings like brom abandoned him or took his mother away bc he doesnt know jack shit #hes trapped in the stage of 'why did he and my mom bang???' ahfdjsahfkjsa #(on a more sad note it kinda feels like murtagh doesnt believe he has the right to ask for anything hes not freely given....)

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mistkisbiggestfan · 5 months

Note

This is kinda AU but how the cast would react if they met a reader who already knows who they all are, because tadc is the newest biggest thing on TV. This network has been tricking people into entering tadc through these headsets (similar to sao) and people are seeing/betting/voting how long the crew could last without going insane, last one standing gets 100 million dollars (Kinger and Gangle are the top two people vote/bet to most likely abstract next, while Jax is a fan favorite character) I guess the reader could be an activist who was against the show the network wanted to silence so they put them in tadc too

TADC Cast x Gn! Reader

Tadc Cast x Gn! Reader

A/n: Hey took a lil break but I'm back on the grind! REQUESTS FOR TADC ARE OPEN!!

Summary: You were an activist against a network that runs TADC (which is a gameshow), but now you're stuck with the people you were trying to help Words: 1774 Request: Yes

Chaos.

But I think we all know that already.

You popped out in the main circus area just a few weeks after Pomni and it was not great.

Somehow you kept your memory in check, not forgetting anything, well, maybe not forgetting everything you knew before finding yourself trapped in the brand new show: “The Amazing Digital Circus!”.

Not everyone knew about the shady and dark part of it though, the people or “actors” / “animated characters” were actual normal humans taken away and put into this digital h#|! for entertainment.

But out of everyone, you knew.

You tried your best to shut down the network, do anything against this, basically cruel torture.

But the show must go on, right? They couldn’t let someone like you, destroy their source of money.

Especially when you started to snoop around too much for your own good.

Hands shoved into the pockets of your jacket, it was cold, so cold. Your breath turned into a cloud of fog, walking through the city, everybody looked like a bunch of serious chain-smokers.

It has been a few months since you started to fight for the rights of people who were currently stuck in “The Amazing Digital Circus!” The cruelty of a network using these people’s mental health as an attraction, to see who will break faster, disgusted you. And so you decided that you’ll do everything to help them, and to bring those greedy bastards from the company using them down.

People shoved others out of their way, shoulder hitting shoulder. Walking through such a mob was hard, especially since you were walking in an opposite direction of theirs, scoffing ladies and gentlemen looked at you in a rather disgusting manner.

And sure, you didn’t quite fit in here, with a jacket and clothes which weren’t close to the world “elegant”, men and women in suits passed by you with a raised eyebrow, a plan which consisted of fitting in failed already.

You turned around the corner, breaking away from the tide of busy workers currently trying to reach their respectful workplace. As you walked through a dark, shady alleyway you saw some people lying on the ground, nothing out of place really.

Finally, you were met with backdoors of a big company’s building. You put your hood on and took out your ID you may or not have stolen from one of the company’s programmers when he was drunk, not your fault, he should have been more careful.

As you walked through, you were met with a harsh and confusing environment, across the hall you spotted people who were very different from the rest, at least some of them were. The programmers of the whole thing were dressed in comfortable clothes – no dress code included them.

Before the escalators door shut, you managed to stick your foot, jamming the doors and getting in, a girl turned to you, visibly surprised. – Hey, who are you? – She asked, mumbling tiredly.

You felt your palms sweating a bit, they weren’t supposed to realize something was off so early on. But you had to play apart somehow, clearing your throat as you spoke, you said – Oh, I’m a new programmer here! It’s my first day.

She raised her eyebrow but didn’t question you, and just as her co–worker was about to ask you something, the escalator’s door opened, you speed walked away, but not before noticing the girl from moments prior talking to a security guard and pointing in your vague direction.

Shit, she had noticed your ID, or more likely, the fact the ID wasn’t yours. You had to move fast, and so you did. Walking along the corridor you noticed a room which differed from others. Looking away in both directions of the hall, you didn’t notice anyone, the way was clear. Your sweaty palm of your right hand rested on the doorknob, and as you pushed, the door creaked.

The interior was entirely white, now, with the passage of time, white walls were tinted yellow, giving off an unsanitary look, the tiles were cold, you felt it even through your boots. And there it was – the closet full of documents that would shut this company down, and hopefully, save the people stuck in that TV show or whatever it was.

You ramaged through the endless pages full of protocols, data and worthless information till you found the thing you were out for, a file with every single piece of information not redacted out. The only copy that existed. You shoved the paper into your backpack and turned to leave, getting away as far as you could now.

Getting out of the room was terrifying, a sense of panic filled your body and overwhelmed you, pulling the hood over your face harder, you turned to walk out of the hall – towards the escalator. But during your flight, you bumped into something, one of the security guards. Stumbling backwards you gazed up in terror, before trying to run away.

Unfortunately, the security guard grabbed you by the backpack effortlessly, trying to get away, you scratched at him with your nails. The only thing you remember prior to getting tased was other people walking towards you two. After that, you woke up as one of the new players of this hellish game you were trying to save them all from.

When you woke up, you panicked – of course – but not because you couldn’t remember anything, because you did remember, you panicked because now there was no way of you helping those people.

As you looked around dazzled, you knew all of the people there beforehand – Jax, Ragatha, Kinger, Zooble, Gangle, Caine and the new person – Pomni.

Looking down you saw how unhuman you have become, oh god, the feeling of static filling you instead of blood was too much.

Before you could say a world, Caine jumped in front of you.

“⊹HELLO DEAR!! WELCOME TO THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS!!!⊹” “No #u@k!ng way…”

Caine then proceeded to tell you how swearing is not accepted by the guidelines.

But you knew all of that already, so you pushed forward, looking at everyone else.

The thing you used to watch on TV, fight against, was now your reality.

Then your eyes were caught on Kinger and Gangle, poor souls. People watching this whole thing thinking it’s just a show, maybe a really clever animation, voted them to be most likely to abstract soon.

Jax walked over to you, even though your avatar was quite tall, almost taller than everyone, he tried to use you to lean on his elbow. – We get new stuff already? It hasn’t been two weeks since Pomni got here!

Oh god how you hated that man out of all people, this asshole was a fan favorite.

“Eat $h!t and d!e Jax.”

Silence.

You were met with silence and a lot of terrified looks from everyone in the main area.

Even Caine stood there bewildered.

“How did you know my name…?”

“Eh,, I’m good at guessing things..?”

“⊹OH WELL!! WEIRD THINGS ASIDE, LET ME TOUR YOU ALONG THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS {trade mark, all copyrights reserved}!!!!!!⊹”

You looked up at him, confused. “Oh no need, I think I’m good.”

Again, that was weird af. Caine stood there for a second calculating a good answer lmao.

Yeah the first meeting was rough, they were all very much weirded out. Bubble liked you though!

But that was because of another slip up you made. “So like, where is Bubble..?” That was def the wrong dialogue option because you can swear (not really tho) that Caine mumbled: How did they know who Bubble is..?

And out of everyone, you knew only one person would believe your crazy rambling for now, someone as desperate as you – Pomni.

So, one time, you took her by the arm, to a place you knew had no cameras, no one recording your conversation for content, and you told her about the fact that there has to be an exit here, that you remember everything, and that this is all a game for Caine and “the people outside”.

After you’re done, you already can tell that this was a bad idea. Her eyes went blank, with dark scribbles for pupils.

You huffed in annoyance and partial sympathy. – Just forget it Pomni, I’ll figure something out.. – The last part was more for you than her, when you started to walk away, you felt her run beside you, catching up. – Wait! What the h#|! do you mean!?? Who are the “people outside”!?! – She shouted before you tackled her and shushed her.

– Look, I explain this all once it’s safe to do so, now just act like you always do, nothing happened here. – You said before walking along, playing a part in this sick game. If someone told you about this beforehand, you would be on the other side of the continent right now.

And as you left her be, you knew that her mental health wasn’t well before all this and now it must’ve dropped to an all time low. Oh well, you’ll explain it to her later, once it’s safe.

You tried to slowly ease people into the idea that this was a TV show, a game. They all thought you were just another madman, like many before and many that will be here after.

Pomni seemed slightly hesitant, and once you started to help her look for exit, she was onboard with you.

Meanwhile people watching the game were having a blast with you as a new cast member, because of course, the secret that you know it’s a game got out and was now known by everyone (except for the TADC cast ofc).

So seeing you struggle in convincing them was funny.

You and Jax developed a funny dynamic in the meantime, it consisted of you telling them it's a game, Jax saying something like “Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night.” And you two started to argue.

Out of everyone you didn’t mind swearing him out even if it was censored.

Pomni asked you about what you remember and you told her (almost) everything, like the fact that people vote on who they think will abstract, or even bid money on that. And the fact that Jax is the favorite, which makes her confused because why do people like a f#c(!ng @$$hole like him??

You soon had to adapt into this thing, trying to keep yourself and others sane.

And as you tried to figure out something to help you all, you couldn’t help but grow attached to the people around you.

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tinyfantasminha · 8 months

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Thoughts about this year's Halloween event 👀

I'm kinda sad we won't be getting a GloMas part 2 for the rest of the cast, BUT I'm also excited for the new one and new characters!!

HONEST JOHN AND GIDEON 👀 DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS 😩😩 FOXBOY AND CATBOY, MORE BEASTMEN CHARAS FINALLY (no one is immune to a mischievous fox boy)

And if they're here, that means the event is going to be Pinocchio inspired!! (at least we hope so 😳) like how Rollo was last year's guest character and surely, GloMas was very much inspired in The Hunchback of Notredame which is where Rollo's respective villain is from...

So assuming it will be a pinocchio event, the boys will most likely go to a twst version of Tuscany, Italy (where pinocchio's story takes place in) and my hunch is that, much like in Glorious Masquerade, there will be some kind of touristic festival happening. And that festival will be a carnival based on Pleasure Island 👀

By here you can pretty much guess what the conflict will be... The place will either be cursed or casted with magic to make the guests turn into donkeys, throwing everyone in a pit of panic and our boys will have to stop it 😫

It's highkey likely that the cards for the event will be the rest of the boys who didn't appear in GloMas, so: Ace, Cater, Trey, Leona, Jack, Jade, Floyd, Kalim, Vil, Ortho and Lilia.

My hunch is that the three SSRs will be Ortho, Ace and Kalim. The reasons are:

Ortho ➜ An obvious choice, he'll be pretty much the Pinocchio for this event. If people will be magically turning into donkeys, he's most likely to be immune to it since he's a robot, making him the protagonist who will save the day. He also was only a R card in Endless Halloween, so the possibility of his card being of a higher rarity such as SSR is very high!

Ace ➜ Ngl my main reasoning is that his last event SSR was over 3 YEARS AGO, he's due to have another one any time soon 😫 also, some people pointed out that he's similar to Lampwick, Pinocchio's human friend who got turned into a donkey. They are both red-haired and have a rambatious and careless attitude, so it fits just right!

Kalim ➜ I'm not so sure about him as I am with Ortho and Ace, but like Ortho, he was only an R card in the first halloween event, so his chances of being SSR is higher. Story wise, I was thinking; his naiveteness/innocence kinda resembles Pinocchio's. If twst Honest John will appear, he definitelly will try to deceive someone, but most of the boys are too cunning and untrusting to be tricked that easily. Kalim is the most likely to trust him and be deceived. So just like Ortho, he also somewhat plays the role of Pinocchio.

Lastly, I was thinking that the types of outfits they'll be wearing will be circus/carnival inspired, much like in a Noah's Arc Circus aesthetic, which is an arc from Kuroshitsuji, Yana Toboso's other work!

I think the outfits will have this sorta vibe! I absolutely ADORE creepy/dark carnival/circus aesthetics so I'm hoping that's the case since it's perfect for a halloween event 😳

#twisted wonderland #twst event #ace trappola #ortho shroud #kalim al asim #i sure hope they will adapt the whale scene too somehow but i have no clue how they will do it #IM SO EXCITEDDD FOR HONEST JOHN IVE BEEN WANTING A FOX BEASTMAN FOR A LONG TIME NOW 😈#i hope they wear makeup and eyeshadow #lilia will def be wearing stockings just watch #I NEED JACK TO BE A SR PLEEEASESESSE!!GIMME THAT YUMMY GROOVY ILLUST

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throneofsapphics · 8 months

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crucify your lover

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: A frown on your face, you trekked back up the castle, taking a different route. Their eyes would be on you, now that they know. Running is probably the smart thing to do. Run while you can, but … you’ve been running your entire life and you're sick of it. Not this time, you swear to yourself, you won’t run this time.

Word Count: ~2.2k

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, kinda toxic relationships?

A/N: this has been poking at my brain and I had to get it out, not proofread

You’d give anything for them, and you have - for years and years. But, no matter what you do it never seems to be enough. There’s no way for you to compare to them, and they’ve never said it directly but you hear the whispers of others, the whispers of the court.

Why her?

There’s nothing special about her.

If anyone would pay attention, if anyone bothered to ask, they’d realize you keep secrets for a reason. That some powers are better kept buried deep down where no one can touch them. If … if they knew what you could do, mate or not you couldn’t be certain of their reaction.

Such little magic, what a pity.

You seethed with each comment, but kept your emotions perfectly under control. Nobody needed to know, nobody would have to, but the cost of keeping secrets bled your soul. If you could get rid of it - purify yourself of it - you would.

They had … accepted … you, mainly because the bond wouldn’t let them do anything else. Separating the three of you physically would cause pain. But, you kept those barriers up in your mind, kept yourself so damn far away they never guessed. Maybe it’s ridiculous of you to wish they would. Unconditional love, that’s what mates were supposed to be - according to all of the tales and legends you grew up on. Still, watching your people hunted in front of you would change anyone's view of magic.

You never knew exactly what your magic was, not until you had a chance to scour the library of Orynth.

Necromancy.

The word was so ugly to you, but it fit best. All of the records said it was a magic from ancient witches, but you’re Fae, and it made no damn sense to you. Still, every month under the full moon, you made a trek into the forest.

The guise was to have peace to connect with your family, and you always made sure you weren’t followed. Your mates respected you enough to let you do that. Instead, you let loose enough of your magic to keep yourself from exploding. You always wondered what it felt like to others, to you it was the whispers of the trees around you, a warm embrace circling you, the thoughts of the dead brought to life in fragments. You let the magic whirl around you, circling you and letting them tell you their secrets, their confessionals. Blessed by the God of Truth. Your mother said once, before her death. You still hadn’t decided if it was a blessing or a curse.

Something was off with you, Rowan knew that. He’d tried to track you the first few times you left on the full moons, out to hell knows where, but you always slipped his trail. This time, you seemed distracted and something told him to follow, the wind whispered where to find you, where to perch. You didn’t notice a white-tailed hawk in a tree several feet away, and a shield of wind hit his scent.

He watched as you sat down on the log, stretching your legs out in front of you, and gray whispers of … of magic flowed around you in circles.

Beautiful, it was absolutely beautiful. Your eyes closed, palms resting face up, your head tilted back with the moonlight casting a clear vision of your face - how your eyelashes fluttered against your cheek, the lines of your jaw, your hair loose and flowing around your shoulders.

His first emotion was fear - fear that you’d been coming out here every single month alone, and in a vulnerable state. Anyone could get to you like this, and he doesn’t know how your magic works - if it could defend you or if you knew how to use it.

Second, came disbelief. How the hell had you hid your magic from them both for so long? Over a year. As far as he knew you were only able to shield yourself, albeit weakly - the typical traits of Fae. Then - why had you hidden your magic from them? As he watched, as he sensed the type of power flowing from you, he understood exactly why. Still, he was hurt that you couldn’t trust him or Aelin enough to tell them about it. He wondered if you’ve told anyone, if anyone living knows. Gods, Maeve had him hunt down magic-wielders like you in the past. The secrets of the dead were meant to stay dead.

Rowan waited long enough to know you were safe, and headed back towards the castle before taking off. He needed to get to Aelin, to tell her as soon as possible. Even if she would bitch at him for interrupting her sleep.

“You’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding.” Aelin’s eyes were wide in shock. Rowan glared at her, crossing his arms. “How could she keep it from us, from you?” She couldn’t help the accusatory tone, her mate was known for sniffing out secrets after all. The fact that you’ve been able to keep this from them for so long is impressive and terrifying.

“I don’t know.” He said through gritted teeth. Aelin felt the rollercoaster of emotions going through him - fear, anger, concern, and disbelief. It hadn’t had a chance to set in for her.

“What do we do about it?” She sighed, collapsing back on the couch. “You won’t be able to keep it to yourself,” she raised one brow, but he didn’t deny it.

“We have to tell her we know.” His lips pressed into a tight line.

“How do you think she’ll react?” Aelin questioned.

“If I was her,” he hedged, “I’d run as far as possible.”

Aelin’s heart broke slightly, and his gaze softened. “Think about it,” he murmured, taking a seat next to her. “Magic wielders like her have been hunted for centuries.”

“We wouldn’t do that,” Aelin snapped.

“I know,” he soothed, running one hand down her thigh.

“What do you think happened to her family?” The thought popped into Aelin’s head. She knew they were dead, and assumed they likely were killed with several other Fae when Adarlan invaded.

Rowan stiffened next to her, and her gaze snapped to him. His eyes had gone slightly distant, as if he were putting something together. Is it … he said they’ve been hunted for centuries… could Maeve have sent him to do that?

“That’s a question to ask her,” his voice was rough and heavy with emotion. Aelin knew when to push and when to leave it, and for now this is something she would leave alone. For now. Mates are equals, she’s always been told, and if that’s true … that means you’ve been hiding an immense power for a long time. No wonder you disappear every full moon. That or risk yourself exploding. She wants to think she’d take the high and mighty road if she were you, if she had been in your situation, but she’s not certain. The thought makes her uneasy, more than she wants to admit.

You could tell something was off as soon as you returned. Rowan and Aelin were different, they’d eyed you warily - although they hid their emotions well enough. Anyone who wasn’t bonded as closely to them would never notice the difference.

By that evening, it filled you with enough dread that you did something risky and potentially stupid. Carefully watching your tail, double and triple checking for anyone following you, you made your way to the lowest levels of the castle.

A tiny bit of magic flowed from you, discreet enough nobody should notice the shift in the air, and just enough to focus communication - communicate with someone who could give you an answer.

They know. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t. Vaguely like Aedion, the General’s.

What will they do? You focused on keeping the connection, nearly pleading with the soul or spirit for help.

They won’t kill you. That was not comforting, at all. They will want to speak of it, the rest is up to you.

You thanked them, probably him, for his time, and groaned. Not kill you, speak of it, and the rest is up to you. At least you’ve ruled out your death. A frown on your face, you trekked back up the castle, taking a different route. Their eyes would be on you, now that they know. Running is probably the smart thing to do. Run while you can, but … you’ve been running your entire life and you're sick of it. Not this time, you swear to yourself, you won’t run this time.

“You know,” you said mildly over dinner, slicing unnecessary harshly through a potato, your knuckles white and clenched around the potential weapon. Rowan blinked in surprise, and Aelin’s eyebrows rose. They hadn’t expected you to say anything about it, then. “What is it, now that you know my dirty secret?” A slightly wicked grin crossed your face and you tilted your head, daring them to reply.

For once, they both seemed speechless. You saw how they communicated with each other, slightly glazed eyes. Rude, but you wouldn’t comment on it for now.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Aelin finally asked. An absolutely pointless question based on the look on her face.

“You know why.” You set the knife and fork down, wringing your hands together under the table to try and release some of the tension building in you.

“You let everyone say horrible things about you.” She said quietly.

That struck something deep inside you. They know about what others say, and considering the ones who say it still run their mouths and repeat the same rhetoric even a year later … your mother always told you silence is agreement. All of a sudden, you didn’t give a damn about your magic, about what might happen to you because of it, instead you felt a sense of betrayal. The people who should love you, who should protect you - act on the same instincts you did, let that happen. Crucified. A part of your soul died, withered away, and you kept a very tight lid on your magic.

“You let them.” You responded, unable to keep the slight bit of venom from your voice. Neither of them bothered to reply to that, and your temper flared further. It was taking everything inside of you to keep your cool.

“You lied about your magic.” Rowan countered instead.

You scoffed, “of course I did - you know what happens to people like me.”

This time, Aelin’s knuckles went white where they gripped the table. “Not here.” She said through gritted teeth, and you grimaced.

“Not in Terrasen,” you acquiesced. Aelin’s grip loosened slightly. Rowan was still stiff as a board, his posture rigid and stoic, not an emotion or thought given away - he doesn’t want to say how he feels about the situation. That told you enough. You wanted to say it shouldn’t change anything, but it does, it changes absolutely every damn thing.

Aelin threw her head back with a groan. “This is a mess.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, and some of the tension in the room left, as if she’d snapped it with a sharp knife.

“We’ll,” Rowan cleared his throat. “We’ll keep you safe, whatever it takes.” Your entire body froze, eyes widening. You’d deny it but small tears had pricked at the corner. The sight of those softened Rowan’s gaze, his body loosening slightly. “Did you think we wouldn’t?” He asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly, “very few alive know.”

Rowan immediately grilled you for the names of the people who do know, and you answered, albeit a bit reluctantly. The fierce look in his eyes set you on edge enough you probably would confess your deepest secrets to him if he asked. Aelin had pasted an amused look on her face, but you knew she was taking note of every name, of every word exchanged between the two of you.

“How did you find out?” You asked the question that had been on your mind all night.

Rowan, at least, had the decency to grimace - but didn’t look apologetic at all. “I followed you.”

At least there wasn’t a snitch somewhere, only a nosy buzzard. “I’d do the same,” you grumbled, crossing your arms. Rowan’s mouth quirked up at the side.

Maybe this could be the bridge, a way to start connecting the gap between you and them. That’s if you could figure out how to overcome the hurt dealt to you - how they hadn’t defended you, hadn’t said a word against some of the vultures linking in their courts. You could say you were making assumptions, but you were blessed by the God of truth - it was perfectly clear to you.

A pessimistic part of your mind, the antagonist, rose to the front. Are you only worthy now that they know of your magic? Now that you can prove yourself as an equal? You clenched your fists together once, twice, three times, and released them. A conversation for another time, something to think through on another date. A day where you would give them a piece of your mind, once you were ready.

#rowaelin x y/n #rowaelin x reader #poly!rowaelin #poly!rowaelin x y/n #poly!rowaelin x reader #rowan whitethorn x y/n #rowan whitethorn x reader #aelin galathynius x y/n #aelin galathynius x reader #throne of glass x reader #throne of glass fic

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petra-creat0r · 3 months

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Chapter 5 Secret Boss Prediction

Ohohohoh boy! Finally got to this one. I've been just sort ruminating on this boss for a while. The only thing I knew for the longest time is I'm at least 60% confident that chapter 5 will happen in the Flower Shop? But then what could be abandoned, discarded, or unwanted in a greenhouse/flower shop? Weeds? Mushrooms? Well I guess? Lotta flowers and though the mushroom idea was enticing at first, I couldn't wrap my head around a good idea for it. There was also the thing with this boss likely having the blue soul mode, and possibly having a reference or allusion to Papyrus (or Sans ig but Paps uses the blue soul mode first). But then also also with this being Asgore's flower shop and Asriel possibly being involved, there's the chance it could be based on Flowery, but then- And you can start to see why this took me so long.

EVENTUALLY, I came up with the idea of an abandoned toy soldier, lost among the plants and eventually taken over by them. There was also some talk about it being a nutcracker or garden gnome instead, but toy solider won over. Nutcracker felt too similar to Spamton and I just couldn't really get the garden gnome to vibe right. Anyways! Like two, three weeks ago I managed to sketch a design I kinda liked before trying to think on it more. Still not the boss I'm proudest off, but everyone, met The Great and Mighty Veratus! (Name subject to change if I can find a better one.)

Veratus, from verrat (German for traitor), ratus (latin for rat) and a corruption of veritas (truth). I think the thing I was struggling with for the longest time was the name. It needed to fit with the other names, and also sound good with the title of "The Great" (because Papyrus reference). Like I mentioned before though, that name is subject to change if I come up with something better.

Like I've mentioned with the other two, I know this is no where close to what we'll actually get, but all of this is just for fun and so I have some secret bosses to draw my Junior Secret Squad kiddies with. Once we DO finally get chapter 5, Veratus will likely just become one of the secret bosses of Fool's Fate.

Now, backstory under the cut.

A solider from a distant land, Veratus found himself stranded in this dark world after the Great Divide. His king and fell soldiers in arms falling back and leaving him for dead. At the mercy of the Flower Kingdom's new ruler and its army.

Luckily for Veratus, the Knight chose not to bother killing the lone soldier, thinking that the side effects of the Divide would render the rat to stone soon. Yet for some reason, Veratus did not become stone...

Alone and outcast in a world not his own, Veratus was eventually found by a man. A strange someone whom some had theorized brought forth the Great Divide. The man cast pity on Veratus, and offered the stranded soldier his help. The opportunity to blend into this world and infiltrate Knight's army in exchange for his loyalty and help getting close to Knight. Veratus agreed.

Veratus's fur became overtaken with moss and his body with vines, though it might have been painful it did make him look like a rather convincing part of this floral Dark World. In addition to this transformation, the man also opened Veratus's mind to the reality of his existence, as the man had with the rest of his pawns.

Veratus was able to infiltrate Knight's army and climb up the ranks thanks to the assistance of the man, only to be left behind and forgotten once again once the man was able to get close to his true target. Disappearing and leaving a Roaring Knight in his place. Without the man, the cracks in Veratus's facade began to show and it didn't take long for the rat to be ratting out as a rat. the Knight's army tried to kill him, but something kept him from falling. The plants consuming his body wouldn't let him die. So instead, the opposing army cast the lone solider out. Exiling him back to a life of solitude.

Until another knight and their friends arrived in the kingdom...

#deltarune #deltarune chapter 5 #deltarune fan character #deltarune predictions #deltarune secret boss #veratus

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yeyinde · 2 years

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IN YOUR ROOM ⋮ THOMAS HEWITT | LEATHERFACE ☓ READER

and it's so cold it seems my hands

are colder than yours, warm me up inside

your face turns red and so does mine

and we climb all around

It was an accident, of course. He got a little too carried away last night. A little too lost in the haze of skin, and sweat, and sex.

As you stare at the bruise on your hips - in the perfect shape of his massive hand and long, thick fingers that smears across your hip bones and stretches all the way to your spine, the dip of your belly button - you can't stop that dark, gnarled thrill that coils, molten, in the pit of your abdomen at the sight of it.

Thomas would never intentionally hurt you.

But you can't help that little part of yourself that wants him to.

⤷tw: smut, light body worship, the slow and steady corruption of Thomas Hewitt (consensual), marking kink (explicit, giving and receiving), unfettered filth, size kink (explicit), more religious imagery in connection to sex (why is that a thing with me - it's anybody's guess), mentions of gore, death, and trauma (brief, mostly just in connection to the burgeoning relationship between MC and Thomas), just fluffy smut for the big boy whomst i adore (despite the fact that my writing sometimes makes him sound like bigfoot : just really big n’ hairy)

⤷notes: this was supposed to just be smut but it ended up kinda turning into more ╮(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)╭ so oops. 14k of smut and stuff - certainly not plot but… stuff. this is somewhat of a continuation of my other TH x Reader fic, but it's very easily standalone. also, my thirst for Big, Hairy Belly Thomas is even more debauched than before.

i also tried something different with my writing style. not entirely sure how it turned out but - here it is

Your hands run down your sides until you meet the first blackish smear staining your skin. The edges are a little jaundiced, casting a facsimile of a halo along the clean indigo lines that darken into a deep black at the jut of your hip bones, where his palms fit over the curve of your waist. Two lines jut out from the Rorschach smear, twisting up diagonal to your navel.

Your eyes are drawn to them, pulled in like magnets. You can't stop staring at the marks on your body in the shape of his hands.

You turn your torso, gazing at your back where a perfect impression of his four fingers sits on your iliac crest. The blood pools under your skin, turning the contusion a deep plum.

You turn back, fingers sliding over the darkest part of the bruise, nestled on the crux of your bone. It stings a little when you press your fingers into the skin, irritating the burst capillaries with your insistent prodding.

You should leave it alone, let it heal.

But you can't.

You fit your hands over the flare of your hips, lining your palms up over the bruise. Your fingers curl over the jut of your pelvis, thumbs sliding back. You twist in the mirror once more, staring at the comparison.

The angle is off, but that doesn't matter: the bruise easily spills over your palms, even when you spread your fingers open.

It doesn't fit.

It doesn't even come close.

(Thomas is massive. His palms swallow you whole.)

There are only a few inches between the dark juts his thumbs left behind. If he stretched out his fingers, you wonder if his hands would mould around your waist; thumbs touching below your naval, fingers meeting at your spine.

The thought scorches through you with such a visceral sense of want, intrigue, that you're dizzy with the thrum of it buzzing in your veins. Your hand reaches out, palm resting flat on the mirror as you steady yourself.

He'd have to squeeze you tight, wouldn't he? He could do it, you think, running your tongue across your dry lips. He's so strong. So massive.

He would never do it, though, would he?

This, the blood pooling under your delicate, thin flesh, was a mistake.

It was an accident, of course. He got a little too carried away last night. A little too lost in the haze of skin, and sweat, and sex.

You slipped - a little too eager in your movements, a little too desperate - and Thomas was there, as always, to help you. His hands wrapped around your waist, keeping you steady, holding you as you bucked above him.

He gripped you a little too tight, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to hurt when you begged him to go faster, his hips stuttering into yours with an almost fervid desperation that you matched with a delirious fever burning through your veins until a veil of white static blotted out your vision and you whispered psalms in his name.

(The thought of what caused these dark marks on your skin makes you smell the faint tinge of oil and gunpowder: acrid and metallic - the heady scent of iodine fills your nose when he leans in close, the sweat glistening on his dark, sunkissed skin-)

Your knees still feel wobbly, but you lift your arms over your head, stretching them languidly in the air, and watch - rapt, hungry - as the bruises dance in the mirror with your movements. They're mesmerising.

Thomas would never intentionally hurt you.

But you can't help that little part of yourself that wants him to.

………

Thomas is a wreck when he sees the contusions smeared on your skin. He whimpers, hands reaching out as if to touch you, but then they stop - like he's not allowed, not permitted. It's with a mournful whinge that he clenches his fists in the air before dropping his hands to his side in punishment.

In his mind, he did the most unforgivable thing in the world. He hurt you.

(And hurting you is something that should be punished.)

It, unfortunately, means that his version of self-flagellation extends to yourself as well because until the abrasions are entirely erased from your flesh, he won't touch you. Won't make any attempt to do so. He'll clench his fists by his side, mewl out sorrowful little whimpers, and twist away from you in his hasty escape to avoid hurting you again.

You don't know how to tell him that without his hands on you, you might go mad. That your skin itches for the firm way he holds you close, safe and secure in his arms; that your body yearns for the rough scratch of his scarred palms and calloused fingers dragging over your flesh until you see Orion behind your eyelids.

(And the press of them, then, burrowing into your flesh makes you see god.)

Thomas is contrite - practically vibrating with the tremors of his despair - and forlornly turns away from you each time you reach for him, trying to get him to see that you like his mark on your skin. Like the thrill of it all. The implication.

It's stark against your body. The perfect impression of his hand branding your flesh.

A symbolic rendering of everything that transpired between you, much like the blooms of red you nip across his broad chest and expansive back, up and down the column of his neck, his plush collarbones; little kiss marks you imbed into his pulpy flesh that are meant for your eyes alone.

It's that greedy thing inside of you rearing up yet again.

That gnashing, awful part of you - twisted and dark - that aches to have. To possess. You see the brands you decorate his skin with and know that they're yours and yours alone. No one else can see them. No one else can put them there.

And no one else can take them away.

(Not Hoyt. Not Monty.)

They're yours.

And these -

These are his.

His hands, his brand, his mark on your skin that stings when you twist your hips. A throbbing reminder of his presence etched into your flesh, deep enough to bruise your bone. You see them and feel fulfilled, nourished. You can't explain it - can't even begin to try - but it's there and it's his, and that alone makes your knee quiver and threaten to buckle under you.

You can't stop touching them, and in doing so, it keeps bringing them to Thomas' attention.

Sorrow twists, gnarls across his brow.

The tremble in his shoulders, the aching, choked wail caught in his throat when they turn the prettiest shade of amber and lilac you've ever seen, makes you wish you felt something other than absolute satisfaction at the sight of them.

(And then rather doleful when they start to heal.)

The contusion fades. Skin healing into a flaxen hue as the damaged capillaries knit themselves back together.

He doesn't understand. He hurt you - unforgivable - and now he must repent for his sins, his transgressions.

You let him sulk, let him take the time he needs until the bruises are gone and he doesn't feel the need to pull away from you in penitence. Give him space. Hide the marks from his guilt-filled gaze.

And you plot. You plan.

Because you will - you will - get his mark on your body once again, and for as much as he bows his head in contrition, you can see that gnarled thing lurking in his eyes, the same shade of possession as the one reflected in yours.

(A matching pair.)

You just need to warm him up to the idea until he appreciates them just as much as you do.

………

It takes him three weeks before the heavy weight of compunction dissipates from his shoulders, and the glaze of remorse and self-condemnation fades from his eyes when he gazes at you.

It takes another week before he touches you.

You're starved. Famished.

There is an unsatiated desire deep in your marrow that begs for his touch, that yearns for the feeling of his skin on yours. The want batters against your ribcage - an anvil clattering into your bones without respite, reverberating through your body until you're quaking with the aftershocks of a need so unrelentingly deep and consuming, that you sway on your feet from the intensity of it all.

When the first touch comes, it almost blisters your skin, razing across your body until you tremble.

The first brush is accidental.

He comes to bed, shoulders slumped and bone weary from unfettered exhaustion that bleeds into his marrow. Today was hot, busy, and you can see the aftermath of his hard work draped over his sagging shoulders.

He looks like he might fall asleep on his feet where he stands, and you can see just how lost, how tired, and how out of it he is when he doesn't even hesitate before he drops on the mattress, his back to you.

You roll a little toward him when he drops, the bed dipping under his bulk, sliding you forward. You don't touch him (not yet); you just wait. And watch.

Thomas folds his hands between his massive thighs. His head drops, bowing down, and he rests for a moment, catching his breath.

He bends down when he starts to list, jerking awake before he tumbles off the mattress, and reaches for his shoes, his shaggy brown curls bouncing in a way that makes your fingers itch - and starts unlacing his boots. The mechanical way he moves, the ragged, even breaths he takes, all give you an idea of how truly fatigued Thomas is.

His hair is a little greasy around the roots. His once white shirt is stained yellow and dirty from grime and sweat. He's so exhausted, he stumbled up to bed without even showering. You can smell the thick humus scent on his skin; the salt, sweat, and the pungent tang of copper when he moves. It's a heady cocktail that has you licking your lips, salivating for a taste.

But -

Not yet.

The boots are shoved to the side. His elbows rest on his thighs, hands slung loosely between his legs. The deep, rough way he heaves makes your heart twinge.

Poor baby, you think, pouting at his back. So tired. So sleepy.

You sit up, and the gentle jostle of the bed makes him turn his head glancing over his shoulder at you in question.

You won't touch him even though your palm aches.

Instead, you make a soft noise in the back of your throat. It's full of palpable pity. The taste of it saturates your words when you say, "come lay down, baby."

His head lifts at the pet name; shoulders trembling from the way your saccharine voice curls over the word. His next breath shutters out of him, shoulders falling in a huff.

He relaxes when you speak. You can see it by the way his spine liquefies; the tension easing from his body on his next exhale.

Thomas shifts on the bed. It dips down as he pulls himself up, and lays back on the pillow, sighing deep. His frame melts with his next breath; legs spread akimbo.

He's too exhausted to shuffle to the very edge like he'd done the past several weeks, too afraid to touch you, to hurt you again.

You lean up, elbow resting on the pillow with your chin tucked against your knuckles, and you watch him. Watch as his eyes flutter, and his chest heaves. He'll be out in a few minutes. You can see him struggling against the fatigue that drenches itself across his brow.

You settle in as close as you can. The small movements you make cause him to jerk, to snort awake. He glances at you, making a soft groaning sound under his breath.

"It's okay," you murmur, soft and soothing.

His head lulls when you speak, facing you. He tries to keep his eyes open, blinking slowly, languidly. His breath is even, deep.

It's then, in his exhaustion, that he forgets his silent pact to himself. His arms splay out, brushing over yours.

The first touch in nearly a month. It almost makes you whimper.

Goosebumps erupt across your skin. Your body is candescent when his arm grazes your flesh. The hair dusting his arm is matted with dirt and dried sweat, but the feeling of his tacky skin makes your stomach flutter.

It's an accident, of course. His self-condemnation isn't over. But it's a start.

You take the opportunity to slowly inch closer to him. His fatigued state allows it with nothing more than a slight tremor of his eyelids when you move. Your hand slides over his forearm, the barest ghost of a touch skirting over the tangled, coarse hair. His skin is so warm. He burns hot, flesh nearly rutilant with the constant heat rushing through his veins.

Your eternal furnace. Burning lucent and fervid just for you.

A soft snort is the only sound he makes when you brush over his chest. He shudders when your fingers splay wide over his pectoral; the centre of your palm perfectly matched with the steady, low thrum of his heart.

You wriggle closer until your chest brushes his arm, and then relax, melting into his side. Your nose nuzzles across the thick bulk of his shoulder, breathing in the astringent tang of dried sweat. The scent is as comforting as it is intoxicating. You sigh, spreading your arm further across his broad chest until you can't anymore, knuckles grazing his ribs.

His arm twitches, and he slowly, carefully, slides it under your body, wrapping it around your back. He tucks you close to his side, where you belong and breathes into your crown.

He must be starved for it, too, you think, when his fingers dance across your spine, brushing over each knob of your vertebrae; carefully stroking up and down as if he can't get enough of your flesh on the pads of his fingers.

"I missed this," you murmur, watching the chest hair that peeks out through his loosely buttoned shirt flutter in the breeze your breath creates.

It's enough for now.

Thomas eases into you slowly, slowly, and then all at once.

His massive body twists, and then you're under him. Bracketed by the shadow his bulk casts over you. Your Cimmerian god: looming over you in all his sleepy, dazed slumber.

Thomas pulls his arm out from under your shoulder, resting on the pillow above your head. The dip it makes angles your chin up, and he shivers when your tongue snakes out, running over your bottom lip.

There is only a brief hesitation from him, and then your cheek and chin are being cupped in his scorching palm. His legs tangle with yours before he rises, lifting himself further up.

It's incredible how deft he is, how spatially aware of his body he always is, considering just how vast it truly is. Thomas is incredibly dexterous. He moves fluidly; liquid. A nimble wave arching over you, brushing over you like you're something fragile, worth protecting.

His belly rests over yours, swallowing your torso whole. You shiver at the doughy soft feeling of it falling on you, weighing you down.

He doesn't do anything else. He just stares at you. His thumb brushes your eyelids, underneath your eye, your cheekbones, your cheek, your chin, your jaw, and back up again. Roving across your skin like he can't quite get enough of it. Eager. Hungry.

Your breath stutters. Eyes fluttering when his nail skims the underside of your lashes. They stay lidded, heavy with want, when he pulls away, and you gaze up at him with nothing short of pure longing.

He's starved you for so long.

Your legs spread, hands reaching up to tug at the strings on his mask, wanting - needing - his mouth on yours. You hear the click in his throat when he swallows. His shoulders rise, hunching up to his chin, but he doesn't stop you. He lets you pull on the strings, trembling when your legs wrap around his, your ankles crossing over the backs of his thighs.

Your hands are greedy when you tug him closer, slipping the leather off his face, and tossing it somewhere beside you.

Bared to you, he tenses. His shoulders coil.

You hear another thick swallow when your hands slide up his massive, bulging arms, fingers squeezing the plush flesh around his shoulders, and then slowly sink your hands into his hair.

He doesn't let you move your head off the pillow when your urgent hands begin tugging him closer. He leans down, more of his weight falling over your body in a way that makes you gasp and your toes curl in delight when his soft belly falls against you.

The first kiss is tentative. Almost shy. He brushes his lips over yours - not really kissing, just a soft graze - and his mouth quivers, trembling over yours. It's not enough -

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you pull him down, moulding your lips to his with an almost delirious need to taste him. Your legs lock around him, rocking his body into yours as you pull him closer.

There is too much distance between your bodies, it feels like a cold, vapid chasm, and you want to fuse your atoms together until the idea of space and separation ceases to exist in the tangle of your limbs. Two symbiotic entities moulded into one.

Thomas grunts, the sound vibrating over your mouth, and he hastily adjusts himself, trying not to crush you under his weight. It makes you pout into the kiss, vocalising your displeasure with a soft mewl of frustration.

You want to be crushed under his bulk. You want to feel the full press of his belly on yours, his chest, his mouth -

You want it all.

Thomas is unmovable. A mountain. He doesn't yield under your desperate pulls, but he knows - he knows - he can't deny you forever. Something, eventually, will have to give.

(And that something is often him.)

Thomas, always so giving, acquiesces to your squirming demands.

He lowers himself, letting his chest rest on yours, and you nearly choke on the gasp that leaves you, breathless and wanting, when the full bulk of his body lays over you. His belly spills across your torso, his chest is so big, that it feels as if two of you could fit inside his ribs.

(You think you'd give anything to chisel a spot inside of his chest cavity where you can hide inside of him forever.)

Your legs barely make it around his waist, stretched so wide that the inner crease of your hips where your pelvis meets begins to ache from the strain of trying to keep your ankles together to nudge him closer.

The feeling of being trapped under his bulk is the closest you'll ever come to heaven.

But -

"Wait…" you murmur into his chin, pressing a kiss to his thundering pulse. "I wanna make you feel good Thomas."

He groans low in his throat, the noise vibrating over your lips.

"Yeah…" you whisper, a touch breathless when he raises himself up, still towering over you. Your hands cup his jaw. "You're so tired, baby… I'll make you feel so good."

You can see the lilt of excitement brimming in his smouldering gaze when he finally meets your eyes. Slowly, he nods, another grumble erupting from the depths of his chest, and sits up on his haunches, watching with lidded eyes as you shuffle out of the way to give him more room to lay down. He's tired, a touch clumsy, but he settles, supine, on the mattress.

The way his body stretches out before you feels a little bit like a feast.

Your teeth ache with the urge to sink them into his flesh when he prostrates himself like this. It's all for you. All yours.

Your hands drop to his chest, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt (suspenders dropped, already, by the door of the bedroom, forgotten in his haste to sleep), and you lean up, straddling his massive thigh as you take the chance to tower over him.

It's hard not to feel a little drunk off of the visceral feeling of accomplishment, of conquest, this position affords you. Almost dizzy with the sense of victory you feel when you perch yourself above him like this, because Thomas is strength personified. Raw power draped in flesh and bone. Your own Hercules.

And being so tall above him like this, with his thigh so wide, so hard and unyielding, between your legs, feels a little bit like you're sitting on a throne.

His shoulders lift when your hands tug on the fabric keeping his expansive chest and soft belly from your eager gaze, and you hastily pull the shirt off of him, sighing in nothing short of satisfaction when you run your hands from his broad shoulders, down his pectorals, over his budding nipples, and letting them rest on the tumid swell where his belly curves up. Running your fingers through the coarse, black hair on his chest, you lean back, and just -

Devour.

You eat him alive.

The fire in your eyes makes him sweat. He whimpers under you, chest heaving as your gaze flickers down his body, eagerly taking in the delicious spread of roseate that flushes down his cheeks, his neck, his chest. It makes you pant. Makes you mewl. Your nails dig into the soft, plush flesh where his waist meets the swell of his belly.

"God, baby-," you breathe, voice drenched in thick, palpable want as your eyes raze across his exposed flesh. "You're amazing. You look so good-"

His cock twitches against the side of your thigh at the ache in your voice; the praise that drips, dulcet and seeped in reverence, from your lips. Thomas shivers, letting out another whimper when you shift, rocking over him.

Seeing him like this, hands trembling, stuttering, like he wants to touch you, but isn't sure how, if he's allowed. It's that juxtaposition between his indomitable, formidable size, and this -

Soft. Gentle.

It's almost funny, you think, how everyone went out of their way to warn you that Thomas wouldn't hurt you.

("He's a gentle giant," Luda Mae says at dinner. She slowly, slowly, warmed to the idea of permanence between you and Thomas. "He won't hurt'cha. And he'll hurt anyone who does."

Her eyes stray from yours, that soft, motherly sheen fading from her gaze as she glances at Monty - "what?" he snaps, shaking his head: "I want no part of this," - and then pointedly at Hoyt where her poignant glare sharpens.

Hoyt sucks on his tobacco, smacking his lips. "I ain't meddlin' in this," he spits his dip into the cup beside his elbow. "'Sides, I'm proud of my nephew here for snaggin' a good one."

He claps Thomas on the shoulder, and you quickly shove the piece of cornbread into your mouth to stop the blossoming grin from spreading across your face when he flinches. The spot Hoyt slaps is the same place you sunk your teeth into last night.

Thomas frets when you glance at him, the sultry triumph in your gaze hidden by the bread in your hand.

You thought, then, that perhaps they should be warning Thomas about you.)

It's strange.

You grab his wrists, stalling the unsure fretting motion, and pull them to the hem of your shirt, slipping them under the fabric. He shudders when his hands brush over your blazing skin, and you wonder if anyone warned him about girls like you, ones with insatiable appetites and a burning desire to consume every inch of him.

(Luda Mae probably did. Hoyt, too.

But he'll never tell them - not when bad little harlots like you have nirvana nestled in the junction of your thighs - and stroke his skin with absolute reverence.

Your little secret, then.)

The shirt is stripped off your body, leaving nothing covering you (another little surprise for him).

Thomas' mouth parts at the sight of your nude form resting above him, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lower lip as he gazes at you - at the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist - and rests on the apex of your thighs, spread to accommodate his thick knee between them. His chest heaves at the sight; cheeks burning a bright vermillion at the way you grind your unclothed sex on his thigh.

Thomas has a way of making you see the cosmos behind your eyelids when he stares at you like this - like you're a god meant be worshipped with the universe buzzing through your veins and the taste of nebula on your tongue, and he's a lowly mortal man who isn't allowed to look, let alone touch. You feel the well of that blistering want, that aching need, settle low in the pit of your stomach, where his eyes keep darting to, hungrily devouring the way you perch yourself on his knee, then hurriedly looking away like the sight alone is blasphemous and he's about to smited just for sneaking a peek.

A man this indomitable, this imposing, has no right being this cute.

Affection cudgels into your chest at the nervous, rapturous, way he looks at you still, despite the vast amount of sermons you whispered into his flesh. He looks at you like you're too good for him, too good to be true. His hands quiver as if he's waiting for permission to touch you - as if you'd ever deny him the pleasure of your flesh, or the nirvana of his skin grazing your body.

Sometimes, though, he looks at you with scepticism drenching his brow, wariness pulling his jaw taut, as if he doesn't quite believe you're real. That your want, your ardour, is genuine. It breaks you each time you see it.

How he could ever think that the maelstrom brewing inside of you, festering like a sickness, an addiction, for his flesh, his body, his love, him, isn't real, isn't true, the most absurd enigma to you.

Nothing, not even the threat of death hanging over you like a noose, could have kept this man from your greedy hands.

Hoyt likes to throw around ugly words, hissing into Thomas' ear when he thinks you aren't around to hear them. Things like usin' him to survive, or comin' between the family, or girls like that don't love boys like you. It sets your teeth on edge.

(The first time you heard it, you threw a punch that knocked out the false teeth in his mouth and spat, what? Mad I didn't pick you, you ugly prick?

You then sobbed into Thomas' chest as he crooned softly in your ear. Don't believe him, you pleaded. I'm not going anywhere that isn't with you.)

Thomas never assented to your words. He hummed and pat your crown as you blubbered out your love for him by soaking his apron, but even now, even today, he still hasn't shown the slightest acquiesce that he believes the tender words you utter.

It's not that he doesn't love you - he does, wholly: you know this because of the reverence in his touch, the rapture in his gaze - but he takes Hoyt's word as gospel, so when he says, you'll see, boy, one day she'll try an' escape from ya', 'cause the only thing keepin' 'er here is self-preservation, so you might as well get yer fill of the bitch, Thomas waits with bated breath for that day to come.

It's aggravating.

It prickles under your skin when you murmur your love for him into his flesh and you see the flicker of incredulity, disbelief, that swarms the thin tendril of happiness at your asseveration, snuffing that little ember out before it can flare to life.

Maybe that's why you're so insistent on branding yourself with his mark.

But no -

The thrill you get at the sight of them on your skin isn't borne from desperation, but triumph. That carnal gnashing inside of you preens at the way they decorate your body. They're mesmerising. You can't get enough.

And you want him to want them, too. You want him to be comfortable enough to press his fingers into the knob of your bones, to break the vessels apart and mark you for the world to see.

(If he didn't want it - if there wasn't that flash of pleasure in his eyes before compunction swallowed it whole - then you wouldn't push. That haunting, burning look, however, says he does, and you're more than willing to give in to the debauchery swelling inside your chest.

For not you, then for him as well.)

"Love you," you whisper, hands roaming across his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath your palms. The heat of him bleeds into your skin. "More than anything,-" there is that unfettered adoration, the loose curl of bliss, and then it's swallowed by disbelief.

You breathe out through your nose, your hands curling around his arms, and you tug his hands back on your body. You settle one on your waist, right in the spot he marked before, and pull the other to that aching spot between your thighs, shivering at the rough, warm way his fingers glide over your dewy flesh.

You toss your head back, lifting your hips to let his fingers slip across your wet, aching skin.

And really -

You're ready.

While Thomas worked hard all day, you rolled around the sheets with your hands between your thighs, Thomas' name on your lips, and Antares behind your eyes - all in preparation for tonight.

("Lazy bum," Luda Mae called out when you failed to show up for breakfast and lunch, her insistent knocks on the thick wood going ignored.

You huffed, then, rolling onto your belly with your head nestled in the crook of your arm, and you glanced at the glossy sheen of your efforts smeared across your fingers. Kicking your feet in the air behind you, you counted down the hours until Thomas would finally join you in the tousled sheets that smelled of your skin and sex.

Hardly, you thought when she huffed. I'm working overtime.)

He'd starved you with his contrition. His remorse deprived you of the solid feel of his body on yours, the taste of his flesh on your tongue -

And you want it. Need it.

He's a banquet spread out beneath you, and you're starved. Ravenous.

Thomas rumbles when you roll your hips against his palm - the width the size of a bough, and the thought alone is enough to douse your nerve endings in battery acid - and the sound punctures your chest, sending liquid want to the junction of your thighs.

"Want you so bad," you keen, the litany rolling off of your tongue as his fingers brush across the wet mess there just for him. "Need you, Thomas-"

He grunts, hips canting into the soft give of your thigh, and you glance down, licking your lips at the wet spot gathering at the turgid bulge in his trousers. Your belly flames with liquid heat. Desperate, you reach down, tugging at his pants.

Thomas flushes bright when you pull his trousers down, his cock springing free.

He's already hard and leaking, prespend budding on the bulbous mushroomed head. It dribbles down his frenulum, the droplets leaking a viscid smear of milky white down his swollen flesh.

Seeing his cock always fills your belly with molten heat. It pools there, making you throb with an achy want, a desperate need to be filled. His cock is big - dauntingly so - and wide. His girth alone is the same width as your wrist. It's fat, thick.

Perfect.

You didn't know the meaning of size queen until your torturous little wiggles on his lap made his cock twitch, stirring in interest as you squirmed against him.

When you first saw it - when it became clear to you that he was absurdly proportional - it knocked the air from your lungs like a vacuum, leaking gasping for breath. Thick, was the first thought; the second, holy shit there is no way that's going to fit inside of me.

It did. It does. But after seeing his flushed cock so many times, it still brings about that same tendril of trepidation inside of you.

His length is partially concealed by the softness around his pelvis, pillowing the base of his cock in doughy flesh and a thick bed of black curls, and a part of you is a little thankful for it, really. His thickness alone is enough to test your mettle - anything more and you might just burst.

You reach down, fingers ghosting across the side of his cock. The soft brush makes his body twitch, and his cock jerk in your hold, spitting more pre-cum that drips down the length of him, pooling at the base. Thomas lets out a small moan, head tipping back as your thumb rubs his frenulum until his thighs are shaking.

Thomas is always so vocal in bed, so expressive. Sensitive. Your gaze alone has him panting; your touch has him groaning. It's barely more than a whisper, and yet - his breath shudders as if he's already on the brink of overstimulation.

Even now, after spending the better part of a year acquainting yourself with his body until you mapped every inch, every spot that made his head fall back, his breath stutter, and his big hands grip the sheets as he groaned and bucked into your touch, he still reacts like it's the first time, the first night, all over again.

His inexperience surprised you a little.

Thomas is astronomical in comparison to most grown men - both in height and bulk - and the sight of him, this mountain of a man, barrelling toward you with a chainsaw in his grip and the decaying skin of another man on his face, is enough to send even the most hardened, resolute fighter to their needs in abject terror.

Still: Thomas isn't unattractive.

Scary at first, especially when he's bounding toward you (defying established laws of physics all the while), but you've seen the photos Luda Mae dug out. He was handsome when he was younger. Is still handsome, even with the old leather mask covering his lower face.

It might be a small stain in the middle of nowhere Texas, but surely there were people willing to drag him behind a hay bale and kiss him senseless. Maybe not now, when the town has dried up into nothing but a gas station and a homicidal, cannibalistic Sheriff, but certainly before.

Though - snippets of conversations, words uttered in passing, all swim to the forefront of your mind. Luda Mae said he was teased - ridiculed for his skin diseased, his deformity. Mocked for his weight. The pictures you saw show a healthy, stocky boy with full lips and a scarred nose. Maybe he had a little bit extra around his stomach, a bit more fat under his chin, but nothing in those photos made you think hideous or ugly.

The teasing was relentless, they said. Hoyt said you were using him, implying that your love could never be genuine, and not only because of the circumstances pressing down on you, but because of his looks.

Thomas scared you once, and only once. Hiding under a rotted car while your friends bellowed in pain, his massive boot fell inches from your hiding spot. The impact of his footsteps shook the ground you cowered on, and you felt fear for the first time in your life when his hands fell to his side, one wrapped loosely around the handle of a bloodied, gore-covered chainsaw.

Terror, unlike anything you've ever felt, pooled in your bones until your teeth chattered from the absolute horror that burrowed inside of you.

And then, like the coruscating crest of the ocherous sun breaking through the tenebrous squall over the mountains, you glanced up at this indomitable being before you. The hazy glow of the sun cast a ring around his head, and the sheer bulk of him felt neverending.

Fear rushed out of you quite quickly after that.

In its place, sat a most inadvisable sense of intrigue. They really didn't make them like that back home.

You tried to humanise yourself to him - telling him about your life, your likes, dislikes - while he chased you around the field, wielding his chainsaw around like a shield to keep the words you uttered, voice shaking in fear, from getting to him. He was driven by a command. Moving on instinct and some proxy of cultivated aggression toward your kind: outsiders.

It was a long game of cat and mouse. Of hide and seek.

Looking back on it now, it felt a little bit like a lurid courting session with you as the purser. The chaser.

Each time he got close, you managed to skirt away, yelling out a question about him, his life. That - the interest in him - seemed to rattle him more than your pathetic pleads about your family, your friends.

You blew him a kiss on the rafters of the old, decrepit husbandry facility, and he stumbled.

The chase came to an end when he cornered you in the freezer. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, you knew it was over.

With the blade roaring at you, death bearing down upon you, you didn't beg for your life. For clemency.

Maybe it was adrenaline from the chase, from the prospect of an awful, gory demise, but instead, you asked him for one thing before he killed you:

A kiss.

He jerked back, eyes blinking through the droplets of sweat that ran down his brow in rivets, and at the unfathomable request.

It was a cacoethes, you're sure.

It jarred him. He stood there, expansive chest heaving from the chase, the swelter of the mid-August heat, and did nothing. The chainsaw rumbled in his hands, idling in front of him like a bulwark. His wide, wild, eyes never strayed from you, but you don't think he was even seeing you at that point - his mind muddled by the strange, unfathomable supplication you uttered, and the aberrant chase that ensued.

You didn't move - couldn't, really; not with the chainsaw so close to your jaw that you could feel the air pulsing across your skin from the centrifugal motion - and just watched him. Watched as his expression vacillated between several different emotions: disbelief, suspicion, anger before stuttering over two - curiosity. Embarrassment. It bled into wonderment.

Then anger again.

The chainsaw raised.

"Come on, big boy," you swallowed thickly, fear bludgeoning into your chest, but you didn't look down, didn't glance at the chainsaw. Your eyes are only for him. "You're not gonna at least fulfil my dying request?"

His arms tense. The chainsaw pitches forward.

"I really wish we met under different circumstances - maybe at a bar. I'd buy you a drink. Dance with you. I'd like to take you to dinner. A movie. Maybe go down to the drive-in and share a sundae." Your breath stutters out of your chest, but you push through it. "I think you're really handsome," - your words make him flinch, make his shoulders bunch up, muscles coiling in a way that has your mouth watering. "It's a shame it has to end like this. But won't you at least let me have a little kiss? You're gonna kill me, anyway, so why not let me pretend we're on the beach sharing a margarita before you do it?"

The chainsaw cuts off abruptly, and the silence that fills the room is oppressive and heavy. It almost feels more deafening than the roar of the saw.

He stands in front of you, heaving. Suspicion fills the divot between his brows, and he glares at you with bitter contempt bleeding into his narrowed eyes.

Your hands raise, placating. In surrender. His eyes dart to your empty hands, then back to you. He tugs on the cord of the saw in warning.

"I have no weapons," you breathe out, offering a smile that feels a little too dreamy, a little too serene for the horror that encapsulates you now. "I'm completely trapped. I can't fight you off - you're too-," you trail off, licking your lips as you take in the sight of him standing over you like a skyscraper; a mountain. The open, honest want in your gaze seems to bludgeon into him, and he takes a shuddering breath, eyes skirting to the end of the hallway. "Y-you're too big."

His gaze feels weighed, heavy, when it cuts back to you.

"I can't get away, and I'm not trying to."

It feels a little silly to admit to your own weakness in front of a predator, but - fuck. You really want a taste. Something inside of you must have broken when you watched this monster of a man carve open your friends, and then turn toward you with a deadly determination set on his brow.

"I just… I'm gonna die, anyway, so… I just want a kiss. I'll close my eyes, pretend we're somewhere nice, and then you-," death by chainsaw sounds absolutely excruciating, and panic wells inside your throat. You don't want to die. You don't want to, but - what other option is there? You choke on a sob, offering a watery smile at the man you're more than a little smitten with despite his wanting to murder you in a more gruesome way. "You can do whatever it is you're going to do… sound fair?"

His expansive chest rises and falls in quick succession. He lifts the chainsaw again, and you squeeze your eyes closed, unable to watch the blade tear into your flesh, trembling in front of him.

"If not you're not going to give me a kiss-," you choke again, tears leaking down your cheeks. "At least make it quick."

The awful revving never comes.

Death never happens.

The blade is tacky with blood and pulpy from the gnarled remains of your friends, but when it touches your cheek, it feels like a twisted parody of a caress. Viscera smears across your face when he draws the chainsaw back, and you crack open your bleary eyes to stare at him, blinking through the sheen of tears and sweat and grime (and now gore) that clings to you.

It's then that you see it. When he turns his head, ducking his chin to avoid your stare, you can't help but notice how red his ears are.

Sunburn. The heat. Blood. There are a number of reasons why the tips of his ears are stained that particular shade of roseate.

It's the coalescence, then, of his deep, gasping breath. The way his eyes seem to dance around the room, looking at everything but at you, and the way his hands tremble on the chainsaw.

He's almost timorous in the way he moves. Shy.

It makes your hunger grow. Cute, you think, swiping your tongue across the salt that gathered on your lips. He's cute.

The contrast makes you sway. How could a man so imposing, so inherently terrifying, be this adorable?

You ask him. The words are tremorous with the abrupt crash of adrenaline, the unignorable threat of death hanging over you, and the rapid thunder of your heart that reverberates through your body.

"How are you so-," his chin jerks toward you, and he flinches, tensing. Like he's waiting for scorn. Ridicule. Threats of death and curses hissed at him. "So cute?"

You think you broke him, then, with that simple word. It hardly was enough to sum up what you thought of him - endearing, adorable, massive, attractive, handsome, deadly, protector, predator - but it felt right when it slipped from your tacky lips, hanging in the stifling atmosphere between you.

Thomas -

Well. Shattered, you think, when you called him that. You tipped his world on its axis in the same way he threw you into this strange space of wanting, yearning, for a predator who tried to gut you with a chainsaw and rubbed your cheek in the gore left behind by the only people who mattered to you. Strange.

The world as you knew it was split apart at the seams in the midst of a growing paradox where you believed, quite suddenly, in the fantastical idea of soulmates and love at first sight.

Everything ceased to matter except the way your heart ached for something you couldn't understand.

You sometimes wonder if it was fate that brought you together. Or if it was the trauma that made you see this hulking beast of a man who partook in the unfathomable slaughter of other people and consumed their flesh, viewing everyone who wasn't family as cattle, as someone you wanted in a protective guise of survival and self-preservation.

There really isn't any explanation for this - you, Thomas, and all of the things that unfolded in the aftermath of a brutally humid day in a place where hell dug itself up from the depths and saturated the landscape with its macabre, horrific machinations - but:

You can't really be bothered to care.

You can understand why people might fear him, but then it dissolves into nothing, into this confounding thing, because how? How could they when he looks so sweet?

"You're perfect," you say, your hand sliding down his hot, throbbing flesh. "You're amazing. Wonderful-," he keens low in his throat at the duality of your words - the bare sincerity in the way the litany spills from your lips - and the careful way you touch him, bringing him nothing but white-hot pleasure. "-Amazing. I don't know what I'd do without you, Thomas."

His hips stutter, more prespend leaking across your knuckles as you pump his cock in a slow, steady caress.

The bright flush on his cheeks makes your teeth ache. You want him. Always. Always -

His fingers slip away from you, and his hand - wet with your excitement, your want - grasp at your hip desperately.

His hips lift off the bed, canting into the clench of your fist, and he very nearly bucks you off with his insistent thrusts, but his hand squeezes your flesh, steadying you.

You tremble. The heat of his palm sears into you, the clench makes your bone ache.

"I'd do anything for you," you whisper, words drenched in reverence as his eyes beg you for more.

Thomas shudders, a little whimper slipping past when you drag your hand up the full length of him, feeling his thick heft in your palm. He chokes on his whimper when your thumb rubs across his frenulum, stroking the sensitive skin until his cock weeps and his hips jerk into you.

His wide, feverish eyes bore into you; a silent plea for more, and you can never deny him. Not when he looks like this spread out below you: eyes delirious with want, his cock twitching pre-cum down the length of him, belly smeared with the milky release.

Your fingers tease the soft head of his cock, watching as bliss shutters across his face. His mouth drops open, chest heaves with his deep breaths - it's all so addicting. You could stare at Thomas in bliss for aeons, but it's his eyes that ensnare you. The way his lids flutter closed, only spring open when you squeeze his cock.

"You look so good, baby," you mewl, rocking your hips against his thigh when he pants into the balmy air.

He shivers when you pull your hand away from him, eyes opening to look at you questioningly. They widen - pupils blooming into a full black - when you bring your hand to your lips, tongue snaking out to get a taste of him. You moan when the salty release falls on your tongue. He tastes like the ocean. Briny. Bitter. You rather like the piquant tang of him.

Thomas lurches under you; his hips jouncing sharply when your lips seal around your thumb, cheeks hollowed to suck the soupçon of his release off of your skin.

Thomas is expressive: he wears his feelings in the dip of his brow, in the gleam of his eyes, and the clench of his jaw. The way your tongue rolls out to taste his release makes his brows raise to his hairline, eyes widening as desire floods them, turns his pretty slate hue inky black as his pupil broadens with that salacious want that makes his hips buck, arching his throbbing cock toward you like a fair string being stretched past its limits.

Your thigh is coated in his excitement; his burning cock leaks prespend all over you as he desperately rubs it against you, seeking friction.

You release your thumb with a pop that makes his chest rumble, makes his squeeze his eyes tightly together like he's in pain.

"You taste so good, too, baby."

You'd give him whatever he wanted, so when he looks at you again, trembling hiccups spilling out and making his chest and belly quiver, the need in his eyes so deep and wanting that it lures you in, you know you teased him enough. You don't mean to - Thomas just makes you insatiable. Drives you mad with it. Makes you dizzy with desire and need. Greedy for him.

Still -

You can't help yourself when you lean down, bracing your hands on his trembling chest, and press your mouth to his in a searing, needy kiss.

With his taste on your tongue, your lips pressed to his, you ask: are you ready, baby? and it's worth it alone for the vigorous way he nods his head, very nearly knocking his forehead into your nose, and the loud, agreeable whine he makes.

You give him one last, almost chaste, kiss before pushing off of his chest and steadying yourself above him. Straddling his lap always makes you feel so incredibly tiny - his hips are wide, so wide, and your legs stretch over him in a way that makes your muscles tense from the strain. He holds you as you move above him, hands fixed firmly on your hips.

The way he squeezes you once, twice, like he just can't help himself makes anticipation run down your spine. His mark will be on you before the end of the night.

You sink down his unending length, shivering from the sheer stretch of him inside of you, and throw your head back as that molten coil of unfettered pleasure spools deep in your abdomen where the head of his cock now sits, pushing hard and insistent against your walls. Like this, it always feels like he's so deep you could choke on him. It makes your head gummy with blinding pleasure that leaks into your marrow, making you stupid drunk on the too much too full way he fills you up.

Whimpering, you lift your shaky hand to the taut skin of your navel, stroking up and down your belly button.

"Mm… I can feel you, baby," you slur out, words drenched in the visceral quake of your pleasure. "You're so deep inside of me, Thomas-"

His hips jerk, jostling you suddenly. Your hand slap down on his broad, heaving chest at the unexpected movement, keening loudly at the absolute burn of pleasure that lacerates through you. It's too much, too much -

He's so deep inside of you, the blunt head of cock pushing into you like he wants to spear you open.

(And god, oh god, he feels so good you just might let him-)

Thomas whimpers, his hands immediately on your waist to keep you from toppling over. The sharp wail of an apology spills past his quivering lips and is quickly swallowed by a deep moan when you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest. The coarse hair on his chest rubs against your hardened nipples and the delicious scrape makes you suck in a deep breath. Like this, the stretch is almost unbearable - the thick base of his cock splits you wide, as thick as your wrist - but gulp down the whimpers when pries you open further as you bend down, bringing your mouth to his in a sloppy, shuddering kiss.

He's unpractised: his kisses are always so wet. Saliva dripping down your chin, mouth flooded with the taste of him. They're all tongue and teeth, hindered by the ruined skin around his mouth, patches chiselled out, but it's the best kiss you've ever had, and anything Thomas lacks in experience he makes up for in unbridled passion and enthusiasm.

You whimper into the kiss when his cock twitches deep inside of you, the feeling of it roiling through your core until you're panting with the ache of him so deep, impossibly deep inside of you.

Your head is cloudy; hazy with want and pleasure and the taste of him in your tongue, and the godly feeling of him stuffed inside of you, curling against your mettle. Your agenda sticks out in stark contrast to the liquid slurry of molten ecstasy coiling inside of your veins.

It's nearly impossible to lean up, bones heavy and body humming with electric want that buzzes down your spine, but somehow, you manage. Your palms press on his chest, feeling the rapid staccato of his heart under your hand. You take a moment to bask in the feel of his solid, firm chest expanding under you, mind going fuzzy at the inexorable sturdiness under your fingers despite him being so pliant under you, and the contrast of it all, of what he gives to you, what he allows you to take, makes you whimper again, heart thrumming with affection. And then, with a lingering kiss, you push off of him, already mourning the doughy feel of his belly moulding against your curves.

Sitting atop him like this, his hands gripping your waist to keep you from falling off as your legs struggle to find purchase in the mattress, thighs spread wide enough around the bulk of his waist that you already feel burn in your hips, you can't help but fall to pieces.

He's pure, unyielding iron inside of you. There is no give, no respite

Delirious, drunk off the stretch of him and the way he stuffs you so full, you think that if he was just a millimetre wider, just a hair bigger, he'd split you apart at the seams; unravel you until you were an unspooled, tangled mess of buzzing atoms on the verge of dissolving into the aether that leaks with the heat of your bodies. Clouded with the miasma of want and sex and salt that clings to you in a spindrift, you sink, willingly, into that hazy abyss where nothing matters but the way Thomas wrenches you open.

That taut tug, the rapid throb in the place where you meet sends bolts of pure electricity to every nerve ending in your body, reverberating through you like a strummed chord until you trembling, shivering with the raw sensation of just how good, how utterly, unexplainably good, it feels to be filled by the length of him, stretched to the brim with the girth of him until you're mewling out orisons of praise, of love, of adoration in his name.

He has the capacity to absolute ruin you, to wreck you in a way that will render you into nothing but a melting puddle of base molecules at his feet, saturating his toes in carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, sulphur - the smeared residuum of what you once were now broken down into nothing by his hands - and god, if the thought alone doesn't send a ripple of undulating pleasure from your core to the very ends of your fingers, the tips of your toes.

Thomas squirms under you, restless and wanting to feel the drag of your sex clutching him so tight, so snug, in a vice that knocks the air from your lungs and sends a fluttery heat through your body.

It's easier when he takes you - when he fucks into your body, siphoning pleasure from you and leaving you gasping and panting into the sheets - because when he's inside of you, all thought is devoured by bliss; reason and logic have no foundations in chossy of his thrusts that batter your consciousness into a gummy slurry of him him him him. But you want this.

You want to ride him, to feel the delicious drag of his cock against your throbbing walls, to seat yourself in his lap where the bracket of his thighs pressed into you feels like home, and the soft give of his belly makes you drool with a fervid hunger you stopped trying to give meaning to long ago when he first pressed into you, his body the perfect equilibrium of white-hot iron wrapped in soft molasses.

The juxtaposition of his mountainous body, sturdy and unmovable, blanketed by a plushness that fills every gap and crevasse when he hugs you close seems to light up that little part of your brain that reverts back to a primal, animalistic being until you're feral with desire, with need.

It starts out slow: little, sinuous rolls of your hips to acclimate to the burn of him edging past your mettle. Your clumsy gyration is more for his benefit than yours - Thomas tends to get a little antsy, a little anxious about hurting you, and cautious swivels of your hips, barely lifting off of his cock more an inch or two, is meant to drive him mad with the urge to rut against you, to see that you can take him - all of him - until he's heaving with the strain to keep from bucking up into your wanting, eager body.

You could cum like this - with his large hand swallowing the thickest part of your thigh whole, and the other gripping the sheets beside your knee; his jaw clenching, opening, clenching again; his brow caught in a now permanent furrow; his eyes darting to place where you meet (his cock always giving a little jerk inside of you when he sees you split open on him) and then back up to your face, whiplash quick, as if he's afraid to be caught looking at how good you take his whole cock, and his eyes molten and dark with pleasure, rapture at the sight of you - it's enough to send you to that vertiginous precipice.

But -

You can't, you can't -

"Thomas…" his name slips, wonton and aching, from your lips, and it sounds like a benediction when it fills the balmy air that simmers between you.

His eyes are heavy when they land on your face, meeting your eyes. Wide and wild with frenzied pleasure, they bore into you until you're shaking from the weight of the rapture, the adoration, swimming in the Stygian depths.

Unable to help himself, his hips jerk up - once, twice - and the friction, the bludgeoning way he fills you, makes you arch your back, and moan at the sensation of it all. Thomas grunts beneath you, the voice rattling through your core, and you bear down, meeting his clumsy cants. Each desperate plunge has you singing hymns of veneration - broken gasps, mewling whines, and sharp moans - and he matches the mellifluous noises wrenched out of you with the baritone trill of his rough, raw grunts and belly-deep groans that scratch at strained coil inside of you with each little squall you pull out of him.

It's not enough, not yet -

You want his mark on your skin, you want to feel that unyielding pressure creaking against your bone as he brands your body. He isn't pertinacious about this - you caught the way he glanced at the garish bruise that looked worse than it felt, the unfettered curiosity, the little ember of satisfaction, that curled in his depths before he turned away, contrite and sorrowful. If there wasn't that little twinge of intrigue dancing in his gaze when he dropped his eyes and notified, for the first time, what your skin looked like when he gripped you tight, then you wouldn't be pushing so hard, but it was there. It was there, and you want more.

The thought alone has you quaking, has your mind clotting with feverish desperation for more, for his hands on your body, laying claim to your flesh.

It burns through you, and you bear down on him with a frenetic need for more, more, quickly getting swept out in the undertow of pleasure and rivets of bliss that curl inside of you, stemming from the apex of where you meet, where you slide down the length of him over and over again. The staticky haze of desire lashes through you with each plunge of his cock battering into your gummy, sensitive walls.

You glance down at him, watching with adoration as bliss split across his face when you settle into a demanding rhythm above him. His heavy eyes flutter - lidding and lifting, dropping to the apex of your thighs, then up to your face, snapping shut when you writhe on his cock -, and you're lost in the way he wears what he's feeling so clearly visible in his expression, so open, so honest. Your gaze fixes to him, lingering on the draw of his brow, the deep divot that sits between, the deep flush in his cheeks that spread all the way down to the tips of your fingers, the clenching of his jaw as he grits his teeth, or the way he relaxes, mouth falling open to drag in deep, greedy lungfuls of humid air in his heaving, gasping lungs.

Thomas is breathtaking.

The expressions he makes are cloying, desperate, and the sight of him whimpering, groaning, below you is enough to make your body bluster with a smouldering heat that billows through you; mind turning to ashes from the blaze of his skin sliding, slick with sweat, across your own.

The delectable sounds that are dredged up from deep within his belly, that ripples and shudders against you in the most delicious way, knock into you until you're teetering on the edge of that unforgiving metaphysical precipice. You can feel the plush give of his body, the firm, sturdy press of his hard muscle, and the deep press of his cock inside of you, but your mind is lost in an endless haze of pleasure, floating weightless in the incorporeal cosmos where the taste of ozone burns your tongue.

Want is the impetus that drives you. Your hand splays over his chest, finding purchase, as you lift the other to clutch at his wrist where his hand undulates over your hip - cautious and careful despite the thrum of pleasure cresting into him - and you squeeze, fingers curling over to press into his pulse point. Thomas jerks against you, hooded eyes snapping open, fixing his gaze where your hand grasps his atop your hip.

"I want it, baby-," he's already shaking his head, trying to pull away.

He's so good to you.

(Too good to you.)

"Thomas," you breathe his name, cooing softly to calm him down. "I want you to mark me, baby."

A low whine is drawn out of his throat. Fear. Worry. His brow tremors with his unease, his hesitance.

You bear down on him, taking him deep. "Please, Thomas… didn't you like them?"

He hesitates. His fingers flex around your hips.

Thomas won't lie to you. He never does.

"Because I did. I loved them."

He's overwhelmed - vacillating between glancing at his hand gripping your waist, your smaller fingers clinging to his wrist, to the apex of your thighs where you take him deep, so deep -, and he's getting close. His mouth drops open, heavy pants rattling through his chest, his belly ripping with the heaving gasps.

You shudder at the feeling of him inside of you, at his gaze burning into you, pleading for respite.

"Do you like when I mark you, Thomas?" His head jerks up, eyes darting to yours, and he nods, quick and eager. It makes you purr. "I like your marks on me just as much."

You let it sit with him. Let him mull over your words while you arch your back, and brace yourself on his heaving chest, taking him deeper, faster.

It starts as a scintilla of white-hot pleasure; a slow burn in the pit of your abdomen that roils into a molten coil that begins to burgeon, to build, until a crater opens wide, the tremors wracking through your body until every synapse inside of you is filled to the brim with liquid ecstasy that spumes inside of your core.

Your limbs are filled with honeyed bliss, mind a chanting gale of Thomas Thomas Thomas Thomas, and oh god so good so good so good as your nails cling to his chest for purchase amid the torrent inside of you that lashes out until you're stupid, drunk, sloppy off the way he fits inside of you, stretching you wide, and carving out place so deep, so unfathomably good, that it knocks all thought that isn't the deep ache of his cock inside of you, the doughy flesh beneath your hands, and the heady scent of sex and sweat that fills your nose. Each little jerk of his hips makes you quake, makes your eyes roll until you see the cosmos in the back of your skull.

And then you feel it.

His fingers curl over your hip, tips digging into your flesh. The bite of them sends heat fluxing to your core - molten and throbbing - until your limbs are deliquesced, mind a honeyed slurry of pleasure. The ache, the pressure - of his hands on you, squeezing and gripping you tight; of the full, fat feeling of his cock twitching inside - all burrows into you until you're floating back into that haze of blunt, unyielding ecstasy.

A litany of moans, broken, choked hymns of his name, spills from your lips as pleasure spools in your belly. Your nails grip his chest as Thomas bucks into you, holding you steady as he seeks his pleasure.

Your back arches in bliss, your spine liquifying as ecstasy spumes inside of you sending electric shocks of honeyed pleasure through your body until you're dizzy with the intoxicating sensation swelling inside of you.

You're so close, so close -

He tenses under you, heaving, and you gaze down at him, panting out his name in tandem with each deep plunge he makes into you.

"Come on, baby…" you mewl, tossing your head back as undulating pleasure wracks through you. "Cum for me, Thomas-"

The sounds he makes, and the feel of his hands on your hips, tip you over that precipice - a throaty growl, a deep groan, a firm squeeze - and you're gone. Lost in a haze of liquid pleasure as the molten coil inside of you pulls taut, snapping when his firm grip on your hips makes your bones creak.

Thomas spasms under you, letting out a deep, guttural groan that rolls through your palms, and sends you spiralling. You're superlunary. Mind a blanket of nothing but the smouldering heat, the potent, heady scent that surrounds you - the thick tang of sex, sweat, and the unmistakable musk of Thomas, something rich, metallic and humus - and the feel of him, his palms burning your feverish skin, his cock jerking sharply inside of you, his solid, hard body under you, bucking into you.

You're pulsing around him, throbbing in tandem with your rapid heartbeat.

It's so good, too good, and you grind down on him, greedily seeking more of that addicting pleasure he brings you.

His cock jerks inside of you; molten heat blooming as he cums inside of you. You can feel him throbbing as he spends himself in your wanting body.

Your head drops - exhausted, body buzzing with the tremors of your release - and you pitch forward, hands sliding up his chest until your palms are resting on his collarbones. The movement makes your hips twinge with a deep-seated ache, and you gasp at the throb of pain that rings through your bones.

Despite the smarting in your hip bones, a slow smile curls on your lips. Satisfaction roils through you.

It'll bruise, you're sure.

You glance up, catching Thomas' eyes. "That felt so good, baby."

His face is rubicund, chest dusted with the hue, and the sight of it has you biting your lip to keep from cooing aloud at how adorable he is.

His eyes are lidded, hazy with the remnants of his bliss - and exhaustion.

"My poor baby," you pout, leaning down, and the motion makes his spent cock shift inside of you, and the feel of him, of his cum leaking out, makes you shiver. Without the slurry of dopamine and oxytocin dulling the sting, you feel the ache, the stretch, more than ever, and you struggle to hide a wince.

He notices, of course, and his eyes spring open. Concern immediately floods the bliss in his glassy glaze, and he makes a soft, worried trill in the back of his throat. The sound is raspy, gravelly - from fatigue, from dryness, overuse - and you fight to hide another shiver at the ragged lilt that spills out. It sends a jolt of pleasure to your spine, heat fluttering in your belly.

"I’m fine, Thomas," you pant, peppering kisses across his sweaty face to ground yourself. "But let's get you to sleep, yeah?"

(Because if you don't, if he keeps making noises like that, you might just take him again-)

Thomas is still worried, anxiously fretting over you, but he slowly acquiesces to your gentle insistence that you were fine - more than fine. His hands settle on your waist to steady you as you slowly clamber off of his lap, mindful of the ache inside of you thrumming with your ginger movements.

Thomas guides you, refusing to let go of you for even a second, and you bask in the aftercare he provides - wordless comforting stability - melting just a little more at the soft coos he lets out. He doesn't settle until you're nestled into his side until you give a verbal affirmation that you're okay, you're fine, it's okay, and even then, he frets.

Despite the weight in his lids as he gazes at you, eyes dropping with fatigue and exhaustion that drapes itself over his shoulders, he doesn't relent until he knows that you're safe, secure, and wrapped up in his arms.

He's too tired for cleanup, and your legs feel like sap when you sprawl out beside him. You won't make it on your own without collapsing into a heap of liquified flesh on the floor, and while Thomas would fight through the exhaustion to help you without even a groan of frustration, you can't bring yourself to do that to him. Not when he was settled so peacefully in bed already before your insatiable whims pulled him from that vital slumber.

Something for tomorrow, then.

There is a twinge in your hips when you rest, relaxing into the mattress. Your bones smart with discomfort, but even with the ache inside of you, it feels so good. So satisfying.

Thomas bundles you in his arm, pulling you taut to his side with your head resting on his still heaving chest. The rapid flutter of his chest echoes in your ear, the perfect lullaby, as his fingers soothe over the skin on your hip, brushing over the bruise in what feels like an apology, but the hum in his chest sounds very much like a satisfied purr.

His hands are appurtenant on your flesh. His mark, too.

He rumbles into your crown, breathing in your scent, and you find yourself following suit until the taste of him is heavy on your tongue and filling your lungs until they threaten to burst with the miasma of his smell - gunpowder, phosgene, humus; the ocean, petrichor. Thomas presses a kiss to your head, a soothing purr reverberating through his chest until your bones peal in response.

You feel his fingers brush over your hips before settling over the unmistakable bruise that will be present tomorrow, and find yourself smiling, nuzzling your face into his chest.

His mark. You suckle your own where his heart beats, steady and strong, and find rapture in the way his taste settles on your tongue.

Home is in his arms: his heart pulsing in your ear lulling you into a deep slumber, his rumbles bringing an inexorable sense of safety, and security.

………

The black of his pupils completely eclipses the sapphire plumes until a pit of coal remains; his wide eyes are fixed on the smears of midnight, amber, and violet smudged across your skin.

The slight tremor to his hand makes you think that, perhaps, it's contrition gnarling in those unfathomable depths, but there is something about the greedy way his eyes open, entirely fixated on your flesh, that makes you doubt any sorrow is congealing inside of Thomas right now. His hands twitch. Curling into fists, then splaying wide across his thighs, rubbing the moisture away, back into fists - an unconscious action that gives away a little bit more into what he might be feeling as he looks at you, decorated in the marks you begged him for.

The way his hungry, leaden gaze devours the marks on your skin, roaming over the near-perfect facsimile of his hands, fills you with a deep, almost delirious thrum of satisfaction. The want in his gaze is a visceral thing that reverberates through your bones until you're quaking with the aftershocks that rattle through you. Possession. Hunger.

He, like you, is only human.

It's hard for him to hide the way he feels when he stares at the bruises he left behind on your flesh, a (woefully semi) permanent reminder of how his hands touched your skin, and how much you wanted him to do it.

The divot between his thick, dark brows deepens when you stretch your arms over your head, locking your fingers around your other wrist in a parody of a loose halo.

He can't seem to stop the rapacious way his mouth drops open, tongue lolling out to swipe across his bottom lip (where, you're sure, an impression of your front teeth still remain embedded in the plump flesh) when the contusions on your body flex and flutter with your slow, languid movements.

When you roll your hips, giving him quite the view of what the full length of his palm looks like smeared over your hips, he can't hide the deep, shuddering breath, or the tacky click in his now dry throat when he tries to swallow.

You make his mouth a desert. He makes your body burn.

"I like them," your voice is nothing but a gentle rasp; smoke coiling up, dissolving into the aether. "I like them a lot, Thomas."

He shudders, and you think of the quaking mountains rumbling through the aftershocks as the plates below the surface clatter and slide together. There is a roar billowing up from the depths; a drawn-out rattle.

Greedy thing, you think, when his hands lash out - almost against his will - and then hover there, stopping abruptly. He blinks slowly, as if coming back to himself, and then gazes at the way his knuckles just barely kiss your skin.

His Adam's apple buoys. Once, twice. Thrice. His fingers twitch when you arch your back, eyes wide and wanting as he stares at the way your spine curves; the knobs in your vertebrae flexing with careful motions you make. Enticing him. Luring him in.

Thomas makes a low sound in his throat - a noise not unlike that of a wounded animal - and then his hands are on you.

Your breath stutters, catching in your oesophagus, when his worn, rough hands close around your waist, bleeding unfathomable heat into your body. The way his fingers smooth over your sensitive skin has you tensing as every atom in your body splits apart with his gentle, reverent touch. Static thrums down your spine until pools at the base in a sea of electricity that makes every nerve, every synapse, inside of you go haywire.

With his hands on your skin, you see a tangled web of nebulae exploding into existence behind your eyelids; phosphenes so refulgent it nearly blinds you as they dance across your vision.

His flesh is a lambent heat on your body.

Goosebumps erupt. You shiver, trembling when those massive hands that easily swallow you whole slide down. You watch them in the mirror as they meet the swell of your hips, settling in the inky black bruises he left behind until they're consumed by his palm. Gone. Covered up.

Your hands drop when your knees threaten to buckle under you, catching on his broad shoulders. You have to stand on your tiptoes just to link your fingers at the jut of his spine, elbows locked as you stretch your body out.

Your head barely passes his first rib.

They told stories, warnings, about falling into the clutches of giants - he'll devour your flesh and torture you for eternity; he'll lock you away, hide you from the world - but they failed to tell you how easily you'd find home in his arms.

"It's nice, yeah?" You murmur as you drop your hand to his, palm sliding across the hair tangled on his arm, before slipping your fingers between the spaces of his own. He spreads them easily, letting you in, and then closes his thick fingers tight, trapping you palm to hand. You lean into his broad back, tipping your chin to stare up at him in the mirror. "They're so pretty-"

And it seems almost unfathomable to him that any mark on your body - that anything other than unmarred skin - could be seen as nothing short of sacrilegious, but when you pull his hand down, letting the jaundiced start of the bruise peek out beneath your hands (the difference in size almost comical, almost making him feel like a beast while simultaneously making you ascend to another plane of existence where the sight of his overly massive hand - his palm nearly the side of your head - makes you see nothing but nirvana when you stare at it), his head tilts, and it's enough.

But not yet.

So, you pull it down a bit more where the ecchymosis is stained rufescent, plum, flaxen, showing him just a bit more like you revealing a dirty secret.

It's the amber in the centre, the little smear that peeks over his index finger that gets him. His thumb strokes across the hue, rubbing the mark tenderly, barely grazing it as if he was afraid of hurting you.

"It doesn't," you say, ignoring the sting in your hip bone. A secret you'll take to your grave. "It doesn't hurt at all. I love your mark on me, Thomas-"

He groans low and desperate, the noise echoing through your bones. His hands clench around your waist - an unconscious squeeze that has fireworks crackling down your spine - and drops his head to nuzzle your crown.

"Don't you?" Your hands slide back, fingers curl delicately over the thickness of his wrist, stroking over his throbbing pulse point. He flexes, fingers digging into your flesh - of his own accord this time; intentional, purposeful - and the shudder of his breath rattles across your spine. "Don't you like them, too, Thomas?"

He makes a mournful noise in the back of his throat - something so achingly woeful that you almost, almost, feel a little bad for ruining him like this, corrupting him - but then his gaze shifts, his molten eyes meet yours in the grimy mirror. The light overhead, flushed pale yellow and flickering, can't hide the unbridled satisfaction from the inky depths. Hunger swims in the unending abyss. Want. Possession.

You arch into him again, feeding that little part of himself that just can't get enough of you, of this, of the way your skin colours with just a deliberate press of his fingertips, and Thomas breaks.

His hands slide down, shaking from worry, fear, want, and grip the sensitive skin of your thigh. His thumb pushes into the valley where your thigh and the plush curve of your ass meet, his hands spreading wide under your hip bone. And then he grips you tight.

It's unyielding. Firm. Nothing at all like the accidental clutch that caused the bruises to blossom on your skin, and for the first time since meeting him, you understand why they warned you about him.

Thomas would never hurt you, of course, but his grip is ironclad when he holds you; inescapable.

Your heart thunders in your chest, pounding with that dormant sense of primal preservation that rears up in the face of an atavistic predator, and -

A sick sense of satisfaction.

"Do it, baby," you whisper, turning your cheek to nuzzle your nose into the sweat-slicked skin of his chest, the hairs prickling across your face. He smells like sulphur and ash; the humus clinging to his skin is so potent that your eyes flutter, rolling back into your head as you greedily suck in deep lungfuls of his heady scent. "Mark me, Thomas-"

His hand tightens, but he's ever your gentle giant, and his other comes up, snaking between the valley of your breasts, locking to you his chest, and he coos low in his chest, a soft sound meant to soothe, to comfort. You hum at the mellifluous sound that floods your ear - the rapid patter of his heart filling the gaps. The cacophony of it all makes you melt, and you barely feel the burn of his palm branding your skin with another contusion in the shape of his hand.

Ownership. Possession. You wonder if he feels that same sick thrill that bludgeons into your chest as the vermillion marks you smatter across his body.

Your eyes blink open, languidly drifting to the mirror in front of you, and -

Oh.

Your lips curl into a soft, satiated smile.

Your tongue darts out, tasting the lingering salt from his skin, and you can't stop the purr from rattling through your chest when he pulls his trembling hand away from your skin, and blood blossoms under the surface, congealing as the burst capillaries weep crimson in the moulted shape of his palm.

"So pretty," you say again, voice liquid with want. "You make them look so beautiful, baby."

Thomas shudders. His thumb brushes over the fresh contusion. The first intentional one he left on your skin.

It's good. It's so good -

And you can't wait until you have a matching ring in the shape of his teeth on your shoulder. Something a little more permanent than a bruise.

But Thomas is a little too wrung out, a little too overwhelmed by the sight of a mark - something he was taught was wrong and immoral, bad - on your skin, and the oppositional feelings that swell in his chest when he looks at them staining your flesh, makes you back away from that thought for now. So, you let it sit in your chest, where all the other darkly possessive, greedy feelings reside.

You lean back, catching his eye in the mirror, and listen to the steady beat of your heart that seems to thrum out the syllables of his name.

When you turn your head, the responding echo sounds just like yours.

You think he must know this, somehow, when his chin lifts, eyes seeking out yours in the mirror. The deep slate brims with delectation. His gaze holds yours - happiness, want, adoration - before dropping down to the smear of vermillion that blooms from his hand, the burst capillaries pooling a pocket of blood under your skin that slowly turns indigo and amber as it sits. His thumb brushes over the haloed ring above the curve of his palm, and in the cobalt depths you see the briefest flash of contrition - worry over tarnishing your skin, hurting you, becoming the very beast they accused him of - and you nuzzle your cheek into his expansive chest, listening to the strong heat of his heart echoing in your ear.

"I love them," you affirm, words soft but pointed.

You hold his hand, keeping it steady and fixed on your hip, and grip the other, bringing his palm close to your mouth, pressing a kiss to the centre of his palm. Your eyes flutter shut when his grip on your hip, his arm fixed across your chest, tightens, bringing you closer. In his arms, it feels like home. Safety. Security.

There is a click in his throat when he swallows, and you glance at him in the mirror. His lids lift, eyes seeking yours once more. The breath shudders out of his chest, but the doubts are quelled. The shadows of worry that once lingered in the corner, seeping into the recesses of his heavy gaze, dissolve. Tentative want, burgeoning hunger blooms.

You press a kiss into his love line, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beating across your smile. He stares at you with dulia in his eyes: love, adoration.

You can't help but echo the words back.

"I love you," you whisper into his palm.

Happiness, adoration, blooms in his gaze. In the endless slate that stares down at you, the elation, the love, in his eyes remains unclouded, unpolluted, by needless thoughts that have no place in the Magellanic space between you.

You smile, nuzzling your lips into his love line when his pulse beats just for you.

………

It starts when Luda Mae spots the black ring on your collarbone when you bend down to grab the linen from the basket - a matching pair to the one you gave Thomas several nights ago when you convinced him that yes, his teeth scarring your skin was just divine.

It draws her attention mainly because Thomas can't stop staring at you, at it, despite the bales of hay that needed to be moved hours ago. He's distracted - that much is obvious by the way his gaze skirts toward you, your neck, then darts away with a roseate flush scorching the tips of his ears.

(Though, you're not exactly trying to hide it - especially not with the way it makes Thomas fumble when you reach up to touch it.)

You pretend not to notice the weight in his stare. The heaviness of his gaze, molten and wanting, on your flesh. On you.

There is a snort, and then: "stop this foolishness and just get her a damn ring already, Thomas."

You try to hide your dazed grin in the yellow sheets when Thomas lets out an embarrassed squawk, his head darting over to see if you'd heard what his mother said.

You busy yourself with the laundry, feigning obliviousness to the conversation that easily carried in the stagnant Texas swelter, but it's unignorable how the weight in his gaze seems to change with her words.

Thomas can't quite look you in the eye for the rest of the week, and you let him simmer on the idea for a bit, content to go at his pace.

But really - his mark on your flesh is a perfect gospel of his love, worth more than metal. He knows this, of course. Knows the pithy, concomitant meaning behind each kiss mark, each bruise, each nip you give each other.

A symbolic rendering of your presence on him, and his on you, and that, in itself, is more than enough for the two of you.

………

(Though, if your mind wanders, wondering what his big hands would look like, feel like, with a ring on his finger that belongs wholly to you - then that's your secret to keep.

And if that glassy look is sometimes reflected in his endless oceans of slate and cobalt when he stares at your hand, that insatiable hunger, greed, brimming up much the same as it does when you glance at him and think - well:

That's his, then, isn't it?

At least until he plucks up the courage to give you the little ring he fashioned himself. Until then, you’re content to pretend you don’t notice it sitting in his back pocket, or the way he reaches for it sometimes, just to make sure it’s still there.)

#thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x you #texas chainsaw massacre #slasher x reader #slashers #slasher x you #tcm 2003 #tcm #leatherface #leatherface x you #leatherface x reader #shoegaze x slasher was not something i would have considered before but #here we are

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guiltygearconfessions · 2 months

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the thing with dizzy and sin is easy to explain. guilty gear wanted legacy characters without aging up their established cast. that’s literally it. it’s why dizzy’s 8, and sin’s 5.

dizzy’s entire existence is canon breaking. people have been debating about her origins and her parentage for decades at this point. old fandom debates like justice is a mom?! how?! is kliff or sol dizzy’s dad? how could justice be dizzy’s mom when she was in an interdenominational seal in between the end of the crusades and missing link’s tournament? was dizzy born in the seal? if so, how did she escape the seal??! if sol is dizzy’s dad then when was dizzy conceived? is sol only dizzy’s dad in the sense he’s the prototype gear and kinda the “father of gears” the way justice is the “mother/juno”? justice is a woman? good for her! rip queen

her storymode intro in ggx+ claims that “she’s three but mentally and physically equivalent to a 20 year old human,” and that doesn’t make sense! she looks like baby’s first deviant art oc but guess what this is guilty gear! all the characters are like that to some extent! sometimes you gotta suspend your disbelief for the sake of the story.

dizzy was created to a character that is a peer to the rest of the cast, but because of her backstory the writers had to BS an origin that does not conflict with the rest of the established cast and setting.

but honestly, if the writers retcon her into to being 40 years old by strive i wouldn’t bat an eye. though some might say, wouldn’t that be a plot hole because that would mean dizzy was alive during the crusades making there be two command gears?!?? to that i say sssshhhhhhh-shut up! just wave it off has her fucking off in the demon forest. her backstory is held together by duck tape and string what’s a little retcon gonna do?

sin is a similar case but with a different intention. the story needed a rebellious teenager that’s in conflict with one of their bio parents like rock howard. but again they can’t age up the established cast too much off screen, though they did give ky a beard in concept art. doing that would make overture even more controversial than it once was. (back then some people straight up thought overture was an AU that was going to discarded when arcsys regains their IPs.) as a result a lot of development happens in such a little time. also fandom estimates of sin’s age in overture started at 5, then as xrd and strive progressed it went down to 3. Like we are just now getting a clear timeline on these guys. we keep aging them back to fit things in.

there’s a reason why barely any of the guilty gear characters have their ages listed as ??? or unknown and it’s the same reason why ky, one of the only characters with a canon age, is now a gear. the franchise wants to avoid aging their cast as much as they can. canon will bend itself over to justify keeping these characters at their current age.

#I think that sums it up pretty well #certainly in canon it raises some weird implications but ultimately people need to acknowledge the doylist viewpoint at play here #confessions #dizzy #sin kiske #guilty gear

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foxes-that-run · 7 months

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Gorgeous

Reputation is split into 2 volumes. "Volume 1 - Who is Meredith's Real Father?" includes the first half of the album and Gorgeous, track 8 so not consecutive with the rest of the volume. Vol 1 relates to the time before she disappeared including April 29 2016. In the 29 April 2023 Eras show Taylor also played Gorgeous and High Infidelity together. There is a more detailed thread on this here, and in the 2016 timeline.

In the Making of Video. you can see she also had pre-met Gala hair when making these as they take place before she met Joe.

youtube

The original lyrics have more detail on the muse:

I gotta boyfriend, he's older than us, I haven't seen him in a couple of months. You've got a girlfriend that's __ enough, and tonight..... ah. you're so gorgeous... (2:17) [...] I go through phases when it comes to love / I'm nothing that you want, but I must say / you're so gorgeous (3:20) I can't say anything to your face / You gotta fence in [?] [kinda defencive?] of us ... / (3:41)

Lyrics

You should take it as a compliment That I got drunk and made fun of the way you talk You should think about the consequence Of your magnetic field being a little too strong And I got a boyfriend, he's older than us He's in the club doing, I don't know what You're so cool, it makes me hate you so much (I hate you so much)

In the opener Taylor establishes the muse has an accent, a magnetic pull and is frustratingly cool. Taylor is not the type to mock an accent of someone she just met. She did make fun of Harry’s accent at the 2013 Grammy's during never getting back together though.

In Suburban Legends Taylor sings of Harry “You were so magnetic, it was almost obnoxious / Flush with the currency of cool”

Whisky on ice, Sunset and Vine You've ruined my life, by not being mine

Whiskey on ice, sunset and vine reads like a meet up, around the April 29 story. The line that her life is ‘ruined by the muse not being hers’ also speaks of a longer term relationship than someone she just met.

Taylor has a similar Lyric in Suburban Legends "You don’t knock anymore and I always knew it, and my life had been ruined"

You're so gorgeous I can't say anything to your face 'Cause look at your face (gorgeous) And I'm so furious At you for making me feel this way But what can I say? You're gorgeous

Fair enough

Taylor and Harry have sung and said in interview that they can't say in person to each other what they can say in song, describing it as the most amazing unspoken dialogue.

You should take it as a compliment That I'm talking to everyone here but you (but you, but you) And you should think about the consequence Of you touching my hand in the darkened room (dark room, dark room) If you've got a girlfriend, I'm jealous of her But if you're single that's honestly worse 'Cause you're so gorgeous it actually hurts (Honey, it hurts)

In So it Goes Taylor talks about getting alone with her muse and a magnetic pull and hiding interacting with each other. The line of 'if you've got a girlfriend, I'm jealous of her' was changed from the making of video. The original sounds like shade on the girlfriend, who was Kendall Jenner/Yachtgate of January 2016. the final lyric casts doubt on if they are even dating. If Harry was single she was more likely to be unfaithful, as detailed in Did something bad, and for Harry in Sweet Creature.

Ocean blue eyes looking in mine I feel like I might sink and drown and die

Harry does not have blue eyes, Joe does though. In secret sessions Taylor went to pains to tell fans this song was about Joe and this line fits with that. Since they separated/the end of their relationship she released high infidelity with the April 29 date and she has played them together on April 29!

You make me so happy, it turns back to sad, yeah There's nothing I hate more than what I can't have You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad (mmh) You make me so happy, it turns back to sad, yeah There's nothing I hate more than what I can't have and Guess I'll just stumble on home to my cats (yeugh) Alone, unless you wanna come along (oh)

This last verse shows that there is more to the relationship than crushing on a new person. If this song were about a person who she just met, like Joe or Tom H she would (and did) have them. It also wouldn't turn back into sad.

The line 'you make me so happy, it turns back into sad' perfectly captures seeing someone you love, remembering why but having broken up with them.

Finally, stumble on home to my cats, unless you want to come along is both adorable, and a call back to her AMA interview the year where she said she would go home to her cats, which Harry referenced in Kiwi as going home to her cactus. Taylor then responded photos of Joe with a Cactus.

#haylor #gorgeous #reputation

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midnightsun-if · 6 months

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Hi! I just want to say right off the bat that this isn’t a criticism or an attack on you in any way. I absolutely adore the world and characters you’ve created, and you seem like a delightful person based on how you respond to asks.

Anyways, I love Scarlett. My favorite archetype of all time is the Ice Queen with a hidden heart of gold. When I first found this if, she was the one I wanted to romance the most. Then I found out she’s gender locked and I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty disappointed. It just kinda sucks when one of the most popular romance options isn’t available to you, you know? It’s not like you can just ignore them either, they’re still gonna be present in the story and since they’re super popular a lot of the asks are gonna be about them too. I know I can always just create a female MC just to romance her, but it just doesn’t feel genuine to me.

If I had to guess, I’d say that that’s probably why a lot of people are simping for Cienna (even though I personally am not really interested). They share a lot of the same characteristics, and as far as I know, Cienna doesn’t have a set sexuality which means anyone can romance her (in this hypothetical game where she’s a romance option).

I guess at the end of the day I’m just curious why you decided to make only two of the romance options exclusive when the rest of the cast is more fluid. Again, I’m really not trying to sound insulting or like I’m attacking you, I’ve been following this blog since the very first post and I’ll still be a fan no matter what you do. I’m just a little disappointed and was curious to hear your thought process. Thanks!

A lot of my reasonings actually tie into her backstory (or a couple big ones, I should say)— so I can’t really go into that, but I will say that Scarlett, like Koda, just didn’t fit with the more fluid archetype like the other ROs. I knew that there’d be a possibility that same readers would either get turned off Midnight Sun because of that or grow annoyed due to it (not saying that you are, of course).

My choice mainly just boiled down to me understanding Scarlett, who she is, and what her sexuality means to her in a sense (I suppose). I settled on it because I felt, in my heart, that it was what was best for Scarlett, and what would make her character ring the most true (if that makes sense). Originally, she was going to be gender selectable, but I just didn’t connect well with the character and couldn’t figure out why— until I started writing for just Scarlett and fleshing out her backstory and the various nuances that make her who she is. In fact, the original character that Scarlett was is so far removed from who she is now that it’s almost a different person altogether. I’m happy with how much Scarlett has evolved and it may seem dumb to some people, but a lot of that had to do with figuring out her sexuality and what would overall work for her and for her involvement in Midnight Sun altogether.

I just decided to do what was best for the story, for Scarlett, and honestly for a lot of peoples reading experience in general, because if I felt disconnected from my character, I couldn’t imagine how you all would have felt interacting with said character.

And I know you’re not trying to be insulting at all! You’re curious, which is completely understandable. I hope that some of my reasons make sense in the grand scheme of things— I wish I could go into more of deeper ones, but I don’t want to spoil anything. Hopefully this’ll be enough to satiate some of said curiosity though! ❤️

#midnight sun #asks #ro: scarlett voltaire

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voidscreamintheories · 4 days

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HtP theory D: Who is he really? 1 of 2

As always, spoilers for Hunter the Parenting, If the Emperor Had a Text-to-speech, and Warhammer 40k This part 1 of a series of theories around D’s identity, also I have to split this into two posts, link at the end.

Big D, Sir D, Dee Dee, what IS in a name? Well, I suspect a big clue is in a name, actually. Big D is kinda the protagonist of the series thus far? While it is an ensemble cast Big D certainly has an air of protagonism to him, what with being almost the PoV character for a majority of audiologs, and MAYBE being the “parent” which the series title implies might be doing actual parenting (though I suspect D is probably not a first choice candidate for this task). All that said, what exactly does the D in Big D stand for? Obligatory TTS time. Big D is obviously the analogue character of the Emperor, who is sometimes called Big E by the fandom. In TTS we got a very bitter and much more ass-holish emps because he was stuck in his chair. Also, as the name implies he spoke through a text to speech. I am VERY glad Big D is ambulatory and has a proper voice because SpeakerD is another one of those voice actors that really elevates this series. If SpeakerD ever reads this, thanks for your work on this series, also your Vect was excellent and made me somehow like an evil elf, well done. That’s all well and good, but doesn’t explain what the D means. Well, if E stood for emperor, and this is hunter the PARENTING, maybe he is Big Dad. Would fit, but my post is nowhere near long enough, so let’s explore another theory, by first examining the emperor. So Big E was an almost god-like being in TTS(and actual Warhammer), he had cool magic psyker powers, he created the primarchs, the custodes, the space marines. He conquered most of space before getting hyucked into his nice chair by a not-so-nice son of his. But his god-like powers weren’t just a product of luck, or because he was so handsome and cool. The Emperor was created by the efforts of a group of magic people, the shaman, performing a ritual to merge all their souls and powers into one lil fella. With all that cool magic juice imbued into his very being, the emperor grew into an (almost) immortal super human. The points I think carried over into D were his ancient origins (emps was created maybe around the time that humans discovered agriculture), the fact that he had to be created by a group of magic users, and his immense, almost divine powers.

Big D has a few notable quirks and hints towards him being not quite human. As an example, following the fight against Pyotr, Big D is RUFFED UP. He took a severe head wound, fell from a great height, and his jaw seems broken. Yet in the Guy Chapman audiolog, which happens that very same morning, he seems to instantly snap his jaw back into place and seems nigh unhurt. I don’t think this is just “RPG characters had time to rest so can restore injuries” because Markus is still, to the current episode (at time of writing) unable to walk due to his injuries. I think Big D has some unnatural healing abilities.

Big D knows a great many things, many of them things he probably shouldn’t know. For example, he knew the clan origin of the Tremere, something the Tremere do NOT talk openly about, if they even know about it at all, and that’s a big if. Honestly his whole conversation with Kitten regarding creatures of the World of Darkness really points towards D having WAY too much knowledge/experience for just being a normal human hunter. Also, he mentions possessing some really ancient items (called out when Boy SHOT THEM). As well he seeks to play the royal game of Ur, which if my knowledge of boardgames serves, is an ancient boardgame which we only pretty recently made a decent guess about what the rules even were (I don’t believe it is THE oldest boardgame, I think Quinns from SU&SD mentioned mancala(???) being the oldest game we know of but I really don’t remember). The point here is that I believe Big D is MUCH older than he looks. During his conversation with Kevin D mentions “deliriously obliterating fools like you since the 90s”, Kevin quips that D was referring to the 1890s, to which D smiles coyly. I think D actually meant the 90s, as in like 90BC. If he actually meant the 1990s, then he has had at most 16 years of knowledge collection (Markus mentions TF2 coming out ‘next year’, which would put us at 2006), and that is FAR too little time to have collected the knowledge and lore that he speaks on. Also Markus is another point towards “no way did Big D only start hunting in the 90s” because Markus mentions growing up learning about the supernatural and he is in his 30s. Ain’t no way Big D just started getting into the hobby of killing vamps when the kids were teens. All this to say, I believe D is VERY old, and this explains how he has gathered much of his knowledge. Continued in second post!

#fan theory #h:tp #htp #hunter the parenting #hunter: the parenting #htp big d

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nalyra-dreaming · 8 months

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Carol Cutshall liked immortal daily’s post about Joseph potter’s casting so I guess that’s triple quadruple confirmed now haha

And it says on the original confirmation that Levan is the director of his episode(s) and he’s directing 3&4, which is kinda surprising a little if Louis and Claudia get to Paris ep 2 maybe, and then not that much longer into the season armand is is sharing TVL flashbacks, I was expecting that to take a bit of time before that was going to happen, like show Louis and armand falling for each other first before they open up Paris’ past but I guess they aren’t waiting around! The structure of the season might’ve quite surprising, especially with then re-visiting seaosn 1 things. Do you think Louis will take another ‘resting’ day and armand and Daniel will have an episode mostly alone where these 1790’s stuff will be told by him?

:))) Yep confirmed indeed.

Mhhhhh. I have a feeling by now that Paris and s2 will be quite different from what we originally expected.

For example the infatuation phase, as you said. They could interweave that with the Devil’s Minions flashbacks, but I have a feeling that Rolin put (much) more than just the latter half of IWTV into s2…

I don’t think there will be another resting day, no… I think the situation at that table will be very uncomfortable and intense. There will be a lot of talking - and a lot of Daniel doubting. Armand will try to steer and he will be pretty candid about it imho, maybe even defiantly so.

We’ll see. I think modern Dubai will be much more important than in season 1… and all in all the relationships are about to get really messy I bet.

We will get Loumand, Lesmand and Nickistat in addition to Loustat and the Devil’s Minion. (And all lf those are valid, too). And if the Justin Kirk thing is who I think he is… even Marius. We will get the theater, back then and in the 40s… I think the revisiting as they put it will be strewn in the whole season - little things that don’t fit anymore and then are called out by Daniel.

And I bet he’ll do that with Armand’s tale as well.

So yes, they’re not wasting any time^^.

(I cannot wait!!!)

#anonymous #asks #ask nalyra #interview with the vampire #iwtv #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #armand #daniel molloy #nicolas de lenfent #iwtv s2 #amc interview with the vampire #iwtv amc #amc iwtv

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adachimoe · 10 months

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Elemental affinities in Persona 4

Someone on Reddit asked about the correlation between elemental affinities and the characters. Kinda interesting to think about it. 🤔 I think Kanji and Yukiko have really straightforward ones but the rest of them I am winging.

Protag / Starter Izanagi: Strong to thunder, blocks dark, weak to wind Yosuke: Strong to wind, weak to thunder, gains fire resist

The protag's affinity with thunder and starting with Zio spells might be due to mythology? While Izanagi was not a god of thunder, there is a part in the myth where Izanami attacks him with a hoard of thunder gods and he wards them off. The dark resist might be because Izanagi gets out of the underworld and then purifies himself.

Yosuke's 2nd/3rd Personas being Susanoo might be where his wind affinity comes from. Stories about Susanoo are about the sea, but he is also considered a storm god. So, wind, I-I guess?

Yosuke's Persona being weak to thunder feels like a gameplay thing since you only have Izanagi when you fight his shadow. Though them being opposites could also reflect their relationship. Like how Yosuke is the one who wanted to throw Namatame into the TV, and the protagonist is the one who has to snap him out of it. Or how the protagonist is the leader, but Yosuke is the mouthpiece.

Chie: Strong to ice, weak to fire, gains light resist Yukiko: Strong to fire, weak to ice, gains dark resist

Yukiko's elemental affinities definitely correlate with folklore and mythology. On April 30th, she brings instant noodles to the school rooftop. Kitsune udon for her, and tanuki soba for Chie. The kitsune and tanuki are two figures who come up in folklore, and Yukiko appears to be "kitsune coded" while Chie is "tanuki coded".

Kitsune are correlated with the color red and also with fire. Additionally, her first Persona, Konohana Sakuya, is also a deity related to flowers and volcanoes. Her 2nd/3rd Personas are Amaterasu who is associated with the sun. Volcanoes and sun fit the fire image.

Chie and Yukiko being weak to one another matches their folklore counterparts. The kitsune and tanuki, or characters representing them, are usually pit against one another. I think the most famous tale is Danzaburo? It can also be seen as a reflection of their relationship, and how their shadows distorted their feelings for one another into jealousy.

(Yukiko being weak to ice is kinda funny given that her name means "child of snow".)

Kanji: Strong to thunder, weak to wind, gains physical resist

Kanji's 1st Persona is a thunder god, so his affinity with thunder is pretty straightforward, as with Yukiko and fire. Wind is Yosuke's element, so him being weak to wind might reflect how Yosuke is pretty good at winding Kanji up.

Teddie: Strong to ice, weak to thunder, gains wind/dark resist

I correlate Teddie having an ice affinity Persona with the origin of his 2nd and 3rd Personas. The word Kamuy (Kamui) is from Japanese Ainu mythology, and the Ainu are indigenous to snowy Hokkaido. A Kamuy is a being of reverence and it's believed they walk around on earth as bears! So this is really appropriate for Teddie.

I have 0 thoughts about Teddie being weak to thunder. Maybe shared with Yosuke cause they live together - "We ride together, we get hit by Maziodyne and die together"?

Teddie and Chie having the same element seems like a gameplay thing. Chie only gets the single target spells, never gets ice boost/amp, and is more of a physical DPS with ice as a bonus. It's like how in P3, Junpei learned single target fire magic while Koromaru got the single target and AoE fire magic.

Naoto: Strong to light/dark, gains fire resist

Naoto having light and dark seems more like a gameplay thing to cover the remaining elements not used by the cast. Her 1st Persona is Sukunabikona, who is associated with hot springs and their healing properties, and also booze (I think) rather than light/dark.

Her 2nd Persona is a prince of Japan's imperial line, and her 3rd Persona is a title for the Emperor. The imperial family are supposedly descendants of Amaterasu (Yukiko's 2nd/3rd Personas), and the Amaterasu in this game is a pyromaniac. Naoto gaining fire resist on her awakening from Bikona to Yamato might be because of the mythological ancestry.

(Also, for those of you who never played Persona 4 on PS2, Naoto originally didn't have all 4 elements... Only Mudo/Hama/Megido... Suffering...)

#persona 4 #yu narukami #yosuke hanamura #chie satonaka #yukiko amagi #kanji tatsumi #naoto shirogane #teddie #from reddit #japanese mythology

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rookfeatherrambles · 8 months

Text

Things come in threes I guess. JonElias Week drabble 3

This one comes with a TW. Basically Jon tries to commit die

The prompt was 'Self Destruction"

So I think this fits

I'll put it under a read more

Also s4 spoilers kinda I guess???

SELF DESTRUCTION

"Let me die," Jon begs. "Let this end!"

His voice is ragged, dry and cracking with disuse and Elias is so furious that he might strike him. "No," is all he says, and then clenches his jaw because if he keeps his mouth open any longer he's at risk of vomiting words he knows he cannot take back, and that he's not ready to admit.

"For gods sake, Jon, stay awake," he commands, heaving the weak, starving the Eye informs him, near death man into his arms and leaving Jon's flat, the door wide open, everything fair game for anyone else to take or spoil. Elias doesn't care. In his head he's already decided that Jon will live with him from now on. Where he can keep his real eyes on him. Jon's still protesting, but Elias doesn't care. He's breathing, he's alive, that's all that matters.

Actually, you care very much. So much that you abandoned the plan you've worked two hundred years to achieve.

Elias snarls. "He is the lynchpin to my plan!" Before realizing he's talking to himself. Jon has passed out. Swearing, Elias bundles him into the car after checking that he's still breathing.

It had been a month before that Jon had entered his flat with the intent never to leave.

Elias had been putting the finishing touches on the grand reveal he'd been planning, the culmination of the bet he'd made with Peter Lukas; and then he'd felt it. His Archivist, the one he'd carefully maneuvered into every mark he needed, was dying.

It was so important that he left the confrontation with Peter and that gormless Martin Blackwood, sprinted, even, to get to his car.

And now, he casts glances at Jon's doll-like body slumped in the passenger seat of his sedan, his shallow breath lightly fogging the window his head rests against.

He looks so sick.

How long had he remained in that flat? How long had he starved himself?

The whole month, the Eye supplies. Four weeks, twelve hours, ten minutes, fifty nine seconds. He thought it would only take two. He did not consume any water.

"God, Jon!"

Elias's hands, they shake. He finds this more disturbing then finding his almost complete Archive knocking on death's door. He's just a tool. He can be replaced. It will set me back decades, but I am patient. I have time. There is always enough time.

Jon groans incoherently and Elias nearly rear ends the car in front of him. They're almost there.

"Hold on, Jon," he says, trying to control his breathing. "Hold on."

As soon as the car is parked in his driveway, Elias wrenches the door open and gathers Jon up none too gently, to take him inside.

There may be an eternity awaiting Jonah Magnus, but Jon is out of time.

Elias lets out a loud curse and lays the small, bird boned man onto his couch, before tearing across the hall with absolutely zero decorum to find what he's looking for.

Statements. He needs statements.

Not the kind that haphazardly populate the Archives, no, these are special. The paper is old, brittle, the ink flaked away where rough handling has aged them.

He races back to Jon's side, and carefully props him up with a cushion.

"Jon? Jon, can you hear me?"

Elias takes Jon's hand, squeezes it.

Please, Jon.

"Jon, squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

He all but lets out a sob of relief as he feels the slightest contraction of Jon's fingers in his own.

Elias shudders a breath, full of unwanted emotion.

He parts his lips.

"Statement of Jonah Magnus."

When he's finished, when the Watcher pulls away from the feast, Jon is watching him.

His dark brown eyes are still dull, and his cheeks hollow, and his skin dry, and his lips cracked, but he is alive. Sated enough to keep his heart beating.

Elias smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. The rush of relief is almost euphoric. "Jon..."

Jon's gaze is empty. Elias realizes with a start that he's been marked by the Lonely, though it's not visible. The Eye tells him without inquiry that Jon called out, cried out to anyone who would listen, strained at the cuff that bound him to the sink in his bathroom, begged and pleaded, cursed and cried for anyone to save him.

And when nobody so much as knocked on his door, not even Martin, the one he yearned for— he knew he was going to die alone.

Elias hisses in a sharp breath. That knowledge hurt.

"J-Jon, I—"

"You should have let me die."

The words felt like a knife in his chest. So flat, so.... Final.

Jon's eyes are so dead already that Elias looks away with a shudder. He can see an echo of the End in him.

His apology was spoken to Jon's skeletally thin hands, still clasped within his own. Like a wretched confession.

"I know."

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #do not archive #elias bouchard #joneliasweek2023 #jonelias #whow this exists now ok

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