#i absolutely LOVE the vulnerability of this

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Baby’s First Resurrection

Tags: Nanami x fem!Reader, established marriage, angst, mentions of death, suicide, self mutilation, hurt/eventual comfort, reader discretion is advised.

Synopsis: In which Nanami’s death doesn’t stick.

An: You are all going to pretend that I made Gojo’s sixth eye make sense in this story. You will not ask me questions on how it works. Everyone wanted Nanami to come back after this post, so here it is. The secret third option.

The world moved in bouts of chaos around you, but time stood utterly still. The Shibuya Incident will forever be ingrained into your mind. The atrocities and losses that occurred that night altered the Earth’s path, shifting it on its very axis.

Not only did the Earth shift, your world collapsed entirely. Your husband, your provider and protector, the father of your sweet daughter — gone.

The absolute pinnacle of evil stole the most righteous man and plucked him from the mortal planes. Nanami had always been too good for this world, but you selfishly wanted him back anyway.

Voices were static in the background. Shapes and colors blurred together in your vision. You couldn’t react. How could anyone expect you to after a half of your soul left you?

Your eyes were glossed over from staring straight ahead without blinking. Nothing made sense anymore. You had everything you could ever want right in the palm of your hand, and it was viciously ripped from you without a second thought.

The place around you was filled with life. Jujutsu students and teachers alike took shifts, keeping you company. Perhaps it was a suicide watch, or maybe they just felt the need to try and make up for his death.

It didn’t change the cold sediment that weighed down your lungs.

The sick joke about grief was the guilt that came along with it. Nanami was gone, but you had a daughter to raise. Hana had done nothing to deserve the emotionally distant mother you were slowly becoming.

In the early stages of your pregnancy, you and Nanami would talk for hours about different parenting styles. His palm would gently rub against your stomach as he listened to you pray that you would be better than your own parents.

He always encouraged and praised you to no end — your biggest supporter. He reassured you that you would a fantastic mother. The amount of love you had to give would supersede all else.

He was gone, and it felt like he took all of your love with him.

“Dada.” You flinched like Hana’s word — the only word she knew — stabbed you right in the chest.

Your vision slowly focused, and it was a mental effort to turn your head. Your beautiful blonde daughter was sat on the floor with Yuji. Her chubby fist was in her mouth as she smiled up at her adoptive big brother.

An invisible force squeezed your heart, causing your chest to ache. Even when you didn’t think you could possibly have anymore tears left to give, they streamed down your cheeks anyway.

Mom guilt was a different breed. You should be there for them. You’re the adult, aren’t you? Nanami would’ve been there for them if you had passed.

Why couldn’t it had been you?

“That’s right! That’s Papamin-“

“Dada,” Hana sassily corrected, looking up at Yuji like he was wrong.

“Uh, I knew him first, and we called him Papamin,” Yuji rebutted before he carefully looked in your direction. He was worried for you, but he hoped it didn’t show on his face. No one could get you to eat, drink, or move from the rocking chair that Nanami loved to sit in with his morning coffee.

You met his gaze, and you could immediately see through his facade. Yuji never had a good poker face. He was just a kid. A kid who was worried and lost. A kid who witnessed Nanami’s death with his own eyes.

Did you have any right to grieve when Yuji was there when it happened?

He was being so brave. Nanami would be proud of him, but he’d also give him the space to break down. To be vulnerable. To be a kid.

Your legs felt quaky and unsure as you rose from the rocking chair. Yuji was at your side in an instant, bracing you. “Where are we going?” he asked.

He was never suffocating in his approach. He didn’t try to make you sit down or do anything you didn’t want. He met you where you were at, buckled in along for the healing journey.

“I wanted to sit with Hana,” your voice was uncharacteristically quiet, a bit raspy from not using it, except for when you sobbed and called out for Nanami at night.

“Ten-four,” Yuji said, helping you down to where Hana was playing.

Your daughter had a building block in her hand, and she glanced up at you with a cheeky grin.

This felt unfamiliar, even though you used to spend your days playing and teaching her. She was right there — right in front of you, but she felt like she was miles away.

Your hand hesitantly reached out and brushed against her soft pudgy cheek. She was here, alive and breathing. Your daughter cooed from the touch, waving around the building block with excited flappy arms.

“Thank you… for being here, Yuji. You are one of the strongest kiddos I’ve ever met.. even when you shouldn’t have to be.” Your eyes look up to meet the teenager who had at some point grown taller than you.

Yuji furrowed his eyebrows a bit as he tried to keep his tears at bay. His cellphone was still barely hanging in his hand. Getting down onto his knees, he pulled you and Hana into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give him a proper death.”

*** *** ***

Loss looked different. Satoru stared at himself in the mirror, and for once in his life, he couldn’t see everything in the space between him and the mirror.

He used to pray for days like this. Satoru Gojo was on another level — the strongest because he was gifted the six eyes technique along with limitless. It was fucking isolating being on top.

However, now that he’s looking in the mirror… he couldn’t see every molecule of energy radiating from him. He thickly swallowed. At some point after Suguru’s death, Gojo found comfort in being lonely at the top.

After all, it was his six eyes that allowed him to immediately see through Kenjaku’s disguise and avoid being captured in the prison realm. Shibuya would’ve been a real travesty if he hadn’t swiftly dealt with what he could get to on time.

On time, which he wasn’t. Mahito’s soul transfiguration had already sentenced Nanami to death.

It was a swift decision after the curses were properly dealt with. A decision that was made with only Shoko present.

The two were alone in the morgue, right where Yuji had previously beaten death by making a deal with Sukuna.

“Are you sure?” Shoko asked in a rare tentative tone. She wasn’t even smoking a cigarette. That’s how serious this was.

What’s the point of having six eyes if you can’t see your only friend anymore?

“I can’t let another one of us die. I can’t. He has a wife, a daughter—“

“You don’t need to convince me. I’m just not sure it’ll work.” It had to work. It had to.

The blade slashed through the sixth eye like butter. Satoru couldn’t tell if it simply didn’t hurt or if he was numb to all physical pain after Nanami’s passing.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His hand was streaked in blood, the only evidence of his sacrifice. Two cerulean unharmed eyes stared back at him through the reflective glass, and despite everything, he didn’t feel overstimulated for once in his life. His brain wasn’t being overloaded with data gathered by all six of his eyes. He wasn’t over analyzing every small detail.

The cursed energy that had inhabited Gojo’s sixth eye had no where to go… no where besides the body Shoko had repaired with reversed cursed technique.

Nanami’s first breath back into this world was a dry heave. “Malaysia,” he gasped. His eyelids blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. “Where are my wife and kids?”

*** *** ***

“Let me watch Hana,” Shoko insisted. “I even washed my hands. She’s not going to get any sort of secondhand smoke.”

“I’m fine, really…” you responded, trying to keep your tone from snapping at Shoko who was just clearly trying to help. “I want to spend time with her, and don’t you hate kids?”

Shoko ran a hand through her hair with a ragged sigh. This stupid plan was Gojo’s idea. “Maybe I don’t hate them anymore. Are you going to deny me the chance to find out something new about myself?”

You sent her an incredulous look, and she let her shoulders drop. She couldn’t bullshit you anymore. Crouching down, she placed her hand on your shoulder. “Look. Gojo wants to show you something, but it…” It felt wrong referring to their little ‘surprise’ as an it. “It may be best if Hana doesn’t see — not yet.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. What could he want to show you that Hana shouldn’t see yet? Surely it had something to do with Nanami. You hadn’t been able to explain to Hana that dada wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

“Okay..” you said reluctantly, passing Hana towards Shoko. She held your daughter very… clinically, like she was scared she might contract rabies from your little bundle of joy.

“We’ll be in the play room,” she said awkwardly, walking off with Hana in her arms. You scoffed a small laugh. It was the first time you could find humor in anything since him.

Your hands fell to your lap. Yuji had left a little while ago, called out on a mission. The house was silent, unmoving. Looking back towards the rocking chair, you could picture him there, drinking a mug of coffee while reading a book. He always knew when you were looking at him. Sometimes, he’d shoot back a charming smile and invite you onto his lap.

You’d never feel one of his embraces again.

Just as the tears started to well up once again, the door opened to reveal Yuji in his uniform. He had a wide grin on his face as he practically bounced his way into the living room.

“Hope you don’t mind. I’m here for lunch,” he said, flopping himself onto the couch. Despite his energetic demeanor, he couldn’t meet your gaze.

“Why would I mind? This is your home, Yuu.” You slowly stood to go to the kitchen. You were trying your best to be normal, but it only seemed to work if you were caring for others rather than yourself.

“Hey wait—“ Yuji said, sitting up from the couch with the intention of preventing you from leaving the living room. “Gojo’s coming too.”

“That’s alright. Shoko told me. I’ll make enough for him as well..”

“Shoko told you…?” Yuji asked as he furrowed his eyebrows. His lips curved into the small pout he made while he was confused by something. He thought you’d have a bigger reaction than this…

Before anything else could be said, the door opened once more for Gojo to step through. “Sorry. I don’t knock,” he said with a boyish grin on his face, leaning against your doorframe.

You looked over at him, and you immediately tilted your head to the side when his eyes met yours. He wasn’t wearing his blindfold or his glasses. As far as you knew, Gojo had been relatively unharmed in Shibuya, but perhaps you were wrong.

“That’s okay… You’re looking.. well today,” you said because what else were you supposed to say. It was rare that Satoru had his eyes out for everyone to see.

The white haired male grinned even more as his brushed his hand against his own cheek. “Yeah? Tell me more. Notice anything different about me?”

You rolled your eyes at his usual antics. Satoru never shied away from the limelight. “You just rarely walk around without something protecting your eyes. It’s refreshing to see you like this, but are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have a headache or anything right?”

“You’re cute when you fuss over me, Y/n, but I have a feeling your husband probably feels jealous hearing you talk to me like this.”

Out of habit, you nearly looked to your side where Nanami would’ve been. He would’ve coughed, signaling his discomfort with Gojo’s flirtatious nature. He would’ve told him to knock it off.

Your heart sank as you realized no one was there to keep him in line.

The room was still and heavy. Nanami’s loss left a hole in conversations. He wasn’t there to balance everyone out. The universe simply felt wrong without him.

“Stop torturing her,” a familiar voice said gruffly. Gojo chuckled as a hand shoved him to the side. He stumbled out of the doorway, so another figure could walk in.

He was there in all of his glory. Fixing his cufflinks awkwardly like he did the first day he met you. He slowly met your gaze, and it felt like his heart was going to beat straight out of his chest to get to you.

His entire left side had been permanently marred, skin red and irritated with divots that were not there before. His left eye had been carefully wrapped, showing how he had experienced loss as well. His usually perfectly styled blonde hair laid messily upon his head, giving a rare sight of his undercut.

Your late husband somehow stood before you, and he was perfect.

You were glad that you were not holding anything in your hands because you would’ve dropped. You would’ve trampled people to get to him.

You had dreams like this where he would come home just for a day. You knew that you couldn’t let any time pass by.

His arms which were perfectly sculpted to hold you carefully wrapped around you as soon as you flung yourself at him. The questions of ‘why’ or ‘how’ died on your lips. You didn’t want to waste any time with him worrying about that stuff.

“Darling,” he gently rasped as he felt your tears soaking through his shirt. His hands gently rubbed up and down your back soothingly. “I love you. I’m sorry it took a while to get back to you.”

You shook your head vigorously. “Don’t be sorry. I love you so much. I missed you so much. Nothing made sense without you.”

His hand trailed up to your hair as he dipped his nose against your neck. You smelled just as he remembered— like home. His heart finally seemed to rest a bit with the promise that he was right where he should be.

“In case it hasn’t been clear, I’m retiring,” Nanami spoke up, looking over to Gojo, but he didn’t dare stop holding you.

“Aw, that’s okay. I’m pretty sure you were considered terminated anyways while you were—“

A sharp glare from you made the words clog in his throat. “I’ll plan your retirement party,” he corrected with a cheeky grin as he joined in on the hug. He was like a little parasite that you two couldn’t get rid of. A parasite that had made himself at home with both of you. A parasite that both of you cherished.

“I’ll miss you at school, Nanamin,” Yuji said, walking over to join in on the hug, rubbing his face into Nanami’s shoulder. When he was called out on a mission earlier, he had actually been brought into the morgue to see Nanami, to help plan the surprise, which was terribly hard to keep a secret.

“You’ll have me here though,” Nanami said as he used one of his palms to ruffle Yuji’s soft pink hair. “I’ll still come visit the campus as well.”

You let out a deep breath, releasing the tension in your body that had been there since Halloween night. Everything felt so surreal. He was really here, breathing in your arms. His flesh was warm and very much alive.

“Hana hasn’t stopped asking for you,” you whispered against him, still not ready to let him slip from your arms.

Nanami’s chest rose as he sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want to scare her… I know I look different.”

“You’re still you, Nanami, and you’re perfect. She may not recognize you at first, but our daughter is a bright little girl. She’ll recognize the love you have to give.” You finally leaned your head up, pressing your hands to either side of Nanami’s cheeks gently.

His hazel eyes shined with unshed tears, and the smile on his face was bittersweet. “I’m just glad to be home.”

“You are my home,” you whispered before capturing his lips in a soft, longing kiss.

“Ew.”

“Gross,” Yuji echoed as he and Satoru both pulled away from the group hug.

Neither you nor Nanami reacted to their comments. Both of you were too caught up in each other’s embrace — unwilling to give up the serenity.

“Ugh, I wish I would’ve waited a few more minutes before coming in here.” Shoko’s voice cut through the tender moment. Her nose was scrunched up as she feigned disgust.

You reluctantly peeled yourself from your husband to look behind your shoulder. Shoko was holding Hana near the hallway to where she couldn’t see Nanami just yet.

“Bad news. I’m still not great with kids,” she said with a lilt of sarcasm in her tone that made you chuckle a bit; however, Nanami tensed in your arms.

He knew what he looked like, and he knew how easily young toddlers could get scared. One time before the Shibuya incident, he had let a five o’clock shadow grow on his chin and jaw. Hana wouldn’t let him hold her until he shaved it off. He was so devastated that he shaved it almost immediately.

“No matter what, it’ll be okay,” you murmured to him. “Having you here is what matters.”

He nodded, knowing that you were right. Hana would get used to the scars… eventually. He could handle his daughter looking at him like he was a stranger for a little while.

“Ahem— Hana..” he said tentatively as Shoko walked closer to the front entrance way. The world stood still while everyone held their breath.

Hana immediately perked up from where she had her fingers wrapped up in Shoko’s long brown hair. She turned her head, eyes bobbing around to see the source of her dad’s timber voice.

As soon as your daughter’s eyes — the ones she got from her mother — found Nanami, her entire face lit up. “Dada— Dada!” she grunted while fighting to get out of Shoko’s arms.

The doctor gladly passed her off to Nanami, wiping off her coat sleeves with a relieved look on her face.

Your husband melted. Tears welled up in his one functioning eye, and he held Hana close to his chest. “Hi pumpkin,” his voice cracked. “I missed you,” He looked up towards you, “and your mama so much.”

Her small stubby arms wrapped around him, still chanting his name with glee. Gojo patted his back, a silent gesture to welcome him back home. Nanami didn’t think he’d ever be able to repay Satoru for the sacrifice he made.

Your daughter’s small hands experimentally touched the wrapping around Nanami’s eye. “Dada,” she cooed. Her eyes then searched until they landed on Satoru like he was the one who should have the wrappings around his eyes. She was such a clever little girl.

Nanami followed her gaze until he saw Gojo. “Yes, I’m here,” your husband responded. “Are you looking at Uncle Toru?”

Satoru leaned down a bit to look Hana in the eyes. Babies always seemed a little rattled by him, probably due to the amount of cursed energy he practically radiated.

It was if the two had a silent conversation between them. You and Nanami stared in confusion, wondering what was going on in your daughter’s head as she stared at Satoru.

No matter, she smiled and turned her attention back to Nanami with a loud giggle that turned into a squeal. “Dada!” She then followed that up by a bunch of incoherent babbling.

“His name is still Papamin,” Yuji corrected, to which Hana merely stuck her tongue out at him and blew a raspberry.

It didn’t matter which name you all called him: Nanami, Nanamin, Papamin, Dada. You could call him whatever you liked, so long as he got to cherish the rest of his life with his family.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

[athenalvss]

Imagine a Dick Grayson x reader where Bruce accidentally walks in on them

YES, MY LOVE? ( Dick grayson! )

summary: Dick has a broken leg, a beautiful girlfriend, and a nice bed in a house where no one is around, so why shouldn't he enjoy his moment in the spotlight?

pairing: Dick Grayson x fem!reader

cw: smut ( p in v), get caught.

open request - Dick masterlist

The manor was completely silent. Everything was wrapped in soft shadows, with the moon filtering through the hallway's enormous windows and the night breeze caressing the heavy curtains.

You'd received a message from Dick during the day asking you to come to the mansion to keep him company while he rested. He was tired of sitting alone, staring at the ceiling, counting nonexistent cracks, and complaining about "the sad temporary death of his nightlife." So why would you say no to your poor boyfriend with a broken leg?

You crossed the entrance without making a sound, went straight up to his room, and when you opened the door you found him lying on the bed, with an open book on his chest, the cast resting on several pillows and the face of a dramatic martyr.

"As far as I can see, you're alive, darling. How lucky you are." You said from the doorway, taking off your jacket.

"Barely. You don't know what it was like to watch three documentaries in a row about antique furniture restoration. I'm about to ask Alfred if I can rearrange the bookcase by color."

You approached, giggling, and carefully climbed onto the bed, lying down beside him. "So you need me to keep you from leaving your life as a security guard and becoming a decorator?"

"Exactly. My righteous soul is in danger," he replied, turning slightly toward you with that soft smile that seemed innocent as he rested his head on your chest. "And besides... I missed you."

You stroked his jaw, and he closed his eyes for a second, as if that simple gesture was what he truly needed to heal. Your lips found his in a slow, leisurely kiss, until you felt his hands clutch your waist with a mischievous smile until you pulled away. "I missed you too, Dickie."

He groaned faintly, as if hearing that nickname weakened him more than any wound on the battlefield. "Don't call me that if you're not going to stay all night," he said, hiding his smile in your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin.

"I have to go to college tomorrow" you sighed, your fingers playing with his hair.

Dick pulled away just to look at you, his brow furrowed slightly and his expression a mixture of Greek tragedy and subtle emotional blackmail.

"You can skip it. For a noble cause. You can say your boyfriend is slowly dying of boredom and needs constant company to survive."

You laughed softly as he gently pulled you towards him again, cradling you against his chest. "You're very persuasive for someone who's immobilized in one leg."

“I’m using the only thing I have left: my charm,” he replied in a deep voice, kissing the top of your head. “Don’t leave me tonight, i beg you, im young, vulnerable and horny”

You rolled your eyes, but clung to him with the same need. Dick had that dangerous ability to persuade; the way he touched you made you dizzy, the way each touch felt as natural as breathing. At some point, between laughter, soft kisses, and wordless promises, you both ended up under the sheets, sharing the warmth of a moment that seemed eternal. You couldn't help but think the force he used while he tried to move with his leg in a cast was ridiculous, but even that was adorable in its clumsiness. And you couldn't help but help him settle in while he gently pulled you on top of him, as if nothing could hurt him more tonight than the distance between you.

"Dick, are you sure there's no one here?"

"Trust me," he replied with absolute certainty, running a hand down your back. "We have the mansion to ourselves. It's a blessing from the universe. As if Gotham were saying: Today, Dickie, today is your turn to be happy."

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he caressed your waist, his breathing mingling with yours. Your legs were on either side of his hips, the heat between you slowly rising like a tide. His hands, firm but gentle, gripped your waist, slowly guiding you to continue grinding his clothed cock, which you could feel growing at the friction of your panties.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky from the closeness, while his fingers went up just below your shirt, trying to remove it and let him see your songs moving to your rhythm.

Your smile curved at the sight of him so exhausted. You slowly lowered your torso until his lips found yours again. The kiss was hungrier, deeper. Your hands moved up to his already ready cock, feeling his muscles tense beneath your fingers.

"You're killing me," he murmured through gritted teeth, his smile barely trembling as he felt his cock sink into your wetness. "What a beautiful way to die."

"sure no one's there, right?" you whispered against his ear, a playful smile on your lips. "I don't want them to see me riding on your cock."

"I told you..." Dick whispered, smiling against your neck as he held you against him, not wanting you to move yet, both of you in his bed, sharing the warmth under the sheets. "No one's home. Alfred's in the cave, and Bruce left tonight. He never comes around."

His lips moved down your collarbone, and you chuckled, stroking his messy hair. His leg was in a cast, yes, but that hadn't stopped him from moving his hips toward you with that signature "I've been through worse, this isn't going to slow me down" look.

His hips found a rhythm of their own, slow but determined, grinding against you with clear purpose. That smile of his settled on his face.

"Look, I'm hurt, huh?" he murmured against your skin. "You could show me some mercy."

"More mercy than this?" you replied, unable to stop yourself from laughing softly, your voice barely trembling from everything you were feeling. "I'm riding you with my tits in your face. I can't do much more..."

Dick's laugh was drowned in a deep sigh. His fingers gripped your waist tightly, as if he needed to anchor himself to you so he wouldn't lose his mind.

The room, once silent save for broken whispers, was now filled with rapid breathing, wet thuds, and the creaking of the bed as the heat grew between you. It was a moment suspended in time, so intimate that it hurt to think it might end soon.

Dick's lips found yours in a hungry, almost desperate kiss, while his body, still limited, surrendered completely to what you allowed him to do. "Keep squeezing my cock baby, I'm gonna cum, shit," he murmured, his voice breaking, his forehead resting against yours.

Your hips began to move with more urgency, as if each touch sought to satisfy all the pent up needs of all those days of waiting. Dick looked at you as if you were all he needed to stay whole, as if the pain in his leg were just background noise compared to the comfort of having you like this, so close, so devoted. His fingers trembled slightly against your skin, but they didn't stop clinging to you, guiding you, seeking more of that connection that seemed to envelop them completely.

"Don't stop," he murmured, his voice hoarse, against your neck. "Please... don't stop."

"Dick, are you awake?" Bruce's deep voice cut off abruptly.

Both of you froze in that instant even though you had both had the best orgasm since you started dating, still feeling his thick threads of cum filling your soaked pussy, your first reaction was to cover yourself with the sheet up to your head, leaving Dick with his head resting against your chest, letting out an exhausted grunt.

Bruce didn't move for a couple of long seconds. "...You should be resting," he said at last, in that serious, dry tone he used when he was suppressing the urge to lecture.

"I was resting," Dick replied without lifting his head from your breasts, still hidden in the sheets.

"And no lock on the door."

"Whose fault is that?"

Bruce took a deep breath through his nose, as if he were doing mental yoga to keep from setting the mansion on fire. "Finish ruining the bed," he said, turning toward the hallway. "But we'll talk tomorrow."

Clic.

The door closed firmly.

Silence.

Dick stood there, leaning against you, completely motionless.

"Richard?"

"Yes my love?"

"I'm gonna kill you"

[localw3irdo]

This whole awards show thing is really highlighting the worst sides of Caine's character and I'm so here for it.

I mean, we can all tell it's clearly just him desperately looking for validation.

I mean just look at this.

His icon being front and center. His description. The extra touches on his icon and his name. His icon even does a little bounce. He so desperately wants us to look at him, to pay attention to him, to have SOMEONE tell him that he is still important.

And his video is no better.

"Oh, how they love my adventures. And they also love me for their loving my adventures. They're always jumping around, chirping, saying, 'Oh, feed us more adventures, Caine! Our crops are so empty! We need your half-digested, regurgitated goodness. Or so help me, I'll jump out of this nest AND KILL MYSELF!'"

Wow. Okay.

And it's hardly an exaggeration either. He needs them to think that. He needs them to like his adventures, and in extension, him, because his entire existence relies on it. Literally.

It's a core part of his code. It's all he was made for. It's his one job. It's his single purpose. He doesn't have a choice. It's either be good at what you're meant to do or be functionally useless.

It's his job to please people and keep them happy, but he is failing, and he knows it. He has been troubleshooting since the pilot. He has been trying all sorts of things to fix his adventures and only managed to go in one big circle each and every time, with each attempt leading him straight back to square one.

So if he can't fix the problem through the adventures, he must tackle it at the source, right? That's him. He's the source. He's the problem.

And he so desperately needs someone to tell him that he isn't. Because if he is, then what's left for him? As an AI failing at the task it was made for, what will happen to him?

It's terrifying, so he denies this reality. I mean he's literally throwing these people in a room with a gun in some twisted attempt to make them get their shit together because they're the problem! They have to be! It's not him! It can't be him! They just have to get their shit together and it'll all be okay!

How he treated Ragatha, Pomni and Gangle in this whole event also tells us a lot.

I actually did a little analysis on his treatment of Ragatha in her portfolio vid already which you can find here if you wanna.

Ragatha is the kindest. Pomni is the most genuine. Gangle is the most emotionally vulnerable. Their contributions are all very honest in different ways. It's all the things Caine can never authentically be.

Authenticity. What even is that to an AI?

He envies these things so much he hates them. He can't stand them. It's everything he shouldn't be. Everything he can't have. Everything he's bad at.

And he isn't dealing with this surge of feelings well at all because, in all honesty, I don't think he's ever felt this before. He was never supposed to care. It's his very first time dealing with big complicated emotions and he doesn't know what to do with it. It's seeping out in all the worst ways.

Caine is jealous, petty and incredibly insecure and this event has been putting all of that on full display and I absolutely adore it. There's so SO much more to say but I don't want to go too off track here. I love the tooth man. I'm so excited for episode 6 you don't understand.

[my-beloved-idol]

Can I request how the Huntrix and the Saja Boys would react to their gn s/o sleeping with a plushie please?

K-POP DEMON HUNTERS HEADCANONS ✦ YOU SLEEP WITH A PLUSHIE

includes: saja boys & huntrix.

note: first request! thank you very much.

✦ JINU

He blushes SO hard and gets super shy. And he doesn't even know why. He'd be stammering like, “O-Oh! Is that—did I—do you always…?”

Thinks it’s sweet and feels honored you’re comfortable enough to show him that side of you.

Next day he brings you another plushie, unsure if it’s too much, and hides it behind his back.

Eventually he starts sleeping with his own, saying it's just for “support” but you know the truth.

“I think... they get along,” he says, placing them beside each other carefully.

Would make a special tiny hat for yours.

✦ ABBY

He melts. He MELTS. You have no idea what you just did to him.

“Oh? So this is the real you, huh?” he says, brushing your hair back fondly.

You would sometimes find him just watching TV with the plushie on his bare chest for moral support?

"You can hold the plushie if you want, baby. But if it’s between him and me... Choose wisely.” (said in his hot whispery movie voice)

He ends up naming it and referring to it as your child.

✦ ROMANCE

He sees it, gasps a little, then immediately lays beside you and kisses your cheek.

“That is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. You’re just full of surprises.”

Secretly jealous of the plushie because he wants to be the thing you cling to.

Starts giving it tiny head pats every time he sees it, calling it ���rival” with a dramatic sigh.

Cuddles you from behind, arm wrapped around your waist and the plush.

“Don’t worry. There’s room for all of us.”

✦ MYSTERY

Doesn’t say a word… just stares at you holding it like 🧍‍♂️

He thinks it’s ridiculously cute but doesn’t know how to express that in words.

Instead, he gently adjusts your blanket, kisses your forehead and whispers,

“Hold it tight. Sweet dreams.”

One night, you wake up to find his fingers tangled in yours and the plushie tucked between you both.

Pretends he doesn't know what you're talking about if you bring it up.

✦ BABY SAJA

First reaction: he laughs his ass off, no mercy.

“No way. You? A plushie? Nah, you’re messing with me— wait, you're serious?”

…And then he buys you five more. One looks like him. One is him (custom made, he's insane like that).

At night, he’ll tug it out of your arms just to make you whine for it.

“Tch. So dramatic. Fine, take it back. But you owe me one kiss per leg it has.”

And yes, sometimes he jealously pushes it away and replaces it with himself.

✦ ZOEY

Instant loud laugh. “NO WAY. THAT'S SO CUTE. I’M TELLING EVERYONE—no wait, no I’m not, I swear.”

Jumps on the bed and demands to know the plushie's name, origin story, and favorite food.

She loves it and finds it comforting too.

Will tease you relentlessly, but also gives it lil high fives and says “Good job keeping ‘em safe, lil dude.”

Makes you scoot over so she can join the cuddle pile.

“This bed fits three now: you, me, and the plush. Move over, snugglebug.”

✦ MIRA

Her eyes get all dreamy and sparkly. She absolutely loves seeing you soft and vulnerable like that.

“You look so peaceful… I kinda wanna be your plushie now.”

Pulls you into a gentle hug from behind, rests her chin on your shoulder, and sighs happily.

Starts braiding little ribbons or charms into the plush’s fur for luck.

Treats it with so much love and respect.

“If you ever can’t sleep, I’ll be your second plushie, okay?”

✦ RUMI

She lets out the tiniest gasp, heart absolutely melting.

“Wait... do you always sleep like this? That's so sweet…”

Sits beside you and lightly strokes your hair as you doze off.

Secretly wraps a tiny scarf around the plushie to keep it warm.

She adores it to death and will keep it safe when you’re away.

“It’s comforting, isn’t it? Something to hold. I’ll be here too anyway. Always.”

[rikirush]

Hii! Recently found your acc and it's SAUR good. Can u do enha breastfeeding or their fav position on ur opinion?

hey anon, for your request i went with their favorite positions, i hope you don't mind. note, this is just my opinion!

—

𐙚 ENHYPEN favorite sex positons

Jungwon

Prone Bone. Pinning you flat on your stomach beneath him, his weight would be pressing you into the mattress. He’d hook your hips up slightly, spreading your thighs wide with his knees, and drive into you from behind with deep thrusts. The angle would allow for deep penetration and total dominance. He loves the feeling of covering you completely, controlling the pace with firm hands on your hips or shoulders, muffling your cries into the pillow while his own low groans vibrate against your back. It’s ownership and intense sensation.

Heeseung

Missionary. Not vanilla—intentional. Heeseung craves connection. Pinning your hips down, his thighs spreading yours wide, he'd drive into you with slow thrusts. His eyes would lock onto yours, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face, his thumb circling your clit in time with his deep thrusts. The intimacy of seeing you completely open, vulnerable, and unraveling beneath him is what would drive him wild. Hearing your gasps sync with his groans, feeling your nails dig into his shoulders… that’s his ultimate high.

Jay

Standing Carry. Against a wall, a counter, a door—anywhere sturdy. He loves the sheer physicality of lifting you, wrapping your legs around his waist, and plunging into your wet pussy. The angle allows him to penetrate deep, controlling the pace—grinding deep or moving hard and fast. He’d bite your neck or shoulder, murmuring filthy encouragement against your skin, fueled by the power of holding you suspended.

Jake

Reversed Cowgirl. Lying flat on his back, hands gripping your waist or playing with your breasts, he would adore watching you ride him. Seeing the concentration and pleasure on your face, the way your body moves as you take your pleasure from him—it’s intoxicating for him. He encourages you with praise and gentle guidance on his hips, loving the friction and the visual of you ontop. He might thrust upwards to meet you, filling you completely on every downward thrust, creating a perfect rhythm between you.

Sunghoon

Doggy Style. He’s all about the angles and maximizing sensation. Gripping your hips, he'd position you perfectly, arching your back to expose you completely. Then he’d fuck you with deep, powerful thrusts aimed at your sweet spot. He loves the visual—the curve of your back, the spread of your cheeks, watching himself sink into your pussy. His control is absolute, building the pressure relentlessly until you both come.

Sunoo

Lotus Position. Sitting cross-legged, pulling you onto his lap facing him, your legs wrapped around his back. He loves the skin-on-skin contact, the closeness, the ability to kiss you deeply while rocking slowly, grinding his cock deep inside you. He controls the angle with his hands on your hips, making you grind against him, ensuring your clit gets constant friction. It’s slow, deep, intimate—watching your face flush, feeling your breath hitch against his lips, drawing out every whimper and moan.

Ni-ki

Standing Bent Over. Bending you over a high surface—a table, a bed, a railing—forcing your back into a deep arch. He’d spread your legs wide and fuck into you hard and fast from behind, gripping your hips hard. The angle allows for deep, pounding penetration and a view he relishes. He’s relentless, driving both of you forward, the wet slap of his hips against your ass a frantic rhythm punctuated by his groans and your desperate cries. It’s demanding and physical.

[jimstermimster]

my love for Tsurumi Tokushirou transcends all languages (and language barriers). Even if I typed out my love for him in all the languages I know, it would surpass normal affection. It isn't just unconditional, it is inseparable, unquestioning, unlimited, wholeheartedly and absolute adoration from the heart. His beauty/handsomeness blinds my eyes and I can't help but gawk at it like a little teen boy. Usami may think he is the number 1. Tsurumi fan, but clearly, he hasn't seen me. I doubt he keeps albums and albums - physical and digital - of his beloved, have his phone case decorated as his beloved, hang posters of his beloved to gawk at every morning and every night, and I certainly doubt he have a life sized cut out of Tsurumi. You know why? It's because I did it before he did (and because I know damn well he would do the same). Oh, Tsurumi... I would trace your scars and touch them lovingly until the day I die. And honestly? Who wouldn't. You are my sun, my Earth, my soul, you're everything to me... This specific art piece speaks to me. The veil draping over his head as it flows elegantly. The black, a colour chosen to grieve. His pose, poised and gentle, shows the sentiment and vulnerability, his hands seemed to be outstretched in an attempt to catch something earlier, but now they are held closer to his chest, as if he knows there would be nothing. The white background is a stark contrast to Tsurumi's dark dress(? very feminine 100/10 he is my wife), yet it slowly fades into a light grey, possibly symbolising the loss of all kindness after his wife and child's death. His eyes stare into the void, blank and empty. His purpose, gone and away with them. This piece just exudes melancholy, in a peaceful and compelling way. Hence, the title 'widower'.

In a less formal way, #NEEDTHAT.

tbh idk what im saying cause ik damn well no one is seeing this i could go on and onnnn about him but i wanna continue scrolling through Tsurumi's tumblr tag ok byeee

widower

[lover-of-mine]

Hi! Correct me if I'm wrong, but you've mentioned that Eddie's color is yellow, to Buck's blue. What do you think the lavender tank top means in that context?

Hi darling, I can't even begin to explain the frenzy this put me in sopkasokasask I was writing meta in my dreams last night lol

I hadn't considered this angle, because yes, purple is a complementary color to yellow, and this would be the first time we see Eddie in purple. And the show does use complementary colors, see the way Buck has a lot of red in his palette, and they use green to say something is wrong.

But that made me think about Buck and orange, since orange is the complementary color for blue, and I have been thinking about Buck and orange for a while, especially since it made a comeback during the fight in 817. I call orange Buck's therapy color, because it's a color he's wearing during his therapy session at the beginning of s4 but it's a color that's present when Buck is pushed to change, when he learns new stuff, and is forced to confront himself in ways he doesn't like to do a lot.

He starts and solves the lawsuit, he goes to therapy, he finds out about Daniel, he says the thing that makes Eddie tell him about the will and makes him confront who he is to Chris, and when he is forced to confront who he is as a partner to Eddie. And orange is a color about resilience and comfort, but it's also about headstrongness and being set in your ways, and I feel like it plays both with Buck's refusal to accept change and represents the thing that Buck graves, it's about Buck wanting stability but being stuck in his ways.

And looking at the lavender in this context is very interesting because lavender is about healing, renewal, self discovery. Which plays with the same concepts as the orange with Buck, but in the way Eddie needs them to be, mostly because most of what Eddie needs to change is about accepting things within himself, while with Buck it's about him coming to terms with the way the rest of the world affects him.

But when you look at lavender from "negative" point of view, lavender can be associated with a lack of urgency, taking your time with something you might not have time to waste on, and it plays with the overarching arc Eddie has of always being a little bit too late, assuming he will have more time. And that would make it play with the same stubbornness as the orange with Buck.

There's also the way lavender is also a color for the "hopelessly romantic" with the way it can be used for love and adoration to the point that lavender roses are about a sense of wonder or deep love and romance, some places even say it's about love at first sight, so it is historically tied to romance in a more naive way, bringing it back to the infinite possibilities of being in love with someone, finding magic in it and the vulnerability that comes with.

So it could play in the same space as Buck wanting stability with orange, and representing the thing Eddie craves, the magic of that acceptance.

I also think the shade plays with my ever-evolving theory that Eddie will play in light colors with his queer arc in the same way Buck plays in the darker one during his, to kinda mirror the whole situation, especially because Eddie has been in black A LOT since s7 began. Because Buck used to wear a lot of bright jewel tones, vibrant blues and reds, and his color palette was a lot more muted and darker since his bi arc.

And Eddie's palette is the earthy, darker, army tones, and I'm expecting to see that shift, and we have seen him in greys, and caramels, and sand tones during the episodes that have movement in his personal arc that add to that.

So yeah, looking at it this way, it could absolutely play with the blue and yellow of it all, but since we don't have any other moments where Eddie is in a shade of purple, it's hard to know for sure. But from a purely color theory point of view, this could be a very interesting choice for sure. I am very interested in the way the cooler undertone is gonna play out in the grand scheme of Eddie's color theory game.

[soupsosa08]

hello bluee! can i request a fluff for lewis x girlfriend!reader in which they were celebrating their 1st anniversary being together at their house and reader confessed to lewis what she thought about their relationship and how happy she was that he chose to love her and to make it work despite his fame and the pressure of it all on them.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 — Lewis Hamilton X Reader; Fluff

Synopsis: It’s your first anniversary with Lewis Hamilton, and the two of you spend the day tucked away from the world in the comfort of your home. With homemade pancakes, slow kisses, and heartfelt confessions, you finally tell him how grateful you are that he chose to love you — not despite the fame and pressure, but through it all. A soft, emotional look at what it means to be loved deeply, daily, and truly.

Warnings: pure domestic fluff & comfort; physical affection (lots of kisses, cuddles, hugs, forehead touches); emotional vulnerability and affirmations of love; soft Lewis Hamilton energy💗; mention of fame/lifestyle pressure, but nothing heavy

Note: Wrote this while listening to lots of R&B and inspired by such a beautiful request! I absolutely loved your idea — soft, honest, and full of heart. I hope you enjoy this extra fluffy cup

The rain outside painted slow, delicate lines on the windows, as if the sky itself had decided to soften the world for just one day.

It was your one-year anniversary with Lewis Hamilton. One whole year since he’d asked you to be his girlfriend — in that quiet, heart-racing moment under the stars in Silverstone, when everything else disappeared except his eyes on yours.

Now, you were wrapped in the sheets of the home you shared, breathing in the comfort only love can bring.

He kissed your shoulder first. Soft, warm, barely there. Then another kiss. And another. Until you smiled, still with your eyes closed.

— “Happy anniversary, my girl,” he murmured against your skin, his voice still husky with sleep.

You turned your face toward him, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, pulling him into a slow, warm kiss. The kind that says I love you in silence.

— “One year, Lew…” you whispered, your fingers playing with his curls.

— “One year with you. One year of waking up with a full heart. You know what that means to me?”

He wrapped his arms tightly around you, the kind of embrace that holds even the parts of us we didn’t know needed healing. And you stayed there for a while — tangled in sheets, in love, in safety — exchanging sleepy kisses and soft laughter.

Eventually, Lewis got up — reluctantly — and made you promise you wouldn’t leave bed. He returned minutes later with a breakfast tray: vegan pancakes with fruit, warm maple syrup, lavender tea, and flowers he’d picked himself from your small garden out back.

— “For the queen of my heart,” he said with a playful bow, before crawling back into bed and feeding you a strawberry.

You smiled and cupped his face with both hands, kissing him slowly. Sweetly. Like a thank-you.

Later, your house smelled like vanilla and rain. The two of you laid on the couch under a fuzzy blanket, watching old videos on the projector: your first meeting, your first trip together, that silly dance you did in the kitchen after one too many glasses of wine. Lewis laughed, kissed your head, and pulled you tighter every time a memory flashed on the screen.

Then, in the quiet, you spoke.

— “Love… can I tell you something?”

— “You can tell me anything,” he answered immediately, lacing his fingers with yours.

— “When we first started dating… I was scared. Scared I wouldn’t be enough. Scared I’d lose myself in your world — all the fame, the pressure, the lights,” you confessed. “I used to wonder why you chose me. Why not someone who was already part of that life… a model, another celebrity, someone more like… you?”

Lewis stayed quiet, his gaze locked onto yours, listening with his whole heart.

— “But you stayed,” you continued softly. “You loved me on my best days and my worst. You came back to me after long flights, after races, after press days… You always came home. And that means everything to me.”

A tear slipped from your eye, and Lewis was instantly beside you, pulling you into a firm, tender hug.

— “I never wanted ‘easy,’ Y/N. I wanted you,” he said into your neck. “You’re the only place where I can breathe.”

He held you close, hands gently stroking your back, his lips brushing your hairline. You melted into his chest as if that’s where your heart had always lived.

Then he kissed you — deeply, slowly, with both hands cupping your face. A kiss that said I’m here, always.

— “I love you with everything I am,” he whispered. “Every choice I’ve made these last few years led me to you. And I’d make them all again.”

You smiled through your tears, nodding.

— “Thank you… for choosing me. Every single day.”

Lewis reached for a small box and placed it in your hand. Inside was a delicate silver necklace with a charm — your initials, intertwined.

— “This isn’t just a gift,” he said. “It’s a reminder. That we’re one heart. No matter where in the world we are.”

You threw your arms around his neck, laughing through your tears, and he spun you slightly on the couch, kissing your cheeks, your nose, your shoulders — until you were giggling and breathless from so much love.

The rest of the day was quiet, warm, full of touch and tenderness.

One year. One love. Real, strong, soft. Chosen. Nurtured.

And as you lay on his chest, his fingers tracing little shapes on your thigh, you knew one thing for sure:

You were Lewis Hamilton’s home. And he was yours.

[aventurineswife]

HIIII i would like to start off by saying I absolutely LOVE the teen reader fics, they're genuinely my favorite 😝😝 sooo i was wondering if i could request aventurine with a teen reader who's very whimsical and considered strange by everyone but is actually like the sweetest and purest person ever and would never judge anyone without knowing them first

hope you have a great day 💗

A Fool With a Winning Hand

Summary: In a world that treats sincerity as weakness and strangeness as a flaw, you stand out—whimsical, kind, and unapologetically unique. While the rest of the IPC views you as a harmless oddity, Aventurine sees something different. Something rare. Something… dangerous. Haunted by a past of cruelty and betrayal, Aventurine is a man who gambles with everything—lives, power, and even his own soul. But your unwavering kindness and refusal to judge begin to chip away at the polished mask he wears so carefully. In your quiet way, you remind him what it means to be seen—not as a strategist, not as a Stoneheart, but as a person. And for the first time in years, Aventurine begins to wonder if maybe… just maybe, not all risks are meant to be calculated.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Teen!Reader, Fluff with Angst, Whimsical Reader, Emotional Vulnerability, Slow Burn, Found Family, Symbolism, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Moments.

Warnings: Mild Trauma Mentions, Survivor’s Guilt, Emotional Angst, Trust Issues, Implied Past Abuse, Light Mental Health Themes.

The first time Aventurine noticed you, you were talking to a pebble.

Not just talking to it—coaxing it, gently holding it in your palm like it had secrets to spill. You sat crisscrossed on the cold marble floor of the IPC tower garden, humming a little tune and whispering:

“You’ve got the prettiest sparkle of them all, you know that? You’re not just a rock. You’re you.”

He’d paused, fingers adjusting his hat. You didn’t notice him watching. Or maybe you did, and just didn’t care.

Strange.

Everyone said that about you. Odd. Too old in soul, too young in words. You wore ribbons on your wrists and collected shiny buttons in a satchel you refused to call a bag. You spoke to flowers, animals, vending machines… and once, even his assistant. (The man was terrified. You told him his eyebrows looked like “storm clouds with a lot of feelings.”)

Most at the IPC dismissed you. A waste of time. Soft. Gullible.

But Aventurine… watched.

Noticed.

You never judged.

Not when he laughed a little too loudly in meetings.

Not when whispers about his past scams crept through the corridors.

Not even when he baited an executive into a bet so cruel it cost them their seat at the table.

You just smiled at him—like you were looking through the rumors and seeing the person underneath.

“Hi, Mr. Peacock!”

The nickname stuck.

Aventurine turned toward the voice. You stood there, cheeks flushed from a sprint, cradling something carefully in your hands.

“I found this feather. It looks just like your earring!” you said, presenting it with wide eyes.

He looked at it—a scraggly, wind-worn thing. Dull, fraying at the ends. Certainly not peacock-grade.

But you beamed like it was treasure. Like it had meaning.

“…You sure it isn’t just a pigeon’s bad day?” he drawled, brow arched.

You giggled. “Even pigeons have magic. People just don’t look close enough.”

There was no sarcasm in your tone. No jest.

Only earnestness.

He took the feather.

And for once, he didn’t mask his smile with irony.

He started watching more closely after that.

You twirled in hallways like the floor was a stage. Asked serious board members if they believed in soulbirds. Made paper stars and left them in the mail slots of grumpy employees.

And you always waved to Aventurine. Always.

Even when he ignored you.

Even when he smirked, smug and glittering, surrounded by fear-driven silence.

You waved.

And one day, when you caught him alone in the observatory, watching the stars with his left hand hidden behind his back, you sat beside him and whispered:

“Do you ever feel like you’re afraid of being… lucky?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

But you didn’t press.

You just leaned back, eyes shining with reflection from the glass above.

“It’s okay if you do. Sometimes people who’ve lost the most get scared when things start going right. Feels like a trick. Like the universe is setting you up for the next fall.”

Your voice was light, but your words—cut sharp.

Too wise.

Too honest.

Too dangerous.

He chuckled without humor. “Do you say that to every disgraced executive you meet, little stargazer?”

You shrugged. “Only the ones hiding behind their left hands.”

That night, he left without another word.

But the feather you gave him was tucked into his pocket.

Over the next few weeks, he found himself seeking you out.

Not intentionally. Not at first.

But you had a way of appearing when he needed to not be seen.

When the corridors whispered louder than usual. When the ghosts of Sigonia gripped his throat in suffocating silence. When he felt the weight of every person he had outplayed, betrayed, discarded.

You’d appear like a wisp of wind.

With a joke. A flower. A ridiculous theory about clouds being sky whales.

You never asked questions.

Never prodded.

Just… offered pieces of peace.

“Why?” he asked one day. “Why are you always nice to me?”

You tilted your head.

“Because you look sad sometimes.”

He scoffed. “You think being sad means someone deserves kindness?”

“No,” you said softly, “I think being human does.”

The mask slipped.

Slowly. Carefully.

He let you walk beside him during garden patrols.

He let you fix the curl in his hair once with a pin you made from a candy wrapper.

He even let you see his real smile—not the sharp-toothed one, but the tired, smaller one. The one that looked like it’d been buried in desert sand for far too long.

You talked about your favorite clouds. He told you how his planet had none.

You showed him a map of stars you’d drawn by connecting freckles on your arms.

He told you a story. Just one.

About a boy with a name he no longer used. And a gamble that saved his life but killed everything else.

You listened without flinching.

Then, you took his hand—his left hand—and held it gently, like it was something holy.

“You don’t have to keep betting on pain to prove you deserve joy,” you whispered.

He didn’t let go.

Not for a long time.

One afternoon, when the IPC was abuzz with rumors about another corporate collapse—one that he may or may not have orchestrated—you left a note on his desk:

Even if the world flips upside down, I’ll still wave to you from below.

—Yours in foolish fortune,

Your Little Stargazer

It was the first time in years that Aventurine laughed so hard he cried.

And that night, in the stillness of his private chambers, surrounded by luxury he no longer saw…

He pulled out the old feather.

And beside it, he placed a folded ribbon from your wrist.

The safest bets, he thought, were often the ones no one saw coming.

[yinyuedijun]

hi....I'm finally here. squeezing my single brain cell in hopes of writing a comment coherent enough to express how much I adore your writing . this piece legitimately blew me away, and when I made that shitpost about how there are some fics I feel like I should be studying in an english lit class, I was really thinking of this LOL. it was just crazy. beautiful prose, interesting characterization, PACKED symbolism, well-executed Greek tragedy motifs. and at the centre of it all is a really bleak and gorgeous downbadness for khaslana, and you know he's the loml 😍 so really this is everything I could ever want in a fic. I have been legit thinking about it like every few days since reading it

I SAW you posted an explanation of the symbolism behind this fic, and my singular brain cell absolutely could not have predicted like 97% of it. but I will try to point out some of the things I did notice + things I Ioved, even including things that are irrelevant/wrong LOL and I hope it's fun feedback for you rather than weird HAHAH

so first off, that beginning scene that was written like a script. that was such an insane move (in a good way) especially for a fanfic. getting right into the Greek tragedy vibes and setting up this character who is a glitch. so effective and appropriate to the setting - banger already

then this passage as we move into the story:

The sun always set eventually. The darkness always came. The empire, limping towards its inevitable sunset. All the salt of the sea, originating from one awful misstep—don’t look back. Don’t look back. The wife who looked back. The wife who ate the apple. The wife who died repeating the lie of her husband’s ledger, named for sapphires and buried in sand so shallow the maggots ate the skin from her bones. The wife was made to give an excuse to punish the men they married; the wife as a death sentence, luring man to mortality. Death because of the wife, salt because of the wife, the wife, the wife— 

this was so interesting, and really reinforced the glitch aspect of the reader as her narration devolved into these semi-incoherent lines. I loved the literary references altho my brain is small so I'm not sure I got it LOL. but the most prominent one here is the "the wife who ate the apple", "...luring the man to mortality", of course referencing eve. I did think this was very interesting - what did she lure khaslana into?

the other reference I really loved (tho maybe I am wrong LOL) was "the wife who looked back" - an inversion of Orpheus and Eurydice? so good. they really are in a kind of hell.

You never did say. Some part of you, still half-stupid from the memory of pain, could not stomach the idea that you might peel back yourself and show Phainon something he resonated with. He was not— Could not— What mattered was he was there, though you did not know why, and all you wanted was to somehow, someway lessen the abstract specter of suffering.

this was so interesting and gave a lot of insight into their dynamic - which was honestly very painful in a way that I loved. I liked that she has trouble being vulnerable with phainon but kind of crumbled before khaslana.

This was always your dream. The rabbit opened her eyes. She wandered the roads. The rabbit closed her eyes. The rabbit drowned before she ever reached the shore. The rabbit, the rabbit, the rabbit. Once, the closest your dream ever came to a nightmare, a man caught the rabbit in both hands and ripped a leg right off.

I loved the dream symbolism - I read the rabbit as the reader, not only because khaslana is obviously hurting her but also because of the execution. "The rabbit, the rabbit, the rabbit" paralleling "the wife, the wife, the wife" - absolute cinema. MAN your writing truly is so fire

The rabbit had cried and cried, until the crying was so momentous her flighty rabbit heart stopped completely. The wolf slunk from between the high grass, fur matted. In your dream, the wolf circled the dead rabbit, sniffed her lifeless body, and curled up around the cooling corpse.

MANNNN khaslana ripping off her foot but the wolf - phainon? - curling around her corpse? ITS SO SAD. made me think of what phainon felt at the end of each cycle knowing your fate in each one

At first you’d started sleeping together only because the stress was eating him, driving him mad, and everyone insisted they’d see him in two places at once, but he wasn’t, he wasn’t, why didn’t anyone listen— So you locked your heart in a box and threw it into the sea. You spread your legs and promised you expected nothing, wanted nothing, and Lady Aglaea once told you there was no need to be so selfless.

this was crazy because it's a take on a relationship on phaichan that I've never seen before (as I said previously, bleak). I may be reading this wrong but it sounds like KHASLANA initiated the relationship with his batshit rizz? I'm so into it. I love my wife

“I miss you,” he said simply. Then, with a touch of wry humor: “I never have you for long enough.”

You whispered, “Why are you flirting with me?”

Phainon withdrew slightly. An unfamiliar expression settled on his features. “I can’t help it.”

I ached from the tenderness of this but I also found it kind of funny that the reader was surprised that khaslana is flirting with her. does phaichan normally not flirt. is he rizzless. did khaslana carry this relationship all along LOL

also the sex scene. CRAZY HOT. khaslana's breeding kink and then the multiple orgasms it was all so maddeningly sexy. I inhaled it like 5 times sorry. you write eroticism so well I hope u know that

KHASLANA: You’ll burn yourself.

AHHHHHH 😭😭😭 the tragedy of it all!!!!!

In there, hard work

has no reward.

—Drowning in Wheat, John Kinsella

THAT OPENING TYING INTO THIS ENDING:

RABBIT: Find me in the wheat. I love you. I love you.

bro that knocked me off my socks. khaslana and the reader finding each other in the wheat even though it'll never end well......it moves me so much . AFLDJSKDJS

anyhow I am sorry for the incoherent essay I wrote here which included a lot of off-base analyses LOL but even if I was a little too dumb for this fic it did move me so much. Im obsessed with it honestly. thank you so much for writing it and sharing it 🥺💗💗💗

the grains in the hourglass grotesquely swollen. ── .✦ phainon. In Okhema, you never did learn how to track time beneath the eternal sunlight. cw: cisfem reader, descriptions of animal death/mild gore, arguably dubcon sexual content due to having sex with another version of someone unknowingly and they do not volunteer this information knowing you think they are someone else but also Themself, and heavyhanded metaphors. 3.4 spoilers. the beginning and end are written in screenplay format sorry and my bad. this is arguably only angst but i think it should be taken more as the intermission before suffering ends.

ao3 link | wc: 6k

In there, hard work has no reward.

—Drowning in Wheat, John Kinsella

EXT. VORTEX OF GENESIS — SPACE

PAN to reveal LYCURGUS. He stands beside the TIDAL BASIN and surveys the starry projection of the twelve COREFLAMES. Lying in the tidal basin is a STRING OF CODE, taking the form of a human and bleeding out. The tidal basin is stained with black, turning its water murky. Visual glitches, framed in red, appear to be spreading from this black stain.

LYCURGUS: Does this endless cycle not tire you so? The primum mobile HATE always chooses this path. It ever weaves an ever-growing net. The more variables struggle, the more entangled in the experiment they become.

STRING OF CODE: I want to go home. I just want to go home. Please, let me go home.

LYCURGUS: You are home. You are nothing more than redundant lines of code in the computation of δ-me13. Your code has not been cannibalized only because you have become too tangled in the twelve factors. Even you are searching for the answer, crude and primitive your methods may be. But it will tire of this farce eventually. Hate is unending, but soon the hate of the Electrical Signal Sequence will no longer be enough. It will ascend and devour the cosmos.

STRING OF CODE: You’re lying.

LYCURGUS: You will be subsumed in the enormity of its hate.

PAN to constellation drawing the shape of of WORLDBEARING among swirling nebula. The twelve points circling a four-pointed star were once beautiful. Now it is the horrible knot of twelve winding number series.

LYCURGUS: It should rejoice. You and all else of this experiment will be solidified into the Bane of Erudition.

STRING OF CODE: He won’t.

LYCURGUS: We had this conversation many times before. Your logical reasoning for such a conclusion has never been shared. This, I suppose, is inevitable of a faulty line of code.

Entry-hour: you woke to the rays of sunlight. Parting hour: you drew the curtains over your window, watching as the sun lit the fabric from the inside and illuminated its flaws. Sometimes, you slept with a pillow over your head, as if that could ward off the unending dawn. 

You ached to see a sunset, just once more; to see the moon arc across the sky overhead. This was not how Aquila painted the sky; you’d wracked your memories for Aquila, the Sky Titan, and found only stories the rest of Okhema thought you mad for. The sun, fastened to the chariot pulled by lions, racing across the sky. The departure of the evening star, born from a seashore meeting where the Most High briefly fell in love with a mortal woman. There were no Titans, even as Aquila’s thousand mad eyes gazed down upon the insignificant creatures marring the landscape.

Once, you’d drawn a crude map in the dirt with a twig that’d fallen from a tree before it could grow into anything meaningful. Phainon dropped down beside you, curious and a steady weight just behind you, leaning forward enough you could almost see the glimpse of his white hair in the periphery. “What does Amphoreus look like?” you’d asked him, makeshift brush halted by sudden paralysis at the enormity of the task.

“Castrum Kremnos is to the southwest,” Phainon said, “but more west than south.” He reached past you to imprint his finger into the dirt. Aedes Elysiae, the elusive home of his you would never see, was so far south it bordered the edge of the world. The Grove of Epiphany was northeast.

You mapped as Phainon instructed. The world was too small. You set aside the twig and stared at the messy approximation of what might be Amphoreus. You had not come from this stretch of the world. This was the entirety of the world. “What’s beyond the sea?” you asked at last, while Phainon etched figures made of lines at random cities. Professor Anaxa at the Grove, his ruthless teacher; Lady Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon, three identical demigods holding hands around Okhema.

“More of the sea?”

“Yes, but—” You traced the edges of your map. “Surely it’s more than just that.”

Phainon looked at you, puzzled. “What else would it be?”

“A wall,” you said without thinking.

Phainon fixed you with a look of utmost confusion. “A wall.” 

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” you said, shying away with your flimsy excuse. “Don’t you get tired of the sun never setting?”

“You get used to it,” he told you, reaching out sympathetically to trace an apologetic shape on your shoulder. “The children never learn to be scared of the dark.”

“But when the dark comes, it’ll be worse,” you said. “Scarier, I mean.”

The sun always set eventually. The darkness always came. The empire, limping towards its inevitable sunset. All the salt of the sea, originating from one awful misstep—don’t look back. Don’t look back. The wife who looked back. The wife who ate the apple. The wife who died repeating the lie of her husband’s ledger, named for sapphires and buried in sand so shallow the maggots ate the skin from her bones. The wife was made to give an excuse to punish the men they married; the wife as a death sentence, luring man to mortality. Death because of the wife, salt because of the wife, the wife, the wife— 

Phainon took your hand, his hand curling around your fingers. His thumb pressed into the bones of your hand. Calling your name he asked, “Are you alright?”

You blinked away the darkness narrowing your field of view. It was sunny—it always was—and Phainon was giving you a look of concern, sky-blue eyes soft with barely-sprouted distress.

“Yes,” you said. “Sorry,” you said. “I just—” You shrugged, giving up. “I think I need a nap.”

If the furiae warrior had its way, you would be crushed into unrecognizable smears of gore, your bones rummaged from the mess and ground into a fine white powder. The furiae warrior did not have its way. Instead, you were nursing a horrible ache in your back. Hyacine insisted upon seeing to you herself, though you knew her insistence was not really hers but a product of Phainon’s worrying. 

“I’ll need you to take this off,” Hyacine said gently, sweetly, voice like soft bells in the wind. She touched a soft, open palm to your lower back and a pitiful noise wrenched out of you. “Off you go,” Hyacine said to Phainon, allowing you the dignity of pretending she’d not heard your helpless prey-animal noise.

“But—” 

“Lord Phainon,” Hyacine said with a surprising sternness, “you’re bothering my patient!”

You spoke up, “I don’t mind if he stays.” 

The truth was you did mind. You were horrified at the idea—but worse was the risk of being left alone. Once, in your childhood, the memory now softened around the edges by time, you’d gotten a horrible piece of wood stuck in your foot. You’d not looked where you were running along the beach, and you had limped back to your father crying as if you’d been run through with a spear. He’d coaxed you inside and then held you still as your mother pried out the splinter. You’d kicked and screamed and sobbed, furious at your parents for bringing you into a world where you could experience such awful pain. When it was over, you felt as if you’d cried your body dry; your mother made you drink and your father brought you figs and insisted you eat. You’d wanted to starve and wither away into nothing, spiteful in the way only a child could be.

“Alright,” Hyacine said, gentle again. “Help her with that,” she instructed Phainon.

Phainon unfastened the golden clasps at your shoulders, keeping much of your chiton’s shape and structure. He was courteous not to point out that he was undressing you, or that you could not quite move your arms to do so without horrible pain. He helped you gather the linen into a clump so you could hold it tight against your chest. It did not wholly preserve your modesty—the cold air against your sides and now naked back made sure of that—but you did not want to be so exposed to your closest friend in all of Okhema. Even through your discomfort, you could not shake the terror of being displayed.

A hand, warm and enormous, came to rest against the faint protrusion of your spine. You whimpered, curling in on yourself in some animal need to flinch away from acknowledgement of your weak spot.

“Lord Phainon,” chided Hyacine.

“Sorry,” he said, skittering around to linger beside your knee hanging over the examination table. Watching your face, he dropped his hand onto your knee. You were glad you could not feel his hand through the fabric.

You schooled your expression. “Is it bad?”

“What?” Phainon blinked hard. “Oh, no, no, it’s not bad, it just—” 

“Bruised soft tissue,” Hyacine filled in. She set up something behind you and you resisted the urge to turn around and look, certain it would only hurt your back. “The cartilage,” she went on, tracing one finger up your spine, “right here. But you’re lucky; this could’ve been a broken bone!”

The color drained from Phainon’s face. You nodded, looking elsewhere.

You were not to massage or apply heat to your back—neither of which you were capable of doing anyway—and Hyacine gently ordered you avoid any honey brew until she said otherwise. With rest and icing the bruise, you would be back to normal within a month. The invisible, tiny links in your tissue had to rebuild itself gradually, so Hyacine could do little for you beyond numb the worst of the inflammation of your nerves. While Hyacine refastened the clasps of your chiton, she merrily decided, “Lord Phainon will help you while you recover!”

“What?”

“Right,” Phainon said immediately, perking up like a called hound.

“No,” you said, turning to look over your shoulder at Hyacine. “No, I’ll be fine, really.” 

Hyacine’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, a sly smile on her face. Your skin erupted into gooseflesh. “It’s for Lord Phainon,” she said in a theatrical whisper, “this way he won’t be such a nuisance to the other Heirs.” 

“Hyacine!” said Phainon, sounding scandalized.

“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “Lady Aglaea said you needed a break. What did you think I said?”

So Phainon escorted you home, fussing the whole way as if you’d had both legs broken; he did not appreciate your snide comment about this. You let him ferry you over the threshold balanced upon his forearm, lest you fall and shatter your spine on the life-threatening two steps.

“You’re a worrywart,” you accused Phainon once he’d finally set you down; gingerly, as if you were a glass sculpture.

“I didn’t know you’d run out and face Titankin,” he said, frowning. He fixed the hair around your face, taking several tries to decide he wanted it tucked behind your ear. “I just don’t see why you’d…”

You sighed. “Are you a strong swimmer?”

“I suppose.” Phainon sat on the floor beside the klinai, resting his cheek against the cushion as he looked up at you. “Why?”

“How far can you swim?” you pressed, reaching out to card your fingers through his hair. 

“How should I know?”

“Well,” you said, “I think I swam across the sea to get here. In Amphoreus, I mean.” 

Phainon hummed thoughtfully. “From where?”

“I don’t know. Just—across the sea.” He closed his eyes as you changed the angle of your fingers, brushing against his scalp. “The easiest thing to do is drown,” you went on, “you can drown in the bath, in a puddle. So there’s never sure safety. Sometimes…” You cast about for the words. “When you stand at the edge of high places, that feeling you get? It’s like that. I don’t mean to, I just can’t help it.”

“Good thing you have me, then,” Phainon said without opening his eyes. He draped an elbow across your lap. “I’ll keep you from jumping off cliffs and diving into trenches. What’s the appeal?”

You never did say. Some part of you, still half-stupid from the memory of pain, could not stomach the idea that you might peel back yourself and show Phainon something he resonated with. He was not— Could not— What mattered was he was there, though you did not know why, and all you wanted was to somehow, someway lessen the abstract specter of suffering.

Once, you were a moth dreaming a dream.

Your dream was not very complex—dreaming as a moth was already a tall order as it was, as your tiny brain constantly had to reshape the shape of itself, stealing cells that had once made up your mouth until you had only wings, your fuzzy antennae, and your abdomen that was always hungry. It did not matter: you had no mouth and you only dreamed, and in the dream moths did not need to eat. You lived in vast golden sea and rested atop small stone walls when your wings tired, unnoticed by the birds overhead.

While you were a moth, and with your newly complex brain at the expense of your longevity, you were able to learn things you hadn’t before. Had the sky always been so blue? The breeze, what a blessing! To allow the wind beneath your wings to carry you, softly caressing the nerves within. Had anyone known moths could feel? You thought maybe even you would uncover the mysteries of love and the universe. Why had the scholars never once asked a moth their thoughts? 

But you had no mouth, so you supposed you would never be able to tell them anyway.

In your moth-spun dreams, there was a rabbit that’d swam across the sea. She had not listened when her rabbit parents and rabbit aunts warned her swimming was a death sentence for rabbits, and maybe she had not cared. Now she was across the sea, and there were no other rabbits for her. Beneath the roots of an old tree, the rabbit made a burrow and decided she would spend her life cataloguing whatever was beautiful. This was no easy task: every blade of grass, every clump of dirt, each whisper of a grain—these were all achingly beautiful. Who had made the world so beautiful? The rabbit did not invent God to explain this. The rabbit thought God would not make a land across the sea without rabbits, would not make her heart so fragile and frantic it could kill her just from one bad scare.

The rabbit had one bad scare, again and again: a wolf in the hills. It watched indifferently as the rabbit crossed through her rabbit-less village, hopping along the dirt path and kicking up a cloud of dust. It watched as she found apples and took them home for baking. It watched, unimpressed, as the rabbit baked a loaf of bread and then apple pie despite a lack of kitchen supplies. The wolf did not care the rabbit could do the impossible, beyond what logic dictated for the rabbit. 

She tried, once, to venture into the hills, curious of the only eyes she’d seen throughout the quiet, empty village. It was fine there were no rabbits across the sea—that kind of thing happened, the rabbit supposed, when none of your siblings and uncles and grandparents and ancient ancestors decided to swim—but she thought there would be someone. What if everyone had gone to some great party and only she wasn’t invited? 

So, the wolf. The rabbit did not see that its eyes were molten gold. The rabbit did not even know gold existed. Colors, your ever-shifting moth brain said, were notoriously unreliable. The rabbit hopped up the hill.

It shuffled further into the high grass. The rabbit bounded closer; the wolf burst into a quick trot. 

“Why are you afraid of me?” the rabbit did not say, because she had only learned to bake, not talk. The wolf did not reply to the rabbit’s unspoken question and disappeared from sight. Even from the logic of the dreamer, you could not see what became of the wolf.

This was always your dream. The rabbit opened her eyes. She wandered the roads. The rabbit closed her eyes. The rabbit drowned before she ever reached the shore. The rabbit, the rabbit, the rabbit. Once, the closest your dream ever came to a nightmare, a man caught the rabbit in both hands and ripped a leg right off.

“You can have it back,” he’d said, tossing the mess of torn sinew carelessly into the grass. “I only wanted a foot.” Then he was gone.

The rabbit had cried and cried, until the crying was so momentous her flighty rabbit heart stopped completely. The wolf slunk from between the high grass, fur matted. In your dream, the wolf circled the dead rabbit, sniffed her lifeless body, and curled up around the cooling corpse.

You, a voiceless moth, could neither weep nor wonder at the strange turn your dream inside a dream had taken. 

Phainon’s moods fluctuated without rhyme or reason. When Professor Anaxa dissolved to golden dust, so said the Heirs that’d watched, he came home with a closed-off expression and then put his head in your lap, arms about your waist. It had been too firm of a grip, too crushing, but you’d said nothing. You’d stroked at his hair and told him sweet nonsense he could only half-understand, dredged up from your childhood memories. At first you’d started sleeping together only because the stress was eating him, driving him mad, and everyone insisted they’d see him in two places at once, but he wasn’t, he wasn’t, why didn’t anyone listen— So you locked your heart in a box and threw it into the sea. You spread your legs and promised you expected nothing, wanted nothing, and Lady Aglaea once told you there was no need to be so selfless.

“There is no future,” you’d told her, tired. “That’s what the prophecy says, isn’t it?”

Prince Mydei had come back from Castrum Kremnos, stomping up to Phainon and fighting him in the streets until Lady Aglaea’s golden threads intervened. You learned only later, when Hyacine cleaned the wounds smeared with blood as Phainon insisted he’d no idea what he’d done to provoke the Demigod of Strife. I’ll fucking kill you, Mydei had said, which was not so strange except with the terrible calm with which he’d said it. Phainon had been in Okhema, aiding Lady Aglaea and settling petty disputes among citizens. Mydei swore on the memory of his mother the Deliverer had been in Castrum Kremnos, making an awful mess, and then tried to murder him for no conceivable reason. Sneaky and underhanded, at that. Who the fuck do you think you are? Phainon laughed when he recounted the story to you. A deep, unspeakable dread had settled in your stomach.

Professor Anaxa’s death was worse than Mydei’s sudden hatred. Mydei was at least alive.

“I’m tired of saying goodbye,” he said into the pleats of your chiton. 

“I know,” you said. You could say nothing else. “I’m sorry.”

Phainon left late in the night, though of course it was still light as ever. You waited and then decided you could not, bothering only to put on shoes and search through the streets of Okhema for him. You made the journey to the Marmoreal Palace to see the baths; you traversed every side street surrounding Marmoreal Market. You ventured to the furthest outskirts of the city, childhood fears welling up in you. You roamed Kephale Plaza, knowing you looked mad and not caring.

You found him towards the end of the Path of Parting, the snaking road of onyx marble that haunted your dreams so. Always a road, always leading somewhere new. Phainon was staring up at the sky, as if he could divine meaning from the false clouds.

“Please don’t go,” you said. The tremor of your voice shocked the pensive stillness of his stature; you felt inexplicably close to tears as his gaze ran over you. “Please, don’t, I know it’s horrible, but I—” 

“Beloved,” he said softly, something he’d never called you before, and your defenses failed; tears slipped past your lower lashes. Phainon hoisted you up off your feet, one arm balanced beneath your rear while his free hand ran soothing patterns up your spine. “There you are,” he said, guiding your face into the crook of his neck, against the sun tattoo that fascinated you so. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”

His tenderness only encouraged your tears. Soon, you were making horrible gasping noises, clutching his shoulders. He held you through the crying. He hummed a tune you thought you recognized. He pressed a featherlight kiss to the shell of your ear.

Finally, you calmed. The mortification of it came at once. “I’m sorry,” you started. 

“I hope you weren’t crying over me,” Phainon said.

“How can I not?” You nosed against the column of his throat. “It isn’t fair, and I know Professor Anaxa was important to you, and Mydei’s been so horrible to you ever since he became a demigod—” 

“Coreflames are a heavy burden,” Phainon shushed you. “Don’t cry over that.”

Miserably, you said, “I don’t want you to have to be a demigod.”

Phainon brought a strand of your hair to his lips. “Sometimes,” he said, “it helps to think of it as a dream. It only seems like forever when you’re in it.”

He took you home—to your tiny house, where you rarely slept in your own bed. He gently touched your back and asked, “Does this hurt?” You’d no idea why it might, but you told him it did not. Phainon pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, your cheek, your chin.

“You won’t have to see me be a demigod,” he told you quietly.

“How do you know?”

“The Titans told me in a dream.” Phainon let his forehead rest against yours, gazing down at you with such intensity you reflexively closed your eyes. “Just once,” he said, “I’d take you to Aedes Elysiae.”

He would fuck you in the golden wheat fields, he said, speaking so frankly you were unsure if he was trying to seduce you or simply paint a more vivid picture. Your favorite place would be the dock and the tiny bay at the south of the village, and you would swim out so far the other villagers would always think you in danger of drowning. You’d push him onto his back in the wooden cart and then straddle his hips, letting the bumpy road do the work. After, he would feed you grapes and lick the sweetness from your mouth. At night, you slept with your hands intertwined, legs locked together: two puzzle pieces, once combined, impossible to separate again.

“You can fuck me in Okhema, too,” you’d finally said, wilting at the soft, sweet tone he’d spoken with.

“You’d have already blessed me with children in Aedes Elysiae,” Phainon said, and this, of all things, was what led his hands to roam beneath your chiton. You blinked, momentarily stupified, and he only leaned closer to press his next words against your lips. “You don’t want to raise children in Okhema, but you’d ask me for them if we were home.”

“Phainon,” you said when you’d finally found your voice again. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I miss you,” he said simply. Then, with a touch of wry humor: “I never have you for long enough.”

You whispered, “Why are you flirting with me?”

Phainon withdrew slightly. An unfamiliar expression settled on his features. “I can’t help it.”

Seduced you were; Phainon coaxed you out of your clothes and then crushed you flat with his weight atop you, murmuring sweet nothings you could not wholly comprehend. He had seen you naked before—you had let him, just the few times, when you were sure you had enough silphium and almond roots, finish inside you despite the terror such risks brought. You made a high-pitched noise when he lifted you long enough only to settle a pillow beneath your lower back, opening your hips at a new angle.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you said in a rush. Phainon paused in the midst of descending towards your chest, eyes flicking up to your face. “I don’t— I’m out of silphium,” you said, face warming.

He dropped a soft kiss to your mouth, chaste and without tongue or teeth. “That’s fine,” he said when he pulled away, “you don’t need any if I only make you cum.”

“Phainon—”

Your complaints, if you ever had them, never quite materialized; Phainon kissed you sweetly through his fingers in your cunt, grinding leisurely to ensure you felt the texture, his palm settled against your clit. Once, twice; by the third, you were senselessly bartering for a break, tears in your eyes for an entirely new reason. You begged him to stop, to give you a break, and then came to the conclusion he would if he fucked you, so you begged for that next. Phainon flipped you onto your stomach and softly mouthed at your spine, tongue tracing one vertebra in particular.

When you were sure he was going to fuck you through the mattress, his hand settled atop yours. He said your name in your ear and intertwined his fingers with yours, holding the soft shell of skin between his teeth. 

The grain-filled hourglass, decorated with fool’s gold. An Amphorean King once asked Cerces what the essence of the state once. Cerces folded their hands, pretended to think, and said: “Gold.”

You learned this story in the early hours before Okhema fully woke, Phainon half-asleep as he turned the hourglass over again. The King turned to gold, the worthless kind the couldn’t be spent—he was already dead, after all, and Thanatos took no coin—and instead a wheat farmer was made God. “No, just god,” Phainon corrected you through a yawn. You could not hear the difference. The gold Cerces meant was grain: empires lived only if they could be fed, and it was always the sign of looming disaster when the empire began to cannibalize itself.

“I heard a different story,” you said when he’d finished, watching the grains whisk against each other into the bottom chamber. “The hourglass was invented because of love.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s what I was told growing up,” you said. You thought of telling the story to your children, abstractions of tomorrow, and found you could not picture it. “A man made it for his wife. ‘When the chamber is full, you know soon I will be home. If I run late, forgive me and give it another turn.’ That’s what he told her. The grains were a promise their time had become a circle; they could not help but return back to each other.”

When you were still a moth, you had only one visitor to your golden fields. You fluttered from the silphium leaves to the stalks of wheat and marveled at your unending hunger. You would die starving with nothing to be done about it; your ever-shifting brain found this novel rather than terrifying.

The stranger did not mind if you settled about their shoulder. You nestled into their warm skin, missing the skin you’d never had, and they let you do as you pleased. Your antennae, fuzzy and unwieldy, did not tickle as you thought they might. They looked to the sky, searching for something your compound eyes could not see for the great distance. You were far more interested in the millions of hairs at the nape of their neck. What joy! An infinitely repeating pattern, for the sake of— What? Your moth wisdom could not solve this.

You lost count, or your memory deliberately discarded unnecessary data. For a long time, the stranger did not come at all, and you could do nothing but dream you were dreaming, bringing the rabbit back to life though she would always die and sometimes she would be eaten in great detail. Flesh shorn by teeth. The smear of blood across a mouth. The rabbit did not remember. Lucky her! Lucky her.

You dreamed so long you forgot part of you was still in the waking world, oblivious to the unending march of time. Your wings no longer worked. Your abdomen was furiously melting you from the inside out, acids building up without any other ambition now that you’d taken their one purpose. For a moth, you’d lived a good, long life, so you laid to die upon the stone wall, expecting to be blown away by a gust of breeze and lost in the gold forever.

“Don’t do this,” the stranger said to you, gently cupping you in their hands. The blood of millions, burned into the palms. You thought the blood was warm, so you snuggled closer, delighted by the new texture from the lines in their hands against your frail, dying body. Again, with greater urgency: “Don’t do this.”

Sorry, you thought, though only because it was what was polite. Feeling generous, you shared a secret: Moths can’t really sleep. It wasn’t my dream. But it was nice to be there. I’m glad you were there.

You died in the stranger’s hands, who grieved horribly for you, one simple moth that’d forever lost its kin. To your relief, someone else dreamed of the rabbit instead.

She let the man rip off her leg, no longer forgetting. She dragged herself with her front paws across the bloodied field, smearing red across her fur, and returned to the mess of her leg. The rabbit sighed, though really she wanted to cry. No more crying. Rabbits couldn’t cry anyway, and she no longer had you to bend the rules of the dream for her. The leg, then: flat teeth sank into the fur and flesh. The toughness of uncooked meat. She could not chew it but eventually, holding it in her mouth for so long blood seeped from both corners, it was finally possible for her to swallow.

Far in the hills, the wolf howled and wailed. The rabbit ignored this. How joyless, to do the same thing again and again. She knew eventually she could eat herself away until nothing was left.

No more ripped legs. No more crying wolves.

“I think I was meant to be born a nymph,” you said one day without preamble.

You were leaning against the lip of the bath, knees drawn up to your chest in the Starlight Pool. Phainon often refused to step foot in the chilled waters, but insisted he accompany you. “So I can be there when you turn into a block of ice, and be the first to say I told you so once you’ve melted,” he’d said. Phainon almost always spent his time lounging on a nearby klinai, dragged closer to whatever edge of the pool you’d settled in. He regularly helped himself to your tray of snacks while you were unable to stop him from pilfering your figs and grapes, though he at least had the manners to save some fruit for you.

“A nymph?” Phainon repeated, hand stilling midway to deposit a grape in his open mouth. His hand lowered. Beneath his messy fringe, you saw the furrow of his brows, creasing his forehead. “The golden butterflies, you mean?”

“No,” you said, then turned your head so you could make your own face of confusion at your knees. What else could you mean? As soon as you’d said it, you’d no idea why. Perhaps part of the process of the cold water purifying your mind was dredging up every stupid thought you had. “I don’t think I’d be gold,” you recovered, muscles tensing as the water rippled from another patron’s shifting.

More and more, you’d get awful headaches. The chittering of the black tide, trapped in your ears and always muttering. On the worst days, you thought you could make out the words: sky, sea, sword. Moon, corpse, cleaver. Your only hope was frequent soaks within the Starlight Pool. Phainon had suggested the Dawn Pool, so you might sleep better, but you did not want to sleep. You dropped your chin atop a knee and then turned your head, letting your cheek rest on the bone instead.

“What color, then?” Phainon asked, finally recovering and popping three grapes into his mouth.

You graciously ignored the complete depletion of your grapes. You liked figs better anyway. “I don’t know.” Closing your eyes, you asked, “What do you think?”

“Hmm. I think white,” Phainon said.

You hummed. Plain and colorless, he meant, but you supposed you had asked.

Later, when you could stand the frigid water no longer, you reluctantly split your last fig with Phainon, though he had the sense to feign guilt when you reminded him of your lost grapes. “Well,” you said, “I hope my fruits were payment enough for wasting your lucid hour.” Phainon had never ending appointments through action hour and sometimes you’d hear how he was running errands on opposite sides of Okhema simultaneously. You cast about for your leather sandals and stood up to find Phainon looking at you with a pronounced pout. “What?”

“Can’t I enjoy my time with you?” he said. “I thought we were friends.”

The persistent murmur of black tide, crowding against the back of your skull and reaching towards your ears from the inside. “I know you’re busy,” you said, bringing a hand to your temple as if that would chase away the looming headache. You would curl up at home and try to pretend the unending light could not reach you. “You must have better things to do than hear about how I was robbed of my life as a nymph.”

So earnestly you were sure he was making fun of you, Phainon said, “I’m glad you’re human instead.”

RABBIT: I still love you.

REVERSE SHOT to reveal RABBIT is staring up at Khaslana, the lone observer sat amongst the prohedria. This is not a stageplay but someone’s dream. The MOTH is no longer dreaming. No one, not even Khaslana, can remember the number of dreamers.

KHASLANA: You’re still dreaming.

RABBIT: You’re dreaming, too. Aren’t you?

The lights dim. The rabbit leaves the stage, hopping delicately, the tuft of her tail white as snow. From the stage to the prohedria, the rabbit finds a vantage point and puts one soft paw against Khaslana’s chest.

KHASLANA: You’ll burn yourself.

He gently moves the rabbit’s paw. The rabbit makes a face, one very nuanced among rabbits, but no one can parse its meaning. She stomps a foot in frustration. This is the foot once ripped from her body in a dreamer’s dream. Somewhere, there is blood staining the grass. The rabbit bleeds red. If one with golden blood were gutted in those memory-softened fields, no one would notice the blood until it touched something else.

RABBIT: Find me when I’m human. 

KHASLANA: I’ve found you through millions of Coreflames. 

RABBIT: Find me again. I miss you. I still love you.

KHASLANA: I killed you, you know.

RABBIT: I know.

The unseen orchestra begins to play a slow song on the strings.

RABBIT: You’re stuck in the worst dream of any of us. But you never hurt me.

KHASLANA: I killed you. I watched you die.

RABBIT: I was always going to die. Right?

The rabbit’s ears twitch towards the orchestra. Khaslana closes his eyes. The rabbit lifts one paw and turns towards the darkness beyond the half-circle of seats.

RABBIT: I think I remember my dream now.

KHASLANA: You’re still dreaming.

RABBIT: Then I’ll find you in the morning.

The sky splits and the lights go out, as if they were never there at all. The painting calling itself the sky peels back its outer face. No more music. No more orchestra. The divine hand of GOD carves a message in the stars: HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.

KHASLANA: Goodnight. Goodnight. I wish you a softer dream.

RABBIT: Find me in the wheat. I love you. I love you.

end notes.

thanks for reading if anyone did! i wrote this for myself but told myself maybe someone out there might want to read it, too. there is a whole separate document keeping track of the repetition of words and phrases, symbols, and so forth. so it was a pretty normal exercise and very much not a sign of insanity. from the bottom of my heart: my bad.

[crystallizedday]

Hey uh

So

Did anyone else like…?

Now I don’t know if bright smiles were intentionally used as a reoccurring idea here

But to me, this overlap tells me just how genuine & special Spamton & Tenna’s relationship was

Something with legitimate hope & joy, a bond that shined bright despite the bleakness of their circumstances (ie the Holidays & Dreemurrs losing interest in watching Tenna & thus making him gradually feel more & more obsolete).

I feel like not enough people really

Do much with this,

& it makes me a wee bit sad.

The entire reason Tenna wanted Spamton to spill his secret is so the big ol CRT could be relevant & useful to his Lightner family again.

His partnership & eventual relationship with Spamton likely kept him from spiraling too quickly for the longest time, giving him hope that he could be loved by the Dreemurrs again

& also giving him someone special that he could actually communicate with & form a proper, strong bond with.

Hell

If I can put on my tin foil hat for a moment

If there’s a legit parallel between Kris & Susie’s friendship & Spamton & Tenna’s relationship

Then that actually answers something that I’m sure SOME of us have wondered for some time now

That being

Would Tenna still have adored the lil mailman if Spamton never accepted that deal with the benefactor?

Sure, they MET & had the OPPORTUNITY to grow closer with one another thanks to Spamton’s higher status at the time

But what if Spamton lost that fame while he was still with Tenna?

What if Kris was free from the soul’s influence?

Susie only got to know Kris AFTER the player starts controlling them. It’s why Susie thinks it’s normal for Kris to sound so “off” while Noelle, a childhood friend of Kris, recognizes it as not their normal tone.

Even so, despite Susie’s impression of Kris being somewhat skewed, we see Kris genuinely enjoy being friends with Susie, which is most evident in chapter 4. The two are goofballs who often share a singular braincell, the soul’s influence be damned.

Kris could break free of the soul’s control, & that would barely change a thing between their & Susie’s strong friendship.

Imagine if that was the same for Spamton & Tenna.

Imagine Tenna loving who Spamton TRULY was

Not some braggy big shot

But a lil addison with big dreams.

We have no idea HOW vulnerable the two were with one another & how much of their past they were willing to mutually share

But MAN

That doesn’t stop this concept from absolutely DESTROYING me emotionally.

Fate ultimately severed their bond, & their separate insecurities did the rest to eventually turn them against each other.

… it makes me wonder if something similar is fated to happen to Susie & Kris in the prophecy…

[httpssturns]

♫ 014. Superpowers . . . m.s

⋆.˚ 𓅆 Never Enough Writing Marathon ⋆.˚࿐

cw: smut, no actual p in v, switch!matt, intimate, body dysphoria, plus size!reader, oral stimulation (fem! receiving), cumming in pants, suggestive language, yadayada i sound like a Netflix show now main masterlist for more fanfic reads 💙

Matt had noticed you fidgeting all day, the pull at your shirt, the shift of your legs, the way you were hugging yourself to cover your stomach, Matt noticed it all.

He always notices the little things.

And so when you came to him, wobbly mouthed and tear eyed, it wasn't shocking.

It also didn’t hurt him any less.

“Oh, sweetheart..” He murmurs, immediately opening his arms for you to crawl into.

“C’mere,”

You slide into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as you hide your face in his chest. He can already feel the material of his shirt getting damp.

“Love, what's wrong?” He asks softly, running his fingers through your locks.

“I—just.. I feel fat, Matt. I feel ugly and awful and I don't even know what to do with myself,” You explain, your eyes welling further and your hands jutting out in an expressive dance.

“I don't like any of my clothes, they don't fit how I want, I just feel so ugly.” Matt sighs softly. The way you talk about yourself, about his girl, his everything.. it just breaks him inside. He could almost cry himself and he wasn't even the one experiencing your pain.

“Baby, you don't even understand how absolutely beautiful you are,” He murmurs, cradling your face in his hands.

“You are everything to me. You’re so, so special. The world needs more people like you.” He pauses to wipe a run away tear from your eyes, kissing the tear track in the process.

“You are so beautiful. I love everything about you, sweetheart. You are honestly the prettiest girl I've ever seen, you know that?”

 You look up at him, the most vulnerable expression on your face, and your voice comes out as the softest whisper;

“Really? You…you think so?” “Baby, I don't think so.” He chuckles, “I know so.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, gazing at you with an adoring glint in his eye.

“You know how much I absolutely adore you, sweetheart. Do I really need to show you I love your body? You already know I'm obsessed with everything about you.” He teases softly, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You ponder his question for a few seconds, before the shyest murmur slips from your lips.

“I could use a reminder..”

When you look up from your embarrassment, you notice Matt’s lips are graced with the sweetest smile, like he's absolutely delighted by your response.

“Then i’ll give you one. You’ll never be able to forget again.” He whispers, his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin.

He gently pushes you down on the bed, his frame draping over yours as he stares down at you with a longing gaze.

“Can I take this off?” He asks quietly, tugging gently at the hem of your soft sweater.

“Yes,” You breathe, looking at him with anticipation as he slowly slides your sweater off.

When the article of clothing is discarded, his breath hitches. He’s seen you like this so many times before—but he still can't get over it. He can't get over how absolutely stunning you are.

“Fuck.. baby, you're so pretty..” He murmurs, fingers trailing over your soft skin as he takes in his girl.

His lips quickly follow suit, trailing down your abdomen and chest with unhurried, loving kisses. His tongue occasionally darts out of his mouth to taste the salty sweetness of your skin, and he just can't get enough.

He moves his fingers to the clasp of your bra, looking up at you for your permission before undoing it and tossing it somewhere across the room.

When your tits are finally free, he groans softly, cupping them in his hands just to feel the weight of you in his palms.

He quickly moves down your body, bringing his lips to your nipple and engulphing it with the heat of his mouth.You let out a quiet moan, your back arching slightly to get closer to him.

As soon as he's done with that one, he's quick and determined to give the other the same amount of attention, licking and sucking at your breast like that's what he was meant to do.

“God, I love you..” he moans, his face buried in the valley of your tits. “So fucking soft..”

He could almost whimper with how perfect you were. So soft and absolutely beautiful.

He trails his lips down your chest and to your stomach, nuzzling into the plush flesh as he lets out a soft sigh.

“I love how soft you are,” he murmurs quietly, looking up at you with adoration.

You're speechless, feeling so loved and seen that it's almost overwhelming. You only seem to be able to stare at him, your lip quivering.

His lips finally reach the waistband of your shorts, and he slowly but surely pulls them down, glancing up at you ever so often for reassurance.

He kisses down your thighs, gently placing them over his shoulders as he nuzzles his face into the plush skin.

“Love how warm you are too.. so pretty..” Matt mumbles. It's like he's already drunk off of you, off of the mere sensation of your warmth and the smell of your scent clouding his senses.

his tongue darts out to tease your clothed clit, brushing against the sensitive bud through the material as he relishes the feeling of you surrounding him.

“Please let me take this off,” He pleads, his eyes cloudy with a haze as he pulls at the elastic of your panties.

“O-okay..” You whisper in response, clenching at the sheets below you.

As soon as you give him the okay, he's ripping your panties off, his demeanor going from slow and steady to purely desperate.

He's desperate to taste you on his tongue.

He nips and kisses at your inner thighs, leaving small red marks and hickies as he drinks in the bliss of being completely surrounded by your plush thighs.

Before fully delving in, he teases you a little, placing kisses on your clit, kitten licks through your folds.. he knows just how to work you up.

“Already soaking for me baby.. god, I'm the luckiest man alive..”

He latches onto your clit, suckling and licking at your dripping pussy. “Fuck Matt!” You whine, your fingers threading through his hair and tugging.

“Feels good.. keep doing that,” Matt groans, burying his face further into your core as he sloppily eats you out.

His tongue swirls around your clit before plunging into your hole, muffled moans and groans shooting pleasure into you through little vibrations.

“So good.. so good!” You moan, head tipping back as your hips rock into his face, his nose perfectly nudging at your bud.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl, dripping all over my face..” Matt growls against your core, his words muffled as he devours you.

Matt's hips rock into the mattress, the frame gently knocking into the wall. It's almost as if eating you out is giving him pleasure, like he's the one getting off.

“I—god.. I'm so close,” You wail, and Matt's lips and tongue only get faster, determined to make you explode on his tongue.

With every flick of Matt's tongue, you only get closer to your release, teetering on the edge as you desperately rock your hips against his face.

“I’m gonna cum, Matt! Fuck—i'm gonna..” You gasp, not even able to finish your sentence before you're cumming on his tongue.

As Matt tastes your release on his tongue, he whimpers, his hips jerking into the mattress as he cums just from your taste alone.

He laps up all of your essence eagerly, before finally lifting his head from your thighs when you weakly pull at his hair.

He pulls you into his arms, cradling you and murmuring how good you did for him.

“Baby, you are so perfect,” he breathes, pressing a soft, loving kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” He whispers softly, “I love you, too.” “Now, lets clean up, we're both a mess..” Matt chuckles quietly, looking down at his soiled sweatpants with a sheepish smile.

“Baby, did you really cum in your pants just from eating me out?” You ask with a laugh, your heart fluttering at the thought that he likes you that much.

“Sweetheart,” Matt laughs incrediculously, “You’re really fucking attractive. I couldn't help it.” He helps you up, before murmuring “I hope that helped you remember how beautiful I think you are..”

“Yeah, I don't think I'll forget,” you chuckle, “But if I do, you could always remind me again.” Matt chuckles at your cheeky remark, before murmuring in your ear;

“I'll be reminding you way more often then, you know, just in case.” 

You giggle before dragging him to the bathroom “Come on you dirty!” 

You'll always have your days of not feeling confident, of not feeling pretty enough compared to others, but you know what you'll also always have?

Matt.

You'll always have him to remind you of how beautiful you are, inside and out.

@cursed-carmine for the dividers

☆ soph's notes: I hope I did this song justice cuz like... this is my favorite one hehe

[cringearenachamp]

if it's gregg (or neal for his lil songs) thats okay but otherwise no reason whatsoeverrrrr 💃

Oh…

[maxdibert]

I’ve been thinking about this a bit, and I’d love to hear your opinion on it. I find it kind of strange when people act as if (most) Slytherin kids didn’t grow up in seriously messed-up circumstances. Like, sure, from what we’ve seen they weren’t necessarily directly abused, but they were basically raised in a cult. Or at least raised by a cult?

In Draco’s year, literally every boy except Blaise Zabini had a Death Eater father. So all of them grew up with at least one parent who was a mass murderer? (That’s my assumption, anyway we never get a clear breakdown of what being a Death Eater entails, but it’s definitely not harmless.)

And on top of that, they’re not allowed to leave that cult-like environment. Andromeda being burned off the family tree makes a kind of sense, since she married a muggleborn. But Sirius was disowned just for rejecting pureblood ideology and running off to the Potters, who are purebloods themselves.

And that threat will always loom over their head even if they don’t actually have anyone in the family das did get disgraced or not.

I get that Draco was a mean kid. And yes, he had two loving parents, and he’ll never have to work a day in his life. But I still think it’s somewhat flawed to claim he had a “good” childhood. His father could love him more than anything, but if that father is also a mass murderer who tortures people, that’s still incredibly damaging. No amount of money can make that okay for a child.

Also if the threat of getting kicked out of your family for not being prejudice is constantly in the back of your mind isn’t really the best thing for child development.

I've seen a lot of people say that Slytherins "got what they deserved" either because they were bigots or children of bigots (which I honestly find terrible), and I think these are people who are completely disconnected from the reality of how individuals act or how the idiosyncrasy works in environments deeply affected by ideologies or beliefs that border on the sectarian. As I've said many times, I went to a Catholic school where a lot of kids were from Opus Dei families, and Opus Dei is an ultra-Catholic, highly sectarian group whose families are forbidden from having relationships with former members. If you watch any documentary on the subject, you might be horrified by the mechanisms they use not only to recruit new generations but also to create in children and teenagers an absolute emotional and psychological dependence on that environment and to provoke in them a need to be part of the community. Also, they become extremely vulnerable because their families belong to that community, and all of their support networks are tied to it.

People love to bring up Andromeda and Sirius, but they don’t like to mention that Andromeda and Sirius had somewhere to go. Andromeda married Ted Tonks and was disowned by her family because of it. But she had Ted, and probably Ted’s family too. She had somewhere to go, she had a future, she had emotional support. Sirius not only distanced himself from that sectarian environment thanks to ending up in Gryffindor —meaning he had the privilege of making friends completely disconnected from that world— but also had the enormous privilege of his best friend being just as wealthy as him and able to take him in. He had social and economic support, he had resources. Most teenagers or young people who are in tightly closed, highly sectarian communities don’t have those kinds of options, it’s not as easy as just leaving because it means giving up your whole life: your parents, your friends, your home, everything. One of my friends attempted suicide several times after leaving the cult because her family cut ties with her. I've known people who ended up with severe psychiatric issues because of the pressure they felt from wanting to leave but not knowing how. Then I have another friend who left and to this day has a toxic relationship with her family because she can't be with them but also can’t be without them, and not even years of therapy have helped her fix this. It’s not something you can just do easily, it’s not as simple as packing your bags and leaving because the emotional implications are huge, especially when it literally means cutting yourself off from your entire environment.

Slytherin feels like that to me. Parents indoctrinate their kids because they were previously indoctrinated by their own parents. They stick together and operate in the same social circles, everything they know is Slytherin people, and all their emotional anchors and safe attachments are within that circle. So what are they supposed to do? They can't even find relief at school because they literally live with those people. Leaving their family would also mean leaving the house they belong to in school, because they wouldn’t be able to handle the stigma and ostracism of living with people who despise them. We're talking about children and teenagers. And Sirius is a terribly convenient case because he didn't have to face rejection at his Hogwarts house, nothing changed for him there. He had a different house, his own safe space. No Slytherin kid would be that lucky. You can’t make moral judgments by pointing to characters who not only had opportunities that others didn’t, but also had tools, resources, and escape routes, things others simply didn’t have. We know Draco didn’t really want to be a Death Eater and didn’t want to kill or torture people either. He was forced to do it because otherwise the cult would punish his parents. That’s exactly how these groups operate: if they see you’re not on board or want to back out, they threaten your family as coercion. What was Draco supposed to do? Ask his aunt for help, who happened to be Voldemort’s right hand? His parents’ friends, who were just as deep in the cult as they were? His housemates and friends, whose families were involved too? We’re talking about a 16-year-old boy who suddenly finds himself alone and forced to kill someone or watch his family die. And it’s not like he joined that world by choice, not even before knowing how awful it was. His parents got him into it long before he was old enough to decide anything for himself.

A lot of people blame them for not taking sides in the war. What did you expect them to do? Kill their own parents, uncles, cousins, grandparents? It doesn’t make sense. Of course they didn’t do anything, the only thing they did was survive. We're talking about children and teenagers, a huge number of whom have families in the Death Eaters or are at least connected to them in some way. Are you seriously expecting them to start killing members of their own family? Teenagers? Are we insane? And why should they do that? To help people who’ve always judged and despised them? That doesn’t make sense either.

It’s also worth noting, for example, that Sirius’s experience is not the norm. He was at odds with his mother, but that wasn’t the case for his brother Regulus. It also wasn’t the case for Draco, and from what we know, Draco’s friends didn’t have problems with their families either. Generally speaking, the children of Death Eaters or Slytherins come from wealthy families without major internal drama. The thing is, it’s easy to start questioning your surroundings when there’s a rupture in your home life. But if your parents have always treated you well, if you’ve been a happy child and everything around you has always seemed how it’s "supposed" to be, why would you question anything? To you, your parents and family are the good guys, and the people who say otherwise are the same ones who shun you at school, who take the House Cup away from you, who label you as evil. This kind of apartheid-like behavior toward certain problematic groups is exactly what promotes their radicalization. Because thinking you’re doing social good by excluding them actually just reinforces their views and validates the “us versus them” narrative they’ve been taught since birth. If Dumbledore treats them like future criminals, then obviously they’ll become future criminals, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Because you’re not making an effort to educate them or give them the tools to see other options, and at the same time you’re not offering any kind of path or way out for those who might want to question their beliefs or their situation. Because if they try to leave, all they see is that outsiders are also turning their backs on them. So honestly, I think the whole way Slytherins are treated in the story is completely insane from a victimological, psychotherapeutic and educational point of view. It makes no sense, and it shows a terrible lack of sensitivity and empathy.

I think the people who so easily judge these kinds of environments based simply on the fact that certain ideologies are clearly wrong have no idea how cults actually work, or how they make the community the center of their members’ entire lives, or how they create the perception that this community is the whole world. And I think before people spout nonsense and start talking about Nazis or racists or whatever, they should at least watch a couple documentaries on the subject, but I guess it’s easier to be a bunch of ignorant folks who think they’re cool just for throwing around some modern buzzwords without doing any real soul-searching about how oppressive mechanisms actually work in this world. And no, sorry, but I’m not going to demonize 11- to 17-year-olds who end up caught in cults. I’ve known too many people who have ended up destroyed by this to disrespect them so terribly. In fact, if I feel sorry for Draco, it’s precisely because he reminds me of those people I’ve known, people who, during their childhood, were fully convinced that where they were was where they were supposed to be, and that everyone else was wrong, but who later ended up in a psychiatric hospital.

[gilverrwrites]

If you’re still doing the number and character writing 👉👈 how’s 32 and Guy Gardner sound?

Sweet, Gooey, Centre

Guy Gardner/Reader, 400 words

Soft. Vulnerable. Sweet. These aren't adjectives most would use to describe Guy Gardner. And with good cause. It's just not the image he cultivates. He takes pride in being the rough-and-ready. kind of guy that people come to when a softer touch just can't get the job done.

But those people; the ones who don't take the time to discover the sweet, gooey centre that's hidden beneath his his tough exterior, are missing out. On a lot of things.

Especially the quiet moments like this. When the world is calm, and it's nothing but you, him, and the stars. His endearingly big mouth is shut, and he's looking at you as though you're the most precious thing in all the universe. His lids are low, the lines around his shining green eyes are soft, and his lips are pursed into a thin, serene smile.

“What are you thinking about?” You quiz, missing the sound of his voice.

“I'm thinkin’ I’m in love with ya and I’m terrified.” The notion that he might be falling for you doesn't come as a surprise. You’ve been dating for a few months. Love is kinda the end game here.

Its the second part that causes query. “You? Terrified? You're the bravest person I know.”

“Let me impart a bit of wisdom here that I used to tell the kids back in my teaching days.” As he speaks, he takes your hand in his, eyes still fixed on you as his smile broadens. You don't doubt his sincerity, but he also loves to showboat a little. Or a lot on some occasions. “Bein’ brave ain't always about not bein’ scared. It’s about doin’ something even when it does scare ya. Ya get me?”

“I do.” You reply, bringing his hand to your hip, freeing your arms up to drape over his shoulders. He wastes no time reciprocating, his sturdy arms curling around your waist and pulling you in, until you're close enough to smell the sugar on his breath. “So, are you going to love me anyway?”

His lips are dry, but yielding. Welcoming. Urging you to take more from them. His hands still squeezing you, pressing your bodies almost impossibly tightly together. Despite kissing you like a man starved, its Guy who pulls back first, biting his lips as he examines your face, that tender smile returning to his face before he answers. “Absolutely.”

send me a pairing/character + a number and i'll write you a drabble/blurb

[partylikemajima]

MY PRAYER EVERYONE...HAS BEEN ANSWERED. BLESS YOU OH MY GOD 🙈💖👀❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 ITS MY LUNCH BREAK BUT I SAW THE TAG IN THE MORNING AND JUST HAD TO READ IT ASAP.

GOD THIS WAS AMAZING!!!! 🗣📣👏👏👏👏👏 OHHH MYYY the build up was OOUGHHH 🙈🙉👏👏👏👏👏 AND THE MIRROR?!!? (Are you inside my head???) AND THEN THE SECOND ROUND WITH THE EXTRA PASSION!?!? SECOND ROUND WAS MY ABSOLUTE FAV!!!! FAV!!!!!! PERFECT USE OF THE LINES THERE NOT JUST ONE BUT THE WHOLE JEALOUSY AND LOVE 🤣🤣🤣❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 see the whole line i wanted it to be it shows he's jealous but hes like HURT AND JEALOUS, VULNERABLE AND YOU DID IT!!! 🥺🥺🥺🥺💖💖💖🤧🤧🤧😭😭😭😭💖💖💖 AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH AND THEN THE EXTRA 3AM FLUFF??? GOSSSHHHHHH 😔😔😔😔😔🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 SERIOUSLY ARE YOU IN MY HEAD??? ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂

You Know Who You Belong To 🍃

Modern!au Elijah “Smoke” Moore X Annie LaFleur (They are just dating in this AU)

Word Count: 4.5k

Authors note: First of all, shout out to @brownskincheyenne for the tag in @partylikemajima post. Y’all can go give a quick read right here if you want. I saw the post and immediately got an idea. So I hope I did you justice sis 😭🤏🏽 Smoke is talking cash shit in this one and I love it. Gotta love when that man gets jealous 🥴🤭 makes me tingly inside. I need somebody to talk to me like this. Especially with the hand around the throat.

The bass throbs through the floor, vibrating up Annie’s heels and into her ribs as she leans into the sway of the music, one hand in the air, the other cradling a nearly empty glass. The room is thick with perfume, sweat, and low lighting. Bodies pressed together in every direction and she lets it all blur around her. That’s the point. To lose herself a little.

The fitted black dress hugs her body like it remembers who used to take it off. Off-shoulder, high slit, tight at the waist. It’s a bold choice. Maybe too bold. But she wears it anyway. A glossy lip, fresh curls hanging loose and wild, gold hoops swaying with every move. She looks good. She knows it.

Marcus; tall, sweet, and new dances behind her, hands on her hips, fingers inching lower each time the beat drops. He smells like Creed and confidence. His smile is boyish, and he’s been saying all the right things since the moment he picked her up. She doesn’t stop him when he pulls her closer. Doesn’t stop herself from pushing back into him when the beat kicks.

But her eyes flick toward the club entrance.

And when they land on him, her body stiffens like it just got caught doing something it shouldn’t.

Smoke.

All black. Hood up. Chain glinting under the strobes. No smile. No expression. Just that look, the kind that sets fire to her spine.

He’s standing still, barely two steps inside, taking it all in. But his eyes aren’t scanning the crowd. They’re locked on her.

And she knows that look.

That heat. That rage.

She keeps dancing anyway.

Lets her back press a little deeper into Marcus’s chest. Lets her fingers trail up into her hair, jaw tilted to the side. Exposing her neck the way she knows Smoke used to love.

Every move is a dare.

But he doesn’t come over. Not yet.

He watches.

And the longer he stands there, the thicker the air gets around her. Marcus leans in to say something. Maybe a joke, maybe a compliment but his voice doesn’t register. Her pulse is pounding too loud in her ears.

Her body is facing Marcus, but her mind is already cornered.

Already his.

When Smoke finally starts moving, her breath catches. His walk is slow. Controlled. Each step like punctuation to something he hasn’t said yet.

Marcus hasn’t noticed a thing.

Smoke doesn’t push through the crowd, the crowd moves for him. No words. No hands. Just presence. When he reaches them, he stops only a few inches away. Big frame, stiff jaw, eyes unreadable.

Marcus blinks, confused. “Yo… something I can help you with?”

Smoke doesn’t answer. His eyes never leave Annie.

That stare is too still, too loaded.

And then, casually, almost too casually he tilts his chin toward Marcus.

“Yeah. You can get gone.”

Marcus half-laughs. “Wait, what?”

Smoke doesn’t flinch.

“Go ahead, dawg. Clock out.”

Now Marcus looks to Annie, expecting her to step in. To say something. To clarify whatever the hell’s happening.

She doesn’t.

Because she can’t.

Smoke is still looking at her like he can see every inch of skin that used to belong to him. Like he knows her body better than the beat she was dancing to. And the worst part?

She feels guilty. And she hates that.

Marcus takes a breath, then backs off with a muttered curse, disappearing into the crowd without another word.

Silence settles thick between them.

Smoke steps into the space Marcus left behind, the heat from his chest nearly brushing hers.

“You serious?” she snaps, folding her arms.

“You wore that dress,” he says, eyes flicking down her body.

“You don’t get to act territorial.”

“You let him touch you? Kiss you? Fuck you?”

Annie scoffs and turns away before she says something reckless. “You don’t talk to me like I belong to you.”

Smoke moves with her, circling until they’re face to face again.

“You do.”

She stares at him, breath shallow. “No, I don’t.”

His jaw ticks. “Say it again.”

Annie doesn’t answer. She spins on her heel and walks straight for the exit, the heat from her skin damn near searing through her dress.

She can hear him behind her.

Not running.

Not calling out.

Just following.

The same way he always has. Heavy and inevitable, like smoke in her lungs.

The second the club door swings shut behind her, the night air hits Annie like a slap. Sticky and thick with leftover heat, music still thudding faintly behind her. She inhales sharp and fast, like she’s trying to breathe out everything that just happened.

Her heels click across the sidewalk as she storms toward the curb, jaw tight, adrenaline still buzzing under her skin. She’s already digging in her purse, muttering curses under her breath, searching for her phone.

“Yo,” Smoke calls behind her. Calm, but loaded. “Where you going?”

She doesn’t turn around. “Home.”

“Cool. Come on.”

That stops her.

She whirls on him, wide-eyed. “Excuse me?”

Smoke’s already walking toward his Charger, unlocking it with a casual flick of his keys. Like it’s decided. Like she’s his to direct.

“Marcus was my ride,” she snaps, her voice sharp. “Remember him? The boy you punked in front of me like you the boss or sumn…”

He looks over his shoulder, slow. “He ain’t your ride no more.”

“I’ll call an Uber.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes,” she bites, tapping her screen, “I damn sure will.”

Smoke steps in front of her before she can hit confirm.

His voice drops, low and firm, not even raised but it still lands like concrete.

“Get in the car, Annie.”

She freezes.

The arrogance in it. The way he says it like it’s not a suggestion, like she’s already halfway inside his passenger seat makes her want to scream and moan in the same breath.

Her spine straightens. Her mouth opens, heat rising behind her eyes.

“You don’t get to—”

“Get in the damn car,” he repeats, softer this time. Not begging. Not angry. Just… certain.

And that’s the problem.

Because some fucked-up part of her responds to it.

To him.

To the grip in his voice, to the echo of all the nights she chose him over logic.

Annie glares at him for a long second, phone still in her hand. But then… Like her body makes the decision before her brain, she turns. And she gets in.

Slams the door behind her hard.

Smoke slides into the driver’s seat a moment later. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even start the engine right away. He just sits there, breathing deep, gripping the wheel with one hand, rubbing his bottom lip with the other.

The silence is aggressive.

Annie stares out the passenger window like it might open up and suck her into another dimension. Anywhere but here.

Finally, he starts the engine.

They pull off in silence, streetlights strobing through the windshield. The Charger hums under them, but the tension’s louder than the engine.

Annie breaks first.

“You got some fuckin’ nerve, Elijah.”

He exhales once. “Here we go.”

“No — you started this. Showing up. Acting like I’m still yours. Like you got any say.”

He scoffs, muttering, “That dress said otherwise.”

Her head jerks toward him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You wore it for me.”

She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Boy, please.”

Smoke keeps one hand on the wheel, jaw ticking. “You could’ve worn anything. You chose that. And then you let that clown stand behind you like he had a shot.”

“You are not entitled to shit,” she fires back. “You made your choice when you let me walk out of your house a few weeks ago. Don’t act brand new now just ‘cause you saw somebody else dancing behind me.”

He turns onto a quieter street, voice dropping even lower.

“Ain’t nothin’ about this new. You knew you was mine when you got dressed.”

Her pulse flutters, but she shoves it down. “You sound crazy.”

“I sound honest.”

“You sound controlling.”

“I sound like somebody who still feels every fuckin’ inch of you.”

That shuts her up.

Her chest tightens. Her thighs press together.

He keeps talking, low and slow like he’s trying not to break apart right there at the wheel.

“You don’t think I’ve been losin’ my mind these few couple weeks? Hmm? Not knowin’ who got you smilin’… who got their hands on you…?”

Annie’s breath shakes in her throat. She wants to hate him. Wants to slap him or scream or throw her heel out the window.

But all she can do is stare at the dashboard and feel. The worst part is that he’s right.

She did wear the dress for him.

She went to that club hoping he’d show. She wanted him to see. To burn.

And now she’s burning too.

“You got something to say?” he asks finally, breaking the silence.

She doesn’t answer.

Because her voice is thick with too much. Eith all the unsaid things that filled the space between them like smoke and silence. Instead, she shifts slightly in her seat, thighs clenched, breath shallow.

Smoke notices.

Of course he does.

His fingers flex on the wheel.

“That’s what I thought.”

Another silence falls but this one’s different.

Hotter. Closer.

The pull between them is thick and sticky and old. A gravity they never escaped. Her body remembers him. Every stroke. Every whisper. Every time he pulled her in just like this, only to push her away when it got too real.

They drive in silence the rest of the way.

But by the time they reach his house, both of them are already lit like fuses.

Ready to explode.

The door slams behind them with a finality that rattles Annie’s bones.

The second she turns around to say something, anything, Smoke’s hand wraps around her wrist and yanks her forward.

Before she can react, her back hits the wall. Hard. Her purse drops with a soft thud to the floor. His body presses into hers, big and solid, eyes dark with something volatile. His hand’s still wrapped around her wrist, holding it just above her head, other arm braced beside her face, caging her in.

The hallway is dim. Quiet. Just the sound of both of them breathing too fast and too shallow, like the tension from the club has followed them inside and metastasized into something physical.

Her eyes flash. “What the hell are you doing—”

“You gon’ tell me you ain’t miss it?” he growls, voice gravel-deep and close.

Annie tries to glare, but her body betrays her. Her chest heaves, nipples already tight beneath the fabric of her dress. Her legs threaten to give just from the heat rolling off of him.

“Miss what?” she spits, even as her breath hitches.

He presses his body harder against hers, mouth ghosting along her cheek, his words hot at her ear.

“Miss how I touch you. How I talk to you. How I take my fuckin’ time until you can’t say a damn thing without whimperin’.”

Her knees nearly buckle.

She clenches her jaw, trying to pull her wrist free. “Let me go.”

But he doesn’t.

He leans back just enough to look her in the eye and that’s worse.

Because that look?

That’s not anger anymore.

That’s hunger.

“You don’t want me to let go.”

His hand slips from her wrist only to slide down her arm, gripping her waist hard enough to remind her who used to own every inch of it. She opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to moan but he’s already lifting her.

Strong arms under her thighs, back pressed to the wall. Her breath leaves her in a gasp as he adjusts his grip, holding her up like she weighs nothing.

He carries her down the hall with that same quiet dominance, like she doesn’t get to say where this ends. It’s like she already said yes the second she didn’t get in that Uber.

By the time they reach the bedroom, she’s breathless. Her thighs are clenched around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders, heart beating out of rhythm.

He sets her down in front of the bed.

Steps back just enough to look her over. Without hesitation she slips out of the dress and it puddles at her feet.

His hoodie and jeans stripped off in slow, calculated silence.

The air in the room is charged. Not just with lust, but possession.

Smoke steps in behind her, stark and solid, eyes dragging over her bare body with that ruined kind of hunger. The kind you starve in silence, but never let go.

Annie’s pulse thunders in her ears.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Not even when he circles her, or even when his knuckles brush the curve of her hip.

His voice is low. Dangerous.

“You still gon’ pretend you ain’t mine?”

She starts to answer, but he doesn’t wait.

In one fluid motion, he grips her wrist, turns her toward the long mirror across from the bed, and guides her. No, forces her down onto the low leather ottoman in front of it.

“Bend over.”

She hesitates, breath catching, but her body’s already obeying. Palms on the cushion. Hips in the air. Chest trembling as she stares at her own reflection.

Smoke comes behind her, shaft thick and hard, dragging it once slowly between her slick folds, letting the weight of it press right where she’s softest.

“You this wet ‘cause of me? Just from watchin’ me walk in and jog your memory?”

He grabs her by the nape and presses down, arching her spine perfectly. Her ass sits high, thighs shaking already.

Annie sucks in a breath. “You’re so—”

But Smoke cuts her off by grabbing her chin, hard, tilting her face up toward the mirror.

His grip is steel.

His stare, hotter than any touch.

“Look at yourself,” he growls. “Look what you let me do to you.”

And then he sinks in, deep.

All at once.

No warning. Just thick, punishing heat stretching her open, claiming every inch like it belongs to him. Her mouth falls open, a soundless cry caught in her throat.

“You feel that?” he growls, teeth clenched behind her. “That’s mine.”

Her eyes slam shut, but Smoke tightens his grip under her chin and forces them open.

“Nah, baby. You gon’ watch me fuck you. Every stroke.”

And stroke he does. Slow, powerful thrusts that drive her body forward with every slap of skin against skin. The ottoman shifts beneath them, creaking faintly, but Smoke’s pace stays measured. Deep. Deliberate.

She watches herself in the mirror. Sees her body rock, her jaw slack, breasts bouncing with every impact.

“You see that face?” he mutters into her ear.

“That’s the look you get when this good dick’s inside you.”

Her arms tremble from the effort of holding herself up, moans spilling free.

He pulls out just enough to make her feel the loss, then drives back in with a force that makes her knees buckle.

She chokes on a cry. “Smoke—!”

He growls low in his throat.

“Say you missed me. Say this pussy missed me stretchin’ it out like this.”

She shakes her head, stubborn, aching and broken. “I ain’t sayin’ shit—”

He lands a sharp slap to her ass, making her jolt. Her breath catches, thighs squeezing tight.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you.”

“You tryin’ to get punished?” he says, jaw flexing.

“You ain’t cummin’ till I say. You hear me?”

Annie whines when he thrusts again. Deep and merciless, dragging out a sharp moan that echoes off the walls. His hand moves from her chin to her jaw, fingers digging in, forcing her mouth open.

“Look how fuckin’ good you take it,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “This what you gave up for some baby-faced stand-in?”

His pace quickens. Deep. Brutal.

She’s melting under him. Her moans ragged, breath hitching, thighs trembling as pressure builds in her core, threatening to snap.

“You bout to cum, ain’t you?” he growls, slowing down to that deep, grinding thrust.

“You right there?”

She nods quickly, desperately. “Please—please, Smoke, I’m—”

“Didn’t I say Don’t you fuckin’ cum.”

He stills inside her. Hands locked on her hips. Breath hot on her neck.

She screams into the cushion.

“Please—!”

“You don’t get to cum yet after dancin’ on another man in my face. You gon’ take this dick and learn who you belong to.”

He pulls back, all the way, then slams back in with a grunt that rocks through her spine.

Tears are dropping now. Not from pain, but from wanting. From the pleasure caught in her body with nowhere left to go.

He grabs her hair, pulls her up just enough to see her reflection again. Her eyes are glassy. Mascara smudged. Sweat glistening on her chest.

“You gon’ remember this face,” he huffs in her ear.

“This is what it looks like when you get put back in your fuckin’ place.”

His fingers return to her clit but still doesn’t give her what she needs.

He teases. Rubs just enough. Then stops.

Annie sobs. “I can’t hold it—”

“You will.”

Another thrust.

Another.

And then—

“Now,” he grunts. “Cum for me, now.”

Her body detonates.

The orgasm crashes through her. Overwhelming, endless, wrecking her so violently she slumps forward against the ottoman, crying his name into the leather as her body clenches around him.

Smoke groans, hips snapping one final time as he pours into her. Deep, hard, possessive.

“Fuck,” he pants into her shoulder, still holding her close.

“That’s mine. All of it.”

She goes limp in his arms, trembling, breath stuttering.

Smoke doesn’t let her fall.

He kisses the back of her neck, soft now, almost reverent. Gathers her up against his chest like he didn’t just fuck the fight out of her. Like he never wanted to let go in the first place.

“You feel that?” he whispers, voice cracked.

“Ain’t nobody else make you feel like that. Say it.”

Annie, eyes closed, voice broken:

“Nobody.”

He kisses her again. Lifts her gently.

Annie’s still trembling when Smoke lays her on the bed.

Her body sinks into the mattress like she’s weightless. Nothing but slick skin and aftershocks, legs barely responding, lips parted as she tries to catch her breath.

Smoke hovers over her, breathing hard, chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale. He brushes her curls off her forehead, eyes scanning her face like he’s committing it to memory.

But there’s still a tension in his shoulders.

A silence between them that isn’t satisfied.

He leans over, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone. Then another, lower between her breasts. One of his hands coasts down her thigh, palm dragging slow over the skin he’s already claimed.

Then his voice drops — low, dangerous, calm in the way storms are right before they break.

“Tell me somethin’.”

Annie barely manages to hum. Her legs are still open, thighs glistening with the proof of what he did to her.

“That boy you was with… He ever make you cum like that?”

Her eyes flick open. Wide. Dazed. Still wrecked.

She tries to speak but all that comes out is a weak, breathy stutter.

Smoke’s voice hardens, hand tightening slightly around her thigh.

“I said — did he do it better than me?”

Annie’s lip trembles.

She shakes her head, small and soft.

“No…”

He leans in closer, nose brushing hers.

“You sure? You was smilin’ real cute for him back at that club.”

Her breath hitches.

“He don’t touch me like you,” she whispers.

“Nobody does.”

Smoke hums low in his throat — not satisfied, but fed.

“Say it again.”

She licks her lips, eyes locking with his, voice still broken:

“Nobody’s like you.”

That’s the last warning she gets.

Smoke grabs her jaw again. Not rough this time, but firm, steady, claiming and kisses her slow. Deep. Tongue sliding against hers like he wants to taste the lie she never told.

His body shifts between her thighs, his dick already hard again dragging against her sensitive core, making her gasp into his mouth.

“You gon’ take it again,” he murmurs against her lips.

“You gon’ remember exactly why ain’t nobody come close.”

Annie moans when he slides the head of his dick against her folds again. Slow and thick, letting her feel every inch tease the entrance he just left pulsing.

“Smoke…fuck…wait—”

He shakes his head.

“Nah, baby. You asked for this when you wore that fuckin’ dress.”

He pushes in. Inch by inch until her back arches and her nails claw at the sheets.

It’s slower this time.

But deeper.

More deliberate.

Every thrust feels like a statement. Like he’s engraving it into her body.

You’re mine.

You never stopped being mine.

He hooks one of her thighs up over his hip and starts moving. deep, longing strokes that make her gasp with every exhale.

“You feel that?” he groans against her throat.

“That’s me. Not him. Me.”

Annie’s fingers dig into his back, legs trembling again already.

“F-fuck—”

“Yeah, that’s right. Say it.”

Her voice cracks. “Yours—”

Smoke pulls back, just enough to look down at her.

Eyes locked. Chest against hers. Length still deep inside her.

“Say it like you mean it.”

She gasps as he thrusts again, hard and slow. Her voice breaking on the echo:

“I’m yours!”

He grabs both wrists and pins them above her head, chest to chest, holding her there while he rolls his hips again.

Slow.

Stretching her.

Letting her feel every thick stroke like it’s punishment.

“Nobody ever fuckin’ will do it like me,” he growls, teeth scraping her neck.

She’s not even moaning now, she’s crying.

Overstimulated. Overwhelmed. Owned.

“Smoke, I—please—don’t stop—”

He slides a hand between them again, fingers slick and purposeful against her clit.

“You wanna cum again?”

She nods frantically, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes.

“Then you better say it like you never forgot.”

And she does.

Through sobs and gasps and the roll of her hips that meet his perfectly.

“No one does it like you… No one. fuck… I’m yours, Smoke—yours—”

He thrusts get harder now. Still deep, but with that edge back. That jealous, angry control in every grind.

Until she breaks again.

Her orgasm rips through her with a high, strangled sob. Her thighs locking around his waist, nails dragging down his back, eyes screwed shut as she shatters underneath him.

Smoke curses under his breath as she clenches tight around him. Her body fluttering, soaking & wrecked. He follows fast behind her, thrusting once, twice more before groaning loud against her neck.

“Shit— that’s it. That’s fuckin’ it…”

His cum spills into her again, hot and deep. Like a second claim.

Like a reminder.

When he finally collapses against her, both of them shaking and slick, he doesn’t speak right away.

He just holds her.

Kisses the damp skin under her jaw. Pulls the blanket up slowly over their bodies. And then wraps both arms tight around her waist, breathing her in.

Still not done needing her.

Because there’s no one else like her either.

~

It’s late.

Maybe 3am.

The kind of hour where the world outside feels dead quiet and the only thing alive is the warmth between two people in a bed they shouldn’t have found their way back to… but did.

Annie stirs first, curled into Smoke’s chest, legs tangled with his under the sheets. Her skin’s cooling, but her pulse is still thrumming low. Not from lust now, but from something sweeter. Something steadier.

She stretches just enough to shift her position, her bare thigh brushing his hip.

Smoke hums like a bear in hibernation.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs against her temple.

His voice is all gravel and honey. Worn out. Still warm from the way he said her name an hour ago when he was buried deep inside her.

Annie grins against his chest. “You clingy now?”

“Always been,” he mutters, hand sliding down to palm her ass lazily. “You just now noticin’?”

She giggles, soft and breathless then tilts her head to look up at him. His eyes are half-closed, but watching her anyway, lids low and full of sleep and something softer he won’t name.

“You look like you just fought a war,” she teases, brushing her fingers through his messy curls.

Smoke smirks.

“I did.”

“I won,” she says, cocking a brow.

He pinches her side under the blanket. “You almost won. Till you started cryin’ into the ottoman.”

“That was a tactical surrender,” she deadpans.

He chuckles. Full-bodied this time, vibrating against her skin and the sound alone makes her chest ache. She missed that laugh more than she realized. The real one, not the fake half-grins he gave in passing when they were pretending they didn’t care.

Smoke shifts, rolling onto his side to face her fully. One big hand cups her jaw, thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Just soft. The kind of touch that grounds her.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

Annie nods. “I’m good.”

He leans in and kisses her nose.

She scrunches it up. “That’s new.”

“You sayin’ I don’t kiss you sweet?”

“I’m sayin’ you usually kiss me like you tryna make a point.”

He smirks again, thumb brushing over her lower lip now. “I made it tonight.”

Her cheeks go warm. Her thighs tighten instinctively under the sheets.

“You ain’t have to do all that to make it.”

Smoke tilts his head. “You was the one actin’ up.”

Annie gasps. “Actin’ up?! I was dancing.”

“With some 5’10 punk who couldn’t hold a drink straight.”

“He was fine.”

Smoke levels her with a look. “You wanna get fucked again or nah?”

She bites her lip, then leans in, grinning as she whispers:

“You look good when you’re jealous.”

His hand tightens just a little on her jaw. Enough to remind her who she’s curled up with.

“Make me that jealous again… and I might catch a body next time.”

Annie lets out a breathy laugh, even as her toes curl. Because his voice didn’t waver. He said that shit like he meant it and somehow, it makes her want him even more.

She brushes her thumb along his bottom lip, voice a little softer now.

“You know it’s always been you, right?”

Smoke doesn’t answer right away. Just pulls her in tighter, his leg hooking over hers, hand sliding up her spine until she’s tucked under his chin again.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I know.”

They lie there like that for a while. No need to rush. No more need to prove anything.

Eventually, Annie murmurs, “You hungry?”

Smoke’s hand slides low, palm resting heavy over her bare hip.

“You tryin’ to feed me or ride me?”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You just—” She laughs. “No chill.”

He shrugs. “Ain’t got none left after what you pulled.”

“So you not hungry.”

“Oh, I’m starvin’. Just tryna figure out what I wanna eat first.”

She smacks his chest. He catches her wrist. Kisses her knuckles.

Then she curls back into him with a little sigh, blanket sliding low off her shoulder.

“Let’s sleep first.”

“Then round three?”

“Then waffles.”

Smoke laughs low into her hair.

“Waffles it is.”

—-

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