#the candid appetite

[jonathanmelendezcooks]

Shrimp "Sausage" Rolls.

#food #foodie #food blog #food blogger #recipe #cooking #appetizer #shrimp #seafood #the candid appetite #food porn #food photography

[tgcg]

candid detail. my biggest project so far

hey happy new year

CG: DAVE?

TG: yeah?

CG: SOMETHING’S KIND OF FUCKING ME UP RIGHT NOW AND I NEED TO TELL YOU SPECIFICALLY ABOUT IT IN CANDID DETAIL.

TG: oh shit

===

TG: yeah whats up

TG: not too often i get to be the sole audience to karkats grievances

CG: PFF, BULLSHIT. YOU'RE PRIVY TO WAY MORE ABOUT MY GRIEVANCES THAN BASICALLY ANY OF MY SURVIVING AND PRESENT FRIENDS, BY A SIGNIFICANT MARGIN, AND YOU KNOW IT.

TG: yeah and im boutta add another im like broses up on that hill bundled up in a long ass list of things that make the homies upset

TG: lay it on me

===

CG: OKAY. SO.

…

CG: I’M KIND OF THINKING ABOUT JUST. US AND OUR BRO-DOM.

===

TG: oh

CG: LET ME FINISH.

CG: ALL THIS TIME I’VE BEEN FUCKING FORCED TO SPEND IN THE DREAM BUBBLES MADE ME REALISE SOMETHING, AND THAT’S THAT…

===

CG: THIS IS KIND OF RARE, RIGHT?

TG: what

TG: us

CG: YEAH! LIKE… THERE’S SO MANY THANKFULLY DEAD KARKATS I’VE HAD THE INSURMOUNTABLE GODDAMN DISPLEASURE OF FAILING TO AVOID THAT DON’T LIKE YOU, BARELY MET YOU, OR EVEN JUST DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU.

===

CG: IT’S THE RARE AMBIVALENCE THAT REALLY GETS TO ME. I ABSOLUTELY UNDERSTAND A TIMELINE’S KARKAT FIRMLY DECIDING THAT THEY HATE YOUR ASS. NON-ROMANTICALLY I MEAN. THAT HAS BEEN ME, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. BUT THERE WAS NEVER, EVER!!! A POINT WHERE I JUST FELT NOTHING ABOUT YOU AT ALL.

CG: EVEN WHEN I INITIALLY HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF SEEING YOUR DOUCHEBAG SPECTACLES YOU GOT FROM YOUR BRO ON THE SCREEN, I AT LEAST HAD A STARTER DISH OF SKEWERED CONTEMPT TO WHET MY APPETITE. IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO IMAGINE NOT FEELING ONE WAY OR ANOTHER ABOUT YOU.

===

CG: ONE TIME I MENTIONED YOU IN THE MIDDLE OF A THREE-WAY ARGUMENT AND ONE OF THE OTHER KARKATS SAID "WHO?"

CG: "WHO?"!!!!

TG: now thats fucked up

CG: IT IS! AND THAT'S WHAT MADE ME FIRST REALISE THAT NOT EVERY KARKAT IS GETTING TO HANG OUT WITH EVERY DAVE, AND VICE VERSA. AND THIS IS GOING TO SOUND LAME AS SHIT IN A WAY THAT I’LL NEVER EVER LIVE DOWN, BUT. I FEEL BAD FOR THEM ABOUT IT! YOU KNOW?

===

TG: well you always feel bad about around and towards other yous so thats

TG: wait

TG: is or is not the nature of this moment of self-pity fuelled by malice anger disgust or any similar terms slash phrases

CG: I MEAN, FOR ONCE? DON’T GET ME WRONG, THE MALICE ANGER DISGUST ET CETERA IS STILL THOROUGHLY PERMEATING THE WHOLE ORDEAL. THE DAY I LOSE CONTEMPT FOR MY ALTERNATE SELVES IS THE DAY I GET TAKEN OUT BACK AND PUT DOWN LIKE THE LAME HOOFBEAST I’VE ALWAYS DREAMT OF BEING. BUT…

CG: I ACTUALLY JUST FEEL SAD FOR THEM, STRAIGHT UP. INDEPENDENT FROM TERMS PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED.

===

TG: damn

CG: AND THAT FEELS INCREDIBLY WEIRD TOO. I CAN’T EVEN ARGUE WITH THEM ABOUT IT, IT JUST MAKES ME FEEL THIS SHITTY, SHOCKINGLY QUIET… GRIEF? ALMOST? FOR THEM. GENERAL NON-TROLLIAN FEELINGS. AND EXCEPTIONALLY NON-STANDARD IN A KARKAT-TO-KARKAT CONVERSATION, AS YOU MIGHT HAVE GUESSED.

CG: BUT I KNOW IF I TOLD ANY OTHER EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED REFLECTION OF MY OWN FECULENT INNER FILTH TO TALK TO YOU, OR EVEN JUST LOOK AT YOU ONE TIME, THEY’D ONLY SEE IT AS ANOTHER PERSONAL AFFRONT. LIKE I JUST TOLD THEM "HEY, SHIT ALL OVER YOUR FROND AND SNIFF IT, IT’LL BE AMAZING JUST TRUST ME, ABSOLUTELY ZERO REASON NOT TO."

===

TG: you come up with the most potent mental images man youre the wordmeister of viscerally gross as hell vocab

CG: THANK YOU.

===

CG: AND LIKE… SHIT, I DEFINITELY WOULD’VE FELT THAT WAY BEFORE I GOT TO KNOW YOU! I UNDERSTAND THE INNER MACHINATIONS OF THOSE IMBECILIC NOOKSTAINS BETTER THAN ANYONE EVER COULD, DESPITE MY BEST EFFORTS.

CG: KARKATS UNIVERSALLY DECIDING THAT THEY JUST CANNOT LIKE YOU ON PRINCIPLE IS A CRISIS OF SHIT HAPPENSTANCES. THE HAPPENINGS ARE ALL OUT OF WACK, COSMICALLY.

CG: LIKE EVERY ME WRITHED OUR WAY OUT OF THE BROODING CAVERNS AND THE FIRST CONSTELLATION WE SAW PEELING THROUGH THE EXOSPHERE, TWINKLING IN THE REFLECTION OF OUR HUGE RED GANDERBULBS, WAS A PAIR OF SHADES GETTING COVERED IN GASOLINE, FOLLOWED BY A CONSTELLATION OF A LIT MATCH.

CG: A SIMPLE EQUATION WITH A VERY SIMPLE SOLUTION.

CG: A SYSTEMIC EPIDEMIC, IF YOU’LL PARDON MY BULLSHIT.

===

TG: it is a goddamn catastrophe sweeping the karkat population

TG: presidents on the headlines trying to get karkats everywhere to stop quarantining their asses and have a real heart to heart among themselves about the issue but they keep isolating anyways

CG: I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL A PRESIDENT IS. YOU’VE FAILED TO DESCRIBE IT AS ANYTHING MORE THAN A POORLY-SELECTED "DUDE CONDESCE" WHO DOES NOTHING PRODUCTIVE AND THEN EITHER DIES OR RUINS EVERYTHING, OR SOME CHAOTIC COMBINATION OF THE TWO.

TG: well that is exactly what it is but wait good point

===

TG: tragedy strikes as the karkat population reveals it doesnt generally know what a president even is so it means jack shit to them that this dude is trying to get their attention

TG: and mr president he is getting voted the fuck out of office over this blunder just an embarrassing display

TG: the public trust has plummeted off the fucking chart and cratered the damn ground like a meteor

TG: or he could be the tenth to die in office yknow there was a pretty big stretch of no in-office deaths til 2009 so maybe some catchup would be good for everyone

CG: ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU WANT TO MAKE ANOTHER PRESIDENT, AND THEN KILL HIM?

TG: not me personally i just wanna be there and see it also is that dream bubble fucking huge or what

TG: must be the size of

===

TG: jupiter

===

TG: look all im saying is the end of the world coincided pretty notably with a dry spell in the presidential kill:death ratio

TG: i was tragically too busy not dying to see obama die live on television when an errant meteor hit the white house that was my one chance

CG: PFFFT.

TG: i want to keep a comically aloof finger on the pulse of the shit but i do not want to be among the shit

TG: but anyways guess its my turn on the pedestal

CG: BE MY FUCKING GUEST.

===

TG: yknow uh im not gonna lie if present me went back to me age thirteen sippin my dubious aj in my pre-apocalyptic layer of hell that was texas and told me

TG: hey that gray text dude is probably gonna be your best friend if you give him a shot yall could be sweet bros in real life itll be awesome

TG: i mean disregarding the fact i already doomed that guy because i dont remember that happening to me

TG: id probably be casting some wicked aspersions on that shit

===

TG: our whole friendship feels like a plot twist to my damn life story

CG: I HEAR YOU.

TG: its like our narratives bumped into each other hard on the street and decided yknow what yeah this pavement is pretty cosy lets talk about your dad

TG: but

===

TG: dont get your think pans too wrapped up in that different timeline stuff

CG: IT’S THINK PAN. SINGULAR. NOBODY HAS MORE THAN ONE THINK PAN, EVER. IT IS A SINGULAR ORGAN. IF YOU WOULD LET ME READ A TROLL BIOLOGY BOOK TO YOU ONE TIME WE’D STOP BUMPING INTO THIS ISSUE.

TG: gotcha and no

CG: OBVIOUSLY.

TG: but anyways dude look

===

TG: i am literally a time dude and i can tell you right now with all the sage wisdome of my knightitudes

TG: not a good way of looking at it

TG: ive met daves that didnt like you either it doesnt affect jack or shit because those daves arent me

TG: like they are in a way but

TG: me and all those other guys spent the whole game honing down these doomed timelines to a fine point and that point has obviously involved a whole lot of hanging out with you

CG: …

===

TG: so

TG: maybe they just missed the point while you and me were on the breaking edge of that shit

TG: we got to the bottom line of it so it doesnt matter yknow

CG: HUH.

===

TG: and i mean plus

===

TG: ive seen a handful of alternate daves and karkats who get along uh great apparently so

TG: yknow

===

CG: WHAT?

TG: you know what i fucking mean im not saying it

CG: ROLLING YOUR SHOULDERS AND SAYING "yknow" GENERALLY DOESN’T CONVEY FUCKING ANYTHING MEANINGFUL IN A CONVERSATION, DAVE.

CG: I’M NOT A PSYCHIC. YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO TELL ME WHAT YOU MEAN. IN CANDID DETAIL.

TG: its besides the point anyways

===

TG: the point is its you right here that matters overall and you right here is chilling with me so thats gotta mean at least one or two things

CG: OKAY, OKAY, YEAH… I GET WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. I REALLY DIDN’T THINK ABOUT IT LIKE THAT.

CG: YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND BY NOW HOW IT’D BE REALLY FUCKING DIFFICULT FOR ME TO WRAP MY THINK PAN AROUND THE CONCEPT OF ME BEING THE RIGHT VERSION OF ANYTHING.

CG: BUT I FEEL LIKE THE AMOUNT OF TIME WE'VE SPENT TOGETHER CUMULATIVELY IN THIS TIMELINE MAKES UP FOR THE AMOUNT OF DAVES AND KARKATS WHO NEVER SPENT ANY AT ALL, BY AT LEAST TENFOLD.

===

TG: heh yeah

HAHAH.

===

CG: GOD. WHO WOULD’VE GUESSED THAT KARKAT VANTAS WOULD GET TOO FAR INTO HIS OWN THINK PAN ABOUT THIS BULLSHIT, RIGHT?

TG: stop repeating the words think and pan i get it already

CG: ARE YOU SURE? TOTALLY SURE? ABSOLUTELY ASSFUCK CERTAIN OF YOURSELF?

TG: yes dude

CG: ALRIGHT. KEEP IN MIND THIS WILL BE ON THE TEST LATER.

TG: im acing that shit i swear to god youre gonna eat your damn foot

CG: STRUT POD

TG: when i pass that shit to oblivion

TG: youre gonna regret doubting me

CG: OKAY, DAVE. THEN EXPLAIN TO ME WITH ALL YOUR SAGE WISDOME: WHAT IS A "LUMPSQUIRT"? AND REALLY, TAKE YOUR TIME THINKING ABOUT THIS. GOD KNOWS WE'VE GOT MOMENTS A-FUCKING-PLENTY TO SPARE.

TG: as the literal god of time in your local area i sure as hell do

CG: GO ON THEN.

===

TG: …

TG: pass

CG: EXACTLY.

CG: ANYWAYS, I’M STILL GOING TO GO AROUND FEELING ANOTHER LAYER OF PITY FOR THOSE GRAY BULGEMUNCHERS THAT DON’T GET TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU. NOT THAT ANYTHING ANY KARKAT COULD FUCKING DO WOULD EVER MAKE THEM DESERVING OF IT, BUT THAT’S ANOTHER CAN OF DIRT NOODLES ENTIRELY.

TG: yeah i feel bad for anyone who isnt buddy-buddy with the david stri too

CG: OF COURSE YOU DO. I’M GLAD WE’RE ON THE SAME PAGE HERE.

===

TG: but also

TG: any dave who missed out on a slice of the realest homes in paradox space is a tragedy in my eyes

CG: Y--

TG: let me finish

TG: i just dont let it get to me so much cus… first of all ive been having to not let time shit get to me this whole damn game but also

TG: i know i have you here and thats whats important

TG: ok not "have" just

TG: how the fuck do i phrase that

TG: i know whatever is happening with other "us"es whatever shits goin down

TG: i can wake up and watch movies with you or hell i can even hang with you in there if i bump into you and thats what matters to me in this bro-dom thats what i wanna do

TG: and thats some real shit i just said feel free to co-sign it

CG: …

===

TG: karkat i meant it

CG: … THANKS.

TG: no problem

#davekat #dave strider #karkat vantas #homestuck #this is literally at the image cap i hope you all like it #comix #candid detail

[harmonysanreads]

Hello !!! I hope you’re doing fine and enjoyed last patch quest! I really really love your writing, and especially like the way you write Ratio,,,,, that yandere Drabble you posted a while ago with Ratio and Aventurine sharing reader has been haunting me in the best ways <33

Since your request are open, could I ask for a one-shot of yandere Ratio and Aventurine? If it’s fine I’ll ask for reader to be shy/introverted but otherwise I’ll leave it up to your inspiration! Maybe about life at home, or visit in Penacony? Maybe they’re tormenting Reader through strip-poker? Maybe Ratio was inspired by the shrinking device and now they’re having fun with their pocket-sized darling? Anything you fancy I’m not difficult, I only ask you have fun!! <3

(I assumed your no-sequel rule only applied to one-shot, I deeply apologise if I was wrong fjekjdksjd)

Inure

yandere!aventurine x reader x yandere!dr ratio

cw(s) : yandere, forced proximity, slight dehumanization (but everything is sauteed in humor so bon appetit ✨)

wc : 1k

hi nonnie!! thank you so much for your sweet words<3 tbh every idea you presented was very enticing and i'll definitely keep them in consideration for later. for now though, i really wanted to write something soft for these two, i hope you don't mind :>

Inconveniences come in many forms.

Some more candid than most, while others lurk in the shadows of carelessness like hyenas ; ready to pounce on the unsuspecting prey at the opportune time. Trouble and tribulation eclipse the course of human life, masquerading as two sides of the same coin. What they are, in truth, a pair of mischievous twins who are always watching, evaluating and trapping their victims in elation-filled jumpscares. It is also true that woes differ based on the individual, some even see fit to opine that the source of misery is the individual themselves.

Your vexations however, are dictated by two idiosyncratic persons with interests as farther apart as two solar systems. Which isn't a lot if one considers the magnificence of the universe, but distanced enough to be the tillable land of your miseries. Said inconveniences usually arrive dressed as revoked privileges, confiscation of entertainment items and... movie nights.

A night where you're supposed to be enjoying a film as a group shouldn't have been such an adversity if the aforementioned individuals respected the bare minimum of being normal. On usual occasions, who you end up accompanying is maintained through a strict schedule as opposed to the much friskier notion of rolling-dices that was favored by a certain blonde (in which he always emerged victorious and was thus declared irrationally imbalanced by Veritas) — but, an unforseen lapse of management and chaos was bred.

In matters that concern you, it seemed as though even the most seamless co-operations failed to reach a simple consensus. So when the erudite Dr Ratio expressed eagerness to spend a ‘relaxing afternoon’ with your person, it clashed quite clamorously with Aventurine's desire to have you participate in one of his many adrenaline-high games. And because of the decrease in release of dopamine that came from being a frequent observer of their arguments, you ended up suggesting this dreadful activity ; Ratio's silent perusal by your left and Aventurine's equally quiet phone browsing by your right are all that remains of the earlier fiasco.

You consider it a shame, because unbeknownst to them, you actually were plotting ways to watch this particular film. But, when at approximately fifteen minutes into the story you realized you were the only one among you three that was paying it any attention at all — you felt, quite blatantly, deflated. Surprisingly though, that was not the main source of your current misery at all, no, no ; what was causing you distress was the deplorable portion of space that they alloted to you from the couch.

At least Ratio has the habit of crossing his legs subconsciously, making your life just a miniscule easier. Unlike Aventurine whose default setting is to be attached to any patch of your skin anytime you're within his radius and when he brings that to the cauldron of being compressed between him and Ratio — it perfectly justifies why you're dancing between the provocative lines of mild annoyance and a meltdown. You'd believe they forgot about your existence altogether if not for Ratio's definitely-not-intentional shifting and the without context headpats from Aventurine.

Their treatment, although (probably) not deliberate, suggest you to be the equivalent of the pampered housecat and if one was to generously point out the expression on your face at present, that allegation would be right.

You stifle a sigh that transitions into a yawn with your only friend in this dreadful world, your plush pillow. The dialogues exchanged by the actors in the movie gradually become unintelligible as your vision morphs into a kaleidoscope of black dots and patterns. You draw your knees closer until they become parallel to your chin, musing a scenario where you lean so into the couch that it swallows your form and hurls you into a wonderland free of covetous hands or hearts. Where you could roam without eyes attached to every move you make and most importantly, where the notion of inconveniences would cease to exist.

You've seen it happen in shows a younger you indulged in and a passing thought makes you smile sardonically ; the world is so bizarre that you've effortlessly found yourself in a situation as complex as your current one but, not bizarre enough to make fantasies such as these a reality. The noises from the screen, Ratio's nonchalant page turning and the fragrance of Aventurine's cologne make your lucidity sway, until darkness cradles you close.

That night, you found yourself having a rather tender dream. In your dream, the blonde promptly busied himself in positioning you more comfortably on his lap upon feeling your slumbering head hit his shoulder. You felt succinctly amused upon the ‘place the pillow under their head, moron!’ that left a certain virtuoso's lips. Said virtuoso, shifted the rest of your body to be rested on his lap with a gentleness that baffled even Aventurine. Some say that dreams are manifestations of the desires that stay stagnant within the crevices of our minds. If that theory holds even a fraction of credence, then the percipience of what your subconscious desires, leaves you feeling as solemn as sated.

By the hour you gain awareness of the waking world again, there is but silence surrounding the living room. Your first blink is followed by a series of more and your sense of feeling works faster before your sense of sight, it sticks quite insistently just above your knees and atop your head. You roll a bit and realize they are in fact the hands of Ratio and Aventurine respectively, holding you away from kissing the floor and cracking your nose. As your vision gains more clarity, you notice the purple-head, supported by the palm of his left hand and the arm of the couch. You rise up and notice Aventurine mirroring Ratio's position, you conclude them both to be asleep judging by their collective inertia despite your movements.

Your eyes shift downwards towards the pillow on which you rested moments before and seeing it positioned exactly atop Aventurine's lap, confirm your suspicions that the scene you witnessed in your sleep had, in fact, happened in reality. Perhaps the universe heard your hopeless plea and bargained it with this speck of generosity.

They really didn't move an inch — but the bubbling warmth was soon pushed down by — as if I was a cat they didn't want to disturb!

being treated like a cat by two of the most cat-like characters in hsr lol

#requests: batch two #answered #yandere #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere aventurine #yandere aventurine x reader #yandere dr ratio #yandere dr ratio x reader #yandere veritas ratio #yandere veritas ratio x reader #aventurine x reader #dr ratio x reader #veritas ratio x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader

[muzansfangs]

Guilty pleasure.

Starring: Muzan x f!reader; Douma, Akaza and Kokushibo.

General warnings for the next chapters: nsfw (minors do not interact), modern au, age gap, dom!muzan, sub!reader, sugar daddy dynamics, choking, semi-public sex, car sex, spanking, vaginal sex, virgin reader, business agreement, murder, death, torture, trauma.

Warning for this part: none! Just Muzan sending Douma and Kokushibo to stalk you.

Plot: Kibutsuji Muzan, the ambitious, high-flying politician the world needed, knew that in order to resemble the incarnation of the perfect man, ready to lead the Country, he would have needed a beautiful, young girl by his side. He did not care if it was real love, or just a façade. All he cared about was to make a certain impression. Meeting you was literally a manna from heaven. You signed the agreement, he treated you like a goddess. This was the beginning of a twisted fairytale, but you knew better than falling for him and, surely, he was not going to lose his mind for you. Or so you thought.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

THE AGREEMENT.

Muzan stared at the pictures scattered on his desk. He had made up his mind. You were truly a delicacy, indeed. It appeared like Douma had done a pretty decent job in searching the city for a woman whose appearence whetted Muzan’s appetites.

You were young, cheerful, working at a local restaurant to pay for your studies: the perfect candidate for being the future First Lady.

He knew everything about you. Your address, your friends’s names, your zodiac sign, your favorite ice-cream flavor and even your ex’s identity. Tracking you down and spying on you was easy. How could you, a sweet, lovely girl, imagine that the soon to be President had his plum red eyes on you? Your naivety intrigued him. He could play you like a doll, spoil you like a child and treat you like a princess. He did not care if your heart was going to belong to someone else. All you had to do was smiling for the pictures, being his future wife, show the world you were head over heels for him and, naturally, tell the medias you were his property.

He was confident about the outcome of your first, fateful encounter. He was a good-looking man, persuasive and pretty intimidating even. You would have probably fallen for his charm and forgotten about the terms of the contract anyway.

A knock on the door was the signal that you had arrived. Sending Douma to pick you up would have probably been detrimental to the mission and he knew better than letting you slip from his fingers. Kokushibo, on the other hand, was the best choice he could have ever made. Prefessional, authoritative and precise, he had apparently fulfilled his mission.

“Come in” Muzan said, flicking his gaze up to the door.

A second later, the door creaked open to reveal Kokushibo. He took a step forward, taking his sunglasses off and bowing his head to his boss as a sign of respect “She’s waiting for you in the dining room” he announced flatly, causing a smirk to cross Muzan’s face.

What an obedient girl you were. He was almost taken aback by the way you had decided to follow a stranger in a Maserati and trust what he had said. Either you were smart, or far too easy to play with.

“Thanks, Kokushibo. – Muzan stated, straightening his tie and grabbing the contract from the messy desk behind him – You are dismissed” he added shortly, walking past the tall dark-haired man and making his way to you, the new branded attraction of his house.

You were sitting on a black-leather chair, the goblet of red wine, a Chianti, that the dapper bodyguard had poured for you was settled on the crystal table, inviting you to take a sip. You resisted the tempation, it would have probably offended Mr. Kibutsuji, if you had not waited for him.

Yes, you knew who was requiring your presence. You had a really good photographic memory and you had recognized the shiny car of the politician’s bodyguards. You had watched it on the tv’s reports, you had seen it parked nearby your house for the past six months. He had probably sent his dogs to stalk you.

What truly puzzled you was why he wanted to see you. Kokushibo did not answer your questions. You had not told him you knew who he was working for, or that you had figured out who was asking for you. You had just followed him to the car without making a scene. He was a kind man, after all, just a bit frosty.

To snap you out of your stream of consciousness was the deep, velvet voice that kept you company during your lunch breaks, when you turned the tv on in a pathetic attempt to catch up with the daily news.

“Y/N L/N, welcome to my residence” Muzan said, a small smile curling his lips.

He was handsome, tall, elegant, standoffish and filthy rich. You were not used to interact with people coming from the upper class, let alone trying not to embarrass yourself in the presence of the man of the hour, the man that people loved and loathed at the same time.

“Good evening, Mr. Kibutsuji. – you said, standing up quickly from your seat and walking up to him – How may I help our soon to be President?” you quizzically asked him, eyes downcast not to falter under his piercing gaze.

You had stopped three, or four strides away from him not to invade his personal space, but your breath hitched in your throat when he met you midway. The alluring perfume he was wearing intoxicated you and, when he gently grabbed your hand, you were forced to shift your attention on him again. You were paralyzed, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were focused on him and him alone. He brought your hand to his lips, letting them brush over the back of your hand in a drammatically slow and intimate demeanor.

Shivers ran down your spine and you released a breath you did not know you were still holding, when he flashed you a sly grin, the same he directed to the camera, when he made his glorious appearences on the most popular talk-shows of the Country.

“Please, darling, call me Muzan. – he cooed, gesturing for you to take a seat and hesitantly letting go of your hand – I’m so glad you’ve accepted my anonymous invitation. You’re brave” he commented, walking over to the table and filling his own goblet of wine.

You softly smiled and made your way to your seat “Just observant. I thought I had recognized the car and your bodyguard” you admitted, reaching your hand out to grab your own glass.

The dark-haired man hummed, as he swirled the reddish drink into the cup “I should have known you were smart, a quality I absolutely adore finding in a woman. – he purred, sliding some papers towards you on the polished surface of the table – To answer your question, the reason why you are here lays within the lines of this contract”.

A contract?

You forrowed your brows, your eyes settling on the neat pile of papers under your nose. Did he want to hire you for something? You thought he already had a secretary and you clearly were not suited to be his bodyguard. What did Kibutsuji Muzan want from you, a mere student, then?

“I’ve personally drew up the contract. We can discuss some terms, if you are not comfortable with them” he explained, taking a sip of his drink and walking towards the stained glass windows of the large dining room. The landscape was breathtaking. The city lights, the skyscrapers dominating the industrialized area of the city and the yellowish lights of the cars rushing down the avenues were the spectacular view you were beholding.

Reading the whole contract would have probably taken you hours. There was no way in Hell you would have signed it without pondering each and every clause, but you gave it a quick reading and some words were now permeating your brain.

‘Wife, payment, tv, affectio maritalis, sexual performances, moving, money’.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your shaking fingers fidgeting with the charm of your necklace, a small, silver crescent moon, as you blurted out your question “What do you exactly want me to do?”.

Muzan did not turn to face you, he kept his intense gaze trailed on the city line instead “Be my wife” he simply said, earning a gasp from you.

“I’m sorry, what?” you breathed out.

“Adore me in public, love whoever you want privetely. Just a yes and I will shower you in money, gifts, respect and a life you could only dream of for the rest of your life… Are you in, my sweet Y/N?” he taunted you, turning towards you with the most dazzling and wicked smile you had ever seen in your whole existence.

You did not know what crossed your mind in that very instant and the following moments were fuzzy and fragmented, but all you knew on your way back to your small flat was that you had agreed and, when Kokushibo told you that he would have come to pick you up in the weekend, you were ready to start this new life as Kibutsuji’s ‘babygirl’ , as he had called you before you left.

You slumped onto your bed, droopy eyes and tipsy, unaware that a pair of golden and rainbow-colored eyes were watching you slipping into a well-deserved slumber.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi, there!

It’s my first post on this platform and I still need to understand a few basic things about Tumblr. Hopefully, I’ll be able to give you weekly updates, but I make no promises. This is going to be a small fan fiction and my main project for a little while. However, don’t worry, I’ll try to update some other one-shots & scenarios about other characters. Likes, comments and reposts are really appreciated!

X O X O

#muzan x reader #muzan x you #muzan x y/n #demon slayer #muzan smut #douma #kny au #kimetsu no yaiba #kokushibo #michikatsu tsugikuni #akaza #modern au #smut #demon slayer smut #douma x reader #akaza x reader #kokushibo x reader

[another-lost-mc]

When It's MC's Turn to Cook THE DEMON BROTHERS x gn!MC | 1.1k words | SFW Rating/Warnings: Mostly fluff and silliness. Some jealous/possessive behaviour if you squint. [ Obey Me! Masterlist ]

Belphegor

It’s not surprising that he’s the least interested in helping you in the kitchen since it’s exhausting cooking for so many hungry demons every night

He complains when it’s your turn to cook because it means he has to nap alone

He has trouble napping when you’re not with him, so he’ll wander into the kitchen with a yawn and ask if you need a hand (but you both know it’s a hollow offer - he’s just trying to be polite)

Depending on how sleepy he looks, the most you ask of him is to help you set the table 

Instead of returning to the attic for a restless sleep, he’ll simply go to your room instead where he can hear you in the kitchen while he tries to doze off

You let him know that dinner’s ready first by waking him up with a kiss, followed by relentless tickles if he still pretends to be asleep

Beelzebub

Cooking is challenging entertaining when Beel is around, but you need to strategize if you want food to actually make it to the table for everyone else

You have some quick snacks ready by the time he walks into the kitchen to see you - there are some sandwiches, cut up veggies and dip - light fare that won’t ruin his appetite but will keep his hands and mouth occupied

He’s one of the brothers that won’t shy away from making requests for certain meals, especially if there’s something he heard about that he wants to try (only if he thinks you’ll like too - he appreciates its hard work)

He likes going to the shops with you after class to help you pick out ingredients, and he’ll carry all the bags home without breaking a sweat 

Asmodeus

Asmo loves spending time with you in the kitchen, but he’s more like your personal cooking cheerleader than a hands-on helper

He sits on a stool nearby and keeps you company while being out of the way - this also prevents him from getting his clothes or hair dirty if something splatters or spills

He talks about new pictures and gossip he sees on Devilgram, and calls you over to look at his DDD when he comes across something really interesting or scandalous 

He knows you don’t like having your picture taken so he takes candid shots of your dinner-in-progress with your blurred form somewhere in the background 

You can guess when he’s posted something on Devilgram because more of his brothers (particularly Mammon) come and visit you in the kitchen shortly after

Satan

Satan is a fantastic partner in the kitchen when you’re in the mood to try cooking something new or adventurous

He learns about a lot of human world food from the books and TV shows, so sometimes he requests things even you haven’t cooked or eaten before

He likes to help you plan things ahead of time so he gathers a couple different recipe options to see which one you want to use

Once you’ve chosen the recipe, he goes through the ingredients and adjusts the amounts on your shopping list so it'll be enough to feed everyone + Beel + leftovers (if you can hide them from Beel fast enough, anyway)

Satan is skilled with a knife and eager to show off help with the prep work

If you ask him to teach you a particular technique, he stands behind you while he holds your hands in his as he guides you through the motions until he's satisfied you can repeat it safely

He has a short fuse if Mammon his brothers barge into the kitchen and flirt with distract you while you're cooking together

Leviathan

Levi is happy enough to sit in his room and wait until he’s called for dinner, cooking isn’t a task that appeals to him and he’d rather spend his time catching up on new anime releases 

Some days if he feels particularly social, he’ll sit on a chair like Asmo does and play his handheld while you cook

If you’re not sure what to make for dinner that night, usually you’ll ask Levi - he never asks for something that’s complicated or takes too long

More often than not, he suggests ordering takeout instead - the sooner you eat, the sooner you can play games with him

He likes to cuddle with you in his tub while you keep an eye on the delivery tracker app 

Mammon

Mammon isn’t the most skilled at food prep or cooking, but when his brothers aren’t around he’s with you in the kitchen the entire time you’re preparing dinner

After he’s helped chopped some vegetables for you, he brings them over with a faint blush on his cheeks and mumbles that it’s harder than it looks

He’ll flash you cocky smile when you tell him he’s done a wonderful job, and he says that’s why you should just ask him for help whenever you’re cooking instead of his brothers who obviously aren’t as gifted as he is

Sometimes you have to slap his hand away when he tries to stick his finger into a dish to taste it 

When you tell him to use a fork or spoon if he wants to sample something, he surprises you when he holds it to your mouth expectantly so you can have the first taste

It’s hard to resist when he offers you something you know he worked really hard to help you make, after all

You remind him to use a clean utensil for himself, but he pops yours into his mouth as soon as you look away

Later when you ask him how it tastes, he says it’s perfect (but he’s not referring to the food)

Lucifer

RAD business often keeps Lucifer on campus later than everyone else, so some nights you rarely see him before dinner is finished and served at the table

You’ve mentioned in the past how you had special family dinners on Sunday nights growing up, and when your cooking night falls on Sundays in the Devildom, you try to uphold the tradition

Lucifer is usually less busy on Sundays too, so cooking together to create more elaborate meals becomes something of a ritual you both take comfort in

He takes you to the market himself and helps you when you’re unsure of which Devildom ingredients to choose; he’s also more knowledgeable when it comes to choosing and cooking Devildom meats, so that is his responsibility the nights you cook together

It’s not practical to drag the record player into the kitchen, but music streams from your DDD while you both work quietly on prepping and cooking that night’s meal

Lucifer is surprisingly relaxed in the kitchen - the top buttons of his shirt are undone, his sleeves are rolled up, and he has an apron tied around his waist

When he works beside you at the counter or walks past you to retrieve something, you can feel his hand brush against you gently, an affectionate gesture that leaves a pleased smile on both your faces

#obey me demon brothers #obey me lucifer #lucifer x reader #obey me mammon #mammon x reader #obey me leviathan #leviathan x reader #obey me satan #satan x reader #obey me asmodeus #asmodeus x reader #obey me beelzebub #beelzebub x reader #obey me belphegor #belphegor x reader #obey me fluff #omswd fluff #obey me x reader #omswd x reader #obey me x mc #obey me x you #obey me fanfic #omswd fanfic #x reader #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #gn!reader

[wntrs0ldier]

An Offer · part 04

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 4,2k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.)

<previous part | next part> | series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

chapter sneak peek: “Bucky…” You hesitated, taking a little more time to sort out what you should really say. “Helps me with some business.” You reached for the glass of wine standing in front of you and took a sip.

“Always helpful,” Rebecca sneered. You noticed that she has been passionately ignoring her brother, but until now you were convinced that this was just a mistaken impression. “And, of course, he wants the best for you, doesn't he?” She faked a smile.

The encounter with Bucky, which took place a few days ago, turned out to be a new source of worry, leaving you even more confused. Guided by common sense, you tried not to dwell on it, but every time you lost your guard and let your thoughts wander, you found yourself reliving that moment. And each time you asked yourself the same question, Why did an accidental contact lead to such a strong reaction? It wasn't that the two of you had started pawing each other; Bucky accidentally leaned against you. And then he looked at your lips to see if your body was thinking the same thing as his…

You drifted off again, and were made aware of it by the boiling kettle. The flashback of the touch immediately popped into your head like the words of a stupid song you couldn't stop humming. And although you lost your appetite for tea, you filled the cup with hot water.

Michael walked into the kitchen with a newspaper in his hands – the kind he used to bring your father every morning. With a heavy sigh, he put it down on the kitchen counter. When you peeked at him to figure out if that sigh meant he was in a bad mood, you met his gaze. Suddenly you felt uncomfortable.

“What..?” 

“Stark is becoming impatient,” Michael began. “Since your father's death, no one really controls the distribution of Stark Industries products. If this outage continues, Stark will quit doing business with us,” he said. Having taken off his glasses, he massaged his closed eyelids. Working with Tony Stark was bringing in a huge amount of money for your Family. As such, you understood Michael's nervousness – you couldn't afford to dissolve your partnership. “In view of this, we have less and less time.”

Biting your lower lip, you ran your eyes nervously over the surface of the countertop. “What about Brock?” You didn't want to consider the possibility that Brock might have turned out to be your last resort, but you knew you should be prepared for it. “Any word from Rumlows?”

Michael shook his head. “I was approached by someone else,” he added. Your first instinct was to feel uneasy, but in the end you decided to give it a chance. It dawned on you that you had to stop being picky, even though it had seemed perfectly reasonable to you up to that point. You had the right to demand to be treated right by any person you were to marry. “John Walker would like to speak to you. Without me or any third parties present.”

This was exactly what you had feared – John Walker joining in. And while he didn't seem as harmful as Brock, you didn't see him as the ideal candidate. But for all intents and purposes, you didn't see an ideal candidate in any man around. 

You swallowed hard. “Did he say anything else?”

“That he will reach you to discuss the details of the meeting.”

The conversation with Michael was still looming in your head, effectively hindering your preparations for dinner at the Barnes house. All you could do was turn up there and look good, and even that was difficult to achieve. 

A long, warm bath has improved the state of your skin somewhat – until now it was a little too dry and ashen as a result of the stresses of recent weeks. However, it regained some of its softness. You dried and brushed your hair, moisturised your face and did your makeup a little more carefully than usual, trying to cover up every little imperfection – these, too, have intensified since the burden of serious decisions fell on you. You generally tried not to complain about your appearance, but lately you haven't felt particularly comfortable in your own skin. Still, you saw the positive side in worrying about your looks – it took your mind off the rest of your problems.

The day was inexorably turning into evening, but the weather had not changed much – the temperature outside remained pleasantly warm, perfectly reflecting the deep spring. So you decided to put on a white dress with tiny flowers; it had short, buff sleeves and reached past your knees. The hard part came when you had to deal with the tie at the back; it went in a zigzag from mid-shoulders to lower back. 

You breathed a sigh of relief when you heard a quiet knock on the door – Suzie appeared just in time. 

“I was just about to-” You looked back over the shoulder and felt a sudden wave of heat when you spotted Bucky instead of your sister. Although he'd announced to you that he was coming – this time he'd done it by text, not by standing outside your window – you hadn't expected him this early. And as much as you tried to push the memories of your last contact into some dark, forgotten corner of your mind, these blossomed with vivid colours. “I thought it was my sister.”

“I wanted to wait in the car, but she sent me here,” Bucky said, scratching the back of his head. “Need help with the dress?”

Staring at him blankly, you nodded after a while. 

“May I..?” 

“Sure.”

Bucky came closer to you, so you turned again to let him work. 

“Try to straighten the string, okay?” you added quietly. You wanted it to be as perfect as possible. 

Bucky let out a heavy breath and you felt a cool blow on your half-naked back; this in turn made you shiver, much more gently than last time. His fingers slid under the string, and so involuntarily brushed your skin. You felt him hesitate for a moment, but then his fingers moved along the underside of the string, complying with your request and straightening it out. Soon he grabbed both ends and pulled them so that the front of the dress clung to your chest.

“Too tight?” he asked, presumably having heard your sharp sigh. You couldn't tell what it was the result of – the squeezing fabric or Bucky's closeness.

“It’s okay,” you croaked and you almost immediately scolded yourself for how weak and pathetic you sounded. 

Bucky tied the ends of the string in a double bow, probably as a precaution; in case it would come undone at the least appropriate moment. He did it in silence, and although this seemed perfectly natural for such an activity, you got the impression that an awkwardness had crept in between you, which you had managed to avoid at the very beginning of your relationship.

“Done,” Bucky said, and you turned around carefully. Just as carefully, you lifted your gaze to his face. He was surveying you, possibly even more intensely than usual. For a brief moment you wondered if he too was tormented by the same thoughts as you, and judging by the slightly pained look on his face, expressing some kind of longing, you could guess that he was indeed.

“Have you heard?” You spoke after a bit longer silence. 

“About what?” Bucky didn't even for a split second seem interested in the answer that might lie beneath your question. 

“John Walker asked me on a date,” you said calmly, moreover, you were almost tempted to smile – you didn't want to give the situation unnecessary tragedy.

A corner of his mouth lifted, but that gesture had not even a hint of enthusiasm in it. He didn't look surprised or angry. You figured the news had traveled fast, but even if Bucky hadn't been aware of John's offer until now, he predicted it – he told you about it at the very beginning.

“You look really nice,” Bucky’s voice sounded so soft that your face flushed. You wanted to check if he was telling the truth, but you were unable to take your eyes off his.

“Thank you.” You smiled slightly. “I’ll grab a few things and we can go,” you added. You had the irresistible feeling that if you didn't say it – didn’t say something – the mutual gazing at each other would get out of hand again.

“I’ll be in the car.”

You left the house with Suzie. Because of your hands being occupied with a cardboard box, she closed the door behind you, then you both headed to the gate. 

Bucky stood with his back up against his car. Your knowledge of vehicles ended with the identification of brands, but even if that skill was even more limited, you would have easily recognised this one – mainly because of the distinctive wild horse logo. A thought unknowingly popped into your head that the black, vintage Mustang suited its owner.

Pulling away from the car, Bucky pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. He opened the passenger door and put the seat down, allowing Suzie to get into the back. As your sister slipped inside and the front seat returned to its place, you also got in. Bucky walked around the front of the car and sat behind the wheel, his gaze immediately falling on the box you were holding. 

“I made a carrot cake,” you explained.

He raised his eyebrows with astonishment. 

“Barnes don’t eat cakes?” 

“We do,” Bucky differed. You glanced at the way his hand landed on the stick and put it in the right gear. He threw his arm over your headrest to look at the back window, and you felt butterflies in your stomach again. “It’s just… Baking is so…”

“Yeah..?” 

“I don’t know, wifely?”

You watched the profile of Bucky's face as he focused on the road. “Is there anything else wifely in me?” 

Bucky smirked under his nose. When the car stopped at the first traffic light, he leered at you. “In you? I'd have to check.” He shrugged. “But those nightgowns you wear…” He pressed his lips together, shaking his head slowly. “Fuck,” he said almost soundlessly, as if he didn't want Suzie to hear it.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm, and he snorted a quiet laugh.

For the rest of the way, you didn’t really talk. You were worried that Suzie might feel uncomfortable, or worse, pick up something she wasn't supposed to hear. She was nearly an adult, besides, she had grown up in the same environment as you, nevertheless, you preferred to spare her the awkwardness.

Not long after you had left the city behind, the car turned into a road along which big old trees were growing; their interlocking tops formed a kind of tunnel. At its exit was a large, green plot of land, and you couldn't really tell where it ended. The house on it – tall, with a surrounding porch and walls covered with ivy in places – was probably as old as the trees.

Absorbed in the views behind the window, you didn't even notice that the car had stopped. You only became aware of it when Bucky opened the door for you. You got out, still scanning the surroundings with your eyes, and Bucky freed your sister.

“This place…” You began, and only after a moment glanced at Bucky. He stood next to you and tilted his head slightly to the side. “It’s beautiful here.”

Bucky gave you a half-smile, and this time you could see an undeniable softness and happiness on his face. You were able to tell that he had positive feelings about his family home.

The front door – solid, heavy, with a colourful, floral stained glass window – swung almost wide open. And although you had never really met her, you recognised Winnifred Barnes in the woman who stepped out onto the porch. At first glance, you saw a striking resemblance between her and Bucky – he had her whole face; her big blue eyes, straight nose and strong jaw. 

“Y/N, Suzanne,” Mrs. Barnes beamed warmly at you and your sister. “I’m glad you could make it. Come inside.”

“Thank you for inviting us.” You handed Winnifred the package. “It’s just a cake,” you rushed to clarify, seeing the premature delight on the woman's face.

“That is so sweet of you, Y/N. Jamie,” she turned to Bucky. “Take our guests to the dining room, please.”

Having climbed the few steps leading up to the porch, Bucky joined you.

“Jamie?” you repeated, your mouth curved into a smile.

Bucky chuckled. “Yeah.” He scratched his neck.

You got to the dining room, and although the number of people there exceeded your expectations, you didn't feel overwhelmed by the company. You recognised Timothy first, since you had seen him relatively recently, then Steve Rogers, as he also figured quite vividly in your consciousness. As for the rest, you weren't as sure.

You guessed that one of the young women sitting at the table, who was an almost perfect, and certainly the most faithful copy of Winnifred, was Rebecca Barnes. There was an infant on her lap, banging a spoon on the table top and bursting into laughter after every sound. Rebecca, most likely used to this kind of noise, didn't pay much attention to it; she was busy talking to the person sitting right next to her. This time you assumed it was Josephine Barnes. In fact, you were even sure of it, mainly because of the similarity she shared with Winnifred, Bucky and Rebecca. She only had slightly softer facial features and a not-so-piercing gaze; you also noticed the visible tan.

You almost missed the last one – with her nose in a book she was the least conspicuous. Mary, you guessed. You recalled that she was not much younger than your own sister.

“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly, and it wasn't his voice that revived you, but his fingers hooked on your elbow. You felt electricity radiating from that spot.

Before you had time to reply, something crashed into your legs and embraced them tightly. You looked down, where you spotted a little girl with a grin that missed a few teeth. 

“Hi!” She exclaimed. 

“Hi.” You couldn’t help but smile, too. 

“Oh, Daisy,” Rebecca groaned, clearly embarrassed by the child's behaviour. You therefore concluded that Daisy was her daughter. “Stop that.”

“It’s all right,” you declared immediately. 

Still, Bucky crouched down and pulled the child away from your legs, and this little fuss threw you into the spotlight. Everyone at the table stopped whatever they were just doing and focused on you.

“Jamie brought home a girl?” Josephine asked with surprise and a kind of hope. “How long have you been together?” 

“Is that your girlfriend?” Mary joined the conversation. “Oh, she’s pretty.”

You pressed your lips together in a slight smile; you hoped to avoid becoming the main attraction, on the other hand, you could breathe a sigh of relief – your efforts to make your appearance tolerable had paid off.

“Alright, that's enough.” Bucky gave his sisters a threatening glare.

“They are not a couple,” Timothy, sitting at the head of the table, spoke, drawing everyone's attention. “As far as I know,” he added, raising his eyebrows. “Y/N,” he said to you, his friendly smile didn't match the mysterious expression on the rest of his face. “Sit next to Steve. I insist.” 

You led your eyes in that direction. Indeed, there were two empty chairs between Mary and Steve – probably for you and Suzie. “Of course.” You nodded politely and made your way to that seat, peeking at your sister to check on her. Steve rose and pulled back a chair for you, and once you had taken your seat, you glanced at Bucky confused; Timothy's request seemed more than a little odd to you.

Bucky clenched his jaw. Previous experience allowed you to recognise when he wasn’t pleased, and that was exactly what he looked like at the moment.

Winnifred also appeared in the dining room. As the lady of the house, she sat at the other end of the table. Soon after, the first dishes were served and the room filled with sounds of conversation. The men were talking about baseball, then boxing, and although Bucky was actively involved in the discussion, he seemed a little distracted. Whenever you glimpsed in his direction, you caught him staring at you – you could see that he was a bit disappointed, perhaps even resentful, and there was something dark in his eyes; as if the sea in his irises was hit by a storm. Especially when Steve included you in a conversation, smiled or laughed at something you said.

Winnifred asked about your gallery, the upcoming exhibition, and about Suzie's school. She praised your cake. In exchange you learned that Mary was studying for her biology exam even at dinner, Rebecca had expanded little George's diet – the baby previously sitting on her lap – with more fruit, and Josephine had returned to New York on a short break from her college. 

You were worried that you would feel uncomfortable here, especially as Timothy separated you from the only person you knew, but the atmosphere in the Barnes home was like a warm, safe hug. Even Suzie found common ground with Mary, so you didn't have to be concerned about her comfort.

“How did you two meet?” Josephine asked, and when you looked at her without understanding, she nodded discreetly at Bucky.

“Oh, but we-”

“Yeah, I know.” Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “But I'm interested in every detail. I can't remember the last time Jamie brought someone home.”

You plastered a slight smile on your face, knowing that it wasn't Bucky who invited you here, but his mum. “Actually, we met through your uncle,” you answered. You didn't want to spoil the mood with the subject of a funeral or an arranged marriage. “Bucky…” You hesitated, taking a little more time to sort out what you should really say. “Helps me with some business.” You reached for the glass of wine standing in front of you and took a sip.

“Always helpful,” Rebecca sneered. You noticed that she has been passionately ignoring her brother, but until now you were convinced that this was just a mistaken impression. “And, of course, he wants the best for you, doesn't he?” She faked a smile. 

“Rebecca, honey-” Winnifred interjected softly, and when she did, the table fell silent.

“No, mom.” She shook her head, as if that would prevent Mrs. Barnes from getting a word in edgewise. “It's not fair that some random girl can sit here with us and the father of my children can't.” Tears of anger shone in Rebecca's eyes. “Excuse me,” she said, then got up and left the room. 

You felt guilty. Not because you may have actually taken an undeserved seat at the table, but instead of shame or anxiety, you were intrigued by this unexpected burst. You took another sip of wine.

“What happened to mommy?” Daisy asked. 

“Nothing, baby,” Winnifred told her gently. “She’ll get better.”

With suspicion, Daisy turned her head at Bucky. “Is that true?”

He pressed his lips together in a pale smile. “Of course, Junebug. Cross my heart.” Bucky put his hand on his chest. “How about we watch ‘Finn and Jake’?” He suggested with theatrical excitement, which Daisy shared immediately – she nodded eagerly. “Yeah?” Bucky grinned again, more relaxed this time.

Daisy ran up to him, grabbed the hand he had held out and dragged him out of the dining room. Bucky glimpsed at you, giving you an apologetic look.

Josephine leaned out and laid her eyes on you. “I’m going for a smoke, wanna join?”

Josephine led you to a gazebo in the garden. As she said, she offered you a cigarette, and you both leaned against the railing. The evening gloom was dispelled by the lamps on the lawn and the lighting inside the gazebo; it was getting unpleasantly cold outside, but you preferred the low temperature outside to the tense atmosphere at the table. 

“I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I don't want you to think that my sister is some spoiled bitch,” Josephine began, and you looked at her rather blankly. You didn't want to show too much that she made you curious. “His name was Robbie. The father of her children, as she called him,” she said with distaste. “He was part of the Family. Jamie recruited him, so the whole thing still bothers him. And Robbie was a fucking asshole from the beginning. He spent late nights in bars, gambled all their money away, hung out with other girls. When Daisy was born, it only got worse. He complained that Becca was neglecting him. Didn't help with the baby, disappeared from the house more often and for much longer…” She continued. “Rebecca's only problem is that she has a soft heart. She never said a bad word about Robbie, but everyone knew what was going on. She thought another baby would change him, that it would fix their relationship, but…” Josephine shrugged. She took a puff, and for a brief moment said nothing, staring into nowhere. “So Jamie got rid of him.”

Your brows drew together involuntarily. “What do you mean..?”

“No one knows what really happened to Robbie. He vanished into thin air and never contacted Becca again.”

You felt like a child who had just heard a blood-curdling ghost story. Actually, you only felt that way partly – on the other hand, you were even more fascinated by Bucky. “Well…” You sighed, shaking the excess ash off the end of your cigarette. “He did what he thought was right,” you commented. This time, too, you preferred to be careful, thus not claiming out loud that Bucky had done the right thing. 

“Not according to Becca. She's better than she was at the beginning, but it's still a touchy subject for her.” 

You finished your cigarettes in silence, and that silence helped you to sink into your own thoughts; to see Bucky in a slightly different light.

“Are you sure there's nothing between you and Jamie?” Josephine spoke, a teasing smirk on her face. “I saw the way he looked at you the whole dinner. I know my brother, and if I were Steve I would keep my distance from you,” she giggled.

Your lips twitched in a slight smile. You noticed it too, and although you weren't the only people at the table, you secretly hoped you were the only ones aware of what was going on.

You could have talked to Josephine about it; told her that Bucky had no right to be jealous. You were strictly focused on marrying someone and Bucky excluded himself at his own request. You could have shared all this with Josephine, thereby taking some of the weight off your shoulders. But you didn't want to involve her.

“I’m sure,” you said. “It's strictly business between him and me.”

“Speak of the devil.”

Following Josephine's gaze, you peeked over your shoulder. Bucky was heading to the gazebo. Having caught your eyes, he smirked softly. You struggled to take your eyes off his face and lowered them to his hands – he was holding a piece of cloth that you couldn't identify in the darkness. Only when Bucky got under the roof of the gazebo did you notice that he had brought a sweatshirt. Moreover, he put it gently over your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you murmured, surprised at the gesture, and glanced at Josephine. From the expression on her face, you were convinced that she wanted to say, So there's nothing between you two, right?

“You sneak out to smoke?” Bucky addressed his sister, his forehead creased. “What are you? Sixteen?” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Josephine rolled her eyes.

Bucky reached out his hand, so she handed him the packet and the lighter. With a cigarette between his lips, he looked stunningly – more rough and intimidating. 

“I'll leave you two alone,” Josephine suggested, grinning. She pushed herself away from the railing, and you two watched her leave.

You slipped your arms into the sleeves of the sweatshirt and wrapped yourself in it, discreetly inhaling the familiar scent. You looked at Bucky, and he again gave you a gentle smile; it reached his eyes as well. However, it faded soon after.

“I’m sorry about before. Becca-”

“I had this conversation with Josephine,” you stopped him. “I know what happened and I get it. I don't blame her for reacting the way she did. Anyway, she was right. I’m some random girl who-”

“You are not,” he protested immediately. His mouth set in a hard line as he was staring at you. “I-... I like you, Y/N.” 

Taking a sharp breath, you looked away. You shook your head in disbelief, tried to ignore the fact that your heart was beating harder than you would have wished. “I like you too, Bucky, but I can’t fall for you. I don’t want to.”

Bucky took his eyes off you only to put out his cigarette. Then he moved a step closer to you and hesitantly reached for your hand. You closed your eyes, then fixed them on his fingers – he stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, and you didn't protest. 

“I know,” he rasped. “But I just need to protect you. So please, let me protect you. Okay? Because I feel like everything is getting out of my control. And I’m fucking tired of it.” 

You raised your gaze to his eyes. He glared into them pleadingly and with some kind of fear, as if your rejection would shatter him into a million pieces. You nodded slightly, unsure if you really did; if you really agreed to fall under his protection.

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leakingston

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #mob!bucky #mob!bucky x reader #mob!bucky x y/n #mob bucky #mafia!bucky #mafia bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #mob boss!bucky #mob boss!bucky x reader

[leviathans-watching]

Omg the kissing the prettiest person in the room one was so good!!!! I was squealing the entire time

No pressure at all, but i sure hope you plan on continuing with the other characters! You write them all so good, I'd love to see what you'd come up with!

"kiss the prettiest person in the room" with the younger brothers

includes: satan, asmo, beel, belphie x gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

wc: 1.2k | rated t | m.list | pt 1 | pt 3

a/n: at long last it's here! thankyou for all of the support on the first part, and i hope this holds up to it's legacy lol. my inbox is open to chat, request, and leave feedback, so come say hi!!

please reblog :3

diavolo is holding another sleepover, and you’re all crammed into one of his living rooms, sitting in a rough circle, with some on the couches, some in chairs, and some on the floor

you’re on one of the smaller couches, sharing it with solomon and when the sorcerer gets this glint in his eyes you know he had something up his sleeve

“let’s play truth or dare,” he suggests, and though you suspect the game will devolve into chaos, many of the brothers are quickly on board

the game goes a few rounds before solomon calls on you. “mc, truth or dare?”

you balk; the dare will no doubt be something intense and possibly humiliating, but choosing truth would probably be much worse. “dare,” you say, as confidently as you can

solomon grins wickedly. “kiss the prettiest person in this room.”

you gape at him even as various protests are raised around the room.

“no, mc does it or gets punished for chickening out,” solomon insists, and you recall the punishment, which is to buy a dinner next time you’re all out, something your poor wallet really can’t handle.

“i’ll do it,” you say, and a hush falls over the room as they all wait for you to pick.

satan raises an eyebrow in surprise when he sees you accept the dare. he was sure you’d chicken out, so to see you challenge solomon so boldly, well, it’s interesting.

around him, everyone stiffens, wondering who you’ll pick. satan won’t lie- he’s no different. will you choose him?

it’s unlikely, but not impossible. no, it’s almost certain you’ll pick either asmo, mammon, or lucifer. although, he wouldn’t be surprised by simeon either. he watches you look around the room, mentally gauging all of the candidates, and though his insides burn when your gaze lingers on lucifer, he forces himself to behave.

when your eyes stop on him he suppresses a jolt, oddly feeling like cornered prey. as he’d thought, unlikely but not impossible. you make your way over to him, holding out your hand.

“can i kiss you?”

satan takes it, and you pull him up. his hands find your waist, and he steadies himself, ignoring the heat trailing down his neck where he’s surely blushing. “of course.”

you waste no time, leaning in and giving him a perfectly nice kiss, somehow managing to sate his appetite and leave him wanting much, much more at the same time. you pull away first, and satan doesn’t chase you, but he does hold your gaze for a moment too long, making it clear that this isn’t over. instead of backing down, you give him a little wink, returning to your seat without so much as a backward glance. he can’t wait for the game to be over so he can get you alone.

asmo taps his chin, lips curving upward. “you’re going to kiss me, right mc?” he asks coyly. “i mean, of course i’m the only choice.”

“you think you’re the prettiest in my eyes?” you question, and asmo holds his ground, laughing easily even as everything inside of him begs you not to contradict him.

“well, of course,” he trills. “we are talking about me here~”

“i suppose you’re right,” you say, beckoning him over. the gall you have, to make him come to you, but asmo supposes he doesn't really mind. it is you, after all. he waits in front of you, glad he’d applied scented chapstick only a few moments ago.

you gently take his wrist, pulling him down to your level. “of course you’re the prettiest,” you whisper, only to him, breath fanning over the shell of his ear. “you are my asmodeus, after all.”

he needs to hide the boneless relief the words give him, so he moves your chin from his ear to his face, watching how your lashes flutter. you kiss him, and asmo can’t remember the last time he’d had such a kiss, so pure and chaste and utterly perfect.

someone calls for the two of your to break it up after a moment, and you pull back, leaving him stunned. “was that good enough for you?” you take your turn to be coy, as if you can’t see the effect you have on him.

“i suppose,” asmo says after a moment. “but it can’t hurt to reinforce is just to make sure.”

you laugh, pushing him away softly, but before the sting of rejection can hit him, you smile, promising, “later.”

beel is only half-paying attention to the game, but when he hears the word ‘kiss’ he pauses, looking over at you. you don’t shy away from solomon in the slightest, accepting his dare sweetly, and beel can’t resist a smile. that’s just like you, after all.

beel doesn’t really have any expectations. he knows he’s good-looking, knows that some people at rad have liked him, but he’s never been called pretty. this dare isn’t meant for him, which is fine.

but you seem to disagree, locking eyes with him and sending him a silent question. beel tilts his head. you can’t seriously be considering him, now can you?

confused, he ducks his head yes, and you grin, jumping up. he watches you approach, skin buzzing. he still can’t beelive it. why, out of everyone, did you pick him?

“hey,” you say, a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. “you sure you’re okay with this? i won’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

it hits him completely then- you want to kiss him! as in, your lips touching his.

“i’m good,” beel says, mouth sticky, and he desperately thinks of the last thing he ate, glad it was one of barbatos’ desserts, and not like hellfire newt soup or something you weren’t a fan of.

“okay,” you lean down over him, “here i go, then.”

he instinctively grabs onto you, holding onto your shoulders. your mouth is warm on his, and when you pull back, beel knows he’s probably bright red. the game moves on after a few minutes of ribbing and teasing, but beel can hardly focus, getting lost in the memory of your skin under his palms, the softness of your lips.

belphie narrows his eyes as he takes in solomon’s dare. just what is this sorcerer playing at? you accept, as he suspected you would, and your eyes flit around the room, studying everyone for a brief moment.

“belphie,” you say, but it’s almost an order, as belphie instinctively moves towards you, sliding across the floor until he’s at your feet, looking up into your eyes. you place a hand under his chin, gently forcing his head even further up, and he moves under your fingers easily, letting you arrange him as you wish.

vicious satisfaction runs through him when he thinks of what his brothers must be feeling, especially lucifer. and diavolo doubtlessly was jealous too. heh, as he should be.

you kiss him without preamble, leaning down, and belphie relishes in the moment, short as it is. his arms go up to you, holding you closer to him, and you don’t seem to mind. it’s only when the cries of outage from the peanut gallery reach their fervor pitch does he pull back, bracing a hand against the floor to keep himself steady. you look as affected as he feels, eyes wide and bright, but your hand is steady where it still holds his chin.

“thank you,” you say, releasing him, and belphie feels oddly like a servant at his master’s feet, used on a whim. but if that’s where you want him, then that’s where he’ll happily be, as long as it means he can be close to you.

leviathans-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

#obey me #obey me x you #obey me x reader #obey me game #obey me shall we date #swdom #satan obey me #obey me satan #asmo obey me #obey me asmo #asmodeus obey me #beel obey me #obey me beel #beelzebub obey me #belphie obey me #obey me belphie #belphegor obey me #satan x you #satan x reader #asmo x you #asmo x reader #beel x you #beel x reader #belphie x you #belphie x reader #thegoldencatscafe #answered asks #leviswriting #leviswriting-obeyme

[rosemary-rothlorein]

Victor Hugo: not relevant but there is an urgent need for a close-up shot of Enjolras.

Text was copied and pasted from wikisource.

3.4.1, introduction paragraph

Woe to the love-affair which should have risked itself beside him! If any grisette of the Place Cambrai or the Rue Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais, seeing that face of a youth escaped from college, that page's mien, those long, golden lashes, those blue eyes, that hair billowing in the wind, those rosy cheeks, those fresh lips, those exquisite teeth, had conceived an appetite for that complete aurora, and had tried her beauty on Enjolras…

Poor Enj, walks on the street and gets harassed by random passers-by.

Also Victor Hugo, next paragraph: now let’s talk about Combeferre, “He was less lofty, but broader. That’s all. Thank you.”

Enjolras, the believer, disdained this sceptic; and, a sober man himself, scorned this drunkard. He accorded him a little lofty pity. Grantaire was an unaccepted Pylades. Always harshly treated by Enjolras, roughly repulsed, rejected yet ever returning to the charge, he said of Enjolras: "What fine marble!"

Grantaire, are you sure you are there for Enjolras’s faith and (chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid) nature NOT FOR HIS FACE???

3.4.5, Combeferre’s être-libre big show

Enjolras, whose blue eye was not fixed on anyone, and who seemed to be gazing at space, replied, without glancing at Marius:

Thanks, Victor, for reminding us of something you said four chapters ago.

4.12.3, basically Grantaire’s love confession

Enjolras, who was standing on the crest of the barricade, gun in hand, raised his beautiful, austere face. Enjolras, as the reader knows, had something of the Spartan and of the Puritan in his composition.

Maybe the reader also knows Enjolras has a beautiful and austere face.

4.12.7, Javert’s identity is discovered.

"Spy," said the handsome Enjolras, "we are judges and not assassins."

Javert: …Why?

4.12.8, Le Cabuc’s execution

Enjolras, pale, with bare neck and dishevelled hair, and his woman's face, had about him at that moment something of the antique Themis…

Victor Hugo: I know one minute ago you were not doing anything intense, merely talking to Javert, but now I need you to cosplay Themis, so please get rid of your cravat and dishevel your (beautiful, golden, shining) hair.

Enjolras: …okay.

His dilated nostrils, his downcast eyes, gave to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and that expression of Chastity which, as the ancient world viewed the matter, befit Justice.

Victor Hugo: Killing in the name of justice can easily get us into endless and heated ethical debates, and the issue is further complicated by the very situation, given it is a revolution, where a judicial system has not really been established. Let’s not get into deep water but make our life easier: this is divine justice.

Le Cabuc attempted to resist, but he seemed to have been seized by a superhuman hand.

Le Cabuc: I am armed, and I am evil and impetuous enough to murder someone without a second thought. Am I not supposed to fight this schoolboy?

Victor Hugo: No. You are supposed to be shocked by his beauty. And chastity.

Le Cabuc: Is that something I can tell by LOOKING AT HIM?

Enjolras ceased. His virgin lips closed; and he remained for some time standing on the spot where he had shed blood, in marble immobility.

Marble x2.

Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other's hands silently, and, leaning against each other in an angle of the barricade, they watched with an admiration in which there was some compassion, that grave young man, executioner and priest, composed of light, like crystal, and also of rock.

5.1.3

Enjolras reappeared. He returned from his sombre eagle flight into outer darkness. He listened for a moment to all this joy with folded arms, and one hand on his mouth. Then, fresh and rosy in the growing whiteness of the dawn, he said:

…He literally says hey guys, we are going to die now.

Victor Hugo: Yeah I know. But light technician, light on Enjolras please!

5.1.5 barricade speech.

All at once he threw back his head, his blond locks fell back like those of an angel on the sombre quadriga made of stars, they were like the mane of a startled lion in the flaming of a halo, and Enjolras cried…

How can Victor Hugo forget to highlight his revolutionary gold boy’s beauty?

Enjolras paused rather than became silent; his lips continued to move silently, as though he were talking to himself, which caused them all to gaze attentively at him, in the endeavor to hear more. There was no applause; but they whispered together for a long time. Speech being a breath, the rustling of intelligences resembles the rustling of leaves.

No virgin lip this time. Good thing that Victor is learning self-restraint (but not for long, apparently).

5.1.8 the death of sergeant of artillery

And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek.

Marble x3.

Victor you are using Grantaire’s vocabulary.

5.1.23 the martyrdom of Enjolras

The audacity of a fine death always affects men. As soon as Enjolras folded his arms and accepted his end, the din of strife ceased in the room, and this chaos suddenly stilled into a sort of sepulchral solemnity. The menacing majesty of Enjolras disarmed and motionless, appeared to oppress this tumult, and this young man, haughty, bloody, and charming, who alone had not a wound, who was as indifferent as an invulnerable being, seemed, by the authority of his tranquil glance, to constrain this sinister rabble to kill him respectfully. His beauty, at that moment augmented by his pride, was resplendent, and he was fresh and rosy after the fearful four and twenty hours which had just elapsed, as though he could no more be fatigued than wounded.

(The most obvious evidence that this guy is divine. Human biology DOES NOT work in this way.)

It was of him, possibly, that a witness spoke afterwards, before the council of war: "There was an insurgent whom I heard called Apollo."

Were you at the barricade for the revolution or for something (someone) else???

A National Guardsman who had taken aim at Enjolras, lowered his gun, saying: "It seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower."

Le Cabuc symptom: brain stops functioning properly at the sight of Enjolras’s beauty.

Noise does not rouse a drunken man; silence awakens him. The fall of everything around him only augmented Grantaire's prostration; the crumbling of all things was his lullaby. The sort of halt which the tumult underwent in the presence of Enjolras was a shock to this heavy slumber. It had the effect of a carriage going at full speed, which suddenly comes to a dead stop. The persons dozing within it wake up.

Now we have music fading into a suffocating silence, light focuses on Enjolras, twelve guns arranged in a way according to the rules of one-point perspective. Your turn Grantaire!

#les mis #enjolras #misinterpreting les mis

[kiwisa]

shirt ✩ jb22

Jude Bellingham x Fem! Girlfriend! Reader

fluff • 1,000 words

IN WHICH... all sunday mornings should be spent like this.

It was the birdsong that woke you up this morning. A sound so pleasing to the ear, discordant of the constant but characteristic hubbub of the German city. A moment of sweetness enough to brighten up your just-begun day. Contrary to you, Dortmund had been awake for a long time, with its buildings lit by the sun ⏤ at its highest point in the sky ⏤ and the shoes of people from all social backgrounds treading the tarred ground.

You knew the sounds of the city by heart, having been exposed to them since your childhood. In a sense, these sounds had helped to become the person you were today. They had rocked you, accompanied you in every event. The horns, the words blurred by the laughters and the arguments… This familiarity was the reason for your happiness, revealing a smile on your face, puffy from sleep.

It took you several seconds to completely open your eyes. The warmth of the sheets enveloping you made this ordeal more difficult than it already was. Sleep was a mischievous fighter, especially when it came to getting you back into it. Morpheus's arms were ready to envelop you, his fingers gently touching your skull, but they retracted when an unceasing ringing sound was heard.

Looking up at the sky, you rolled towards your nightstand, tapping harshly against the screen of your phone.

Setting up an alarm on a Sunday morning was a mistake, you thought; eyes staring blankly at the ceiling filled with cracked paint.

A sigh echoed in the room. Of all the cravings and needs that could be found in your body right now, getting up was not one of them. You could already feel the cold air, ready to wrap around your skin when you would dare to part with your white cocoon.

A pout appeared on your face when, rolling in the sheets towards the opposite side, emptiness greeted you. Frowning, your fingers touched the now cold pillow, but from which a familiar scent still emanated. Your ajar eyes swept through the room, noticing the absence of slippers on the floor or the blue sweater that had been thrown unceremoniously against a chair the day before.

In this room, though, one thing detonated: the white color of a shirt, placed delicately on the back of the same chair that had hosted the sweater. Placing one foot, then the other on the ground, your toes retracted when feeling the coldness of the floorboards. Your hair was quickly tied up, your slippers put on. All this without ever diverting your gaze from the white shirt, which you quickly put on. Rocked by this sweet, masculine smell, it was with a smile that you headed for the kitchen.

There, a man sat. Busy eating his cereal, he did not realized your presence. Taking this opportunity granted by calmness, you stood for a few moments at the doorstep, arms crossed, admiring the candid beauty of the one who would make your heart beat a little harder each time. He was a masterpiece, a painting from which no one could looked away so much his beauty mesmerized.

You could have stayed like this for hours, it wouldn't have bothered you; quite the opposite actually. However, your appetite won over your heart, but before giving in to temptation — aka the piece of cake you had bought at the bakery the day before — you could not bring yourself to forget your routine.

It was with delicacy ⏤ not to frighten him ⏤ that your arms surrounded Jude's neck, before placing a kiss on his forehead. Automatically, he leaned back towards you, his head resting on your belly, his round eyes sparkling and now looking upwards. Your fingers stroked his recently cut hair ⏤ a shame, really.

He closed his eyes to this touch, an expression of pure relaxation on his face, until a sound of indignation passed his lips when you walked away, determined to claim your due; the smell of chocolate was already reaching your nostrils.

“You're wearing my shirt.”

It was not a question but a statement. You turned towards him at hearing his sleepy and deep voice, cheeks filled with chocolate, eyes widened. Observing the only garment covering your body, the shirt ⏤ which you were in fact wearing ⏤ you raised an eyebrow in his direction.

Suspicious, you watched him walk towards you slowly. You swallowed the chocolate bite.

“What?”

A smile that made him look almost stupid was decorating his face, illuminating the latter entirely. He looked like a child who had just been given a gift. A gift that, in this case, consisted of your own person if you judged his loving gaze.

Ignoring your complaints — did he just really take your cake? — his arms surrounded your waist, gently pressing you against him. At your synchronized breaths and 'heart against heart' moment, red went up to your cheeks. Really, you could never get tired of Jude Bellingham’s beauty. Of course, the features of his face were perfectly tuned, a master's work — blessed be his parents — but it was his kindness, his big heart, and his tenderness that made him magnificent.

“You're cute.”

There it was, that smile; so big it could light up the darkest souls.

“Are you trying to flirt with me, Bellingham?”

“Maybe I am. And what about it?”

Catching one of your hands, he looked at it for a few moments before placing a series of kisses there. No patch of skin was spared. Laughing, you got out of his grip to stand on tiptoe, your arms wrapping around his neck. Almost instantly, like second nature to him, his hands landed on your hips. Your two faces only separated by a few centimeters, your lips brushed against one another.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham fanfic #football x reader #football imagine #football fanfic #football one shot #jude bellingham fluff

[ryuichirou]

you have a hc list for floyd in heat, but do you have any thoughts about JADE in heat??

Finally it’s Jade-in-heat time!

Just in case, here is the Floyd post: FloRid Floyd in heat hcs.

I thought I won’t have a lot to say about him, but ehhh turns out I have a lot to say about him lol As pretty much always, there are a couple of things I would rather draw than write into a hc list, but here are my thoughts. I hope you enjoy them, and thank you for waiting!

Jade is much better at keeping it together than Floyd, he doesn’t get as animalistic as Floyd in general. He knows how to distract himself and has more self-control in general, plus never forgets to take medications + uses some other soothing remedies. It’s not like he hates going in heat, he just has many other interesting things to focus on most of the times.

However, even Jade gets overwhelmed sometimes, and even though Jade is the working horse of the Octa-trio, Azul always excuses him (i.e. kicks him out of the Lounge) when he gets too horny. Horny Floyd is a liability, but horny Jade? Straight-up endangerment. So he usually tells Jade to either hide in his room until it gets better or live in the mountains for a couple of days lol Jade usually complies (begrudgingly). Jade also gets intensely hungry, so Azul doesn’t want him anywhere near their food… or himself.

Another comparison: when Floyd is in heat, his mood swings get more intense, he gets very clingy and aggressive at the same time, loses appetite and becomes very irritable; Jade is kind of worse. It’s not as obvious when you look at him, he acts the same, but the atmosphere around him gets heavier somehow…? He watches everyone, evaluating them as a potential mate, and sometimes smiles very creepily, as if he’s not just going to have sex with that person but also going to do something even more horrible to them. His sadistic side really shows whenever it gets to that point.

Whenever his and Floyd’s heat happens at the same time, Jade is way more reckless about the whole thing and allows himself to be aggressive and assertive, to break things, to ruin clothes, to leave puddles of secretions everywhere, to grab people and be much more of a menace. And it’s not due to any biological reason; it’s just that people would always think that it’s Floyd who did it, and Floyd doesn’t always remember what he does, so sometimes he doesn’t even understand that Jade threw him under the bus.

Jade, as I’ve already said, isn’t as interested in sex, but he does have it in him sometimes. Sometimes he starts thinking about who would be the perfect candidate to have casual sex with to make things easier on himself, but then he just throws this thought process out of the window and approaches the first person he sees. This man loves chaos lol

Sometimes swimming also calms him down, so he hides in the school’s pool. And if some lonely soul goes near that pool, he might attack them. People always expect Floyd to be there, but surprisingly, out of the two it’s usually Jade who acts like his mermen ancestors.

There was one time when Jade almost jumped Riddle and even started undressing him, but stopped at the last moment. He apologised to Riddle and even brought him a basket of fruits and sweets as an apology and asked Riddle to please keep the whole thing a secret. And he looked so sorry when he said that (he wasn’t sorry at all)! Riddle agreed to never speak about this again, but now he always jumps whenever Jade approaches him quietly. Jade is very amused by that.

If he had to pick the perfect candidate, it’d probably be Idia, not only because he’s very cute when scared + is surprisingly kinky underneath his layers of anxiety and denial, but also because he knows that both Azul and Floyd like Idia a lot, so not only he gets to have sex with a cute boy, he’ll also get to look at these two get all jealous and angry at him. So whenever he does it with Idia (and it happened more than once, both times without Idia expecting this to happen), he leaves a lot of marks on him and takes pictures of Idia covered in all kind of wet slicky slimy mess…

#replies #headcanons

[jonathanmelendezcooks]

Savory Pizza Danish!

#food #the candid appetite #foodie #TikTok #food video #video #recipe #food porn

[foreficfandom]

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

—

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel

[revuestarlight-pbta]

Playbook Preview: The Scholar

Hello all; it's good to see you again! I apologize for the radio silence in the past months, as I have been busy trying to graduate. That being said, rest assured that I am still working on Revue Starlight: Powered by the Audience! To whet your appetite a bit (and prove that I'm not lying about working on it), here's a preview of a new playbook: The Scholar.

As usual, text not final.

You might notice that some of these moves are taken from my previous preview of the Challenger playbook. I eventually decided to create a Scholar playbook due to how crowded and overly broad the Challenger archetype was becoming. My goal is to make playbooks that can represent a wide variety of iterations on a common theme, but when that breadth becomes too wide, the mechanics start to lose clarity. Challenger seemed like it was splitting into two "sub-classes" anyway, so it was a prime candidate for splitting.

The Scholar represents the conflict between learnedness and experience. All Stage Girls strive to become the Top Star, and those who we may call Scholars seek their path by learning from others' example and studying those who came before. When the time comes for a Scholar to walk an untrodden path, however, will they know how to walk it? Will they be able to seize a star of their own? Will they put on a constructed facade based on their wealth of knowledge, or will they figure out how to be truly, earnestly themselves?

The "Reason Dice" mechanic notably has a rather pragmatic, gamist design compared to other core playbook mechanics, drawing some inspiration from Pathfinder's investigator class. Somewhat fitting for the (emotionally repressed) Scholar, perhaps. There's probably more room to create some mechanics that highlight more of the Scholar's character weaknesses, however.

#revue starlight #revstar pbta #pbta #ttrpg #dev blog #hoshimi junna #moriyasu kuina #tsuruhime yachiyo #revue starlight ttrpg

[momodita]

snapshots. [—hibari kyoya]

TAGS / WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, a/o/b au,       predator/prey elements, hibari being hibari,       tyl setting, marriage run WC: 1,000 NOTE: hold on i gotta tell the me from 10+ yrs ago       that i still have a thing for this guy...

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS DNI.

Hibari exhibits all the strength and ferocity of a real predator.

He knows only one truth: surrender. You’ve seen it countless times in different forms from his enemies: humiliated defeat; merciless death; bitter prostration. But never could you have imagined that his appetite for glory would extend to you.

Stinging air brushes the fine hairs on your nape when he swings at you—broad-knuckled hands weapon-free to align with the rules, but no less deadly. Forced to overcome your shock as he lunges, scent thick and roiling; you’ve caught whiffs during the run before your encounter, carried by the breeze. He’d caught you off guard—approaching fast during your leisurely stroll.

“Submit.”

Even the vibrations in his voice demand you forfeit. The rough baritone raising your hackles—instinct to fight overriding cordiality.

(In your mind, Hibari hadn’t even been in the realm of potential runners. But he’d come—arriving later than everyone else, standing far from the clumps of mingling alphas. And you briefly, only briefly, wondered if he planned to take it seriously.)

From the gleam in his eyes—the memory of his stare on your neck—you have no doubt he’d been aiming for this outcome all along. The bell has been ringing at steady intervals for the past ten minutes: formed pairs evacuating the designated area to leave the remaining participants in peace. It’s difficult to tell how many remain—where they might be wandering.

“Get real, Hibari.”

You expect him to snarl—your clash stoking the prideful venom that all alphas with a similar penchant for violence boast no shortage of. You expect anger: incredulity and the arrogance he carried with him into this mating run.

Instead, he smiles, and you realize with cold blood draining from your face that he doesn’t pursue surrender—but surrender comes to him.

No one else had looked in your direction for more than friendly acknowledgement. There’s a scrap of hopeful disbelief that he’s simply ignorant of the implications and has merely rushed in blind. That he chose to engage you for the familiarity of having fought side-by-side. After all, you could hardly fathom an alpha like him willingly pursue a beta.

The problem with Hibari is he does not chase. He hunts.

And it is impulsive—recklessness that would put you towards an early grave had he been an enemy—to abandon all momentum and test your hand against the Vongola’s most bloodthirsty Guardian.

You’ve sparred against him countless times before. The results were always as expected.

It’s laughable, almost, how quickly you realize your strength is no match for him.

You go down. And Hibari—like any man thirsty for conquest—is all too eager to partake in the sweet reward of his victory. The heel of his palm pressing on your sternum, right beside the tight rabbiting of your heart. Fingers splaying—a touch too inappropriate in its placement for the mannerly guidelines of this tradition.

Thrashing is easy. Struggling is easy. But Hibari is an immovable force above you, subduing his prey with practiced hands, holding you down against the mossy earth. His head ducks, aiming for the crook of your throat—and you suck in a breath, the impulse to fight betraying you as you freeze beneath him.

But he doesn’t bite.

Nothing will take if he does; you’ve no scent glands, no area primed for a claiming mark to officially tie the two of you together. You don’t even know how he found you amidst the plethora of other candidates. The only realistic outcome is the thorough verbal scolding you’d get from Gokudera.

Hibari leans close, so close the heat of his face melts into your own. He takes a breath—smelling you, you realize with no small amount of mortification—and speaks.

“Submit,” he commands once more. You almost laugh.

“Do you even know the purpose of this run?” His hair tickles, that choppy dark fringe dipping against your skin.

“What a foolish question,” he muses. “A hunt is a hunt.”

You suppress a groan. “Right. Okay. Well, this probably seems like a—competition of sorts, but that’s not what this is,” you explain, pulse showing no signs of slowing. “This is a marriage run, not a hunt. There’s no way to—you know. Win.”

“A claim,” he says, silencing your next thought. “When a claim is made, there is a clear winner, isn’t there?”

You nearly stop breathing. Hibari withdraws to stare at you.

(Tsuna’s earlier apprehension makes perfect sense. It occurs to you, then, that you were the one that hadn’t been taking it seriously from the beginning.)

“A claim here,” he continues—pleased; you’ve known him long enough to hear the subtle tang in his voice—reaching up to brush over your neck, “usually denotes a victor.”

“I am not a prize.” Your limbs go tense, preparing to fight. Hibari catches your wrist easily, his palm calloused and hot.

“You misunderstand,” he says, “this is not a matter of prizes. It’s one of choosing.” His thumb presses lightly into your wrist, where a scent gland would lay. Your pulse is lively under his hands and fingers.

This time, you do laugh, disbelieving. “You would choose this?”

“There is no one else.”

You’re tempted to laugh again. But his face does not betray a hint of sarcasm.

“There will be others,” you insist. “If not by your choice, then the famiglia’s.” His eyes narrow.

“They are irrelevant.”

Your mouth opens to argue. Hibari closes the distance again; his breath hits the pulse point in your throat. He does it so confidently you think—with a squeezing pressure in your chest—that he’s going to bite you for real this time.

For an insane, thoughtless moment, you almost tilt your head to let him.

Your eyes flutter shut, imagining it—almost craving it—and then, when they open, your gazes lock, and—with the prickling rush of adrenaline—you realize there’s nowhere else you could’ve fallen but into his clutches all along.

#hibari kyoya x reader #hibari x reader #reader insert #momodita fic #snapshot fic #khr fic #khr x reader #katekyo hitman reborn fic #katekyo hitman reborn x reader #cw omgegaverse

[kiefbowl]

Do you have some advice for someone starting to date for the first time in their late 20s, completely inexperienced? Is there something you would say to your younger self before you started dating? I don't have any self esteem issues but I'm mostly uninterested in sex and I fear that squaring that into a functional relationship and explaining myself will be near impossible. I'm straight btw.

know what you want out of dating and then don't compromise. it's much better staying single then fucking around and finding out on things you really didn't want in the first place. this doesn't mean have a 180 item list on all the perfect attributes you want out of a partner, but how you want dating, sex, and relationships to function in your life. like, some people would love to date around with interesting people for fun, but remain functionally single. some people want to find their life partner. some people want a serious and monogamous relationship but are comfortable with the fact that it doesn't have to be a "forever" kind of love. what are you trying to gain from dating, what does fulfillment look like to you? You don't want to move in with a guy you only kind of like because you think it's too rude to tell him you were only looking for a fwb situationship 6 months ago and didn't have the heart to tell him. You also don't want to be mooning over a guy who told you straight up he just wanted to have sex a couple times.

if you're uninterested in sex, you have to be candid about that, because that's going to be a deal breaker for a lot of people. Nothing is wrong with either you or them. Your sexual appetite may well and probably will fluctuate throughout your life. It doesn't really matter why you're not that interested now unless it bothers you. But here's the thing about not being honest about this when you're attempting to date: you do not want to put yourself in a situation where you feel compelled to perform sexual favors to maintain a healthy relationship. Do not make yourself miserable in the future because of embarrassment today. There's nothing embarrassing about being an adult living through some low libido, and frankly it's something anyone past the age of, like, 23 should completely understand.

Most important: always ALWAYS prioritize yourself. Yeah yeah, in a deeply committed relationship, you have to compromise and think of your partner sometimes in certain ways...you aren't in a deeply committed relationship, so don't break your back making someone happy when you're not getting what you want out of it in return. If someone is nice but boring, why be bored just because they're nice. If someone is funny but lazy, why work so hard just to have a laugh. If someone is dotting but particular, why live a life you don't want just to have things. You have your own life, your own goals, your own morals, your own beliefs, and the key to happiness in dating, sex, marriage, and relationships is to say no relationship is worth my sense of self. Relationships (of all kinds) should be about your life flourishing, not sacrificing.

And have fun :) if it's shit hit da bricks :)

[redux-iterum]

-flight, -step, -fall, and -leap

SWANFLIGHT

Prerequisite Traits

Appearance: White fur, and large in stature.

Personality and/or Behavior: Graceful, aggressive, and loyal.

Additional Traits

Like their namesake, a cat that qualifies for Swanflight is massive. (Quite literally, although exceptions are sometimes made for Swan- cats with average sizes and large personalities.) With that size comes an aggressive nature, which manifests as either territoriality, suspicion of outsiders, or protectiveness of their kits. These cats are generally regarded as fearless in the face of arguments or combat, and they have a tendency to attack first, ask questions later. It takes considerable effort from their mentors to train this behavior out of them (or at the least, teach them how to rein it in). Cats with this name are usually the first to take the initiative on tasks, like volunteering for patrols. They also have a steadfast, unwavering devotion to their mates. While this isn’t unusual in a society that’s primarily monogamous, Swanflight cats are the most demonstrative of their relationship. A Swan- cat that qualifies for -flight tends to overlap with -claw and -flower. In ThunderClan especially, Swanflight can be interchangeable with -face, since combat prowess and large statures are the ideal beauty standard. Conversely, Swanflight is virtually nonexistent in ShadowClan, since white fur and tallness are rare in this territory. It’s nearly a guarantee that a ShadowClan cat with that name is either an outsider, or of mixed heritage.

-

MOUSESTEP

Prerequisite Traits

Appearance: Brown fur, and small in stature.

Personality and/or Behavior: Inquisitive, cautious, and easily startled.

Additional Traits

Mousestep cats have a curious nature that’s at odds with their flightiness. It has little to do with cowardice—rather, they possess an innate sense of danger, and excellent self-preservation instincts. Coupled with their above average speed and reflexes, they demonstrate an aptitude for scouting, and will sometimes qualify for -leg or -shade. They’re highly flexible cats, comfortable in a wide range of habitats which they can acclimate to with little hassle. Their dietary choices are often a reflection of their adaptability—they’re not, as a rule, picky eaters, and they have adventurous appetites. Although all of the Clans have a preference for nocturnal activity, a Mousestep cat epitomizes this. Their eyes are somewhat photosensitive, and they’re averse to bright lights. A high-pitched voice can sometimes be enough to override one of the other prerequisite -step traits, due to its heavy association with mice in folklore.

-

SHEEPSTEP

Prerequisite Traits

Appearance: [1] Pure white fur, [2] pitch-black fur, or [3] patched black-and-white fur.

Personality and/or Behavior: Polite, obedient, and quick to flee.

Additional Traits

Generally speaking, these cats are very in tune with their Clans, and have a great awareness of internal schisms. That perception, however, seldom translates to an ability to soothe them over. Sheepstep cats are actually conflict-avoidant, and their sensitivity to in-group tension makes them nervous. These cats are most at ease in groups that are stable or tightly-knit (like WindClan). They have a strong inclination to follow authority figures, particularly those that are stalwart or charismatic. It’s been said that when a leader is having a hard time choosing a deputy, a Sheepstep cat is consulted for their input, since they can reliably vet candidates. If a situation becomes extremely dangerous, these cats will typically be the first to either flee or call for a retreat. Although it’s not a requirement for this suffix, a Sheepstep cat is likely to have thick or dense fur that can handle being wet. Statistically, RiverClan is the most likely to produce a Sheepstep, for several reasons: of all the Clans, they tend to have the most white in their fur, with white patching being highly prevalent; their proximity to the pasture makes sheep a common sight, and thus a recurring prefix for kittens; and lastly, their waterproof double-coat is extremely similar to a sheep’s wool.

-

LIGHTNINGFALL

Prerequisite Traits

Appearance: [1] Pure white fur, or [2] yellow fur.

Personality and/or Behavior: Impulsive, intense, and fast.

Additional Traits

It’s a common stereotype that Lightningfall cats are dramatic, although it would be more accurate to say that they stand out in some manner. It’s their sudden tendency to go from unnoticed, to the center of attention, that is their hallmark. Like the abruptness of a lightning strike, which arrives without ceremony, and illuminates everything in its fleeting presence. Their actions are largely unpredictable, save to those who know how to read and recognize them. That being said, they’re not capricious or fickle cats, although to an observer it might seem that way. There’s a recurring misconception that Lightningfall cats qualify for -storm, even though they lack the characteristic turbulence and emotional mood swings. What defines them is their ability to command the undivided attention of a crowd, using a single action or a mere word, without any warning.

-

MINNOWLEAP

Prerequisite Traits

Appearance: Short and slender, with one of the following pelt colors: [1] light gray tabby, [2] silver tabby, or [3] light brown tabby.

Personality and/or Behavior: Cooperative, sociable, and intuitive.

Additional Traits

Their stature compliments their reflexes and speed (the latter of which is better suited to sprinting or short bursts, rather than endurance running). Much like a Starlingflight cat, a Minnowleap excels in synchronizing their movements with those of the cats around them, making them highly effective at teamwork. They also enjoy being immersed in busy or large crowds, and thrive on the liveliness that they so easily navigate. Minnowleap cats are nearly always part of their Clan’s Gathering party, since their presence helps reduce tension on waking nights. (And because they’re good at picking up on subtle cues, and accurately gauging the other Clans’ overall mood—be it amiable or aggressive.) They tend to have excellent recognition skills—whether olfactory or visual—which makes them useful diplomats and liaisons. (Or spies, once they’ve familiarized themselves with an enemy’s territory, and learn how to get around it undetected.) It’s best not to underestimate these cats, or be fooled by their size.

#submission #suffixes #flight #step #fall #leap #these are incredibly fun! #i love em #thank you for doing the work for me and doing it extremely well #silvokrent