#there had to be some form of contrast

[purseoner12345]

there's something wrong with my copy of persona 5 tactica because. who is this diva

[uchiha-gaeshi]

There were more Uchiha Sharingan users in the Warring States Era, BUT they still took up a minority of the clan. At most, 30-40% of clan members had it, and the rest just didn't have that dawg in them.

The Mangekyo was even rarer. I have a headcanon that while it wasn't uncommon to awaken it, that usually happened like 10 minutes before an inevitable death, sort of as a last resort defense measure. So like, there weren't a lot of Uchiha walking around with the Mangekyo (in fact people *alive* with it only popped up once every few generations), but a lot of recovered corpses would have tears of blood running on their face.

[dazzelmethat]

I drew these originally to be Amelia O'Brien from 'tales from the gas station' but I wound up liking the design I came up with a lot. She came out really cute. So maybe I'll change her to be an oc instead of a headcannon for a book. I'll be tagging her as Amelia too just in case.

[mariocki]

"We should stop thinking in terms of 'compensatory education' but consider, instead, most seriously and systematically the conditions and contexts of the educational environment.

The very form our research takes tends to confirm the beliefs underlying the organization, transmission and evaluation of knowledge by the school. Research proceeds by assessing the criteria of attainment that schools hold, and then measures the competence of different social groups in reaching these criteria. We take one group of children, whom we know beforehand possess attributes favourable to school achievement; and a second group of children, whom we know beforehand lack these attributes. Then we evaluate one group in terms of what it lacks when compared with another. In this way research unwittingly underscores the notion of deficit and confirms the status quo of a given organization, transmission and, in particular, evaluation of knowledge. Research very rarely challenges or exposes the social assumptions underlying what counts as valid knowledge, or what counts as a valid realization of that knowledge."

- Basil Bernstein, Education Cannot Compensate for Society, in Education for Democracy (2nd ed., 1972)

[shivasdarknight]

Hi, sorry for this but you are a writer, so umm.. I was hoping you could give me some tips/advice on how to write?

tbh the way I got into writing is a bit insane, but I do have some advice that can help. gonna put it under a cut just because it got kinda long

honest to god, one of the best pieces of advice is something you're already doing because reading can genuinely help you with becoming a better writer. stepping outside of your usual genres or authors can help expand your viewpoint and introduce you to more narrative styles so you can play around and see what works for you. eg. if you mostly read first person, give second person a shot. or if you're an omniscient third person, try limited third person. or even retrospective first person, because i often see people complain about first person pov when it's married with a present tense story. if you have a first person narrator talking about events in the past as if talking to you, or a journal it often takes an entirely different angle and it's something I've played with in Homestuck fics because that fandom tends to be more open to narrative experimentation. Writing is honestly a lot of looking at stuff you like (much like art) and smooshing it all together. Personally, I've gotten a lot of my writing style from stuff like The Locked Tomb, admittedly Lovecraft was foundational (but this is a great example of why to always remain critical considering his bullshit), so was Homestuck and Rick Riordan's stuff. I'm never trying to copy them wholesale, but I am looking at aspects I like - such as Riordan's humor intertwining with the narrative and narration, or the deeply unreliable narrators that Muir writes, or even how Homestuck balances purple prose with gut wrenching conciseness when it counts. A lot of modern day fast food fiction takes out a lot of the stuff that actually builds a story - pacing, playing with narration and technical writing - so you need to be conscious of what you're looking for in things. Often more established authors get to do weirder stuff than new authors, but don't discredit new ones because that would be leaving out folks like Xiran Jay Zhao and their phenomenal prose.

Another thing that helps greatly is reading writing critique. Video essays on books or even more critical thought pieces on writing, tropes, etc. can help you learn more about why something works. Lots of different channels on YouTube dedicated to dissecting media, absolutely recommend stuff like Hello Future Me, Overly Sarcastic Productions (real world ties + mythology, great basis to build things on), Zoe Bee (writer + commentary), Nerdwriter1 (media analysis + commentary), Just Write, and Tale Foundry. For adjacent suggestions that can help build up alternate perspectives that aren't directly about writing but are about critical thinking with stories (which is frankly an important skill to have), I definitely recommend Princess Weekes, Accented Cinema, Now You See It, Dominic Noble, The Storyteller, and Pop Culture Detective. A lot of this is discussing film (save Dominic Noble, who also talks about books a Lot), but the core essence of storytelling is helpful regardless of what angle it comes in - be it video game, movie, tv, or book reviews and analyses.

Actual writing. Varies on the person on if they do outlines or not and how, but I still recommend trying to do an outline when you're first starting out. One habit to immediately knock yourself out of is writing things chronologically. If you're working on a big piece and have more energy to write something in the middle? Put that in a new doc and leave a placeholder for where you're at. Legitimately, getting words on the paper is more important than those words being good. Because you can always come back and edit things to make sense.

Always edit what you write. I hate the "no beta we die like real men" attitude because people will dunk on editing but then praise stories for having "firm and satisfying" connections which can only really be built through editing. Your first draft is your rough idea. Your second one is when you read through and have it make sense. Three is making that make sense, and maybe 4 is more just grammar and spelling errors. Edit as many times necessary to make sure you like it.

Always work in broad strokes, then move in finer like with anything. Do a general idea for a story, then your main story beats, then how you connect them together, and then the nitty gritty of each. Keep lots of notes - do not rely on your head solely for everything - and just also be willing to let things go if they change.

What I tend to do when I write is I want a good flow. I often get that from reading my writing out loud to hear how it sounds, but I'm looking for a good beat to read along. Because even if the sentence is grammatically correct and structurally sound, it may not be very interesting to read. Like you could say someone feigned a polite expression to not let the other person know that they didn't feel comfortable with a topic, or you could go the angle I went with recently of "she painted herself an interested expression to wear as dread began to gnaw at her gut." Sometimes the more colorful or out there the language is, the better it sounds when you read it. Like instead of saying "that's just how things go for them" you could say, "but Fate had a funny way of making her disdain known for (X character)". And this is where reading other peoples' work comes in real handy because you can get a lot of examples of how people write things.

I also try and reflect themes of the story into the writing itself, like this section of a draft:

Still nothing.  Seemed he wasn’t going to bother with a glass, instead just ripping the top off of some bottle of gin and tipping it back with little regard for himself. Still that chronometer ticked on; still that taught tension like another arrow had been drawn.  A million and more things flooded Ysayle’s mind, itching to loose them at Estinien, yet found herself stuck in indecision as she stared daggers into him - ever her opposite as he just seemed despondent.  The gin bottle hit the extended shelf loudly; one hand a fist around the bottle, the other balled up on the surface - knuckles as white as bone. Still, Estinien said naught. Still, the chronometer ticked on. Still, Ysayle’s heart roared in her ears - poisonous words damming up her throat.

The theme of this story is avoiding the mistakes of the past. How things often can wind up cyclical, and the goal is to break from those cycles and repeats. So naturally, several points of the narration itself repeat itself. This isn't standard writing style, but it gets that point across by repeating "Still" as the scene crawls on. I also use a lot of alliteration in my writing because I personally find it fun? So "a maddening matter made most malign", for example.

It also helps to change up how you write or what descriptors you use based on the character whose head you're in, even if it's third person. Third person can have a voice and I often use it to speak aloud a character's thoughts instead of relying on italicized dialogue-thoughts. It makes the dialogue-thoughts appearing hit more when they do instead of just having to be subjected to internal ramblings constantly. Like in this fic I just published:

“...Can we talk about it on the morn?” “What for?” You don’t know what it is you ask of me. “Tired,” Estinien said with a shrug. “We’ve morning patrol, remember?”

Compared to this fic:

“Yes, confusingly.”  Her tone was flat as she leaned once again on Surkukteni’s shoulder, thankfully on the uninjured side.  “I fear I may have been wrong, though I truly doubt it.  To deny me twice, then throw a fit?  I wonder — why didn’t you go through with it?” Not even Surkukteni had that answer.  For the umpteenth time during that conversation, she refused to look at Her Darkness.  That desire — twisted and poisoned as it was — was one that still surfaced from time to time, yet like clockwork made her ill and was banished from her thoughts.  Why was that?  She felt scorned back then, wishing the universe would correct this error in sparing him but taking Ysayle — but was she not the one who helped save him?  Who helped tear those eyes from his armor?  She easily could — and had previously — bluffed that it was to destroy the eyes and be rid of the threat, but given her hesitancy now? Why?

All of Surkukteni's thoughts are condensed into the narration so that I can separate out her thought dialogue from idle musings since she - specifically - has a connection with something that can talk telepathically. This thing comments on the literal narration of the story, so when she's directly addressing this thing it's thought-dialogue. But her actual thoughts become narration to avoid spending too much time with that, as I find it's better used sparingly.

Motivation for writing is probably the hardest thing, and best I can advise is to get really into critiquing the stuff you like because you wind up finding a lot of material in fix-it stuff, or just wanting to see more of stuff like you. It's part of what drives my xiv stuff due to how they treat female characters, and I really just wanna see more sapphic bi4bi. So considering it's something I've been stuck in for a very long time now and really like the ambient lore and wish it would do better, it's fueling my desire to write. And from there, there are so many other angles to take - like building ocs, building lore. Finding a sandbox is genuinely one of the best ways to do it. Again, like. You'd be surprised at how much is there because of spite. LOTR has Eowyn because Tolkien didn't like that the "can be killed by no man" thing in Macbeth was resolved with a character born by c-section, so he instead wrote Eowyn, the woman who killed the Witch-King of Angmar. C.S. Lewis didn't like the fact that Tolkien believed that modern technology - or slightly less modern technology - didn't believe in fantasy and he explicitly cited lampposts. And this is why there's just a random light post in the middle of nowhere in the Narnia books.

Critique is good and healthy. I'm critical with the stuff I like and my own things so I can work on them and myself. It's fine to like something that you don't wholly agree with, especially if you're using it to inform how you build on it or build your own things. Like I dunno, I looked at Dante from Devil May Cry and went "what if he was trans" and now I've got Rhombi, a character who has stepped really far away from the OG Dante mould, but you can still see hints of it as I used what I wanted to see out of DMC to build this bisexual disaster of a guy. I was disappointed by Elsword not really committing to some of their character concepts, so I kinda just took Eve (and admittedly Add) and made them into Celes and Neilos and took them to their logical conclusions. All three of them were originally fantrolls at some point, so most of the heavy lifting was done when I was back in Homestuck and all I had to do was scrub the barcodes off of them to build them up in an original verse.

Chemistry is also crucial. If characters aren't vibing, move on. Do not force it. Good chemistry can save a bad story (eg. FFXV) and bad chemistry can ruin a good story. Often it's the characters that drive a story so you need to do a lot of plotting and planning. Most writing is honestly just planning before putting the words down.

And I'm very much so rambling by now but my main points are these (+ others I'm realizing while typing):

Plot a Lot and keep lots of notes, and also organize those notes. The contents don't have to be pretty, but you'll thank yourself in advance if you at least sort them by core idea

Getting words down is more important than getting them down correctly. You can always come back and edit it when you have an idea of how to make it work

You can always place a [insert scene here] tag so you can keep your flow and don't get caught on something.

You also don't have to write chronologically - you wanna write the big confession scene before the intro? do it! just jump right into it!

also don't be afraid to delete stuff or remove it from your draft. save things for later to see if they work elsewhere, because maybe it could be a better spinoff.

dont listen to the advice of "if it really matters, you'll remember it in the morning" that advice was given by neurotypicals who don't have memory issues. make notes of EVERYTHING and then delete the ones that don't work

sometimes writing by hand vs computer can really make a difference in how you think. handwriting is slower and makes you think about stuff, so you may want to keep journals for random snippets or ideas like how doodling is good for building up your habit of drawing

Outlines can help but how you outline is up to you. Try a few styles out and go with what works best.

I cannot stress enough that having something like a marker board to write out your broad stroke story ideas is really really nice

Broad strokes first, then narrow it further and further down. Don't get wrapped up in the nitty gritty details

Chemistry is crucial and can often save a piece you're not fully feeling.

Read your stuff out loud while editing because it can help point out stuff that's not jiving! I find it helps a lot with dialogue

Read a lot. Listen to critique. Be more critical. Also don't limit your idea of stories to just books - expand the media you consume and you'll find really interesting stories that can help with yours

Don't be afraid to use tropes, but also don't super rely on them to where you're just checking off boxes instead of coming up with natural scenarios built on chemistry (eg. having the nerdy goth girl is fine, but the way the trope ends in most media ("fixing" her or just having her be a quirky cynical critic) may not fit with your story and it may be better to see how the story plays out rather than forcing it into something it's not)

Iron Widow is a good example here: the relationship between Zetian and Yizhi is pre-established and comes off as sort of "boy next door" vibes, or at least the very dedicated childhood friend. It quickly becomes apparent that he's as much a co-conspirator in her plans as Shimin is. The guy can be ruthless when given the chance, and that's how Yizhi goes beyond the initial trope and defines himself outside of it. Same with the contextualization of Shimin's seeming "aggression" as the "bad boy" and figuring out where that problem/persona actually stems from, and then the shift of viewing it as less aggression and more retaliation and self preservation.

Find something you do really want to write about, like filling a void in a piece of media you like or doing a take on media that made you mad or disappointed. Jane Eyre is technically fanfiction because the author wanted to see more of Jane and didn't get that. The Divine Comedy is self insert fanfiction of Dante Alighieri as he does worldbuilding with Christian mythos regarding heaven and hell. The Riordan verse is his interest in mythology crossed with a desire to give his son a protag that was like him (specifically ADHD and dyslexic), which then became wanting to let kids see themselves in the different halfbloods in the series.

There's a lot of ways you can get started writing, but the best way is to just write goofy stuff for yourself. Get out stuff that may look bad at first, but you go back and read it and critique it. Just getting yourself into the habit of writing helps a lot, because again: it matters less about the quality, and more getting it on the page and actually having something. You can always fine-tune writing, after all.

My first FFXIV fic isn't actually even published. It was just me writing something rambly about my Warrior of Light when I was starting to figure her character out. It looks nothing like what I'm doing now in part because that fanfiction became a launching point for me to work on others. I've got a lot of drafts that will never see the light of day because these were proto-concepts that became the stuff I wound up publishing. It's fine to have drafts that remain drafts because you can take that as practice, and practice is good. Anything that you write has value because you can use it to let your technical writing skills mature.

Also, don't be afraid to look for help. There are beta services on tumblr (or at least used to be when I was a teenager), plenty of writing guides or places set up to ask questions, plenty of youtubers that give prompts for you to work with. The hardest part is always getting started. But once you get past the awkwardness of the start, everything just falls into place and gets easier the longer you go at it.

You definitely have the desire for it because I've seen your very deep love of literature through the Bi-Library, so you can definitely become a strong writer if you put your mind to it 🫶 Find something to fix or address, and that usually is what gets the ball rolling. Worldbuilding is fun and can lead to something, but you can't have a well built world without a story to explore it.

Characters drive story, story is how you explore themes and the world itself, and the world itself is built on your experiences and interests. Embrace the fact that this is coming from your lens and experiences, because no media is truly void of the author and its other creators. Embrace that fact and use it as an extension of yourself. But really, just write. Literally anything. Just get into the habit of writing, and it'll progress from there!

[kate-bishops-girlfriend]

okay the last addition felt a little personal

cos i remember we spent about three months in year 8 or 9 in art learning how to draw really good eyes and it's now basically the only thing i can draw

and i was absolutely devastated that i can't find the art book that i used for that year, cos it had a shit ton of really good drawings of eyes that i was really proud of, and it's (i think) somewhere in my house and i just can't remember where

either that or i never asked for it back from the teacher, in which case it either got binned at the end of the year or it's in a drawer somewhere in that classroom to this day

like- here's one that i did in biro on some clingfilm wrapped around my finger:

i'm very much aware i went overboard with the lashes but i'm still proud of it to this day

“we need to teach media literacy in schools” guys was i really the only person paying attention in english class bffr

[reasonablywittyatbest]

Whenever I think about students using AI, I think about an essay I did in high school. Now see, we were reading The Grapes of Wrath, and I just couldn't do it. I got 25 pages in and my brain refused to read any more. I hated it. And its not like I hate the classics, I loved English class and I loved reading. I had even enjoyed Of Mice and Men, which I had read for fun. For some reason though, I absolutely could NOT read The Grapes of Wrath.

And it turned out I also couldn't watch the movie. I fell asleep in class both days we were watching it.

This, of course, meant I had to cheat on my essay.

And I got an A.

The essay was to compare the book and the movie and discuss the changes and how that affected the story.

Well it turned out Sparknotes had an entire section devoted to comparing and contrasting the book and the movie. Using that, and flipping to pages mentioned in Sparknotes to read sections of the book, I was able to bullshit an A paper.

But see the thing is, that this kind of 'cheating' still takes skills, you still learn things.

I had to know how to find the information I needed, I needed to be able to comprehend what sparknotes was saying and the analysis they did, I needed to know how to USE the information I read there to write an essay, I needed to know how to make sure none of it was marked as plagerized. I had to form an opinion on the sparknotes analysis so I could express my own opinions in the essay.

Was it cheating? Yeah, I didn't read the book or watch the movie. I used Sparknotes. It was a lot less work than if I had read the book and watched the movie and done it all myself.

The thing is though, I still had to use my fucking brain. Being able to bullshit an essay like that is a skill in and of itself that is useful. I exercised important skills, and even if it wasnt the intended way I still learned.

ChatGTP and other AI do not give that experience to people, people have to do nothing and gain nothing from it.

Using AI is absolutely different from other ways students have cheated in the past, and I stand by my opinion that its making students dumber, more helpless, and less capable.

However you feel about higher education, I think its undeniable that students using chatgtp is to their detriment. And by extension a detriment to anyone they work with or anyone who has to rely on them for something.

[paragonrobits]

some important calvin and hobbes facts in case you haven't read the original comic strip in a long time or only absorbed stuff on it from memes and out of context bits on here:

Calvin's last name has never been given, and neither has any of his parent's names. This was actually why his uncle Max only showed up for a brief storyline; the creator of the comic, Bill Watterson, ultimately felt that while it was fine to have him as someone for his parents to talk to, it felt far too awkward to never have Max refer to them by name and he never made a return appearance.

The general tone of the comic is fairly light-hearted, with a big emphasis on goofy slapstick comedy contrasted by clever wordplay and often surprising adult-centered jokes that'll hit you like a slap. A big part of the comedy is, as Watterson put it (paraphrased) "It's really funny to me when people express deeply stupid ideas with really fancy terminology." One notable example you might have seen is that one bit where Calvin asks his mom for money to buy a Satan-worshiping rock album and his mom replies that there's nothing genuine about them and they're just putting on the attitude for shock value, and comisserates with Calvin as he deplores that mainstream nihilism can't be trusted. He concludes that childhood is disillusioning.

There is a LOT of criticism of the extreme materialism and selfish mentality of the late 80s, when the comic was initially written. This may go a long way to explain how its aged so well; much of what it criticizes resonates well with people today.

Bill Watterson views comic strips a legitimate form of artwork, and repeatedly fought to have more space to draw more beautiful and artistic backgrounds, which was a very hard fight and unpopular even with other comic strip artists. He eventually did win some compromises and a lot of Calvin And Hobbes' artwork shows it, with the use of space to indicate time as well as a sharp contrast between the often plain environments of mundane life contrasted by the wildly beautiful imagery of Calvin's imagination (which often sports realistic depictions in an art shift of sorts).

Hobbes is explicitly not an imaginary friend, by word of Watterson himself. We don't know WHAT he is exactly, and Hobbes is apparently unaware of the strange nature of his reality; people look at him and only see an ordinary stuffed tiger plushie, but he has a tangible effect on the world that would be physically impossible for Calvin to do on his own. He's apparently been around for a while, and was apparently around when Calvin was a young baby.

On that note; Hobbes has implicitly killed (notably treated as both a gag and also with the vibe of 'he's a tiger, duh') and while he doesn't do it again on-screen, he doesn't have any moral issues about it. Calvin claims that he's never had trouble bringing Hobbes to school because the last time he did, Hobbes killed and ate a bully named Tommy Chestnut and simply comments that it was gross and he needed a bath. Calvin's tried to repeat this again, but Hobbes was grossed out at the thought having to eat a kid raw and not being allowed to use an oven first, or complaining that children are too fattening.

Hobbes became gradually less human-like in body language and more like an actual cat in both body language and behavior; this was due to Watterson drawing more inspiration from his cat, who also inspired a lot of Hobbes' running gags, such as pouncing on Calvin when he got home. Several years into the syndication of the strip, Watterson's cat passed away, and he did a tribute to her with a comic strip of the two of them agreeing to try to dream together so they can keep playing when they have to sleep; Watterson's commentary (if I recall right), remarks on his cat: "We can see each other again in dreams."

[elegantcherryblossomsheep]

pharmacist: you're not on any presecription medications are you? me: ha. ha. haha. HA. get a pen. and paper. (and maybe a cup of tea)

[daemonbrain]

Part 2

1.8k, cw: ghosts a pervert, smut, readers husband is piece of work, not proofread.

Simon Riley who first saw you at the butcher's shop on the phone. 

You were a pretty thing. Wearing a pink little yoga set, one arm holding your mat and the other holding your phone to your ear as you wait for the butcher to bring out your cut of meat.

Which was taking a long time

Simon would’ve had it chopped and packed to go by now. Though, he can’t complain with the view he has of your ass- you. The man was touch starved. He hadn’t been back home in a while, back-to-back deployments keeping him occupied. His only company being his calloused and scraped hands roughly jerking himself until he came, bordering on unpleasurable. Not what some could consider enjoyable, but try being in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere for weeks on end and see if you care so much about gentle.

The borderline perverted look you were blissfully unaware of was tracking down your form. He stared at the way the material tightly clung on to every bit of you in a welcoming way, a second skin. The sweat on you from your little session.

Just how flexible does yoga make a bird like you?

It was only when he heard a grating sound come from your phone that he snapped out of his trance. Even with his bad ears from all the bullets whizzing past him, bombs going off within meters of him, and the usual shit show he did for a living he could hear the voice which bled through your phone's speaker.

"Get me a steak this time. Nonna that nasty shit from last time!"

You hurriedly turned your volume down as it blasted in your ear, startled by the voice. Chewing on your lip you pivoted towards the counter to see if your order had been brought out; the motion to no avail as the employee continued chopping away in the back room.

It was only when your other hand came into full view from the motion he noticed the absolute rock on your finger.

"Honey, I thought the salmon was pretty good." That prick clearly firing something back as you winced away from your phone once again. Gritting your teeth as if biting back your arguments, looking around to occupy your time as the man on the phone continues to speak. "I know... I'm sorry. Don't worry, it'll be ready by 7." You placatingly cooed.

"Listen, I have to go. I love y-" You began, but the moment the words tumbled from your lips you pulled the phone fully from your cheek to see a blank screen with the time staring back on you. The asshole hung up!

What a fuckin tosser.

Simon hears the butcher finally call your name with familiarity and with a sigh you step towards the counter. 

He leaned on to the wall further as he had been the entire time. Silent. Unsettling. A stark contrast to your bright appearance in the shop, the larger man brooded in his corner waiting his turn.

“See ya’ next Friday!” You still managed a bright smile at the butcher who handed you your meat.

A mild thing like you really shouldn’t be talked to so thoughtlessly, some guys are fuckwits though. He never liked the type. Why lock a bird down with a ring if you were gonna be mean to her?

“S’cuse me sir, i’m just gonna push past you here” You asked. With widened eyes, Simon gruffly mumbled a “Yeah,” out before creating a stupidly small space.

Maybe he really did want you to push past him. Or just push up on him but oh well.

Sweeping past him, you give him a toothy smile as you had so sweetly done to the butcher, as if you hadn’t got yelled at less than five minutes ago. God you really have no common sense, beaming up at the lurker in the corner at least twice your size. A girl as pretty as you should really stick to herself.

From that interaction on, Simon found himself being guided by the memory of you back to the butcher shop the next Friday.

And the next…

And the next.

Every week progressively standing closer and closer to you as you picked up your usual order. One day you had taken the liberty of starting small talk with him after recognizing his unmistakable stature. After all, there were only so many people you had seen in this shop and none so… large.

You could not deny you found this mystery man disquieting. Always dressed in dark colours, not so much as a word coming from him. Like clockwork you would come in after hot yoga, greet the butcher, he would come in, silence would ensue as you both waited for your meat, and you would leave with a quick smile.

It was rude. He had never even said a simple hello to you! Though, you suppose that it could be due to your own curt exits. The thought of the unkindness you might’ve exhibited subconsciously sent your mind into a spiral, leading to your abrupt introduction.

After all, who were you to judge! Kindness is and should always be the response in your books.

At this kindness, Simon swore he had to take a breath in as you politely outstretched your hand and spoke your name casually. Tilting his head down to your face he raises a brow skeptically, and then firmly shakes your head.

He failed to hide the shudder which wracked his body. The way your hand effortlessly slipped into his. Soft and manicured engulfed in his.

“Simon.”

“Well it’s good to meet you Simon” With the twinkly little smile you would grace him as you hauled it out of the shop. He felt the shiver go down his spine a second time when you spoke his name for the first time.

And then- it happened.

You giggled. A soft thing, no doubt intended to be small. It wasn’t to Simon though. It reverberated throughout the room, rang so prettily in his ears. Fuck. He would remember that sound later on tonight.

“Are you cold? You keep shivering. It’s pretty harsh out there right now.”

“Nah. Not really.” His accent thick as he shrugged.

Letting out a little “mhm” you nod and look back to the counter.

“I was freezing outside! Usually I walk home-” Simon already knew that “-but today I called my husband to come grab me! Way too cold!”

That visibly made him stiffen. Of course. Perfectly normal that guy is coming to get you, he’d be an idiot to leave you walking home alone in the cold.

If you were his girl, Simon wouldn’t have let you out of his sight. Fuck sakes you practically had “come mess with me” written all over you. There were creeps all over the place nowadays, (thought the creep).

He would’ve carried everything for you, scarfed down whatever the hell you had taken the time to prepare him. That husband of yours doesn’t like your salmon? Simon would. Hell if he didn’t, he’d cram it down his throat with gratitude anyways. He doubted anything could be worse than some of the rations he’s eaten on duty. 

That train of thought is pretty redundant when he takes note of how you wouldn’t be able to leave the bed to make anything.

Maybe you’d cram something of his down your throat in gratitude.

Shaking his head subtly, he hears the bells of the store door opening. He watched your face fall as you step away from him and it’s when he sees your husband's look of complete irritation he understands why.

You had grabbed your order swiftly and with a quick wave goodbye you were on your way back to your husband. Simon could only register your husband's whisper-yell as he disapprovingly glared his way. “The fuck are you doin talking to him?”. And with that you were hurriedly ushered out.

You deigned it necessary to continue greeting Simon, have little chats about the weather, any plans he had for the weekend. Tossing in your stupid jokes that he would laugh at. You interpreted it as something closer to a breathy snort-hopefully positive- and it went on as such for weeks

And every time he returned home Friday night, he came home with only one thought after. You.

As he laid in bed the same thought persisted as he slipped his cock out of his boxers, red and weeping for some sort of stimulation. He took to his usual harsh pace. You’d be so much softer.

You’d be so nice to him wouldn’t you? Coo some compliment as he lets you tug at him. Fuck he wouldn’t know what to take first.

Would you give him a blowie or a hand job? 

No. You wouldn’t be on your knees- not yet. If you’d let him have you, you’d be on your back in an instant. He’d rip the stitches of those leggings right down the middle, your panties next.

“Fuuuuuck” he moaned into the quiet of his room. He’d stick it in slow, he’d try. It would be torture not to ram himself right up to the hilt, but he’d do it for such a good girl.

That’s what you were, weren’t you? Always a nice word for someone? What would you say to him when he began to rut into you like a madman. When you would feel the pummeling intrusion, his head knocking into the deepest parts of you.

He’d be able bend you into so many different positions that you’d better hope that yoga has taught you well. Split your legs open to accommodate his imposing body size as he’d take purchase between them. Then you better hope your cunny can accommodate his other size when he spears you open on his cock.

Would you take it smiling? Would your tears roll down your cheeks, the prodding bordering too much? You’d take it either way, he knew you could. He’d rub at your clit with such tenderness he never afforded himself (as gentle as he could anyway). He’d make sure you begged to stay on his cock forever, fuck himself so deep you would be too stupid to pull away unknowing of where he ended and you started. Not that you’d have to care.

He’d flip you on to all fours and rip away your clothes entirely, pounding you from the back and instead of just his own labored breaths, the sound of skin slapping together would ring out.

In silent stoicism, he feels his balls tighten up at the thought of your perfect face stuffed into the pillows screaming your thank you’s. You probably were just as nice with someone stuffing themselves into your pussy.

At both his ruthless ministrations and boundless imagination, his release spurted all over his hand with a breathy sigh. When you were here he’d make sure to slam his hips to yours and keep them flush against you, coat your insides in hot cum better than your limp-dick husband ever could. That man wouldn’t be able to fuck you the way Simon knew he could. You deserve someone who could make you go stupid on his dick, not cry of frustration like you probably did everytime that knob who thinks himself a man rolled over after finishing himself off.

Not that you’ll have to worry about that soon

…

He wouldn’t be around for much longer anyways.

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The soft melody from his expensive royal-looking piano had drawn you in. Xavier was elsewhere in the living room, probably asleep. You couldn’t resist pressing a few keys, trying to recreate the tune he’d played yesterday. As you leaned over to reach a higher note, your sleeve caught on several keys, and with a sickening crack, they snapped loose.

Your hands flew to your mouth. Three keys hung at awkward angles, completely broken from their moorings. The room suddenly felt too small, your heart pounding as tears welled in your eyes.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him in the doorway. His eyes widened slightly at your tears.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I was just—I didn’t mean to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence as your voice cracked.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. He walk towards you, then knelt beside you, hands gentle as he took the broken piano keys from your trembling fingers.

“The piano...” you managed. “I broke it... I’ll pay for repairs, I promise...” you stammered, wiping at your eyes.

Xavier glanced at the damaged instrument, then back to you. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he sat beside you.

“It was an accident,” he said simply, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his warm palm cupping your face. His touch lingered there, gentle and reassuring.

“But it’s your piano,” you insisted.

“The keys were already weak,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s already old, and I’ve been meaning to replace it.”

When you still looked uncertain, he added, “I don’t want you to be upset. Things break, and it’s okay.”

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact yet somehow gentle—made you feel like the broken piano truly was insignificant to him. In Xavier’s quiet, straightforward way, he’d made it clear that your distress concerned him far more than any damaged items.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The hospital had called Zayne in for emergency surgeries three nights in a row. When you woke up early on his rare day off and found him already at his desk in the home office, surrounded by patient reports, you decided breakfast was in order.

You pushed the door open with your hip, balancing a tray with coffee and toast, just as Zayne reached for a folder. Your foot caught on the edge of his rug, and before you could regain balance, hot coffee splashed across his desk—directly onto the stack of patient reports he’d brought home. Dark liquid seeped into what looked like hours of meticulous work.

“I’m so sorry!” Your voice pitched higher with panic, ignoring the stinging pain on your palms. “Zayne, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Your hands shook as you tried to salvage the papers, only smearing them further.

Zayne stood immediately, his chair rolling back. The stern lines of his face were there, but not directed at you.

“Stop,” he said firmly, holding your hands away, and taking the tray from your shaking hands and setting it aside before you dropped it too. “Leave the papers.”

Tears welled up despite your efforts. “Your reports, all your work... I just—I just ruined your day off... I’m really sorry…”

Zayne set the papers aside and surprised you by taking your warm hands in his, turning them over to examine your skin.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked, his voice soft.

You shook your head.

“Good.” He guided you to sit in his chair. “These are just copies. I can print them again.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’” His thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of affection that contrasted with his authoritative tone. “I keep digital backups of everything, so don’t worry. And don’t feel bad about an accident you couldn’t control.”

He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead, then reached for his phone.

“The reports can wait. Let’s order some breakfast, and I’ll get us something to heal your palms.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon sunlight streamed through Rafayel’s studio windows, casting a golden glow across his workspace. You’d come to surprise him with lunch since he often forgot to eat when absorbed in his art.

As you walked between tables covered with half-finished projects, your bag caught on something. You turned to see a delicate sculpture teetering on its pedestal—a twisted form of glass and clay that Rafayel had spent weeks perfecting. Your heart stopped as it fell, shattering against the floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.

“Oh…! No, no, no,” you whispered, dropping to your knees. Your fingers trembled as you tried to gather the larger pieces, tears blurring your vision.

“What happened? I heard—” Rafayel’s voice cut off as he entered the studio. You looked up, seeing his expression shift as he took in the scene.

“Rafayel, I’m so sorry,” your voice broke as you continued frantically collecting shards. “I can find someone who can repair it, or—”

“Hey, hey, stop!” He crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside you. “Leave it. You’ll cut yourself.”

When you continued reaching for a particularly sharp piece, he gently captured your hands.

“Your art…” you said, tears now falling freely. “I broke it...”

“It’s just clay and glass,” he said, pulling you away from the broken pieces and into his arms. “I can make another whenever I want.”

“But this one was special—”

“Not as special as you are to me.” Rafayel’s arms tightened around you as he rested his chin on top of your head. “You’re going to hurt yourself on these pieces,” he whispered. He rocked you gently until your breathing steadied, then pulled back to wipe your tears with his thumb.

“Besides,” he added casually, “now I have an excuse to try that new technique I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been wanting to replace that one with something new anyway. Do you wanna see, cutie?”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The wind through your hair, the purr of the engine between your legs—there was nothing like late-night rides on Sylus’s custom motorcycle. He’d let you borrow it occasionally, knowing how much you loved the freedom it gave you.

The evening ride had been your idea. “Just around the perimeter,” you’d suggested, and Sylus had agreed because honestly—what wouldn’t he do for you?

You didn’t see the oil slick until the bike suddenly skidded, then tumbled, throwing you clear but scraping across the pavement with a horrible screech of metal on asphalt. Pain shot through your arm as you landed hard.

He swore he’d never been so scared before. He just ditched his motorcycle and was at your side in an instant, his typically composed face taut with an emotion you rarely saw—fear.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, kneeling beside you, hands hovering as if afraid to touch you. “Where does it hurt?”

“The motorcycle—” you managed, tears forming as you looked at the mangled vehicle. Half the custom bodywork was destroyed, the handlebars twisted beyond recognition. “I’m so sorry—I’ll pay—I’ll—”

“Forget the motorcycle,” he snapped, voice sharp but hands gentle as they examined your scraped arm. He was mad at himself for letting the situation even happen.

You’d never seen him this shaken—Sylus, who always had a plan, who always remained calm and controlled.

“I shouldn’t have—” he cut himself off with a sigh before carefully helping you sit up. His fingers brushed your face, wiping away tears and examining you for injuries with tenderness. “I’m just glad the feisty kitten is all okay.” Sylus’s expression shifted to relief, though concern still lined his eyes.

“I’m sorry it got wrecked…” you whispered again.

“I have others,” he said dismissively. “Stop thinking about it.”

When he helped you to your feet, he kept his arm firmly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. The destroyed motorcycle lay forgotten on the road behind you as he carried you away to his own.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The storage room in Caleb’s work room was cluttered with mementos from his piloting days. You were searching for an old photo album when your elbow knocked against something on a high shelf.

You turned just in time to see the model spacecraft—the intricate replica of Caleb’s first fighter that you’d given him last year—tumble and crash onto the floor. Pieces scattered everywhere, the delicate wings and engines breaking apart on impact.

Panic seized your chest as you dropped to your knees. Caleb had spent two days putting it together; you remembered how his face lit up with boyish excitement when you’d presented it to him. Now it lay in ruins.

Frantically, you gathered pieces, trying to fit them back together, but your shaking hands only made things worse. You were so focused on your desperate repair attempt that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Hey, what are you doing in—” Caleb’s voice cut off abruptly.

You looked up to see him staring at the broken model, he looked surprised but his gaze softened when your eyes met, and tears welled in yours as you held broken pieces in your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could say more, he was on the floor beside you, pulling you on his lap, into a tight embrace. His arms were firm around you.

“Hey, hey, hey… it’s okay. It’s just a model,” he murmured against your hair, his voice steady and reassuring.

“But you worked so hard on it...”

He pulled back slightly, brushing tears from your face with a gentle thumb. His smile alone radiates comfort as he looks at you.

“Then we’ll build a new one together,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I bet we can make this one even better.” He looked down at the pieces scattered around you both. “Maybe add some modifications here and there, what do you think?”

His warm laughter finally broke through your guilt, and he held you close as if the broken model was the furthest thing from his mind.

Based on this request.

[nanamisgirly]

imagine nerd!Choso, you both are in the same degree. he didn't really noticed you at first but, for some unknown reasons, he kept bumping into you— wether in the hallway or you'd be few rows in front of him during lectures. And just like that, he developed an obsession toward you. and might god forgive him, but he couldn't help jerking off his cock at the thought of his length disappearing between your lips, eyes flickering up at him with a teasing glint. he was kind of sad you didn't even know he existed :/

but how lucky! in one of your lesson, the teacher assigned a partnered project. and fortunately, the duo were made with a randomized system!! Choso did not think twice, with some quick manipulation on his computer, he paired himself…with you! almost too easy

on your side tho, you had never heard the name Choso before. So when you reached out to set up a time for the project, you didn't expect much of it. But now…sitting across from him…his wide figure looming over the table, inked arms straining against the ridiculous tightness of his shirt…that was another story. How hadn't you noticed such a pretty face?? sharp eyes lined with kohl, two messy buns with some rebellious strands framing his beautiful features, and perfect dark purple painted nails tapping against the table. ‘am i blind or sum?’ you wondered. 

nerd!Choso was originally awkward with social interaction but more so when it came to you. He clears his throat "I- uh," he started, voice trembling "f-for the work, would you like t-t- to…" his cheeks flushed an adorable pink as you stared at him, giving him time to formule his thoughts ‘such a cute boy’ you mused.

"we can do it at my home!" he suddenly blurted out, words rushed, as if the poor man hadn’t said it now, he never would have :( "i- i mean, t-the assignment! o-of course..." he was so embarrassed of himself, his hands nervously cupping his warm milk chocolate "if— if you want to.." his eyes darted anywhere but yours, unable to hold your gaze. not when you were looking so intently, like you were seeing right through him. because what if you had some superpowers, the kind to read his horny thoughts, the kind to know exactly how many times he fucked his fist to the image of your pretty mouth stuffed full of his aching cock. catastrophe!!!!

nerd!Choso was blushing furiously, messier, stuttering over his words more than usual when you were unconditionally giving your best to give the man a gooood ride. “p-p-please” he whined, voice breaking. You leaned in, your breath warm against his ear “tell me, my pretty shy boy…what are you begging for, hmm? use your words, pretty". 

choso's hands gripped your thighs like a lifeline, fingers digging into your skin. “y-you— mngh, it's— it's too good. i can't last— i— please,” he choked out, eyes glossy as you slammed your hips down harder. His happy trail rubbed against your clit with every grind. the friction giving you as much pleasure as him.

“preeetty boy," you cooed, trying to maintain your composure despite having his fat dick stretching you enough to see stars. “is this what you've been thinking about the whole year? me riding you? or even better,” your mouth went for his neck, licking softly, contrasting with the pulsing grip of your cunt, milking his cock. "touching yourself to the thought of my glossy lips wrapped around your pathetically big dick ?" your voice was so sensual "tell me, tell me and i'll give you what you want” that man was moaning, the sluttiest moans escaping his throat. in response, your walls clenched harder, trying to suck him in even deeper at this point. “i— i was— i mean, i- fuckfuckfuck" choso were sure he lost the ability to form a simple sentence, his head falling back as he felt his tip kissing your cervix. but he tried his best to continue "i— i was…pumping my— my cock at the- mngh, thought o-of you..t-takin' me…d-d-deep,” poor boy was losing his mind. You've never seen a man being that pussy drunk, so openly lost into you, that was addicting.

your fingers trailed over his inked pecs, moving along the curves of his tattoos making their way to his nipples, and you pinched. not too rough to hurt but enough to send jolts of pleasure through his body. “look at this good boy," you sighed, feeling choso throbbing inside you. "earned the right to cum inside me… would you like that?”. 

you loved teasing him. he was a total whimpering, fucked out mess beneath you. ‘so cute’

nerd!Choso was as sure as the sky is blue that you had superpowers, somehow. and you both sure as well scored a beautiful A on the assignment.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[syluss-littlecrow]

better than the devil

<sylus x fem!reader>

where you find out if Sylus really has horns, and why he avoids letting you touch them

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, unprotected sex, size kink (i mean bro is PACKING), breeding kink, sylus’s horns are ✨sensitive✨, dirty talk, sexual tension, missionary, a fuck ton of horn play, horny horns, cumming untouched, orgams galore!, so much cum♡

w/c: 2.9K

a/n: gotta thank the loml @bro-atz for helping me with this a little ehehehe >:) I hope this destroyed yall as much as this destroyed me to write it!!🥹

They say he takes the form of some dragon-like creature—with large black horns and wings. 

The first time you witnessed it with your own two eyes was when he choked out a serpent wanderer ten times his size before it got to you. You were semi-conscious at that point of time, the fatigue threatening to take over, but you had caught a glimpse of his silhouette—two thick appendages that curled proudly past his dirty silver hair, and large wings that hung off his back—before you blacked out. 

“Staring at me isn’t going to get any of your curiosities satisfied”, Sylus snaps you out of your thoughts. Your gaze flickers to his face, but Sylus has his eyes on his phone. 

Then his gaze shifts to you. 

“What are you thinking about, sweetie?”

Of course, you couldn’t just tell him outright that you wanted to see him magically grow his horns out of his head. You doubt even Luke and Kieran have seen it themselves. 

“Your horns.”

Sylus lowers his phone onto his lap, then he cocks an eyebrow, which turns to a furrow in seconds. 

“What gave you the idea that I grew horns?” He asks, his tone laced with mock and caution. His attention is fully on you now. 

Yeah, maybe that was not a good question to ask. Then again, being around someone as direct as Sylus had made you pick up his mannerisms quite a fair bit. 

“Nothing really”, you brush off, attempting to derail the conversation before something goes wrong. “I’m just curious.”

“Talk”, Sylus demands, albeit in a soft tone. “I’m listening.” 

His crimson eyes burn a hole into your head, and you now only realise the way he has you cornered on his couch, his large frame looming over yours. 

You sigh, realising he’s not about to let it go anytime soon. 

“A few weeks ago, during one of the battles we had, where I almost died-“

“Get to the point, sweetie”, Sylus cuts, seeing through your guise. 

You pout. “Right. Before I blacked out, I saw you appear right in front of me, with horns.”

Sylus raises his eyebrows, seemingly in amusement. “You sure you weren’t hallucinating?”

He earns a smack on his chest. You’re ready to let him disprove you further or whatever, but your body jolts when you feel Sylus snake his arms around your waist before he carries you effortlessly off the corner of the couch and onto his lap. 

You watch his eyes grow soft when he locks his gaze with yours. His expression is unreadable.

Your eyes widen in amazement when the thick pair of horns curl past his locks, the black a stark contrast with his white hair. He looks like he’s wearing bows in a funny, demonic type of way. Not that he has to know that. 

You continue to stare at his horns, visually taking in the rough yet smooth texture and patterns that run downwards as the horns grow thicker towards the base. 

“What are you really?” You wonder aloud, your fingers reaching out to feel the interesting texture of his horns, only for him to pull away quickly.

“It’s not the right time for you to know”, he replies curtly. You notice the glint of concern in his eyes, shrouded under the indifferent expression he wears. 

So you decide to leave it for now, at least. 

Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop you from annoying the ever-loving shit out of Sylus about his horns once you found out about it.

He would stare at you with his eyebrows furrowed, muttering that he should have never told you about his horns, only for you to bat your eyelashes at him, much to his annoyance. 

“At least let me touch them if you’re not gonna tell me more about them”, you would whine. With a frown, he would push your forehead with a finger, giving you his standard answer.

"No."

“Then could you at least tell me why you won’t let me touch your horns?”

He would rest his thumb and index finger on his chin, feigning a thinking stance before his expression drops deadpan and then the curt answer leaves his lips.

“No.”

You’re putting this right next to when you were fighting for your life to get that fucking brooch months ago. 

While the thought continues to eat into your curiosity, you mostly let Sylus off the hook after a while. For some reason, you’ve been noticing that Sylus has been walking around his mansion with his horns freely out. Maybe because he’s shown you his full horns once that’s why?

Or he’s just straight-up taunting you. 

You feign nonchalance, only stealing glances at the thick appendage that stood out against his pale locks from time to time, but never really bringing it up to him, for now at least.

You hear the raindrops patter against the large windows of Sylus's room one afternoon. At least the heavy clouds are hiding the sun on top of the dark curtains drawn, and it makes Sylus's rest a little more comfortable. 

He's sound asleep beside you on his bed, but you're seated up on your phone, the sound of the rain also slowly luring you to grow sleepy. You stretch a little, careful not to wake the male beside you. Sylus grunts softly, and you feel his hair tickle your thighs.

Through your peripherals, something catches your attention. The black on white is undoubtedly hard to miss.

Now that Sylus seems dead asleep, you're considering taking a chance to take a closer look at his horns, and maybe even touch them. 

Carefully, you shift your weight closer to Sylus, monitoring his expressions and movements. When the coast is clear, you lean closer, staring at his horns with much amazement. It's a lot different now that you're this up close to admire them. 

His horns aren't simply a simple shade of jet black–at different angles, you notice how the scales of his horns shimmer like an oil spill under the soft light. Close up, the base of his horns are thick, and as it extends, it curls, almost fully wrapping around his head. 

“So pretty”, you mutter to yourself. Your fingers are reached out as if by instinct, barely inches away from touching his pretty crown. 

You pause, weighing the risks of attempting to touch his horns. How fucked would you be if you actually did? 

Your eyes scan Sylus’s calm sleeping face. He doesn't seem to have even noticed his horns have grown out. 

“It’s just a little touch, he won't feel it anyways”, you convince yourself softly, your resolve firming as your curiosity begins to bubble over your rationale.

You let your fingers brush his horn, feeling the cold and scaly texture beneath your fingertips. Your eyes are sparkling in amazement even more, now that your curiosity has been satisfied. You press your fingertips onto the appendage, enjoying how nice and cool it feels to the touch.

Just then, you hear Sylus groan slightly. Your hand immediately retracts before you fully freeze, watching the way he presses his head against your leg, his eyebrows slightly scrunched before it returns back to relaxed. 

Close call. 

You obviously don’t learn your lesson, because your fingers are on his horns almost immediately once more. You grow more curious about the feeling of running your palm across his horns this round. 

So you do.

Your hand starts from the thick base, and you stroke it, following the horn's curl, enjoying the way the texture of the scales run smooth under your palm.

And then Sylus makes a sound beneath you. You squint in curiosity, wondering if you heard it right.

So you run your hand from his tip to the base this time. 

And this time, Sylus lets out another moan. You definitely did not hear wrong. 

Your cheeks are slowly flushing when you realise what you're doing to him. But for some reason, it makes you want to do it more.

So this is why he doesn't want you touching his horns? 

With a cheeky smile, you run your fingers along his horns in various ways and places, eliciting more pretty and erotic reactions from Sylus. 

You giggle to yourself, trying to ignore how he's making you aroused with all the noises he's making with every stroke you give his horns. 

You want to go for the next round, wondering how far you can take this.

Obviously not very far, because the next time you do, Sylus’s hand catches your wrist before you're about to touch his horns again.

He stares at you with half-lidded eyes, pink dusted on his cheeks and his breathing shallow.

“Are you having fun, kitten?” He asks with a frown.

Fuck.

You feign a smile, trying to wave your hand from his grip, of course, your attempts futile. 

Sylus’s other arm curls around your thighs, locking you from leaving the bed while Sylus lets his sleep leave his body from the rude interruption. 

“Denying me of satisfying my curiosity only makes it worse”, you shrug. Well, if only Sylus had just let you have a little touch…

The corner of Sylus’s lips pull up to a half smirk. 

“Right”, Sylus replies, a hint of annoyance and something else laced in his tone before he shifts above you in one swift motion, trapping you underneath him on his bed. 

“Then, I'm sure you don't have to be reminded that actions have consequences?”

You swallow hard. 

His hand that grabbed yours is placed on his chest, and he forces you to trail down his body, feeling his thick chest, then his abs under your touch, all the way down until he stops you right on his thick erection.

“You should take responsibility, don't you think?” Sylus asks with a raised eyebrow. 

You know it's pointless even attempt to escape when he’s devouring your lips like he hasn't eaten in days. It's so intoxicating. You would never admit your greed, but Sylus knows you well enough to feed you so good. You want to pull him so impossibly close.

In between breathless kisses, your warm hands trail from his biceps to his shoulders, to his neck, and right to his hair.

You test waters–letting your fingers rake through his hair, grazing the base of his horns. You get his green light when he doesn't swat you off, on the contrary, it makes Sylus grow more desperate in the kiss.

You confidently stroke his horn, from base to tip once more, and the moans that leave Sylus’s lips sound like fucking heaven. 

His crimson eyes finally meet yours, and he almost looks like he's in pain. 

“If you keep doing that–ngh–” Sylus trails off with another strained moan when the sensation of you stroking his horn buzzes right to his cock that he has shut his eyes to hold back. 

“This?” you tease, sliding your palm down to his base once more, rubbing the scaly appendage, watching him failing at trying to keep his composure. 

“Fuck”, he hisses, diving into your lips once more, eating you up. 

He pulls away briefly, pressing his lips just below your ear.

“You’re gonna be taking responsibility, kitten.”

He presses himself close onto you, so close that you feel his cock just pulsing against your pelvis, only separated by his black sweats. Sylus takes your chin in his fingers and steals your breath away once more, uncontrollably grunting with every stroke your hands play with his horns. You feel his cock twitch, then pulse before the feeling of warmth spreads across your skin, accompanied by a long, drawn out moan in your mouth.

It makes you dizzy with bliss, realising what you've done to him. 

Sylus pulls away once more, catching his breath, his eyes reflecting something more feral when you met his. 

But all you do is flash a cheeky smile at him, letting your fingers caress his cheek. 

His fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts and he yanks them off, almost growing feral for the second time when his eyes meet the sight of the way your pussy is glistening so much that a wet and thin string of arousal sticks itself in between your pussy and your soaked panties. 

Well, Sylus is holding the short end of the stick anyway, because when he tugs his sweats down, your heartbeat accelerates as your eyes land on his cock–thick, red and completely covered in white and thick cum, some staining his underwear, twitching slightly with dribbles of cum seeping past his cockhead when the fabric brushes past his balls. 

He looks so fucking delicious when he's messy like that. Shit.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself, staring at me like that”, he teases. He doesn't even look embarrassed.

“Maybe I should play with your horns more often”, you reply with a smile. Sylus narrows his eyes at you, his expression mixed with annoyance and affection. His fingers press against your soaking clit, enjoying the way the smile on your face gets wiped, replaced with a contorted expression of pleasure when he rubs it in slow circles. 

“I’m strongly against that idea, sweetie”, Sylus responds, leaning in to take in the expression of your mind slowly growing dumb and blank just from his slender fingers rubbing you out. “It’ll give you a little too much leverage over me.”

Through the hazy and building pleasure, you still manage to reply, “that's the whole point.”

Sylus only smiles at your reply, his fingers leaving your clit. You're about to protest, that is, until he grabs you by your hips, dragging you closer to him, then pressing your knees to your chest, before his wet cock slowly enters you from below. He watches your face contort in pleasure–your eyes rolling back and your eyebrows furrowed–while soaking in the fucking delicious feeling of your cunt warm and wrapped around his cock. 

“S-so good”, you whimper, his fullness knocking out any ounce of breath and sense out of you at a dangerous pace the his cock inches even deeper into you.

“Such a nice and warm pussy hole”, Sylus grits, pushing himself even deeper, his control slipping when he's buried himself all the way in. “Fuck, you're so good for me, kitten.”

You're clawing his pillows when Sylus starts fucking you, and you're looking at Sylus with such a glazed out expression–and you know it drives him fucking crazy. His palm rests on the bulge that his cock is pushing every time he enters you, and it makes your thighs shake. Your moans grow in pitch and tone on top of the sounds of lewd wet skin slapping. 

He lets you wrap your legs around his waist in return for letting him scatter love bites across your neck.

So you decide that it’s the perfect time to aim for his sensitive spots once more.

Your fingers tug against his scalp, then alternating to stroking his horns once more, throwing Sylus into another round of pleasured daze. 

You feel his cock fill you up even more, and it makes you greedy to how far you can push it.

“I really should make you regret this”, Sylus mutters, failing to suppress another groan when your fingers scratch against the base. 

His thrusts become more like ruts, his cockhead hitting your g-spot over and over as payback. Sylus sprouts a satisfied smirk as he watches you completely come undone on his cock. You throw your head back while stars flicker in and out of your vision. The pleasure is growing so fucking good that you're choking on your moans too. 

“Right there! Fuck, that feels so fucking good, Sylus”, you sob through wet lashes and heavy pants. 

Sylus is mesmerised by your pretty expressions and the pretty sounds you always make for him when he's breaking you apart. 

Maybe you finding out about his sensitive horns is his punishment for indulging in these sick pleasures. Nonetheless, he still wouldn't have any other way.

Your hands find his horns once more, and he falters for a split second. But he doesn't shake you off since he's much too focused on trying to force an orgasm out of you.

Your pussy squeezes him before it starts uncontrollably fluttering against his cock. Ah, his goal is slowly being fulfilled.

As your orgasm dangles above you, you react with periodical squeezes on his cock and his horns, which definitely draws a much larger reaction from Sylus. 

“So close”, you whine, your orgasm slowly filling the crevices of your brain, plunging you deep into pleasure. Your cunt clenches on his cock, and you unintentionally yank his horns.

Sylus fucking growls, pressing himself so fucking deep into you, his cum fucking spurting into you–so much that some is leaking out from your plugged pussy hole and onto the bed. 

He pulls his cock out momentarily, letting his cum ooze from his cockhead, his eyes darting to the loads seeping out of your hole, before he slides his cock into you once more. You gasp at the fullness, another squeeze to his horns, which only stimulates Sylus once more, and his cock fills you up with another warm and sticky load. 

He’s panting, but he musters his energy to meet your eyes. 

“Sweetie”, he calls out to you amidst his dick attempting to take over his brain. “If you don't get your hands off, your pussy won't be able to hold anymore, I guarantee.”

He's met with a fucked-out and sly grin from his partner. 

“And I thought you enjoyed challenges.”

Sylus scoffs at your comment, realising that he really has to teach his kitten a lesson to not touch things that aren't hers.

[multific]

Marked for Him

Yautja x Reader

Summary: You were meant to be nothing more than a trophy, a rare human prize in a Yautja’s hunt. But instead of killing you, your captor keeps you.

The cold metal walls of the Yautja ship felt cold around you, a stark contrast to the burning heat of your captor’s gaze.

You had expected death the moment you were taken. You expected to be strung up like the other trophies you had seen, their skulls cleaned and polished as a true sign of victory.

But days had passed, and you remained untouched.

Not harmed, not locked away like some caged animal, but kept in his personal quarters, a space filled with weapons, armour, and relics of past hunts. He brought you food, strange meats and exotic fruits.

He watched you, always silent, always hovering at a distance, but never hurting you.

And when another Yautja entered the room one evening, his stance was predatory, his clicking voice was speaking words you could not understand, and you saw the first hint of true aggression from your captor.

The air turned sharp, charged with something primal.

Your Yautja, yes, yours, though you hardly understood why you thought of him that way, let out a deep growl, stepping between you and the newcomer.

The second Yautja tilted his head, mandibles flaring in the challenge, but before he could move, your protector struck.

It happened so fast, claws raking, fists colliding, bodies slamming against the walls with enough force to shake the room.

The fight was brutal and efficient.

And when your Yautja stood victorious, the other writhing beneath his clawed hand, he snarled something low and guttural before tossing the defeated hunter aside like a broken toy.

Then, he turned to you.

His chest heaved, his body coiled tight with something he had been holding back for too long.

Slowly, he approached, his massive form towering over you, but there was no fear in you.

You had stopped fearing him after you just saw him defend you.

He reached out, talons brushing against your cheek, then trailing down to your throat where his claws barely pressed against your skin. Not enough to hurt but enough to make you feel.

A soft rumble vibrated in his chest, something like a purr, something almost tender. As tender as a being like him was able to.

Then, he moved his hand lower, to your arm, where the faintest shimmer of a mark had begun to appear.

A claim. A bond. A mark only he could give.

“You marked me?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His mandibles clicked, and his eyes locked onto yours.

Mine.

The word was unspoken, but you felt it all the same.

And you knew, without question, that you were his.

His mate. His treasure. His everything.

When his massive arms wrapped around you, pulling you into the safest embrace you had ever known, you didn’t resist. You melted into him, letting the steady beat of his heart soothe the whirlwind of emotions inside you.

You had been taken as a trophy. But you had been kept as something far more precious.

And you would never belong to anyone else.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[poseidonsworst]

I really should write a fic about it. I have so many headcanons and fan dungeons; Icelandic Atlantis dungeon, The Oubliette, Labyrinth dungeon where the demon acts like David Bowie, and (always sunny theme) "Mithrun takes the gang cave diving." which includes Otta getting cockblocked from the hot halfling scuba instructor and the consequences of everyone forgetting to keep reminding Mithrun to equalize his ears when they hurt.

I'm of the opinion that Flamela was Mithrun's second for his first dungeon back, but the party nearly wiped during the dungeon lord fight (half the party died including flamela, Mithrun collapsed from mana depletion, and the last one standing smartly gave him a rapid mana transfer before resurrecting anyone else. That was when the Canaries learned they had to make sure to check his mana reserves before a big fight), and afterwards she was made deputy with her own squad and only sent to baby dungeons and ancient magic investigations.

She has NEVER forgiven Mithrun for that, she got ONE TASTE of everything she wanted and now her job is mostly fucking paperwork!

elf drama i just made up

[camilieroart]

NEW CHAPTER DROP

I had to make art for that one. The fic has gotten out of my control they're just doing stuff now

Also the fic is basically based on my playthrough of COTL, and how Narinder acted there. He showed up in the cult and was happily running around as a follower after like a day. So fic Narinder is gonna be based on that.

Narinder is a scrawny small little guy in his follower form imo. Contrast with big god form. I'll make his design at some point.

My Lamb design