#only turn this way and that way and its on your right like. i cannot drive without gps im so serious

[i-like-loserz]

breedable

pairing: husband!san x reader

cw: explicit (18+), raging breeding-kink, unprotected sex (no condom, yes other contraceptives), needy/whiny!san, cuteness/sexiness aggression (^^look AT THOSE ADORABLE PICS), not dub-con because you're not actually forcing san to have a child - its just a fantasy and san respects the responsible day dreaming -- oh, and this is NOT beta-read.

wc: 1.6k

note: reverse breeding kink turns my mind into a slushie

masterlist

---

you have a special type of aggression when it comes to your husband.

while there's the usual cuteness aggression that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and tickle him until he's a giggling mess -- or the alternative "awe-infused-aggression," that makes you want to crawl all over him and worship his body (because he's built like a god) -- but this special aggression is a mix of the two.

you call it the "i-need-to-pass-on-his-genes-with-mine" or the breeding-aggression. you see his perfect, docile face -- the cute way his brows scrunch together whenever he's feeling too much, the way his chiseled abs clench as he holds himself back -- and it sets a fire in your horny soul.

typically, when one describes a breeding kink, it involves someone wanting to impregnate the other person in an act of love and possession. of course, the other person is wholeheartedly egging them on because they, too, want to carry their baby.

in this case, however, you work hard to fuck him to get you pregnant.

you may wonder, "is that not exactly the same thing as a normal breeding kink?," which will be responded with a, "no, because san is a smart boy and he doesn't want a child at the moment -- that is, not until you're both done achieving your dreams and settled into a family-friendly environment."

san is the sensible one in the relationship, while you play the role of a feral cat in heat. he always insists on a condom or some birth control while you immediately embrace your inner horny demon and cannot go a week without begging him to fill you up like a boston cream donut.

you often think he's just playing the role of the timid damsel, begging for mercy before getting thoroughly ravished because he always ends up giving in.

at first, this obsession started with an accidental and harmless mistake.

you forgot to get condoms.

neither of you realized it until you stuck your hand into the bedside drawer, only to come up empty handed.

san, the sweetheart he is, offered to run to the store to get some. but before he could leave, you pulled him back and convinced him that one time without it wouldn't hurt. you can always take the morning after pill. right?

and you thought that was that.

but once you saw the way his cute lashes fluttered as he entered you, eyes shiny from how lost he was in the pleasure -- maybe something clicked for you. maybe.

and maybe, when you felt how his body shivered, finally feeling your warmth without any barriers, and how his cock throbbed within you, you knew this would turn into an addiction.

a dangerous one.

then when he came inside, painting your walls in his warmth before pulling out to reveal his sloppy mess, your brain chemistry became altered in a way that would change the course of desires for the rest of your life.

and then, pushing his love back in so affectionately with his fingers, eyes glazed over in awe and hunger, you knew something changed within him as well -- as much as he'd deny it. he already started to get hard again from seeing how he dripped from your perfect cunt.

and so, after that fateful night, you tried to hold back, knowing that taking the morning-after pill often wasn't healthy (and, of course, you and san weren't ready for kids yet).

this didn't stop you from imagining how his cum would feel if there wasn't a barrier between you every time you fucked. or how pretty he'd be as your baby daddy, claiming you as his own as he gives you the perfect little family.

ok, and fine, maybe you 'forgot' to buy condoms a few more times after that. and maybe you made it a habit to make him cum a few times before fucking him so he'd be a little less attentive to the missing condoms just so you can feel him gushing out of you once more.

but that's neither here nor there.

...

ok, so, maybe it was here.

and there.

here, in the house -- on the couch during movie night, on the bed in the morning, on the kitchen counter when you saw him in that cute little frilly apron he borrowed from you, in the shower when he got back from the gym.

and there, outside the house -- messily in the car(s), in a tight dressing room, spontaneously in a lake, in a utility closet at his work (don't ask) -- so you had to find a sustainable solution quickly.

it finally got to the point where you made a doctor's appointment to get on birth control because you knew you wouldn't be able to hold yourself back anymore. the pull-out method wasn't going to work for long, and you knew san was struggling to deny your whiny begs to be filled.

now, you can say whatever you want and he'll be the obedient husband that he is.

---

"cum in me, sannie..." you whisper in his ear, rolling your hips and perfectly arching your back so you can press your hot body against his. "don't you want to make me a mommy?"

you admire how his cute face scrunches up as you speed up on top of him. he's flushed a pretty scarlet, from his chiseled chest to his cheeks -- a product of your merciless teasing and edging from earlier in the evening.

"b-baby," he meets your motions smoothly, eyes squeezed shut as his body struggles to bear with the sensations of your soft heat wrapped around him. "fuck, i-i'm..."

"...you're...?" you ask, mockingly. you lightly rake your nails against the back of his neck. the action never fails to make him shiver and buck against you. you let out a short gasp as the feeling of him suddenly fully thrusting into you nearly knocks the air out of you. he's hitting that sweet sweet spot inside of you now -- and it's making you almost as delirious as the man under you.

"p-please..."

"c'mon, hubby, i wanna feel it dripping out of me," you sigh dreamily. your lips barely brush over his neck as you speak, "then you can shove it back in and make sure it keeps, right~"

"yes, yes, anything--" he mumbles, head tilted back in ecstasy. his large hands grip around your waist, guiding your body like a glorified cock sleeve, up and down his cock just right. you swear you're starting to see white spots in your vision as he continues to use your body.

you love it when he's like this. tunnel visioned and desperate to reach that explosive feeling of stuffing you full of his cum. your eyes roll back as he continues to nudge against that soft spot inside of you.

"u-uh, san..." a familiar and addictive exhilarating heat blooms from your core and proliferates through every nerve in your body before you even realize it. you bite your lip to keep you from drooling as your body starts to shake in his hold.

the shockwave of pleasure makes you clench around him, making you impossibly tight around him as he continues to thrust into you.

"fuck," he groans at the feeling of you fluttering around him. he struggles to keep up his pace as he gives into his pleasure. you can feel his abs clench against you as his hips begin to stutter to meet yours. "take it, baby. i need you to t-take it all for me."

"give it to me. i need it."

he pulls your body down and gives one last punishing snap of his hips to press himself deep inside of you as he finishes with a broken moan.

as he cums inside of you, his body trembles, overwhelmed by his orgasm, the press of your perfect body against his, the heated air surrounding the two of you, and the panted breath leaving your precious lips.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close, as he nuzzles his face against your neck, pressing soft and sweet kisses to your sticky skin.

as you both start to calm down, san lifts his face from the crook of your neck to look up at you.

"baby?" he gently brushes some hair from your face so he can get a good look at your flushed expression, "i think i'm ready." he has such a cute little smile on his face as he stares up at you with adoring eyes.

"ready?" you ask, still trying to come down from the pleasure infused fog that has settled over your mind.

"i think we should start baby-making, for real."

a silence sits in between you as you stare at him in disbelief. you weren't expecting your sensible and responsible husband to suddenly propose such a life altering idea to you.

you're suddenly pulled out from your warm post-orgasm deliriousness.

"...san. are you sure?"

he looks down at your connected bodies, at your baby-less stomach and the sticky mess that's now dripping onto his thighs. and then you feel him twitch inside of you.

oh.

"i-- yeah."

not convincing.

(at least not in the state you're in)

"yeah, no." you shake your head, fully aware of his wandering thoughts. "let's talk about this when we're fully clothed, okay."

who knew you'd be promoted to be the sensible one?

[thetrasha]

Ok but can i get some fluff on shanks, Beckman, Marco and Ace? Maybe how they try to cool you down after suffering a heat stroke? Where i live we are getting a severe heat wave and its causing me to lose salts from sweats making me suffer a bit

I hope it's gotten a bit better for you, but I'm getting cooked in my own room, too, so... yeah 😭🤝And this is just a PSA: I didn't include actual heatstroke in the request because... the only one on that list who'd be able to help at all is Marco LOL Heatstroke is incredibly dangerous, so if you suspect you're suffering from it, call the emergency services immediately.

This is just a heatwave extravaganza edition because we're all suffering through summer (not including you Southern Hemisphere guys grr)

Cooler Than Me

feat. SHANKS, BENN BECKMAN, MARCO, ACE

SHANKS

Shanks is the type to approach things in a fun way.

As the Captain, Shanks is certainly used to making rational decisions that can be explained with logical reasoning… as a person, however, he isn’t quite as likely to keep his cool. He’d be miserable once the heat gets to him and lose it on a pretty tight schedule. Frustrated groans and curses just follow him around once he realised that his own sweat seeped through today’s linen shirt once more – after he’d let his cape be, too. It’s a tragedy! With you as his beloved, he tries to prevent himself from turning into a complete grump, but every sweet moment at night is cut off after he realises, after barely a minute, that he cannot cuddle you to sleep today without dying.

Shanks is still very much smitten with you and cannot bear to watch you suffer just as much as he does. Most of his crew can handle the heat, some even prefer the intense climate of summer islands, but you two stick out like a sore thumb. Shanks, as fun-loving as ever, would try to cheer you up by eating popsicles with you. It’s a sweet treat that cools you from the inside out – and he can share flavours with you. Watching how giggly you get when you saw just how deeply red the ice cold popsicle dyed his tongue made it worth all the hassle. He excitedly looks at your own tongue, now dyed as blue as the sea.

And he cannot help but kiss you right then and there.

BENN BECKMAN

Benn notices just how much you struggle, feeling sympathetic towards the person he secretly fell in love with… He doesn’t want to treat you any different from the rest, you should be able to fit in without any complications, but the Vice Captain himself just cannot ignore his affections for you, no matter how much he tries to bury them. He follows you around like a ghost and wordlessly hands you glasses of water. Somehow, he picked up on your bad habits and takes care of you in his own way. The water’s always cool, fresh and he always appears when you need him the most.

Benn is the type to approach things in a methodical way.

Benn is a force to be reckoned with. You may not hear him, but you can feel his presence; that’s how imposing he is. Despite not hailing from more exotic lands, he can handle the heat quite well. If the temperatures rise too much, he cools himself down by keeping his hair wet. Still, he’s willing to move crates around, do ship maintenance and do other forms of physical labour. It honestly makes you jealous. He is so unbothered that he doesn’t even look like he’s sweating all that much. Meanwhile, you can barely move around without breaking a sweat. Moisture gathers at the nape of your neck as the sun beats down on you, which has you taking a shower almost twice a day. It is ridiculous!

It’s bizarre, but you might just pick up on the fact that acts of service are his love language and he’s desperately trying to be serious and respectful about this…

MARCO

Marco is a doctor, which means that he’s definitely best equipped to help you. Plus, his eyes just dart towards you fanning hot air towards yourself after Whitebeard asked you to mop the deck… and you just chose to do it in the dry heat. Congratulations, now you’ve got Marco monitoring you. He watches you carefully, analysing every sway with a judgmental gaze – he’s always ready to step in and excuse you for the day, but he also doesn’t want to take your autonomy away. You’re independent and he honours your own decisions, no matter how irrational they may seem. If you want to work in the sun, fine, but he’s not letting up until he can make sure you’re safe.

Marco is the type to approach things in an analytical way.

He loves you so dearly, that’s why he doesn’t even mind sneaking around your peripheral vision to make it seem like he’s nonchalant about his pining… he’s really not. He’s just waiting to pin your hair up and apply wet towels to your pulse points, slowly cooling your blood down. That refreshing feeling will distribute itself evenly throughout your body and he can just watch with a soft smile as relief makes you go lax instantly. And he’s just there, touching your neck and wrists like it doesn’t make him nervous, like there’s no fire in his eyes at the sight of you feeling so safe in his presence… You’d rest your pretty head on his shoulder and let him check your vitals… just to be close to you without seeming like a total try-hard!

Marco’s also most likely to keep you in the med bay and secretly fan air towards you with his fiery wings. It’ll be your little secret!

ACE

Ace is the type to approach things in a silly way.

So… being around Ace when you’re suffering from the extreme weather is actually pretty hard. His body temperature is just naturally a lot higher, which means the match-up is just overall bad. He trails after you like a lost puppy as he ignores all those stares that follow the two of you around. Ace doesn’t feel the heat at all – the fact that fire is hot doesn’t even register to him; he’s made of it. Of course he notices that you’re not exactly in top shape… you sweat a lot, started carrying around a massive jug of water – oh, and you avoid touching him. He’s yearning so bad, flashing you the sad kicked animal eyes every five minutes because he cannot stand not being close to you…

Ace does, however, have a genius idea that he remembers from his childhood.

You aren’t as impressed as he is when he presents a tiny kiddie pool to you… right on the main deck. Anyone could watch you lounge here, but your dear boyfriend even propped up a deckchair right next to this abomination… and the thought alone is what counts. It’s kind of sweet, to be honest, to watch him go bright red as soon as you sit down in a tiny puddle of water, looking up at him with a deadpan expression, legs hanging off one side of the meagre ‘pool’, but he still listens with rapt attention once you tell him what you’ve been up to on this hot day. He even clenches his fist in victory for this million Beri idea.

And… it’s ridiculous, but it did cool you down!

[sunbleachedfl13s]

stinky ahh remmick headcanons pt 4

targets vulnerable people (like fucking cult leaders do) to persuade into the noble path of vampirism (ex: people w/ recently deceased love ones, those in poverty, people generally trapped in bad situations, etc etc the list goes on he’s just a manipulative scumbag)

incredibly impulsive

so so freaking selfish i cannot reiterate this enough i feel like its the core of his whole character. ALL OF HIS “generosity” IS HOLLOW!!!! he didn’t actually give two shits about anyone in the juke joint, he only cares about how THEY can benefit HIM

its what their musical talents could have provided to him that caught his attention, so his motivations are inherently selfish and he’s not even self aware enough to realize that

and i think if sammie hadn’t nuked him he probably would’ve let the whole hive mind die in the morning anyway, because hey you can always find more people to turn, gotta break a couple eggs to make an omelet iykwim

so for instance in the movie mary and stack were just turned, so stack saving mary at the end makes sense because remnants of his humanity would totally still be present, so his very human care and love towards her fueled that action

but as for remmick i think hes too goddamn old to still have a good handle on human emotions, his search for musical talent to reconnect him w/ his ancestors seems more like the repeated final wish of a ghost haunting the earth, like he forgot why he’s even doing it but at this point its all he can remember idk if this shit even makes sense

he has craazy time blindness because hes so fuckin old, like whole years must feel like weeks to him, decades feel like months, he blinks and its 20 years later

would fuck up a karaoke night

i fear he would be a mansplainer

we all know he was patient zero of the sassy man apocalypse so he would be so fucking petty. like dude you’ve lived on this earth for literal centuries and you still get heated over the smallest shit (btw go check out @jupiterpiss they have a great remmick fic in this vein)

this kinda falls under the him being petty thing but not only would he eat your cows/livestock he’d also eat your pets (like dogs and cats)

tits > ass guy (but lets be real here he’s not getting any game either way) (he’d probably see a girl wearing a top that showed cleavage and go “huh, they’re allowed to do that now? woman’s rights are progressing so fast ☺️”)

would probably listen to the Hamilton soundtrack

has slept on floors/the ground for so long that sleeping in a bed feels weird to him

starts bar fights, and then proceeds to lose every single one (the whole bar gangs up on his annoying ass)

would have “acab” in his twitter bio

this got so rambley but hes such an interesting character with a whole lotta nuance so i get really bummed out seeing him simplified in the fandom space

but thats been happening to characters since the dawn of time so whatever

[thinkblotted]

Building a Better Star (aka, the Star Essay)

I like Star. I’m getting that shit out of the way right here at the beginning, just in case. I like Star, I like what she is, I think she deserves better writing. 

Also - these are my takes. These takes may not be your takes. We can have different takes.

Okay? Okay. Let’s go. 

For the purposes of this analysis and suggestion, I’m only going to be going off of movie canon Star, rather than book canon Star, because while they’re basically the same, there are a few background elements in the book that expand  on Star’s internal thoughts and relationships with the boys that you could only get from exposition in the book, and that’s not as available a source as the movie, so. 

Since I’m either posting this on tumblr for the four people who will read it, or filming myself talking about this like a normal person with normal hobbies, I won’t explain who canonically she is because that’s unnecessary for this audience of me and a discord server, but rather who she is as a character as presented.

The thing about The Lost Boys is that it exists as a double edged sword of characterization for all its characters. They’re all incredibly simple, and in that white space that’s left behind where deeper characterization would be put in other movies, here there’s just a void, leaving the audience to fill in the gaps however they see fit with whatever they can glean from the surrounding world. 

The vampires are the prime example of this - of all the characters, they get the least amount of dialogue and have the most void to fill in who they are as characters. Star is the runner up, having more character, but the same amount of void in her backstory. 

So who is Star? 

Star is The Girl of the group, a trope wherein you have a group of characters who make up the core of your main cast and usually they’re all male, with one or occasionally two exceptions being girls - if it’s two, one will be the ‘nerdy’ or otherwise ‘not strictly desirable by main male cast’ role, and the other will be The Girl, who is almost always the love interest of the main male, who, even though she’s more of a main character then the secondary girl, typically does less than them. As presented, Star fits this trope easily, as well as filling out the subtropes that it consists of. 

She’s soft-spoken, pretty, demure, stays out of most of the fights in the story, offers the protagonist advice but never tells him directly how to face the conflict of the story, offers support but never directly physically supports the protagonist. She’s an inciting incident all to herself, but never actually drives the plot forward except to be a shining prize on the mountaintop of the narrative that the protagonist must climb in order to claim. 

After being in the Lost Boys fandom for about two and a half-ish years now, there are some take-aways specific to Star that the fandom tends to play on the most. 

And I want to add in here, I do not have a problem with these traits being assigned to her. Star, like the rest of the cast, is a very malleable character. The void around her is just as vast as the other vampires, and this is fandom - we play with blorbos from our media like dolls. This entire thing is purely based on what I personally would like to see Star become, and since I’m a freak, I don’t just write fanfic, I also do this. Apparently. So take everything I’m saying with a giant grain of salt.

The traits that I most see attributed to Star are:

-She’s a shrinking violet, either unwilling or unable to interact directly with the conflict of the story

-She’s being held against her will to the point that leaving in any capacity is not only not an option, but would lead to physical harm/possibly death if she tried (ie, she’s an abused captive) 

-She cannot be held responsible for any bad decisions she’s made in the past or makes in the current story, or any bad turns the plot takes 

The first assertion is held up pretty well by the canon of the movie, and most of the fandom also agrees that it would have been nice if the movie actually did make Star a little less soft. There have been several outcries for Star to ‘vamp out’ like the Boys did, to at the very least give her a scary vampire face! Her tiny confrontation with Max at the end of the movie would have been a perfect space for that, but unfortunately, the movie has 80s-itis and being the female love interest and a victim in the plot, Star isn’t allowed to be aggressive in such a blatant manner. 

Star also hangs back whenever the Boys have presence on the screen. She’s never in the forefront, sharing the space, she’s in the background, watching them, only observing. The one time she directly contradicts them, ‘Leave him alone’ she’s told straight up to ‘chill out, girl’, and she doesn’t continue the conflict. When she does decide to try and be more forward with Michael, directly affecting things, she waits until there is no other persons of consequence around in order to do so. 

The second assertion of her being held against her will is a little trickier to pin down as a trait, but evidence of this is implied with how she contributes to the narrative - mainly, in asking Michael directly to save Laddie and her from the Boys, or at the very least, the situation she’s in. Though, it should be noted, that Star never makes a direct statement of what that situation is. She hedges that it’s being being driven to kill to sate the vampiric nature, but when taking scenes like David simply saying her name to get her to come to him, being told indirectly to back off when the Boys are hazing Michael, and backing away in a fearful manner when Michael is drinking the blood wine into consideration, there’s the darker notion that she’s being abused in other ways. 

Because the movie is meant to be a lighter flick, full of scary-yet-alluring vampire punk boys and over the top monster-hunting gore, billing it as a ‘horror-comedy’ excludes any deeper exploration or more explicit on-screen showing of verbal, emotional, or physical harm that Star may be experiencing. Doing so would take away from the fantastical and darkly whimsical nature of the story, grounding it too much, and making the Boys, though they be villains, into villains we wouldn’t love to hate.

Thus, the darker implications of what Star might be facing behind the scenes, when Michael isn’t around and before he came along, is left to the audience’s interpretation, as well as any ability Star has to struggle against them. The fandom frequently interprets as none, thanks to the plot of the movie being what it is. 

The third major assertion that the fandom tends to adopt is that Star is largely if not completely irresponsible for the missteps of other characters and for her own predicament. 

This given trait is the most difficult to back up with evidence directly from the canon as it relies heavily on filling in the blank spaces of Star and the other character’s backstories. Star is not responsible for Michael spotting her in the crowd at the concert or deciding to follow after her. Star technically didn’t tell Michael to accept David’s goading to race. Star told Michael she both didn’t know how to help him, and couldn’t explain it. Star is not responsible for Michael’s induction into the Boy’s gang because, well, she told him what he was drinking was blood. Star never directly acts to drive the plot forward until the beginning of the third act when she does admit to Michael that she needs his help, thus, cannot be held responsible even in part to Michael’s involvement. 

Lack or acceptance of Star’s responsibility for her own inability to leave the Boys is even harder to pin down, as we have no movie canon for what her life was like before meeting the Boys. The implication from the world around them is that Star is a runaway kid like many of the people seen in the opening sweep of Santa Carla, likely from a crappy home and was taken in by the Boys but soon got in over her head, but this is never directly confirmed. 

The idea that Star made a bad choice, and was not just manipulated and coerced after the ‘honeymoon’ period with the Boys is somewhat controversial as it paints Star in a less favorable light. She isn’t an innocent victim, but rather someone who made a bad call and refuses to acknowledge her own agency in that decision, instead placing any and all blame on the Boys. 

‘But what if she’s tried that already?’ Unfortunately, that lies entirely in the realm of off-screen possibilities that are not support by any canon. Star in the movie is never shown or implied to have tried escaping before, and in the book she merely has internal monologues about wanting to leave, not that she’s ever attempted it. 

Giving Star any one of these traits on their own isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Star is very much helpless in this situation - she’s in a den of immortal man-eating monsters while only being barely half of one herself, and refusing to take the option that would grant her more physical power to assert control in the situation, because the act required would be a shattering of her moral compass. Regardless of her involvement in how she got here, she deserves to be able to leave and make better choices. 

But giving Star all of these traits at once with nothing else to her flattens her completely. It does her, in my opinion, an incredible amount of injustice to absolve her of any kind of responsibility in her own problems and then rob her of any bravery to take a risk and change it herself.

And that’s not a good character. 

In order to build a better Star, we need to first accept a truth that might be a slightly hard pill to swallow: 

A good Star is not necessarily a protagonist. 

At least, not in the same way that Michael or Sam can be. Michael and Sam are protagonists in that they’re the heroes of the story. They face the main conflict head on and drive the plot forward with their actions, and are who we’re rooting for to win. We see them and their actions as ‘good’. They are absolved by the framing of blame in what is done to them. (Michael in getting in over his head with the Boys by ignoring the reservations and loose warnings of others, and Sam of murder with the fact that the Boys are man-eating monsters bent on getting back at them when one of their own is killed.)

If you make Star a protagonist in the same way, with her needing to be framed as ‘good’ in the story, but only keeping the character traits previously listed, then she’s a boring character. She becomes only nebulously ‘good’ just by virtue of not technically having done anything that could be considered ‘bad.’ Being counted as a heroine only by default. 

And that sucks. That puts her simultaneously on a pedestal where she can do no wrong, but is an empty shell that’s there to smile or cry and do nothing else. 

Often, when talking about female protagonists, antagonists, anti-heros and characters with grey morality or amorality, the added layer of them being women forces ten times the scrutiny on not just how they’re built as a character, but on their creators and why they’re choosing to build the character in the way they are. Any mistakes plot-pushing decisions made by the character aren’t as likely to be accepted as just the character acting in the story, but get traced back to the author. The audience constantly asks the question, ‘if it was a male character, would there be consequences for this act, or are you treating this character special because they’re a woman?’ 

In this case, it’s ‘Michael also fucks up, and yet is treated as a victim, deserving of sympathy and being saved by his brother rather than having to fight all on his own. Their situations are the same. Why not Star? The only difference between them is gender.’ 

This essay is not about whether or not Star is deserving of being saved, nor is it saying that she deserves being trapped in the situation that she’s in. But much like how Star reminds Michael that she did indeed tell him that it was blood in the bottle and he scoffed at her, Star deserves not to be a lifeless doll being acted upon, and a good female character deserves to not be a pretty, perfect Barbie doll that does no wrong and always looks pretty. 

So with the knowledge that a better Star cannot be purely a protagonist, how do we lower her from the boring pedestal? 

My suggestion: by inverting her three main traits

The first: If she’s billed as meek and demure and soft, then make her more aggressive and vulgar 

The second: If she seems to be kept at silent gunpoint, then give her more freedom to act

The third: Make her at least partly responsible for her own situation, regardless of whether or not she thinks she is 

The first revised trait is the most important in my opinion to building a better Star, as it will help direct and reinforce the second two. 

A large part of Star’s lack of presence in the movie is quite literally, a lack of physical presence. Star seems to hate even being near the vampires, and depending on what kind of story you wish to show her in, it could make sense. But chances are, if she’s given the shrinking violet trait, she’s been given the other two as well, and that makes a bad Star. She must be allowed to speak, and more than that - she must be allowed to show emotion. 

Let Star be angry. Let her be hurt in a way that’s not beautiful and languorous, a wilting agony of suffering in silence. And I’ll say it: Let Star say the Fuck word. As silly and simple as it may seem, such a small detail can transform a character. Star deserves to be as rough-edged and imperfect in her words and attitude as any of the rest of the Boys, possibly more if she’s in a situation that she hates! If she had the bravery to run away from home, then she should be afforded the bravery to be more than a pretty, silent, pure woman who doesn’t know what a cigarette is. 

The second revised trait is going to be the most fluid in interpretation because it relies the most on the author or artist or fan’s personal interpretation of what the relationship between Star and the Boys is really like. 

In the movie, Star seems to move with the Boys. She’s usually near them enough that they can keep an eye on her, as we see with David watching Star talking to Michael before the beach race. The only times we see Star distance herself physically is right after the bonfire, where she comes to the Emerson cabin to convince Michael to save her, or when she and Michael have sex. The first time, she seems desperate, like she may not have much time, and the second, she’s been left there on her own while the Boys go out and cavort, likely with the implication that she should stay where they can find her when they get back. 

Again, this is the trait that can be toyed with the most, but a good way to combat the feeling that she’s being held against her will is to give the notion that there are parts of being around the vampires that she likes. There are tiny hints of this in the movie, and the book expands on this. In the movie, there’s a moment during the race where Star seems to be enjoying herself while riding with David - at the very least, she’s enjoying the speed and thrill, if not the person she’s with. In the book, Star and Paul have the best relationship of any of the boys, with Paul trying to cheer her up and promising a ‘happily ever after’. To keep it from feeling like a full captive situation, give Star a reason to feel a bit conflicted over the pack. She’s there in the first place, after all. 

The third revised trait is going to be the most controversial, as it’s a hard thing to admit when people in real life do it. 

Admitting that sometimes, the problems we find ourselves dealing with, are our own fault. We make a bad call, we make a poorly informed decision or decide in the heat of the moment. Sometimes, we are lied to, but the lie is flimsy and we chose to swallow it because it’s what we wanted to hear at the time. I like to ask authors writing villains this - what’s worse and more compelling; a villain who lies, or a villain who tells the protagonist a truth they don’t want to hear? 

And, as backwards as it sounds, making Star partially responsible for her situation is giving her more agency in her story. It gives her a reasonable character flaw that she has to confront and defeat. 

Here is where I’m going to throw in an interesting observation about a specific scene that I think helps lend itself to this particular revised trait: the scene where she asks Michael for help directly. In canon, the scene goes about like this - Star comes to the cabin, Michael tells her that he knows about the vampires, and when he expresses that he thinks it’s basically done for him, Star tells him that it’s not, he’s not fully gone, and that she needs his help to save all three of them. Now, there’s something really, really interesting to me about this scene: Star is NOT a reliable narrator during it. At all. 

To say that she’s lying outright about everything would be untrue, but when you examine it, you realize that she’s being untruthful all the same. When Michael gets upset, accusing her of not caring about him because in his eyes she let this happen, she says that she DOES care about him, using physical touch to reinforce this. When she’s soundly rejected, by Michel slapping her hand away and demanding to know why she REALLY came, she very reluctantly tells him that she was hoping he’d help them. It’s her last answer, the last thing she wanted to say. Obviously hoping that the emotions would be enough to persuade him, rather than just saying that she needed help outright, which would be easier to say no to. 

Secondly, the WHY. Star states that Michael was ‘supposed to be her first, because it’s what David wanted’. When watching the scene, the delivery, the body language, and given the full context of the plot and how we’ve seen Star behave? We can only come to the conclusion that Star. Doesn’t. Know. That. 

Max’s ultimate goal is to get Lucy, and to get Lucy, he needs Michael and Sam to be on board, or at least BE vampires. Killing one of her children would hardly serve that goal. Given the ending fight, Max doesn’t give a dead rat’s ass about Star. And Star? She doesn’t even know Max exists. David telling Star to kill Michael to turn her into a vampire is not only pointless, but going expressly against Max’s wishes. We don’t know how much of Max’s plan David and the Boys know about, or given their personalities and implied relationship with him, even care about, but defying him in this instance doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do. 

Not to mention - Star does like Michael. She hugs him at the end, she does give him a warning about the blood, albeit a weak one. She does attempt to fight Max in the end, even if she fails. As for her thoughts on David, those are more complicated. Whether the relationship is real, coerced, that she’s simply a pawn being used to tug Michael around or whether she and David did like each other at one time, is unknown, but it is clear that Star knows that David is interested in Michael, and doesn’t like it. So it would then be logical to assume, given this, that Star would assume, based on what she knows and has been able to observe, that she’d pain David in a worse light. Insinuating that it’s HIM who’s pulling the string, assuming what he wants and what his intentions are, even if she DOESN’T. KNOW. 

All this to conclude: Star is an unreliable narrator taking actions based on her own flawed assumptions. Which means she’s going to make mistakes, and miscalculate her position. She’s going to cast herself in a certain light, and like anyone, maybe not want to admit when that light is suddenly not a reflection of her best. 

So, how do I conclude this. 

Star is an interesting character, and I do enjoy her. If you managed to sit through this to get to here, and if there’s anything to take away from this, it’s that I enjoy Star and I want her to be a better…her. She deserves to cuss and spit, she deserves to be angry and sad at her predicament, she deserves to be loved as a whole person and not some untouchable angel. Let her fight. Let her bite. Let her bleed for her freedom and personhood.

Most importantly, if you allow the Boys room to be more than they are presented as on screen, then you can afford to give that to Star. 

Thank you for reading, if you did. 

@misslavenderlady (I almost forgot!)

[seaoreos]

Hey, you!

Do you enjoy clangen? Are you autistic about genetics, evolution, and adaptations?

Do you also maybe want to start one of those clangen blogs or comics, or something like them?

Then I have the game for you! That’s right, baby. This is a Niche: a genetics survival game recruitment post.

I have been DEEPLY autistic about this game for years, so now you have to be too. I have over 200 hours in it.

It’s almost like a hybrid of spore and clangen- you breed and evolve your group of creatures (nichelings), explore different environments and adaptations, endure different kinds of weather, gather or hunt for food, and fend off predators.

It has both more and less control than clangen does, especially if you want to write a story based off of your playthrough.

It has more control over your individual creatures actions, relationships, genetics, appearance and breeding.

It has less control over your environment, predators and weather, but that depends on how much you mess with the sandbox settings.

There’s also a ‘mutation menu’ so you can make a specific creature’s offspring more likely to mutate certain genetic traits. You can start with all of them unlocked, or progressively unlock them as you go along.

(And there’s a huge family tree as well, to keep track of your creatures relations.)

The sandbox settings give you control over:

-What does or doesn’t spawn, from predators and other animals, to rocks and grass

-damage and healing multipliers

-the genes and appearance of the creatures you start with. Hand-pick every one, or have them as many as you like set to random!

-the island you start on, from grasslands, to swamps, savannas, mountains and archipelagos, to a little bit of everything, or even on the back of a giant whale!

-how many days your creatures different life stages last, for how long they’re helpless babies, teens, or adults. You can make your creatures live for just a few days, or hundreds.

-you can set ‘win conditions’ for challenges,

-and turn on a blind gene mode where you cannot see individual creatures genetics.

-a tribe size limit, so you can only have so many creatures

-and how much food and nesting material you start with as well!

The creatures are mostly dog-like, but there are cat features you can exclusively/mostly use as well. (Which is called ‘purr snout’, and when a creature purrs, any other creatures directly next to them will heal from any damage they have over the next few days. It’s fucking awesome)

Or, you can just creatively interpret their in-game designs however you like!

They have a lot of varying features- here’s some of my favorite nichelings from my own games.

The game has its own randomly-assigned names, but you can change them at any time. 

(And you can also change the color of the gems on their chest as well, which represent how many ‘moves’ each creature has left.)

You control every one of your nichelings, so you can creatively interpret and create their personalities and relationships as much as you like, but random things still happen throughout the world as well.

There’s also a main ‘story mode’ aside from the sandbox, which is pretty fun too. (And also acts as a comprehensive tutorial.)

The game is 18 dollars on steam, but it’s been around for awhile, so it probably goes on sale often enough? I have no idea. I could run it without issues on my shitty old laptop, even in the poor thing’s final years, so you don’t need a really good computer to play it.

If you want to watch someone play it first, I highly recommend ’Seri! Pixel biologist!’. She has done a BUNCH of different playthoughts and challenges, from when the game was in super early access all the way up until its full release, and afterwards. 

She also loves warrior cats, and builds a lot of story into her games. Here’s the playlist for her story mode play-through!

Also, if anyone does start a niche-based comic or something. PLEAAASE tell me I wanna seee it!!!!! :o)) thank you for your time goodbye

[theimpossiblescheme]

Say what you will about the Cyrano movie (and one day I'll be able to in a halfway articulate manner), but I am still mildly obsessed with "Every Letter", and I think about this ending couplet all the time...

Your letters are drawings on me from above I know who you are and I know you are loved

Just... the idea of Cyrano and Christian receiving a letter in return from Roxanne and feeling their breath catch both with ecstasy and with bitter regret.

I know who you are...

But she can't. But she mustn't. But it would break her heart--she would never trust them again. But it wouldn't be fair to Christian. But Cyrano could never show his face again. But they already feel themselves burn under her gaze, and to meet it honestly without the armor of a soldier, of these letters, would scorch them until nothing remains. But the only true honor is to hide, even if they know it's really the coward's way out. But the only safety (if they were being brutally honest with themselves) is to hide.

... and I know you are loved.

But God, they wish they didn't have to.

[undyinglantern]

sorry for being bad at maps and directions there is no midwest in my mind only east and west split straight down the middle

[sangunary]

- BatBoys × Civilian Reader.

SCENARIO: pecking them on the cheek after they saved you from danger.

- DICK GRAYSON.

Dick had ran inside the burning building after he realised that you were still inside, he discard all the training and ran for you.

He didn't have time to think the moment he heard your name his body move on its on, like he was chasing oxygen.

He was not going to lose someone he loves dearly again, this time he would protect you and be your boyfriend someday.

He had been secretly consuming videos on how to be the best boyfriend in the world and he haven't even got to try that. Bullshit, even if he had to fight death itself he will. No one is going to take you away this time... Not when he's still breathing.

When you peck him on the cheek he froze, the adrenaline rushing back in, his eyes wide shock and still holding your hands.

He just wanted to hold you in his arms and comfort himself and you but holding the edge of your fingers was the best he would do for now.

" That's not my lips tho "

he commented, managing to weild his brain back to the right direction but not without some complications.

" Huh? "

You looked at him confuse.

His hands still clinging onto yours desperately trying to remember the feeling of your hands on his.

" You accidentally kissed me on my cheek and not my lips "

Activity trying to gaslight you and himself.

What he wanted to say was ' Please just do me a favour and open the gate of heaven by kissing me already, I cannot go another day without your lips on mine... '.

How much he yearn to hold you and kiss you infront of everybody, kissing you so hard that he forgot his own name and could only remember the taste of your lips.

" Kiss me Alr- "

Before he could spill his desire Batman drag him away frowning and kept looking at you and Batman.

- Jason Todd.

He saved you from thief's and you kiss him on the cheek. He's in another planet the moment your lips touches his skin.

Goosebumps all over his body, an electric charge sent down his spine and his heart about to explode from the unexpected affection. God, what kind of grip did you had on him?

Hes utterly surprised in a good way, he didn't knew all it took was some expensive costume and doing the right thing.

Unfortunately for you he's hooked. His shoulder relaxing and his once prideful stance turns into one that reminds you of a puppy wishing for more pats.

The scene playing inside his head over and over dissecting everything into pieces. His face didn't turn that red just his whole posture and language did change tho.

Now, he demands kiss for everytime he did and not leaving until you gave him that kiss he was so addicted to.

" Where's my kiss? "

He asked, turning to look at you. His face plastered with that cunning smirk he had whenever he knew he won.

" Kiss? eh "

You look at him confuse, you were just standing there watching him do his heroic deed. Whereas, he suddenly turns with the most idiotic smile and demand a kiss.

" Yeah, my reward. For being a good hero "

Silence.

" You saved a kitten from the tree and you want a kiss? It's not even my kitten "

"... Contribute to society by motivating me through kisses"

He was serious, tho you trapped yourself in this case... Kissing him and thinking he won't take advantage of it. He's smart when it comes to his needs.

He cannot wait until he gets to actually collide his lips with yours... Maybe in the possible future he would get a kiss on the lips for every good deeds.

- Tim Drake.

He's confusion. Staring at you while holding onto the place where you kissed him, he couldn't tell if he was hallucinating because he was sleep deprived or you did kiss him.

His face flush red as his entire body turns warm, even tho it was during the middle of winter he couldn't feel anything else but warmth.

His ears were red as well, he totally forgot about the fact that there were gour people he had tied near the pole watching in silence.

" I- Why would you do that? "

He didn't mean to sound so mad or upset, infact his brain had probably melted by the thought of you kissing him.

" Im not complaining just... I Didn't even have time to process that "

He could clearly hear ever time his heart was beating against his rips, his hands going stiff and extremely warm... Even his eyes were betraying him.

He began, not only didn't he had time to process the pleasure of your touch he did not have time to remember it, how was he supposed to deal with that?

Tho, Tim was the boss of trying to play cool and feeling cool but in reality he's a blushing mess with a smile that scream 'im a pathetic loser inlove'.

" Do you want me to kiss you again? "

You asked, and Tim was over the moon with such opportunity handed to him on a random Tuesday night.

" Yeah, let's do that again... I'll be ready this time "

He might try to make you kiss him again by creating some excuses only he could think of.

- Damian Wayne.

He's happy and not at the same time. His mind is racing itself to see which one will make him restless.

He should be happy that you were so willing to kiss him on the cheek but you kissed him without knowing who he was under that domino!

You didn't kiss him as Damian Wayne, you kissed him as Robin... Batman blood son.

Now there was two thing keeping him sane and insane, one the precious kiss you had given me to him and the fact that you kissed him without knowing it's him...

Should he focus on the positive and be delusional like his older brother...No, he's full of questions and you'll hear them all.

And the fact that you kissed him so easily for just stopping someone for stealing from you? He's going to lecture you as Damian Wayne.

Well, he did like about the fact that you smelled like perfection and your soft lips pressed on his cheek with the cutest smile.

This felt like a shoujo manga, but if his institution is correct the guy would grab the girl by her face (gently) and roughly or gently kissed her infront of everybody.

Tho he's still not happy with you for kissing him for being a decent human being... Your standard are low.

" You're ridiculous for kissing me without any reason "

He fold his arms, the redness in his ears still visible. He doesnt like the way his heart was pounding at him to stop being delusional. Maybe he was consuming too much manga.

" You do realise not everyone should be kissed because they save you "

Yes, tho you should kiss Damian Wayne Instead of Robin... That way he would be able to smile about it in the dark.

" If I see you kissing random I wil- "

You hurried away before Damian could start teaching you on what he will and will not tolerate.

You should only kiss him and he is the only one privilege enough to call your lips his... He's definitely going to lecture you nonstop for kissing people as a gratitude.

He absolutely love's the kiss but he hate that you won't kiss him as Damian Wayne...

- Half asleep and do not know what i wrote I'll fix em tomorrow.

[shotmrmiller]

it turned to smut in seconds, i cannot control my own hands, ok. 18+ (implication of breeding kink or something and simon's a jealous boy)

ex-husband simon who signed the divorce papers without a fight. it'd stung, you're not gonna lie, but it needed to be done and the fact that he didn't make a big fuss about it made things easier for you physically. (emotionally you were in shambles because did he not even want to try and fight for you?)

he comes over only on the weekends when he's on leave.

he's a good father to his boys. he takes them to their softball games when he can, buys them the ice cream and takes them toy shopping.

and then there's a sharp knock at your door on a wednesday afternoon.

"simon?"

he walks in like he owns the place, which technically he does- even pays the mortgage because there's no way you would be able to afford living here with your own measly income.

"what's this the boys are tellin' me 'bout a man bein' in here?" his voice is calm, steady. but you know simon better than you know yourself, and he's furious.

"i- i'm not sure-" he swipes his hand in the air and your mouth clicks shut.

"don't lie t'me, poppet, or i'll be findin' him myself an' you really don't want tha'."

what man? there hasn't been any since the divorce! you're digging through your memories, scrambling to find what the hell he's talking about when-

"oh! it's the plumber!" you take steadying breath. "i called a plumber on sunday. i needed the kitchen sink fixed."

his dark eyes are piercing, so sharp they could cut. simon's always been a walking lie detector, and it's unnerving to be on the opposite end of that analyzing stare.

he nods imperceptibly, then flicks his gaze to behind you, over your head. "show me."

you scoff indignantly. "show you what? the bloody sink?"

simon wordlessly heads to the kitchen and his knees pop as he kneels-

he's actually checking the fucking sink.

with a grunt, he leans his head into the cabinet and twist awkwardly which is no doubt causing a familiar pain to flare up in his lower back. you can't help but wince in sympathy.

lo and behold, there's a shiny, white elbow in the middle of the rest of the dirty, scratched pipe.

he hums, and rises to his feet, closing the cabinet with his leg.

simon approaches you slowly, fingertips touching the kitchen island as he rounds it. "palms flat on the counter, sweetheart."

oh. oh you know exactly what that means, and your pussy throbs almost in reflex. months without his touch and your body still responds the same.

your protest already at the tip of your tongue, almost involuntarily because principles, but he sees right through you, as he's always done.

"jus' a reward for all o' your hard work. takin' care o' the boys is a stressful job all on its own." his worn hand cups the underside of your jaw tenderly. "aren't i always good t'ya?"

your exhales are weak, just like your resolve. "okay."

simon's eyes glint with satisfaction as he lifts his hand, index pointing upwards and twirls it in a slow, deliberate motion.

your palms are flat on the counter when he curls his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and knickers, tugging them downward.

they're flat on the counter when he lowers himself to his knees and taps the inside of your foot, indicating you to widen your stance.

they're curled into fists when his breath puffs against your slick cunt and his warm tongue slides through your folds, drawing lazy circles around your bud. a tingle of arousal shoots up your spine, his mouth sparking a fire right under your navel.

they're reaching for simon, nails sinking into the delicate skin of his wrist as your back bows when you come on his tongue, vision spotted with black, blurry dots and white hot ecstasy coursing through your veins.

your hands are now crossed at the base of your spine, your cheek pressing into the cool kitchen counter as he bends you over it.

"15 minutes before the boys are home from school. tha's plenty o'time, yeah?"

a rhetorical, if you've ever heard one.

your knuckles stain white as you clench your fists at the heavy, hot weight of his manhood stretching your walls to take him in, a sweet burn that you've always loved. he's gentle but sure, bottoming out in one smooth stroke that pushes the air out of your lungs. the sibilant hiss simon lets out is never fails to elicit a whimper out of you.

"fuck," he groans. "i could stay inside this pretty pussy forever."

and the dirty talk. how much you've missed it.

"would you like tha', pet? be inside of ya til you don't know where i end and you begin?"

a garbled mhm slips past your lips. your head already empty at just the sensation of being so unbearably full that it feels like you're tearing at the seams.

"another time, then, since the kids'll be home soon."

he begins to move, shallow but firm thrusts that drag his cock along your nerves deliciously- a sure fire way of getting you to climax around him in minutes.

your walls begin to squeeze down as the knot in your stomach tightens, and he lets go of your wrists, looping an arm around your waist and straightens you- his broad chest to your much smaller back.

his clever fingers wind downwards, and rub precise, little circles on your slippery clit, and it's all too much, you're hurtling toward the precipice at neck break speed- "god, simon, please-"

his pace never falters, not his hips nor his fingers as your moans begin to rise in pitch. "i'll get ya there, love."

he does, he gets you to your highest peak- blindingly intense- one that chokes the very breath out of you and slackens your knees. "i've got ya."

there's no strength left in you to brace for the spine-jarring thrusts he gives after, the only thing keeping you from sprawling forward is the arm that's looped around you as he pulls you to him.

"on anything?" he rumbles.

your ears ring at that because he can't possibly- your head shakes unbidden.

"good."

the last four thrusts are heavy, backed by his weight, and he smothers a loud groan into the junction of your shoulder as he finishes inside of you- thick, viscous cum filling you until it begins to drip and fall to the floor with an audible plop.

he presses tender little kisses to your sweaty shoulder and nips the side of your neck. "just in time."

the clock on the stove says 5 minutes before the bus gets there.

he helps you redress, chuckling under his breath when you won't look him in the eye. "i'll get the kids, go get cleaned up."

the knot in your chest loosens when you hear the boys' laughter at seeing their father on the driveway. it loosens when simon picks both of them up, one in each arm, and glances up at you as you look down at them from the window.

heat licks up your cheeks when he gives you a smarmy little grin.

idiot.

[pettysreverie]

Kinda really obsessed with the idea of him becoming super obsessed with you after fucking you…

CW: AFAB!Reader, stalking, obsessive behavior, yandere-esque behavior (if I missed something, pls kindly let me know!)

Like, I imagine that maybe he’s just come back from deployment? Would explain why he’s so starved for a good fuck, ya know?

Probably meets you in a pub (bc duh) and after a few drinks between the two of you, you both decide to go back to his place.

He figures it’s gonna be nothing too big of a deal. Certainly nothing he hasn’t done before.

Who hasn’t taken a bird back from the pub for a good fuck?

But the moment he slides into your cunt, he knows that he’d been wrong.

Whatever he’d been doing before was not fucking. Was not having sex. Because sex with you—with your slutty cunt and those heavenly sounds you make—is bewitching.

As if your cunt is putting him deeper and deeper under a spell with every twitch and clench.

A spell he gladly welcomes.

Your body is so soft and beautiful. And you…you’re so pliant and willing—batting those pretty lashes at him with that dazed, fucked out look in your eyes.

And that’s when the spell cements.

When a flip switches inside of him.

When something…changes.

He grips your ankles and hoists your legs over his shoulders to drive his cock even deeper inside of your quivering heat.

Your back bows off the bed and your hands grapple the sheets, moans tumbling from your kiss swollen lips as your eyes nearly roll all the way back.

“Yer mine. All mine.”And there’s a stutter in his breath as he moans, his hips momentarily stuttering in their otherwise relentless movements. “Say it fer me, love.”

But with the way he’s got you practically folded in half—knees all but bent to your chest with your legs draped over his back—replying to him is the furthest thing from your mind right now.

He angles his hips, driving long and deliciously thick cock directly into your sweet spot over and over again—seemingly determined to drive you insane with pleasure.

Seemingly determined to fuck you positively dumb.

“Say. It.”He grits out, his voice taking on an almost animalistic, growling tone.

There is something so primal about his command. Something about it brings out such a fundamental instinct in you that you cannot help but to comply—to submit.

“Y-Yours…”You manage to utter amongst your incoherent babbling and moaning.

One word.

You only speak one word.

But one word is all he needed to hear.

He fucks you well into the morning. The sun rises, its light shining through the cracks in the curtains by the time he turns you loose and allows you to rest.

And rest you do.

When you wake up, it’s practically evening!

You’re quite embarrassed. But like the gentleman he is, he assures you that he does not mind. In fact, he even offers to pay for your transportation home.

You decline, too embarrassed about your faux pas.

And for you? You assume that, while this was an amazing experience, it was a one time thing. You don’t expect to see him again.

But you do.

You run into him again and again and again.

At the market. At the park. At the coffee shop.

It’s fate! It’s the universe! It’s gotta be something, right?

It’s…him.

You really thought he was going to let you go after that world altering fuck? The way you blew his mind? The way your cunt hypnotized him?

Silly, beautiful, stupid woman.

Just the thought of someone else having you like that…no, he doesn’t even want to think about it.

How could he let you get away?

No, he had to hack your phone.

Not like it was hard…sure he’s more of a “field” agent. More used to having a gun in his hand and his boots on the ground, but he’s no stranger to some lines of spyware code.

Besides, you made it quite easy for him by sleeping in as long as you did…not that he minded of course!

You look so peaceful while you sleep. So beautiful, actually.

And really, he was so very glad he’d hacked your phone. How else was he supposed to know where you lived when you rejected his offer to pay for your transportation home?

But now that he’s in your phone, he’s practically in your life already.

Every contact you have saved, he knows.

Every place you go, he knows and can go there too. (How do you think your two have been running into each other so often?)

Every post you like. Every pin you save. Every song you playlist. He knows it all.

Not that you know it…not that you ever will.

He’ll let you believe it’s fate. Or the universe. Or whatever. Doesn’t matter to him, really.

Besides, you’re already his.

You even said so yourself…remember?

(Oh you don’t? Then why doesn’t he just remind you?)

[sanjisblackasswife]

JJK Men with a GF with a Fat Ass (NSFW-ISH)

…I’m taking a small break from drawing and I missed doing HCs. Shaddap.

Ft. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Choso

Black ! Fem Reader in Mind

CW: Twt Links!, mentions of sex, men are a bit OOC

Gojo

Gojo definitely does this to you anytime you lay on his lap. And if he finds out you’re not wearing any panties under it…welp..all plans are now cancelled

He’s a pervert and it’s your fault.

He’s never really seen women of your stature often so when you both were younger he was so BLUNT with his thoughts about your body.

“You have a very voluptuous—“

“Imma stop you right there….VO-WHO?”

“You don’t know what the word vo—-“

“No, I know. I’m confused as to why you are using that word when talking about my ass.”

Gojo is 6’6-7” , he’s a big nigga, but can he handle a big behind?

No.

No he cannot.

He constantly uses his blindfolded eyes to shamelessly watch the way your walk across the room in public. His poker face is actually impressive, but if you couldn’t see how tight his fist were in his pockets it’d prove otherwise.

He’s so got damn childish he does this shit sometimes because he thinks your ass is perfect for playing on

“CAN YOU STOP.”

“Whhhyyyyuuuhhhhhh.”

When you wear moomoo’s or a big shirt it is his favorite

Yup.

Moomoo.

Your ass is free to move and shake to its desire and he just watches in awe. He loves you bad.

Another thing he loves doing is napping on your butt, he doesn’t sleep often, unfortunately, but he can attest that the best nap he has ever taken was in between your plush thighs and ass.

He blames his pretty little girlfriend as to why he is now an ass man when he initially was a boob guy.

Geto

He takes these kinda pictures with you which sometimes leads to him pulling down your underpants and massaging it with his bare hands to then licking or kissing it to then…eating…you…out…while you’re standing.

He loves watching you put on clothes.

Having to shake, jump, and wiggle yourself into some pants is actually so sexy to him.

If your butt is anything like mine and is HEAVY. He LOVES it even more , watching the way the movement in your butt and thighs to match is something Geto finds so so mesmerizing.

One thing about Geto he’s very sneaky, he’ll come up behind you to help pull up your bottoms you clearly need no help putting on, and everytime he does you can feel a slight pressure on your ass that is a verrrryyy familiar feel to a bulge.

He can’t help it, your ass is so pretty.

Sitting on his lap is a must, whether he is talking with someone in public or doing some work he needs to feel your weight on him.

The first time you sat on his lap you swore you heard a groan. When you turned to ask him if he was okay, his cheeks were very pink.

He denies it to this day, but even if he did it’s your fault because why does your ass feel so good against his pelvis?

Showers with Geto are so insufferable in the best way because once you finish cleaning yourself your long haired boyfriend can’t wait to practically grind and hump against you into the cool shower wall.

He definitely loves hugging you from behind, swaying you back and forth. To others it’s a cute gesture seeing such a big man hold you so close, practically dwarfing you , only you and him know the real intention behind it was just him whispering how good you look in that dress and how badly he wants you.

Geto is such a sensual person next to nanami. Even after sex and you’re laying with him in a bliss he finds his way to continue his love by kissing and licking you down and praises of how beautiful and sexy you are even after such activities. He calls it “Cleaning you up”…little perv.

“‘Was wrong?… Embarrassed?”

“YES.”

“Good, now c’mere.”

Toji

Ass eater.🫵🏾

That’s an ass eater he eat ass🫵🏾.

Toji “Ass Eater” Fushiguro

You thought gojo was shameless? Toji is WORSE

As an ass connoisseur he prides himself on always reminding you how fine you are to him.

“You like my dress?”

“Hell yes, mama. Turn around for me.”

SWAT to the ass just to see it recoil

He definitely slaps and GRABS. It’s kinda hot though because he’ll do it anytime anywhere

For example you went with him to some horse racing game for him to make bets and got hungry so you headed to grab a few drinks and snacks. Before walking past him, his legs were spread, tooth pick in his mouth and just like clock work you feel a firm hit to your Jean covered behind.

“OOWWUH!”

“Sssh, Baby im watchin the game….what? Your ass was all in my face what else could I do?”

Whether you are a chunky girl or a skinny girl with a larger butt he don’t care he quite actually is your biggest fan.

Toji is your new seat btw.

Not just his pretty face but his lap too.

He’s a big strong man so don’t EVER think or assume you’re too heavy for him. It ACTUALLY wounds his ego more than you think.

Of course Toji being the ass eater he is almost every other night is spent just like this or sitting on his face. He never seen himself as a pleasure dom kinda guy. With his one night stands he only had sex for himself, but with you of course being the first woman he finally got to love after MamaGuro he takes his time with you. It’s a slutty sight but he knows it’s exactly what can get you off before him

Nanami

This man here.

A KING.

Freaky king but a king none the less.

He loves every part of you.

Which is what he does say and prove everytime you both are together but he does have a small little quirk about him that you aren’t sure whether or not to point it out in fear he may stop out of embarrassment or awareness.

Most men guide their woman by putting their hand on their lower back

Nanami however does this

ESPECIALLY on date night.

Just like Geto he loves to watch you dress, but also dresses you himself

“Wear this, yes? It compliments your skin beautifully.”

“You sure it’s not, because it’s a bit tighter below the waist?”

And now hes blushing.

He’ll admit. Whenever you come and visit him during lunch to feed him a home cooked meal he hates to see you go but LOVES to watch you leave.

Especially with that sundress you wear during the spring.

Nanami definitely is another man that will practically BEG for you to sit on his face.

“It’s okay, baby, honest. Use my face.”

“Kentoooo—!??”

One of his favorite ways to eat you out is like this. It was actually so embarrassing for you at first only because of his SLUTTY MOANS. Which was something you wouldn’t expect from a man like him, but you wasn’t complaining!He whined and whimpered so shamelessly inside you, you couldn’t even make eyes contact after cumming on his tongue.

Choso

Lord bless him.

He is very….confused to say the least.

He never understood the attraction of women’s parts.

Of course he found YOU attractive, but that was all over until he seen your shape.

“Oh.”

“…oh?”

“You—“

You usually wore baggy clothing like him. You decided to change really quickly at his new apartment and he was watching you.

Who knew you had a BODY LIKE THAT under all of those clothes!

“You’re sex—cute…”

Choso isn’t necessarily a shy man, but more hesitant when it comes to touching and complimenting you…

You’ve told him time and time again he is free to touch you when he wants but you sometimes have to guide him.

Usually when he wants to grab your ass he walks DANGEROUSLY close behind you.

So a few times you take his hand and place it on your cheek. For a moment he just rubs his hand across the soft skin and then SQUEEZE.

Choso loves to kneed and rub on your ass while he licks you so usually it’s 69 or you laid to your side.

Another things he actually loves seeing you in are sweats with a small top. Your lower body being heavier than the top is so attractive and you look so squeezable he can’t help but to hug you from behind

Please. Please PUH LEASE wear thigh high socks around him the ones that go RIGHT UNDER the cup of your ass and shake it JUST A LIL in front of him.

Moans at the sight everytime

No like literally MOANS by just looking at your ass jiggle.

He doesn’t think he’s a pervert but from how he grinds and hump against your ass while you sleep says otherwise.

If yall are wondering why I didn’t really speak on backshots it js because ALL OF THEM GO FERAL DOING IT.

[aeragan]

ᴘᴇʀɪᴏᴅ ꜱᴇx? ⨟ ʜꜱʀ ᴍᴇɴ

✭ pairing(s): aventurine, dr ratio, boothill, gallagher, sunday, sampo, jing yuan, blade, luocha, dan heng, gepard, caelus, welt (seperate) x reader

✩ inspo: im feeling sick in the head and also Fuck Me by Vernon Jane

✧ a/n: uhhmmmm i deserve to be a little freaky and weird and perverse ALSO IDK WHY THE X LOOKS LIKE THAT AND ITS ANNOYING ME TOO. LETS IGNORE IT, TOGETHER

🗒 cw: SMUT, gn! afab reader (for the bad bitches with uteruses), period sex (spoiler: theyre ALL into it.), fingering, face sitting, use of toys, dry humping (?), thigh riding, cunnilingus, thigh job, mutual masturbation, cowgirl/boy position, mating press, not proofread

✎ wc: 4.1k

MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY

⎯ Aventurine

AVENTURINE is all for it, if it means it’ll make you feel better. He prefers to use toys, if anything. He doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, but he’s more worried about hurting you. So he’s got a set of vibrators specifically that he likes to use while you’re on your period. And if you ask, he’ll probably buy a couple new ones, as well.

You do your best to stay still underneath Aventurine, eyes shut tight as you buck your hips up against the wand between your legs. Aventurine looks down smugly at you, mirth glimmering in those beautiful eyes of his. The beneath your stomach had long since turned into a delicious feeling of wholeness and warmth, and you couldn’t help but chase after it. Aventurine, for once, cannot bring himself to tease about how desperate you are to cum.

He had amped up the wand to its max intensity, just to make sure you had felt it through your clothes. Not that you hadn’t, you were practically pushing your pussy up against it the minute he had brought out the vibrator, doing anything to get yourself off. You feel the pleasure mounting all too quickly, yet chase after it nonetheless. You grab Aventurine’s wrist and whined, legs tensing and closing as if to ward off the vibrator. And like that, the pressure releases, giving way to a blissful feeling, the last of your cramps fading away so… easily.

“That good, huh?” Aventurine chides, a sultry grin plastered on his features as he lowers the intensity of the vibrator, yet still presses it up against your clothed clit to let you ride out your high. You don’t respond, basking in the sensation (and the fact that your cramps are gone).

⎯ Dr. Ratio

VERITAS may act hesitant when you bring up the idea, but he doesn’t say no. He’s more worried about how he should go about it than anything, and while it isn’t unfamiliar territory to him, he’s just… unsure of himself. Ultimately, he settles on toys, normally vibes, but dildos will do as well.

It was rather late by the time you had come complaining to him, and he was already behind on grading his student’s papers. Normally, he’d tell you to give him a couple more minutes to finish up his work and you give him that time, but with how much you're groaning and talking about the pain, he’s quite quick to put his pen down. He adjusts himself and slides open his legs, patting his thigh for you to sit down on, with barely another word.

And of course you sit down, your cramps had been killing you all day and you were desperate to find any way to get rid of them because painkillers just… weren’t working. You start to weakly grind against his thigh, hands holding yourself up by his strong shoulders. His right arm wraps around your waist and guides you slow rocking movements, fishing through his desk and finding a vibrator wand. He felt a little embarrassed to have kept something so… lewd in his desk, but then again, there were moments like this that made him feel a little bit better about keeping it.

He sets it on a lower setting, pressing it against your clit and you grind against his thigh. He watches intently, his gaze soft as he does his best to coax you through it, small, soft praises that no one would expect from Veritas himself. But he’s worried, more than aroused. If this is what helps your cramps, then he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t even protest. He watches as your face goes from tensed to relaxed, moaning out his name and even small ‘thank you’s as your heat mounts.

⎯ Boothill

You don’t even have to ask BOOTHILL, the minute you complain about your cramps, he’s on his knees, tugging at the hem of your pants. He prefers to eat you out on your period, given his skilled tongue. Any ‘but’s you had when you first brought the idea up were quickly swept away, he’d eat you out every day of the week during your cycle, or even all day, if you needed it.

Boothill groans against your sex, head buried between your thighs as your hands tug at his hair, a silent praise for just how good he was doing. While he feels quite feverish, his pace is slow and languid, drawing out every little sound of yours he can. The metallic taste on his tongue is just another reward, really. His hands grip your thighs as he presses a series of kisses against your clit, before delving his tongue back into your heat.

Soft sighs escape you as he continues his ministrations, unbothered by the way you squirm every so often or tug at his hair. He’s drunk off the taste of you, really. He laps up the blood as if it was his last meal, groaning every now and then when he had to take a breath. Sometimes he murmurs something in your flesh, too muffled for you to hear, but the vibrations of his gravelly voice provide an exquisite feeling. If you could do this all day, you would.

Heat curls beneath your stomach as Boothill suckles on your clit, thighs pressing against either side of his face as you grind your hips further into his mouth like he wasn’t close enough. Your head spins as you finally let go, letting out a low moan and cumming into his mouth. He licks it all up, letting out a low, guttural sound of approval, his mouth pressed against your folds for a second longer. He withdraws with a gentle kiss pressed to your clit, and a cocky grin sent your way. He quite enjoys the mess.

⎯ Gallagher

The minute you brought the idea up, GALLAGHER is down. He’d do anything you asked him to, from simply fingering you to full on penetration, whatever you want, he does. He wants you to feel better, and by Aeons, he’ll do just that. Would period cramps even exist in a dream? Doesn’t matter. If he knows it’ll help you, he’s on it.

His fingers sink deep within your pussy, a satisfied smile gracing his lips as you roll your hips against his fingers, moaning softly. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing circles against it. Lewd squelching sounds fill your ears and you desperately chase after his fingers every time the pull back slightly, head leaning back against Gallagher’s shoulder, splayed out in his lap.

“That’s it,” He coos, his free hand wrapped around your waist, squeezing at your hip. He presses a quick kiss to the crook of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer as he picks up the pace of his fingers. Heat spreads throughout your body, your eyes rolling back as you surrender to the feeling. “Doesn’t that feel better, sweetheart?”

Before you can catch it, your orgasm sneaks up on you all too quickly. You barely felt it build up, and now you’ve cum on Gallagher’s fingers. He lets out a throaty chuckle as you do so, tilting your head and moaning into his ear. With a few more pumps of his rough fingers, he pulls them out slowly, admiring his work. You breathe heavily, doing what you can to catch your breath. Your eyes follow his hand as he brings it up to his mouth, sucking off the rest of your blood and cum from his fingers with a satisfied, sultry look.

⎯ Sunday

SUNDAY would feel quite… down, knowing that period cramps still exist within Penacony. Knowing you can’t even escape them in the Dreamscape, he can’t help but wallow a little. But, with that, he will do anything to take away the pain. And when you suggest period sex, he’s practically scrambling for a condom.

Water sloshes around you as Sunday’s hands curl up at your sides, nails digging into flesh. He presses his nose to the crook of your neck, moaning against your skin as he bucks his hips up into you. Your back is pressed flush against his chest, his cock buried within you as he does his best to guide you by your hips. He lets out soft groans here and there, evidently enjoying this more than you are.

He does his best to minimize splashing, yet he is eager to please, and to make you feel better. He isn’t rough or fast, taking you at a rather languid pace, but with how feverish his groans are, how his hips stutter every now and then, he’s rather close himself. He can’t help himself, simply being this close to you has him hard. You roll your head back, moaning against his ear, and he just can’t help but cum.

You follow soon after as Sunday peppers kisses against your neck, sloppily at first, but becoming more refined as he shakes off that needy headspace. The pressure in your stomach gives way to blissful heaven then nothingness, the pain that spread to your stomach and legs, gone, just like that. When you turn your head to look at Sunday, he was a gentle smile plastered to his lips, eyelashes fluttering as if he himself had felt your pain go away.

⎯ Argenti

ARGENTI does everything that he can for you when you start your period. No questions asked. In fact, he’s the one that brings up the idea of sex. He’ll eat you out as you wish, finger you, or simply fuck you as gently or as hard as you wish. He doesn’t mind a mess, he actually quite likes it.

He indulges in his desires so easily when it’s you. When his eyes flutter open, he looks up at you with the utmost devotion, head buried between your thighs as you ride his face. Your moans only spur him on, and when you look behind you, you can see his painfully hard erection that has gone untouched. He planned on delighting you in every single way you asked him to, but insisted on starting with his favorite.

Argenti whimpers against your flesh, too caught up in his own selfish desires as his normally profound and rather elegant tongue-fucking turns feverish and sloppy, as if this was something he had always wanted. It was hard for him to break his normally so composed character, and yet here he was, so messy for his lover above him, he himself was desperate to quell the cramps you had been dealing with. His mouth works at a head-spinning pace for once, licking a fat stripe up your folds, kissing your clit, then practically making out with whatever he could put his mouth on.

Just as you orgasm, he lets out a guttural groan, something that came from deep within his throat, lapping up what he can and more. Yet, when you look behind you, Argenti’s cock is drooling, flushed, with sticky white tendrils coating his abdomen. His face flushes when you notice, but he doesn’t hide it. “Apologies…” He mutters against your flesh, giving it another kiss before raising your hips and helping you get off.

⎯Sampo Koski

Whatever you need, SAMPO has for you. He prefers to finger you while on your period, but he doesn’t mind full on sex, or even using toys. If he can’t be there when you’re on your period, he’ll make sure you have plenty of toys to keep yourself… company.

Sampo groans softly behind you, his leg thrown over yours as you two spoon, his fingers gliding over your folds. He doesn’t dare push them in, not yet, anyways. As much as you begged him, he wanted to be as difficult as possible, no matter how much you complained how bad the cramps were getting. Despite that, you were shuddering at any long stroke, the way his pointer and middle finger caged your clit in between them, a satisfied hum coming from his throat.

“Mmm…” He moans, grinding against your ass. He still can’t help getting himself off, the sounds of your breath hitching and soft moans as you ask him for more, how can he not get off on that? How selfish of him, really, to abate your pleasure in favor for his… “Feels good, huh?”

The audacity of this man, it’s as if he’s taunting you. Before you can complain, he finally presses both fingers to your clit, rubbing agonizingly slow circles around it. His grinding borders on desperate as he does so, burying the face in the crook of your neck as his eyebrows furrow. The bastard had came before he even gave you the chance to build up… but he doesn’t leave you hanging. As if he felt bad that he had teased you. His fingers sink into your heat, thumb pressed against your clit. He pumps them at a leisurely pace, unhurried still. Sampo’s breath is heavy as he comes down from his high, head still spun up in the need to please. He’ll apologize correctly, he swears, after you cum AT LEAST twice…

⎯ Jing Yuan

JING YUAN is actually quite delighted to have any hand in making you feel better. From making sure you have you painkillers and enough snacks, to making sure your need is sated. He’s quite happy when you ask for sex, and his go to is NORMALLY fingering, but tonight, he’s feeling a little different…

Warm water runs down your back as you press your lips to Jing Yuan’s shoulder, the scent his cologne filling your senses. After a long day of work, he had proposed a shower with you, but now, it had long been forgotten, his large hands placed on your hips as he rolled his own slowly. His cock is pressed between your thighs, dragging against your folds, the head notching against your clit every few seconds. The push and pull makes your head spin, leaning in to him to keep yourself up.

He had been craving you all day, almost too distracted to finish his work. He didn’t know exactly what brought on the sudden bout of clinginess, you were always on his mind, yes, but nothing quite like this. So, when he came home to you, complaining about your cramps, it felt like every aligned, clicked into place. He was quick to comfort you… and more.

He chuckles softly above you as your nails dig into his arms, which was quickly replaced with a low, content moan. He leans his head down, picking up the pace of his thrusts ever so slightly, causing you to gasp. Your thighs tense as pressure rises beneath your stomach, Jing Yuan kept up with the steady pace. Slowly, drag after drag, the pressure builds, and then releases as you shudder, pressed up against him. He guides you through your orgasm, his thrusts slow as he allowed you to come down from your high. He held off his own orgasm, pulling away from you with a soft smiler, an even softer gaze.

⎯ Blade

BLADE may sound reluctant but he’s quite thrilled with the idea. He doesn’t mind fingering you, but he actually quite enjoys giving you head. To have his mouth pressed against you, a towel beneath you, while he works his magic… he could ask for nothing more.

He’s feeling especially ravenous tonight, and has you perched up on the couch, over his face, while he strokes his cock. The other hand holds you by your thigh, letting out low grunts and groans in between sloppy kisses and licks to your pussy. He’s greedy, but unhurried, making sure to let his contentment be known through lewd noises.

He doesn’t say much, as he normally does, simply feasting on whatever he can. Moans escaped him as he continued to stroke himself, hips bucking impatiently. His teeth scrape against your folds every now and then, taking what he wants. He draws out any sounds he can from you, his pace bordering on desperation. His grip tightens on your thigh, watching as you tense every now and then.

Ultimately, your moans become more frequent, Blade’s sloppy eating getting to you as heat surges through your body, your hands gripping the back of the couch. You look down between your legs and meet Blade’s gaze, fiery and passionate. You can’t help but lose yourself in those eyes, even with such a lewd action. He laps up every drop of your essence, letting out a satisfied hum before shifting his attentions to his own cock, desperate to get himself off, as if he was finished. Which, he wasn’t, really. It was the first of many orgasms that night, he’d make sure it was.

⎯ Luocha

Far be it for LUOCHA to deny you pleasure. Especially when you come to him glassy eyed, hands over your stomach, muttering about how you’d do anything to make the cramps go away. He’d do anything to see you smiling again. And when your eyes light up at the suggestion, he’s more than happy to go through with it.

You had asked him for help, and by Aeons, Luocha would make sure you would feel better. He cages you in via a mating press, his hair falling around you like a veil. His eyes are closed and eyebrows furrowed as he moans, pressing as deep into you as he can. His voice was groggy and heavy, only to have just woken up. Yet he was lucid enough to lose himself within you.

He leans in and presses a feverish kiss to your lips, his strokes slow and measured, pausing every time his cock was fully seated in you. At this moment he could care less about the blood on his dick, too tired to control his desires and submitting to some sort of primal urge that welled within him. Luocha, so normally controlled, yet still a slave to desire.

It was early morning, you yourself didn’t know what time exactly. You had just woken up, and for whatever reason you just couldn’t sleep. Unfortunately, your cramps had caught up to you before you could fall asleep, and aside from moaning and groaning in bed, you had woken up Luocha to help, at least not wanting to be alone while it felt like your cramps were eating you alive. He seemed so eager to help, and now that you were beneath him, you understood why.

⎯ Dan Heng

DAN HENG is not adverse to the idea at all, the first time you had asked, he was quick to suggest toys. Any time your cycle comes around and you suggest period sex, he’s got a towel at the ready and a vibrator of your choice picked out.

He sits behind you, eyes transfixed on your sex as he presses a wand up to your clit. His hand rests on your thigh as you buck your hips against the toy, whining softly. You do your best to keep quiet, Dan Heng’s lack of noise making you feel slightly awkward. Yet, he spurs you on in his own quiet way, pressing the wand a little harder against your clit.

His fingers trail from your thigh to your hip, now resting his chin on your shoulder. He listens intently to all the little sounds you make, before whispering silent praises to you. You had already cum twice, your cramps a distant thought by now. But you had asked for more, and Dan Heng would deliver, as always.

Before your orgasm can creep up on you, he pulls the vibrator away from you and shuffles out from behind you. You complain, but he urges you to lay down, rifling through one of your drawers for a box of condoms. He looks back at you with a barely noticeable smirk. Something that told you to hush up and wait…

⎯ Gepard

While GEPARD is hesitant when the suggestion of period sex is proposed, when you tell him that it could help lessen your cramps, he’s rather eager to get started. He finds that his fingers work best, if you two can’t find a condom.

Gepard is quite antsy when you come home, you had texted him that you had had a bad day, and that your cramps were kicking your ass, and he wanted to make it allll better. He had bought you all sorts of treats, flowers, ordered takeout, the list goes on. And when the door opened he had showered you with all sorts of questions, what else he could do to make your day better, how he can help, whatever he could do. One question makes you shake off your bad mood so quickly, though: “Do you want me to get you your vibrator?”

So there you are, sitting across from Gepard, legs open as you press the want to your clit, while he strokes himself slowly. His eyes drop to your folds, his face practically red. He feels… perverted, but he just can’t help himself. Your soft breaths guiding his arousal, eyes darting nervously between your face and to your pussy, then back to your face.

Eventually, he came prematurely, stuttering over his words and muttering apologies after he does, only to be met with a soft sigh from you. He can’t help but watch with rapt fascination, that same flush painting his face continuously. And when you cum, he practically cuddles up to you, peppering kisses across your face and neck, praising you.

⎯ Caelus

You don’t bring up the idea, CAELUS does. He practically begs before you even get the chance to say you’re down. He goes all in, really, depends on what you are feeling like. You want him to eat you out? He’s on his knees. Want him to fuck you? All good with him. He’ll use toys as well, if you aren’t comfortable with any part of him being in you.

He shudders beneath you as his hands guide your hips up and down his cock, groaning softly, eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, eyes darting everywhere like he doesn’t know exactly what to look at. You prop yourself up by your hands on his chest, head dipped as every thrust makes you forget all about your woes.

He does his best not to cum, simply the sight of you riding him like that, taking what you want, it feels like it’s too much. He always did his best to make your periods tolerable, if you weren’t down for sex, he’d grab any snack he could, make sure you had a heating pad, pain killers, and whatever else you wanted. But when you were down for sex, Aeons, he could go all night. That’s one perk of housing a stellaron inside of his body.

“F-Fudge, you’re good…” Caelus groans. You can’t help but chuckle softly at the word ‘fudge’, you know exactly where– who– he picked it up from, and he returns your chuckle in kind. He was never one to take sex seriously, and will never, even when it’s something like… fucking your cramps away.

⎯ Welt

Who better to take care of you than WELT YANG? He does not mind the mess at all, whichever way you want him to take you, he will do. He’s on top of everything, the painkillers you need, snacks you’d like, eating pads, the whole thing. And when it comes to you asking him about period sex? He gladly says yes.

“Feeling better?” Welt murmurs against your skin, his fingers sinking into your warm heat. He knew well enough that of course one little movement wouldn’t make your cramps go away. But with how reassuring he had been, and even how quick he was to comply with your request for sex. He had set a towel beneath you, and even brought out a myriad of toys to use if you so wished.

Slowly he pumped his fingers inside you, head resting on your shoulder as he watched his own movements. His gentle smile persists as you moan, melting at his touch. His free hand strokes your back, coaxing you through it with soft words as your walls clamp around his fingers. He draws out each motion for you, slow and deliberate, pressing a kiss to your shoulder with each moan you let out.

Even with his slow movements, you find that your orgasm sneaks up on you all too quickly. You press your legs together as if to keep him out, heat curling up beneath your stomach and down your legs. He doesn’t stop, simply nudging your legs open with his free hand, curling his fingers and hitting juuust the right spot. You whine and cum over his fingers, grinding your hips against them weakly. He allows you to ride out your high, that placant smile playing on his lips still.

© sentoooo, 2024 | masterlist | kofi | star header by roseschoices | sfw blog DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN, REPOST ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[solelifauna]

With Bared Teeth & Prayers (Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU) (PT. 2)

Hi guys, I’m alive. I’ve just been sick and then found out that my dog’s cancer spread and the surgery costs $3,000 which is insane. Anyways, I’ve been working irl so I completely forgot about this account. Sorry pookies🤕🙏.

If anyone wants to know I’m still taking commissions, and if my price doesn’t work for you I’m sure I can lower it!! Honestly, I’ll write for whatever price I’m lowkey desperate.😭🙏

The next morning, you wake up in panic, shit, you slept in. You rush out the manor forgoing breakfast, almost eating shit on the sidewalk in your rush. You hop onto your bike, pedaling as if death itself was chasing you, huffing and puffing. Thankfully you make it to school on time, if only just on time.

You fall into your seat just as the bell rings, letting the top half of your body crumple over the desk.

“Looks like somebody had a rough morning.” The familiar voice of one of your best friends.

“Fuck off Quinn.” You huff out tiredly.

“Fine, then I guess this extra black coffee I got at Gloria’s is going to waste then.” She said teasingly.

How is it that she always has impeccable intuition about these things?

You groaned sitting up, giving Quinn a tired look.

“Yikes, I was gonna make another smartass joke but you look like you’re about to keel over.” She said worriedly, handing over the extra coffee.

“Ha ha, yeah I feel like I'm about to keel over. Thanks for the coffee by the way.” You said dryly.

“Don’t sweat it girl, but–uh, what the hell happened.”

“Too much dude, too much. It's so much bullshit I don't even know where to start.”

“Im guessing its about–”

“Ding, ding, ding, you got it.”

“Shit…how bad? They’re not gonna… you know…” Quinn stutters off.

“Kill me? Eat me?” 

She nodded.

You massage your forehead, a headache forming between your eyebrows. “I'll be so for real right now, I don't even know.”

“Damn, I don't even know what to say to that.” Quinn grimaces.

“It’d be weird if you did.” You joked giving her a sardonic smile.“Well if they’re gonna kill me, I hope they do it before finals.”

“You’ve got issues (Y/n).”

“I’m aware.”

Just then the chatter in the class started to pipe down as your history teacher, Mr. Lechliter, made his way into the room. However, something wasn’t right; his usually neat hair was in disarray and you could smell that he was profusely sweating. He was nervous, which was completely out of character. Sure Mr. Lechliter was awkward at times but he was normally confident and loud around the class, something was going on. 

“Good morning, class,” Mr. Lechliter began, but his voice was shaky, not at all the usual booming tone he used to command the room. “I-uh, hope you’re all ready to jump into… um, well, history.” He swallowed hard, glancing around as if searching for something—or someone—outside the door.

You look at Quinn with a raised eyebrow. What the hell is happening right now?

“We, um, actually have two guests who’ll be auditing a couple of classes today so we all want you guys on your best behavior. For our sakes and yours.” He said fidgeting with his paperweight globe, however, it was what he whispered under his breath that had you worried. What the fuck did he mean by that?!

“These guest speakers are one of the school's top sponsors so I truly cannot express the need we have for you all to behave and be on task, understand?” Mr. Lechliter spoke gravely.

The class let out a scattered “Yes” whilst others nodded. Now it was the class's turn to start getting nervous, the energy in the room now becoming quite grim. Seeing the class’s cooperation, Mr. Lechliter let out a shaky smile and nodded back at the class in approval. You sipped your coffee nervously in tandem.

“Good. Now, without further adieu, please welcome the esteemed Bruce Wayne and his son, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.”

And in walked your worst nightmare as you choked on your coffee. A hesitant applause began as a couple of heads turned your way, including the scrutinizing eyes of Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake.

“Jesus Christ (Y/n), are you good?” Quinn whispered, patting your back.

“Does it look like I'm good, Quinn?” You whisper-yell back.

“Sorry, dumb question.”

“I legitimately can't do this right now.” You groan out quietly.

Tim’s sharp, calculating gaze landed on you, and for a split second, his lips twitched upward in what looked disturbingly close to satisfaction. Bruce, however, kept his gaze steady, stoic, making his way to the front of the class like he owned every square inch of the room—and maybe, in a way, he did.

Bruce stepped forward, greeting Mr. Lechliter with a firm handshake before addressing the class. “Good morning,” he said, his voice carrying a smooth authority. “It’s always a pleasure to see the next generation of Gotham’s finest minds, and today, we’re here to discuss some unique opportunities with Wayne Enterprises—partnerships, scholarships, and mentorship programs that may be of interest to you in your future studies.”

Meanwhile, Tim’s gaze remained fixed on you, a silent warning lingering behind his polite smile. You swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact, hoping that blending in might somehow make you invisible. But Tim had no intention of letting you off the hook. He leaned slightly closer to Bruce, murmuring something that made Bruce’s eyes flicker in your direction, his expression unreadable.

Quinn leaned over, her voice barely a whisper. “(Y/n), what the hell is going on? They keep looking at you.”

“Trust me, I wish I knew,” you muttered back, managing to take a sip of coffee without choking this time. “They’re just here to make my life a living nightmare, apparently.”

As Bruce and Tim began their presentation, outlining all the “wonderful opportunities” that a connection to Wayne Enterprises could bring, you couldn’t help but feel trapped. Every line, every subtle glance, seemed like a reminder that escape from their influence was impossible. They were inescapable, even here, in the one place you thought you could breathe.

When they finally wrapped up their presentation, Bruce offered to answer questions, his gaze settling on you for the briefest moment, as if daring you to speak up. You just nervously looked away, its fine, they’ve said their piece and will be leaving soon.

But of course life doesn't ever go the way that you want.

The relief that had started to settle in evaporated as Bruce and Tim made no move to leave. Instead, they took seats at the back of the classroom, settling in with that same poised, assessing presence that dominated every room they entered. Bruce folded his hands in his lap, his gaze steady and inscrutable, while Tim casually crossed his arms, his eyes tracking every student’s reaction, but always coming back to you.

You swallowed hard, glancing at Quinn, who was now just as unsettled as you were. “Are they… staying?” she whispered, her brows knitting together in worry.

“Looks like it,” you muttered, barely moving your lips.

Mr. Lechliter, visibly tense under the weight of their scrutiny, resumed his lesson with all the grace of a man on the edge of a breakdown. Every time he stumbled over his words or glanced nervously at Bruce, the room felt as if it held its breath.

“This, um, particular era in history…” Mr. Lechliter began, stammering slightly as he struggled to keep his usual confident tone. “It’s a time when alliances shifted often, and there was…constant jockeying for power…”

Bruce and Tim watched, expressions neutral, but you knew better than to believe their act. They weren’t here for any genuine interest in educational standards; they were here as a reminder, a warning that the Wayne influence extended beyond the manor walls.

You focused on your notebook, pen tapping anxiously against the paper as you tried to tune them out and take frantic notes. But it was impossible to ignore the cold prickle at the back of your neck. Every glance felt like a needle, each second stretching longer than the last.

Mr. Lechliter’s lecture painstakingly continued on for another thirty minutes before class started coming to an end.

The bell finally rang as you shot up out of your seat and practically sprinted out the door. You head to your locker, feeling the many starters of students and teachers bore into you. Another thing was that everyone kinda knew that the Wayne’s didn't like you, it was very obvious. Which meant the media had a field day, letting the entirety of Gotham know how much the famous pack hated you. So now your business was also aired out to the entire world to know. Wonderful, am I right?

You shove your unneeded books into your (tbh, very cutely) decorated locker, while grabbing the science textbook you needed for your next class, AP Biology. This class was the absolute bane of your existence. Not only was the content hard, the teacher was also absolutely nuts. You walk over to your Bio class, clutching your books like a lifeline. “Please, dont be here too.” You pray to yourself. Thankfully, this class was normal, well, as normal as it could get. The other two classes you have before lunch ended the same way, Wayneless. 

As your fourth class comes to an end your stomach starts to growl. You’d be embarrassed, but everyone else in your class was in a similar starved state. When the lunch bell goes off, you’re excitedly grabbing your things and making your way down. Fucking finally it was lunchtime. You made your way to the quickly growing lunchline

Your friends were already sitting at your usual table as you made your way over and slammed your lunch tray on the table.

“Im gonna kill myself.”

“I can't even say anything about that.” One of your other friends Daniel says.

You groaned holding your head in your hands, your headache becoming more prevalent as you turn to look at him.

“Man all I did was ask to leave, and now this shit? I can't even right now.”

“You finally asked to leave, huh? I'm guessing it didn't go well.” Daniel asks.

“Nope, but when does anything ever go right in my life.”

Just as you finish talking, the noisy cafeteria falls abruptly silent. The usual clatter of trays and chatter of students fades, replaced by an almost eerie quiet. You and your friends exchange confused glances before turning to see what—or who—could possibly have silenced a room full of teenagers. But in the pit of your stomach, you already have an idea.

Sure enough, walking through the entrance are Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake-Wayne, looking completely out of place in their immaculate suits and composed expressions. Their powerful, calculating gazes sweep across the crowd, searching for someone, before both of their eyes zero in on you and your table. Instinctively, you tense up, your shoulders hunching as if to make yourself smaller, and you feel the flush of embarrassment heat your cheeks under their scrutiny.

Their focused stares make you flinch, and you quickly look away, facing your friends once more. “See what I mean?” you mutter under your breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s like the universe is out to get me.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow, glancing between you and the Waynes, a flicker of worry passing over his face. "What are they doing here? This isn’t normal, right?”

“No, it’s definitely not,” you reply, trying to keep your tone casual even as your heart races. “They’re here to make a point.”

You further slump into the table, arms cradling your head as the cafeteria slowly starts to go back to its normal noise level. Both Tim and Bruce take a seat at a table opposite to where you’re sitting, which gives them a perfect view of your table. Great.

“Guys talk to me. Anything–talk about anything please.” You beg quietly.

Quinn leans in, glancing nervously at the Waynes across the cafeteria. “Uh, did you hear about Chief Keef performing soon? Apparently, he’ll be in Gotham.”

Daniel nods, catching on to your plea for distraction. “Yeah, yeah, I heard he's gonna bring another artist on stage. Mauve Travis or something if we’re lucky?.”

You smile weakly, grateful for the distraction, even if your heart’s still pounding. You try to focus on what they’re saying, but you can feel Tim’s gaze on you like a laser, scrutinizing, watching every movement. You pretend not to notice, grabbing a fry from your tray and nodding along to whatever Daniel and Quinn are saying, forcing yourself to join in with a half-hearted laugh here and there.

Quinn suddenly brings up a story from her last weekend, trying her best to lighten the mood. “Okay, get this—I tried to impress this guy by pretending to know how to skate, but instead, I ended up flat on my face in front of, like, everyone. Mortifying, but he did buy me a smoothie as a consolation prize.”

You chuckle, letting the story pull you out of your anxious thoughts. “I mean, sounds like it kind of worked. You got a free smoothie, right?”

Quinn laughs, rolling her eyes. “Only because he felt bad, but hey, I’ll take pity smoothies.”

The laughter at your table grows, the lighthearted moment almost making you forget the ominous presence of Bruce and Tim nearby. But just as you’re starting to relax, you catch a glimpse of Tim’s amused smirk from the corner of your eye. His eyes don’t leave you, as if he knows exactly how unsettling his presence is and he’s reveling in it.

“I think he liked you,” Daniel teases Quinn, keeping the conversation going to help ease your nerves.

“Liked my bruised ego, maybe,” she snorts. “Anyway, what about you, (Y/n)? Got any secret admirers?”

You shake your head, grateful they’re keeping the focus off your current predicament. “Nope, unless you count the cadaver frog I accidentally dropped on my lab partner. He, uh-didn’t look at me the same after that.”

Your friends burst out laughing, and for a brief, blessed moment, you almost feel normal again. But when you glance back, Bruce’s eyes are still on you, cool and unyielding.

“Here’s to hoping they’re gone after lunch,” Daniel mutters, catching your uneasy glance.

“What good has hoping ever done me?” You sigh, picking at your food.

The tension in the cafeteria never fully fades. Despite the attempts from Quinn and Daniel to keep the conversation going, the presence of Bruce and Tim just continues to overwhelm you. Every so often, your eyes flit toward them, only to find them still seated, still watching, and their expressions betraying nothing of their true intent. It feels like they’re waiting for you to make a move, to react in some way that would justify their unsettling attention.

Lunch drags on in this uncomfortable limbo until, at last, the bell rings, signaling the end of the break. Your friends gather their things, offering small words of encouragement or supportive smiles, though they too look wary of the Waynes’ lingering presence.

“I’ll see you both in Chem. Hopefully Mr. Domzalski isn't still in a bad mood from what happened yesterday.” You say.

“You mean from when you and Daniel set fire to one of his textbooks?” Quinn questions sardonically.

You and Daniel offer her a sheepish, guilty smile. 

“Hey–it was an accident!” he exclaims, feigning offense.

“Yeah, what he said! We followed all the instructions to a T!” You defend as well.

“Sure, whatever you both say. I'm just surprised he didn't automatically fail you two.” Quinn says fondly.

“It’s ‘cause we’re somehow his favorites? Don't ask me how or why though.” You respond.

As you and Daniel chuckle, the lightheartedness helps lift some of the weight that had been hanging over your head. The relief is short-lived, though, as you feel a prickle on the back of your neck—a feeling that’s become all too familiar lately.

You glance back to see Bruce and Tim still watching, and for a moment, something in Bruce’s gaze changes. You can’t quite read it, but it feels sharper, like he’s calculating, considering something he hasn’t said. You swallow, gripping your bag tighter as your friends move to head toward class, unaware of the silent tension hanging around you like a cloud.

You head to your APA Algebra II class alone, without the usual buffer of Daniel or Quinn’s lighthearted banter to ease the tension. The classroom is quiet, a different atmosphere from the lively lunch period, and you’re able to slip into your seat undisturbed, hoping that the math problems ahead will give you a welcome distraction.

As the class moves on, you find yourself lost in equations, the numbers and formulas acting as a temporary refuge from everything else. You keep your head down, concentrating on the work, grateful for the momentary peace that academics bring.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of Math, you gather your things and head to APA Chemistry, where you’d finally reunite with Daniel and Quinn. When you arrive in APA Chemistry, the atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed. Mr. Domzalski hasn’t arrived yet, so everyone’s just hanging out, chatting about weekend plans, or joking around. You plop down next to Daniel, who’s already doodling on his notebook, and give Quinn a tired smile. It’s nice to have a few minutes to unwind before the usual controlled chaos of Mr. Domzalski’s class kicks in.

Then, the door swings open, and you freeze as Mr. Domzalski steps in with Tim Drake following close behind. Your stomach twists, and you have to swallow down a groan. Thankfully, Bruce is nowhere to be seen. Small blessings, you suppose; better not to question it too much. You look at your friends, trying to convey your annoyance with a single tired look as Mr. Domzalski beams with a sort of overdone excitement that sets you on edge.

“Everyone, I’d like you to welcome a special guest,” he says, practically brimming with enthusiasm. “Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, is here to observe our class today.”

You sink lower in your chair, stifling a grumble. Great, just great. This whole thing was growing stale fast. You try to ignore the interested murmurs spreading through the class as everyone stares at Tim, who stands there with that same polite, professional smile he’s been flashing all day. You avoid eye contact, focusing instead on the edge of your desk as Mr. Domzalski continues.

“Now,” Mr. Domzalski goes on, shifting his focus to the lab materials, “before we dive into today’s lesson, let’s review what went wrong in yesterday’s lab.”

He shoots a pointed look in your direction, his smile still in place, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s not exactly thrilled. “For those who might need a reminder,” he continues, not-so-subtly side-eyeing you and Daniel, “improper handling of materials led to one of my textbooks, which I cherish dearly, being set on fire.”

The class erupts into quiet snickers, and Daniel coughs into his hand, trying to disguise his laughter. You roll your eyes, but a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Even Tim’s eyes change a bit, as if interested.

Mr. Domzalski clears his throat, regaining the class’s attention. “Let’s aim for a little more caution today, shall we?”

The lab for the day was going to be more complex than usual. Mr. Domzalski, with a edge of nervousness in his tone, began rattling off the new, more complicated instructions. His gaze flicked to you and Daniel more than once, lingering just long enough to make his message clear: Please don’t mess up.

You slouched slightly in your seat, already feeling the weight of the unspoken pressure. It wasn’t lost on you how much was riding on this lab going smoothly—not just for your grade, but for Mr. Domzalski himself. With Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and a member of one of Gotham’s most powerful packs, observing, any mishap could very well put your teacher’s job on the line.

Next to you, Daniel caught your eye, his lips twitching into a wry smirk. He leaned in, whispering, “Feel like we’re walking on eggshells today, huh?”

“More like a minefield,” you muttered back, eyeing the lab equipment warily. The setup looked far more intricate than usual—beakers and flasks stacked alongside pipettes, Bunsen burners, and an array of unfamiliar chemicals. It was a recipe for disaster, and you had no intention of being the one to set it off.

Tim, seated at the back of the room, watched the proceedings with his usual cool detachment. His presence was like a weight pressing down on the room, amplifying every minor sound and movement. You could practically feel his gaze on you, even when you weren’t looking his way.

“Alright, everyone,” Mr. Domzalski said, clapping his hands to gather the class’s attention. “Remember to follow the instructions precisely as they’re written. This is a delicate experiment, and precision is key. Any deviation could—well, let’s just say we don’t want any surprises today.”

The pointed glance he sent your way at the word “surprises” made you cringe internally. You shot Daniel a look. He seemed to get the message, giving you a small nod before turning his focus to the materials in front of him.

With a deep breath, you adjusted your goggles and got to work, determined not to give anyone—especially Tim—a reason to criticize.

The lab was rough from the very start. No matter how tightly you adjusted your goggles, they kept fogging up, obscuring your vision at the worst possible moments. You constantly had to pause to wipe them off, and each time, you felt Tim's Gaze flicker towards you. Daniel, meanwhile, was no better. He almost tipped over a vial of some unpronounceable chemical twice, and each time, you barely managed to steady it before disaster struck.

“Bro you have to lock in.” you said under your breath.

“I'm trying–fuck. My hands are too shaky.” Daniel whispered back, nervous as he tried held out his hands for you to see. He carefully set the vial down, only for his elbow to nudge another piece of equipment. You caught it just in time, your heart leaping into your throat.

The instructions seemed to come at lightning speed, Mr. Domzalski rattling off steps faster than you could write them down. Each new instruction layered on top of the last until your head was spinning with measurements, temperatures, and reaction times. You were doing your best to keep up—you think you were doing it right—but the constant noise and movement around you made it feel like everything was closing in.

You glanced at the flask on your workstation, bubbling faintly as it was supposed to, and double-checked the temperature. It seemed fine. Probably fine. Hopefully fine. But the nagging thought that you might’ve missed a step wouldn’t go away.

Behind you, Tim’s silent observation was like a shadow, adding another layer of stress to the already chaotic atmosphere. Every time you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye, you swore his expression was unreadable, yet somehow judgmental.

“I think this is right,” you muttered, glancing at the next step in the instructions and adjusting your setup.

“‘Think’ isn’t reassuring, (Y/n),” Daniel replied, he was nervous. “Don’t blow us up, okay?”

“Not funny,” you snapped, though your lips twitched in a half-smile despite the stress. “Just keep stirring before we mess up the timing.”

The rest of the lab dragged on in a haze of nervous energy and frantic adjustments. Your hands trembled slightly as you measured out the final chemical, careful not to let even a drop spill. When you finally completed the experiment, the mixture in the beaker turned the correct pale blue color, and you let out a shaky breath of relief.

“See?” Daniel said, flashing you a grin. “We nailed it.”

You gave him a tired look. “Barely.”

As Mr. Domzalski approached to check your work, you held your breath, praying there wasn’t some detail you’d overlooked. When he gave a curt nod of approval, you finally relaxed, though your nerves still felt frayed. Even then, you could feel Tim’s eyes on you, as if silently appraising every moment of your struggle.

The lab was over, but the stress lingered like a heavy weight on your shoulders. You packed up your materials with shaky hands, grateful to escape the pressure of both the experiment and the unrelenting scrutiny.

As the class wrapped up, Mr. Domzalski passed by your station, his sharp eyes flicking over the completed experiment. The pale blue liquid in the beaker must have been just right because, instead of his usual critical remarks, he gave a subtle nod and a quiet, “Good work.” The words weren’t overly enthusiastic, but coming from him—and especially with Tim Drake watching—it was as close to praise as you could get.

You felt a weight lift off your shoulders, and you let out a long sigh of relief. You and Daniel exchanged a look, his triumphant grin mirrored by the faintest smile you allowed yourself. You’d passed. Somehow, despite the foggy goggles, Daniel’s near-disasters, and the relentless pressure, you’d made it through the lab unscathed.

As you finished cleaning up, Mr. Domzalski gave you a brief, silent glance of thanks. It wasn’t much, but you knew what it meant: he was grateful you hadn’t turned today’s experiment into another headline-worthy incident. You nodded subtly back, grateful that the ordeal was over.

With the last of your equipment put away, you grabbed your bag and escaped the lab as quickly as possible, the weight of Tim’s lingering gaze finally lifting as you stepped into the hallway. Quinn was waiting by the door, chatting with Daniel, who was still buzzing with post-lab adrenaline.

“Well, looks like you didn’t burn down the school,” Quinn teased, grinning as she fell into step with you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself. “We’re still alive, so I guess that’s a win.”

“Hey give us more credit.” Daniel chimed in, earning a laugh from both you and Quinn.

As the three of you headed for the stairs, you said goodbye to Daniel, who was heading to a different class. “See you later, guys.” he said, waving as he turned down another hallway.

You and Quinn made your way toward the gym for your seventh period, the final class of the day. The familiar chatter and clang of lockers greeted you as you stepped into the changing area. Gym wasn’t exactly your favorite class, but after the stress of the lab, it was almost a relief to have something physical to focus on instead of the constant mental strain.

“Think they’ll leave you alone for the day?” Quinn asked as you pulled on your gym shoes.

“I hope so,” you replied, your voice weary. “I can’t handle any more of this. It’s like they can’t even wait to-to…you know.”

Quinn grimaces. “Yeah, I know.” But she smiles back at you, as if tying to make you perk up. “Well, at least we’re doing dodgeball today, you should blow off some steam.”

You huff, amused. “Mm, maybe nailing Farah in the head with a dodgeball would do me some good.”

“Straight on bitch, that girl needs to be humbled.” Quinn says.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “At this point, I’ll take any excuse to hit something.”

The two of you stepped into the gym, the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors and the buzz of students warming up filling the air. It wasn’t the easiest day, but at least the end was finally in sight.

The day finally winds down as you head to the locker rooms to change. The smell of sweat and disinfectant fills the air as you and the other students shuffle to your lockers, exchanging the occasional half-hearted quip about how much of a drill sergeant Coach Walker was today. You change quickly, eager to escape the lingering humidity of the gym, and sling your bag over your shoulder just as the dismissal bell rings.

Joining the tide of students heading toward the front exit, you fall into step with Quinn, chatting idly about homework and plans for the weekend. The sprawling line of cars in the pick-up area is already forming, parents eager to whisk their kids away from the chaos of the school day.

Daniel spots you both as he weaves through the crowd toward his mom’s car, parked conveniently near the front of the line. “Guess that’s my ride,” he calls, swatting your shoulder playfully. “Try not to miss me too much tomorrow, I've got a doc's appointment.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah, you wish asshole.”

“Later!” he shouts, hopping into the passenger seat of his mom’s car as it pulls away. You and Quinn wave after him before continuing toward the pick-up zone.

“Alfred here today?” Quinn asks, glancing around at the cars idling nearby.

“Probably not,” you reply with a shrug. “Haven’t heard from him, so it’s probably just me and the bike today.”

Quinn nods, her attention already shifting to a car pulling up in the distance. “Looks like my dad’s almost here.”

You glance toward the pickup area and spot the familiar vehicle inching closer. “Cool. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yep. Don’t get mugged on the way home,” she jokes, smirking as she adjusts her backpack.

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” you reply with a laugh. With a quick goodbye, you head toward the bike rack to unlock your trusty two-wheeler.

The quietness of the parking lot is a stark contrast to the noisy chaos of the day. You crouch down, fiddling with the combination lock on your bike, when a hulking shadow falls over you. The sudden shift in light is enough to make your instincts bristle, but you stay focused on the lock, rolling your eyes at the interruption.

“Bro, if you’re lookin’ to mug me,” you say without looking up, your tone flat and unamused, “you should know I’m skint broke. Try some other bitch.”

The air around you seems to thicken with tension, and you feel the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze boring into you. It’s enough to make you pause mid-turn on the lock, your breath catching as a low, familiar voice responds.

“I sure hope you’re not talking to me?” Comes your father, Bruce’s, deep voice.

Your head snaps up, and your breath catches in your throat as you realize it’s not some wannabe punk standing over you.

You pale instantly, the color draining from your face as you meet his icy blue eyes. His expression is unreadable, but the weight of his gaze is suffocating. The sheer presence of him—imposing, cold, and unnervingly silent—makes your stomach churn with dread. Your heart pounds in your chest as you scramble for words, your brain tripping over itself in panic.

“Oh—uh, Mr. Wayne—I didn’t—I mean, I thought…” you stammer, trying to cobble together an explanation and an apology all at once. Your hands fumble with the lock on your bike, suddenly feeling clumsy under his scrutiny. “I—um—sorry! I thought—uh—someone else—”

He raises an eyebrow, the tiniest shift in his expression, but it’s enough to make you flinch. You straighten up, clutching your bike for dear life, feeling small and utterly exposed under his towering figure.

“I see,” he says finally, his voice calm but laced with that undercurrent of authority that makes it clear he’s not just seeing. He’s assessing.

“I didn’t realize it was you,” you blurt, trying to salvage what’s left of your dignity. “I thought it was, uh, someone else. Someone trying to—um—mug me?” The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears, and you wince inwardly at how ridiculous it must sound.

Bruce’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Do you make a habit of mouthing off to strangers you assume are threats?” he asks, his tone deceptively mild.

“N-no, sir,” you stammer, shaking your head quickly. “I just—I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s been a long day, and I wasn’t thinking—”

He holds up a hand, cutting off your rambling. “Enough,” he says, “I’m here to pick you up. Alfred’s occupied.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, as you try to process his words. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that Bruce might be the one picking you up today. Of course, the thought of him going out of his way to do so hadn’t even crossed your mind, it wasn’t like he ever went out of his way for you before.

“Oh,” you manage after an awkward pause. “Right. Thanks.”

You still have your conversation from the previous day in mind.

“Come on,” he says, turning without another word. “We’re leaving.”

You hastily shove your bike into the back of his sleek black car, your movements hurried and uncoordinated under the pressure of his presence. Sliding into the back seat, you notice Tim sitting in the front passenger seat, looking at you through the rear mirror. You avert your gaze, clasping your hands tightly in your lap, trying not to fidget as the engine purrs to life. The air inside the car is thick with silence, broken only by the occasional click of the turn signal as Bruce maneuvers through traffic.

You steal a glance at him, his expression as stoic and unreadable as ever. Despite the tension knotting your stomach, you force yourself to speak. “I—uh, thanks for picking me up,” you mumble, staring out the window.

Bruce doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the road. When he finally speaks, his tone is even but firm. “We’ll talk when we get home.”

Your throat tightens when you see Tim's glee filled smile, as if a cat had just caught a canary. You nod mutely, knowing there’s no point in arguing. Whatever he has to say, it’s not going to be pleasant.

[Hope you guys liked the chapter!! I'm sorry for the delay and the ghosting, more fics will be updated trust!! Also thank you to all the people who were checking on me, I really appreciate it!!]

[sugawhaaa]

ATEEZ'S HANDS

☆--------And how they use them on you

Warnings!! SMUT

Pairing:: ot8!ateez x fem/gn reader

Ateez h/c masterlist:: 💋

Hongjoongs hands aren't very big so how can he use them to assert some kind of dominance? Ah, perfect, torture the fuck out of you. His hands are like a torture device to you, gently grazing his fingertips along endogenous zones and inching right around your intimate parts but not quite making the commitment.

Also putting his fingers in your mouth 🥴 he wouldn't be too forceful with it but it's the principle of the matter.

Beautiful ass hands. Sleek, slender, ugh 😩 his touch is so so so gentle, feather-light. He'd use his hands similar to Hongjoong, hovering around those spots that make you squeal but never fully committing. When his fingers finally get inside he abuses that "come hither" motion so much 🥴

He loves to trace your lips with his thumb before kissing you and when he's flirting with you. Gang I'm tweaking out. He also loves to give you princess treatment which his gentle hands become handy, gently holding your ankle when helping you take off your heels, giving you back messages that may or may not turn sexual 🥰

We all know this man's hands are fine as hell so this might be a little short bc I don't like to repeat what everyone says but EVERYONE SAYS EVERYTHING because he's so fine. Just fingering. Fingering, fingering, fingering, with this man 😫 his fingers hit so deep and scoop up your pleasure so perfectly. Also stuffing his fingers in your mouth when he fucks you from behind, basically choking you out.

Pining your wrists 🥰 just holding you down in general when you're misbehaving. You're wiggling away in pleasure, he'll grab your thighs and pull you right back. Also when you're in a situation where the two of you have to be quiet he aggressively holds his hand over your mouth, like you cannot breathe 😁

...we do not talk about this enough as a society. I'm gonna be using the first photo for most of the inspo 😁 yeosang is hella strong all the way through his arms to his hands so fingering with him is hard go live through. A lot of squirting...a lot. Also, a lot of people don't picture Yeosang like this, but groping>>> your thighs, ass, tits, whatever makes you feel best. He loves to massage the plush skin between his fingers so deeply.

And he also abuses the "Come hither" motion as well, though he is more of a thrusting person. Like I said earlier he's so strong in his arms so doing things like holding you up in his arms and intertwining your fingers with his is a yes 😍 when he's being a lil subbie he grips everything like his life depends on it. Clawing the bedsheets, grabbing your wrist, pulling his or your hair...

Woo here we go 🥴 we have another torture device up in here. Tracing your jawline with his fingertips, gently inching to your neck before wrapping his fingers around your throat. He isn't always aggressive when he grabs your neck. Sometimes he's cutting off your blood circulation and other times he's very gentle, just holding his hand there to remind you who is in charge.

Another groper up in here, but ass. Lifting you up closer to him by your ass or just spreading your cheeks out before fingering you. Most of the time though he's very gentle with his hands, its his beefy arms you have to fear...

Lord have mercy. The third photo is an actual photo of his hands. Just imagine his hands sliding up your arm to meet your hand while he fucks you from behind, groaning and growling all kinds of dirty words into your ear. Another groper, like the groping trio, he loves anything meaty (you can't convince me this man wouldn't love sex with a chubby girl) tits, ass, thighs, anything thar jiggles is now in his fists.

He's an aggressive ass fingerer as well. He'd get right up in there and pound his fingers into you until you fold in half. Also another choker, except he's only ever aggressive or doesn't do it at all, all or nothing per se. He likes to put his fingers in your mouth as well, especially when fucking you from behind.

Deep breaths...based on the fourth photo he's one of those guys to hold your lower abdomen as he fingers you, maybe even applying a little weight to make you squirm and kick your feet. He's all about fingering, flicking your clit, "come hither" motion, pounding, squriting everything you can imagine. He likes to finger you from behind too, maybe having a little collar to lift your head back as he fingers you.

He likes to tease those sweet spots and hold your throat as well. When he's got you tied up in something he loves to yank on it, twisting the ropes or chains between his fingers and around his hands.

Groping...100%. I can see him hitting it from the back and bringing his hands around front to grope your tits 🥴 and bring his hand down a bit to finger your clit while he fucks you. He likes to hold your jaw up as well, helping you tilt your head back onto his shoulder...

Hand-holding during sex is a big thing for him too, holding your hand beside your head against the pillow while he pounds into you. Also tracing his fingers on your lips too, especially before actually diving into the fun...

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Forbidden Fruit.

That’s the thing about Declan - he always gets what he wants. It might be wrong… but it feels so right.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. use of the c word. age gap. cheating. declan’s filthy mouth needs its own warning.

word count - 2.3k

authors note - that man is a munch and I cannot be convinced otherwise. my crush on aidan turner has returned tenfold and i’m about to make it everyone’s problem. read declan’s dialogue in that gorgeous irish accent of his for the full experience.

masterlist. inbox.

You’ve fake laughed so much this afternoon that you can’t remember what your real one sounds like.

Finally breaking away from a conversation with Freddie’s wife, you swan across the garden in your sundress towards the food and drink table. You absentmindedly pick at the strawberries, hoping and praying that no one bothers you for a moment. All you need is a minute to yourself, away from all of these faux smiles and boastful exchanges.

Reaching towards a raspberry, you feel fingertips ghosting across your back quickly.

“Y’alright?”

You’d recognise that voice anywhere, of course, and not just because he’s the only Irish man in The Cotswolds.

“Bored out of my mind, actually.”

“You’d never know.”

“I’m a good actress, these days. I’ve done one too many of these stupid garden parties.”

He chuckles all genuine and honeyed, and you’d be lying if you said the sound didn’t settle warmly in your bones.

“Whatcha doing tonight?”

He’s keeping his voice low, inconspicuous. You’ve both turned so you’re looking out over the garden, backs to the table, watching the crowds of people and their gossiping. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent conversation between two acquaintances. They can’t see his hand playing with the hem of your dress behind you, or the way his fingers keep brushing the backs of your thighs, sending shivers down your spine.

“My boyfriend is coming over. You know that.”

“What time?”

You roll your eyes but answer anyway.

“Nine.”

“So what I’m hearing… is that you’re available from whenever this crap finishes until then?”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“You usually love my stupid ideas.”

“Well maybe I’m trying to be smarter.”

He laughs with his full chest while you fight to keep the grin off your face, shaking your head.

“You’re already the smartest person here. Any smarter and we’re all doomed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Declan.”

He pauses for a moment, pressing his side into yours and running his thumb across the soft skin of your thigh underneath your dress.

“I think we both know that’s not true, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters as you will yourself to get it together, desperate to not repeatedly give in to his murmured promises and flirty remarks. It’s wrong. You know it is, both of you do, and yet…

“I want you gone by eight at the latest. I don’t need the two of you bumping into each other on my front step.”

He smirks like the cat that got the cream, looking down at you with lust drunk eyes.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Promise to make it worth your while, yeah?”

“You always do,” you breathe out, so quietly that you’re surprised he hears.

He’s about to reply when you’re both startled by Rupert, striding over with the confidence of ten men and a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Have they run out of glasses, CB?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder, laughing that rich man’s laugh right into your ear.

“Live a little, darling. Walk with me, will you? I have a story that might be worth your time, and I thought I’d bring it to my favourite journalist before anyone else.”

Rupert all but drags you across the garden, already chattering on about a scandal in the local constituency of the Conservative Party. You cast your eyes back to where Declan hasn’t moved, his gaze roving over your figure as you walk away.

He winks cheekily, dirty smirk slapped across his face.

You hate the way it sends electricity running through your veins in anticipation.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s six forty five when there’s a knock on your door.

The devil himself is standing on your front step, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hi darlin’.”

His accent is like molten honey, golden and warm and laced with sweetness. There’s mischief running through it though - as there always is.

“Come on,” you urge, grabbing his tie and pulling him inside, worried that one of your neighbours will see.

He laughs as he shuts the door behind him, unphased by your urgency.

“Thought you had a meeting. CB was telling me all about it earlier.”

“Rupert would tell you anything,” he chuckles. “He’s got a soft spot for pretty girls.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you giggle, undoing his tie from around his neck and hanging it on your coat rack.

“No. I have a soft spot for one pretty girl.”

“Sweet talker,” you tease as you roll your eyes, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “How about you put your money where your mouth is, hmm? We don’t have all night.”

He clicks his tongue, hands finding your hips to pull you against him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush yours. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Less talking,” you scold, grabbing at his biceps to kiss him desperately.

Declan pushes you up against the wall, hips pressing into yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and those mints he keeps in a tin in his back pocket. He scatters open mouthed kisses across your neck, licking across your skin and sucking the spot underneath your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles. “Ever since I saw you in this dress.”

“You like it?” you breathe, head rolling to the side to give him more access.

“I fucking love it.”

“Good. Bought it for you.”

He groans, grinding his hips into yours.

“You’re a minx,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

With that, Declan wraps his arms around your middle, practically dragging you into the living room to throw you onto the sofa. He pulls your dress over your head, throwing it onto the floor with reckless abandon.

He instantly gets on his knees in front of you, spreading your legs with rough hands.

“Been waitin’ for this cunt all fuckin’ day.”

Your underwear is tugged down and discarded before you can blink, leaving you naked and high on the anticipation of it all. Your lungs are heaving, hands shaking as you will him to do something.

Declan sits back on his haunches, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. He looks so broad and commanding in his blue jeans with his shirt undone. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s definitely still in charge here.

You tangle your fingers into his dark hair and tug, pulling him closer.

“Please, Dec.”

“You sound so beautiful when ya beg.”

He grips your thighs tightly, ensuring they stay apart, as he leans in and presses kisses to any skin he can find.

“Don’t tease.”

“Or what, hmm? What are ya gonna do, sweetheart?”

“Stop it,” you chastise, head dropping back onto the cushions. “Please, baby.”

He chuckles before diving forwards, licking a stripe through your core. He wastes no time, tongue flicking over your clit like he’s done so many times before.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. “Fuck, Declan.”

You’re convinced he enjoys this just as much as you do. He’ll eat you out for hours, never once expecting something in return - happy to feel you fall apart on his tongue again and again and again.

He knows exactly which spots will have you arching your back, how much pressure to use to have you writhing on the sofa cushions, where to put his hands to push you right over the edge. He can play you like a fiddle, observant and experienced.

His nose nudges your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, messy and wet and completely committed. The grip he has on your thighs is getting tighter and tighter, fingertips bruising your skin. You pray you’ll be able to see the marks when you look in the mirror tomorrow.

You’re teetering on the edge of your release, legs shaking and abdomen tightening. Declan can read you like a book, knowing exactly where you’re at - and taking advantage of it.

Just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and sits back, grinning like a deviant.

“No,” you’re panting. “The fuck are you doing?”

He laughs, leaning down to rest his head on your leg. He looks up at you with a gaze that’s half lust and half mischief, biting at his lip as he watches your chest heave.

“What do you want, darlin’?”

You pout at him, tears welling in your eyes.

“Come on, let me hear you say it. I want you to beg me to make you come. Tell me how you’ve been waiting for it all day, sweetheart.”

“I-Declan, I just-”

“Come on smart girl, use that big brain of yours. Why don’t you tell me all about how you think about me when you touch yourself? No - why don’t you tell me how you think about me while he fucks you?”

Your hips buck up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction. Declan laughs cruelly, wrapping his arms around your thighs again to pull you to the edge of the sofa, the strength he exerts only turning you on more.

“It’s okay,” he soothes against your core. “You don’t have to tell me. Your dripping wet cunt tells me everything I need to know, darlin.”

All you can do is moan, breathing like you’ve run a marathon. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel is Declan O’Hara.

“If we had the time, I’d edge you some more. Eat you out until you cried. You always look so pretty when you’re crying f’me.”

He finally takes pity on you, curling his tongue inside you as his nose repeatedly bumps against your clit. He’s practically making out with your core, saliva dripping down your thighs and onto the sofa. You can’t bring yourself to care about the mess, more focused on the older man’s mouth and the skills it possesses.

You’re whining, fingernails digging into his scalp as you grasp for something to hold onto. He’s groaning too, having just as much as fun as you are.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how fucking beautiful you look.”

Your back bows off the sofa as you grind against his face, riding out your climax. Your thighs tighten around his head, desperate for him to keep going for as long as possible.

“That’s it. Atta girl. There we go.”

You’re trying to catch your breath as Declan stands up, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his side. His fingers draw patterns on your hips, absentmindedly calming you down as you nestle into him, seeking out his body heat.

You lean up and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth eagerly. He tastes like you, and the realisation makes you whinge.

“Let me return the favour, please,” you whisper against his lips.

“As much as I’d love that, darlin’… we can’t.”

You quirk a brow at him in confusion, his rejection more than unusual.

“It’s twenty past eight.”

“Oh, shit,” you groan, finding your underwear and pulling them up your legs.

“I wish I could stay,” he reassures as he kisses you again sweetly. “You know I do.”

You nod, running your fingers through his sweat soaked locks to move them out of his face.

“Promise I’ll repay you next time.”

“I’ll hold ya to that.”

The phone ringing startles you both, your heart jumping in your chest. You pick it up quickly, wrapping the cord around your finger.

“Hello? How are you? Ah, good. Yes, fine. Alright, I’ll see you then. Yes, see you soon. Mhmm… I can’t wait either.”

You put it down just as quickly as you picked it up, finding your dress from the floor and pulling it over your head.

“That was Patrick. He’s at the train station, about to start the drive back here. He won’t be long.”

“I best get going then,” Declan says as he buttons up his shirt. “Don’t need a family reunion in your living room now, do we?”

You shake your head, scoffing at his attempt at a joke. Walking him to the front door, you press his tie from the coat rack into his hand so he doesn’t forget it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? You’re coming for lunch at the house?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say as you lean up to kiss him, sighing at the taste of his lips. “I’ll wear that lacy white lingerie under my dress just for you.”

“Great,” he groans. “Now I have to think about my son seeing that on you when it should be me.”

“You might,” you tease, smoothing out his shirt. “There’s a lot of rooms in that house, Declan.”

“You’re a minx.”

He kisses you once more, big hands cradling your face as he pulls you in.

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Yes, you will.”

You watch him go from your front step, making sure no one sees him leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re shutting the door, trying to tidy the living room frantically. You open the windows, lighting a candle and picking up everything that was knocked to the floor in the lust filled frenzy. You’re covering your tracks as best you can, just like you’ve done countless times before.

You don’t need Patrick asking why the room smells like his dad’s aftershave.

You don’t need Patrick asking questions at all.

a little gift for you, as promised…

@do-it-for-kicks @whytheylosttheirminds @laverna-fanfictions @graceflorence

and of course, if you enjoyed this - throw me a little reblog if you so wish… help a girl out… <3

[ilium-ilia]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter One: fall

tw: historical au, not specified ancient greece/rome aesthetics, violence, threats of rape, murder, ancient forms of torture/execution

There are whispers in the wind. 

It arrives as a susurrus so faint that it nearly slips between your fingers like ocean water, leaving behind nothing but grains of sand for you to read. A vague redolence of smoke wafts on the early morning air where it burns your nostrils as you walk to fetch water, yet when you turn to face the sky you’re met with nothing but the same pale blue as you always are. It hangs high above you as you lower a wooden bucket into a well to fill your pitcher until it nearly overflows. It sloshes on your feet, but you can’t feel the discomfort over the sound of the gale swirling by your ears. 

You’re not sure what the whispers say, you only know how it makes you feel. It leaves you with singing blood and twitching fingers. Something roars in the distance—it bellows loud enough to shake the earth like a mighty lion, forcing your bones to rattle with it. There’s something vaguely familiar about their words. Terribly sagacious, they know more than anyone living ever could, and though you have always been a good listener, their omen is something you simply can’t translate. 

So you continue with your morning chores. Bare feet against smooth stone, you travel back to the palace with your arms occupied with your water pitcher while you focus on not tripping on your oversized chiton. Still shaking the fatigue from their bones, the other servants move lazily throughout the halls. Their eyes blink heavily, and their mouths open wide with yawns, but they still have the capacity to send grievous glares your way. Narrowed eyes and sly smirks, they ask you how your morning is. 

You cannot answer. 

But you are not petulant. There are no words left for you to speak, and even if there were, it would have no effect on your status. On the fact that you are a terrible creature—something meant to only be regarded with distaste. Your head stays high as you traverse through pale, cavernous hallways until you arrive at the chambers that house your emperor and lord. 

His name is Herschel Shepherd and he sits at the edge of his bed waiting for you with sizzling patience. Half clothed and greying, he is not as virile as he used to be when you were a child. Soft around the edges, he stares at you with pale eyes while awaiting your services. You utter no greeting as you retrieve a small bronze water basin from beneath a mirror on the far side of the room—a thick bristle brush already sits in the bowl waiting for you. Emperor Shepherd says nothing as you place both the pitcher and bowl at his feet before kneeling in front of him. 

He sighs. “Well. Go on, then.” 

You fill the bowl with water from your pitcher, and then swirl the brush through the liquid before beginning to clean your emperor’s feet. This action has long since lost its humiliating connotation for you. When you were younger, the action left you feeling soiled, just as intented. Now, it is simply a chore; taking care of this man who can hardly bother to look at you with disdain anymore. Scrubbing his heels, rinsing his toes—nothing but a simple assignment. 

You’re halfway through washing his left foot when he speaks again. “I’ll be dead by the end of the night.” 

Pausing, you look up at your emperor with questioning eyes. There’s no bemusement to be found in his features; in fact, there’s nothing at all. Just those same stoic eyes that seem to stare right through you. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” he humors blandly. “You’re mute, not deaf. I know you’ve heard the whispering and seen the wounded. I know you’ve heard that Emperor Price and his barbarians are closing in on the city, breathing down our goddamn necks for the last few months trying to suffocate us. I’ve seen you lingering where you shouldn’t be. I’d punish you for it if I was worried you’d go blabbering about it. Well, they’re here. We’re on our last breath of air.” 

A wicked callosity quickly seeps into the pores of your skin as you stiffly return to your task. You’re not sure what to make of his words. This promise of destruction—of his death. A part of you wouldn’t care if this empire burned to a crisp with nothing but the memory of bones to whisper about its existence. Something to be studied by intellects of the far future. No one in this city has ever done you any favors. Though, you would miss your schedule, you think. Chores and all, you crave consistency. The routine. 

As you move to clean his right foot, you think you might even miss this. 

Though you would not miss him—Emperor Shepherd, so oddly named. Never has he shown the kindness and humility of someone nurturing a flock of sheep. He has only proven himself to be a butcher. No, worse than a butcher. A huntsman. Someone who slaughters and poaches just for the sake of seeing that sweet vermillion ichor. He maims. He shreds. He’s built his empire upon nothing but bone. It’s laughable to think he’s surprised that the corse is finally rotting and giving away beneath his feet. 

“Tell me, girl, do you miss your tongue?” he questions. 

You freeze. 

You were only ten years old when he ripped it from your mouth. Even after over a decade you can still remember the way the marble flooring of the throne room dug into your knees as soldiers forced you to the ground. They had killed your father first. It was said he had spread perfidious propaganda and false accusations against Emperor Shepherd. His punishment?—to be tied to a horse and dragged along the streets. Both you and your mother were made to follow behind him as the bindings dug into his wrists, skin ripping from his flesh as the unforgiving streets tore into him. People threw rocks into the street for him to be dragged over, as if the stone wasn’t punishment enough. He died before you reached the palace—he gasped his last breath just at the base of the stairs—but they refused to cut him free. They kept dragging his mangled corpse until Emperor Shepherd could see your father for himself. Nothing but a limp pile of meat. 

Next was your mother. Her punishment was worse—one that you never got to see, but you could hear plenty well. Shoved inside of a brazen bull, her screams contorted until she sounded like a dying animal as they slowly roasted her to death. Superheated bronze and charred flesh—you don’t think there was a body left to bury when they were finished. For someone they so desperately wanted to silence, the citizens reveled in her blood curdling cries until death ultimately consumed her. 

Then, there was you. A trembling child who could hardly hold back her pules, Emperor Shepherd took pity on you. At least, he claimed as much. It didn’t feel like mercy when his blade cut through the wet muscle in your mouth while tongs pierced the tip of your tongue to hold you steady. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were forever seen as an outcast and forced to work as a servant to the man who stole your autonomy. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were made to wash his feet every day as if you should have been grateful for the second chance at life—as if your life was ever his to take in the first place. 

Shaking your head, you continue to wash his feet. He chuckles at your claim. It’s dry and acidulous, just like he always is. 

“You show such intrepidness for someone so pitiable,” he huffs. Suddenly, he snatches his foot out of your hand, forcing your neck to crane to view him. He does not wait for you to dry him off before placing his soles on the stone floor. “I’ll once again take pity on you, girl. Take today as a day of rest before this city is overrun. Emperor Price trains nothing but beasts. Do yourself a favor and sacrifice yourself before dusk, lest they rape you to death or sew your skin into their clothes. Not unless you’re brave enough to face those barbarians alive. Are you, girl? Courageous enough to face those brutes?” 

Your teeth bite into the side of your cheek as you once again shake your head. 

“Didn’t think so,” he hums. “Go. Let this be my last good deed.” 

When you step foot back outside—far enough away from your emperor that you feel like you can finally breathe again—you realize the wind is still whispering. It’s louder now. What was once a gentle hiss in the air has now grown into small chatter. It chirps like a swarm of birds ready for migration; but they choke on the attar of smoke that hangs like a noose over this city. 

How arrogant of Emperor Shepherd to think he commits a good deed by allowing you one day of freedom. As if he has any other choice than to cut you loose with John Price breathing down his neck. 

The only sound strong enough to drown out the wind is the crashing waves of the ocean. 

Brackish mist kisses the heels of your feet as you sit at the edge of the escarpment, legs dangling above the void. The palace has sat upon this cliff for what’s felt like eons; as if it was created when the world was. Always high upon a precipice, always looking down on the vast city that grovels at its feet. It’s given the impression that this building is important. Towering marble columns, statues of long lost gods and goddesses with forgotten names—the palace is fit for a king, and acts as a brutal reminder that it will always remain out of reach. 

Or, that’s what it used to be seen as. Now, with you sitting behind the garden and staring out at the vast sea that crashes against the palisade below, it feels like a dead end. A terminus. Nothing but a corral to cage in the flighty livestock Shepherd has curated over his countless decades as ruler. The people feel it too. You see it in wide eyes and trembling hands; it lurks in rumbling stomachs that beg for food yet can’t seem to hold it. 

The crying starts around midday when John Price and his warlords breach the edge of the city. They come with long pikes and horses strong enough to trample stone into gravel. The army is baronial and clad in a mix of leather and bronze armor that you can see from the palace—the glint of their swords is nearly enough to drown out the sun. Every man within their ranks roars and you swear you can feel the reverberation echo in the soil. They’re nothing but brutes. Animals. Barbarians. Your emperor had said as much himself, hadn’t he? 

All defences crumble into fine dust within hours. The soldiers stationed at the city environs find themselves skewered like a hog on a spit, painting the road to the palace russet with blood and soot. They cut through the city like a hot knife through butter, rarely bothering any citizen; many of whom are locked inside of their homes as if a door would save them from an army. You watch them close in—from a distance they look like nothing but a line of ants. But those ants grow larger, and their marked prey couldn’t be anymore obvious as they slice directly towards the palace. 

Shepherd does not bother with the theatrics. There are no grand speeches or lordly actions, he does not fight alongside the men who fruitlessly attempt to protect him—he simply sits upon his throne and waits. A dead man walking, he slumps as if he’s already in decay. Pallid and thin, you hardly recognize the man who stole your tongue from you all those years ago. You suspect he’s already been dead for quite some time; marked by John Price, there’s no room left for him to run. 

When dusk hits, and the ocean mist has grown too cold for you to bear, you wander back into the marble palace while your heart is plagued with incertitude. Stepping foot into this building while an army marches towards it isn’t a good idea, but your curiosity pulls at your limbs. It whispers don’t you want to see the end? The end of this empire, the end of him? 

Your mother always said your curiosity would be the death of you someday, but the promise of satisfaction is too great for you to ignore. 

Chaos soaks every inch of the palace as servants flutter through the corridors like flighty birds from a forest fire. They’re nothing but wide eyes, quiet sobs, fists clutching valuables and loved ones—they pay you no attention. They never do, unless it is to sneer. You travel through the halls uninterrupted until you reach the throne. A lordly construct, a large chair carved out of marble sits upon a peak of stairs rising well above the floor. A dying emperor is slumped forward with dull eyes, and if he hears you enter through the side door, he does not show it. 

You hide behind a pillar, obscured by numbra and poor torch light, hands against the cold stone, gaze peering around the curve of the structure just as the main doors burst open. Without guards to protect your hunted emperor, his life is cut short, quick and easy. There is no fanfare of conversation or shouting, or anything else that the old songs would have you believe. There is only a man—John Price—and his knife in Emperor Shepherd’s stomach. 

The old man falls, frail body sliding down the stairs, hands gripping the blade in his gut and yanking it free. Ichor pours from him like the fountains in the garden and the city square. It spews like rust in the light, but he makes no effort to stunt the bleeding. Instead, he looks around, dull eyes soaking in the view of his once great empire, until his attention lands on you. Hands still against the marble, head peeking around the curve of stone—it is the first moment since the knife made its bed in his stomach that he looks upset. 

“Stupid girl!” he spits, throat closing, airway blocked by terminal secretions. “I told you to run!” 

These are the last words he speaks before a new knife runs along his throat, kissing the tender flesh, marring his vocal cords beyond recognition—then, he falls forward, face flat against the floor, his last breath left sputtering in the blood. 

Despite the body at their feet, all eyes in the room turn to you. Pathetic little thing, you can only stare back. Countless men clad in armor with swords clutched in their fists look at you with bored curiosity, but none of them strike fear into your heart quite like him. 

You recognize him instantly only due to the hushed stories you’ve heard from guardsmen. Taller than any man or beast, twice as broad as a working horse, and face obscured with a human skull—they call him Ghost. Eyes darker than the night itself pierce through you from the empty shell of the faceplate of bone as scarred lips grow tight beneath the decaying teeth. It’s held against his head with leather straps, and though it obscures his cheeks, you can still see the keloids that dance along his jaw, hairline, and chin. 

They say he’s slain a battalion by himself. That he’s moved boulders three times his own size to cut down his enemies. Conversation alone would not have you believe such claims from the mouths of garrulous soldiers, but now that you behold him yourself, you think they may have been telling the truth after all. Even his hands are large—long, thick fingers that would make quick work of your skull, squeezing it tight, popping you like a melon. 

Just as your heart leaps into the tightness of your throat, fearing the worst is about to fall upon you, you realize these men are just like everyone else—they look away from you without so much as a second thought. 

It is then that the empire that you loved—the one that never loved you back—falls. Brick by vicious brick, John Price and his Ghost dismantle the order of things until all men loyal to the deceased Emperor Shepherd are either dead, or have re-sworn their allegiance to a new host. You watch them stomp around the palace, swords heavy on their hips, gazes hard and stony as they redirect servants and bark at soldiers to do their bidding. The city transforms overnight. New flags are hung upon homes. Strange men demand order. 

But for you, nothing changes. The death of your emperor does not regrow your tongue. It does not make the other servants respect you. At the end of the day, you are still in your room—one so small it hardly houses a mattress on the stone floor, with a single small window for lighting—alone with nothing but the distant sound of the waves and new shrieking to lull you to sleep. 

And in the morning, the sun still rises. 

A blood orange hue seeps through your small crack of a window, faint smoke still lingering in the air, rusting the gold rays into something macabre. The stench of death hangs heavy over the city as you rise, peeking out into the garden. Untouched, the plants still thrive and the fountain sputters a prismatic spray of water as it always has. Birds play in the basin. Seagulls squawk in the distance. 

Since nothing else has seemed to change, you begin your day like you always do. A trip through the garden, bare feet hitting against the smoothed stone, curious eyes that flicker to you only to avoid your gaze the next moment—if it weren’t for the different uniforms covering the soldier’s bodies, you could almost be convinced as if this was just another normal day. Dip a bucket into the well. Fill your pitcher until it’s overflowing. Tread the path you always have. 

It isn’t until you reach Emperor Shepherd’s chambers that you realize something has shifted. Once pure white linens made of the finest cotton now lay strewn on the floor, marred with darkened bloodstains—red fading to hazel. Bronze and leather armor sits by the foot of the bed, laying against the wooden frame next to a sheathed short sword; the wooden handle is stained with fingerprints. In place of proper bedding, there are now animal pelts. Soft deer hide, wolf pelts, and other creatures you can’t quite name. 

When you see the hulking beast curled up beneath these trophies, you freeze. 

Laying on his side, back faced toward you with no chiton or blanket to cover the pallid skin, you blink as if that will get the figure to vanish. You tread carefully, hands clutching the pitcher so tightly the stonewear nearly shatters beneath your grip as you drink in the lines of scars that pucker on roughened skin. He glows too much to be your dethroned emperor. His skin is full of life and vigor—strength radiates from him with each rise and fall of his shoulders, breaths silent and even. 

You’re nearly at the edge of the bed now. Quiet sunlight illuminates patches of dried blood on his skin. Speckles of high impact splatters dot the side of his bicep, even going as far as to curl over his shoulder before it trails toward his spine. His calf peeks out from beneath the swathes of blankets, revealing dried mud and gore along the ridge of his foot and up his shin. He is sordid. Messy. The antithesis of Emperor Shepherd. 

Still, this act is brazen even for one of John Price’s famed barbaric men. Soiling a dead man’s bed with gore and filth, making the most intimate of spaces his own. But it isn’t until you recognize the skull face plate and leather straps sitting next to the yellowed pillows beneath the beast’s head that you realize just who lays before you. 

Ghost. 

“You’re more quiet than the others they’ve sent in the night.” He speaks like thunder. Not a crack, but a rumble. Deep in the sky, dancing between clouds, chasing the birds from their nests and people into their homes. You jump at the sharp tone to the point water sloshes out of your pitcher, running down your chiton, forcing the cotton to stick to your legs. Unable to clean yourself, you watch in horror while Ghost turns to face you, legs swinging over the side of the bed as he rises, opaque eyes piercing through you like an onyx blade. “Are your people so desperate to be rid of me that they sent a whelp like you to drown me in my sleep?” 

His face is curious, and for a moment you find yourself lost as you look at him. A deep scar carves into the prominent but crooked curve of his nose, reminding you of the cliff that looks out over the coast by the garden. Somehow, without his mask, you do not find yourself capable of being truly terrified of him. He is a man, like any other. The same breed that stole your tongue and your parents—there is not much left to be taken from you. 

“Well?” Ghost stands. Blankets and animal pelts slide off of him, revealing his naked body, but you’re too entranced by his eyes to look anywhere else. He stalks forward, forcing you to take a step back as you shake your head. “No? Then what’re you here for?”

You swallow, thick and clumpy, saliva like sand turning to mud in your mouth. With no tongue to speak with, you opt to show Ghost instead. Gingerly, you retrieve the water basin and bristle brush that you always used when washing Emperor Shepherd. He watches you, eyes glinting with enough curiosity to allow him to hold back his clenching fists as you pour your pitcher into the basin. Then, you carry it. It settles by his feet with a dull thud as you kneel, sitting on your haunches, heels digging into your rump as you wet the brush.

You look up at him, uncomfortably aware of the heavy cock hanging between his legs as he stares down at you. Fables have told you of the way men ravage women in war. How spearing men isn’t enough for them, that they desire the blood that drips between trembling legs after they’ve been torn apart with a meaty cock. If Ghost wanted to, he could do the very same to you. You wouldn’t fight. You rarely do anymore these days. 

It has been made painfully clear to you what happens to people who fight. 

“You think I’m dirty? Is that it? Bet Shepherd told you all ‘bout us. Called us beasts. Barbarians. Do you think I’m not capable of cleanin’ myself up?” he asks. Once more, you shake your head. Scoffing, Ghost turns, attention now drawn by his own chiton laying across the foot of the mattress—he snatches it, and lazily begins to dress himself, uncaring about the gore that still stains him. “You’re quiet compared to the others. Your people like to bitch ‘n moan ‘bout everythin’ beneath the sun.”

Though he doesn’t know it, he’s talking to himself. Or rather, a wall. That’s all you are. A statue brought to life by a cruel artist—one who forgot to give you the muscle to speak. You can only continue to sit there and watch as he pulls the cotton over his body, stained cloth obscuring plush muscle and rigid scars. When he brings his attention back to you, you’re exactly where he left you; hands gripping the brush, water dripping from the bristles, eyes focused on him, soaking up his words. 

“I’ve just insulted your people. Do you still have nothing to say? Are you that pitiful?” he questions. When you shake your head again, he chuckles this time. It’s tense, like a rope pulled too tight, fraying in the center, ready to snap. “Maybe you just like hearin’ me talk.” 

Though his tone is jocular, you can hear the tremors of something different in the vibrations of his voice. He’s frustrated; or maybe curious. An accomplished warrior, he’s gotten everything he’s ever desired. The death of his enemies, valiant conquests where he can pillage anything he wishes—but he hasn’t gotten you. Your voice. Your words. 

His determination seeps from him as he paces around you, knees bumping against your back as he reaches down. A firm hand grasps your throat and then presses, forcing your head backwards, chin pointing toward the ceiling. You recall watching a servant’s throat being slit like this before—head held high, skin going tight so that it may kiss the blade properly. 

“Shame. Always love makin’ the pretty birds sing in the night. Gonna miss that ‘bout home. Now, I’m stuck ‘ere, leading the lot ‘o you. Somethin’ tells me it’s not so easy with you though, yeah? Gettin’ you to sing nice and pretty for me?” His hand wanders, palm rising from your throat up to your chin, thumb pressing against your closed lips. When you make no attempt at replying, he pushes further, the pad of his thumb hitting your teeth. There is no taste. Still, you make no sound, and he huffs; bored. “Do you truly wish to bathe me?” 

You blink, then nod as best as you can with your head knocked against his body. For a moment, you think you see him smile—or perhaps it's just the trick of the light. The odd angle your eyes are forced to view him through. Either way, he seems content with finally getting something worthwhile from you. Something besides a denial. 

“Then you’ll do it properly. None of this sponge bath bullshit. I thought I was supposed to be the barbarian. Don’t you people have a proper bath house?” When you nod again, he pulls his thumb away from your teeth, allowing your chin to drop until you’re looking back at your lap. Your hands are curled so tightly around the brush it mars your skin with indentations—the faint dreams of lacerations. “Good. Take me there. Then we’ll see to it that you sing properly f’me.”

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