#six sentence weekend | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eorzeashan · 1 year

Text

Eiengiri

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, blood.

Pairings: Jadus/M!Imp Agent

Rating: M

Word Count: 3858

Summary: An exploratory series of snapshots of KOTFE/ET, where the Outlander becomes what he is framed as from the beginning. Spans perspectives concerning Eight (agent), Jadus, Lana, Theron, Arcann.

Your destiny is fire and flames, famine and blood, in the arms of the one whose darkness falls like rain…

He dreams for five years. For five years Eight drifts in the abyss, out of time and space.

The first year the silence is so agonizing he could scream. Where once the curtain of enfeebling night was his ally, a sign of his domain, the all-encompassing sensation of being wrapped in his Lord’s embrace, it was a cold, comfortless stranger now.

He can't hear him.

He can't feel him.

He disintegrates into pieces– fodder in the water sinking beneath the waves, the anchor he called his Lord no longer reaches out to catch him.

This must be what the Dread Masters felt before they went mad, he thinks. He tries to sleep.

In his restless dreams, he smells smoke.

The second year he has not yet become accustomed to the loss– but he no longer waits for the sound of his voice to pierce the veil of emptiness.

It's been so long. He never remembered being so alone in all his lifetimes. Ice seeps into his bones, heavy with grief. He dreams of fire that cloaks the skies.

The third year is nothingness.

A hunger that gnaws, hollowing him inside and out with the sheer need to run free, to breathe, to bite down on shimmering warmth and supple skin- The dream ends abruptly, and he is bereft.

The fourth year… It’s the same dream again. He is in all white, stained up to the neck in rough accents of red, drenched in it. His feet are so laden by the viscosity of it caking his soles that he struggles to move forward through the reddened snow. Whether it is his or another's is irrelevant; in this slate-clean landscape, nothing remains. Someone is calling him. He can barely hear it above the deafening silence that permeates every inch of the snowfield. He has to go.

Someone is… It's the same dream again.

The fifth year, he awakens.

“This will hurt,” greets a familiar voice. It’s not the one he longed for – a cruelty that comes with the dregs of hope. A sharp, shooting pain lances through his abdomen, spreading like toxin, and though he collapses out of the carbonite chamber to his knees and screams, not a sound comes out. The emptiness had been with him for far too long. No suffering now would compare.

This deeply disconcerts Lana, who kneels down to check his vitals. “Thank goodness.” She breathes, worry flickering in her ochre Sith eyes, “For a second there I’d thought the carbonite had damaged your lungs, rendered you mute.”

Eight says nothing, merely closing his eyes and steadying himself against the railing of the durasteel catwalk as if it were his lifeline. His head rings with the echo of thousands of unanswered [connections]. The stars dance overhead. The shadows creep out of the corner of his vision. He claps both gloves over his throbbing eyelids, the searing light borne out of imprisonment too much to bear.

Feel. Feel.

A little astromech droid he doesn’t recognize chirps at them. Vault guards = arriving // Lana + Agent = get ready!

Lana’s concern returns in the form of the pert of her lips and the deep twist between her brow. She grabs him by the bicep, pulling him away. “Eight. We have to go. We’ll be surrounded any minute now, and I’ve staked far too much on this plan to leave you here. I know you're tired, but you must fight through it; the galaxy depends on it!”

Feel. Feel. Feel.

Wait.

He knows this. To be lost in the void. To be found in the darkness. To open yourself up to him.

Lana’s cries fade into the background of the klaxon of alarms and thundering boots as he drowns all else out, focusing on nothing save for the blackness of the depths and the wizened heart that hadn't beat in his chest for half a decade. The air leaves his lungs like gas exiting a corpse. He holds fast.

Feel.

Allow your body to betray you.

Feel.

Allow your heart to slow.

Feel.

Allow your blood to boil.

FEEL ME.

The darkness closes in, smothering the light from his eyes.

Lana cuts down one skytrooper, then another. She whirls around amidst blaster fire, bisecting it cleanly in half. “Eight! We have to-” The words die in her throat midway.

Eight climbs to his feet, the movement loose and unnatural. He flops forward with no tension holding his upper half up, knees buckled inward.

Lana is struck by a delayed warning in the Force before an overpowering presence hits her full-force with all the power of a careening Umbaran magrail; her knuckles go white gripping her saber with such intensity she fears she will shatter the hilt.

It’s enough to break her focus, granting a fatal opening for a Zakuulan Knight to cleave downwards on her skull.

Eight’s wrist is limp when he extends an arm that barely holds itself up. He points one finger that hinges like a rusted joint.

The Zakuulan Knight freezes mid-swing.

Lana snaps out of her reverie to reposition herself; she doesn't need to. The next seconds play out like a holo-film on loop before her eyes:

First, the helmet lifts. It turns to the side. Eight makes a grabbing motion with both hands– he twists. Lana hears the distinct crack of bone, of a broken neck. She pales.

The Knight’s head spins off their neck in a cascading spray of red.

The headless body falls to its knees. Lana steps backward as it thuds at her feet, crimson liquid seeping out from an empty hole where a head once was– long discarded by Eight, who now collapses against the railing as if afflicted by a second bout of hibernation sickness.

A stunned silence falls over the entering guard force and Lana feels the atmosphere of the room darken perceptibly. The heavy stench of fear and iron fills her nostrils, and Lana de-ignites her saber. The broken body of their comrade lay in pieces on the floor, leaking red.

The Knights retreat a foot back, then turn tail and run.

She can't blame them for their cowardice. She blasts the non-organic stragglers to mechanical pieces, returning her attention to the one she'd come for.

The taint of the Dark Side staining the room fills her with power, yet brings no pleasure to her pained expression as she approaches her friend. Her friend, who had accomplished a miracle with no ounce of the Force in his system.

“Eight. Can you hear me?” She asks him, gently, where she knew her voice would only be grating.

He doesn't answer, again. Her hand hovers above his shoulder. Did something go wrong with the treatment? Was he hurt? Did he need-

Do not touch him.

Lana refrains from leaping out of her skin at that moment, but feels a pang of anger in her chest at the full-body jolt that overtakes her. She narrows her eyes. She has had enough surprises this day, especially of the unplanned kind. The voice in her mind boils like molten tar.

“Who are you?” She demands, authoritative, trying to wrench some semblance of control back from the situation.

Succeed in your mission. We will speak after.

“You can't just-” Lana’s protests are cut off as the presence leaves her mind. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it; her holocom rings. Koth.

“Yes, I read you,” She answers briskly, throwing caution to the wind and dragging Eight along by the hand, unnamed voices be damned.

He’s as pliant and meek as a newborn nerf calf, wholly uncharacteristic for the man they lauded as one of the Empire’s greatest Ciphers- not that it helped to absolve him of such crimes in these unstable times.

“An updated timetable would be good!” Koth Vortena pipes up from within his ship.

“We’re on schedule. There were some complications, but I have him.” Lana deposits Eight against a wall and forces the next gate open– or at least tries to, as the blast door slams back shut with a creak of straining metal.

Skepticism colors Koth’s voice when he next speaks. “Great– uh, is there a reason why he’s not talking? He’s not a vegetable, is he? Because I really, really don’t want this crazy suicide mission to be for a corpse.”

“Not now, Koth,” Lana grits out, sweat rolling down her pale forehead as she struggles against the weight of the blast doors. They roll open, finally, and she grabs Eight again to charge on through– back into the fray.

----------------------------

They call him Outlander. The assassin of the Emperor.

It’s not true, of course. Not yet.

When Lana tells him of the state of the galaxy, he inclines his head, listens intently, absorbs the information and processes it. Five years worth of galactic decay are his new world now. He should be surprised; perhaps even showcase fear, anger, shock, dismay like anyone else would.

He does none of these things.

He can accept change on the grandest of terms. All he needs is to change with it; yet the weapon he must become is not made clear.

What will be my new name?

Why did you save me?

What will it take for this war to end?

Who will I become, if not Eight?

So, he asks.

“Tell me who I need to be.”

----------------------------

Jadus arrives, as promised.

Lana reels in her shock– it’s not everyday one comes face to face with the Sith even Valkorion lauded as second to him in power, and for all the years she’d known her erstwhile agent, she had never once heard Eight speak a word to her about his mysterious… patron. She remained unclear on the details, and made a mental note to press him about it later.

If she’d only gotten him to open up during their work together, she could have predicted this.

She laments over it only briefly; their relationship was never as close as it could have been and in those halcyon days of Rishi, Eight had shared more camaraderie with Theron in the end. He was a fickle thing, always choosing the path of most resistance that left either her or Theron stomping out in frustration half of the time. Then once the dust cleared, his recklessness would pay off and the loser in those duels of choice would look rather foolish for not siding with his rather astute reasoning hidden under a guise of blunt daring.

It was frustrating, how his line of thinking eluded them and kept them at a distance neither she nor Theron could cross. It was just how he was. For Force’s sake, his name was a number.

It was for that reason he could keep such secrets from them. This one had just so happened to decide it was time to collect.

“You kept Valkorion out of his mind for five years,” Lana enunciates, trying to rationalize it to herself aloud. It sounded crazy, as most events did this past cycle. “Your bond allowed you to keep him alive and weaken the Emperor for a time. When I rescued him, he could barely stand. He used the Force. Was that your doing?”

Jadus makes no movement whatsoever; not even a twitch stirs inside the facelessness of his mask. He is eerie to watch, borderline mechanical, and his voice is as unblemished as stone weathered for centuries. “Yes.”

What ferocious power, she thinks, with a shudder. Were they trading one monster for another?

“And now you approach us to…join the Alliance.”

“I am no one’s ally,” Jadus’ voice booms in the Force, quiet as it is to the untrained bare ear, “Your forces are divided. Weak. The Emperor seeks to deceive you at every turn, and you stumble blind as babes in the night. I would guide them, with my Hand at my side.” As is owed. As is my right.

Lana does not need to hear the words to glean their underlying meaning. “With all due respect,” She says carefully, aware that this may be the last remaining Dark Council Member with which she could conduct herself before, “this is not the Sith Empire. What authority you enjoyed previously is all but moot here, and I cannot convince them to accept another Lord on a whim.”

She folds her arms behind her back, an Imperial habit. “As for your ‘Hand’, he is my friend that I risked my life and many others to save. Forgive me if I am not so trusting as to give him up to the first Sith that asks.”

“Your loyalty is admirable,” Jadus intonates, a rumble that reaches the confines of her chest, “Yet it is unwelcome. I do not need to be lectured on how to lead armies, or how to make soldiers out of the feeblest of men. You call him your companion; he was mine long before you formed a blip in his destiny. I will not be denied.”

This time, an undercurrent of anger runs through his curt voice, hot like electrified wire and bordering on combustion.

Lana knows she is outmatched amidst the growing pressure. She remains unfazed. “I-”

“That’s enough, Lana. It’s alright.” The subject of their conversation enters the meeting room, and both Sith turn their undivided attention to the source. The palpable tension in the air dissipates.

“Eight!” Lana says, eyes widening. “You should be in bed. What happened to Koth? I told him to keep an eye on you.”

“He’s remarkably easy to lose,” Eight chirps with mischief creeping on his face, “this makes it the twelfth time I’ve ditched him in the cantina.”

Lana resists the heavy urge to roll her eyes. Children. She worked with children.

She quickly notices that Eight is staring straight past her at Jadus, who seems to be doing the same. Her gaze flicks between them, not understanding the connection between the two.

She catches Eight’s eye, if for a moment, who looks at her– then nods, assuaging her need to be on the defensive. She wasn’t sure about leaving him alone with Darth Jadus of all people, but he had never been wrong on his decisions as of late. She had no need to butt in on a matter so deeply personal to the agent if he did not wish it, and Lana had seen what betraying the fragile trust of spies had wrought before.

When she turns to leave, she catches a fragment of the conversation that floats out the door as it slides closed behind her.

“My Lord.”

“My bride. Come.”

She understood very little indeed.

----------------------------

Jadus takes over as Commander of the Alliance, after Eight vouches for him with his whole breath. He makes the argument that his role to play differs, and Jadus excels in leading from the shadows. It would be foolish to have their Commander act as the Outlander at the same time, who must be seen to take the greatest effect in the minds and hearts of the Zakuulans.

Lana is unsure about it as with most of his reasons, but there’s no further argument coming from her. Theron is…displeased, to say the least.

“I don’t trust him,” Theron gets out gruffly, direct with his insults as usual.

“You don’t have to as long as you agree with his decisions.” Eight sits primly in a cantina chair opposite him, sipping on a cocktail as peacefully as a vacationer in Zeltros.

Theron throws up his hands. “That’s not what I– Lana, can you back me up here? You see where I’m coming from.” For once, Theron looks to her with pleading eyes that manage to still be defaced by his scowling.

“We’ve come to a consensus already, Theron. Perhaps you could exercise trusting our Outlander a bit more?” She smiles, the rub successfully getting under the SIS spy’s skin as he frowns even further.

“Oh don’t you– I trust him,” He gesticulates to Eight, who snickers quietly beneath his breath, “I never signed up to trust Darth Jadus. That’s a can of Gizka eggs I said we shouldn’t open.”

“You’re losing it, Theron.”

“Don’t get me started on you! Since when were you married?!”

Lana stifles a laugh behind her asymmetrical glove. The two spies go off on each other like they’d never been apart, easing into the familiarity of being around one another with her as the median. If she squinted, she could picture them very clearly having the same conversation around the crackling fire of their hut in Rishi.

If she closed her eyes, she could pretend they’d never left.

----------------------------

They call him Outlander. Assassin. Eternity killer.

They learn his cry is the death toll rung, and where he flies, a head is soon lost. That mysterious figure clad in finery white as fallen snow becomes the object of their loathing, and for others, their fervent adoration. Like a specter on the battlefield, he appears to those decreed by Zildrog’s hand to enter nothingness; only the worthy may see him. Only the worthy may face him. Only the worthy may feel the frigid ice that bites into their neck when his blade finds its mark.

Prince Arcann decries him as a figment of mass hysteria.

The Scions argue otherwise, and he threatens to cut their tongues for their baseless faith. Rumors and backwards thinking, he dismisses it as, but even he cannot deny that this was in part, his doing.

To name your enemy is to give them life, and the Outlander had sprung forth from the weakest foundations of their society to manifest as a vengeful spirit that encompassed their desire for the end, to see it all crumble beneath a veneer of gold and glory. Zakuul had been born from destruction, its creation myth more a tale of wanton nihilism than anything else. All fables and myths he saw fit to burn with the legacy of his father.

A demon, like Valkorion himself; a spirit from the furthest plains that had come from Zildrog’s bosom to usher them to the end times. What foolishness.

Yet as that same figure crashes through the skylight of the Eternal spire in a cascade of broken glass, their ghostly frame illuminated by moonlight, bloodied and beautiful, he thinks he may start to believe.

Their eyes meet, his enraged yellow on their rich, deep darkness, and his pupils contract; where he expects a fury and hatred to match his own he sees…sees nothing but serenity. How can this be?

He raises his lightsaber to meet the blade that aims for his head, and they finally come face-to -ace. The force of their clash blows back the silken hood of his adversary and he is paralyzed by the sight.

A tranquility as unrippled as the skein of a lake. No. Not just an inner peace that staves off his unmatched fury…this emotion is…

The Outlander is overjoyed.

“Your head is mine!”

Arcann’s mask leaves his face in a spray of blood and searing pain, but all he can feel is the biting cold that overtakes him as he falls backwards. As he sees light through his other eye for the first night since the war, he sees him.

He reaches in vain for that distant warmth, so far out of his grasp.

What has he done?

“Thexan… brother. Was this what you-”

The throne room collapses beneath him in fire and flames. Arcann plunges into hell.

----------------------------

The Commander and the Outlander are inseparable. This, the Eternal Alliance realizes quickly.

Their leader and their public figurehead are enjoy each others company so often that it becomes difficult to see them apart, though the sight of a white-clad assassin clinging fast to a shadow that towers over them all is a rarity few are privy to.

Lana makes sure their privacy is respected, as that seems to be the only reward they ask for. She grants their request to be given joint quarters far from the rest, nestled in the thicket of Odessen’s deepest woods.

What goes on in their sanctuary is unknown to the rest, but on a quiet night where one is alone with their heartbeat and the silence of falling snow, it is rumored that personnel may catch a glimpse of the Outlander standing in the midst of their training grounds with sword in hand, the other outstretched to catch the flakes that blanket Odessen in winter.

It’s a gentle look for the man who was made to kill Emperors. They say he glows with the love he has for the Commander, who showers him with his own in turn.

Their Commander- the former Darth called Jadus.

Jadus’ knowledge of information flow, fear tactics, and aged experience prove to be invaluable and what misgivings others had of him slowly dwindle away; the Outlander’s reassurances of his infallible strength are proven to be true and this inspires hope in even the most callous of their troops. But it is not the proof of his abilities that convince them he is a man they can place their faith into; rather, it is the romance that blooms between him and their Outlander that cements their loyalty.

The Outlander goes on the frontlines where the Commander does not. He always returns with a smile as sharp and wicked as the curved edge of his vibrosword to his beloved’s side, who turns demure the instant Jadus looks upon him and the victories he places at his feet like a feline with a gift.

For the greatest of Sith to allow this weakness into his impenetrable heart convinces the skeptics of his humanity, and those who would ordinarily decry it as weakness simmer in quiet envy at the apparent devotion his former Hand has for him where no Sith has ever inspired it.

Theron doesn't understand it himself, but what he gleans from it is this: their union guarantees unity in the ranks between Sith and non-Sith alike, and those are results he won't argue with.

A good love story makes even better propaganda, and support for the Alliance swells as their Intelligence unit spins the tale of a lovestruck Echani general fighting a guerilla front against the Eternal Empire to avenge their fallen spouse– a story that resonates with the thousands scattered across the galaxy that were separated from their loved ones in the early days of the war.

Eventually the Outlander’s exploits reach even the furthest shores of his home planet of Eshan, who express the thrill that the latest hero of the rebellion is one of their own. They send him gifts: the long-sleeved delicate robe of the unmarried as pure as the hue of his hair, the lightest of Echani-forged armor to wear beneath, and the finest of vibroblades borne from the designs of countless blades that met conflict against those who wielded the Force.

He dons these, and his persona as the Outlander is made complete. He is no longer Eight, agent of the Empire, Hand of Jadus.

He is remade: he is the Outlander, hero of the Eternal Alliance.

Assassin of the Eternal Throne.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #jadus x imperial agent #kotfe/et #oc: orradiz #cipher eight au #curse my inability to directly tell shit and instead make it weird and trippy #I like writing characters like figures of myth as you can tell #'thats what your six sentences was?!' you like how my exposed wips resemble nothing of the final product #in case it isnt clear: the Outlander is not the Commander #rather these are two separate roles #the Outlander is the assassin figure that will destroy zakuul and a hodgepodge of rumors depending on which side you ask #the commander is the shadow leader of the alliance #idk what to tag this as dawg #if you can figure out wadda hell im saying in here good on ya #oh look arcann is here too #no Valky this time cuz i need to think about his role #craziest fuckin weekend i ever had suddenly waking up at 3 am and smashing my writers block into bloody little bits #ALSO WAOW Echani culture whewewew like 3 seconds of it #admin writes #jadorre

10 notes · View notes

bifuriouswaterbender · 8 months

Text

6 Sentence Sunday

@tathrin tagged me, and considering I haven't written anything new all week, shoutout to the last three hours. I edited some of He's All That this morning, but I've now written a little further, so have a sneak peek forward a couple chapters!

Steve had come to the conclusion that if prom court nominations went up and Eddie wasn’t on that list, then he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the bet or anything to do with it. Steve was sitting in fourth hour waiting the last agonizing five minutes before lunch when the intercom crackled to life. “Hawkins students, you’ve officially chosen your 1985 prom court. The candidates for prom queen are Vickey Carmichael, Amy Conover, Tina O’Neil, Carol Perkins, and Nicole Smith. The candidates for prom king are Reed Atherton, Tommy Hagan, Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, and—” The principle paused, and several students perked up as they waited for the last name.

And that's all you're getting. No one gets to know yet if Eddie made court!

I am too tired to do tags, but know that if you see this and want to, you can include that I tagged you!

#wip #wip weekend #six sentence sunday #tag meme #writing meme

6 notes · View notes

procrastinationau · 9 months

Text

six sentence sundayyyyyy

“Rude,” said Kimiko.

“I merely speak the truth,” said Omi. “You are not trained warriors. In fact, Raimundo is the only one of you with any combat experience at all, and he–!” Raimundo gave Omi a withering glare, and Omi paused, then said “...is adequately skilled. But he is still not as skilled as me!”

#six sentence sunday #sneak peek #omi is such a little shit in this au i adore him #im scheduling this ahead of time bc im hanging with a buddy this weekend! bye

2 notes · View notes

queenofbaws · 3 months

Note

Number 11 with jossam (Sam rescues Josh au perhaps?)

He'd been trying not to look at her. It hadn't been going well.

Sam had been friends with the girls for a long time - a long, long time - so Josh had (foolishly) believed he'd seen her in every light you could see a person. He'd seen her face lit up with birthday candles, he'd seen her sympathetically shepherd Hannah through crises, he'd seen her furiously competitive on board game nights, he'd seen her subtly wiping tears away at the end of a sappy movie marathon, he'd seen her sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed at the kitchen table, he'd seen it all.

Or so he'd thought, until tonight.

She was trying not to look at him too, but he suspected that had less to do with some complicated tangle of emotions in her chest and was instead more about the glare of her hiking headlamp. When she spoke to him, it was from the corner of her mouth; when she looked at him, it was from her periphery. She didn't want to hurt his eyes, but in that moment he would've gladly let her blind him, if only to take his focus off the agony in his guts.

He'd ruined it. All of it. He didn't even know was 'it' was, anymore...if there'd ever been an 'it' to start with. When had he decided that a taste of revenge was worth throwing this away - throwing her away? It had made sense to him, once. In the hard light of day, it had made all the sense in the world.

Now Sam was quiet, and she was grim-faced, and there was a scratch on her eyebrow that wouldn't stop oozing blood. Her nose was red. Her cheeks were streaked with grime and mascara. Her lips were starting to look awfully pale from the cold.

And there was nothing - repeat: nothing, ladies and gents - in her eyes. She was a robot, an automaton, guiding him silently through the mine with the Terminator's conviction. Not for the first time, he wondered if maybe this was all a hallucination too, if he was simply imagining the mannequin he'd dressed in her clothes coming to life, adding one more hollow ghost to his current list of hauntings.

Then they reached the water.

"It's going to be cold," she said. Mouthed, really. She took a deep breath through her nose before lowering herself in, and though she barely flinched as she did it, there was no missing the way her teeth started chattering almost immediately. "However cold you're thinking? Double that, okay? But we have to cross through here."

He got as far as his calves before his body rejected it. His muscles locked, cramped, turned to goddamn iron, and before he could catch himself, he was down, down, down in the icy blackness of the underground pool. Not that 'icy' was the right word; not that 'blackness' even came close.

His heart was in his mouth when Sam yanked him back up, lodged so thickly at the back of his tongue that he could barely get a breath in. His teeth chattered, his blood turned to slush in his veins, and he was suddenly the most awake he'd been in twelve goddamn miserable months.

He whipped his head towards her, not giving a single shit about the headlamp anymore, but that was when her grip tightened and she pushed him deeper into the water again.

In the space of that second, two certainties came over him: One, Sam was taking her pound of flesh for what he'd put her through, what he'd forced her to watch him put the others through; and two, he understood. He wouldn't (couldn't) fight her. He deserved to be plunged into that dark, freezing void forever and ever amen - she deserved to hold his head down until the bubbles stopped.

But his head didn't go under at all.

Her hand covered his mouth as best it could, given her trembling. She hunched her body flush to the edge of the pit and pulled him tightly against her, both of them sunk low with only their chins above the water. He had just enough time to wonder what was happening, what she was doing, and then he saw the ripples.

Josh didn't have words for the thing that rose out of the water, then. Neither did he have words for how grateful he was that Sam had sensed it. It stood slowly, unfolding inch by inch, foot by foot, until it loomed over them, a bone-white monstrosity made of angles and teeth.

The beam of Sam's headlamp shone directly in its face, but it didn't seem to notice. Its head tilted this way, that way, this way again, and without warning it took off like a shot, doubling back the way they'd come on limbs connected by too many joints.

He didn't know how long they remained there in the water, huddled against each other like little kids trying to escape the rain under an awning. He wasn't even sure he noticed when Sam took her hand from his mouth. But when sense returned to him (inasmuch as it had that night), she was leading him through the murk again, their progress slow and silent and freezing, freezing cold.

She scrambled up the ledge first, flinging the frigid water from her arms, then held her arms out to him, beckoning him to join her.

But he was too numb. Too cold. His body didn't move the way he needed it to without her to guide him, and the thought of heaving his waterlogged form out of the pit and onto that ledge was...it was...

"I'm going to help lift you up here, okay?" she whispered, beckoning again. "If anything hurts, just say and I'll stop, but we need to get out of here, Josh."

He winced against her headlamp, distantly finding comfort in the idea there was a difference between him and the thing that had risen from the water. The sound of his name in her voice was what spurred him on, though, the force of nature that convinced him to try.

He grabbed the lip of the ledge with every ounce of his strength, Sam grabbed him under his arms, and together the two of them hefted him up out of the water and onto dry land.

The cold was worse, now.

How many times had he seen Sam before? More than he could count. But as he looked at her then, hair freezing to icicles as it hung in her face, the blood on her eyebrow almost black against the paleness of her skin, every inch of her shaking, trembling, shivering, quaking...it was like he was seeing her for the very first time.

"I'm sorry," he said, surprising himself just as much as her, the sandpaper rasp of his voice sounding terribly small in the dark, dank cavern they found themselves in. "F-for a-all of it, S-Sammy. I'm sorry."

Under the glare of her headlamp, he saw her eyes soften. He saw some part of her thaw. Come back.

"I know, Josh," she whispered, and when he wrapped his arms around her, his sleeves heavy and beginning to freeze, she didn't push him away. "I know."

#riverrunscold #six sentence weekend #until dawn #jossam #queenie writes supermassive #;)c your wish is my command!!!!

20 notes · View notes

voidwaren · 2 years

Text

okay, so. I only have one W/S AU thing that I’m even remotely working on, and it’s one of the BIG ones. it’s also the only one I can be assured I’ve never posted a SSS from, and, since I was asked, we’re just gonna go for it. (it’s more than six, but no one is surprised there.)

I also do not know when I’ll ever get this one done, because I’m taking it very carefully, and I’m really struggling with it (this is also an outline sort of scene and will be fleshed out further). so read this one with a heap load of caution because it’s 1) INCREDIBLY spoilery and 2) likely not going to actually be finished anytime soon.

okay. that’s my fair warning. good luck.

They sit on the sand, watching the stars overhead and the surf lap onto the shore, and Warren thinks this is one of those moments he’ll never forget, not even if he has to do his loops all over again.

And then Nathan says, so quietly Warren almost can’t hear him over the sound of the slow waves, “I love you.”

It takes Warren a moment to process the words. Then another moment to wonder if he just hallucinated them. And then he’s snapping his head on his neck so fast that his vision momentarily goes white with the pain of it.

Nathan’s not looking at him, his eyes are firmly on the ocean ahead, but the tips of his ears are bright pink, and that’s how Warren knows it hadn’t just been his imagination.

Warren opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, so he closes it again.

He had been utterly positive he would be the first one to say I love you. He’d been so sure of the fact that any alternative, namely Nathan saying it at all, never mind first, hadn’t occurred to him even once.

It had always been Warren saying it first. That had been the plan.

And, of course, that meant he would be wrong. Because Nathan never did what Warren expected. Nathan didn’t follow the plan.

It takes an eternity for him to finally ask, “you do?”

#and into the queue she goes #I will not be awake when this drops just a heads up #I'm never up before noon on a weekend when I had a lot of work #and I had a LOT of work :'D #six sentence sunday #Sunday six #life is strange

15 notes · View notes

ficbrish · 1 year

Text

Six Sentence Sunday

[06Nov2022]

This is from chapter 1 of my “Shepard and Kaidan meeting up in ME2 post-Horizon” fic, “Weekend”

(ok technically it’s 7 sentences, but it’s 6 bits of dialogue)

1 (”Reunion”)

“Please, why are you here?” his voice had a twinge of vulnerability in it that broke her.

“I know things haven’t really settled down yet," she said carefully, referencing the end of his letter. Her voice was strained; she was dying to get at him, "But I thought that, maybe—”

“I shouldn’t have sent that,” he said, still not meeting her eyes.

It wasn’t the answer Shepard was expecting at all.

“Then why did you?” she asked, fuming.

He hated himself for answering, “I don’t want to let go of you.”

#shenko #six sentence sunday #mass effect #mass effect 2 #BrishFics #kaidan alenko #weekend fic

5 notes · View notes

transsextual · 1 year

Text

feb 2, elle emerson (@transsextual)

text description under the cut!

[slashes indicate single line breaks. text description:

utah bans gender affirming care for people under 18. / south carolina is following suit and worse. / i'd cry but i can't anymore, not like i used to. / my girlfriend tells me they're so tired but she doesn't know why – / "i wasn't even doing anything today" / our anniversary is this month. / i feel like a puppy when i see her. / i get high and rearrange my friend's fridge magnets / queer sentences cover the freezer door. / "eat the skin and hearts of men it attracts dykes" / "i kiss fags" / "feel it up partner" / "you may do it but use condom" - / we laugh about that one. we watch star trek. / their roommate calls me cool; we grew up on the same books. / another friend of mine is taking a gap year to go to brazil, relearn portugese. / the boy i dated who is now my best friend is coming up with my family in a few weeks. / we're going thrifting together on the weekend, and i / am going to try to get an extension on my paper. / dance rehearsal on sundays. / my roommates want to go to ikea. /

my uber driver mentioned his husband when i asked about his day. / i thanked him for it at the end of the ride, and he laughed and pointed out the trans flag sticker on the dash. / on my way into the clinic i think i saw him crying. / i introduced myself to the lab tech and she asked me to say my real name. / she took six vials of my blood. /

so many of my friends are named after gods. / this has to be for something.

#is this something im trying to make it something #not posting to instagram because it isnt very polished i just sat and wrote it quickly. but it feels good to have finished something #speak #writes #hall of shame

28K notes · View notes

ralfmaximus · 2 months

Text

Two things — check that, three things — appear to have gone off the rails at the paper we used to call the Gray Lady. First, whoever is in charge of the paper’s polls is not doing their job. Second, whoever is choosing what to emphasize in Times coverage of the campaign for the presidency is showing bias. Third, the Times is obsessed with Joe Biden’s age at the same time they’re leaving evidence of Donald Trump’s mental and verbal stumbles completely out of the news. Let’s start right there. At a rally on Saturday night in Virginia, Trump confused Barack Obama, who left office seven years ago, with President Biden for the third time over the last six months. “Putin has so little respect for Obama that he’s starting to throw around the nuclear word,” Trump said, as his crowd of rabid supporters suddenly fell silent. “You heard that. Nuclear. He’s starting to talk nuclear weapons today.” You won’t find that verbal stumble and the crowd’s stunned reaction in the Times coverage of the campaign over the weekend. You’ll have to read other publications — for example, Salon or maybe the Guardian — if you want to learn how often Trump is losing his way mid-sentence at rallies and just mumbling incoherently.

The article also explores a recent Times poll favoring Trump that is so insanely, obviously inaccurate that it reads like parody.

The NYT is definitely in the bag for Trump, same as 2016.

#new york times #2024

2K notes · View notes

jamminvroomvroom · 1 month

Note

4k celebration

congrats on 4k love - your writing is absolutely worth all of the hype and even more!!! i adore your work and so look forward to even more people discovering it.

i was hoping to request a lewis fic?? i’m such a slut for a good enemies to lovers situation, so maybe along the lines of reader is a fair bit younger than lewis, but there’s been all of this tension btwn them and it all boils over one night (smuttyyyyy) 🥴

we made up.

LH x fem!rival reader - 4k celebration

in which you can never just bite your tongue

eeeeek i love this request! thank u sm anon for ur sweet words, ur so lovely i hope i’ve done this justice for you! writing for lewis terrified me so this might not be my best work but we move! more lewis requests to come, let me know what you think <3

songs to set the mood: stargirl interlude by the weekend & lana del rey

warnings: 18+!! minors go away!! smut, swearing, degradation, praise, dom!lewis, some switch!reader, implied age gap, slightly inexperienced reader, enemies to lovers, blink n you’ll miss it size kink

2.6k words

you hide admiration with a scowl, curling into yourself, as far away as you can get from him. the couch seems to get smaller and smaller with every overly intelligent, carefully thought out word he says. each sentence seems to be coated in a thick layer of i don’t give a fuck. you don’t know how he’s so good a toeing the line.

after six years in f1, you still couldn’t work out why you didn’t like lewis hamilton.

maybe it was his cool confidence, the way he never lacked composure, while you were called an unhinged, delusional woman by every incel on twitter for so much as breathing. maybe it was his sky high stack of trophies, championships, podiums, wins. you weren’t even halfway close to touching his records. maybe it was the way he was diabolically, inhumanly gorgeous, a truly breathtaking creature. you paled in every single way compared to lewis, so how could you even begin to like him?

it was silly, really, pathetic even, feeling such childish disdain just because he was better than you. he was older, more refined, iconic in every single way that you weren’t. perhaps you’d get there one day, but you simply weren’t there yet.

you’re sat beside him in the press conference, sharing the couch with him, alex, lando, charles and max. it wasn’t the worst combination in the world, but anytime you had to sit in front of a gaggle of hawk-eyed journos and a million cameras with lewis, something unfortunate usually happened. never by design, but you just weren’t very good at saving face in front of the mercedes driver.

“do you think the podium is a possibility this weekend?” someone from autosport whose name you can’t remember asks.

“i’m hoping so, just need to keep the mercs behind us again, but i don’t think that will be that hard.” you respond, without even a sliver of a filter. the material of the sofa shifts as lewis tenses up beside you, inhaling sharply at your blatant disrespect. somewhere beside you, lando sniggers, and max is rolling his eyes.

it was no secret that you didn’t have the softest spot in the world for sir lewis.

“that’s assuming your car makes it to the end of the race.” lewis clears his throat, speaking with confident conviction. you turn you head to glare at him, painfully unable to take what you give. alex slaps his hand over his mouth.

“at least my car isn’t so bad that i’d rather go and learn the alphabet down at ferrari.” you scoff. you avoid the eyes of your comms officer, because if looks could kill, you’d be six feet under already.

“i think we’ll leave it there.” tom clarkson suggests, and you stand from the panel and storm away on trembling legs with a terrible ache throbbing between them.

there’s something about the pettiness, the reasonless back and fourth you two always seem to partake in that leaves you in need of a cold shower.

turns out, you have to apologise.

you spend the better part of an hour being bollocked by your press team, who, for some reason, don’t find it particularly amusing that you’d somehow managed to insult the lewis hamilton, ferrari, and mercedes in the span of two sentences.

so, there you were, begrudgingly trailing towards lewis’s hotel room. it’s on the top floor, because of course it is, it’s him. he oozes expensive exclusively, naturally above the rest. you twist your rings nervously, increasingly terrified of being in a confined space alone with the gorgeous brit. your knuckles rap gently against the wood of his door, intentionally weakly. you pray he won’t hear you and that you can just disappear back into the elevator and into your room, to pathetically let you hands wander between your clenched thighs.

but god laughs, and the door swings open. lewis seems startled by your presence, just for a moment though, leaning cooly against the doorframe. his lips pull into a faint smile. two things alarm you. first of all, he’s shirtless, bare from the waist up, a plethora of delicious tattoos on display for you to feast your eyes on. secondly, and somehow even worse, he’s panting, clearly just back from a work out in the gym. he glistens with sweat, and your mind goes blank, apologetic words die on your tongue.

“something to say, angel, or are you just here to stare?” lewis teases, the words rolling off his tongue smoothly. you pray for the ground to gape open, swallow you hole, suck you into hot lava.

“well, i was gonna apologise but i don’t think you deserve it.” you sneer, crossing your arms over your chest accusingly.

“didn’t think you knew how to apologise.” lewis grins sarcastically, mocking you.

“has anyone told you how arrogant you are?” you bite back, eyes narrowing.

“why don’t you come in here and i’ll show you just how arrogant i can be?” his voice has dropped a few octaves, seductive and low.

the proposition, the suggestion behind his words makes you fold immediately. you’d wondered for far too long about what he was like behind closed doors and under thick bedsheets, and if you had the chance at finding out, you’d be imbecilic not to take it.

you shove his muscled chest, pushing him back into his room. his hands find your waist, pulling harshly at the material of your loose t-shirt. he’s watching you intently, mesmerised by the angry flush on your cheeks tinging you pink. your eyes convey hunger, matching his, and you’re forcing him down to sit at the foot of his bed.

“why are you such an asshole?” you hiss, slotting your knees on either side of his so that you’re straddling him.

“probably the same reason you’re such a little bitch.” lewis growls, tugging you forward harshly on his lap. you feel his work out shorts ride up on his thighs, the material sensitive on your skin.

your pupils blow wide at his words, and you’re kissing him hard, teeth and tongues clashing messily. his lips are so soft, pillowy as they brush aggressively with your own and you lick wetly into his awaiting mouth. he’s addictive, minty, and you fall against his bare chest as he leans back into the mattress.

“i think you need to be taught some manners.” lewis grunts, flipping your bodies over like you’re nothing, and slotting against your body like a missing piece.

“i think the same could be said about you.” you breathe, sliding your hand under the waistband of his shorts. he chuckles quietly, the rumble reverberating through your own chest, cracking you open.

“try your best.” he whispers. your eyes roll back.

truth is, you’re not the most experienced person in the world. yes, you’re in your mid twenties, but a long term relationship with the worlds biggest loser and dedicating your life to a career in a boys club meant that you didn’t have the time to develop broadest set of skills. you didn’t have the luxury of letting loose in a nightclub with a stranger because if that information got into the wrong hands, you’d be slut-shamed off the face of the earth. so now, you found yourself a little bit lost under a literal sex god.

as if he can hear your thoughts, lewis pulls back.

“what’s the matter? do you want me to stop?” he’s softer than he ever has been with you, melting away in your hands, but you draw him back in, tightening your grip on the band of his shorts.

“no, no, i just…” the words die on your tongue. something in your eyes gives him all the information that he needs.

“do what feels right, good.” his nose brushes your jaw, kissing over it and you settle back into the moment.

“teach me a lesson.” you whisper, empowered in his hands, and he springs back into action, his demeanour slipping right back into what it had been.

“is that why you’re so bad in interviews? just want me to fuck some respect into you?” his lips tug amusedly when you nod rapidly up at him.

an experimental roll of his hips makes you keen, hand slipping into his braids and pulling hard. his eyes fall shut, lips parting to let out a soft groan, his eyebrows pinching from the rough pleasure. your fingers graze over the skin of his toned belly, finding sensitive skin that makes him shiver.

“you distracted, lew?” you taunt, with the only intention of riling him up.

his eyes snap open, hard and lacking any sort of warmth, and he tears your hands from where they rest on his firm body, swiftly pinning them above your head with one hand. he plants himself on one knee, balancing himself so that he can fiddle with the button of your shorts. he makes quick work of removing them, forcing the zipper down and skilfully manoeuvring them with just the one hand.

once they’re gone, along with the lace of your underwear, he forces your thighs apart, and slides his fingers along the seam of your cunt, slicking them up. you’re soaked and he momentarily falters, but he doesn’t let himself get too visibly affected.

“fuck, you’re so wet. been thinking about me, angel?” he teases mercilessly, as he rocks the first thick digit into you, twisting and curling until he finds the spot that makes you buck your hips.

“nothing to say now, hm?” lewis tuts, wetting his lips. the feeling of you squeezing so tight around just one of his fingers makes him choke out a moan. you can feel his hot breath fanning over your face, your eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of him filling you up.

“more.” you breathe, stuttering over just one word. he revels in how he’s managed to reduce you to this so quickly.

“you sure you can take it, angel? so fucking tight.”

“make me.” you plead, parting your strained thighs even wider for him.

he lets go of your hands, snaking down your body to get himself closer to where you’re dripping already.

“keep them there.” lewis orders, and you grip tightly onto the pillows to exercise restraint.

lewis presses his forearm over the plush of your belly, holding you down as he adds a second finger, watching in awe as it slips so effortlessly into your pussy. you’re mewling, fighting to buck your hips but the firm press of his muscled arm keeps you in place.

“so pretty for me, angel, soaking my fingers.” he notes, entranced at how responsive you are for him.

“want you inside of me, lew.” you whine, knuckles paper white where you’re fighting off the urge to reach down and touch him.

“wait.” he snarls, ramming his fingers even harder, grinding against the soft spot buried deep. “you’re gonna cum like this first.”

with that, he removes the barricade of his arm, bringing his spare hand to your clit, the pad of his thumb drawing calloused circles into the bud. you lose it, grinding down on his fingers like a woman possessed.

“that’s it, sweetie, fuck yourself for me.” lewis encourages, voice gravelly and low.

sparks shoot down your spine, nothing but white behind your eyelids as he lights you on fire. you can’t warn him, the words lost to the tense air of the room as you barrel towards your first release. he eases you through it, not letting up even a little bit, but it pays off when you can’t help but writhe against the cream of the bedspread.

“god.” you croak, flopping limp as he pulls out, crawling over you.

“learned your lesson?”

“not quite.” you flash an exhausted grin, abandoning your grasp on the pillows to slide them down his thick frame.

you trace the lion adorning his shoulder, the compass, each piece driving you further into utter delirium. your hands graze his waist, snaking around his abdomen until you reach the cross, tracing it until you reach words that keep him going.

still i rise the cursive reads, and he shivers as you rake your nails over it.

“fuck me.” you purr. your hands slide under his shorts once more, gripping at the curve of his ass. you push the material down over his thighs, and he happily kicks them away, his inked hands roughly spreading you even wider.

“desperate little thing, bet you go home after every race and fuck yourself silly wishing it was me, hm?” he adjusts himself between your legs, his thick cock nudging against you entrance, drenching himself in the mess he’d made.

you gasp out a moan as he slides deep, taking his sweet time. you can’t even comprehend his words, totally consumed by the brutally enticing stretch of him, your thighs shaking at the delectable intrusion. he hisses at the sensation of your tight warmth, his head falling to rest in the crook of your neck. lewis licks over the sensitive skin, trailing open mouthed kisses down to your collarbone. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth, gentle nips making you shudder on his cock.

“don’t leave a mark.” you choke, and lewis seems to get it, so he skims his teeth lower, sucking purple just over your heart.

you clamp down around him, allured by the tweak of pain, and it seems to spark something in him, his hips rolling into yours experimentally.

“you feel so fucking good.” lewis pants, his breath warm and wet on your neck.

“need you to move.” you plead, turning your head to capture his lips in an urgent kiss.

he pulls out, slamming back into you roughly, your tummy twisting with anticipation. lewis finds a rhythm that suits you both, hips hitting yours with every thrust, each one leaving you full and spent.

“gonna make sure you feel me for days.” he promises, yanking your legs over his hips. as he does, he hits deeper and you yelp, stars in your eyes. “when you sit in the car tomorrow, you’re gonna feel me and remember how to be a good fucking girl, not an attention seeking brat.”

you ramble his name, eyes flooding with tears of overstimulation, dumbfounded at how he seems to hit a new spot with every slide of his cock. he’s digging his fingers into the meat of your thighs, pulling your hips impossibly closer to his as he drives into you, as if he wants to become a part of you, moulded for an eternity. with the way your stomach knots, butterflies and adrenaline coursing through you, you’d comply; you’d let him do whatever he wanted to him anytime he wanted.

“‘m so close.” you whine, pulling on every part of him your hands can reach. a refreshed sense of determination builds in his eyes and he presses hard on your navel.

“so deep, can see it.” lewis slurs, eyes fixed on your belly.

those five words make you unravel, sending you hurtling over the edge. he can’t help but fuck you through it, hammering home while you spasm around him so tight that he struggles to move.

“fucking addicted to this pussy.” lewis groans, burying himself as deep as he can go.

you’re utterly enchanted as you watch him reach his release, gnawing at your bottom lip when his part in a moan, allowing gentle puffs of air to escape. his long eyelashes rest delicately over his cheeks as his eyes fall shut, your name spilling out of his mouth like a needy prayer.

you’re warm from the inside out, flushed and full when he settles, pressing his body weight into you completely.

two weeks later, you’re in japan, bored senseless in yet another press conference. lewis sits further down the couch, and you have to cross your legs every time he speaks. no one seems to notice, except him, of course.

when it’s your turn to speak, and you’re asked all about your little spat with sir lewis back in australia, you shrug, smirking.

“we made up.”

oof

taglist

@mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @spideylovin @formulaal @carlandoxlestappen

if you wanna be added or removed lemme know! :D

1K notes · View notes

star-sim · 2 months

Text

boy's night ☆ riki nishimura

☆ summary: riki had no game, no rizz, which was why he employed the help of his six friends to text you. warning: having seven boys on the phone trying to text a girl does not give good results! ☆ genre: fluff, all enhypen members make an appearance, boys being boys, very stupid, it's getting rizzy in here but clearly i have negative game ☆ warning(s)? no just silliness :3 ☆ word count: 1.7k words

"Oh my god, she texted me!" was the sentence that completely destroyed Jake Sim's house.

Tonight, Riki was having a sleepover at Jake's house. It was supposed to be a chill night, a night in which Riki could bask in his friends' presence before they went off to college again.

There were many perks to being the youngest in his friend group. It seemed like Heeseung, Jay, and Jake forever saw him as their baby, after all, when they all met as children, Riki was a snotty little four year-old, constantly tattling on the older boys. Regardless, it was nearly impossible for them to not fuss over him, constantly asking if he ate yet or if he needed help. Sunghoon teased the ever-living shit out of Riki, sure, but the older boy never hesitated to take Riki's side whenever there was an argument. Sunoo and Jungwon were closest to Riki in age, but that didn't stop them from watching over him closely, like mother cats stalking their cubs.

Though, there was one thing that Riki had to admit that he hated about being the youngest: he was the most inexperienced.

Whenever his friends got their 'firsts,' he was always too young to care. It seemed like all his friends got to experience their first crushes and heartbreaks almost simultaneously, only for them to not be there when Riki had his.

Even when he was now a senior in high school, he had absolutely no idea how to talk to girls.

He'd heard all the stories about Heeseung and his antics at college, all the flirting tips that Jake liked to give out to Sunghoon and Jay, and all the crazed texts that Sunoo and Jungwon sent as they went through relationships.

Even so, Riki had never experienced teenage love for himself.

Enter: You.

You were the cute girl that sat in front of him in his Macroeconomics class. If it wasn't for the fact that Riki absolutely hated Macro, he would blame the fact that you were just so pretty that he couldn't bring himself to focus on the lecture about the New York Stock Exchange.

Initially, Riki had no intention of pursuing you.

You were cute, obviously, but hearing you talk to your partner in class was enough for him. Plus, it wasn't like Riki had any experience— even if he wanted to talk to you, he had no idea how to!

Except, thanks to his nosy friends, your name had been discussed what felt like a million times by the end of the week.

"So... [Name], eh?" was the first thing Sunghoon said as Riki's camera turned on during their weekly weekend FaceTime calls.

"This is so exciting, Riki," Heeseung said as he joined the call.

"Wait, how do you know her again?" Sunoo's voice cut in. "Sorry, my Wi-Fi is bad. You said you know her from Macro?"

With a little more prying, his friends managed to get a middle-school level confession out of Riki.

"I-I just think she's really pretty, and like, she's really smart," Riki huffed, "I don't think she likes me like that— I've never even spoken to her! Like, I can't talk to women, I straight up am a mess and the other day—oh my god— she looked at me and I think I almost passed out. What do I do? I actually cannot do thi—

".... But you think she's pretty, right?"

And that's how Riki managed to get your phone number. With the help of his friends (that felt more like them feeding into his delusions), he worked up the courage to stutter out a simple question.

And when you smiled, nodding enthusiastically as you typed your contact into his phone, Riki felt his soul leave his body.

So, it wasn’t hard to imagine the havoc that engulfed Jake Sim's house (the place of the sleepover) as Riki's phone pinged, your contact name showing up.

It was already late at night, so the boys were raiding Jake's pantry to get midnight snacks.

The moment that Riki announced that you had just, in fact, texted him first, everyone stopped in their tracks.

"Oh shit!" Jay shouted as he jumped over Jake's sofa, bowl of cereal still in hand.

The sound of crashing as Heeseung knocked over the ramen cups, as well as cutlery dropping abruptly and cabinets slamming filled the house.

"Oi, don't mess up my kitchen!" Jake yelled as his feet pounded against his stairs, scrambling so fast that he practically glided downstairs. After Jungwon spilled milk on his shirt, he was half-way through putting on a new shirt as he clambered down.

"What did she—" Sunoo pushed Jay out of the way, knocking the older boy over as he plopped down next to Riki on the living room carpet and peeked over his shoulder— "What did she say?!"

Within seconds, all six of his friends were huddled around Riki, pushing each other out of the way to catch a glimpse of what you said.

"Move your fatass head!"

"I can't see!"

As his friends argued, Riki stared at his phone, chewing on his bottom lip. His heart was pounding in his chest. He only saw the notification, and didn't see what you said yet.

What if you said something crazy, like "I just found out about that one time in first grade when you peed yourself at the playground" even though Riki and all his friends agreed to never speak of that incident again?! Or, what if you confessed your everlasting love for him in a long paragraph?

His head was spinning.

"Wait, did you open the message yet?!" Jungwon abruptly yelled into Riki's ear.

"No..." Riki answered slowly, watching the way all of his friends' once tense faces soften with relief.

"Oh my god," Jake sighed in relief.

"Phhhhheeewww!" Heeseung said dramatically.

"Why?" Riki frowned. "What's wrong with opening the message?"

"[Name] can see if you read her message if you open it," Sunghoon said matter-of-factly.

"Why is that a bad thing?"

All of his friends groaned.

They taught him a trick: swipe just enough so that he could see the message, but not enough that the system marks it as read.

Hey, was all you said, much to Riki's relief.

"What do I say?" Riki asked, clutching his phone. His eyes flickered to his friends as he sucked his bottom lip under his teeth pensively. "How do I respond to this?"

"Just say 'hey' back!" Jay blurted.

"No!" Heeseung shook his head profusely. "Anything but that!"

"Why not? You want him to say haiiii instead?" Sunghoon nudged the older boy.

"No, no, no!" Jungwon reached across to smack Sunghoon's knee. "All of you are wrong."

Jungwon turned to Riki. "Just respond with an emoji."

They all groaned loudly.

"Okay, anything but a goddamn emoji!"

Riki ended up typing out a simple hey in response. He had to make Sunoo press send for him, squeezing his eyes shut. Riki immediately shut his phone off, placing it face down.

"I don't want to see if she responds or not!" Riki moaned.

Within a minute or two, his phone pinged again.

"She responded!"

Even though you only asked, How was your day?, the entire house was once again invigorated. The boys shrieked, whooping and hitting Riki's shoulder, so loud that the house probably shook.

"Oh my god, it's happening!"

"Ouuuuu, she wants you, Riki!"

"Everyone shut the fuck up, it's time to lock in, oh my god it's actually happening—"

And just as everyone settled back down, ready to give Riki their mind-blowing advice, his phone dinged again.

[Attachment: 1 photo]. It was a silly picture of you, one of those cute ones that showed your eyes, clearly taken on the spot.

"OHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Shewantsyousobadohmygo—"

According to Jake, if a girl sends you a picture of herself, no matter how silly or cute it is, she is head over heels for you.

"One message at a time!" Jay yelled over Jake's shoulder as they tried to figure out how to respond. "You need to answer her question first and then respond to the picture!"

"No! Don't respond to the picture!" Sunghoon, who was all the way in the guest bathroom, yelled from behind the bathroom door, his voice both booming and muffled. "She'll think you're weird!"

"I agree," Sunoo said.

"I agree," Jungwon mocked him in a nasally voice, earning a slap to the shoulder. "Just heart the picture!"

But their arguing fell upon deaf ears.

"Riki, what are you doing?!"

Riki was on his own, his heart beating at the tip of his fingers.

I hung out with my friends today and it was fun, how was yours? was his first response. Pressing on the picture, he responded, You look cute.

When Riki glanced over at his friends, they were sprawled across the floor, crying aloud dramatically.

"It's over."

"You're insane."

"Fumbled."

Riki threw a pillow at them. "I didn't fumble— Oh shoot, she's typing!"

The house was once again filled with screaming and crashing as they scampered to Riki's side.

You typed for a few moments. Everyone was at the edge of their seat, simply begging to see how you'd respond. But then, you stopped.

"Good game, guys."

"100% over."

Riki chewed on his thumb, his eyes glued to his phone screen. Did he creep you out? Was it weird for him to say that you looked cute? Did he fuck up?

But then you finally replied.

My day was just filled with homework, very boring, you replied. Maybe if I spent it with you it would have been more fun.

Oh.

My.

God.

Riki's hands shook as he typed back another response, completely ignoring the complete and utter disaster around him. He didn't know what came over him. He wouldn't say any of the things that he typed out loud, let alone to your face. It was like he was possessed by some spirit that gave him the courage to type. Without even noticing it, his heart was palpitating in his chest, his entire face, neck, and ears covered in a red shade.

I'm free tomorrow, he typed.

"RIKI WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU—"

Okay, you simply responded. 12PM. The Block. Let's have fun.

"D-Did she just ask you out?"

Riki glanced at this phone, then at his friends, who stared at him with eyes as wide as saucers and their jaws dropped to the floor, then back at his phone. He blinked. "Yeah."

"Yes?!"

Riki blinked again. "Yeah."

And then it hit him.

"Oh my god, [Name] asked me out...!"

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen fic #niki enhypen #niki fluff #niki x reader #nishimura riki #riki imagines #riki fluff #riki x reader #nishimura riki x reader #nishimura riki fluff #riki enhypen #riki nishimura #star-sim #vanya-writes

1K notes · View notes

hoshigray · 3 months

Note

idk if you’re taking in requests or thirsts but imagine giving toji a lap dance and even then he’s still the one who’s in charge and shiittt 😵‍💫

i want him so bad 😞

lol, why did I think of a stripper AU when I saw this? Also, this ask is like MONTHS old, I'm so sorry...also tysm for 4.9k guyssss, ur too kind

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Toji x stripper fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - sensual movements; lap dances + bumping and grinding - kisses (f! receiving) - clitoral stimulation - breast fondling + nipple play - biting/nibbling- pet names (angel, baby, sweetheart, sweetie) - no penetration, but things get steamy - cameos: Mei Mei, Nanami and Ino. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k

You were Toji’s favorite stripper.

You, your coworkers, and all the clients who come to enjoy the show all know this as fact.

It’s all fun and games that this is your job, and you must cater to all the other men and women who come to see you strut and work your stuff (or else your manager, Mei Mei, would have your head).

But this is something that should never be forgotten. When that raven-haired man with a scar on his lip walks into the premises, everyone has to act right: you’re off-limits because you are his girl.

Tonight was one of those Friday nights; women gather around the bar top to gather their weekend drinks – and flirt with Kento Nanami, the part-time bartender. Men under the influence howl at the topless entertainers, allowing them to motorboat and stuff cash into their underwear. And Ino, the DJ, plays the tunes that set the mood and keep the place going.

Toji walks past all of that — he’s not here for it. He strides up to the open area, where there are mini stages abided by booths, a pole for each that comes from the ceiling down. He comes to one of the stages, and a dancer stops midway through her routine to greet the man, ignoring the girls who whine from her mesmerizing dancing coming to a halt. “Toji~, it’s Friday already?”

“Yup, good to see you, Roxy,” he flashes a quick smile at the named entertainer. “They here today?”

Roxy giggles. “Knew you were going to ask me that. They should be at that back one over there at the corner…Oh! There they are.” She points, and Toji follows her finger to the promised stage and booth at the corner. He grins and gives a curt nod to Roxy before going on his way. “Enjoy the show, Toji~”

At the club corner is a booth filled with tired businessmen who come to drink. But guessing from the grins on their faces, they’re too enamored by what’s in front of them to quench their first. On the pole, twirling around the metal bar, was you. Entertaining the men with the usual routine, a few tricks, and moves to wow the mix of young and old business clients. And they gasp and roar at you, splitting your legs during a high kick.

Unfortunately, though, this was the last of their fun with you. Because after you transition from the pole, taking a client’s hand to have them aid you down the stage, something – or someone – catches your attention from the corner of your eye. You turn and smile, “Hey there, big guy.”

“Hey,” he greets you with a smirk. The guys around the booth watch, most with expressions as if their hearts dropped. Minus one, a young man who felt he should question the man standing next to him.

“Uhh, excuse me,” he says to the dark-haired, burly man. The other colleagues looked at him as if he lost his mind. “We got this table first, so go over somewhere with the other strippers and—“

He could not finish that sentence. Because Toji pulled the kid off his seat with one hand, the poor bastard squeaked at the sudden action. Piercing green eyes bore into his skull, his blood shifting to icy cold. “How ‘bout I have you go somewhere? Either in the trash or six feet under, whichever floats y’r boat.”

The scared look on the poor kid’s face didn’t change Toji’s attitude. Not even the other guys who were pleading to him to let their friend go, that he didn’t know what he was doing. He did not come here to start something, not tonight.

And for that, you were the only one who could calmly intervene, dissuading the situation by placing a hand on Toji’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Toji. I was giving these guys a little show before you came in. Now, please let him go, okay? I don’t think Mei Mei would want to deal with another broken arm situation.”

It was the safest option that you spoke to him, his little favorite. So, with a gruff scoff, Toji lets the guy go for him to land on the floor roughly. “You heard ‘em, fellas. Outta my spot.” The entrepreneurs get up and scram with no hesitation, grumbling at the younger colleague for causing such strife in the first place as they walk away somewhere, leaving you and Toji.

He watches them leave, turning to you when they’re at a respectable distance. Here is when he properly gets a good look at you. God, he could never get enough of you. You were wearing a black laced, caged mesh bra that covered your breasts, matching with lacy bottoms that shaped your hips beautifully. The bra was covered in rhinestones that shined with the club lights, which partnered with the side of your bottoms. And to complete the look, over-the-knee heeled boots that sparkled. A new favorite, Toji thinks.

“Well, now that you’re done terrorizing my guests,” you giggle and gesture to the booth seat. “Ready for me to spoil you?”

“Heh, think that’s the other way ‘round, sweetheart.” Toji chuckles as he takes off his coat and sits down. He notes you staring at his bulky arms for a quick second. You were fast, but not fast enough for him to catch you. “I’m sure y’re ready to drain my wallet.”

You walk between him and the stage behind you, bewitching him with the twinge of your lips as you bring your face closer. “Would that be a bad thing?”

Toji’s hand goes to your cheek, “A pretty lil’ angel like you? I’d let you rob every cent of me.”

The jest does its job of making you laugh before you withdraw your face from his hold. “You know the rules.”

The older man rolls his eyes but obliges, putting his hands behind his head and shifting comfortably. “I know, I know. No touchy.”

“No touchy.” You repeat, knowing he’s on the same page while you warm yourself up.

You start with the usual — he likes it. You turn and spread your legs, bending down slowly before him so he can get a perfect view of your ass and underwear. And you take your time getting up, using your hands to entice him by grazing them around your asscheeks. Next, you face him, eyes locked with his emerald ones. Taking one foot after the other, you bend again and place your hands on his thighs, rubbing them while maintaining eye contact. “How was work? Tough as usual?”

Now, while you have rules of your own, he also has things he can’t share — like the fact that his primary source of income comes from killing people. It’s why he’s always sure to clean himself up before coming here, spending his hard-earned cash to see you. But he humors you with tiny hints, “Mmm, as usual. Broken nose here, blood on knuckles there.”

You straighten up, placing a heeled foot on his right thigh. “My my, not that you got hurt, right?”

“Not a single scratch.”

You lift a brow before bringing your leg down to swiftly sit on his lap, snaking your hands up from his abdomen and chest to his strong shoulders. “You’re quite the dangerous one.”

“Sure,” He chortles smugly, “but y’re one to talk.”

You play along, forming a small “o” with your lips to display faux surprise. All the while bouncing on his lap. “Me? Dangerous?”

“Oh yeah, sweetie.” His eyes never leave your face, even when you sway to the side to measure his attention. “Y’re quite the little minx yourself.”

Your eyes narrow, inching your face closer, your noses practically touching. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Slow grinds to his groin, it makes him swallow. You close your eyes, lips drawing in with a whisper. “Is it?”

Toji closes his eyes as well, falling for your sensual spell. “Not at all…” But nothing comes of it, only a string of giggles as you remove your face from his, poking the tip of his nose with your finger to signal with awake before fully withdrawing your figure from him. He grins, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ tease.”

“I don’t see you complaining, sir.” You throw the title at him with a playful smirk, batting an eye before turning around with your back facing him. You gently sit on his lap and transition your services to that of a lap dance.

With an arched back, you roll your hips and ride on his lap, your butt rubbing on his jean-clad thighs to create heated friction. And Toji’s eyes examine your figure, from the highlighted skin of your back to the sway of your hips. The view of your butt rubbing on him gets him going, trying to fight the urge to just fuck the rules and grab your ass to grind on himself. Every rasp to his groin tests him to breathe steadily.

But then, you just had to look at him over your shoulder with that cute, complacent leer. “How ya feelin’ there, big guy? Dangerous enough for you yet?”

Yup, fuck it. Rules be damned, Toji grabs for your ass and brings it down flat on his groin. The action takes you aback – unconditionally out of the accustomed routine. Before you can question him, Toji’s scarred lips are already at your ear. “You tell me, princess. Teasin’ me like that is just askin’ for it.”

You hold back a whimper when he comes to your neck, biting your lips when his lips meet your skin. “Mmmm…whatever happened to no touchy? You could get into trouble—“

“Aww, are ya worrying f’r me?” He snickers to your ear again, listening to you gasp at the buck of his hips to your ass. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, just keep dancin’ f’r me, ‘kay? I’ll take care of you…”

Toji bites the helix of your ear, rolling his hips to hump you. With a shaky moan, you grind on him to match his cadence. You’re nervous; this is against the policy: guests are not supposed to touch the entertainers. And yet, now, with Toji’s firm hands holding onto you and him whispering to your ear, it somehow feels different — a lot more hedonistic.

You decide to play along, throwing your head back to his shoulder to rest, which gives him more access to kiss your exposed skin. His lips peck down your neck, and quivering wails seep from your lips when he mischievously nibbles on it. Too distracted to detect a hand snake down to your covered chasm.

Now would be the right time to say things are going too far. You bring a hand on top of his, a silent warning for him. But he chooses to ignore it, creeping the other hand under the hem of your top. “Relax, baby. Just focus on danicin’, yeah?”

This was so different, having a guest take the rails — no, having Toji take control of you. And you don’t dislike it; far from it, actually. If anything, it’s oddly exciting — letting the older man please you as you service him. It’s new and dangerous, especially in your workplace. But, oh my God, you don’t want it to stop.

You wrap your arms around his neck while he puts his back to the booth, using this to change into a different move. With your torso lifted and using your legs to maintain balance, you move your abdomen up and down. While you’re ghosting his groin with wave-like motions, Toji uses his fingers to play with your body. His left middle and forefinger rubs on your cover folds, roughly pressing down on where your clitoris is. A choked sob leaves puffy lips, even when his right hand is in your bra to grope your breast, his thumb swiping on your nipple to harden.

“Mmmph! Ahhaaa, Toji…”

“Yeah, just like that,” he reassures you. Another tweak to your nipple has you bite your lips with a hum. “Just like that—“

“Am I interrupting something?”

It took you mere milliseconds to recognize the new voice that enters your space, abruptly interrupting your session with purpose. You’re off of Toji just like that, hurriedly fixing yourself in the presence of your manager. “H–Hello, Mei Mei.”

“Hello there, Y/n.” She says it sweetly, but her words carry a stern connotation. The pale-blue-haired woman has her hair up in a braided ponytail while wearing a simple black split-thigh cami dress with mesh sleeves, and her gold earrings and red lipstick contrast with her pale skin. “Ah, I expected to see you here, too, Mr. Fushiguro.”

Toji greets the women, standing up at his own pace. “It is a Friday, Lady Mei.”

She smiled at the use of her business name; it was appropriate for what she was about to say. “Indeed it is. I decided to come down to check on the place and see how the life of the party was going. And all my guests seemed to be having quite a good time…Minus this one guy, who told me about the ‘scary fucker with a scar on his lip’ who lifted him like a doll and scared him and his buddies to a different table.”

Toji rubs the back of his neck, chortling with a smug grin. “Hmm, the guy must be some dick.”

“Must be...Now listen, Fushiguro, I know how much of a valuable customer you are, throwing good money at my girls — my girl.” Mei Mei walks to you and places her cold hands on your shoulders. “I’d find it hard to have you not come here anymore for not keeping your hands to yourself. On my customers and my entertainers.”

“That I understand, my Lady,” he sighs at your manager’s lecture and crosses his arms. “But you know how I roll. I just come here to see your girls—“ He stops to shift his gaze on you. “Your sweet girl.”

“And I see you care about them quite a lot, your hand up their bra and your lips on their skin.”

He shrugs it off. “I’m guilty.”

Mei Mei walks up to the older guest, her light violet eyes locked with his dark jade orbs. “Fushiguro, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid my rules apply to everybody. No touching the dancers. This is a strip club, not a brothel.”

“Yes, Mei,” He grasps every word thrown at him, his eyes not leaving her feline ones. “It’s just a shame that I’m willin’ to pay whatever to have Y/n privately for one night in those lil’ VIP rooms upstairs.”

A silver brow is quirked. “Are you trying to throw more money at my face to change the rules for your own convenience?”

“I’m trying to talk business, from one loyal customer to a good businesswoman.” He says nonchalantly, pointing to you with his chin. “That is if they’re up for it.” Now, why did he have to single you out like that? Because your manager turns to you with a patient look, gauging where you stand in this situation.

It’s a tricky thing to answer: do you want to have sex with your guest that made you feel good minutes ago? This job is supposed to be an easy one, coming here to dance and swing your ass off til the morning sun for good money. Now, on the one night when things get a little too heated – with your favorite customer, mind you – you’re in a conflict. And you have to thank God you didn’t kiss him on the lips!

However, it’s not like you don’t trust Toji; it’s the opposite. Sure, he can be a cocky bastard; there’s been instances where he’s touched you, but never like tonight. And yet, you didn’t find any danger in it. You were relaxed atop of him, leaning more into his touches. So, the thought that more could come from it is new. Chilling, but thrilling.

Your manager can see the inner turmoil through your face, so she answers in your stead, “Give it some thought for tomorrow, Y/n. And you,” Mei Mei turns back to the man guilty of this predicament. “Learn to behave yourself ’til then.”

“I will, Lady Mei,” Toji sneers, grabbing for his coat to put on and taking a few bands to give to you. “And I’ll be seein’ you tomorrow, baby.”

2K notes · View notes