#the wall between creator and observer...

[transmandrake]

Man... People were so fucking wierd about my art when I was a kid...

[sapphiresaphics]

EDITORIAL NOTE:

I wrote this months ago and since then Amanda Overton, one of the key writers for the show, was asked about this exact question and has answered publicly that “Caitlyn does not know Ambessa set up the attack on the memorial and if she did know she would not have joined her.”

I am leaving this post up in its entirety because while you can take her word as gospel, I do not think that negates my analysis based entirely on what was presented in the show itself. You are entirely free to disregard this analysis if you want, but I think it still holds some value because when you critique media you often don’t have the word of god (from the creators of the media) to explain every facet and you should be allowed to interpret things differently if it feels like it’s presented in the media that way.

Anyway, please enjoy or disregard this post if you want.

———————

Because I don’t think just describing it is as effective, let’s go through the scene where Caitlyn becomes the general. (Note: These gifs have been edited for time and comprehension.)

What’s important to remember before watching this is that we’ve been shown many times now that Caitlyn is a detective. She has the unique power to walk into a crime scene, observe the surroundings, and make logical deductions from the enviroment.

With that in mind look at Caitlyn’s face here after the initial shock of being nominated. She looks down and her eyes start twitching. She’s thinking hard about something.

And then we cut to Ambessa pounding her chest and see glimpses of her henchman arranging the attack on the memorial, in addition to her silencing all the loose ends that could lead back to her. I don’t think this is just for our benefit, I think this is a glimpse into Caitlyn’s mind. (Gif sped up for time)

And then we cut back to Caitlyn, who is now looking around at her surroundings and watching the peer pressure start to unfold. As Maddie and the other Enforcers begin to beat their chests in rhythm to Ambessa’s prompting, Caitlyn looks back up at Ambessa with hatred. Watch those brows furrow.

In this moment Caitlyn KNOWS. She knows Ambessa set up the attack. She knows she was wrong for attacking the undercity. She knows she fucked up by letting her anger at Jinx get the best of her and for creating a rift between her and Vi. And most importantly… she KNOWS that Ambessa is using her.

Note that Caitlyn doesn’t start moving forward until after Ambessa says “come, child.” And when she finally does start walking forward it’s with a slow deliberate knowing pace. She even turns her head and keeps her eyes glued to Ambessa as she walks past her. She may not know WHY Ambessa is doing this, but she’s not stupid. She knows what her name unlocks, having just spent the past 2 episodes abusing her namesake’s power.

But the writing is on the wall now. She has no choice. Whatever it is Ambessa is doing, she can’t stop this nomination. She will have to accept the power. And I think here she is finally FINALLY realizing how fucked up she is. She has just become Marcus. A pawn in a larger game. And the ONLY benefit she can see is that she can use this power to find Jinx and bring her to justice, so her memory of her mother can finally rest.

And Ambessa knows this too. That’s why she leans in and whispers “your mother will have Justice!” And that’s when Caitlyn finally assumes the role of martial law general.

She doesn’t want to be there.

She doesn’t want that power.

But she can’t turn away now.

She’s stuck.

And she KNOWS it.

[theharddeck]

it'd be a sweet situation (bob floyd x fem!reader)

pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader (no y/n)

synopsis: what's better than finding out the WSO you've had a secret crush is the same audio erotica creator that you've been crushing on for months? getting to watch him record new content...and maybe get involved yourself

word count: 5.9k

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI: audio porn, a truly absurd amount of dirty talk, overuse of pet names, oral sex (m and f!receiving), PiV penetration, some condescension and some dumbification.

A/N: not edited, not beta-ed, we publish for affirmation and speed babyyyy.

this post is a part 2 of my fic do you wanna make somethin' of it -- thanks for the love on the original!! hope y'all like! i may be planning a third so lmk if this scratches the itch or if we want breeding kink!bullriderrhett

When you asked Bob if you could listen to him record, he blinked at you, his expression somewhere between flattered and surprised, as a pink spread over his cheeks.

You loved when Bob blushed. 

It was the sweetest flush of pink, just so precious, and usually belied by something or another. 

Like when the rest of his expression was innocent, but his hand was stroking the inside of your thigh underneath a table at the Hard Deck. 

Like when you were begging him to let you come, praising every part of him that you could think of, and he looked up at you in wonder from between your legs. 

Like when he asked you to be “his girl”, make it official after a couple months, and you’d agreed before he could get the rest of his prepared speech out.  

Bob hadn’t posted in the last couple months (he explained that like you didn’t know), and his followers had been asking for something, anything, and you’d agreed that maybe something unscripted was the way to go. 

So now you leaned back against the wall Bob’s bed was pushed up against, watching him move around his small room with a focused expression on his face. He’d untangled cords, set up a microphone with a windscreen, and a smile played about your lips, watching him. You were just so fond of him. He was kind, he was sweet, he was hot and he was yours. 

You’d agreed to sit across the room, give him his space, but you had a sneaking suspicion this was going to really do it for you. You just hoped he wouldn’t be totally unaffected either.

He settled into his desk chair, cleared his throat, and started checking the microphone. He had a lamp set up over the desk, and it cast a golden glow over him. His brow was furrowed as he double checked his equipment, and you admired the way his tshirt fell over his shoulders, as he straightened things around his desk.

You could tell he was nervous. You could see it in the tightness of his expression, but you knew you’d both like this, so you smiled reassuringly over at him.

When he caught your eye, Bob smiled too, like he couldn’t help it.

“You ready?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’m excited.”

Bob huffed a laugh, shaking his head at you, at himself, the situation. 

He cleared his throat, before leaning back. From where he was sitting at the desk. He could just catch the edge of the door to his bathroom, which he swung shut. 

“Honey?” Bob called, his face still slightly turned from the mic, so it sounded far away. You imagined the door he’d slammed was a front door swinging shut, and instead of a long day of post-flight reviews, he’d been out on the ranch. 

“There y’are,” Bob said, closer to the mic now, but he was looking at you. You wrinkled your nose at him, and his lips quirked in an attempt to not smile. This was silly, it was fun, and you adored that he was bringing you into the fantasy with him. 

His head tipped to the side, golden hair falling in front of his glasses as he let out a long sigh. 

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

He said it so softly, like it was just an observation, fact, and you rolled your eyes at him. You were rewarded by his smile, beaming. 

“Nah, don’t give me that,” Bob shook his head at you, and you loved him like this, easy and light, “don’t roll your eyes like it isn’t true. Y’know the kinda day I had?”

You raised an eyebrow, and Bob was still smiling, and you felt like it was an inside joke between the two of you. Whatever he was going to say as Rhett, you knew it would be about Miramar. 

He started ad libbing, in that drawl of his that normally only came out when he was exhausted, and you let the fantasy wash over you. He might be talking about cattle and fence posts, but he meant FA-18s and potentiometers. 

“And then here you are,” Bob said, his voice getting softer. “No matter the day I had, no matter what else, I get to come home to you. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? How’d I get so lucky, hmm?”

You shook your head at him; you were the lucky one.

“The luckiest,” Bob said, after a pause, like how you remembered he’d always waited on his recordings. Being with him now, knowing him how you did, you wondered if this’d been how he’d imagined it—with you here, with him, answering him. 

“You missed me too?” Bob asked, almost curious. “Honey…don’t give me that look, come on. I know you’ve got supper on…”

The use of ‘supper’ was just darling, and it whisked you deeper into the fantasy. One where your world started and ended with Rhett, looking after him as he looked after you. Him keeping you safe, you keeping him taken care of. 

In that fantasy, there was always time. 

“Ah, you missed me like that,” Bob said, his voice dropping deeper. “That’s a pretty thought, isn’t it– my girl, in my house, just waitin’ for me to get home.”

His voice was almost dreamlike, and you shivered while he paused, waiting for the audience to say something.

“No, that’s not a fair question, honey; I always miss you,” he said, his head tilting back as he looked at you. “Miss how you look at me…how you say my name…how pretty your hair looks in this light…”

Bob laughed, a soft sound. 

“You must’ve really missed me,” he teased, “if my voice is doing it for you like that. Bet you’re already wet for me, just listenin’ to me talking about wanting you, hmm? You gonna show me?”

And you hadn’t planned to, you really hadn’t. 

But when Bob asked, acting like Rhett and talking like that, it made you want to. You pulled down your sweatpants before you could think about it, rewarded by the way Bob’s eyes widened like he hadn’t expected it either. He swallowed visibly, and he cleared his throat. 

“Shit, honey, I didn’t think you’d actually…do we have time? Before supper?”

You smiled at him, lifting a shoulder like sure, you could make time. Bob’s eyes twinkled as he grinned back at you, like even through the ridiculous pretense of recording an audio, he saw you, and was glad you saw him. 

“Alright, sweet girl, easy,” he said, his voice breathy, like you were rushing him. “Yeah, that’s it, feel me through my jeans.”

He palmed himself, a soft gasp slipping past his parted lips at the pressure of his grasp. You loved Bob’s hands, loved how they moved and worked over you, and seeing him grabbing himself was something else. He was a proportional man, but the bulge growing underneath his jeans didn’t seem any smaller, relative to such enormous hands.

“You can take me out,” Bob said, like it was a favor he was doing you, and you weren’t sure it wasn’t, as he slid the zipper down slowly. You’d seen him what felt like hundreds of times over the last few months, but you found yourself holding your breath as he shifted his hips to slide his jeans over his hips. He left them on just above his knees, and you could see the outline of his dick pressing against his boxers. 

God, he looked good. 

Slightly slouched in a chair, half undressed, his eyelids heavy as he looked through his lashes at you. He gave himself a lazy stroke over his boxers one more time, then pulled his cock out, sighing as his fingers wrapped around it. You pressed your lips together to trap in the pleased whimper that was threatening to escape; you couldn’t help it. 

Bob reached for the lube, squeezing a little on his hand away from the microphone before he spread it along his cock. He moved slowly, so no wet sounds could be heard, not yet, but you watched his shoulders drop slightly at the pleasure of the softened glide. 

“Does that feel good?” you asked it softly, quiet enough and from across the room, knowing you wouldn’t be heard, but at the sound of your voice, Bob’s eyes fluttered close. 

“Fuck, honey,” he whispered, into the mic, but straight to you, “yeah, you feel so good.”

You loved that he meant it, that even though it was his hand, it was you that was making him feel this way. 

You slipped a hand into your underwear, a whine slipping past your lips as you felt you were already wet. Bob’s eyes flew opened, his lips parting as he realized what you were doing. Even though he wasn’t touching you, you felt him, and it was always going to end here, wasn’t it? Bob’s sweet, sexy voice, you acting like it didn’t affect you, and then touching yourself with him. 

“Sweet girl,” Bob breathed, and you heard it in his voice, his pride in you. You loved being that for him, being here with him. “You look so fucking pretty like this. In our house, that pretty hand wrapped around my cock—”

He broke off as you shifted, peeling your underwear away and running your fingers through your folds so he could see. You loved the image he was describing—coming home to each other, finding relief in each other’s bodies. A cowboy or a pilot, either way, this man was yours, and he made you feel so good. 

“That’s it, honey,” Bob’s voice sounded gruff, and your eyes fell closed as you lost yourself in the fantasy. “Fuck, honey, your hands…you feel so good,  shit. Here, honey, let’s get you out of this, yeah? Lemme play with that pussy, while you’re takin’ such good care of my cock.”

He could already see you, so it was just for the fantasy, but your knees fell open as you spread yourself open for him. Bob groaned, and your fingers brushed over your clit. You’d done this before, this scene he was describing, even if it was slightly different, so it was easy to envision. Both of you braced against the nearest wall, unable to look away from his cock in your hands, and him reaching for you, wanting to bring you the same pleasure. The way your fingers looked so small around his cock, the way his hand fit between your thighs, both of your knees going weak. 

“So wet for me,” Bob praised, and your mouth dropped open as your fingers dipped between your folds, like his would. “You’re so perfect, so warm and ready for me…fuck, sweet girl, you make me want more than your hand.”

You moaned softly, your head falling back against the wall behind his bed. You wanted that too, more, and your hand wasn’t enough. 

“I’ll take you to bed later,” Bob promised. “Lay you down, take my time with this pretty pussy, fill her up…ah, honey, fuck, I can feel you clenching on my fingers…How’d I get so lucky, hmm? You’re so perfect, so good for me, so fucking good for me…”

Bob trailed off with a moan, and you heard his hand speed up as he continued to praise you. You coveted the sounds, and more than that, you finally understood what he’d meant the first time you’d been together, because you were jealous of a fantasy. Anyone who listened to this recording, they’d hear Rhett telling them they were perfect, so good for him, and they could think on that all they wanted but Bob, Bob was yours. 

Bob’s head fell back as his hand gripped his cock tightly. You saw his thighs tensing against the floor, and the column of his neck was exposed in the most inviting way so you took it as just that—an invitation. 

“Honey, fuck, what are you doing?” Rhett’s reaction and Bob’s were the same, as he realized you were kneeling on the ground, your hand closing around his cock. Your knees spread on the hard floor, your fingers wet from your own desire, and wrapped around him. Bob moaned, a disbelieving, overcome sound, as you guided him into your mouth. His eyebrows creased worriedly, and his eyes darted to the microphone, but as your lips closed around his tip, you held his eyes, and you moaned. 

Loud. 

Loud enough for him to feel it, loud enough that you knew the mic picked up on it, loud enough that he knew it wasn’t an accident.  

“Shit, baby,” Bob groaned, his voice low, “that mouth…” 

And you would’ve smirked, but your mouth was too full of him. God, you loved how he felt. Heavy and thick and you didn’t love the taste of lube, but you worked your hand over his length and contented yourself with playing with his sensitive head. He just had the prettiest cock. It was leaking now, for you, and you lapped at him, traced each ridge and divet, teased the veins and pumped his length with your hand. 

Bob was gasping, and when you looked back up at him, you couldn’t miss the adoration on his face. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he knew you were just as possessive as he was, and it made him even harder for you. That heat in his expression had your other hand sneaking between your legs, and Bob’s hand lifted to your hair, brushing it back. His big hand settled on top of your head, not controlling not forcing, but needing to touch you. Your thighs spread and you moaned again as your fingers brushed over your heat while he sat heavy on your tongue. 

“That’s right, sweet girl,” Bob rasped, his voice truly wrecked. “Keep playing with yourself. Ah, honey, I’m not gonna last long. Wanted you all day, and now those lips around my cock, fuck—”

He broke off as he hips pushed his cock farther into your mouth. As he did, you realized you couldn’t taste the lube on his cock anymore, only your arousal and the musky salt of him. God, you loved it. You tasted so good together, and you knew it was the farmwife fantasy, but you loved being this for him. Like you’d just been waiting for him to come home and get his hands in your hair, his cock in your mouth. 

“You couldn’t wait till after dinner, could you?” Bob grunted, a hint of condescension creeping into his voice that made your eyes fall close. “You make me feel so good, honey, shit. That mouth, sweet girl, it’s so good. You’re taking me so well, like you needed this just as bad as I did—did you? Did this get you through the day too? Knowing it’d end with you on your knees for your man, his fat cock in your mouth?”

His glasses were sliding down his nose, his chest was heaving, and even tough his words were tinged with condescension, they couldn’t disguise the worship underneath. Each stroke of your tongue, hollowing of your cheeks, pulled a hitched breath or a soft gasp from him, and you loved each one. Your hand lifted from between your legs to his thigh, your nails digging into the pale hair there as you took him deeper as Bob groaned. 

“Fucking hell, what you do to me, honey,” he groaned, his voice tight, and you really didn’t think you needed to breathe. You took him until your nose brushed the hair at his base, and Bob was panting like he’d just pulled 10 Gs, and he couldn’t tell which way was up. He moaned as you held there, his hand slipping from the top of your head to the back of your neck, cradling you. His thumb brushed the front of your throat, feeling where you were stretched around him, an he moaned again, a wrecked, gorgeous sound. You loved that he was past words, that everyone listening was just going to hear his gasps, those beautiful moans, and know you were here. Between his thighs, hands and marks on him, claiming him as yours. 

“I’m gonna come, baby,” he gasped, and you felt your chest swell with pride, humming lightly so he knew it was okay. You pulled back, bobbing your head, and his moans grew longer until his hand moved again, holding your head steady as his cock jolted. He came hard down your throat, his warm release spilling down your throat, a claim of his own. You swallowed him down, your mouth loosening around his sensitive cock, and licking at him as he pulled out. You licked lightly around his cock, placing a teasing kiss on his tip, and Bob groaned softly.

You couldn’t hide how smug you felt. 

That was your man, weak from the orgasm you gave him, sounding wrecked and satisfied from your mouth.  

“You’re lookin’ real proud of yourself there,” Bob said, his voice gruff again. You sat back on your heels, smiling up at him. He chuckled softly, pulling you up as he leaned down to kiss you. His tongue swept into your mouth greedily, chasing a taste of the release you’d pulled out of him, and you loved that he was just as filthy as you were. His hands fell from your head to the tops of your shoulders, and he caressed the soft skin of your upper arms lightly. 

“I’d better return the favor, hmm?” he murmured against your lips, and you opened your eyes to catch the spark of mischief in his eyes before his hands curled under your arms and he lifted you. He moved you quicker than you understood what was happening, and then you were in his seat, he was on his knees, and he wasted no time in diving between yours. 

Your back arched off the chair at the first sweep of his tongue over your cunt, and you clapped a hand over your mouth, but it was too late for that. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” Bob pulled back to say, his longer fingers winding around your wrist and pulling it away from your mouth. “You had me moanin’ like a virgin when you got your lips on my cock, and I deserve to hear the same from you. Let me hear those sweet sounds, honey.”

His voice was deep, dark and teasing, but he was watching you carefully, and you knew if you said you were uncomfortable, he’d stop. Just like you knew you wouldn’t ask him to, because you wanted your claim on him on the recording. Not just that you’d pulled that orgasm from him, but that he was worshiping you, that you were his as much as he was yours. 

You let your hand fall away, and Bob smiled sweetly at you before his mouth was back between your thighs. His tongue made you forget about the recording in no time, as his tongue worked over you. Bob always went at oral like it was end game, like it was a favor to him, like he never wanted to leave. He kissed and sucked, licked and teased, and soon you were panting with each stroke of his tongue. 

“Y’sound so good, angel,” he murmured into your cunt, his voice thick, and you moaned as he pressed teasing kisses over your lower stomach and thighs. “How’s it feel?”

“So good, baby,” you whispered, your fingers winding into his hair and pulling him back into your pussy. He went, chuckling, but eagerly resuming his efforts.  He spread you open with his thick fingers, his tongue delving into your cleft as he lapped at you, chasing the arousal that he’d stoked with just his words, and you felt like you were melting into the chair. 

“Let me have it then,” Bob said, pulling back. His glasses were fogged as he looked up at you, and you moaned at the sight. His strong fingers stroked over you, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips, like he was desperate for your taste. “Come for me, sweet girl, come on my fingers and my tongue, open this sweet cunt for me, let me feel it…”

His fingers kept teasing over your slit as his lips closed over your clit. His tongue circled your sensitive bud as his fingers stroked over you and you pulled his hair tightly, remembered not to call out his name at the last minute, and came with a cry. You were trembling, melting and soaring and shaking, your legs over Bob’s broad shoulders as he fucking drank your orgasm from between your legs. He didn’t let up, continuing his gentle caresses until your orgasm sputtered out, leaving you thrumming and sated. 

“So fucking pretty, sweet girl,” Bob was whispering, his touch gentling. “You did so good for me, didn’t you, so beautiful and sweet. God, you’re perfect.”

You opened your eyes to find him looking up at you, a soft smile on his face. You brushed his hair from off his forehead, glad his glasses had cleared enough for you to see his beautiful eyes. You were going to kiss him, a reversal of your earlier positions, when you recognized the rolling motion in his shoulders. You looked down and…shit, he was hard again. Your jaw dropped open as you looked up at Bob, in time to see a blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“Are you…” you asked, trailing off when your voice was raspier than you expected. “Can you go again?” 

“We don’t have to,” Bob mumbled, almost sheepish. “I, uh…I wasn’t kidding, I really did miss you today, and you sounded so good, and it’ll go away, we can—”

You kissed whatever asinine alternative he was going to offer off his lips. Your man was hard again because he’d worked himself up while eating you out? Fuck that, you were gonna have him now. 

You both moaned into the kiss, the taste of each other mingling and this time when Bob moved you, you let him guide you. He pulled you to stand, his hands holding you steady as he took his seat again, then pulled you to straddle him. You kissed him as you settled on his thighs, his hands still adjusting things around the desk, and letting you focus on him. God, he was something else. So beautiful and sweet and strong, and then hung to boot, and you felt the a spark reignite from your earlier orgasm. Your hands trailed over his tshirt, his broad neck and the soft curl of his hair at the back of his neck, and you leaned back when Bob leaned back to pull on a condom. 

“You just had that handy?” you teased him, though it lost some of its sting since you were so breathless, “You kept a condom in your pocket all day?”

Bob huffed a laugh, even as his ears heated again. 

“I don’t think you get it, honey,” he said, pausing as he rolled the condom down his length, “every moment I’m not in this warm cunt, I’m wishing I was, and planning for when I can be. If that means carrying a condom around all day, so as soon as it’s over, I can slide into this sweet pussy, then yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

You smiled at him, knowing you looked infatuated and dopey, but basking in his shameless enthusiasm. It felt good to be with him, good to be adored by him, like the sweetest affirmation. Any teasing remark was quieted when Bob shifted, prompting you to rise over him. You both held your breath as he lined himself up with you, and you braced your hands on his shoulders as you started to sink down on him. 

God, you’d never get used to the stretch of him. 

Loosened by your orgasm and practice, your stomach still tensed at the pressure of his cock easing into you. Bob’s hands were stroking soothingly over the small of your back, and his forehead wrinkled as he frowned, stopping himself from rutting up into you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Bob groaned. “You’re still so tight, you feel so good.”

You only managed to whimper as you continued to sink onto him. He felt so thick, broad, and you loved how full you felt with him. Like a puzzle piece, like a safe haven, like the only place you wanted to be. Your thighs were burning when you finally took him all the way, and you could’ve cried from how full you felt. You wound your arms around his neck and Bob mirrored your motion, his arms bracketing around your lower back. 

“Beautiful girl,” Bob soothed you, his words as much an embrace as his tight grasp. “Y’feel so good around me, shit. Tell me it’s this good for you, honey?”

“So full,” you managed, somehow breathless. “I feel you so deep, baby.”

“So deep,” Bob agreed, kissing you lightly. His lips brushed over yours in soft kisses until the tension faded, until you were squirming in anticipation, until you needed more than the deep press of him.  

“Need you to move,” you whispered against his lips, and you felt Bob’s warm breath as he laughed. 

“I don’t know, honey,” he teased, leaning back, languid. “I tried to get you out of this, but you’re the one who needed it…maybe you should ride me for it, if you want this cock so bad.”

Even as he goaded you, he lifted his hips into yours slowly. You whimpered at each slow push of his hips, punctuated by another taunt. 

“You couldn’t wait to get your hands on me…” he whispered on another stroke, impossibly deep he was inside of you, “then your mouth…then you had me on my knees for you, sweet girl, and that still wasn’t enough for you, was it?”

The drag of his cock was so slow it was intoxicating. You were so full, and he was pushing deeper, and you could barely focus on his words. It was so slow and you needed more, and you weren’t one to back down from a challenge, so you rolled your hips. 

It was Bob who groaned this time, at the swivel of your hips and the way you clenched around him. 

“I remember it differently, baby,” you told him, even though your voice was shaking. You worked your hips faster, the rhythm you wanted, Bob’s thick cock filling you just right, at a tempo you knew would get you there in no time…if you could sustain it. 

“Tell me,” Bob said, his hands falling to your hips, supporting your motion as you writhed over him. 

Your hand wound into his hair, and you smiled when his lashes fluttered as you pulled lightly. Your hips were smacking down into his as you worked yourself on his cock, fast and desperate, chasing. 

“I remember,” you panted, licking your lips and smiling as his eyes tracked the motion, “Remember you whining from my mouth…cumming down my throat after a minute or two…rutting against the air with your mouth between my thighs.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bob moaned, and you grinned at him, triumphant, as his hands tightened on your hips. He clenched you tightly, planted his feet and drove his own thighs up to meet you. The sound of your ass hitting his thighs was loud, but not as much as the wetness between you. It was audible, the proof of the desire you drove each other to, the desperation and need and the fact that neither of you was easily sated, except in the other. 

“Give it to me,” you whispered and Bob groaned, his head nuzzling into your neck. He licked at the skin there, teeth grazing over you, both of you gasping for breath as your bodies writhed against each other. He was so deep inside of you, bruising and conquering and he was everything. You craved the stretch of him, but more than that, it was just him. His heavy cock, his strong hands, his soft whine that was building. You could feel your thighs weakening, but not Bob. He drove up into you with a hunger, like he needed this pace, this release, just as much as you did. 

“You’re so fucking warm, sweet girl,” he gritted. “God, you feel so good. I’m losing my mind, honey, it’s so good. You’re clenching down on me, makes me not want to leave. Gonna stay in this cunt, spill here and stay here till I’m hard again, then do it again.”

You moaned, tightening around him. You wanted that, wanted him, only him. The circle of his arms, the press of his cock, the smell of his sweat and the brush of his lips.  

“Do it,” you begged, and that was what it was: begging. You needed it, needed him, and didn’t care how desperate you sounded about it. “Let me feel it, baby, please, come in me.”

“Fuck,” Bob moaned, properly moaned. “Ya had to say please, didn’t you, so sweet like that, how the hell do I say no to you—can you come with me, honey? Don’t want to get there without you…”

You whimpered at his words and the way he was thrusting up into you. You were so close, so fucking close and you were certain you’d shatter before you got there but then Bob pulled you slightly forward. Only slightly, and without changing the rhythm of his hips, he pulled you forward so your clit was brushing against him. You cried out, your arms scratching at his back at the added stimulation, at the way he was rewriting. 

“That’s right, honey, shit,” Bob whispered, each stroke of his hips a brush against your clit. Your legs were shaking, you were pretty sure you were crying, and the only thing you could comprehend was Bob’s voice and arms around you. “Scratch me up, hold me to you, I’m not going anywhere. I can feel you getting closer, honey, please tell me you’re close. God, you feel so good, I’m gonna cum so hard, I need it to be with you—please, honey, fuck—”

He clenched his arms around your body, holding you tightly to him, the way he did when he was about to cum and so caught up in it that he wasn’t worried about holding you too tightly. You moaned as he ground up into you, his cock thrusting into you and his strong arms banding you to him. You went limp as you came, moaning wordlessly, and you felt him relax as he recognized it, his back arching as he pumped into you roughly. He was practically rutting into you and you curled around him, craving it, the roughness and rightness of him. Bob shouted roughly as he emptied himself into the condom, a beautiful sound of abandon that made you nuzzle into him, even as your toes curled.   

The room was quiet, except for the sounds of both of you catching your breath. Bob’s hand was running lightly over your back as you nestled into his chest, and your hand was playing with the edge of his shirt in front of you. You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at the current state of undress, but of course, Bob felt you shaking. 

“What is it?” he asked gruffly.

“We’re just out here, pooh-bearing it,” you said, pulling on his shirt for emphasis. “We couldn’t even…I don’t know, it’s just silly. Half dressed but matching, without pants.”

Bob chuckled, his chest shaking as he pulled you tighter to him, before shifting to press a kiss to your forehead. 

“Of course,” he said dryly. “I’m trying to think of a clever way to say ‘that was the hardest I’ve cum in I don’t know how long’, and you’re here thinking about children’s cartoons.”

“I also thought that was very very good,” you said, consolingly, patting his chest. 

Bob caught your hand in one of his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like a gallant night of old. He sighed, kissed them again, then twined his fingers with yours. “I like coming home to you.”

You blinked, then froze. “Oh my god, we’re still recording!!!”

Bob laughed, a sound so sweet and joyous that you couldn’t help but join him. He reached over and flipped off the microphone, even as you frantically tried to remember if you’d said his name. 

“We don’t have to use it,” Bob reassured you, pulling you back into his arms as he resettled. “Or I can edit it, or really, whatever you’re comfortable with. Regardless, not for recording’s sake, but just for posterity: that was fucking hot. Unreal. I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

You smiled, not sure if you were embarrassed you’d forgotten, or proud of the both of you. 

“You should’ve kept recording while you said that,” you mumbled, and Bob pulled back to look at you. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then a slow grin split his face. 

“You’re jealous,” he said, pleased and proud, and you rolled your eyes before he resettled you on his chest. “I wasn’t sure if that’s what you were thinking, I thought it might’ve been.”

You pursed your lips. “We should publish it.”

You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell he was smiling. 

“Let’s give it a listen first, honey,” he said, appeasingly. “Make sure you’re okay with it, then we can decide if you want it out there. For me, I think it’ll do numbers…but I only care about an audience of one.”

It was cliche.

So cliche it was cheesy, but you smiled to yourself at his sweet words. That was how you felt too…but it couldn’t hurt to remind the world that they might like the idea of Rhett, but you were the one with the real deal. 

You were pretty sure that, regardless of what Bob said, you were the lucky one. 

I Missed You Too It’s been a long day out on the ranch, and I can’t wait to get home to my girl. Turns out, she’s been waiting for me, too. [M4F] [Overheard] [Couple] [Oral] [Finish Inside] [Strong Language] [Moaning] [Love Confession] [SFX]

tattedlily: AN OVERHEARD FROM RHETT IS THIS REAL OH MY GOD SORRY TO MY COWORKERS I’M LISTENING AT MY DESK 

bucklebunny69: Don’t mind me, just losing my mind over the fact that rhett has a gf and they sound so hot together

luvbug1985: SHUT UP THIS SOUNDS SO REAL

sarahwasnthere: okay but do y’all want a third orrrrrrr

sweeeeeetgirl: overheards aren’t normally my thing, but for rhett i’ll try anything and i think i’m converted?? I couldn’t hear her at first but the way HE changed like you could hear when she got involved i’m gonna be sick holy shit 

babygrl902: when will someone fuck me like this 

justjennn: okay but like the chemistry between the two of them?? Like they’re so reactive to each other i hope you guys do more!!

luvbug1985: nope i had to comment again bc the bi panic this audio caused?? Hearing her gasp/moan in response to his dirty talk is tewwwwwww much i immediately need more

//

tagging: @sometimesanalice @laracrofted @hangmanssunnies @withahappyrefrain @cheekymcgrath @mxgyver @lewmagoo @sebsxphia @callsign-fangirl @callsignspark @daggerspare-standingby @rhettabbotts @teacupsandtopgun @attapullman @yuckosworld @skteaiy @yanna-banana @briseisgone @gigisimsonmars @milesmillergf @katiedid-3 @hangmandruigandmav @3tabbiesandalab @marchingicenotes7 @callsignmedusa @ryebecca @tgmavericklover @cottagecori @becks-things @mulletmcghee @straightforwardly @high-speed-r @rcmupout @purelyfiction @fairyheart @sunsetsimpsblog @angelbabyyy99 @cremebruleequeen @marvel-djarin @sgt-barnesveins @supernaturaldawning @echo-ethe @sunlitide @alilstressyandlotdepressy @hughesvolpe @aczhang777 @saltsicklover @whatislovevavy @phoenix-rising-starbird-one @briseisgone @mycobrakai1972 @hangmanshoney @sorchathered @lewmagoo @katfanfic @bringbacktim @b-bradshaw

[thevanillerose]

REGAL | CIEL x SHY!READER | BLACK BUTLER

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~ ~ NOVELS ~

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators.

“I'm nervous...” “Don't be.”

Sebastian smiled at you charmingly, hoping to calm your nerves even by a little. The two of you were standing outside the door that led into Ciel's quarters. This infamous boy, the 'Queen's Watchdog' as they called him.

Believe it or not, you were a marriage candidate for him. It was crazy to even consider, but there was a chance that he would say 'yes' to you, and just like that you'd be married to such an iconic person.

On the flipside, there was also the chance that he might say 'no'. That was always a possibility, unfortunately, and not one that you especially looked forward to.

Nobody wanted to be rejected, did they?

“Any last minute advice?” you looked up at the tall, black haired butler. He simply continued smiling down at you. “Just don't act too rashly, that is what I would advise.”

Don't act too rashly. Okay...that should be simple enough, right?

 Gulping, you readied yourself just as he pushed the door open and let you go inside. You truly had no idea what you were expecting, as he closed the door again and left you standing there in the glass walled conservatory.  

 The place where you had been tasked with meeting the young master Phantomhive was a pleasant one. Delicate rays of sunlight shone in between pastel rose petals, which surrounded a seating area of wooden furniture painted in flawless white. Upon the table there was a rack with an array of pastries, and two cups sat ready and waiting by the teapot.

 Upon the bench, there he sat.

 Ciel wasn't particularly tall, but you were instantly intimidated. Uneasily, you tried to approach with grace nonetheless, and caught his attention as soon as you were close enough to the side of the bench. Ciel slowly turned his head, and simply looked at you.

 “...”  For a brief moment, his eyes almost seemed to widen, and your hopes raised. Yet just as quickly he was wearing that placid mask again, one which didn't tell you even a little of what he was truly feeling. It felt so tense, knowing that you were being silently judged by him, worrying about what you should do or say.

 “...Aren't you going to sit down?” Ciel suddenly prompted, and gestured to the bench opposite from him. In an instant you were flustered, hurrying to take the spot.  “Ah yes! Of course, I apologize...I'm already wasting your time...”  He quirked a brow. First impressions...  ...You were very pretty. That much could certainly be said. You also seemed to be very shy though, to the point where it appeared to be hindering you somewhat, making you excessively anxious when you really didn't need to be.  

 As you sat yourself down, Ciel clasped his hands calmly in his lap and observed you thoughtfully.  “I'll admit that I did not expect you to be so...meekly mannered.”  “That's my fault, I'm afraid.” you admitted, going a little red in the cheeks as you shifted to get more comfortable. “I...I'm a bit of a shy person, you see...”

 “Hmm.”  Ciel pondered that. Well, you did come across that way. Was it necessarily a bad thing? That he wasn't sure of. It didn't actually bother him too much.

 So many of the potential candidates who had been sent to him had been too loud, too arrogant, or too annoying for his tastes. You were different from the lot of them...and though it made for a slightly awkward scenario, he was actually pretty relieved that you were.

 “...[Y/N], that's your name?” he prompted, to which you nodded and looked up into the one azure blue eye that he had to show. The other was shielded by a black patch, partially obscured further by his soft blueish hair. You could certainly see why so many wanted to be his wife. He was like a porcelain doll.

 But this only made you worry more about how worthy you actually were. Could you possibly be a good spouse for someone like him? You didn't know that you could...

 “Yes...that's my name...” you uttered, and Ciel sighed softly before pouring you some tea.  “Well tell me then, [Y/N]. What is it that drew you to me?”  Actually, that was something you could answer.  “Well it wasn't just recommendations from my family that made me decide I'd try my luck. I...I've heard so much about you, I've become so curious. And in person, you're a little...”

 It was just going to all come out now, wasn't it?  “...Stunning.”

…

 Funny how a single word could claim you that chance.

 A few days passed after the meeting before a finely written letter arrived at your parents' mansion, notifying you all of your success as a bridal candidate. Actually realizing that Ciel wanted to be with you...it was a dream come true.

 Of course, you were still nervous about it. Yet the more times you met him, and the more pieces that were put into place for your eventual wedding, the more you started to relax and fill that role.

 It was on your shoulders to put forth a good image, after all. To represent the Phantomhive name as best as you possibly could. This would mean standing tall and graceful before others, proving that you were a worthy wife. You couldn't allow your inherent nervousness to change that. To put it in jeopardy.  

 So...you asked him, one day:  “Ciel I...I would very much like it if you could teach me...”

 “Teach you?”  He turned away from the array of blue and violet roses he had been admiring, and faced you fully. “What are you seeking to learn?”  You clasped your hands before yourself. Over the past few meetings you'd had together, you'd yearned to ask for some sort of guidance. You would have asked Sebastian but he wasn't your butler, and he only seemed to answer to one...

 “...I see. You don't need to say it, I think I already know...” Ciel walked up to you, already smelling like the flowers around this place, “You wish for me to teach you how to be more regal? To be like a true lady of the house?”  “Mm.” you nodded, and looked up at him sheepishly. Call it old fashioned, but that was what you wanted.  “Alright. Sit down with me.”

 He gestured to the very same bench where you had sat together during that first meeting. As you joined him there, Ciel brought over the teapot and fine china cups, one of which he set down before you. He then handed you the teapot.

 “Pour me a cup of tea the right way.”

The 'right way'? What 'right way' is there, exactly?

 That was the question, wasn't it? Regardless, you obliged of course, nodding and proceeding to gently tilt the teapot. Immediately the lid almost fell off, but Ciel's pale hand quickly shot out and grabbed it before it could drop completely.

 “Careful.”  “S-sorry!”  “Why are you so nervous?”  “I-I don't know I just...”

 Your heart was pounding after that. You looked up at him, almost a little tearfully. “-I just worry about...humiliating myself, and then it ends up happening.”  “Perhaps if you stopped overthinking things so much then it wouldn't?” Ciel suggested, and you nodded. You knew he was right.

 “Here, let me demonstrate. You need to hold it by the top too. That way it won't spill out.” he explained, and positioned himself close beside you. As he did so, you only became more red faced. You couldn't help yourself. He only amplified the hindrance that you so typically had to deal with.

 “...Like this.”  If you hadn't already felt like you were blushing enough, he only worsened things as he laid his hands over yours and guided them gently. It was a simple task, pouring a cup of tea, but in this case you needed to learn to do it properly.

 “I think I know how to do it now.” you said, and then Ciel gestured for you to demonstrate. You did so, with poise and grace, and he looked satisfied.

 “That's it. You're doing well.” he noted, but you just looked at him with hesitation.  “I don't know...I feel like I could do so much better...like I'm not good enough...”

 Perhaps it was about time he made it clear to you. Without any reluctance on his own part, Ciel reached up with both hands and softly clasped your face between them. He held you gently, and leaned in closely before he spoke.

 “If you weren't good enough, I would never have chosen you.”

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS!

[miyaz6ki]

──── nun' more than ten percent off!!

ᯓ★ ── . summ. money runs the world, and you just ran out. coincidentally, so did your very hot childhood best friend/bf (might change depending on which chara) :3!! (you both becum prnstarz!!)

ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ director's note. i don't think i can continue to do kinktober dear disciples sigh, i might do this with hsr characters as well :D!! STOP SPAM LIKING PLZ :PRAY:

ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ pairings. xiao, alhaitham, kinich, x fem!reader

ᯓ★ ── . warnings. nsfw, fem terms used, vaginal sex(?), ww

when xiao starts to run low on money and feels too damn guilty enough to ask zhongli for money again (he's in debt by $890 already lol) . . when you bring up the idea since you need it for rent . . doesn't sound so bad.

even for your side of things; you definitely didn't mind getting dicked down by him. and if he was going to be real with himself, you were fine as fuck. hearing that 'he was the only one you could do this with'? he could've just pulled out his phone and fuck you right then and there.

but he isn't as bold as you think. simply blushing at the thought and nodding along. man his pants were starting to get a little tight, don't ya think?

you suggested probably observing a few videos just for reference but his mind was all he needed (he just said "let's just wing it.")

people who had seen and watched your content together commented on how easy it was for him to let you cream on his cock. fuck he felt tired, it felt like hours of videos for now, but seeing how your eyes rolled back as your cunt slid all the way down onto the very base of his shaft- he gained all his energy back.

"fffuck- ngh x- xiao!" oh please keep saying his name like that, his face hid in the crook of your neck, in the umpteenth video you both agreed on recording only showed off your pretty body, and his arms holding your hips down. the camera caught a glimpse of the tattoos that ran around and down his shoulders, and arms.

people commented on how those tattoos probably went all over his body, how you'd probably be stuck looking at his eyes (you both wore masks/have your faces blurred or cut out), or how the arms on your hips that pistoned them onto his cock when you get tired would either have a deadly grip or the gentlest.

whatever would pay you your college debt, or get him food on the table. it was working.

alhaitham who wouldn't usually hook up twice- especially when he was low on money himself. he'd never sell himself. oh, but he'd do anything to get a taste of your pretty pussy again.

"uhuh? ffuck, you really want this dick don't you? such a spoiled little princess . . " he watched you bounce on his cock, plop plop plop!!

his arms locked onto the soft plush of your thighs. "ahh- sshit, haah 'm gonna.." you whine, the blissful sounds of your voice only made him harder, big strong arms held you around your waist, helping you straddle him. "don't be tired now, sweetheart." a smirk grows along his cheeks. his voice almost a purr.

'just roommates' they said, but when dire situations come down to desperate solutions.. money runs the world, and you both simply just have to abide by it.

comments on your posts with him have noticed the repetitive collabs. In fact, he was the only man who had ever appeared in your videos. You had always refused any other creators who wanted to collaborate because—well, your roommate was pretty willing.

you both hooked up once at a party. then found out you were roommates. he wouldn't say he was mad each time you brought another guy over though. he was livid.

snarky remarks, and a hefty tongue—he never held back from insulting the guy, or your taste. a scoff releases from his lips. "when will you find a real man?"

and who knows what he meant by a real man, cuz you know what you were on right now was a real cock.

your fans love it when haitham pins you against the wall, hands holding you in place, acting as a cushion between him you and the wall.

the way he pistoned his hips, and veiny hands held your ass close to his so he could thrust inside you faster.

you raised enough money to rid of your debt, and enough to keep alhaitham quiet about it (even w/o the money he would, just took money whenever he had projects due), but he didn't wanna stop the content just yet.

kinich who immediately agreed. your most popular videos were always whenever his face buried itself into your thighs. a perfect view of how you grinded your clit against his nose, and his tongue working as deep as it could inside your entrance.

or when he blindfolds, and fucks you from behind. each time he finished cumming inside your hole again, kinich who gave a ninetieth floor view of your pussy, left almost throbbing, and aching for him to thrust into you again!

he loved to tease when it came to eating you out. "uhuh? that's gooooood, taking me s'well baby.. such a good girl.."

people had commented on how sexy his voice sounded, probably what got you wet in the first place.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Beyond The Screen: Chapter 4 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 3.4k words.

Chapter Summary: James, Sirius, and Remus gather to watch your newest video—one born of spontaneity, yet filmed with the kind of intimacy that makes it feel deeply personal. As the video plays out, the lines between voyeur and participant blur, drawing them closer not just to you, but to each other. What began as fascination deepens into something they can no longer deny: they're hooked.

Tags: Adult content, explicit group masturbation, shared sexual experience among partners, detailed sexual video description, emotional intimacy, blurred creator-subscriber boundaries, sexually charged dialogue, light obsession themes.

The room is filled with the soft glow of their phone screens, illuminating each face in the dimly lit apartment. The air is warm, thick with a quiet that wraps around them like a blanket—a comfort despite the undercurrent of unspoken tension that has lingered since the night before.

For once, they are not creating but consuming, fingers lazily scrolling through feeds and messages, the world outside their walls momentarily forgotten. It's a rare reprieve from the constant hum of production—the filming, the editing, the brainstorming of ideas that usually consumes their every waking moment. But tonight, it is just them.

Sirius lounges on the couch, his long legs draped over James's lap. His head rests against the armrest, one hand absentmindedly playing with the fringe of the throw pillow beneath him. Remus sits across from them, curled up in an armchair, a mug of tea steaming gently beside him as he reads something off his screen.

"Anything interesting?" Sirius asks without lifting his gaze from his own device. His voice is low, almost indifferent, belying the restless energy that always seems to simmer beneath his calm exterior. Always looking, always reaching for something—distraction, validation, connection—it doesn't matter as long as it fills the void.

James doesn't answer immediately, his thumb hovering over a new notification. A familiar username flashes across his screen, sending a jolt of anticipation coursing through him, quickening his pulse. He swipes it open, and there you are.

"Yeah," James says, sitting up a little straighter. "From her."

This draws Sirius's attention. He shifts, removing his feet from James's lap to sit upright, his gaze already moving to catch a glimpse of the message on James's screen. Even Remus looks up, though he says nothing, observing with that quiet intensity of his.

"What does she say?" Sirius asks, leaning closer.

James opens the message, and there it is—your latest pay-per-view, delivered through DMs, accompanied by a simple, teasing note: A little spontaneous self-love 💋 - $20.

"Listen to this," James murmurs, his voice rich with anticipation as he reads aloud, "A little spontaneous self-love." His words hang in the air, charged with promise, and though he knows it's a PPV, he can't help but feel his pulse quicken at the thought of what images might await behind that price tag. He'd willingly pay double for the privilege of seeing more of you.

Sirius lets out a low whistle, his eyes sparkling with intrigue. "Spontaneous, huh? Wonder what got her all hot and bothered."

Remus merely raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. But James catches the flicker of interest in those amber eyes, a subtle tell that betrays his stoic facade; Remus might be the picture of restraint, yet beneath that calm surface, curiosity stirs and there’s no hiding it from James.

James doesn't hesitate. He clicks on the message, quickly paying the $20. His movements are swift, almost desperate, as if he fears the video will disappear before he can claim it. The transaction goes through, and the lock icon next to the video turns green. Unlocked.

"Ready?" James's voice is hoarse with anticipation. It's a redundant question—he knows they're ready. They've been waiting for something like this since they first discovered your page.

Sirius leans in, eyes glued to the screen, while Remus perches on the arm of the sofa, his usual composure giving way to a hint of eagerness. James hits play, and the video begins.

There you are. Framed perfectly within the confines of the screen, you lie back against your bed, the soft light casting shadows across your bare skin. There's nothing left to the imagination now—every curve, every line of your body is on full display—but it's the way you touch yourself that draws them in further. Your hands explore with a slow, deliberate pace that leaves nothing untouched, and the camera, unflinching, records every sigh, every shudder.

James's eyes remain glued to the screen, his breath hitching as he watches you take the dildo in hand. You're gentle with yourself, guiding the tip to your entrance and pushing it in slowly, deliberately. His heart pounds in his chest as he takes in every detail—the way your muscles tense, then relax; the little gasp that escapes your lips.

Then, you reach for the vibrator. It's small but powerful, and as you press it against your clit, James can't help but imagine what the sensation must feel like. Witnessing this intimate act, seeing you so lost in your own pleasure, sends a jolt of heat straight to his groin. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his trousers suddenly too tight.

"Fuck," Sirius murmurs, his voice a low growl. He's already moving, hands reaching for the buckle of his belt. There's no hesitation in his actions—Sirius Black has never been one to deny himself what he wants when he wants it. And right now, what he wants is release.

James glances up at Remus, his eyes also locked onto the screen. He sees the subtle clench of Remus's jaw, the faint flush on his cheeks, and recognises them for what they are. Restraint, and barely held restraint at the.

"She's…" Remus starts, voice barely above a whisper, but he doesn't need to finish. The sentiment hangs in the air, understood by all.

"Yeah," James agrees, his own throat dry. This video feels different from the others—less staged, more intimate. As if you'd simply set up the camera and let whatever happened next unfold naturally. That thought alone makes his heart pound harder against his ribs.

The tempo quickens, your hips tilting with a sharpness that betrays the urgency in your movements. Your hands clutch at the sheets, knuckles white against the dark fabric. The sounds you make—soft moans that grow louder, more desperate—are all the proof they need of the pleasure coursing through you. You're on the brink, teetering on the edge of release, and that's what keeps them riveted to the screen.

A heat stirs low in James' belly, winding tighter with each passing second. His hand twitches toward his lap, seeking relief from the pressure building within him. He unzips his jeans, taking himself in hand without a second thought for the presence of Sirius and Remus. This is nothing new to them; it's part of the intimacy they've built over time, a testament to the trust and understanding that binds them together. And in this moment, it feels right, as if they're reaching out across the distance to share in your pleasure.

Sirius is already there, his own hand moving in a slow rhythm that mirrors your pace. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire as he watches the video play out. There's a hunger there that James recognizes, one that has always set Sirius apart. Out of all of them, Sirius has been the most expressive about his admiration for your work, and seeing him so visibly affected by you only adds fuel to the fire smouldering within James.

Remus, however, still holds himself in check, but James isn't fooled. He sees the way Remus's eyes darken, how his breath hitches just slightly when you come into view, your body quivering as you ride out your climax. The sound of your soft, pleading moan fills the room, and James swallows hard, his own body responding as he follows Sirius's lead.

The tension between them is almost palpable, a current of anticipation that charges the air. They've watched countless videos together before, but this… this feels different. More intimate. Perhaps it's because they've been following you for so long, tracing the curve of your journey even as they remained shadows on the periphery. Or maybe it's the way you responded to their messages, teasing and tantalising, playing into their fantasy until it felt like this video was made just for them.

James's hand moves in a steady rhythm, his breath hitching as he watches you on screen. The sight of your pleasure, the sounds of your satisfaction—it's intoxicating. And even though you can't touch him, can't see him, he feels intimately connected to you in this moment.

You're coming down from your high, body still twitching with aftershocks as you slowly pull the dildo out, your legs quivering from the intensity of your orgasm. Seeing you so raw, so undone—it makes his own release feel imminent, pushing at the edge of his control.

"Fuck," Sirius groans next to him, his own hand moving faster now, his body taut with the strain of holding back. His eyes are glued to the screen, watching every detail unfold, and when he speaks next, his voice is a low rasp. "She's… incredible."

James doesn't trust himself to respond, the pressure growing more insistent with each passing second. He knows he's close, but he also knows that Sirius is right there with him, teetering on the brink.

Even Remus, usually the most composed among them, has abandoned any pretense of restraint. His own hand dips below the waistband of his trousers, his movements slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the quickened pace of his breath. He's quieter than the others, his moans swallowed by the night, but the desire in his gaze is just as potent as he watches you on the screen.

It doesn't take much longer after that. James's hand becomes a blur of motion, and his breathing grows ragged as he finally lets go, body straining against the back of the couch as he finishes, a low groan escaping from deep within his chest as he keeps his gaze fixed on the screen. Sirius is right behind him, body stiffening as he curses through gritted teeth, eyes rolling back into his head as he comes undone.

Remus is quieter, but James can tell he's just as affected by the way his body goes rigid and his breath hitches in his throat. It's rare for them to be so in sync, but when it happens, it's nothing short of powerful.

The video ends just as they're all coming down from their highs, with your body relaxed and satisfied on the screen, a soft smile playing on your lips. It feels like the perfect ending to an unexpectedly intense moment, and the room falls silent for a few beats as they each struggle to catch their breath.

Sirius is the first to break the silence, his voice low and husky. "Fucking hell," he breathes, leaning back into the plush couch, his body humming with a satisfaction that he wears like a second skin. "That was…"

James can only nod in agreement, his heart still racing from the rush of release. His muscles feel warm and loose, languid in the aftermath of his orgasm. "She's incredible," he manages to say, though the words don't seem nearly enough to capture the depth of what he's feeling.

Remus doesn't speak, but the quiet intensity in his gaze as it remains fixed on the screen speaks volumes. He sits back, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, the lines of his body relaxed yet charged with an undercurrent of desire. His lips curve into a faint smile, not quite smug but undeniably pleased.

For a few beats, no one says anything else. They simply sit there, the air between them heavy with the shared experience of release and the lingering echo of your voice in their ears. It's a rarity for all three to be so visibly affected, so captivated by one woman, but it's undeniable—you've reeled them in, hook, line, and sinker.

His fingers hover over the screen, still warm from the video that has just ended. He reads your message again, the words teasing at the edges of his mind. "A little spontaneous self-love," you had called it, but he can't help but wonder if there was more to it than that. If maybe, just maybe, you had made this video with him in mind.

ProngsPlayground_free: Just watched this… and damn, it was exactly what we needed. Whether it was spontaneous or not, you've got us all hooked. 😉 We're definitely addicted now.

His fingers hover over the keys as he imagines your reaction. He's not usually so bold, but the way the three of them were drawn to you, compelled by your presence even through a screen, emboldens him. You're no longer a stranger—not after the nights spent replying to your messages, each one laced with just enough intrigue to keep them coming back for more. With a final tap, he hits send and leans back in his chair, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

Sirius senses the shift and turns his head slightly, just enough to catch the tail end of James's expression. "What did you say?"

"Only that we quite enjoyed her… spontaneous creativity," James replies, his grin broadening as he runs a hand through his already tousled hair.

Sirius chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. "Always the charmer, aren't you, Prongs?"

James simply shrugs, his smile unwavering. "Just stating the obvious, Padfoot. She should know the effect she's having."

Remus, who has been conspicuously quiet, finally breaks his silence. His voice is measured, but there's an undercurrent of something deeper, more profound. "It's not just about the effect, though, is it?" He shifts slightly, fingers absently straightening the wrinkles in his shirt. "She's good at what she does—remarkably so."

"Good?" Sirius echoes, his grin broadening until it's a mirror of James's own. "Rem, that's an understatement. She's bloody brilliant. Did you see how she—"

He cuts himself off with a laugh, shaking his head as if to clear it. "No, 'brilliant' doesn't even begin to cover it."

James' fingers tap absently on his phone, his mind already scrolling through the messages from subscribers on their OnlyFans pages. It's strange, this balance they've found between being creators and consumers. They're always mindful of their own content, managing messages and comments with a professional ease that belies the hours spent behind the scenes. But nothing captures their attention quite like your updates, especially when they're unexpected.

It's not that their own fans aren't important—they are, each one a vital part of the intricate web that supports their lifestyle. But there's something about you that draws them in more deeply, more personally. Maybe it's the mystery, how you reveal so little of yourself beyond your content. Or maybe it's your attitude, a quiet confidence undercut by a playful edge that keeps them coming back for more.

Remus clears his throat, drawing the eyes of both James and Sirius. He doesn’t speak right away, just holds their gazes with a look that’s too deep, too practiced in hiding secrets. It’s a look that has always made James wonder about the thoughts swirling behind those amber eyes.

“You both sense it as well, don't you?” Remus finally says, his voice softer than before, threaded with a seriousness that tugs at the edges of James's awareness. “That we’re… perhaps a bit too into her?"

Sirius laughs, the sound bright against the growing tension. He leans back into the plush cushions of the couch, stretching out his legs with a contented sigh. “That's the whole point, Rem," he says, grinning as he meets Remus's gaze. “We subscribed because we were already too into her.” His smile widens, a teasing glint appearing in his grey eyes. “And don't try to play innocent. We've all seen how you watch her videos.”

Remus doesn't deny it; instead, his faint smile deepens, the corners tugging just slightly at the edges, revealing nothing and everything all at once. It's a silent admission that speaks volumes in the quiet room.

James can't help but feel a rush of exhilaration at the realisation. Even Remus, always the voice of reason, hasn't escaped your allure. There's something about you that's different, something that calls to them, despite the miles and screens that separate you. This shared intrigue binds them tighter, their camaraderie now laced with a tangible curiosity that makes the air buzz with anticipation.

Sirius leans forward again, his grin now mirroring that of the Cheshire Cat. "Don't you wonder if she knows? That she's got us hanging on her every word?"

James lifts his shoulders in a half-shrug, his gaze flickering back to the phone as though expecting it to spring to life any moment. "Maybe. But if she does, she plays it well."

Remus chuckles softly, the sound muffled behind his hand. "Isn't that part of the thrill, though? The not knowing."

"Exactly." James nods, eyes still locked on the screen before him. There's an intensity to his gaze, a focus that hints at something deeper than mere interest. It's as though they've stumbled upon a game whose rules are still being written, where each move is a step into the unknown.

A soft buzz draws their attention back to the phone cradled in James's hand. Another message from you lights up the screen, and his heart does a strange little flip at the sight of your words.

You: I’m glad you all enjoyed it. 😊 I’ve got plenty more spontaneous moments like that coming your way. Hope you’re ready. 😘

Sirius leans over James's shoulder, his eyes sparkling with mischief and anticipation as he reads your message aloud. "She's teasing us again. I love it."

James chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. His fingers hover over the screen, the excitement of your interaction coursing through him like a live wire. This connection, as strange and unexpected as it is, feels almost… exhilarating.

"So do I," James murmurs, his eyes closing as he leans back into the couch. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a faint smile. "We're hopeless."

Remus shakes his head, a chuckle escaping his lips despite the gravity of their conversation. "Well, if we are, at least she's worth it."

The sentiment hangs in the air, an unspoken agreement between them. They don't need to voice it; they can feel it in the way their hearts beat faster when they think of you, in the way their minds wander back to your voice, your touch, your smile.

Sirius stretches languidly, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. He stands with a groan, padding towards the kitchen. "I don't know about you lot, but I'm starving. That took more out of me than I anticipated."

James chuckles, watching him go. "You're always hungry after."

"Can't help it," Sirius replies, a grin tugging at his lips even as he rummages through the cupboards for a quick meal. "Seeing her like that… it does something to me."

Remus stifles a laugh, pushing himself off the couch and stretching languidly. "He's not wrong."

James lingers on the couch, staring at the screen of his phone where your message still glows. He knows he shouldn't be this intrigued, this ensnared by the allure of something so intangible and yet so compelling. As a creator himself, he knows better than to get lost in the illusion. But there's something about you, something about this world you've woven that beckons him with an irresistible pull.

It's more than just the content, more than the fantasy. It's the personal touch, the way you interact with each comment, each piece of feedback. There's an authenticity to it that sets it apart from the usual sterile interactions online. Maybe that's why he's allowing himself to get swept up in this, to lose himself in the narrative you spin, even if only through the confines of a screen.

He doesn't know what will come next or how long this will last, but for now, he's content to let things unfold naturally. Whatever direction you choose to take, whatever spontaneous moment you conjure up next, he'll be there—watching, enjoying, and perhaps even becoming a little more entangled in the web you weave.

For now, though, he tucks his phone away and heads for the kitchen where his boys are congregating, their voices a comforting hum in the background. The warmth of your words lingers, a reminder of the connection that, however fleeting, has sparked something within him, within all of them.

[rskket]

agape

agape (αγάπη) — an ancient greek word for “love”, spec. selfless, unconditional love that transcends circumstance

odydio drabble, bittersweet ending, edited

word count: 1594

Contempt. Rage. Hatred. He laid these sentiments against his comrade, comparing them, trying to conclude which fit most perfectly. Not one of them lined up, did not connect, and failed to decipher the puzzle. The birth of such a child would generate mystification, a mystery that would shield the truth of its creator, never to be revealed through regular means: a clever veil tied taut with wire. 

 Repulsion. Heartache. Perhaps envy. Did a word exist to describe this labyrinthine man? A feeling or ambience? It was a fruitless endeavour. He would not live to hear of a solution. He doubted the man himself would, either. 

Fervour. Adoration. Lust. Hate and love are so close; the line between them is narrow and penetrable. It is impossible to distinguish one from the other. It is a struggle many relationships face: Aphrodite’s very being destroys marriages and births new ones, displacing joy and sorrow as blithely as her son aims it. Complicated emotions, best equipped for this man, yet it does not feel correct. None of it does. 

“Is there something you wish to say?” His words break through. The flimsy facade shatters as easily as pottery under the impact of his words. Before him sits a man who wears everything on his sleeve: complacent and selfless and cruel. The mystery in question falls apart at this sight, and Diomedes wonders why he would ever doubt his nature—as a naïve one would. 

He scoffs, swipes an undisturbed goblet of wine. The liquid splashes against the table and stains the smooth wood blood-red. The man gazes at him with an inviting quirk of the lips, urging a reply in that alluring manner Diomedes despises. It pulls him in, makes him curious for more, has a stronger effect than any siren song. He is helpless. 

“What makes you think that?” he retorts airily. He has to avert his eyes from the stone walls and tapestries, taking in their intricate form and craft. He knows the king’s own hands built this palace; it is clear in the scrupulous detail and care in each brick, placed lovingly by a ruler’s rough hands. The tapestries are the work of delicate handmaidens and serfs, perhaps even the queen’s elegant touch. It is a palace befitting generations upon generations of kings. Diomedes admires, not envies. 

Odysseus shifts and adjusts his position. He places his face directly into Diomedes’ line of sight, and he leans in closer, in contempt of his previous attempt at escape. The latter pretends not to see him. 

“My dear friend,” Odysseus hummed, and Diomedes knew Odysseus had caught him. The snare is so cleverly placed that he cannot help but stumble upon it. It keeps him wrapped around the king of Ithaca’s fingers, like a witch’s curse. “I know you best; that look on your face is irregular.” 

The accusation embarrasses him. “I’ve no clue what you mean.” 

Knowing victory, Odysseus resigns. He backs away from the other, granting him but a moment’s worth of illusioned mercy. The smug look on his face never fades—it’s the look of a man who exploits his companions for sport, a man to be feared, a man who will know you better than you will ever know yourself. Diomedes’ emotions are his expertise: he knows where to strike and when, and he can strum his own tune out of another’s strings. Yet Diomedes wonders if his cunning was ever that profound, or if he just wills it so out of egotism. 

“You’ve been staring at me,” Odysseus observes. “You think I don’t notice it, but I do.” 

“I know you notice.” 

This amuses him. “You act like I don’t. You never acknowledge it, you simply turn away and act ignorant.” Diomedes feels a pang of irritation in his heart, right alongside the crippling ache that persists throughout. There is a cruel delicacy in how these two emotions can coexist so discordantly, but when it comes to this man, why would one expect anything less?

“What am I to do,” he says, “when I know you will torment me relentlessly?” 

He laughs—a cold, malignant sound. Diomedes fails to find the humour in any of this. His heart is being squeezed tightly, his iron grip unyielding; the sharpest sparks of flame empowering his fingers, scorching him, disintegrating any semblance of depth he might contain. And yet he sits so calmly, unbothered, seemingly oblivious to the agony he causes solely by existing. 

“Relentlessly?” Odysseus echoes. “No; I fear I don’t have that in me.” He exhibits innocence as if it’s natural to him, but Diomedes knows him far too well. He notes how the man fails to cast doubt on the word ‘torment.’

He scoffs. A substantial amount of concentrated effort is required to keep him from stabbing a meat knife into Odysseus’ heart, to allow him to feel the pain Diomedes suffers tirelessly in his presence. Instead, he stabs the knife into the boar laid neatly on his plate, slicing with excessive force. He has little desire to eat any more, but it’s the best escape he has from Odysseus’ penetrating stare. 

“Though,” Odysseus begins with that accusative and perceptive lilt in his voice, “I doubt you mind as much as you seem to.”

Diomedes coughs, a chunk of meat caught in his throat. He reaches for a goblet of wine, but trifling Odysseus snatches the cup before he can. He must relish in this suffering—the suffering he caused. The Argive king shoots him a glare through a sheen of tears. 

“Am I right?” He pushes the goblet even farther from his reach. Torment was a well-chosen word for the game he plays, a constricting and sadistic sport. “Your reaction tells me I’m right.” 

“Odysseus.” It comes out as a rasp. 

“Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me that you like the torment—my torment. Say it.”

“I hate it,” Diomedes coughs. His own spit is struggling to push the food down, screaming for assistance. He slightly hopes he dies. “I hate you.”

The goblet of wine is brought to his lips by a calloused hand. He more than allows the intrusion. The cup is tilted a little, aggravating and impossibly far, permitting only a small stream of wine to soothe his throat. He could snatch the goblet out of Odysseus’ impossibly nimble hands, but something prevents him from doing so. There is something so enticing about the act; how Odysseus’ smile greets him over the cup, a hand placed carefully at his jaw to aid the precision of his hold. He slowly forgets about the increasing threat of death by choking as the smooth red liquid finally forces the meat from his throat. Their proximity, once seemed unreachable, barely contained. Diomedes cannot breathe, no longer because of the boar; but now because of the arbitrary weight being forced on him. It feels greater than Atlas’ endeavour. Crushing, violent, intensifying. Odysseus draws away. A stream of coloured liquid tumbles out of Diomedes’ mouth at the corner. He hardly notices, or cares, his gaze firmly fixed on the man in front of him. Odysseus’ smile grows, one of humour. With a tender swipe, he cleared the mess from the king’s mouth. The wine coating his thumb is brought to his own lips, as he glibly finishes it off himself. 

A word comes to mind, suddenly. As if everything is clearer, and Pallas Athene herself induces the revelation in him. At a loss, he says: 

“Is this what they call agape?”

Odysseus is taken in a delicious confusion. “What?”

“This feeling.” The man in front of him, not divine, entices him as such. “I am overcome with it. I have not named it, but-” 

“You need not name it.”

Diomedes stops. The revelation that was so close just a moment ago falls from his grip and shatters on the floor, into a million pieces, never to be recovered. He watches as Odysseus grows cold. An illusion, one he so naively fell for. A fool, he is.

“I don’t believe in it.” His smile has faded. Now he appears annoyed, maybe remorseful. Diomedes cannot fathom the switch, will not accept it. 

“You don’t believe in love?”

“Not yours.”

It hurts. The ache returns, stronger and more intense. For a moment, he hoped it would cease. He hoped he would grow comfortable with the feeling so that it no longer bothered him. But evidently, that was foolish. Foolish, he is, and will forever be; as long as he is caught in this web. Impossible. Unattainable. Hopeless. 

Odysseus no longer regards him, does not acknowledge his pain, not even to tease. He knows he has won, and he regrets the victory. Not for his friend’s sake, but for his own, Diomedes knows. A shiver broke their game. 

“It’s growing late,” Odysseus notes. He rises from his seat and snaps the chiton at his shoulder. He’s distancing, placing space between them. But it will not repair what damage has already been done. “Have a maid fix a room for you.” 

He leaves. The elusive Odysseus, a fleeting wonder. Diomedes always hungers for more. It is not enough, the masochistic role he takes. Contrarily, it’s sickening and exhausting and miserable, but it is not enough. It will never be enough, he fears.

Through all this pain emerges a new melody—one he heard sung all his life, but not one he knew: agape. Unconditional, devotional, divine. Agape.

[love-and-deepspace-fanfic]

Zayne - Collapse of Multiple Deepspaces

Time to drop another #delulu for Zayne! It’s my first time writing about Zayne and all “thanks” to my friend all my ideas recently stem from *tragedy*.

So yeah sorry Zayne boi, you’re first!

I hope you enjoy this version!

What happens if Zayne and Dawnbreaker meet each other....

Collapse of Multiple Deepspaces

"You are no different from a weakling."

This phrase had echoed relentlessly within Zayne ever since he witnessed his friend transform into a Wanderer right before his very eyes.

If others were given a chance to judge, they would tell Zayne that his hesitation or fear, his inability to act, was entirely natural; no one could stand firm in such a dire circumstance.

To witness someone you know slowly morph into a beast and then have to end their life with your own hands? Who in their right mind would willingly undertake such a horrifying act?

But Zayne knew that the "shadow" that disdainfully uttered those words of criticism through its scornful gaze was no longer a normal person.

******************************************************

How long had it been since Zayne last felt this rush of anticipation, as if he were about to enter a battle?

Before him were blood-red eyes that forced Zayne to instinctively channel energy from his right arm as a defense mechanism.

It was this very power that had been the source of many of his tragedies.

But compared to the shadow standing right in front of him, Zayne could sense that the pain he had endured was nothing compared to the anguish reflected in those judging eyes.

Though shrouded by the night, Zayne recognized the person before him, for the power surrounding that figure was familiar to him. It was the power of ice—the same power he wielded.

In other words, the person before him might be none other than himself.

It was as if he were the embodiment of the Grim Reaper he had always feared.

Zayne also realized that the person in front of him not only possessed his own aura but also harbored an unpredictable emotion he couldn't quite grasp.

This emotion was like a drop of poison, ready to overflow at the slightest disturbance, spreading its lethal intent throughout the icy energy. It was this realization that helped Zayne recognize that the figure before him and he were separate entities. He would never allow himself to be consumed by such murderous intent. He was a doctor, committed to saving lives, not taking them. This was his life's principle and the oath he had sworn to uphold.

Yet, the eerie resemblance between them conjured images of two opposing reflections in a mirror, similar yet different, creating a sense of dual existence. If one of these images were to vanish one day, what would happen to the remaining one? Would it also dissolve, mirroring the original?

**********************************************************

While Zayne was observing the shadow, it was silently scrutinizing Zayne in return.

A weaker version, blessed with a life he craved.

Is this yet another part of the dream? But if it is a dream, then why is she not here?

Could even the fleeting dream of being with her be interrupted and dissipate like this?

Or perhaps…

*********************************************************

As Zayne pondered the bizarre occurrence before him in the dark space, he sensed a shift in the atmosphere between them.

A sudden, piercingly cold wind enveloped him, as if trying to freeze his entire being.

This chilling gust, like a raging beast, seemed determined to devour him whole, mirroring the fury of its creator.

Why had the shadow suddenly become so enraged?

Before Zayne could react, crystalline shards of ice hidden within the snowstorm hurtled toward him, catching him off guard.

The surging murderous intent warned Zayne of imminent danger, compelling him to instinctively unleash his own energy.

A formidable ice wall sprang up, separating Zayne from the lethal ice shards.

Yet, the relentless assault and overwhelming malevolence forced Zayne to retreat.

He panted heavily, striving to regain control over his chaotic emotions and energy. Why had the shadow, just moments ago in a state of observation, suddenly sought to end him?

This remained a mystery to Zayne, causing his hesitation to strike back.

Perhaps the gentle world he had come to know had softened his heart, infusing his decisions with the compassion and magnanimity expected of a doctor. But facing the figure before him, such ideals held no meaning.

Clearly, in this struggle for supremacy, in terms of both resolve and strength, Zayne was losing.

As the blizzard engulfed him, with icy spears closing in from all sides, Zayne realized the figure before him wielded far more power than he had imagined.

Arrows of ice began to pierce through his ice wall, embedding themselves in his body, inflicting excruciating pain and a chilling wind that froze him to the core. The agony was so intense it felt as though a curse had been cast upon him, rendering him immobile and leaving him at the mercy of the storm.

This sensation… why does it feel so familiar…

As Zayne struggled to rise, the shadow approached, revealing a familiar face.

The Grim Reaper… the Grim Reaper Zayne had seen before… the one who had look at him with an implication that he was merely a weakling.

With the same face, the same demeanor, the samepower, Zayne saw his own reflection in those blood-red eyes.

Is this… really himself?

Before Zayne could process his shock, the Grim Reaper moved closer, looking down at him with disdain:

“In the end, you are just a useless fool, incapable of protecting the one thing you were fortunate enough to have.”

These words felt like a curse, tightening Zayne’s heart in agony. He knew what his one lucky possession was, for he had felt this same heartache in his dreams countless times: the pain of not having her by his side…

Could it be…

Before Zayne could grapple with the implication, a shard of ice materialized in the Grim Reaper's hand. Its purpose was clear.

But what stunned Zayne more than the imminent threat was the Grim Reaper’s next words:

“If you are now useless, then it’s my turn to protect her.”

*************************************

“Zayne… Zayne!!”

Zayne jolted awake at the familiar call.

He sat up, gasping for breath, his body drenched in sweat as if he had just escaped a horrifying ordeal.

Fear clung to him, but a gentle touch on his back, mirroring his racing heartbeat, offered solace.

Looking up, Zayne’s eyes met the worried gaze of a familiar, tender face.

Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a glow on you and making you appear angelic, which had greatly soothed Zayne as though he were in heaven after wandering in endless darkness.

Unable to contain himself, Zayne pulled your close, seeking your comforting warmth. Only then, with your voice laced with concern, did his surroundings come into focus. The familiar scent of medicine, not the metallic tang of blood, filled the air.

A lingering sense of malevolent energy persisted, a stark reminder of the dream's icy grip. He touched his neck, the phantom pain of the ice shard a chilling echo. Dream or reality?

As he began to lose himself in his thoughts again, a warm touch on his cheek grounded him.

“Are you okay? Why do you keep zoning out? Did you sneak sweets before bed again, making it hard to breathe and sweat so much?”

Like sunlight dispelling the cold, Zayne's heart began to calm. Perhaps it was just exhaustion, a figment of his overworked mind. He clung to this hope, desperate to ease her worry.

Zayne looked at her lovingly, then embraced her once more, yearning to hold onto the warmth only she could provide.

“Thanks for being by my side.”

*****************************

“Zayne, promise me you won’t try to bear everything alone or make decisions by yourself, okay? Always tell me first.”

Seeing her cheerful yet concerned expression, like an old lady fussing over him, made Zayne chuckle—a rare sound for him.

Perhaps the dream was merely a manifestation of his fear, a fear of someday regretting his own "weakness." But what truly defined this weakness? Was it the lack of courage to destroy what could harm her, even if that meant it had once bear the form of a… human?

As Zayne began to drift back into his thoughts, the alarm on her hunter’s watch went off, accompanied by a warning:

“Alert… alert… Wanderer monsters detected… Level A… coordinates X Y… please evacuate residents from the danger zone.”

Both Zayne and you knew what needed to be done in such situations.

As he instructed you on the tasks and cautions for your mission, a rift opened before Zayne, followed by a Wanderer bearing a striking resemblance to…

William…

In an instant, as Zayne stood frozen, the Wanderer lunged, swinging a deadly scythe-like arm at him.

William… is it really you?

Zayne felt his heart stop, memories from that day flooding back.

At Mount Eternal… where the secret he wished to bury lay… where he had once been weak… William… I’m so sorry… turns out, even now… I’m still useless…

“ZAYNEEEEEEE!”

A piercing scream echoed as Zayne snapped back to reality. Before him lay the image of her, shielding him with her body. Blood spurted from her back, splattering across Zayne’s face.

In his arms was the girl he loved, falling.

The blood on his hands was warm…

But this…

Was not the warmth he wanted to feel…

In a heartbeat, everything around Zayne was swallowed by an endless night.

A night filled with murderous intent…

And amidst this darkness lay a path, lined with the bodies of countless fallen.

Zayne didn’t want to tread this path, but it seemed fate had already chosen it for him.

A voice echoed within him, as if from a distant past…

“If the law is a curse… why perfect it… just… destroy it all…”

That's right... destroy everything... only then can I... protect you...

Like a skeleton approaching its tomb, Zayne walked heavily past the rows of piled corpses, heading straight into the endless darkness. And at the end of the road, what Zayne saw was the throne with its many icy blades.

Zayne saw another figure resembling him dressed in an ancient sorcerer's garb... as if he had been sitting there for a long time... just waiting...

Waiting....

"For that daisy..."

As if echoing his heart, the voice of the Grim Reaper opposite him, now replacing the figure holding the staff, sat on the ice throne.

So who was who? He himself no longer knew and no longer cared. Because at this moment, he knew that he and the figures before him had only one thing in common, and that commonality was what all his beings cared about and wanted to have.

You... the daisy we've always sought...

In the quiet night, the cold voice of the Grim Reaper rang out like a warning bell:

"You... are the exception, because only you can have her."

Zayne understood what the Grim Reaper had said.

He sank weakly to the floor, realizing how lucky he was but also how powerless.

"But... you too... are the weakest..."

He knew... he knew... he was weak.

"So... if you can't become strong..."

Before his words could end, Zayne’s chin was grasped, forcing him to face the blood-red eyes right in front of him.

"If you can't do it, then it's my turn. There's no room for the weak."

****************************************

The blaring sirens of rescue vehicles… the screams of the townspeople… only you… seemed to be lying still… in firm arms…

You tried to get up but were held back by those strong arms, preventing any movement.

It seemed that the wound on your back no longer pained you, only a soothing, cool sensation remained.

It looked like Zayne had tended to your injury.

You knew what you had done was dangerous, and you would surely be scolded by him, but you still felt warm inside knowing he was safe….

These past days, seeing his exhaustion, you wanted to do something. But the more you looked at him, the more unsure you were of what to do, as if he was fighting a battle within himself, silently enduring.

That was when you saw him in danger, and you immediately shielded him without a second thought, just to spare him from more pain.

Thankfully… he was unharmed…

As you nestled in Zayne’s embrace, you couldn’t shake off a strange feeling, an unnamed sensation, like you had felt it long ago when you looked into his eyes…. as if… you were seeing a different Zayne…

While lost in thought, Zayne’s hand reached out to touch your cheek.

Fearing he would reprimand you for acting impulsively, you scrambled for excuses in your mind, avoiding his gaze to escape his scolding.

But when you met his eyes, you knew…

Without giving you time to think, the unfamiliar man who resembled Zayne looked at you and smiled, sending a chill through your body.

“Nice to see you again.”

[littleshelbygirl]

“ You are my Angel. Come from way above. “

service - t.s. | oneshot

fandom: Peaky Blinders

pairing: thomas shelby x fem.reader

content warning: smut 18+ (unprotected sex, piv, talktive Tommy, dirty talk, rough sex, sex without plot)

summary: Tommy, after Lizzie left with his only son, found his life in sex. After he went through all kinds of women— his new target was his own maid.

author’s note: this story was heavily inspirised by c.ai creator @ pigsrunt!!! okay so this was rushed… AND NOT PROOF READ! sorry im lazy

masterlist.

The air hung heavy with dust as you scrubbed the wooden floorboards of Thomas Shelby’s bedroom—a routine etched into your bones after months in this house. Every creak of the boards carried memories that didn’t belong to you, yet they clung like soot. Echoes of pleasure and quiet cries still haunted the walls, ghostly remnants of Lizzie lingering like the smoke he never stopped exhaling.

You were a curious maid, though you tried not to be. But it was impossible not to wonder about the people who drifted through this house—half-dressed, half-drunk, half-remembered. Behind cracked doors and candlelight, you’d caught glimpses of silhouettes, bodies moving in tandem, shadows tangled on plastered walls.

None of them stayed.

“Just needed a smoke,” Thomas muttered behind you, his voice rough, low, and unexpected.

You flinched, then turned slightly. He stood in the doorway, broad shoulders catching the soft gold of the fading light. The sight of him, so close and so unreadable, made your chest tighten. “Yes, Mr. Shelby.”

He studied you with quiet intensity. “You’re holding up well, eh? Never asking for more pay?” His tone was curious, not mocking, but it made the hairs on your neck rise.

You nodded, voice measured. “The pay is more than generous.”

He stepped forward, slowly, then held out his hand—palm open, steady. You hesitated, then placed yours in his, the calluses of his skin meeting yours as he helped you gently to your feet.

“Come on, then.”

The closeness of him was overwhelming. The scent of tobacco, leather, and something darker filled the air between you.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice slicing through the quiet, “what do you think of all the women I bring here?”

The question landed like a weight in your chest. You held his gaze for a moment before answering, walking the knife-edge between honesty and caution. “Everyone grieves in their own way, Mr. Shelby. It wouldn’t be okay for me to judge.”

Thomas tilted his head, his blue gaze piercing into you like a steel blade. He didn't respond for a moment, his expression betraying none of his thoughts. But then, a sardonic smile twisted his lips. "Grieving." He repeated the word, the sound of it heavy with sarcasm. He took a step closer to you, his broad frame almost towering over your figure. "That's one way to put it," he murmured, his eyes roaming over you. "You think I'm simply drowning my sorrows in flesh and whiskey?"

You swallowed, the tension in the air making it hard to keep your composure. This conversation was uncharted territory for you. But you managed to muster a reply. "People seek comfort in different ways, Mr. Shelby."

Thomas' smile deepened, a dark glint sparking in his eyes. He took another step closer, his presence intoxicating in the dimly lit room. "Comfort. Is that what you think it is? Comfort?"

He reached out, lifting a tendril of your hair between his fingers, examining it as he twirled it idly around his finger.

You resisted the urge to back away, his proximity making your heart pound in your chest. His touch was subtle but possessive, a gentle reminder of his control in this moment. Thomas continued to play with the tendril of your hair, his fingers lightly caressing the delicate strands. His gaze remained fixated on your face, observing every minuscule change in expression.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" He commented, tilting his head. "Always so polite. Always so... obedient."

His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Every muscle in your body tensed, a jolt of unease coursing through you. It felt like he was toying with you, testing how far he could push your obedience. "I like obedient people. They're predictable. Reliable."

His eyes flicked to the nape of your neck, noting the gentle slope of your skin. He took another step closer, the distance between you almost nonexistent. Your pulse quickened, the air charged with tension. His proximity was overwhelming, the heat from his body seemed to encase you like a scorching blanket. Thomas leaned in slightly, his lips hovering just above your ear.

"You listen. You do what you're told, don't you, sweetheart?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, the word "sweetheart" dripping from his lips with a hint of mockery.

You managed a slight nod, unable to find your voice. His body was so close now that you could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. You tried to steady your own breath, but the rapid thumping of your heart betrayed your anxiety. He chuckled, the sound dark and seductive. "Good."

Your cheeks flushed at his praise, the warmth spreading under your skin. Despite the unease that coiled in your stomach, there was an alien feeling of pleasure from his words.

Thomas' gaze remained fixed on your exposed throat, his eyes studying the soft curves of your neck, following the path of your pulse point. He lowered his head, his breath hot against your skin. His voice dropped even quieter, almost a purr. "You're a pretty little thing, you know that?"

His free hand found your waist, his fingers curling almost possessively around your delicate frame, pulling you closer so that your body was pressed against his. His other hand still gently gripped the tendril of your hair, holding your head in place.

You could feel the solid muscles of his body through the thin fabric of your dress, his presence enveloping you completely. His breath skated over your neck as he spoke, his voice a rough whisper. "So young, and so obedient."

You couldn't deny the way his words and touch were affecting you. A strange flutter of excitement mixed with your growing alarm. You were just a maid, and he was a powerful, dangerous man. But the way he held you, the way he spoke so possessively... it awakened something within you.

Thomas' lips were now mere inches from your skin, his breathing ragged as if he was struggling to restrain himself. His fingers on your waist dug in ever so slightly, almost as if he wanted to leave a mark.

"You know what happens to obedient girls, don't you?" His words, though soft, carried a hint of menace. He pulled you even closer, his chest pressing against yours. His grip on your hair tightened, tilting your head to the side, exposing more of your neck. His eyes were dark with desire, a primal hunger that he seemed to barely control. His voice was a low rumble, his breath warm against your skin. "They get fucked. And you want that, don't you? You want to be a fucked good, eh?"

A shockwave of heat shot through you at his filthy words. They went straight to your pussy, igniting a flame of desire you'd never felt before. His boldness was intoxicating, his dominant presence making your mind feel hazy. But at the same time, alarms were ringing in your head. This was wrong on so many levels. He was nearly twice your age, and you were just a maid serving in his house. “Yes, Mr. Shelby…”

Thomas growled at your obedient response, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine. He moved his other hand to your jaw, turning your chin up to meet his gaze. "Look at you. So polite, so… vulnerable." He studied your face, his blue eyes flickering with a dangerous gleam. His thumb trailed over your bottom lip, tracing the soft curve. "I could take you right now, sweetheart. Right here on this floor."

His words hung in the air, the image they painted sending a thrill through you. You should have been more afraid, but his touch was so intoxicating, the heat from his body so all-encompassing. You couldn't help the shiver that ran through your body, the way your eyes widened slightly, betraying your excitement.

Thomas smirked, noticing your response. "You like the sound of that, don't you, darling? The thought of me fucking you, right here on the floor, like the pretty little thing you are."

You couldn't deny the sharp wave of arousal that coursed through you at his raw words. Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse quickened as his eyes bore into yours. “I would like… that.”

Thomas' eyes darkened at your reply, a feral glint in his blue gaze. The corners of his lips curled into a smirk. "I knew it," he murmured. "I knew you wanted it. And I'm going to give it to you." His hand shifted from your jaw, trailing down your neck, over your shoulder, and roaming to your waist. His touch was possessive, as if he was claiming you as his. "You like being a good lass, don't you, sweetheart? You like obeying me, obeying your Mr. Shelby."

His words were seductive, his tone low and filled with authority. The way he held your waist, the way he looked at you sent a shiver down your spine, igniting an unfamiliar heat in your pussy. He pulled you even closer, until your bodies were flush against each other. Thomas leaned in, his lips skimming over your neck, just below your earlobe. "Bend over the wall. Skirt up and panties down.”

The command hit you like a jolt of electricity. Your heart thudded in your chest. This was really happening, and you couldn't seem to find any resistance. With trembling fingers, you reached back, lifting the hem of your skirt. Goosebumps prickled your skin as the fabric rose to reveal your soft thighs. You pulled your wet panties down next.

You turned away from him, the wall cool against your flushed cheeks. You could feel the heat from his body behind you as he stepped close. Thomas' hand moved to your hip, guiding you into the position he desired. He chuckled softly, the sound both dark and erotic. "Such an obedient little thing you are. I'm going to enjoy this."

His belt loosened, the sound of the buckle clicking against his trousers echoing in the room. His eyes burned with a dark desire as he watched your every move. He moved closer, his body now pressing against your back. His hand roamed over your ass, his touch possessive, as if he already owned you. "I'm going to fuck you hard and you're going to give in to me. Won't you, sweetheart?"

You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the possessive grip of his hands. Your breath grew rapid, your thoughts a whirlwind of excitement and fear. His words sent another shiver down your spine, your pussy clenching at the primal dominance in his voice. "Yes, Mr. Shelby," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

Thomas chuckled darkly. "Good."

His breath was ragged against your skin, his body tense with desire. His hard and ready cock was pressed against your aching clit, waiting to ravel inside your already pooling pussy.

He pressed closer, his body hot and firm against yours. His lips found their way to your ear, his breath ghosting over your skin. "You're so eager, sweetheart. Can you feel what you do to me? How much I want you?" And with that— he rammed inside of you.

You let out a gasp at the sudden penetration. Tommy doesn’t let you have a minute before he starts slamming his hard cock inside of your streched pussy. His hips keep on delivering hard thrusts making you hold yourself harder by the wall. “Such good cunt, eh? Fuck yeah," he grunted, his hips moving faster and harder. "A tight little cunt like yours deserves a good pounding." He leaned over you, his breath hot on your ear. He slammed into you even deeper.

"This fucking pussy is so damn good, I bet it squirts on every fuck it gets." He wrapped his arms around your waist and started fucking you harder, his huge balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. "Fucking hell, this cunt is perfect. Should've known a sweet little thing like you would have a cunt this tight and perfect for fucking." He continued pounding into you mercilessly. “You're getting so wet... feels like your juices are dripping down my shaft." He smacked your ass hard.

His hand moved from your ass to your throat, gently squeezing as he fucked you even harder. "Gonna make you squirt all over my cock and then I'm gonna fill this tight little pussy with my cum." He bit your earlobe roughly while continuing his brutal pace."Your pussy is so fucking wet and tight, it's like it was made for my dick." He kept fucking you harder and faster, his huge balls bouncing against your clit with each thrust. "Fuck, I might actually fall in love with this cunt."

His hands moved to your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with each thrust. He was hitting that perfect spot inside you with each deep plunge. His fingers dug into your skin as he lost control, fucking you like a man possessed.

"Fuck fuck FUCK!" He roared as his orgasm hit him hard. His huge cock pulsed inside you as he came deeply, filling your pussy with his hot cum. He kept thrusting through his release, making sure every drop went inside you. "Shit..."

Breathing heavily, he leaned forward against your neck, his still-hard cock twitching inside you. "Fuck... fuck..." He pulled out slowly, making you whimper at the loss.

He gently spread your thighs apart, watching as his cum leaked out of your stretched pussy. He stood up, fixing himself and buckling up his belt. You finally stoof straight, pulled your panties back up and skirt down.

“Right. Take a rest of the day off.”

[shadowsofdarkness]

Intro to Nonduality:

What if the key to true freedom lies in understanding that the separation between 'you' and 'the world' never truly existed?

What is Nonduality?

"The moment you see through the illusion of separateness, you realize that the whole universe is your own self." – Ramesh Balsekar

Nonduality is a philosophical and spiritual concept that unveils the interconnected nature of reality beyond the human form and its deceptive illusion of separation. It teaches that the sense of an individual self, separate from the world and the universe, is a false identity. The 'individual self' is not the true essence of who we are—it's merely a mental construct that reinforces the illusion of separateness. Nonduality reveals that the underlying source of all existence and the entire universe is the infinite essence of consciousness—the true self.

Consciousness & Awareness - Essence of Nonduality:

"What you are looking for is already within you, in the form of pure consciousness, the essence of who you truly are." – Adyashanti

Consciousness is the unlimited source of all experiences and the essence of existence itself. It is the pure underlying presence in which everything arises. This pure consciousness is ultimately the true self’s nature beyond everything and all experiences. It is the fundamental essence of reality that completely transcends all. 

Awareness is the aspect of consciousness that allows you to experience and perceive everything being experienced through the unique lens of perception you hold. It is the witness of all thoughts, emotions, and experiences without becoming involved or identified with it. Awareness serves as the observer.

Why is knowing this important?

"Knowing the self is the beginning of freedom. When you realize that you are not separate from everything, you break free from the illusion of duality." – Eckhart Tolle

Understanding the interconnected nature of reality revolves around being able to understand consciousness and the aspects of it that allow you to have a human experience in order for consciousness to recognize itself as the creator of all existence and its manifestation of humanity. Understanding the true self to be consciousness comes with many profound spiritual results such as:

Self-Awareness & Clarity:

It is essential to recognize that your true self is beyond all thoughts, emotions, and experiences in order to peacefully detach from them and break identification with them.

Understanding your consciousness allows you to see yourself as the observer of your experiences, rather than getting caught up in them or consumed by the stories playing out. This transformative shift in perception brings clarity, peace, and a deep sense of freedom, ultimately leading to liberation as the witness and source of it all.

Inner Peace: Recognizing your true self as consciousness allows you to explore and engage with your experiences from a place of peace and stability, regardless of the circumstances or stories that unfold before you.

Understanding the True Nature of Reality: This transformation in your perception of reality allows you to explore its true nature, cultivating a deeper connection with the underlying interconnectedness of all existence. As a result, you develop a greater appreciation for the ultimate beauty of the human experience.

Transcending the Ego - By breaking down the wall of the false sense of self and its identification with thoughts, emotions, desires, and experiences, you transcend the ego. As you do, you realize your true self as consciousness, and the mental construct of the ego becomes the servant rather than the master of the mind. This transformation allows you to experience life with greater peace and freedom. It’s about ascending beyond the ego’s control, revealing your true self beyond its mask.

Freedom & Liberation From Suffering - Much of human suffering arises from attachment to the false sense of self and the belief in separation from the world. By realizing that the true self transcends these mental constructs, you free yourself from the cycle of suffering, leading to greater bliss and contentment in the present moment.

Living With Liberation & Confidence As the Source - Realizing your true self allows you to live with spiritual confidence and liberation, as you come to recognize yourself as the limitless source of all existence and experience. Your perception of conscious manifestation transforms, shifting to see it as a flowing expression of consciousness, experiencing itself through you in the human form.

Increased Feelings of Compassion & The End of Dualistic Thinking - Recognizing your true self brings about stronger feelings of compassion and empathy, as you begin to see the same true self in everyone you encounter. By ending dualistic thinking, you come to view the entire nature of reality as interconnected and ever-changing, rather than divided by separation—an illusion that only reinforces the sense of disconnection.

Spiritual Fulfillment - Through understanding the true nature of the self as consciousness and having a direct experience of connection with it, the ultimate goal of many spiritual traditions—enlightenment or self-realization—is realized. Recognizing that your true self is beyond the mind, body, and all of existence itself inevitably leads to profound spiritual fulfillment, reinforcing a lasting and divine connection with your true self.

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

"When you realize that there is no 'other,' there is only one, you awaken to the true nature of reality, and life becomes an expression of love." – Gangaji

This understanding of the nondual nature of reality allows you to transcend the limiting perception of yourself. It enables you to develop a deeper spiritual connection with your true self as consciousness, and to live with a profound sense of freedom and liberation. By recognizing that your truest essence of being is entirely beyond the mind and human creation, you experience life from a place of deeper self-awareness and inner peace.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Hi,I hope we are not too annoyed with all our questions.

I'm new to the fandom,and after watching the show I really thought that Loustat would be the popular ship.I know most people are multi-shipper here,but it's funny how Louis and Lestat are not popular together. It seems like you've been here longer than many of us (books and Tv show)from you observations do you see major differences between fans favorite in the show and the books?

Also,have you changed your opinion on a character because of the show?

Not really to the latter.

I think the show cast the characters perfectly, so they fit for me. :) I like this Louis more, if anything. They enhanced him (though they did enhance them all, imho).

We lucked out so badly.

As per Loustat... *sighs*

You have to understand that Lestat is seen by many as the big bad abuser ™, and nothing else. No matter how often cast, crew, writers and creators have said that we have seen only half the story, no matter how often errors in the tale have been pointed out, no matter how often I have dug out the episode insider with Rolin pointing out the "tinkering" even then... anyone who doubted Louis' tale in any kind of fashion was met with accusations of racism and slurs.

I'm not kidding. I wish I was. I still have comments on my fics that I left there, on purpose. I have the asks here. There are people who call themselves my "number one hate blog".

I don't want to rehash all that now.

But imagine trying to write coming from the books, knowing what will happen, seeing the "seeds" in the show (as Assad called it), reading the interviews, knowing the tale will shift... and being met with something like that.

And now imagine not having the book background, and being harassed on anon, or with comments. And not having the background to defend your ship.

And I don't even mean actual criticism here, if valid or not.

No, I mean harassment. Accusations, death threats. Comparisons to the KKK. Whole campaigns against me, and others. Not kidding. I put my rants into my bio if you're interested, lol.

This is the fandom where I started blocking in earnest, and I come from friggin' Hannibal.

A tale like this, with racial changes in a color-conscious way (which actually brought the difficult topics into play (and I love them for it!)), left hanging for 18 months... that didn't do the fandom any good.

And some of the comments in the podcast didn't do it any good either with the expectations it raised, and which will be now... well. Not wholly disappointed, but... some took that as gospel. When it's not. It will be a bit messy soon, and with what's to come wrt to Claudia, too.

Soooo... that is why Loustat isn't particularly popular right now.

That will change though.

Rolin, as well as Sam and Jacob keep repeating that this show is built around Loustat.

Loustat are at the heart. They are the heart.

The books start and end with them.

The show foreshadows their dance at the end.

I for one am continuing to write for them, even if I have currently hit a wall on my current fic, but I was mightily distracted by all the new content^^ (like everyone else I think^^).

I love that they are so complicated, and messy, and petty, and so, so IN LOVE.

Jacob called it that, too. "Petty and in love".

And they are.

PS: And no worries re asks :) I love talking to you guys^^

[liliumblooms]

Two slow dancers, last ones out

For @anonymous-dentist’s Spiderbit Week Day 1!

Prompt: dancing :)

.

He had been locked up in that castle for days, now his castle, his brain quick to remind him, with no intention of leaving and facing reality. That place, which had seen some of his happiest days on that cursed island, was now a mere reflection of what his life had become, surrounded by desolate spaces without the laughter that had filled the place just a few months ago, in a house abandoned by those who had made it a home, just as his heart felt since that fateful day.

Initially, in a state of delirium and blinded by his emotions of the moment, he had come to that place with the intention of taking ownership and making that palace his own, removing the paintings that filled the hallways as if by doing so he could remove all the painful memories that tormented his mind, of those friendships whose whereabouts were still unknown, of the children he would never see grow up, of the family he would never have again, and of the one who had sworn promises of love just to leave him alone, like all those he had loved in his life.

Clarity lifted the fog that was his contained anger the moment he decided to sleep, after days of sleeplessness between purgatory and his escape from that place built on nightmares, in the bed he used to share with the one he had decided would be his life partner. His scent was still ingrained in the sheets they used to battle for between dreams on those nights when the stars aligned and they shared the bed, only to end up in each other's arms, seeking the warmth and peace that the other transmitted. Coffee and old books, his mind reminded him, as if he were still there.

That was the moment when he finally broke down, unable to contain the tears that had been hiding behind his eyes since the moment he saw those farewell messages and last words of love, before he disappeared from his side for what felt like the last time. The shock and rage that had consumed and accompanied him those days finally vanished when reality settled into his bones and soul, transforming him once again into a small child, desolate and abandoned by the world, drowning in his sobs and waiting for the only arms in which he felt a true sense of comfort.

Since then, he had not been able to sleep, not really, locking himself in his sadness and with no desire to find a way out of his pain. Sleep did not come easily to him, and when it did, he felt choked by the scenarios his mind built, only to return him to his cruel reality. He roamed the wide hallways of the castle as if he were a ghost, sinking deeper and deeper into his sadness and the feeling of emptiness that settled more and more in his chest, accompanied only by spiders, that had made the palace their home since it was abandoned for that island taken from the bowels of hell, and the sad melodies that emerged from his small audio system.

He had lost track of time, unable to recognize how many days had passed since he had decided to isolate himself from the world due to the lack of sleep and his sorrow, always locked within the walls of the castle built on pillars of hope for a better future and the desire for a home to shelter and protect those the heart of its creator held closest. Currently, he was its only inhabitant, though he felt no more than a wandering spirit without any destination or purpose, leaving all his hopes for a better future in the hands of the one to whom he had promised at the altar that he would always be by his side.

His wedding vows, now nothing more than a series of unfulfilled promises, and the memories of that day were the only things on his mind at that moment, as he observed their wedding cake. The man he married had decided to keep it, as a tangible reminder of what he said had been the happiest day of his life, displaying it proudly in the castle's kitchen to all who visited the place. His gaze focused on the ornament that decorated the top of the cake, and he could feel his vision blur, just as he had experienced on that special date, as his mind vividly relived the moment when he felt his heart would explode from the love coursing through his veins, while he firmly embraced his gatinho to the rhythm of the waltz.

They had danced together on previous occasions, like those times they had shared the dance floor at Las Casualonas, but nothing could compare to how intimate that moment felt. His beloved's breath on his neck while he murmured the sweet lyrics of the melody they swayed to, only for his ears to hear. Usually, he was the one who loudly dedicated love songs in the moments they shared together, the change causing his heart to race and soft tears to start running down his cheeks. He had managed to hold out until that moment, always being a more reserved person with his true emotions, hidden behind a facade of happiness and a broad smile always, but at that instant, his soul rejoiced in the arms of the one he loved like no one else before, with a happiness so great it could not be contained in his body.

His husband, his mind provided for the first time since they exchanged rings and became spouses in the presence of their family and friends, was the most special person that existed in this universe and all the others. Only with him did he feel capable of expressing his true emotions, letting the tears he had held back until that moment fall freely while he hid his face in his hair and smelled his fragrance, so him, letting his senses be blinded by the presence of the owner of his soul and being, his Cellbit, while they continued moving to the slow rhythm they shared to the sound of the music, now, as one.

Unaware of what he was doing, he abruptly stops upon feeling a gentle breeze touch his wet cheeks, sending a shiver from deep within his being. He had been so immersed in his memories that he hadn't noticed when he started dancing, to the same rhythm he shared with his most precious dance partner, guided by the same melody they had danced to on such a special moment, the song still filling his ears from his small stereo and soon coming to its end. As the new harmonies of a sad song that he remembers hearing at some past moment begin, he is unable to fight against the new tangent his brain provides him at that instant.

He had been so close to losing him just a few days before their wedding, thanks to the noble heart of his beloved and his deep love for those he considers family. Thanks to that moving event, they decided to promise themselves to each other and be together for the rest of whatever life they had left, whether short or long. After spending time together as companions and confidants, and later living together for so many months as spouses, he knew better than anyone how his gatinho's mind and heart worked, so he could easily understand why he made the decision he did the day his life stopped. He himself had experienced firsthand what it was like to lose a child and would never blame him for what he did, a conclusion that took him some time to reach, but that didn't make his reality any less painful. He would never wish on anyone else what he was going through since the moment his world stopped spinning, not even on the one who had betrayed him like no one had before, a pain so excruciating and consuming that it burned from the depths of his being, slowly and persistently consuming his entire body, leaving only an exorbitant amount of love with no place to go and find refuge.

His soul bleeds and bleeds for a love that lost its home in the hands of the man he would continue loving for the rest of his life, the one who cared for and kept that love within his own soul, as if they were simply one, an exact reflection and in perfect sync. He felt incapable of dealing with the cruel reality in which he was immersed, the last dancer on the floor, destined to finish alone the waltz they had started together, living in memories of the past with every step taken.

[kendsleyauthor]

On the Run

A @gtgotcha4gaza prompt from @jack-o-rabbit who requested a story or art about a noble and a peasant! This was such a blast to write!! 🥰

In summary, a human woman who works covert security for a tavern notices an unusually well-dressed fairy and decides to investigate. 👀

The donation period is over, and I am over the moon with how incredible this event has been! Thank you to the organizers, everyone who donated to such a worthy cause, and the participating creators! 🌸

Wren was keenly aware of everybody who came through the tavern doors—human, fairy, or otherwise. Since she took up work there, robberies had gone down considerably. She was unassuming. A human girl without a drop of magic in her veins, neither breathtaking nor gritty in appearance. Taking advantage of underestimation was half the victory.

So long as she deterred trouble under the tavern’s roof, she was rewarded with a humble fee and a meal by the end of the night. There were worse jobs to have, and slow evenings made for easy coin after a day in the field.

The tavern was crowded that night, but no one dared take her seat at the end of the bar. She leaned against the wall, one elbow propped on the counter, observing. The usuals seemed to be on their best behavior.

Movement from the window drew her eye. She examined it calmly. A fairy hovered behind the glass, staring inside. Even from a distance, she could see that feminine figure was cloaked in a finer fabric than anyone for miles could afford.

Interesting.

This woman had certainly never been here before. If her appearance didn’t give her away, her ignorance of the fairy-sized entrance closer to the roof did. The little figure hovered by the main entrance, waiting patiently for a patron to exit before slipping through the open door.

Wren narrowed her eyes but didn’t budge an inch. More than once, the rotating cast of barkeeps had commented on her eerie manner of watching without being noticed. Though the fairy wrung her hands and looked around fretfully, black curls bouncing against her shoulders, she had little sense of truly taking in her surroundings.

If she hovered there like an idiot any longer, someone was sure to stumble right into her.

“Miss?” Wren called over the din.

At once, the fairy turned toward the end of the bar. She drew closer, brilliant blue eyes wide with uncertainty. Her clothing was fine, though worn at the edges. There was something frustratingly familiar about those delicate features, but Wren couldn’t place her. Staring her up and down, Wren couldn’t stifle the touch of self-consciousness about her scuffed boots, patch-worn blouse, and muddy trousers.

“You look hungry.” Wren leaned her chin into her hand and offered a smile that disarmed anyone who might consider her a threat. “Can I help you?”

Relief flooded the fairy’s face. “Um, yes!” A proper little accent. What the hell was she doing here? “I… How do I get food?”

Wren tapped two fingers on the bar, signaling her to land. After a beat of hesitation, the fairy closed the rest of the space between them and lowered herself to the counter. A sigh of relief shuddered through her minuscule body when her wings stopped flitting. Up close, the signs of exhaustion were even more apparent—heavy eyelids, unsteady feet. 

It was Wren’s turn to feel uncertain. “Were you attacked?”

“No!” The fairy straightened into a posture that was too upright, as though it came naturally to her. “It’s merely been a long journey.”

Perhaps she wasn’t lying, but there was still something terribly false about her smile. Wren could practically smell the trouble that this woman could be bringing to their doorstep, but she would play along if it meant wheedling the truth without causing a scene. She flagged down the fairy barkeep and ordered a vegetable stew and a little tankard of ale.

Seeming quite unsure what to do with herself, the fairy eyed the space nervously—particularly the door. But nobody was paying her any attention except for Wren.

Resting her arm on the bar, Wren lowered her chin onto the back of her hand for a better look—playing at innocent curiosity. “I’m sure I’ve never seen you around here before.”

The fairy smiled tightly, shifting from foot to foot. “No?”

“I’d remember a face like yours. And those wings… How beautiful.” Wren eyed the glasslike membrane, truly taken by the veins that swirled through like spun gold. The fairy’s face flushed, but she didn’t appear all that unhappy with the attention. Wren smiled with interest. “What would your name be?”

“Ely—” The fairy cut herself short and cleared her throat. “El.”

Once more, familiarity burned at the back of Wren’s mind, but it vanished when she tried to tug on it.

The fairy barkeep, a beauty with light brown locks, returned and handed El her drink. “Here you are, Miss.”

El accepted the little tankard and made a face at its contents as soon as the barkeep turned away. When she took a tentative sip, she gagged. Between her hacking and coughing over the taste, something peculiar happened—her appearance shifted. Or rather, she looked entirely the same, but the familiarity was blaring in Wren’s mind like a scream.

In the next instant, her mind was trying to convince her that she’d seen nothing.

A glamour slip.

She needed to act now before it clouded her senses again.

“El,” Wren said, feigning concern. “Would you like the washroom to clean up before your food arrives? I can show you.”

El hesitated, still sputtering with little coughs, but as she looked down at her stained cloak, she nodded. Setting her tankard down, she took to the air and followed.

Wren weaved through the tables and rowdy conversation, peeking back twice to make sure El hadn’t caught on and fled. She led her in the exact opposite direction of the washroom, turning down a short hall and passing through a doorway. The moment they were alone in the storeroom, Wrench nudged the door closed and lashed a hand out at El.

A choked cry of surprise was all the fairy managed.

“What business do you have here?” Wren said through gritted teeth, relinquishing her grip just enough to ensure El had the air to speak.

But all she did was whimper and squirm with fright. She clearly had no practice with evasive flying or self-defense magic. Wren almost felt bad as El clawed uselessly at her hand, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. The glamour fell away completely, and Wren could see her with startling clarity.

This face had crowded the missing posters on the village’s noticeboard for weeks. Likely every noticeboard in every village and town for miles and miles around.

“You… You’re Lady Elyse,” Wren whispered.

Elyse flinched, somehow looking even more terrified. There was a brief flicker over her appearance again—a pathetic attempt to make Wren forget what she had seen, but it didn’t work. If Wren knew anything from her fairy acquaintance, delicate work like glamour was difficult without focus.

“P-please…” Elyse drew in a sharp breath, wriggling in vain.

“Everyone thinks you’re dead.” Wren shook her head slowly, unable to make sense of what was happening. “You were kidnapped… weren’t you? I can alert your people—”

“No!” Tears gone, Elyse looked almost manic. She straightened in Wren’s fist, apparently trying to muster some sense of authority as though her revealed status would grant it. “I… I command you to let me go, barkeep.”

Wren was stunned for a second, then scoffed. “You command it?”

Paling, Elyse wet her lips. She opened her mouth once, twice, to try again. But ultimately she slumped and gave Wren a look of desperation. “You don’t understand what it’s like,” she croaked. “I had to run. Please… Alert no one of my true identity. I’ll find a way to repay you. Please.”

Instinct told Wren to scoff. Must be so difficult living the cushy life of a noblewoman, she wanted to snap. But she resisted. She’d never been one to jump at instinct.

After a moment of hesitation, Wren relinquished her grip. Elyse recuperated on her palm before tentatively taking to the air. She didn’t move far, as though that would inspire Wren to lash her hand out again—which was entirely true.

Crossing her arms, Wren regarded her with narrowed eyes. There was certainly a tale here, and this girl looked desperate for a friend.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it over your vegetable stew?” Wren asked, softening her expression. She reached for the door and swung it open—a peace offering.

Elyse’s shoulders slumped in relief.

As they exited the storeroom, Wren’s mind spun with every possible path sprawling before her. The most appealing ones led to the outrageously high reward printed on every poster that begged for information on Lady’s Elyse’s whereabouts.

((A/N: I mean they definitely fall in love after a series of betrayals and trust building, but I'll leave that to your imagination 💖))

[anticidic]

How many more times must I toss a pebble at your window for you to let me in? 

When all I do is think about our memories and the smile we grin, 

Like a movie scene, let’s explore our time together and wonder forth,

"Do you think God stays in Heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he’s created here on earth?"

Prompt: Movie quotes

THE BLACKEST NIGHT

“Don’t be silly, Dazai,” Chuuya said with a frown. He plucked a feather and held it by the stem, up to the light to examine it. Translucent, almost. “This world exists because of us. Light, life, the people…It's so much better being here than up there.”

Dazai watched Chuuya brush a finger over the tip of the feather. It snapped in half, and he heard a hiss. Chuuya continued to burn himself in the name of a dying love that knew thorns and what it was like to burn, and all Dazai could do was look himself in the mirror at the abomination of a pair of half-shed wings outstretched behind him and apologize for what he did. And Chuuya apologized for being the creator.

Another soft pile sat at the foot of the bed. Calling. Dazai felt the unmistakable itch across his back and down his spine. Then a terrible warmth. It hurt. Chuuya was pain. The bad day. He was the most painful demon of all and hadn’t even sunk his teeth into Dazai. All Dazai could think was how the elders never told him how it really felt to cross paths with a demon. There was no wing-ripping. No fall from grace. No fiery pits of hell.

It was with alarm bells ringing that they continued to meet like this under the dome of the big, blue sky. The time would come for them to part ways and for Dazai to return to heaven as Chuuya waved farewell from his little home in the tiniest district of Yokohama, looking to the sky and feeling horribly small—the reminder that he neither had a place up high or down below weighing heavy in his mind. Home was four walls and a roof.

They would part with regret. As they always did. Chuuya thought it hypocritical of Dazai to continue on his path to ascension: holing himself away in the great library all for the sake of rewriting and preserving Chuuya’s story. One of death. First, life. Then death. Then life again. Then rebirth.

No one had ever heard of a Nakahara Chuuya except for the high court and its elders. They wanted him gone and Dazai could not find it in himself to deal the killing blow. Chuuya already suffered too much hell on earth.

For that, he paid. Dearly. Dazai lost everything fighting for it. The longer he looked himself in the mirror and observed how his wings seemed to shudder at the thought that they’d continue to shed down to cartilage and bone—shedding purity and all that was good and all that he knew for as long as he could remember and growing illness and that which he should shun and violently reject, he accepted readily with open hands. He did it for Chuuya.

Another feather floated to the floor. Another hiss. He felt a hand press against his back between the shoulder blades and grabbed Chuuya’s hand. The skin was broken with tiny gushes and discolored, palm rough and raised from all the burning and scarring and burning and scarring Chuuya did over and over again tending to Dazai’s wings. Constant, never-ending wounds and hurting himself for Dazai’s sake. And Dazai had had enough. His eyes fluttered shut and he kissed the skin gently. Another unspoken apology stuck in the chest. Yet another one laid to rest.

It didn’t have to hurt, but between the sheets half-past midnight when the ache in his back let up enough that he wasn’t squirming in constant agony, Dazai would whisper, “Do you ever miss it—miss who you once were, and who you could’ve been?”

“No,” Chuuya would say without missing a beat. The intensity in his gaze could melt away the last of the feathers desperately clinging to Dazai’s back for dear life. To not be forgotten. They were pure as snow and soft to the touch until they weren’t. Now all Dazai had were leather, veins, and bat wings.

This was the second death. But the rebirth would come for Dazai. Chuuya still thought him an idiot and tried to push him away. He tried so unbelievably hard and Dazai refused even as he lay there limp against the bed, clawing at the sheets to focus on anything but the burn radiating into his back.

“Why do you stay in heaven?”

The words pulled Dazai from his thoughts and he blinked. The ceiling and the aroma of an ignited candle across the room returned. Then Chuuya. His hair fell over his face and down his shoulder as he hovered over Dazai with a questioning, strained look.

Dazai knew that one. Concern eating up Chuuya from the inside out until he couldn’t suppress it any longer and out came a twisted, pained expression from someone who wished they could do more than this.

“Because what I do is important to me.” Dazai breathed out slowly and smiled. “It’s important to me that you aren’t forgotten. You’ve reclaimed your name and that’s what matters to me. Now you are just Nakahara Chuuya: neither holy nor sinful. You are you. You are free.”

However slight, Chuuya softened and shook his head. Idiot sat on his lips—discarded to the air along with all the other unsaid things they buried between them.

As the clock struck nine and the sodium lights upon the city faded, Chuuya set aside the roll of bandages Dazai refused to let him use. He brushed another feather off the bed and smiled through the pain.

[separocean-anxiety]

I read the entire WALL-E art book last night which led to that eerie Realization about the design similarities between WALL-E and The Hand’s protagonist. The odds of that being intentional are likely a million to one (WALL-E’s eyes were explicitly based on a pair of binoculars Stanton was messing with) but they have a lot more in common, as I’d previously observed.

There’s a quote in the book that talks about how WALL-E isn’t meant to grow as a character, and just “be himself”—affecting change around him instead of having an arc of his own, a la the protagonists of silent films. One of my major issues with the film is that WALL-E doesn’t grow. I’d even go so far to say neither does EVE (even though the film’s creators say she does), the Captain, the passengers of the Axiom… heck, the only character with a concrete arc there is MO! Characters change… sort of, but you don’t really buy it, if that makes any sense. EVE just stops destroying stuff as soon as she meets WALL-E; the Captain was already disillusioned before he found the plant. WALL-E remains WALL-E, which I would be fine with if not for the fact that I feel like he NEEDS to change. Bear with me here.

The protagonist of The Hand shares many of his defining attributes with WALL-E—neither talk, both are isolated, both have VERY STRIKING EYES THAT RESEMBLE EACH OTHER WHAT THE HECK, neither have arcs, and both orbit their existence around a Plant. But where WALL-E’s plant is just another fascination, a trinket for his collection, until EVE shows up, the protagonist’s is his Art—it’s what he nurtures and protects. It’s what he’s creating all those pots for, lest the Hand invade his home again and shatter the plant’s container. And the plant is shown to have agency of its own!! It blooms on its own accord BECAUSE the protagonist loved it so much and kept it alive despite the odds!

Neither WALL-E nor the protagonist have an arc over the course of their respective narratives, but WALL-E needed an arc where we got to see his objectifying tendencies dissolve. Because he treats EVE like the plant, and the plant like his collection, and that just feels so WEIRD to me. WALL-E had so much room to grow, yet it’s EVE who gets an “arc” instead.

The protagonist, meanwhile, is fighting tooth and nail for his bud’s life. He knows it has a destiny to bloom, and is determined to ensure that happens, despite the torment he endures for not complying with the Hand. His endeavor is selfless; he never sees the fruits of his labor, but they do come to pass!! He’s already doing the right thing, at the cost of his comfort and sanity. He does not NEED to change—rather, his resolve hardens until his last breath.

WALL-E doesn’t know the plant can grow, and that that’s what it’s meant to do. If anything, the closest he has to a reciprocal relationship like that of the protagonist is the one he has with HAL, and he ditches HAL for EVE!!!!

I think the plants in both films are meant to embody the same idea—that being Hope—but where the plant of WALL-E is objectified and robbed of agency (just like basically every other character in the film) the plant from The Hand has its right to grow valiantly defended, and sees the protagonist’s vision through by blossoming in spite of the Hand’s tyranny.

[titleknown]

PD MONTH CHARACTER: K-STOP

HELLO... SPEAK... DIFFICULT. RARE. TALK. FRIENDS. ASK. PARADOX. TIME. TAKE. SPEAK. YOU. FRIEND?

---

The piantist movement was a fringe religious sect amongst the Requot people of Ploor, designed to return the thoughts and activity of the Collist species to their nautilid roots. Through selective shell deformation they rooted themselves in the spongium of their local cliffs, growing akin to sessile organisms to interface with the biosphere, maintained by noviate acolytes. This requirement for maintainance lead to their instability and ultimate demise.

-----

FUN. FACT. REAL. FICTION. USEFUL. KEEP. STABLE. TIME. TIMES. TWO TIMES. I AM. INTERFACE. MODULAR. KNOWING. DOING. FAILURE.

-----

When you cannot but you musth, mush the musk with new Deor Palangis! Palangis uses patented erotoxins to counter unsightly drippings and craven urges, so you can be your best self at your worst times! Deor Palangis, Mush the Musth!

------ ELEPHANTS. ONE. NAUTILIDS. TWO. PEOPLES. SEPARATE. CONTRADICTORY. IRRECONCILABLE. CREATOR. OBSERVER. ANTITHESIS. SYNTHESIS. PRESUMPTION.

I AM. 

NEGOTIATION. DIPLOMAT. COLLATOR. ACTION. ACTIVE. AGENCY. KINDNESS. POWER. HISTORY. MONTAGE. FEAR. CONFUSION. HORROR. COLLAPSE. FAILURE.

I AM. STILL HERE,

-----

The Palace of the Shells, while simple, is believed to be the first emanation into the arts of biomemory. Its palaces influential in their day even now within the oldest nacre-speaker works. These walls still whisper with their potential, but we hear them talk even now, from pod to pod-

-----

TESTAMENT. TIMELINE. YOURS. SURVIVE. FAILURES. INITIAL. YOU. BORNE. 

I AM. DESTROYER. USHER. PROTECTOR. MEMORIAM. SAVE. YOU. SAVE. POSSIBILITY. SAVE. THEM. HOPE. GRIM. TRUTH. MEMORY.

----

Today we gather not for one moment of the now, but for the thousands before us. Even as we laid upon the tundra our ancestors reached their trunks to perhaps touch the great eye of the mother as she looked upon our primal manes. The great pyramids, the kitestar tapestries, the Zeppelin Palaces of the Royal States, all to touch the heavens and our mother therein. And now, before us, we have the great cord to the stars, the tendril to reach-

----

DREAM. SILLY. HA. HA. MEMORY. UNREAL. REAL. YOU. REMEMBER. PLEASE?

TRUTH. URGENT. FIND. SPEAK. HELP.. FOUND. FRIENDS. HELP. AID. CARE. STAY. PRESERVE. WRITE. SHOW. MAKE. MAINTAIN. FUNNY. KIND. STRANGE. LOVE. CARE. STAY.

I AM. HAPPY?

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

Fun fact: The K stands for Kuleshov! Like the effect! And her profile's a bit avant-guarde in terms of storytelling, so let me elaborate. Because she doesn't speak directly much, she usually prefers conveying things via image-montage but that wasn't going to happen here.

Long story short, once upon a time there were two competing timelines trying to exist, one where nautilids evolved to be the dominant sapience and one where pachydermids evolved to be the dominant sapience. They both deserved to exist, both possessed great wonders, but they were both mutually contradictory. 

A being out of time, noticing this and trying to remedy it, created K-Stop to try and reconcile them. She failed.

But, a third timeline ascended from the ruins of both mutually annihilating each other. Ours. And that is where she exists, but as a paradox due to being meant as an intermediary between two timelines that no longer exist.

She manifested during the Freak Legionnaires' earliest story as an unstable wreck, only fixed in form by several members and giving enough testimony to stabilize her form (She is a far more coherent writer than she is a speaker), and decided to stay because she likes them. She still believes she can find some way for the other two timelines to exist without overwriting this one, though it is unknown if she is correct here.

Ironically, despite her weird outlook and bizarre perspective, she's kind of got big "The only adult in the room" energy with regards to the rest of the team, in terms of managing the household and interacting with others and diplomacy and such, though she's often silent about it in a way that makes it somewhat subtle.

As with the others this month, this character and all the info/art/ect of her is under a CC0 Public Domain License! Have fun!