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taegularities · 4 months

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entertainer (teaser) | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, sexual tension, he is so attracted to her :'), mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, dark past(s), crying, fear, confrontation and fighting, cocky kook, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content (kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, etc.), more warnings on drop day once the fic is finished!! not much for the teaser itself, though <3 ➳ wc: 1.8k :') (around 20k for the full thing) ➳ a/n: scratches head. this has been a long time coming and i'm beyond curious how y'all will like it :') very new and experimental, so let's see how it goes!! as always, drop a message to lmk what you think of this lil glimpse, i'll be waiting with dangling feet hehe!! <3

➳ give the Entertainer playlist a first listen! 🖤

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done that a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices once the two of you halt in front of another piece of work. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me like that?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“So,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only recognises a tranquil ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is tender, but wrapped in dark mystery.

How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly odd things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“But it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must be a trigger, or a thought on something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ahhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibition made me realise how that colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who've earned it.”

Earned it? How?

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your gaze. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Someone…

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t. Yet.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — a nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like this when you were at the meeting, or in his office. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the puzzles away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this much of an open book?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Hah. Well, I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Strokes his ego, though. And then, out of the blue again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely inhaled half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps this is enough for now, visiting the overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake to go with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh. One?” you ask, “Don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as hell. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for us two.”

You laugh — a candied, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip of his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. While he does avoid them, it’s still always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, serving two perfectly prepared cappuccinos and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge piece.

You thank her with a gentle smile, and tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your dangling silver earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… oh God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head.

All the way through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag the wet tip of your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance in snail’s pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sound around him comes alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You catch him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — and maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

Making you smile must be an achievement, though, right? If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him live, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… that’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you interesting. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue.

“You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing; getting what he wants? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel.

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before.

No matter what it is; Jungkook only understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants you to be the colour green for him.

wrote most of it now and while sick, so it might change hehe! but i hope it's okay so far, and it shall only get better!! i'm so so excited for this, like i've been working on it and putting thought into it since october, so i hope it's worth the wait <3

as always, send your thoughts, questions, complaints lol lemme know what you think or i might perish sniff. super curious to know!! also, here's the taglistttt 🤍 love and appreciate you all <3

#jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #jungkook

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lavendoodles · 5 months

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a fanart i've been wanting to finish for a literal month.

she is complete. it really has been a full month. I started this on the night of November 30th and finished it like 10 minutes ago on December 30th.

(The marvelous design belongs to @bigfatbreak !!!! Thank you for dropping this masterpiece omg)

I'm not gonna lie, this is the first reason I wanted to open a blog in the first place.

(if you want to read my rambles and see a closeup of the drawing, i'll put everything under the cut!)

A few months ago, a friend introduced me to the absolute jewel that is Bigfatbreak's Miraculous Ladybug AU, and I was hooked from the very beginning. I mean, you have all the stakes, all the drama, all the edginess that the original show could only dream of having, and the art is so pretty!!! The color palettes used for each chapter are always so pleasing to the eye, and the "halos" are a beautiful addition to the characters and the visuals when important moments happen.

I knew that I would make some study doodles for myself at some point, but as soon as that chapter dropped and we got to see Marinette as the snake Miraculous holder... I dropped everything and RAN to my tablet. Her design is STUNNING and I couldn't express my admiration in any other way, I HAD to draw her.

For some reason, I wanted to go for something big with needles and a tarot card as an inspiration. So I spent maybe the next three days working on it, but uuuuh that wasn't it. I also wanted to include snakes and some tulle fabric for the background, without realising how hard these two elements were to draw, especially the fabric (it's torture. I'm very open to tips or resources if you've got something). Then I felt like I couldn't get the tarot format to work. Then the rendering sucked. And I still couldn't make the background work. I gave up for a month. <3

And I suppose that it's in those moments of creative emptiness and lack of motivation, that everything suddenly clicks as if it was obvious from the get go.

Let's just go for a simple, eye-catching background with very soft rendering and a mysterious glow emanating from twelve sewing needles turning counter-clockwise. I know this piece is still full of potential, but I wanted to finish it before 2024 and before my mind had a chance to make me give up.

I find my mind to be incredibly insulting when it happens. But uh, considering that I haven't done anything solid in a month, I still take it as a small victory. Small victory is classy snake speedrunner seamstress. You go, Marinette.

#fanart #feralnette au #my art #marinette dupain cheng #snake miraculous #ophidia #miraculous ladybug #miraculous au #digital art #art #illustration #now i can only go to bed and pray that author notices my art. one can dream.#clip studio paint

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creatingblackcharacters · 2 months

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Lesson 4: "Do Black People Blush?" Bringing brown complexions to life

Inspired by this ask

So, do Black people blush?

We are human beans 🤣! Blood rushes through our veins! This isn't just a nonblack misconception either; I know plenty of Black people who think we don't blush. Stop saying that shit. It's not true! If you thought this at any point, I'm glad you learned, TAKE THIS L IN SILENCE! I am sparing you the indignity of saying this out loud, ever! 🙏🏾

Jokes aside, the actual issue usually lies with the depiction or description. Depending on our skin tone, most of us aren’t going to turn ‘bright pink’ with a blush (if you write that in your y/n or roleplaying fics, that’s an easy way to negate a good amount of your potential Black audience). Think of a cherry coke- how you still see the tint of red in it, but it’s still brown? Like that.

One way to dodge this in writing is to say “flushed”, or “ears/cheeks became hot”. This is describing the physical action of blushing, without having to describe the color of someone’s face. If you’re really nervous about not writing us correctly via blushing… there you go!

Colorism

Okay. So this is something I’ll likely do its own lesson on, because there’s no way I could encapsulate it into one little blurb and I’m not going to try! After asking the internet an admittedly confusing question 😅, one thing I was able to reaffirm is that people have different opinions on what ‘dark’/’darker’ skin tones mean. People recognize that different cultural upbringings and contexts will change what that means! And that’s good- that an important part of the larger conversation!

However, I want everyone to understand that you don’t have to be Black to be dark/’darker’ skinned- you can be Black and very pale! We discussed that in the last lesson! There’s no ‘singular point of brown-ness’ that designates a Black person as ‘Black’- there’s an entire sociological conversation behind that!

My point is, this isn’t a ‘oh Black people OVERALL aren’t depicted blushing properly’- because there are ‘lighter’ skinned Black people that wouldn’t suffer as much from this particular issue.

Blushes and Undertones

Three Links for Tips on Medium to Deep Skintones

Different complexions are going to require different colors, there's not a 'one fits all' option. However! What we want to do for deeper brown complexions is to focus on BOLDER, not lighter! Putting light pink or a white person’s ‘nude’ on our skin will often make us look ashy and undercolored. And we don’t like looking ashy.

"It looks like they're ashy!"

What do we mean when we say this about a piece? Well, worse case scenario, it looks like this:

This was NOT one of KD’s better days, and he was thoroughly mocked for this. He got more than enough money for lotion! Anyway, when we say that your art looks ‘ashy’, it means that it feels like the skin of your Black character is gray, or dead. Like a corpse. We don’t look like that unless things are dire.

In fan and professional art, you can sometimes find people user a grey undertone for deeper shades of brown on Black people: NO! We are NOT grey! We are not pitch! Many skin shades of brown can be found based in the oranges and the reds. Based on lighting and depth of complexion, you might even have to go into the blues and purple to capture the brown you’re seeking.

I’m begging us to stop desaturating the browns we use. We can see the difference. It’s usually one of those ‘White Man Painted Brown’ techniques I discussed before; an attempt to ‘make a character Black’ without really committing to it because the brown skin tone ‘doesn’t look good’ to the artist. Brown is beautiful! Commit to brown! Commit to the full design!

Put in the work to create the brown you need!

While this is a traditional art piece (follow Ellie Mandy Art, a Black creator), I want you to notice how she incorporated many colors to create the deep brown for her piece.

-8:05 for the list of paints

-8:05-17:29 for the process

She used black, yes, but it was nowhere near the base color. She incorporated blues and reds and other browns to capture that depth. It wasn’t ‘toss in a bunch of black or grey to get the brown darker’. (SKIP TO THE END TO SEE HOW GOOD THIS PIECE IS, BTW. I felt like I was in the presence of a master watching her do this, fr. We gotta pay artists more.)

I want to use this model as an example to show that while we might get very dark, we're still not 'pitch black'. You can see the flat of the black of their clothes versus their deep complexion. They're not the same!

Even if your character's complexion is very deep brown into black, you still need to incorporate ‘life’ into them (if that makes sense). And you know what? Even if you want to describe your characters as having ‘black’ skin, that’s fine, but there are still other ways to do it- obsidian, the night sky, velvet. Find a way to romanticize our skin (there’s an entire conversation about how ‘black’ is used in a negative connotation in language and storytelling, and we’re ALSO going to have that conversation later!)

A Real Simple Way (i.e. how I do it)

I tried, but I cannot find my skin tones palette link anymore. I’m sorry! But, it’s been essential to my character design. If you don’t ever buy anything else, I would HIGHLY suggest investing in a skin tones palette for your art program.

Everyone say hello to Philia, my OC! I’m used to drawing her, so I’m going to use her as an example. Now remember, I am still an amateur! But this is how I do it!

Admittedly, I do the one on the left when I'm feeling lazy, but more often I'll take the time to do the one on the right. Now here’s the thing- I’m not actually blending the red into the brown. This is on a whole different layer. What I’m actually doing is adding to and fading the color until it’s at a color that I feel is natural. There's definitely an easier, smarter way to do this, but that’s what I like to do- I like to see the stages slowly until I’m comfortable.

You have to mess around and practice; see what looks good and what doesn't. Go into the reds, the oranges, the pinks and observe how it looks- I may go through multiple before I settle on one. It’s really just a matter of getting used to drawing Black skin tones and how they look in different lighting. This one's not perfect for sure.

Resources

Here are some really good posts and Youtube videos on how both to paint skin, and to add blush tones. And remember, as per my usual, the best way to learn how the draw and paint Black people is to follow and learn from Black artists! Another good idea might be looking into Black makeup and Black SFX makeup artists. As people that work with skin on a regular basis, they would be a good place to study what colors can and should be used on different skin colors as a whole.

ami0amii

Likelihood Art

Tiara Anderson

Proko

Sinix

Ross Draws

In summary, focus on bolder colors, be willing to test until you get what you need, and practice! All you can do to get better is to practice! And as always: it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

#creatingblackcharacters #character design #black characters #black art #black artists #black character design

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arminsumi · 8 months

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🔞 playtime w enemy!gojo

g. satoru — さとる

NOTE: i think abt this idea all the time n i just thought id gift u all a piece of mean nasty enemy gojo lusting for u

WARNINGS — ignore errors pls, smut, he's mean he's a jerk but he kinda feels for u, blood mentions, fighting, m*sturbation, he jerkin it to a pic he snapped of ur defeated face 🫠 sexual tension, impact play (slapping n spanking), dirty talk, namecalling (sl*t, wh*re, b*tch, freak) and nicknames (bunny, sweetheart, baby), dirty talk, unprotected sex, taboo sex (fucking ur enemy) creampie, it's nasty im ngl, god kink thing??? he rlly cums n goes 🧍‍♀️, hairpulling

just... just enemy!gojo...

enemy!gojo kissing you like he's trying to kill you. you can feel this murderous rage on his lips after you fuck up his heroic plans.

and enemy!gojo fighting you like he's trying to get in your pants 🥴 he hates you so much, but let's be real he's in fucking denial and needs you so bad. after fights, he's cooped up in his bedroom jerking off to the memory of all those positions he put you in. ("ooh, well aren't you flexible?" he teases when he literally puts you into a full-nelson. "hey, if this whole villain business fails for you then you can be my personal pornstar.")

his whole body feels like it's on fire when you're throwing fists with him. he shakes not from exhaustion or pain but just pure sexual desire. he gets so upclose and personal with you, you're sure it's on purpose. when you're limp and defeated, he takes a victory picture :( grabs your jaw and says "smile for the camera! aw, pretty lil' loser. you're so photogenic!" and you know when he gets home, he's gonna jerk off to that.

he can barely take your martial arts seriously, because you're so fucking tiny and weak in comparison to him. enemy!gojo likes to remind you of that, when he has you on your knees with your nose dribbling blood.

"aw, sweetheart, you're so fucking weak it's kinda turning me on."

he's got a fistfull of your hair, forcing your head to tilt back so violently yet when you look up at him, you can't help but feel this raw sexual tension and primal need to kiss him and worship him.

"f—fuck you, gojo — y-you're a freak. you think you're god... but you're a monstrous freak."

he's looking at you. and you're not sure if that's a murderous look or a pure lustful look — is he gonna kill you or fuck you? in his mind, though, the idea of killing you long faded away; you're his favorite enemy. what would he do without you? fighting with you is just the best, he gets to joke and tease and flirt and pester you and see you enjoying it wholeheartedly.

"bunny, look how cute you are, bleeding for me."

when you try spit your blood at him to retaliate, he's considering pulling his zipper down and stuffing your stupid mouth full of his cock. now that would put him on a power trip like nothing else.

then imagine the day this needy, desperate man actually snaps. and you snap. and the both of you fuck like bunnies. panting and feral. he couldn't say no when you started begging on your bruised knees for him to just fuck you already, just split you open on his cock.

his thrusts are primal. he's mocking you, voice so venemously attractive.

"wh—what would your friends think now, huh? think they'd still trust you knowing how willingly you spread your fuckin' legs for me? you damn slut. 'seen the way you look at me, gets me hot every time. you don't have any fucking idea what you do to me, do you? ha—ahhh that's so good... that's so fucking good..." his voice is usually so composed even when fighting, but when he's balls deep fucking up your guts so passionately then his voice becomes strained.

and he loves hearing your cute dirty talk, but you've got such a small voice he thinks it's cutely pathetic.

"f-fuck, g-g—gooojo ~ ! fuck me like you hate me."

he chuckles, "oh, baby. i don't have to fake it. i hate you so — fucking — much — ahhh — damn bitch, making my life so hard the least y-you could do is let me have this pussy once a week."

"a-anything for you."

his heart flutters. why? you're his enemy he reminds himself and makes his thrusts meaner and harder until you can't form a coherent thought. he relishes in your screaming moans, and there's no end to the teasing. as soon as he notices something he comments on it.

"ooh, look at that little pussy cream for me. who's it creaming for? who? that's fucking right, me. yeah stay like that and take my cock."

"o—h my god, nnn ~ !" you squeal, feeling almost too good with your threatening orgasm.

"ah-ah, there's no god but me, baby. i'm the one making this pussy freak out. ooh... think you're right, i do have a god complex. why don't you indulge in it? yeah? c'mon, baby i'm your god."

"y—you're m-my g–god, satoruuuh ~ ! ow!"

he plants a hard slap to your face. you're no stranger to his mean slaps, in fact you've joked to yourself about being his favorite bitch to slap. but that one in particular hurt, and you loved it.

"don't say my fucking name like we're friends, you freak. f—fuck... you like that, don't you? yeah? little freaky bitch likes getting slapped? mmm that's cute. kinky litttle fucking whore, let's see how hard this pathetic pussy can cum."

he pumps his cock into you at such a mean angle that you completely lose yourself, babbling obscenities and trembling in his strong hold. you couldn't free yourself from his grip even if you wanted to; he's the strongest, after all.

you get a good idea of how strong he is when you fight and sneak off to fuck.

the way he presses down on your back, the way he bullies his cockhead so deep that it feels like he's in your tummy, the way he pulls both your arms back with a rough tug like you're a ragdoll — just his fleshlight that he can move on his cock himself however he likes because he's so much bigger than you.

"gonna cum, my little slut gonna take it? yeah? good. that's what i like to fucking hear — oh fuck — ahhhah cumming — hah fuck that's good — that's — mmm — that's my fuckin' girl."

he plants rough spanks to your ass, groaning so deeply and holding you so close against his body that you feel like you're one with him.

"ooh, fuck..." he pulls out hastily, zipping himself up. forehead and abs beading with sweat. "thanks, love playtime with you. now get the fuck out of my sight." he sounds so sweet and venomous that you can't tell if he's joking, but then you remember a cold hard fact;

gojo satoru is your enemy.

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urhoneycombwitch · 4 months

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shrine of your lights

🍯 honey flavour: edibles and a church wedding to attend. what could go wrong with Eddie as your plus one?

🐝 the bees: FWB!Eddie x reader

wc: 4.8k

content warnings: a smidge of Catholic blasphemy, weed usage, friends w/ benefits Eddie, R is a bit of a love (and relationship) skeptic and Eddie is lovesick, R+E are in their 20’s, pining, public sex (no one but them observes tho), R has hair long enough to tuck behind ears, R gets a hickey but skin tone/color is not described, R has breasts and a V, softdom Eddie, marking kink (?)

foreword: I listened to Say You Love Me by Fleetwood Mac for this. LOL. kind of AU bc it’s a few years after ssn 4 and everyone is alive and just fine (lovesick but oh well can’t b helped) based on this anon thank u for inspiring me!!!!

The stained glass window in front of you looms tall, afternoon light streaming through and casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the polished wood flooring. You stretch out a hand into the warm beam of sun, admiring the way the colors catch and bounce off your dainty star-chain bracelet.

When Eddie had suggested you two eat some weed brownies as a precursor to your (very distant, very Catholic) cousin’s wedding, you hadn’t quite expected to get as stoned as you are now. Since Eddie hasn’t attended any major life functions sober since 1981, and seeing as how you refuse to step foot inside a church space without some sort of social lubricant, the weed wasn’t a hard sell at all.

To be fair, Eddie had warned you of their potency, and you had snuck another quarter of a brownie when his back was turned: but christ, your tolerance must be crazy low or something, ‘cuz a window has no right to be this mesmerizing.

You’ve been staring at it for the past five minutes, in your own little world while a steady stream of wedding guests file in through the big oak doors and mill about before the ceremony. The warm, still air of the church is heady with the smell of fresh florals and incense, and a line of votive candles flicker and wink against the windowsill.

Casting a glance over your shoulder, you see Eddie’s still speaking in gentle tones with an elderly woman (whom you’re likely related to, hard to say) near the foyer, all charming smile and sincere hand pressed to the slip of bare chest his button-down displays. You’ve got to hand it to the guy, he’s really great at endearing himself to total strangers; he’s been a natural shoe-in for any plus-one you’ve needed over the past few years.

While Eddie is perfectly in his element, holding what looks to be an engaging conversation while stoned to all hell, your focus is drawn back to the window. You should probably be on the arm of your guest, seeing as how it’s your family wedding after all, but the swirling lights and colors are too alluring to pull yourself away from.

“Beautiful piece of art, isn’t it?”

The voice behind you is unfamiliar, and proper social graces here would call for an introduction, perhaps a firm handshake, but your limbs and tongue feel so loose and the reply is out of your mouth before you can think twice- “God, yeah. S’fucking gorgeous. I want one for my house.”

There’s a light cough, and when you turn on your low-heeled Mary Janes it’s under the amused eye of a priest- in full priest-garb. Green velvet robes and little hat and everything.

You realize your error- swearing and taking the Lord’s name in vain- but the brief stint in Catholic school from when you were 6 is unfortunately not recalled in time to stop the scramble of swears mixed with apologies that come tumbling out.

“Oh shit- I mean- fuck. Oh god. Sorry, Father, I didn’t mean-”

The priest- old as hell but thankfully with sense of humor still intact- smiles kindly at you and takes your hand in both of his, patting graciously. “No apologies are necessary, my dear. The beauty of God can be overwhelming and awe-inducing.”

You nod jerkily, grabbing on to his excuse- “Yes, yep. That’s exactly what happened. Struck down by the awe.”

The priest nods to you, and then to Eddie (who’s appeared at your side like a guard dog that sensed trouble), then wanders off down a row of pews to greet other guests.

You’re nearly doubled over with the effort it takes to conceal your laughter, Eddie stroking a calming hand down your back and chuckling with you under his breath.

“Struck down by the awe, huh?” he echoes as you straighten back up and dab at the tears gathering against your lashline. “You really are somethin’.”

“That was so embarrassing but guess what-” here you lean in, voice a conspiratorial whisper as Eddie raises his eyebrows to look down his nose at you- “I don’t give a fuck ‘cuz I’m hi-igh.”

This last word is sung with a two-note lilt, and you turn back to the comfort of the sunny window as Eddie steps in beside you, shaking his head. “I told you to start with a lower dose, ya goose. Did you take more when I wasn’t looking?”

You shrug a shoulder, the soft linen of your cardigan brushing up against the hard leather of Eddie’s jacket. “Maybe. Couldn’t say. You gonna steal this window for me or what?”

He blows out a breath, pretending to appraise the size and heft, rapping his ringed knuckles against the sill- “Well normally I’d say ‘anything for my girl’, but we’d need a shrink ray for this type’a heist.”

“Maybe Dustin has one we can borrow.”

He sucks his front teeth, playing along, shaking his head in faux-disappointment. “Nah, little shit’s only got a ham radio. Useless when it comes to religious robbery.”

Eddie looks overly pleased when you giggle, but some of the humor in his face falls to concern as he reaches out to squeeze your upper arms. “Hey. You doin’ okay? If you’re too stoned to sit through the ceremony, I can find us a little spot to hole up in. I’m good at finding those.”

“I know you are,” you reply, waving away his worry. “I’m fine, honest. Do I look high?”

He holds you at arm’s length, giving you a contemplative once-over. “Nope. You look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes, affectionately, then smooth your palms over the front of your black slip dress and pull the scalloped sleeves of your cardigan into place. “Well, of that I am aware.”

Eddie winks, and you really wish you were sober enough that the warmth of his hands and the smell of his cologne would have less of an effect but high as you are, you want nothing more than to burrow into his neck and taste the salt of his skin.

“Do I look high?” he asks, pulling away to do a little spin so you can appraise his appearance.

Eddie Munson, as it turns out, cleans up very well for family functions: smart black boots, maroon button-down tucked into a pair of flare-legged trousers, worn but well-kept leather jacket to top the outfit off. And in signature Eddie fashion, little glints of silver highlight the ensemble- his usual chunky rings, stacked layers of thin chain necklaces, metal buckles on his coat and at his waist, even a set of tiny hoops (courtesy of your jewelry drawer) in his ears.

The dryness in your mouth has nothing to do with your intoxication as you blink back to the present and give Eddie a once-over. “Uhm. Nope. You look sober. And very hot.”

He grins at you, wolfish, but then a bright chord of organ music signals the start of the ceremony. With a steady hand on your back, he leads you to a pew near the last row; when you’re both seated, his hand runs smoothly down to rest on your thigh, drumming a lazy beat with his thumb against you as the processional starts.

Your cousin Marion looks lovely swathed in white tulle, contrasted with her groom in a black tux. Her mother, your aunt- Karen? Karina? can’t recall- dabs at her tears with a delicate lace handkerchief in the front pew as the couple exchanges vows, promising eternal and ineffable love until their ultimate demise, etcetera.

You’re not someone who’s ever fallen prone to the gushy emotions that love seems to create in so many of your peers. While Nancy and Robin will dole out tissues to each other during some cheesy romcom, you’ll get ribbed for being so stoic. None of your breakups have ever ended in giant blowouts or dramatics from your side- hard to fight for something when you hadn’t really cared about it in the first place.

That’s why you consider yourself so lucky, when it comes to Eddie. After the two of you ended your high school fling due to graduation, you’d come back to Hawkins after a few years of college and found yourself sneaking out like a teenager again to hang out with Eddie Munson.

He told you he doesn’t want anything serious, either, and that he’s just fine being friends who sleep around and go to all of each other’s parties.

You almost believe him.

He’s been to every one of your nephew’s hockey games this past season, and you’ve spent two cozy Christmases so far at the trailer with him and Wayne; every party in between has ended with Eddie driving you home, or (more frequently) back to his place. Your collective relatives and friends haven’t asked about your relationship status in years, and it’s all thanks to Eddie’s presence in your life: if the two of you aren’t technically dating, it’s really no one’s business.

The old priest from earlier is droning on about some bible verse; uncomfortable on the hard bench and feeling restless, you shift your hips, and Eddie digs his fingers into the meat of your thigh.

“Quit. Squirming,” he murmurs, lips at your ear. When you shiver and still, he pats your leg and straightens again, eyes fixed to the front altar.

You and Eddie make it through the ceremony with minimal damage, only getting one dirty look from an older man in the pew ahead when you’d snickered at a dirty joke (courtesy of your benchmate). Marion and her new husband greet their guests one by one as everyone filters outside, and you coast easily through the interaction, kissing your cousin on both cheeks and fawning over her dress and giving just the right amount of congrats before Eddie plucks at your elbow to subtly redirect your attention.

“Let’s get some food in you,” he says, linking your arms together as you follow the receiving line outdoors.

The reception is held just next to the church building in a surprisingly lovely courtyard. Sunlight filters through the willow trees at the edge of a grass yard, where a picnic basket awaits on each spread quilt. People are kicking off their dress shoes, unwinding with the lure of nature, kids chasing each other through the paths between blankets as adults wiggle their toes into the grass and dig into the luncheon.

Possibly, you’re high and over-romanticizing, but you can tell by the look on Eddie’s face he’s there with you, taking it all in from your blanket in a quiet corner of the yard.

There are finger sandwiches in the basket, along with some fresh fruit and plastic utensils and plates to eat off of; Eddie fixes you a plate and you dig in happily, sock feet tucked under yourself, yours and Eddie’s shoes in a jumble nearby.

“Could eat anything when I’m high,” you muse, then bite into a sandwich that has the perfect cream-cheese-to-cucumber ratio with a contented sigh. “Food is so good.”

Eddie snaps a baby carrot with his back teeth, then snorts at you before reaching out to tuck one side of your hair behind your ear before it gets eaten along with your food. “I know you can eat anything when you’re high. I once saw you scooping up apple pie with potato chips.”

You give him a sidelong frown, mouth full of bread and veg as you defend yourself- “Yeah, and it was great. Dee-licious. Would do it again if-”

Your name is being called, and you swivel to see a young man about your age weaving along the spaces between blankets towards yours and Eddie’s spot.

“Tony!” In a neat bit of multitasking, you manage to swallow your food and rise to your feet (albeit unsteadily, with Eddie’s hand snapping out to support your efforts), then hold your arms out to envelop the boy in a hug. “Oh my god, it’s been ages.”

Anthony Townsend has grown up in the time you’ve spent away- the last recollection you have of your former childhood neighbor is his mop of red hair bouncing with the trampoline his parents bought him in 6th grade. He grew into his looks, for sure- the awkwardness of pre-teen ears and too-big front teeth have settled into a very kind and handsome face.

He looks genuinely pleased to see you, returning your hug with a squeeze, pulling back to hold both your hands and ask about where you’ve been. You breeze through a highlighted version of the last few years, leaving out all the interdimensional monster bullshit and focusing the questions back on him.

Tony’s telling you about his father’s veterinary practice that’s still running smoothly when you feel Eddie at your back, and Tony falters, dropping your hands.

Social cues come a tad slow to you, under the influence, and you think Tony’s stumbling because you haven’t introduced him yet (how were you supposed to know Eddie’s been glaring daggers at the poor kid ever since you’d hugged him?), and you attempt to remedy your mistake with a casual remark- “You know, Eddie here has been feeding the stray cats at our place every night, a whole colony of them- there’s gotta be, what, ten of ‘em now?”

You turn to Eddie for confirmation, reeling a little at the dark scowl he’s still sporting as he nods. “Yup. Somethin’ like.”

Tony scratches at the back of his neck, freckled cheeks pink as he begins to back away- “Um, yeah. Cool. Well it was great to see you! I gotta…”

With a vague gesture, he turns and tails it back to his blanket on the other side of the yard. You whirl on Eddie, his face smoothing back into relaxed indifference, even as you hiss, “What the hell was that?”

Eddie shrugs. “Don’t know what you mean, princess.”

“That,” you repeat, waving an arm in the air for emphasis. “I know I’m not sober but you were being weird, even by my standards.”

There’s this look that Eddie gets, sometimes, when one of you bumps against the walls of your loosely-defined relationship- a brief flash of pain and sadness before it gets hidden away behind his comfortable mask of bravado.

He’s got it now- a small pinch in his eyebrows, doey eyes swimming with emotion, and you put a hand on his leather-clad arm as the pieces fall into place. “Were you… are you jealous?”

In the span of a blink, the mask is back up, and with a dry laugh that’s so unlike him, Eddie shakes his head. “Nah. What do I have to be jealous of, huh? ‘S not like we belong to each other.”

Maybe on a different day, with half the weed in your system, you’d be able to let this comment slide. But there’s something deeply hurtful about it, sinking and twisting in your stomach like a stone. Your grip tightens on Eddie’s arm, tears stinging hot at your eyes, voice a watery, desperate thing- “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Eddie is quick to comfort you, once he realizes you’re close to crying- “Shit, sweetheart. Okay. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to think…” Your voice is still shaky with emotion as Eddie lets you hold on to him, gently shushing you even though there’s no one near enough to hear. “You’re important to me, Eddie. I never wanna make you mad, or upset, or-”

“I’m not.” Eddie cuts smoothly into your rambling, placing his hands on either side of your neck as you cling to him, cool rings kissing into your skin. “I’m not mad, promise. I was just being an asshole for no reason, okay? Could never be mad at you.”

His thumb strokes at the column of your throat, your breath and heart rate lulled to normal under his touch, his expression returning to the gentle fondness you’re used to seeing.

“Let’s finish up lunch, hm?” Eddie says, and with a final soft squeeze he pulls away from you, taking with him the warmth of his palms.

It’s always like this, with him, at least in front of your respective families- any PDA is kept to a strict minimum, nothing too intimate or drawn out so as not to attract attention. You’d implemented this rule from the beginning, and Eddie has been nothing but respectful of it, your peace of mind over not wanting a label pacified.

But right now? The lack of Eddie’s arms around you or his lips on yours was starting to make you ache.

You both settle into the blanket again, conversation flowing around mouthfuls of food as you catch Eddie up with the latest family gossip, laughing when he bats your pointer finger out of the air (as if anyone is really paying attention to you two giggling loons).

Someone’s brought a radio and has it dialed to a soft rock station; you gasp and shove at Eddie (sprawled out like a house cat after a full meal in the sun), exclaiming “It’s Fleetwood Mac and you love Fleetwood Mac!”

“I so don’t,” he grumbles, but rises easily when you tug at him to stand sock-to-sock feet with you in the grass.

You both fall into a smooth rhythm, Eddie’s hands staying (respectably) on your hips, yours looped around his neck, doing a slow little rotation. He gazes at you as you sway back and forth in each other’s arms, the scrutiny making you titter and fidget.

“What?”

“Thought I told you to quit squirmin’,' ' comes his answer, hands tightening into the meat of your waist. “Let me look at you a minute.”

So you let him look.

While his chocolate eyes roam your face, you trail a hand up to curl a lock of his hair around your finger. Eddie leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut, giving you room to do some staring of your own at those long, dark lashes.

After another slow circle, Eddie inhales and draws himself back, clearing his throat. “Not that I’m not enjoying this, sweetheart, but we’re gonna start getting looks if you don’t quit using me as your personal stress toy.”

You snort. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“All good,” he replies, dimples springing into his cheeks, teasing again- “When we get home later you can pet me like a dog, if you want. Just gotta tone you down ‘cuz you get touchy when you’re high.”

Eddie’s being a perfect gentleman. He’s sticking to your rules and looking out for you.

So why is it making you so sad?

You realize, with a stunning clarity, that you don’t want to wait until you’re back at the trailer to touch Eddie. That you’re starting to crave him when he leaves, whether it’s for a day or an hour or just out of bed to get a snack.

Fuck it, you think, and bend to scoop up your shoes.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you tell Eddie, slipping on your shoes then starting towards the building. When you realize he’s not following, you pause, giving him a look over your shoulder- “Aren’t you coming?”

Eddie blinks, wondering if you’re insinuating what he thinks you’re insinuating or if he’s just really, really high. “Um. Uh…”

You don’t leave room for the shock to sink in, turning on your heel and smirking when you hear him swear under his breath and scramble to catch up.

In a narrow hallway lined with portraits of long-dead saints, you push Eddie against the wall, mouth sealing over his and hands roaming hungrily over his body.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, in between kisses, your fingers tugging at the root of his hair, near the nape of his neck where it stings the best- “what’s got you so worked up, princess?”

“You.” The answer is an honest one. You slip your tongue between Eddie’s teeth and the boy moans, melting into you.

Peppering kisses down Eddie’s face, your lips settle into the hollow just under his jaw, then part to give room to your teeth. Eddie stiffens as you bite down, sensitive skin pierced by your mouth; it’s his turn to be the squirmy one as you suck a bruise into that soft spot.

His cock is filling out, as proved by the steadily-growing bulge behind his zipper. You give a mean little wiggle of your hips and Eddie jolts so hard you lose your spot on his neck, popping off him with a wet smack.

“Angel, you have to stop.” Eddie sounds absolutely wrecked as he tries to maintain some distance, head tipped back to stare at the popcorn ceiling. “M’not gonna last if you keep doing that. Let me take you home, we can-”

“Shhh.” You quiet him with a pointer finger smooshed against his lips, your other hand tilted to your ear. “You hear that?”

Eddie strains to hear distant cheers and hip hip hoorays from the festivities a few corridors away; when he nods, you whisper, “That’s the cake cutting. We have a good ten minutes before anyone thinks to come back here.”

At first, Eddie thinks he’s off the hook when you release him completely, walking swiftly towards the main sanctuary. But then, because you’re a temptress, you beckon him with an impatient wave.

And because he’s so easy for you, he follows.

It’s like that window has a magnetic pull- you’re back under the prismatic glow of the stained glass, brushing a hand across the wide sill to dust it before hopping up to perch there. You fit neatly between the split row of votive candles (all snuffed out by now), enough room for your knees to part and for Eddie to fill the space.

You cross your arms around his neck, drawing him in with another deep kiss as his hands find your waist.

“Want you to mark me up,” you murmur, and when Eddie draws back, wary, you let your chin tip up. The crown of your head knocks into the window, exposing your throat. “Show them I’m yours, Eds.”

Only have to tell him twice, apparently, ‘cuz his teeth sink into your stretch of soft skin without further qualms. The feeling of his tongue soothing over the sore spot makes you jump, hips bucking forward into his hand that you didn’t even notice had trailed up the inside of your dress.

His long fingers pet at the wet patch that’s seeping through your underwear, catching at your clit on an upstroke, your gasp a harsh noise in the otherwise silent sanctuary.

Eddie begins to rub at you through the fabric in earnest now, tight circles with his thumb even as he pulls his mouth from your neck to assess his handiwork. “Yeah, fuck, sweetheart, that’s gonna leave a mark. You want everyone to know who you belong to, huh?”

Your bundle of nerves throbs under Eddie’s touch and you curse, hands weaving tight into his hair again. “Shit, Eddie, yeah- just like that…”

He dips back into the well of your neck with his teeth, keeps just the right amount of pressure on your clit, and that tension coiling in your lower stomach is just about to snap before you stop him with a hand around his wrist.

“Sorry,” you pant through the apology, forehead crushed to Eddie’s collarbone as you try and catch your breath. “Was about to come and I want you inside of me for that.”

“Jesus fucking christ.”

Eddie fumbles with his belt buckles as you giggle, chastising- “Hush and mind your manners, Munson. That’s blaspheming and we’re about to fuck in a church.”

“I’ll show you manners.” Eddie has his pants and briefs shoved to mid-thigh before you can draw breath to tell him off; one hand smears precum down the shaft of his ruddy cock as the other pushes your dress up and hooks your panties to the side.

You’re wet and worked up enough that he slides into the heat of you with ease, breath punching out with the way his cock completely fills you. When Eddie pulls out and sinks back in, you let out a keening whine and scrabble for purchase on his leather jacket.

“That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it-” his voice is a dark rumble, each word punctuated with a snap of his hips, the squelch of your slick walls responding. “So wet for me. That’s my good girl. You like gettin’ off to being mine, huh, angel?”

You nod, head lolling against the window, and Eddie grins wicked even though you can’t see it. “Come on. Show me whose pussy this is.”

When his hand snakes between your bodies to press against your clit with his thumb, you come with a long, strained whimper, ankles crossing at the small of Eddie’s back to draw him closer while the velvet walls of your cunt spasm.

Eddie’s free hand shoots out to the supporting wood arch of the window for stability as he angles his hips up, longing for that glossy honey-eyed look you get sometimes: and there it is, your eyes half-lidded and brow pinched in pleasure as his cock hits against that gummy spot, the tremble of your thighs locked around his waist as your orgasm peaks.

Once he’s fucked you through the height of it, Eddie dips to bite at the taut muscle where your neck and shoulder meet, clamping down on the words threatening to flood out as his hips stutter. He comes hard, deep groan muffled into your neck, curses and praises spilling out in mindless babbling: “Fuck fuck, angel, that’s it, honey, shit, you’re so wet. All for me, huh, baby? Doin’ so good…”

He sags into your arms, pinning you to the window, chests heaving in tandem as you both catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, towards his ass, and then to the edge of his pants.

When he realizes that you’re trying to tuck him back into his clothes he whines at you, but you’re quick to shush him. “We’re cuttin’ it close with timing already, Eds. Help me out?”

Reluctantly, Eddie pulls away from the wet warmth of you to re-dress. Once his belt is in place he attends to you, helping shift the hem of your dress back down, rubbing his finger lightly under the skin of your eye where some mascara had smudged.

“I’ll double back for the keys and we’ll go home, ‘kay?” Eddie says, nose nudging into your cheek. “Wait here. You got some wicked marks and everyone will know we just fucked.”

“Pfft. No they won’t. Who would actually fuck in a church?” You push Eddie back playfully, hopping down from the sill with a wink. “You’ve gotta be sick to do that. Good thing my family believes you to be a perfect goody-two-shoes.”

Eddie stares as you make for the doors back to the courtyard, shrugging off his incredulity- “Eddie. It’s fine. So they’ll think we made out a bit. Who cares? Not me. And plus…” here you trail off and point, mischievous, Eddie’s eye’s following the line to his sock feet- “...you kinda have a no-shoes situation goin’ on. Gotta fix that.”

When you disappear through the doors, Eddie slams a palm to his chest, in awe- then feels the outline of the lighter in his inner pocket. With a practiced twist, he has it out and lit in a second, holding the flame to the wick of a votive candle.

“I don’t know how these candles work, exactly, or if atheists are allowed to…” Eddie clears his throat, glances over his shoulder to confirm you’re still out of earshot, then whispers above the flickering light: “Please let this be real life and not just some high-fueled fantasy because this is kind of huge for me. Okay thanks. Amen, or whatever.”

Eddie blows out the candle like it’s a birthday wish then hurries to catch up with you, sock feet silent against the wood floor as he calls out your name- “Slow down and have a heart, babe, I’ve got no grip!”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #weed mention #tw weed

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sketchy-tour · 4 months

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ALRIGHTY! Time to formally reintroduce yall to my silly idiot OC Dandy!

and by that I mean, I redid their ref art, tweaked their bio, and finally made a ref for their stupid pajamas! Wanted to do other fits for them but aa another time. Brain is mashed potatoes.

Anyway, Dandy is my silly WH oc who's main theme is self care/self love messages shown through the imagery of gardening! Meant to be a sort of "garden of the self" sort of deal. They go by ANY PRONOUNS! She/her or He/Him, or They/Them are all correct and okay to use when talking about them! (I just tend to default to they/them) Putting their full bio under the break!!! So you can read it all there!

"Resident gardener of Welcome Home, Dandy Leon is a curious but careful presence among the others in the neighborhood. They enjoy the quiet and spending their time tending to their various flowers. While a little shy around their fellow neighbors, they open up quickly when asked about their garden. Despite their more introverted disposition, they're always determined to make every day just dandy!"

It’s presumed that Dandy makes appearances only in the later episodes of the show’s run. But in old scripts found with them, it's shown that they moved to Home specifically because they were interested in the local plant life there. The episode that featured their move in seemed to focus on them slowly warming up to the others in the neighborhood, as their shy nature made it difficult for them to properly meet everyone. When asked as to where they lived before moving to Home, Dandy mentions living in a farm town far away, simply deeming it "far more south from here!" A lot of their dialogue also mentions their father, though he's never named but instead mentioned passively as Dandy would often use phrases like "Well it's like my pop always said-" when speaking to the other puppets.

During their short time on the show, Dandy's segments seemed focused on care for their garden, the language hinting that the flowers were more a metaphor for taking care of oneself and well being. Other characters can be found pointing out how much better Dandy’s garden looks when they’re feeling happy, but also comment how wilted it becomes when they’re shown to be a bit more downtrodden. They feel strongly about how important it is to be kind to yourself, even if it’s a skill they’re shown to still be working on themselves. Their confidence is something they also struggle with, seemingly a character meant for shyer audience members to attach to and grow alongside with. Dandy is often depicted in illustrations with Frank, getting along quite well in the show, often joining him and Julie on small escapades. Before the show's end however, most of Dandy's screen time is with Wally as he tries to get Dandy out of their shell more to spend time around others.

Interestingly, what pronouns were used for them seemed to change between the show's episodes and illustrated materials. While neighbors would refer to them as 'he' during the show, most art pieces seemed to refer to Dandy as a 'she'. Whether this was simply a miscommunication between teams or a printing error is unknown.

#welcome home #welcome home puppet show #welcome home arg #welcome home oc #welcome home original character #dandy leon #my art #PHEW! Been chipping away at this for a few days now!#Wish I could redo the cute sketch pages I did with dandy's old ref but that is...a lot of time and a lot of effort i do not have right now #oh well! I'll leave those with the old art #I think thats okay #Dandy is slowly becoming less rOUND AAklfdjkdfsdf #STYLE PROGRESSION! Had to get used to the new ref art I made and had a small moment where I worried I lost their old charm #but here we are! Fuck it we ball! I put this much effort into the new art #Dandy was GONNA also get phone art but DESIGNING A PHONE IS HARD #also just...something I will do another day aha

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sabertoothwalrus · 11 days

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OK PREFACING WITH IM SORRY IF I ALREADY SENT THIS EXACT ASK BUT MY WIFI KILLED ITSSLF AS I SENT IT SO IDK IF IT ACTUALLY WENT THROUGH. but in case it didn’t . i know youve gotten this countless times in the past because i blog stalked just in case youve mentioned something similar before but i need to know if you have any specific inspirations when you draw exaggerated expressions specifically like these two images of marcille. ive actually cried laughing over this comic and being able to communicate this type of visceral emotion is such an insane skill and ive followed your art for probably close to a decade through various fandoms so watching you develop this style has been fucking awesome and epic. like i cannot articulate how funny these are to me i just need you to understand i look at this comic to inspire me to draw now. the closest comparison i can draw to the feelings they evoke are like those mspaint reaction images and also mspaint tails i included for reference even though you probably know exactly what im talking about anyways but its actually so much harder to do that intentionally when you study art. also i lied you literally don’t even need to answer this i just had to let you know how obsessed i am over your silly comics and now ive written out a whole ass discussion post about it. im sorry if this is weird at all i think my daily prescribed amphetamines r wearing off and i know this is such a dumb specific thing to fixate on and im so sorry if its not something you want to hear about your art. ive just always seen that as an artist this type of expressive stupid silly style is something that comes after a significant amount of time and practice and study and style development despite being “simple” in theory. its just so cool to have worked with your own style so much that youre able to go “off model” from it and still maintain consistency with the rest of the piece. i said it already and im sorry this is actually rendundant now but the ability to communicate such raw emotion somehow decreases from at its height when someone is a beginner artist learning how to proportion and keep a steady line and what looks “normal” but somehow it all comes full circle because taking all that experience and using it to almost return to where you started but in a fully informed and intentional way so you can make choices to draw characters like this when the situation calls for it is just dhcidogakgoshfhw. i think i need to cut myself off or im going to talk in circles im sorry tumblr user sabertoothwalrus i just am fascinated by your style and progress and the years you’ve dedicated to art can be seen in so many places but this is just one that stands out to me specifically.

MMMMM what a fun question!!!

I'm not gonna lie, I think it's just Letting A Drawing Be Bad. I definitely think the people that struggle with this the most are people who have genuinely very pretty art styles, to the point of being kind of perfectionist about it. and to Draw Funny often means Drawing Fast and Weird. Pretty is kind of the antithesis of funny (unless being pretty is the punchline). do drawings that make yourself laugh. tracing/lining funny sketches almost always makes them less funny.

one of my favorite types of humor is when it skews more deadpan, actually. This is one of the reasons I love Adventure Time. minimal expressions and flat line delivery + absurd context is a really good combo. the key to comedy has more to do with contrast! if your drawings are allllll crazy ren & stimpy all the time, they're not funny anymore cause it's just "normal". if it's all subdued UNTIL it's extreme, and vice versa, then it's funny. The reason this comic is so funny is because of the complete lack of any expression. I feel like the one you sent of Marcille shouting "WHAT" is funnier when you know how much she tries to be dainty and feminine and delicate, how much she values her appearance, and how averse she is to "gross" or "weird" things.

something I find really annoying (and this is with comics/animation in general, not the expressions themselves) is when the joke goes on for too long. Like you'll have the joke, then the punchline, and THEN the characters reacting to the punchline??? Like the author didn't trust that their audience would find the joke funny, so they basically drew in a laugh track. But, this is distinct from a character's reaction being the punchline (like how the examples you gave from my Marcille comic are). MY POINT IS sometimes expressions aren't as funny on their own as you think, and context can affect how you feel about it!

as far as inspirations go!

my own face! even if I don't have a mirror, I like making the expressions myself so I can "feel" where the points of tension on my face are, and it gives me a sense of what to exaggerate.

my brother's art, believe it or not! we've been trying to make each other laugh with our drawings since we were kids, and he's really good at it.

ATLA has some great expressions

OK KO has been a reallyyyy good source for me lately. That show is so tailored to my sense of humor and the expressions and line deliveries feel exactly like the kinds of things I'd come up with. The tone, timing, and art style are all really close to the tv show pitch I'm working on, so when I feel like I've "strayed" too much from it (like after drawing a bunch of dungeon meshi, and my art feels tighter and... idk "manga-ier"?) I like to go and watch a couple episodes of OK KO to loosen back up

A lot of things like OG Spongebob, Calvin & Hobbes, the Simpsons, Chowder, etc etc

memes in general. if it makes you laugh, keep it in mind

and lastly, I wouldn't say I ever try to mimic funny expressions I see. Like if I watch a show for inspo, I'm not pausing it to copy specific drawings, I'm just trying to notice patterns and pay attention to what about it I find funny.

talking about being funny is really bizarre and I dunno if it makes it lose some of the magic. Ultimately it's something you can't think about too much, and just gotta go with your gut.

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sky-kiss · 7 months

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Imagine Raphael giving you to Haarlep to cycle between edging and overstim for a day + aftercare. The next day Raphael puts you in suspension bondage and occasionally walks up while he is reading to play with your still raw and over sensitive clit/cock.

Plucking, stroking, teasing until your voice breaks. Then he walks away, licking his fingers.

A/N: I MEAN. HERE’S THE THING. Nothing I write is going to be able to touch that. But I will try. Hopefully you like it. Hiding sin under gif.

Raph x Haarlep x Reader (GN): HAHA I'M IN DANGER

___

He gives you to Haarlep to "rest."

Of course, he smiles as he says it, eyes glittering specks of hellfire. He waves you away with a small smile and a pat on the ass. Raphael's good little toy, obedient and deserving a touch of kindness after hours at the devil's mercy. Every muscle in your body aches in the most delicious way, fingerprints emblazoned across your hips, shallow abrasions across your belly. Your throat is a ruin of kiss-sucked bruises. Precisely how he likes you, his pretty canvas.

But you're tired. You need the rest. Haarlep coos to you, hands feathering over your hair. They touch and tease, massaging out the aching muscles in your lower back. The incubus always promises you the sweetest things, a whisper of affection as they settle between your thighs.

It's "rest" only in the loosest sense of the word. You whine, hands clenching in the sheets. Sometimes, it's their mouth on you. It's an irresistible game, building you to a dizzying high only to pull back and leaving you wanting and cold. Up and up until you're left raw, a live wire sparking in the overheated air. You beg them to let you come.

Haarlep always agrees. But a devil's acquiescence is rarely without cost. They stuff you full of cock, riding you until you're too hoarse to scream. They order you to come for them, laughing, bright, loud, and cruel. A hand fists in your hair, turning your face into the mattress.

"Oh, my love, you asked for this, no?" He leans over you, licking up your spine. "Begged to come. Called me cruel! Wicked Haarlep!" You whimper. His right-hand snakes around your throat, squeezing and pulling you back against his chest. The incubus nips the shell of your ear, dragging the lobe between his teeth. "Scream for me, won't you? You can still do that much."

You try. They make sure you try. But Haarlep is an industrious creature capable of making their own entertainment. After they've come, they flip you onto your back, moving you like their little doll. It's back to teeth and tongue, licking his mess clean, stroking you. It's too much. Pleasure and heat, spiraling until you think you'll black out.

And the sweetest thing is that whenever you awaken, Haarlep is there, still toying with your body—building and breaking, building and breaking, over and over.

One of them must hang you. You don't remember, blissed out, boneless. Raphael loves to display you like this: hanging near his desk, an art piece to observe at his leisure. The chains chafe a little, but you know that irritation will be dealt with after. For now, you enjoy the reprieve. There are no hands on you for the first time in what feels like days.

"Did you enjoy your reprieve, mouse?" Raphael smiles at you, almost gentle, almost fond. There are so many possibilities, and your brain is too addled to parse any of them. He leans back in his seat, hands folded over his belly. "Haarlep lamented your performance. Uninspired, they called it." The cambion chuckles at this, humming. "But the results."

He holds his arms out wide, smirking. Yes, the results- your ruination. Your head sags forward, chin resting on your chest. Raphael crosses the room, hooking a finger under your chin. The devil groans, kissing you deeply. His tongue presses past the seam of your lips, tasting you, dancing but not demanding.

A contrast to the way he touches you. He doesn't build you to an orgasm; he wrenches it from your exhausted body, the touch stinging against your overstimulated flesh. You whimper into his mouth, twisting to take more, to get closer, to relieve the pressure in your wrists. He tuts. Raphael kisses your nose, your chin, your mouth.

"Now, now, you know the game, mouse. Be very good, and we'll let you down early. For now…relax. Simple…be yourself."

He pats your stomach and returns to his reading, brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.

#bg3 raphael #haarlep #raphael x reader #haarlep x reader #raphael x tav #asks #bg3 smut #That's the last one for the day #will do the other prompts tomorrow #thank you all

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whoishotteranimepolls · 22 days

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I've been waiting to respond since you made that post mocking us for wanting problematic characters banned from your polls because apparently you are not taking legitimate criticism of anime seriously. Because it is full of poor representation of minorities and lgbtq+ and you and all of your followers are laughing about it like it's nothing.

I will start with Yamato because everyone acts like one piece even though it's so full of misogyny. Having a trans character is amazing when I don't even think Yamato is actually trans. I'm pretty sure it's a translation error and everyone has latched on to it. So again that is not good representation if it's not confirmed representation and even if it was confirmed, it's not good representation. Yamato because of the one piece art style by default Yamato is full-blown a fetishization of trans people because all one piece characters if they are drawn, female presenting are drawn like sex dolls. So unless they go through an actual gender transition and not just a pronoun change. There cannot be good representation with Yamato because Yamato is a fetish, not a fully fleshed out character. I mean to boil it all down. I don't think the author is capable of having any good lgbtq+ representation one piece is just not a sophisticated enough story and the characters are just too shallow for that to be possible

Bleach did a similar thing with Yoruichi acting like it was so amazing to have a character of color and she is supposedly bisexual but she's just waifu bait and it reeks of misogyny and fetishization of BIPOC. She's a furry to top it all off. It doesn't help that the bunny chick from my hero is basically the new gen version of the same character, but at least she is disabled too. So at least they tried to do something with her character other than waifu bait

So I would like to know why every character I've seen promoted as great representation in anime for either the BIPOC or LGBTQ+ communities seem to only be horribly fetishized, useless, waifu bait. Not actually a good character.

And even when Japan is dealing with its own ethnic minorities and indigenous populations it still does a horrible job by playing into the Noble Savage stereotype Hollywood likes to play into. Have you not seen the anime Golden Kamuy? It's about Japan's own first Nations tribe and it's So disrespectful to that. I swear they could not have had a single person from Hokkaido, much less a member of the actual Ainu people involved in the creation of that anime or manga. And yet I've seen so many people brag about that anime and manga and how it's so good for diversity. When again, every single Ainu character acts like a bad native American stereotype from like a 1950s American Hollywood western. It's that bad and don't get me started on the fan service in that show. It's at a level that could be considered exploitative but it's okay. Some of the characters might be gay so it's representation. To top it all off it reinforces white colonial beauty standards because the main Ainu character is specially because she's half white and has blue eyes like her white dad and she talks about how she's going to be a new kind of better Ainu for the future because she's white passing. That show is a reductive racist dumpster fire and I can't believe anyone says otherwise.

But you said you won't ban characters unless the fandom becomes too toxic. But you really should consider looking out for the LGBTQ+ and BIPOC communities by not promoting toxic problematic characters and actually banning these toxic problematic characters and shows

Fandoms vs Illiteracy #1

Feel free to critique the essay but not the person nor the person's intelligence. Do not call names, degrade the person, or personally attack them in any way. The purpose of this series is to critique/analyze the arguments contained in the essays.

For those unfamiliar with the characters mentioned, here are pictures. The names are in the alt text.

And here's one of the promotional images for season 2 of Golden Kamuy

So now that everyone is a little bit more familiar with everything mentioned in the essay and knows the rules, feel free to do your own research and respond.

#fandoms vs illiteracy #fandoms and media literacy #yamato #one piece #yoruichi shihouin #bleach #rabbit hero: mirko #rumi usagiyama #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #golden kamuy #whoishotteranimepolls

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bones4thecats · 1 month

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Their S/O Is A Slayer's Ancestor

Type of Writing: Random Idea Name: Their S/O Is A Slayer's Ancestor Characters: Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza, and Gyutaro Idea-Giver: Random Thoughts

A/N: Because the reader is placed in a ranking of another character's, the others moons are pushed down a rank, with Gyutaro and Daki being uppermoon 7 in each part. This may not be my best piece, but I do hope you guys enjoy it! Have a great rest of your days/nights!

⚠️ TW: Slight swearing, mentions of death, violent actions, and gore ⚠️

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

Uppermoon 2! Reader ; Ancestor to Himejima Gyomei

🌘 These damned crows were starting to annoy you more than anything ever

🌘 Hearing the constant croaks of the birds was only pressuring you to the point of using your blood demon art - which was to create boulders of different sizes and masses - smashing at someone, to the max

🌘 But now with these slayers coming in from all corners, and with them now attacking at full-strength, Kokushibo was even becoming annoyed at them

🌘 And the certain duo that were attacking you just glared and let out a large amount of swears, much to your agitation

🌘 Though, the larger-built hashira seemed familiar

" Himejima-Sensei! Boulder on your left! "

🌘 Himejima…? He's… he can’' be…

🌘 You then froze in place as memories began to wash over your brain, though the faces of the males and females were all blurry except for one… a young baby with gorgeous black hair, he looked so similar to him… because he as a part of his lineage

" Himejima…? You can't be… " " What shit-stained nonsense are you spilling from your mouth, demon?! " " You’re my boy descendant's kin, aren't you? "

🌘 Gyomei froze in place as Kokushibo stood beside you with his sword drawn and ready for any incoming attack from the other three slayers

" Gyomei… you're related to that thing?! " " You- you're Y/N L/N? "

🌘 Well… this just got awkward

Uppermoon 3! Reader ; Ancestor to the Kocho Sisters

🧊 You sat as the wind flowed through your hair, sending the long locks in the direction of the sakura trees, a frustrated expression laid on your face as your spouse walked through the doors

" My love? Why are you still sitting there? The sun will be rising soon, we wouldn't want you burning alive, now would we? " " Douma… is it true you killed the Flower Hashira today? "

🧊 Looking at you with slightly widened eyes, Douma chuckled and rubbed his neck

" Well- I mean, yes. Why, love? "

🧊 Standing up, your large black butterfly wings spread out as your kimono began to rapidly flow in the sudden burst of wind caused by your anger

" You killed my descendant, you insolent moron! Can you not use your brain for a few seconds before killing a woman?! Good gods! "

🧊 Douma stared at you in shock, you had never been so mad at someone - well, other than Gyokko when he dared to call your care for your deceased and ongoing family line to be disgusting

🧊 He held his head down as his heart squeezed lightly in his chest

🧊 How could he have not seen the slight similarities, the long hair style, the similar eyes, hell, the girl even had a similar ability; controlling something nature related

" Y/N, I am sorry for not thinking more. But, please understand, she was going to kill me then you! I cannot let anything harm the one being I have ever felt for throughout my centuries of life. "

🧊 Nodding lightly as the wind calmed and vines receded down into the ground, you buried your face into the second uppermoon's chest as he cooed and hugged you

🧊 If only you knew what awaited you both years later…

Uppermoon 4! Reader ; Ancestor to Insouke Hashibira

❄️ Akaza was starting to get worried, he had been searching for you for hours. The last he had seen of you, you had argued with Douma, resulting in him cutting your eye, making you scream and run off in anger and terror

❄️ As he flung himself through the trees of the nearby forest and landing on the ground, Akaza began to hear a melody being sung

" As a souvenir from her hometown, what did she give you? A toy drum and a small bamboo flute. "

❄️ He noticed that you were singing while looking down at a small gravestone, engraved into it was a name he was far from familiar with, at least from a distance

❄️ As he got closer, the letters became more familiar; Kotoha Hashibira - Loving mother and outstanding daughter of M/N and F/N Hashibira, granddaughter of M/N and F/N L/N, and Great-granddaughter of M/N and Y/N L/N

❄️ His eyes widened; this woman was your great-granddaughter, but why were you crying over her, and how did you remember her so well? You have been a demon for quite a while, maybe around 80 or so years now, and memories normally go away after mere hours

❄️ Your sobs were hurting his heart, and as he stepped closer, he began to hum the melody as you continued to sing, your tears falling into the ground as you finished for the fourth time

" Why did that bastard have to harm her? She did nothing wrong… " " Did one of the moons kill her, love? " " Douma… he just- he killed her without giving her the chance of running away with him… Inosuke. " " Inosuke? " " Her son. She had thrown him down a cliff and into water, but- I don’t know if he survived or not… he’d be sixteen now if he did. Oh lord, I hope he lived. "

❄️ Looking down at the stone and back at you, he ran to the field and grabbed a flower before putting it into your hair as you cried into his shoulder

❄️ He was going to have to speak to Douma later. That guy needs to explain his doings in more detail.

Uppermoon 3! Reader ; Ancestor to Kyojuro Rengoku

🩸 The sounds of grunts and screams were echoing throughout the Infinity Castle, alarming every inhabitant besides Muzan Kibutsuji, who knew what was going on, he always kept tabs on his subjects

🩸 Gyutaro looked up in shock as he heard a door open and a loud crash, and as he looked up, he noticed that Daki was staring in shock as you stood there, your eyebrows furrowed as your yellow and red hair flared up in flames

🩸 Looking to his right he saw Akaza, the man a rank below you in uppermoon 4, and he could tell just from a glance how bloodied he was, after all, there were cuts and holes gushing blood throughout his frame

🩸 This was even to much for Gyutaro to look at

" You killed him, you sick fucker! " " Who in the world are you talking about, Y/N?! " " You killed Kyojuro! He was my descendant, you shithead! He was supposed to fight me, not your pink-haired ass! "

🩸 The rest of the moons who were summoned there watched as you grabbed Akaza and burned him with your Blood Demon Art, and they could all tell you were beyond speaking to

🩸 Only Muzan was capable of calming you in this situation - well, him and Gyutaro, but he was getting more nervous with every passing second

🩸 You eventually let Akaza go and allow your flame-coded hair to fall back down as your anger began to subside, allowing the uppermoon to stand up and start healing himself as you just stared at him blankly

" If you ever dare lay your hands on any Rengoku member again, I will not stop burning you until you become a pile of ash and blood, like the hand you left in Kyojuro's stomach. Understood, Akaza? " " Understood, Rengoku-sama. " " Good. "

🩸 You then walked away and wrapped your arms around Gyutaro's extremely malnutritioned form, a small amount of warmth radiating off of your body from the previous rage

🩸 Gyutaro sighed and hugged you back, knowing his comfort was beyond yours right now. Your rage was far scarier than Muzan's - well, it was close to it, but still!

🩸 You merely hummed and asked Nakime to send you both back to your selected room in the Castle, and the other moons noticed how shaky she was when striking the cord on her biwa to send you away

🩸 Thank goodness he was in the Entertainment District at the time of this Kyojuro guy's death, he didn't wanna be on the other end of his lover's anger. That wouldn't be the best for the poor guy

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moiraimyths · 3 months

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Howdy, fateful friends! Are you an artist or illustrator with an interest in visual novels?

If so: Moirai Myths, creators of the visual novel The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe), are in need of guest artists! More specifically, we're looking for up to two artists to help us with the content graphics ("CGs") for Maeve and Shae's upcoming routes. All of the details will be listed on our application form (linked below), but here is the gist:

This is paid work with 20-30 business day deadlines per piece!

Complicated revisions in the post-sketch phase are compensated!

You will be prioritized for future guest artist opportunities!

You will be featured/credited on Moirai Myths' website and in the game itself!

Sound interesting? If so, apply here:

Click under the cut for some F&Q 👇

Who are you? (I'm new here!)

Hi! We're Moirai Myths: a small, newish visual novel company based out of Canada. We're making a game inspired by mostly Irish mythology, which was funded on Kickstarter in 2023! Our game's got fairy politics, a diverse cast, a Gaeilge-to-English translation tool, and routes that can be played either romantically or platonically! Also horses. An ungodly amount of horses, really.

If that odd pitch sounded intriguing, perhaps you'd like to play our demo! It's free on Steam & Itch.io.

Why are you looking for guest artists?

When we originally launched our Kickstarter, the plan was to have our three in-house artists collaborate on the CGs in the same way our header image was. However, we quickly realized that adding CGs, even if they're done collaboratively, onto the existing duties of our artists was a tall order. Add to that the departure of our original sprite artist (who has since been replaced by our graphic designer), and we determined that having our in-house team work on CGs was simply not possible if we still wanted our first release to happen in 2024. So, rather than omitting CGs or adding them in at a later time, we came up with the idea of hiring guest artists. Overall this means our CGs will be a bit more varied in terms of art style, but we like to think of this as a positive! NDM's development will take a number of years to complete in full, so we hope our CGs will allow us to feature a lot of artists either within the VN/indie dev community already, or artists who aspire to work in gaming and are looking for entry positions.

How long will applications remain open for?

This application will be open until Sunday, March 24 at midnight (EST)! If we intend to extend past that deadline, we'll make an announcement about it.

I can't apply right now. Will you look for more CG guest artists in the future?

Definitely! As mentioned, NDM will take a while to develop in full, so this is by no means your only opportunity to apply. That being said, we suspect we're going to end up shortlisting a number of artists over the course of this application period, and we intend to keep a list of all the runners-up. So, even if you won't be able to participate this time, it might be a good idea to apply anyway just to remain in our contacts! Either way, this will not be the last time we have apps.

Will you be looking for guest artists outside of CGs?

Maybe! We already have two guest artists (Nefukurou and Madi Funk) working on sprites and CGs respectively, so it's always possible that we'll have other artistic needs later down the line. Likewise, we may also reach out to past guest artists for future work with us, whether it's on this game or something else!

You say we need to sign an NDA. What does that entail?

The non-disclosure agreement essentially means you will be legally unable to publicly disclose any confidential information you become privy to as a result of working with us. This would include personal information about the developers, as well as spoilers from the game itself. In addition do this, you will be expected to sign over the IP and copyright of any artworks you produce for us.

Can I still use my artworks in portfolios, even if I don't own the copyright?

Yes! We'd only ask, if your portfolio is a website, that you wait to do so until after your art has been made public by us, either on our social media or via the publication of the game. Our first release is anticipated to happen later this year, most likely mid-autumn.

How do you guys feel about AI? Do you intend to use it, or would you ever train an AI off of the artworks whose copyright you own?

No.

Making a game is expensive and time-consuming, but AI is no replacement for human artistry. We fundamentally believe that any advancements in AI should be used for the purpose of giving people more time to make art, not take away opportunities for it. Moirai Myths will never, ever use AI or train an AI off your work.

***

If you've got any more questions for us that we didn't think to include here, feel free to send us an ask!

#the good people #na daoine maithe #ndm #visual novel #interactive fiction #otome #english otome #amare #amare game #visual story #visual storytelling #romance game #otome romance #romance visual novel #dating game #dating sim #moirai myths

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bookshelfdreams · 5 months

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ofmd wasn't "profitable" enough but I didn't even get the feeling hbo wanted to make money off of it. They didn't promote it when s1 dropped, and the promo for s2 was erratic at best. They don't sell merch. Or physical copies. There's no bts documentaries other than what actors (shoutout to Samba ilu) make themselves in their spare time.

It took more than a full year for me to be able to watch s1 legally! I still can't access s2 legally anywhere! It's not that ofmd is unprofitable, it's that hbo refuses to profit off of it, because - well, because profiting off of it would mean investing work and money into it.

And like. Of course, when you compare it to the juggernauts hbo holds rights to, like GoT, ofmd is small fishes. But.

How on earth do these clowns think cult classics happen?

A Game of Thrones was first published in 1996 and didn't make it on the NYT beststeller list until 2011. The first edition of the first Harry Potter book was 500 pieces. And yeah, TV shows are different, but if you look at today's media landscape, would things like Star Trek, or Buffy, or Doctor Who stand the slightest chance? These things take time, is my point. A piece of media doesn't become a massively profitable, beloved classic over night. It takes time and effort to build that kind of franchise.

And the thing is! Nobody who makes these decisions even likes stories. I'm convinced that whoever is in charge at hbo, at amazon prime, even at disney, thinks storytelling is dumb and for idiots. They think it's enough to just slap the name of something people love on whatever garbage they spit out, for it to be profitable. They think it's the brand that sells: Look this has "Lord of the Rings" on it! Look, this one has "Game of Thrones", you like Game of Thrones don't you? Watch my show, boy.

But this isn't how this works. It's not the name that sells (unless, I suppose, you're the MCU, and even there one gets the impression the trick is finally stopping to work), especially not when the product is bad. People aren't idiots.

But it's not about making something good. It's not about making a meaningful piece of art, or telling an engaging story. ofmd served its purpose; it drew in all the subscribers it ever would, so there's no point in letting it go on. Even in the s2 that we did get, this is evident: the penny pinching is palpable, it's clear that the studio didn't want to spend any more money than absolutely necessary on it, and then cut the budget by 40%.

It's not about art. It never has been.

And it's not even about profit, because to be profitable eventually, stories have to be allowed to thrive first. You tell a good story first, and success happens later, often much, much later.

And ofmd was incredibly, astonishingly successful. It was the most in-demand series for weeks after the s1 finale. But even that wasn't enough, it's never enough, ofmd could have made record-setting profits and it still would have been cancelled, because -

Well, I don't know. Because we live in a bad time for art. Because Orwell was right, and stories have become commodities, like shoelaces. Because. Well. It's not about telling a story, is it?

What's the point of a story? What's the point of making something for the joy of making it? What's the point of a piece of art, existing, if it cannot be transferred into numbers for the stockholders?

idk how to end this. I hope David Jenkins finishes the story he wanted to tell, even if just for himself. I hope, against all odds, that weird, fun, heartfelt, beautiful little stories like ofmd continue to happen.

But goddammit.

#i knew this would happen but im still devastated #& i think the reason for that is. if not even something as inconsequential and silly as a fun little pirate romcom is allowed to exist #fuck #anyway ik its not that important but sometimes one just has to rant #our flag means death #thoughts

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divineidolatry · 4 months

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CONSTANTLY IN THE DARKNESS — CHAPTER TWO

— written by june.

pairing: coriolanus snow x reader*

rating: explicit (18+) — mind the tags, see masterlist for disclaimers

summary: against your wishes, you call the curtain on your relationship with coriolanus snow and walk out of his life for good. against your wishes, he waltzes back in like nothing's changed.

tags: exes to lovers, it's complicated, slow burn but they're constantly fucking, manipulation, toxic relationship, power play, unprotected sex, bdsm, dom!coriolanus, sub!reader, edging, overstimulation, orgasm denial, spit kink, bondage, pearl play, choking, shoe riding, degradation, dirty talk, brat taming, penetrative sex (piv), aftercare

taglist: comment on the masterlist to be added to the taglist.

wordcount: 6,747

index: previous chapter

Coryo, ever good at playing the gentleman, gets out first and offers you a hand, which you take gratefully. It’s comforting, being able to lean on him for stability as you cross the pristine and empty lobby to the elevator. It’s all familiar. Nothing has changed. Even the staff remembers your name. It’s like you never left.

He puts a hand over yours, looking at you with that cool expression of his that you know so well, full of poise and elegance, but there is an unmistakable pull in the air between you. The elevator doors open and he bows his head to the neighbors coming out, exchanging a brief pleasantry, and you put on a pleasant face. Part of you wants him to see you still hold the value you promised: perfect at his side, controlled to the very end.

When the elevator doors slide shut and the gears begin pulling it up, he releases a sigh and pushes you up against the gilded walls, hand dropping down to your hips.

“I missed the scent of your perfume in here,” he whispers in your ear, and it’s hard to trust him, hard to believe he means any sweetness he says — but what’s the harm? He buries his nose under your ear and inhales deep, his breath hot and humid against your skin.

You swallow, licking your lips, watching the floors pass by. 10, 11…

“I missed the scent of you.” His lips graze your earlobe and you can’t hold it back anymore — you missed this, you missed him, you missed his skin pressed to yours, his touch. You moan, and as the elevator slows down as it gets to his floor, you feel him smile against your neck.

The board is all his.

He wastes no time scooping you up to carry you to the bedroom, tossing your fur shawl off to the side somewhere between entrance and bedroom. Setting you down on his bed, he pauses for a moment, looking at you like he has discovered a piece of priceless art thought to be lost to time. You stare back, pulse quick, blinking too much, wondering when the bubble will burst. This is delicate, too delicate, you were supposed to be clashing, ripping clothing off one another, begging for release — and instead there’s a tender fondness lurking in the room, offsetting your balance.

“Coriolanus…” Your voice is barely more than a breath. He stiffens a little, annoyed that you’d dare disrupt his reverie.

And that’s the thing. Even though you are here, there is that tug in your heart that nothing has truly been resolved. You’re just a moth to the flame, likely to get burned.

You squirm under his gaze, wanting him to take you, touch you, tease you, anything. Instead, he just looks you over, inch by inch, his eyes roving and hungry. The fire in him is rising and you tremble, eager to be consumed, and you part your lips a little, wetting them. It catches his eyes and he comes closer, leaning over you toy with the pearls on the gown’s bodice. He tugs a little on them, not bothering to look up at you.

What game is he getting at now?

“Stay still.”

Ah, there it is. The command in his voice, something sharp entering his gaze. A terrible and pleasant shiver passes through you, your body knowing what’s coming before your mind catches up.

He pulls a butterfly knife out from his coat pocket, flicking it against the pearls of your dress, tearing them off and ruining the design. You pout, but he gently traces the knife along the velvet, cutting at the straps, his brow furrowed with intense focus. This is simply meant to debase you, to ruin you, to claim you. And when he pulls up your skirt, he will find you soaking through the silk and lace of your lingerie.

“Coryo…” Your whine brings his eyes back to your face. He looks entirely unamused.

“You know better than that, doll.”

“I liked this dress, sir.” You are huffy and indignant, and you know what that does to him, how it irks him to have you pushing back. It’s easy to read on his face, how he wants nothing more than to lift you up, shove you against a wall, and put you in your place, you begging and blubbering all the while.

And it is exactly where you want to be.

“I know. Stand up.”

No more room for debate. You do as told, turning your back to him as he slices the knife through the ties of your bodice. The sensation of cool air touching your skin makes you whimper, and he presses himself to your backside, letting you bask in the heat of him, a taste of what’s to come.

The wet heat of his breath against the nape of your neck sends goosebumps down your arms, and he leans in to whisper in your ear.

“Do you remember your safe word, darling?”

You nod and he sighs. Is it relief? Is it joy? You aren’t quite sure, and he doesn’t let you linger on it before he turns you around and gives your ruined dress the gentlest of tugs, watching intently as your breasts spill out.

“There you are… starting to look like the slut you are.” His words are unforgving, and he smirks at the whine catching in your throat.

“Oh? Do you disagree? Good girls don’t usually give their exes fuck me eyes at a high society balls, or beg to be taken by them in the back of a car, now do they?” He sounds like a right prick, and you’ve never been more attracted to him in your life.

You shake your head, feeling the warm, salty sting of tears, and he steps close, pressing himself to you as he twists your chin upwards to lick at the wet trail running down your cheek.

“Crawling back to me like this, grinding against me like a common whore… just look at you.” He drags a hand up from your waist to grasp at your breast, pinching the nipple, appraising you in a way that has you pressing your thighs together, something he does not fail to note.

“I’d strip you bare now and give you exactly what you want if I were a better man.” His eyes flash cruel and dark, and he’s so dangerously beautiful like this. Like he wants to watch you turn to cinders in his hands if you’d let him — and you would. “But I don’t think you need that, no. You need to be debased. You need be used. Isn’t that right, darling?”

He wants you to admit it, beg for him to tease you, treat you like a whore, use and degrade you, and you are burning up with want for him to do exactly that.

You only hesitate for a moment before you nod, swallowing thickly. “Mhm. Please put me in my place, sir.”

He laughs at you, harsh and oppressive, but you can feel the growing hardness pressing against your lower belly. As easy as you are, he’s no better for when you drip ’sir’ from your lips like honey for his ego.

“Oh darling…” He runs a thumb over your kiss-swollen lower lip. “You can ask me much better than that. Remember, I’ve seen how low you’ll go to debase yourself for me, so let’s not play dumb, hmm?”

You swallow again and it feels like rocks. He has begun fondling your other breast, letting its weight feel some relief from the way he massages it, watching as your mouth goes agape when he toys with the nipple. Everything is betraying you, any argument you might make faltering in your head.

You close your eyes, jaw quaking with poorly contained need, an intense blush bleeding over your cheeks.

“Sir, I want you to treat me like the whore that I am. Please, punish and use me as you see fit, for I want nothing more than to serve as your slut.”

You sound so desperate and you hate how humiliating that is, but he steps back and pushes you back onto the bed, kneeling down to lift the hem of your dress and bunch it up around your waist.

“Let me see if your words hold any meaning,” he murmurs against the tender skin of your inner thigh. Like a starved man, he bends his head down and sucks at the gusset of your underwear, the sound so loud in your ears that you feel dizzy. It’s obscenely filthy, and you can feel his wet tongue through the soaked fabric, licking at the edges. When it makes contact with your skin, it feels like a bolt of electricity crackling through your nerves.

You lift a gloved hand to thread through his hair, holding him there and bucking into his mouth, stealing a moment of this. When he comes up, your hand falls away, surrendering to the dark and primal in his eyes.

“You’re soaked through, desperate, and what I give you still isn’t enough, mm?”

There’s a shred of defiance in you, and you cling to it like a weapon, leveraging it to egg him on. “I need more.”

He retrieves the knife from his pocket and trails it with a feather-light touch over your underwear. “Look,” he commands as he grabs one side, slicing the knife through, then repeats on the other, peeling the tattered garment away and throwing it to the side.

He sits back, smirking, smugly satisfied with himself. “Look at you. A fallen grace.” He shifts to the side, allowing you to look in the mirror across from his bed, and oh, you know what he means, you’ve seen the marble statues on show from the old world. Your ruined dress pools around your waist, tits hanging out, cunt dripping and accessible: there’s no other way to put it, he’s reduced you to a simple whore.

“You can dress yourself up in your finest, parade yourself around like the queen of high society, and charm the masses with your wit, but I know who you really are.”

Your eyes meet his, knowing he is watching your uneven breath, the minute movements of your body in response to his words. There is a cruel glint in his gaze as he continues to undo you with nothing more than his voice, the words dripping like honeyed poison from his lips.

“You’re nothing more than a greedy little girl who wants to be made to submit, to take cock in each and every hole until you forget yourself, to cum until you’re stupid and no one else in the world would want you… no one but me.”

He reaches down and cups a hand over your cunt, running a finger through all your slick, and there’s a twisted delight on his face.

“You’re dripping, darling. And I’ve barely touched you… what do you have to say for yourself?”

You writhe, bucking your hips against his hand only to find emptiness as he swiftly moves away, clicking his tongue at your greed.

“Ah, ah. Where are your manners?”

You hate him for it, the bastard, but he knows how to wring it from you. “Please, sir,” you whimper, clutching the bedsheets around you so hard you feel the nails tearing the fine fabric. “Please. Touch me. Spit on me. Do anything to me.”

You need him. You are under his thumb.

And he always knows what you want. For his cruel touch, you’d walk through any blaze — it’s the only thing that stirs you anymore, the only thing that feels real in this society of masks and charades.

Deep down, you hope that is what he sees in you too…

He pulls you off the bed and pushes your trembling body down on your knees. He sneers down at you with disdain, running a hand through your hair before he tugs at it to crane your neck up, causing you to let out a whining cry.

“What am I to do with such a filthy whore but use her for her intended purpose, right?”

You watch him, desperate with need. He releases your hair and slaps your cheek.

“You know when I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Do you think you can do that for me, hmm?”

You nod, thrilling at the touch even as it stings.

“Yes, sir.” You wince at how pathetic you sound.

“Good girl.” The words are a purr from his lips. “Now, I believe you know how to service me with that mouth. So show me what you’re best used for.”

Consumed with want as you are, you hastily undo his belt and unzip his trousers, licking the hard curve through his underwear. Your saliva hangs in thick strings between the fabric and your mouth, and he groans above you, fingers tightening in your hair. It spurns you on as you free his cock. You tongue at the tip, messy and wet, saliva already dripping down over your chin before taking it into your mouth, stabilizing yourself with a hand at his thigh. The hand in your hair softens its grip and he runs his fingers through your hair. You sigh around him, the touch so gentle, so pleasantly encouraging as you slowly take more of him in. His length and girth fills your mouth, and you push it as far back as you can take, and he lets out a hitched groan as you begin to bob your head at a languid but steady pace.

“That’s a good fucking girl.” His voice is low, heated. You’re already getting to him, and that’s good, but the praise gets to you too, leaving you whimpering around his cock and bucking your hips, wanting just a little touch, anything…

“You’re not really sucking like a proper whore though, are you?”

His other hand comes up to your hair and you feel his fingers comb through to establish a firm grip. You stutter a little, but pick up the pace, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him as deep as possible, relaxing your throat — if you just breathe a little deeper, maybe you can take him to the root, maybe…

“That’s it, that’s it, good little whore.”

And you can tell he means it by the laboured breathing. Your increased pace is met with him starting to thrust into your mouth, leaving you to choke and slobber around his cock, drooling and making a mess of yourself that drips down over your chin, spilling over your breasts. As you descend further to your place beneath him, you can tell he is doing the same, getting lost in the way he wants to take you, ravish you, own you. No role comes as easy as this to you — and he’s the one who could get you there with a snap of his fingers.

So you give him bite, just like when you first met. The slightest bit of teeth as he fucks your face, and you hear him moan shortly before he cums down your throat. You’ve surprised him, taken that from him, and it is a victory. Credit where it is due, however, he’s quick to pull out and let some of his cum hit your chest, turning you into an even worse mess. Even as you look more the part he wants you in, you can tell he is frustrated, and you’re thrilled to find out what comes next.

You watch — not without a little disappointed whine — him tuck himself back into his underwear, zip his trousers back up, and it isn’t long before he has a cruel grip at your chin.

“Open your mouth. Tongue out.”

He sounds furious and his expression leaves no room for doubt. You obey, and you know it’s coming before his cool saliva hits your tongue as he spits in your mouth.

“Close your mouth and swallow, cunt.”

You swallow, loudly, humiliatingly, and there’s tears welling in the corners of your eyes again, hot and shameful. You open it again without him asking, showing your clean tongue, showing how good you can be.

“Please, sir… I want to cum…”

He laughs at you. There are tears streaming down your face, you know he sees how desperate you are and all he does is stick the toe of his dress shoe against your cunt.

“If you want to cum, darling, you can rut against my shoe.”

You wish you had shame left, but he has ripped it clean out of you with how badly you need him. There’s no hesitation as you cling to his thigh, rocking your hips as you finally find an angle that has your swollen clit pressing against the smooth leather of his shoe, smearing the polished dark with your wetness. You’re close, you hate how close you are, rutting against his shoe, but the moans betray you, everything betrays you, and you look up to find him smirking down at you.

“You continue to impress me with how desperate you are for me. Your first orgasm of the night, and it’s going to be had clinging to my shoe like dirt.”

Sobbing, you rut harder, more desperate, because you need this. You need to cum, you need him to see you like this, pathetic with your need for him so that maybe he might take you, cruelty and all. You know he wants to, know he is as desperate as you from how he just came, he just wants you to play his games, debase yourself, and you’ve never had a problem with that before. The guilt of tonight only makes it sweeter.

“You’re close, aren’t you, whore?”

You nod, your body taut and trembling. “I’m so close, sir, please.”

And he denies you.

He pulls you up, your shaky legs made worse by the heels still on your feet, and he scoops you up to bring you over to his desk, plopping you down on it. The blubbery crying escalates, thick in your throat, vicious and demeaning. You were so damn close.

“Did you really think I’d let you?” He leans over you, grabbing your face. “You truly are a stupid brat.”

It’s a victory, you think, because he’s still upset you made him cum already, but it’s not a terribly sweet one all things considered.

“Stupid little whore thought she’d get to cum just like that?” He punctuates his words with gentle but firm slaps against your cheek, leaving the skin burning hot. “You’re the one who begged me to treat you like this. While you’re crying over that lost orgasm, remember all the ways you’ve debased yourself for me already. And yet you still think you have a say when you cum. Don’t be a fool. It doesn’t become you.”

You glare at him for that, pained from your need and furious for his words. He’s punishing you for leaving, you’re far too intelligent to miss that even at this stage and he knows as much.

He circles the desk where you are sat, seeming to think. The moment drags out, silent and unnerving, your sticky breasts cold in the chill air. It’s getting harder to predict his moves — and a part of you no longer wants to. You want him to wash over you with the ruthlessness of the ocean, drag you under into waves of pleasure. Anything his calculating mind concocts is a treat, however harsh it feels in the moment.

He nudges you into a standing up after a while, tugging your dress down and off, letting it pool around your feet. The gloves go with it, and now all you have on are heels that have become far too wobbly, and the pearl jewelry.

“Don’t move. Heels stay on for the night.”

Ah. You’ve played together like this before, he likes how they look on you and they act as their own sort of punishment, painful and demanding. He arranges you so that you sit straight up, hands splayed out on the dark wood surface on either side — and he makes you wait like that as he steps away to the drawers where he keeps his collection of tools and toys.

Looking around the room as you wait, you note little has changed; it’s as familiar as when you were sleeping here every night, spacious but well decorated, including touches you’d suggested to him. You figured he might have replaced certain things, things you were certain were just him entertaining your vision, but no, the room remains as much yours as it was his… It’s a strange feeling.

He stands before you again, snapping you out of your drifting thoughts as he sets a few things down on the desk behind you, and there’s a bit of an unreadable glint in his eyes. But it’s nothing good, it never is. He palms your breasts again, gaze focused on them as a smirk crosses his features.

“Sometimes I think I should fuck you up against a window so the entirety of the Capitol can see how gorgeous your breasts are, and know that they’re all mine.” He sounds serious, but as much as he would delight in everyone knowing how much he owned you, you knew he was far too possessive to ever let anyone else actually see you like that.

“But no matter, I can treat myself to an even better view, isn’t that right?”

It’s infuriating how smug he is, but you nod. He loves when you surrender to his judgement, accept your place with affirmations, reminding him just how much you want what he doles out.

He picks up a clover clamp, and as he pinches one of your nipples to attach the clamp you let out a whine. It pinches, it aches, and it’s going straight to your cunt, feeling so good and vicious all at once. He retrieves another, repeating the process, and then you see a tiny strand of pearls in his hand and at the center of it: a little weight. He loops one end into one of the clamps and you whimper pathetically as it tugs heavily at your nipple. The other end is attached and you want to cry, but refuse him the satisfaction, biting back.

“Now, I think a trade is in order.”

You don’t comprehend what he means until he reaches behind you to unclasp the double strand of pearls from your neck, pocketing it. You want to pull them back, they’re yours, he gave them to you, but you resist, pressing your palms down hard against the table. He’s pushing you, and you will snap… but not in this moment. You want him to put in the work.

He takes the last items from behind you into his hands, and pushes you back until you’re lying down on the desk. Circling you, he ties your wrists together in silk. It’s slippery and delicate, and you could break loose easily; it’s a test — of willingness? Loyalty? Weakness?

“You’re breathtaking.” It’s like a revelation from his lips, and far too emotional for you right now.

“Don’t—” Your protest is short lived as he puts his hand over your mouth, a warning.

“Do you want me to gag you too?”

When you shake your head, he releases you.

“I’ll say it again, then. You are breathtaking, always, and absolutely beautiful when you submit to me like this.” He is speaking softer, it’s a moment of vulnerability that kind of pisses you off, and on the other hand makes you want to sob. It’s unfair that he knows how to pull at you like this, knows just when to go so soft that it throws off your balance. It shouldn’t make you whimper and rub your legs together, but it does. His mask comes back up.

“Legs apart, slut.”

You don’t hesitate to do as you’re told now, watching with a held breath as he comes to stand between your legs. He sees the eager expectation on your face and quick as a flash, he slaps your cunt with a few light strokes, smiling wide as you cry out and try to press your legs together. He won’t let you.

“Ah ah. Not this time. You’re not getting away from this.”

Pulling the pearls, your pearls, from his pocket, he leans over you and runs them over your wet cunt, coating them in your slick. For a minute, he teases like this, lightly running them along your clit in fleeting touches, a brush of the smooth pearls and nothing more. You let out quiet moans, breathy little things, and he chuckles.

“You’re so filthy, do you know that?”

He takes the pearls and twists them until they encircle your clit, pushing on both sides to create pressure. It draws a ragged moan from you as you dig your nails into your palms, twisting in the soft silk ties.

Removing the pearls for a moment, he gives the weight connected to your nipple clamps a firm tug, leading to a keening wail from you, pulling it until you whimper and whine, your jaw quaking from how good and awful it feels.

He drops it back down on your tummy as if losing interest in it, and continues to drag the pearls around, every so often circling and pressing into your clit, giving you want you want only to yank it away moments later. When he does, he hooks a finger into the chain connecting your nipples and tugs, hard enough to remind you: pain and pleasure go hand in hand. It leaves you breathing heavy, silent tears running down your cheeks and onto the desk. You need release badly, worsened from the earlier denial.

“Remember, you don’t cum without permission.” It’s a stern reminder, and you know the weight of disobeying.

“Please, sir, please, I need to cum, please make me cum, please…” You cry and blubber and whimper, but he merely tuts at you.

There’s no relenting from tormenting your clit, then easing up or ceasing entirely while he toys with your sore nipples, the chain a cruel reminder of all you’ve surrendered to him tonight. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come close from this, you worry your palms may begin to bleed, and you don’t know how much longer you can withstand this. Theres a sheen of sweat across your body when he seemingly stops entirely and you watch with hooded, cautious eyes as he comes around the desk. You expect him to put the necklace around your neck again where it belongs, where he’s fastened it so many times, and instead he shoves the the wet, slippery pearls into your mouth. You whimper around them, tasting yourself, and he runs a gentle hand through your hair as you notice him straining against his trousers again.

“I’m going to fuck you now, doll. You’re allowed to cum when I do.”

You whine in relief.

Circling back to the other end of the desk, he undoes his trousers, freeing his cock of his underwear, and lines it up with your greedy cunt. He teases the tip along your wet folds, groaning as you buck your hips, trying to get him inside of you already. He pinches your clit until you still, your breathing twisted through with moans and whines, and when he finally pushes in, you swear you see stars as he stretches you open. It’s so good, it’s so filling, you have felt so hollow and empty all night and now he’s filling you to the brim with his cock.

“You’re so wet,” he groans. “Drenching my cock like this… you feel so good.”

It’s the sweetest praise you’ve heard all night.

He starts moving agonizingly slow and the tears continue to come against your will — it’s so much, how your cunt clenches around him, how badly you need him. You want relief and you want him deep inside, you want him to hit that spot and you want him buried inside you until you feel your clit rubbing against his skin.

His pace picks up steadily, and you can feel the weight between your breasts rolling and tugging, making you whimper from the tenderness. He reaches up to remove the clamps, each one eliciting a pained cry from you as the blood begins to rush back, leaving them even more tender and sensitive than before.

Everything in your body is alight from the stimulation and edging, and you feel every inch of his girth stretching you open. You haven’t been fucked in months and your body can’t get enough of his.

He grabs your hips, nails digging in as he picks up the pace, the thrusts growing erratic as he leans over you.

“Look at me,” he groans, and you do.

For a moment, you can’t see anything but him: he fills up all your senses, his words command your absolute attention, and his cock, it’s pushing you to breaking. Though your body is aware, your mind is a haze, and before you realize it you are clenching and fluttering against him, squirting and making a mess of the desk, of his suit, and biting down on the pearls so hard they break apart, spilling all over and making soft noises as they roll over the desk and onto the floor. You’re shaking and trembling and he’s still fucking you, chasing his own need, moaning as he does.

“Such a sweet, tight cunt for me,” he murmurs, licking a long stripe on your cheek were tears have rolled down. “I know you can cum again.”

Your whimpers are desperate, the sensation of him continuing to fuck you is verging on too much, but you cum again, and again, or rather you really never stop cumming. He delights in the mess he’s made of you, working one hand between your sweaty bodies to play with your clit. The sensation snaps the last strings in you, and you begin sobbing, reduced to nothing in the palm of his hand. He’s so cruel, his touch is horrid, and you want him, you need him, you can never get enough of him.

You hear him groan above you, his hips snapping against yours sharply, and you feel him cum inside you. He thrusts deep one final time and you both moan, the mess spilling between you as his mask breaks. He’s spent, and he’s vulnerable, and even though you’re shaking and trembling, you know you have him as much as he has you.

He stands there for a moment, staring down at you with adoration and something you cannot read. You’re sagged against the desk, spent, and you whine as he pulls out, cunt gaping empty. Some of his cum drips out of you and pools on the desk below.

“Messy, my cum leaking out of you like that.”

Your cheeks flush with shame, his gaze feeling too hot now as he gently strokes your clit again, pushing some of his cum back in. It’s obscene, the sound, the feeling, and you’re relieved when he undoes your heels before he unties your hands.

The game is over. You’re not sure who won, only how good and wrecked you feel, thoroughly fucked by the only man that has ever drawn out this side in you.

“You did so well, darling.” His voice is soft, but filled with the same heat you heard from him at the ball.

Your eyes land on some of the pearls scattered on the desk, a tired hand absently playing with one. You’re pretty upset they ended up ruined like that, but if he catches the sullen look on your face he doesn’t say anything, and you won’t be bringing it up. Some losses are inevitable in war. You can take it. The pearls had been like a collar, a profession that you were his. You taunted him with that at the ball but this wasn’t love, not anymore.

The complexity of it all settles back into you, and you blink rapidly a few times, trying to bite down on the mixed feelings. You’re broken up, and yet… You’re here. With him. And now?

He scoops you up silently, watching your face carefully as you look up at him. Neither of you speak as he carries you to the ensuite, easing you into the tub as he turns on the hot water, the level of luxury indulgences he could enjoy knowing no bounds.

You wince a little for the heat against some of your more sensitive areas, but you sink into the feeling, letting yourself finally relax after a long night. Though your eyes are heavy, you watch him, head in hand, as he undresses completely. A sight for sore eyes at least: his body is just as beautiful and firm as you remember it, a surprise to find under his handsome suits.

Gently, he helps you scoot forward, giving him enough room to slide in behind you, putting his legs around yours. He presses a kiss to the nape of your neck and your breath hitches. You kind of want to shout at him for being so tender with you, so romantic, but you’re still a little gone, and there isn’t much room for you to escape as you are. So you try to ease up, let him take care of you. You can try to quell whatever possessive notions he has later. Harder with the ones burning a hole in your gut, but you breathe in deep, leaning into his touch.

He doesn’t speak as he fixates on taking care of you, and you listen to his even breathing and the sounds of the bath, the clink of a glass cup being picked up, filled with water, then poured over your hair. Herbal shampoo that you know costs more than what some citizens spend on a nice dinner, massaged into your scalp. You feel like a prized possession as he rinses it out thoroughly before following it up with conditioner, gently run through the locks of your hair.

Slowly you feel yourself coming back up from the space you sank into as he washes your body, slowly and tenderly, cleaning of the sweat and grime of the evening. You sink further into him, resting your head back on his shoulder, and when he reaches down to help clean off your cunt, you sigh.

“Feels good,” you murmur. Shit. You didn’t mean to.

He chuckles and you feel the rumble against your back, but either he is too concentrated on his task, or he is pocketing that to use against you later. Maybe it is just a mercy he is offering you this once but… no, you know him better than that.

When he is satisfied with his work on you, he lets you both just sit there, bask in the ease of the moment. Surely he knows you won’t let it drift on forever, but it would be so easy to. He places a kiss to your temple and you would cry if you had it in you. He shushes you, as if he knows the inside of your head already, as if he knows each crevice of your mind… and maybe you can’t put it past him.

“We can fight in the morning,” he says, “just relax. You’ve had a long night.”

Well, at least he knows you won’t go down easy.

When the bath has run its course, he helps you towel off and carries you back to bed. Moments like these always make you almost mistake him for a gentleman. Almost. You don’t know all that lurks underneath, but the shadow flickers across him now and again, an abyss you could fall into. Maybe you want to.

When the two of you are tucked under the duvet, he lays a kiss to your shoulder blade and pulls you close.

“Are you alright?” His voice is nothing more than a whisper, and you know he is just checking in with you about the scene. Everything else is too complicated for such a question.

“Mmm, ‘m good.” The words are slurred and messy this close to sleep, and pressed against his body, his arm holding you close, you finally fall away from waking, dreaming of nothing.

Sunlight isn’t supposed to be this harsh this early. Still, as it starts to pour in through the tall windows of the penthouse bedroom, you rub your eyes and wince at how bright it illuminates your shame. You should not be here. It pounds like a depraved headache in your mind.

Despite the way he let your relationship fall by the wayside before, Coriolanus Snow is a possessive fucking bastard and you just played right into his need to keep you. You’re right back to where he likes to keep you, and you let your guard down and let it happen. Foolish. Greedy. Slutty.

He’s still sleeping next to you, arm draped over his face to blot out the sunlight. As quietly and swiftly as possible, you look around for something you can wear home as only your gloves and fur shawl wouldn’t exactly cut it. Not without causing a scene worthy of exile.

You’re not sneaking out, you fully intend to make good on his promise last night and get a few meaningful barbs in before you walk out of his life for good, but it would be best if you could do so fully dressed. Pretty certain you must have left a thing or two behind, you scamper over to the walk-in and peruse your options. Lingerie, a few pairs of heels, and a couple silk slips… not your first choice but it will have to do. With the shawl, it might be just chic enough for stepping out when your chauffeur arrives.

When you step out, his eyes are on you immediately, sat up in bed as he is. He’s watching you with a bemused grin.

“Leaving so soon? I was going to offer you a round two.” Bastard. He looks so fucking self-assured.

“How generous,” you say, flashing him a brilliant smile. “I’m pretty confident in telling you that won’t be happening in this lifetime, Coriolanus.”

“You sure? Last night you were cockdrunk like an addict. If I remember correctly, you even cried over how good it felt.”

He’s not wrong, the words are a blow because yes, part of you does want to stay but in the harsh light of day, your desire to play a better game rears its vicious head. He can’t get everything he wants with just a cocky snap of his fingers.

As you take another step toward the door, you watch his face drop, and you pause, looking back at him.

“Ah, I see how it is now,” you say, the words a dagger you can finally twist back in him. “You’re the one who doesn’t want me to go. If anyone is the addict here, it’s you.”

You leave the room, heading towards the elevator and grabbing your shawl on the way. You hear footsteps behind you but attempt to pay it no mind, waiting for the ding of the lift, but it’s taking too long and you feel his hands on you, shoving you against the wall before you realize it’s happening.

He kisses you hungry, a man possessed, pushing the slip up, dragging his fingertips over your mound. He’s desperate, he wants you to stay, he wants you and it’s a weakness. How rare to see him like this. You know you should push him away, but you melt into it for just a moment — and he breaks the moment as he bites your lower lip, too hungry for his own good.

Fuck. You let him open you up, push in and possess you. Again. You need to get out of here.

The elevator dings. Finally.

You bite him back, harder than he bit you, and when he pulls back in surprise, you push him off you. His lips are red with blood. His, you hope.

“Goodbye, Coriolanus.”

He watches you with a furious fire in his eyes as you wait for the doors to close — but there is a fire in your eyes too this time. A warning. You will burn him just as bright as he does you.

And despite it all, you know this is just the start. There’s no escaping unscathed.

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