#But I feel I can at least describe it in a less Dry way

[aknightonthetown]

Just because I learned all of this when I read this book in Secondary School and want to do something during the downtime, I will be just going over the life of Robert Louis Stevenson. Will do this in various parts over the course of the story so that I don’t write one massive fuck off page. He was born in 1850 in Edinburgh, Scotland, to a family of Lighthouse Engineers. His Father, Grandfather, and Uncles all being engaged in the engineering and design of Lighthouses. From a very young age it was clear Robert had inherited a weak chest like his Mother and Father, frequently having troubles with Coughs and Fevers. These issues would only be exacerbated by both damper climates and recurring bouts of Illness (while at the time it was viewed as Tuberculosis, some modern people think he may have had a different illness).

Because of his illness Robert had to take long periods away from schools (being taught by private tutors) and even when he did go to them he frequently had troubles due to being eccentric and strange looking. Despite being a late reader (learning how to read around 7 or 8) he would still dictate stories to his mother and nurse. While his father did hope for him to join the family trade he was still happy with his son having the hobby of writing stories, as he had done the same as a young boy before his father had forced him to stop (even paying for Robert’s first publication at the age of 16 “The Pentland Rising: A Page of History, 1666“). Stevenson eventually joined the University of Edinburgh, studying an Engineering degree. However from the very start he brought no enthusiasm to the education, putting much more of his energy into trying to avoid classes and making friends through The Speculative Society, a society dedicated to public speaking and writing. Despite this his father still took him every holiday on a large trip to see the families Engineering Works. Stevenson still enjoyed the trips, but less for the engineering and more for the potential inspiration for his writing. By the time Robert finally told his father he planned to make his living through writing in 1871 (when Robert was 21) his father was described by his mother as “wonderfully resigned“ to this fact. His parents convinced him to read law at Edinburgh University and be called to the Scottish Bar for some Job Security in case his writing went poorly. In his 1887 poetry collection “Underwoods”, Stevenson reflects on his choice of profession: “Say not of me that weakly I declined The labours of my sires, and fled the sea, The towers we founded and the lamps we lit, To play at home with paper like a child. But rather say: In the afternoon of time A strenuous family dusted from its hands The sand of granite, and beholding far Along the sounding coast its pyramids And tall memorials catch the dying sun, Smiled well content, and to this childish task Around the fire addressed its evening hours.“

[hedgehog-moss]

Writers who use imitative harmony + the movement of their language to evoke meaning are so great to re-read once you’ve learnt this language, if you’ve read them in translation before, it feels like the best reward. I’m reading Annie Proulx in the original for the first time, and so much of her writing style was just not salvageable by French translators (< my condolences), because she intertwines sound with meaning so often, at least in Close Range, and French just doesn’t sound the same! so by translating the meaning you’ll sacrifice a lot of the style... It reminds me of a haunted house book in French that also made me think “haha RIP translators” because it made great use of sound—a lot of “u / eu / ou” to create a sort of sinister howling effect in some sentences, and one sentence about a closed door used “i” and “rr” sounds to give an ominous “creaking open” sensation without actually opening the door in the text...

This kind of thing always makes me reflect despairingly on how many authors I’ll never get to appreciate fully as I can’t read them in the original, but I’m glad to re-discover Annie Proulx at any rate! I mean compare the sound of a phrase like “a hundred dirt road shortcuts” to the French “des centaines de raccourcis, des routes de terre”... First of all the English phrase sounds clippety-cloppy, it sounds like hooves on a dirt road in a way that’s very hard to preserve in a language without syllable stress, but also the French language demands that you turn it into ‘a hundred of shortcurts of roads of dirt’, so it’s best to dilute it into two phrases, and you just lose the clippedness. It sounds less tight, more leisurely.

Same for the phrase “the tawny plain still grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts” vs. “la plaine fauve encore marquée des ornières laissées par les chariots des pèlerins.” That’s a 54% expansion ratio and once again you turn the tight clippedness of ‘grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts’ into ‘grooved with the ruts left by the wagons of the pilgrims.’ You just can’t avoid it, French words have to hold hands in a long procession rather than being stacked like pancakes on top of one another. And sometimes it makes for lovely stylistic effects too (*), but it doesn’t fit the style of a text like this one, which uses rhythm and sound in a very un-French way—rhythmicality in French tends to rely on long flowy phrasings rather than the potholed ruggedness this story demands. (I saw a NY Times article describe it as Annie Proulx “mining the ore of language out of a gritty Wyoming rockscape”)

The rhythm of this whole bit is so neat, you can snap your fingers along with it: “hard orange dawn, the world smoking, snaking dust devils on bare dirt, heat boiling out of the sun until the paint on the truck hood curled, ragged webs of dry rain that never hit the ground, through small-town traffic and stock on the road, band of horses in morning fog...”

The French version is not finger-snapping material but you can tell the translator did her very best to preserve the author’s intention by creating interesting rhythms in French as well. For “hard orange dawn” she could have kept close to the original with, say, “la dureté orange de l’aube” but instead she chose to turn ‘hard’ into a four-syllable adjective (éblouissante / blinding) to end up with a noticeable rhythm—“les aubes orange, éblouissantes,” one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four (and she made ‘dawn’ plural for the same reason.) She wasn’t able to preserve the g/r alliteration of “GRooved with pilGRim waGon Ruts” (although her translated phrase also has a lot of R’s) but she did preserve the ‘sss’ alliteration of “Smoking Snaking duSt” (“pouSSière Serpentant Sur le Sol”). Even with languages as close as French and English, for every stylistic effect you can save you have to sacrifice a few, or replace them with opposite effects which align better with your language’s notions of literary style (like with the orange dawn bit, doubling the length of a tight phrase so it can sound rhythmical).

You can tell all throughout the book that a lot of thought and care went into respecting Annie Proulx’s writing choices and you still end up with sentences that sound and move so differently. You get to see the limit of translation when authors fully lean on their language’s syntax and melody to help convey meaning, like poets do!

(*) Re: English stacking words and French linking them—this reminds me of an essay I read by an English translator of Proust who despaired of this difference in the opposite direction—saying some long, descriptive phrases in Proust with articles & prepositions linking words, and commas linking phrases with regularity, read like telling the beads of a rosary. And the sensation (or a lot of it) had to be sacrificed because English just does not use as many linking words as French, information is conveyed in a more economical way, so a lot of these sentences with a hypnotic rhythm like “the A, of the B, of the C, whereby the D, of the E, on an F” were often not achievable with English syntax or created redundancy (e.g. having to use ‘that’ or ‘which’ 5 times when French used different tool words). But he said he did try to form sentences that had this continuity, and meditative quality.

I don’t have a conclusion to this post other than to say something precious will be lost if human translation is replaced by AI translation, because literary translation involves creativity and ambiguity and aesthetic considerations and a dimension of instinctual feeling for your own language and the original style, and I don’t think any amount of data and processing power and artificial neural networks will yield the flavour of literary quality that emerges from human sensibility and care, from someone reading a sentence and thinking “this feels like hooves clippety-clopping down a dirt road” or “this feels like rolling the beads of a rosary” and starting from there...

[immortalityriver]

can you please write how aged!up genya would act if reader was pregnant?

i looove these kinds of scenarios. anon didn't leave specifics so I'll make headcanons with scenarios described as small fanfics.

Aged!up (20) genya x pregnant gn!reader

Au: original/timeskip

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he does his damnedest to make sure you're comfortable. he couldn't imagine having to carry a child for 9 months, much less give birth to one.

He's your shadow. Would you like to do laundry? he's helping you hang everything up on the line. dishes? he's already done them. Did you forget to grab something at the market? he'll be back in an hour.

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you huffed, holding the clothing basket against yourself as you waddled out to the backyard to hang everything out to dry.

currently, you were at about 8 months. pretty far along in your pregnancy, even simple things became tedious, including chores.

you caught his eye.

"..hey! Let me help out with that!" and suddenly he's on his feet rushing after you.

"..Genya it's fine. I can do it myself." you chimed as you looked up at him as he took the basket from your hold.

"I know... but it's the least I can do. I let you do the dishes by yourself last time so you gotta let me help out now, right?" he looked at you with a softened gaze, already going to hang the clothes.

you knew he wouldn't take no for an answer, so you shook your head and joined him ".. Right. thank you, genya."

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when you're near your due date, he begins to wonder more about the gender, names, sometimes he'd pass shops and he couldn't help but get a few things.

you discourage it, since you're both unsure about the gender. but you really can't stop him, it's sweet he's so involved.

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"y/n!" his voice echoes through the home, and you drag yourself out of bed to go meet him

thats when you caught eye of the bag he was holding.

"..okay.. what'd you impulsively buy this time?" you smiled up at him, stifling a sigh, he really couldnt just wait until the baby was born?

"take a look." he held the bag outward, a big goofy lopsided smile on his face

you took the bag and peeked, finding a few toys, a stuffed animal and some clothes.

genya looked rather proud of himself, and you had to admit everything he picked out was adorable.

".. it's great, darling.. but do you have to bring back baby stuff every time you go out?"

".. it's not like i look for it or anything.. i swear it looks for me!" he raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes, pointing to himself

you shook your head "..uh-huh.. so baby clothes can get up and walk now?"

"totally."

"..did you even get what i sent you out for?"

"..." he stared at you, looking at the bag in your hand, then down at his own, where the other bag should've been.

"..shit!"

"..genya.."

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and lastly, he's a generally affectionate guy. but when you're pregnant? he can't keep his hands off of you for even a second.

throughout the day it's constant kisses and hugs, and when bedtime rolls around he's stuck to you like he's a moth and you're a porch light.

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you could practically feel him seeping into your pores. with the way his arms wrapped around you.

"..genya, it's too warm for this.." you muttered, sticking your legs out from under the blanket to get at least some relief

"..nonsense.." he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, giving you a slight squeeze. his warm breath fanning against your skin didn't help at all.

"..genyaaaa..!"

"sh. go to bed."

"don't shush me.. i'm carrying your child." you retorted, now it was just playful banter.

"pft.."

you could feel his smile growing against your neck, to which you rolled your eyes at.

"i can hardly sleep with you smothered against me anyways. can't you scoot at least a little?"

he turned you over to face him, backing a little to make room for your very swollen belly.

"what, you don't love me anymore?"

"nope. not at all. that's absolutely what it is."

he sighed at your sarcasm, leaning into you and giving you a short peck on the lips.

"..i love you."

"I love you too, genya. goodnight."

``end

[vroomvroomcircuit]

A never-ending Worry

(A/N): Ikea gave me a big anxiety attack the other day. Here we are now.

Summary: Reader discovers her own anxiety together with Max through several instances.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Wordcount: 2k

🏎Masterlist🏎 _____________________ Anxiety is a peculiar thing, especially when you suffer from it. It is for (Y/N) at least.

Ever since her first anxiety attack at the ripe age of 16 years, (Y/n) started to worry. About everything. All the damn time. Her head is running the whole time, thinking about different scenarios that could happen. Like her best friend once said:

“The possibility of a baby killing you is slim, but never zero.”

Maybe the possibilities for any of the “what ifs” really happening is low, but she will be prepared if it does happen. It’s an odd sense of safety she can find refuge in, especially in a world of unpredictability.

This is where the peculiarity comes into play. She does not have the knowledge or vocabulary to describe it all.

But (Y/N) never really talked about her constant worries coupled with a never ending feeling of nervousness. Never spoke of this feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everyone feels like that, right?

“Hey Schatje? How many pairs of underwear have you packed for us?” Max called out for (Y/N) as he unpacked their suitcases, that his girlfriend herself packed for the two a couple of days before the trip even started.

A bit befuddled by his question, (Y/N) walks from the kitchen of the rental apartment, where she just finished putting away the groceries they got from their first run to the supermarket, to the bedroom.

“10 pairs for each of us. Do you think it won’t be enough? We can still go out and get some more tomorrow.” Max halts his movements for a second to check if her serious tone matches her face.

It does.

His girlfriend really means what she said.

“No, they will definitely suffice. You do know that we are here for only four days, right?” Max smiles at her. Maybe she just got something mixed up.

“Yes, of course. I planned our activities. It would be bad if I didn’t know about the length of our vacation.” She laughs to herself while moving to help Max unpacking. “Why are you asking?”

“Oh, nothing particular. Just checking.” Ok so. It is a thing for many women to overpack, especially regarding their underwear. “Can you explain your thoughts on the number to me? Why did you decide to pack 20 pairs of underpants in total?”

(Y/N) throws him a look. “Well, we need at least four, one for each day. Then I doubled that number, because something could have gone wrong on our car ride here or will on our way back, making us stay on vacation longer. Then eight felt like it’s not enough. Adding to the extra days, an accident could happen that makes you need an extra pair a day, right? And nine is an odd number that is not even a prime number, so I rounded up to ten. Completely logical.”

Well, it’s logical to her at least. Max was partially amazed by her train of thoughts and worries. He just let it be like that. After all, it’s just over packing and he loves how prepared she is in any given situation.

Prepared (Y/N) is. Always.

“Man, it is so hot, my fingers are sticky with sweat.” Daniel complaints. It’s a race weekend in Singapore and the Aussie is right. It is hot.

(Y/N), who walks with Daniel around the paddock while she waits for Max to get out of a meeting, starts to rummage in her backpack. The back she carries with her all the time. It’s close to iconic.

“Here is some hand disinfectant. It makes you feel a bit less sticky.”

Daniel smiles thankfully while taking the little bottle from the female’s hands. “Thank you. I just need to remember to put on some lotion, I don’t want my hands to dry out.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, she replaces the disinfectant with another small bottle. “Don’t worry, I got you girl.” She winks at the Aussie.

“Oh wow, do you have everything important with you? Can you flee the country with that backpack spontaneously?” Daniel jokes, but it goes over her head.

“Yes, pretty much. I got a small first aid kit, my laptop and all needed chargers for my electronics. Oh, and my passport and IDs of course. Ah, and some small knick-knacks and snacks. Gotta be prepared for the worst case scenario, right?” Her seriousness unsettles something in the driver. But he kind of lets it go, just nodding to her statement. She is right, at least a bit, after all.

“Do you get more nervous when you get into the car? Or is your level of nervousness on the same level?

(Y/N) and Max cuddle in bed back in the safety of their home in Monaco. While asking the question in the wariness of the night, she traces the same shapes over and over again in her partner’s skin. It gives her an odd feeling of safety, the repetition.

Max has a confused look on his face. “What do you mean?” “Well, does your level of feeling nervous rise from the usual one before or during a race?” It sounds plausible to her. But it doesn’t for him.

Max sits up, leaning his upper body against the headboard to have a better look at his girlfriend. “Yes, it does rise, because my usual level of nervousness is zero like for everyone else. Of course I feel different from that, when I get into the car that can bring me over the finish line as a winner. I don’t get the question.”

(Y/N) blinks at him with a frown. “Not- no, not everyone’s level is zero. It’s really just for you that low.” Of course Max is always cool as a cucumber. He only gets this feeling in extreme situations.

“Oh Schtaje. It’s really not. Most people don’t feel nervous often. Do you?” He pulled her close to him, enveloping her completely.

“Not always. Right now, I’m not. But that is, because I’m with you. I know that together we can solve anything.” Max senses that (Y/N) doesn’t want to continue the conversation. He lets it be another time, partially to not make her feel completely uncomfortable in a peaceful moment, partially because he wants to do some research.

Her conversation with her boyfriend sparked something inside (Y/N). Hearing that not everyone is feeling the same way she does, it’s a lot to take in. So she started to do some reading of her own.

Many people on the internet describe the same moments she has: Constant nervousness, the need of being prepared at all times or she’ll break out in a sweat, plus the endless worrying.

And the sudden bursts of intense panic. These moments, where an all consuming fear grips her whole body into a chokehold. That makes her breaths become heavier and her thoughts even faster.

Reading about similar experiences to hers, it makes (Y/N) feel less alone. But one word stood out to her.

Anxiety.

She heard of it and has seen the portrayals on TV. But those are not what she feels. Or is it?

Everything and nothing make sense at the same time.

“Do you want to drive?” Max offers as they get ready to go out for dinner at a restaurant that is a tad too far away to be considered walkable distance. He regularly lets her drive, it’s a bit of emancipation. Why shouldn’t she drive when she has a license for that?

(Y/N) shakes her head no. “I don’t like today’s thoughts. I also feel extra nervous right now, I couldn’t find the menu of the restaurant online.” Max nods, understanding what kind of thoughts she is talking about - intrusive thoughts.

He also appreciates her openness with him about those feelings. “It’s ok, Schatje. I love driving for you, it’s my favorite kind of ride. We will also find something for you, we can order some dishes and share them until you decide which one you want.” He gives her a reassuring kiss on the cheek, hoping to ease up her worries.

During the drive, she holds his hand on the control stick. “It’s good to have you back. Last night I woke up in a panic and thought something must have happened to you on your flight and that this was the reason I had this huge anxiety attack. I couldn’t sleep until you texted me this morning when you landed at the airport.”

His heart grows heavy at that confession. He hasn’t known the extent of her anxious feelings. Max didn’t know how much they overshadowed her in her daily life.

(Y/N) herself never realized how much she has been hindered in her routines by her own thoughts and worries.

“It wasn’t the first time this happened. But it was the worst it has been so far. I thought you died. I waited for my phone to ring or the police to stand at the door, getting notified that you died in a plane crash. I already planned the next steps I had to take from there in my head.” (Y/N) doesn’t dare to look at her boyfriend after this admission.

It is weird to say something out loud, that she used to bury deep inside of her. This kind of vulnerability, it makes her want to crawl back into that hole again.

Over the last couple of weeks she realized that those spiraling thoughts are not here to make her feel safe. That the need of over preparedness is not necessary. That her anxious feelings are not some signs of something bad.

These thoughts are false friends, waiting for your demise, your downfall, to be able to say “I told you so”.

But where to go from here, from the realization of something going gravely wrong, to getting a grip of the situation. To make it all go away?

Max squeezes her hand before putting a kiss on it without taking his eyes off the road. “I’m here for you. I want to hear all those thoughts. As silly as they may sound out loud. I can help you in differentiating if they are necessary, needed, thoughts or if they are the product of overthinking. I want to help you. I want you to not feel anxious all the time. I want to help you through the anxiety attacks. We can get counseling - for only you or together. Just, let me be here for you during every step you take.”

His pleading brings tears to (Y/N)’s eyes. She didn’t know how noticeable her anxiety issues were to outsiders. She doesn’t know what it feels like for Max, seeing her in her most anxious states.

“Yes”, she answers him, “I want you to be here with me. I don’t know if I can do it on my own.” “You don’t need to find out. I’ll be there, for better or for worse.”

Turns out, Max’ deadpan and brutal honesty is exactly what (Y/N) needs.

The evening, where he was away for a race and she had to stay behind, because of her own work schedule. (Y/N) called him in the middle of a not very pretty anxiety attack. “I have this doctor’s appointment. It’s a check-up for my physical health. And what if I-I’m deathly sick and we are catching onto that only now?”

“This is a dumb thought.”

The female halts in her movements. Is it a dumb thought?

“I mean, yes. I regularly go out to donate blood. But maybe they haven’t caught something important accidentally.”

“That is stupid and unlikely.”

She stops again. “You are right. I actually have nothing to worry about.”

The road to having less anxiety is a twisted one, paved by setbacks and a small gap between succeeding and failing. But with Max as a passenger princess on that path (Y/N) knows she got it.

She will be ok, eventually.

[depravitycentral]

Yandere! Feitan Portor NSFW Profile

Yandere! Feitan Portor x fem! reader

Tw: mentions of non/dub-con, stalking, masturbation, kidnapping, spit, drool, lots and lots of cum, Feitan is gross and icky and comes in your conditioner I'm so sorry, seriously this one is pretty gross I apologize now, bondage, ropes, blood, period sex, consumption of period blood, Stockholm Syndrome, a few mentions of reader having pubic hair, mentions of premature ejaculation, Feitan has intimacy issues, a touch of sadomasochism, dry humping, blindfolds, begging, edging, overstimulation, there's a lot going on, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

WC: 12K (oh my god)

HABITS:

Even amongst the Troupe, Feitan is particularly emotionally stunted. 

Of course, he knows about relationships, about the intimacy that ensues - he’s never personally fucked anyone, but he knows how it goes, what it’s like (at least, in theory), how it’s supposed to feel. He’s just never wanted to - his libido is actually quite low, and although he’s spent nights tossing and turning in bed, cock throbbing and aching for attention, he’s never felt the urge to find some random woman for a fun, stress relieving night. 

Sure, he’s jerked off more times than he can count, and he’s been to more strip clubs with Phinks and Uvogin than he’d care to admit. He’s been around it his whole life, even from a young age as a child in Meteor City - so yes, he knows about sex. 

He’s just never been able to tolerate someone long enough to consider sleeping with them, much less actively wanting to sleep with them. And yet, once you step into his life, Feitan finds himself uncomfortably aroused by the idea of letting his hands wander your body, of seeing the way your pretty face would scrunch up in pleasure, of hearing your little moans and yelps when he kisses you and sinks his teeth in just a bit too hard. 

Once his obsession with you forms and he begins moving past some of those initial mental barriers, Feitan finds himself beginning to crave you intimately, physically, sexually. And, just as the rest of his feelings for you, he hates it at first. 

He hates how just a simple thought of you has his body growing hot, the collar of his jacket uncomfortably tight as he shifts his weight, trying to ignore the way blood is steadily rushing south. 

He hates how just a simple look from you, with your eyes all innocent yet sultry, makes him gulp a bit, his fingers twitching at his side. He doesn’t like how he can’t control his body’s reaction to you, but it’s not like he can help it - it’s instinctual, primal, carnal, as if his body is recognizing that you’re the chosen one for him to fornicate with, as if you’re the only one worthy of his sexual attention.

Feitan doesn’t like this change in developments much, but quickly he finds himself at a crossroads; he can spend nearly every night staring at the black of his ceiling, laying in bed and glancing down at the massive tent in the sheets centered around his crotch, or he can give in and get working, letting his hand run along the length of his cock all with you on his mind.

 He doesn’t feel guilty about masturbating to you, per se, but there is this weird sense of embarrassment that sits heavy in his chest as he exhales shakily and spreads the bead of precum along his shaft. There is this weird feeling like he’s doing something bad, something naughty, as if you’d be disgusted if you were to ever find out.

It makes him feel strange, but he almost likes it - it’s a thrill he gets, particularly to the knowledge that you’d probably be disgusted to know he wrings himself dry (often more than once at a time) nearly every night, all with the mental image of you naked, writhing and stuffing your fingers into that warm, wet, oh so fucking tight cunt of yours. 

He’d never admit, but he’d give anything to be your fingers, to feel the sensation of being inside you, even if it was only for a few moments. (That’d probably be enough to make come the first time he fucks you, anyways.)

Once he gives in to getting off with you in mind, Feitan finds himself fucking his fist frequently, frantically, his hips thrusting into his hand faster and rougher the longer he goes on, the longer the image of you crying his name and clenching down around his cock plays behind his eyelids.

He wraps his hand around his girth and immediately starts violently pumping his fist up and down, until he’s eventually stuttering your name and coming, sending spurts of cum flying up onto his chest, the white staining his pale chest. It feels good, or at least good enough to satisfy him for the moment, up until he ends up palming himself through his pants the next night. 

It’s a never ending cycle, and frankly it leaves Feitan frustrated – it’s just not enough. The thought of you is more than enough, really, to functionally get him shooting ropes of cum out of his swollen, needy tip, but there’s this part of him buried deep inside that needs more, something to make him feel like it’s really you he’s touching and fucking. 

It’s not enough to be the one touching himself, when he knows it would feel different if it was your soft hand, your warm lips, your tight walls. He needs something more, something more intimate and personal and you in order to really get himself off, to really feel connected to you in the way he craves. 

And so, Feitan makes a discovery one evening that changes everything; he has a penchant for sneaking into your room after you’ve fallen asleep, the dismal security of your apartment something he’s simultaneously grateful and irritated with you for. He likes to just watch you sleeping, those dark eyes taking in every detail about your unconscious form, all exposed for his viewing pleasure without you even knowing it. 

He always shuffles closer the longer he watches, his feet taking just a tiny step every once in a while, just because he can smell you better when he’s closer, see more detail in your skin and features, and it’s only after he’s crept his way right up to your side that he notices it. He should be disgusted, he thinks, when he sees the bit of drool slipping past your lips, your slumber deep enough that you haven’t noticed the wet pool of it against your pillow. 

He should be grimacing and scooting away, revolted by something so gross, but instead Feitan finds his eyes getting caught on the way your lips are just slightly parted, the wetness against your chin shining ever so slightly in the pale moonlight. 

He doesn’t really know why he does it, but soon his fingers are reaching out, lightly brushing against your lip, a sharp inhale audible as he feels the warm wetness of your saliva against his fingertips. He’ll retract his hand, staring with narrowed eyes, before slowly, carefully bringing his fingers to his own mouth, slipping them past his lips, letting his eyes flutter closed because he’s tasting you. 

It’s euphoric, your spit sweet and leaving the perfect tang on his tongue, and suddenly Feitan’s reaching into his jacket pockets, frantically searching for the vial he keeps on hand, just in case he needs a bit of blood from a victim or enemy. He gulps when he finally pulls it out, wiping at it to rid it of any remaining blood, before carefully bringing the glass up to your face, positioning it right below your chin so that the next bit of drool to drip out of your mouth lands in the vial rather than on your pillow. 

It’s a slow process, filling it up, but Feitan’s committed, spending every night sitting beside your bed, watching you sleep and seeing the glass slowly fill with your drool, collected all for him. And when he finally has enough? Well, it’s easy to transition from slowly dipping his fingers in the vial and letting his tongue glide over them to letting the spit cover other areas of his body, even if the mere idea makes him scoff while a blush settles over the bridge of his nose. 

It’s not until one night, though, that he finally takes the plunge, crossing a line he can never recover from. He’d been particularly pent up, his cock absolutely swollen, aching and desperate for release, and his fist was just not enough. Even as he pounded away, biting his lip and furrowing his thin brows, the pleasure just wouldn’t come. 

His eyes wander from his ceiling down to his dresser, zeroing in on the glass vial sitting so innocently, so provocatively, practically taunting him to come closer. He’s snatching up the glass before he can really think, sitting back down and tearing the top off, his fingers moving faster than he can process. 

Soon, he’s dipping them in, swirling them a bit to make sure they’re really covered, but instead of bringing them to his lips, his hands travel south - gripping onto his cock, the wet coolness making him hiss through his teeth. He brings his wrist up, your saliva slowly smearing along his shaft, leaving it wet and twitching in the cold air of his bedroom, visibly throbbing as he runs his thumb over his slit, making sure to absolutely drench himself with your spit. 

His eyes slide shut, head rolled back slightly as he moves his hand at a steady, painfully slow pace, trying to calm his heart rate because this is so very different from before. It’s different, if only because it’s you - your saliva is letting his hand move smoother, your saliva coating his skin, you helping him to get off. It makes him feel dizzy, the familiar coil in his stomach appearing embarrassingly quickly as he speeds up his fist, images of you playing behind his eyes. 

He can’t help but imagine you on your knees before him, staring up at him with those pretty eyes, all wide and glassy and yearning, with your hands tied behind your back and your lips parted, pink tongue lolled out and waiting for him to fill that tight throat of yours. He grunts, squeezing at his tip, digging his fingers back through the vial to refresh the supply of your drool, and in his mind he’s slowly tracing your lips with the head, smearing his precum along your skin as you clench your thighs together and hum, practically begging him to facefuck you. 

Feitan hunches forward slightly as his wrist moves even faster, hand flying up and down his shaft, wet noises accompanying every jerk all caused by the excessive wetness he’s coated himself with, the feeling of your spit exactly what he’d be feeling if he was actually stuffing your little mouth, dark hairs tickling your cheeks and nose as he pushes your head all the way down, so that his tip is nestled down your throat. 

He lets out a guttural groan at that, a strained noise that makes him grimace, but he can’t help it - his orgasm is approaching, and he can’t help but listen to the wet squelching noises and imagine your gags and sharp breaths accompanying them, his toes curling. It feels so good, a building warmth in his naval that only grows bigger, stronger, more insistent, and all too soon he’s imagining the way you’d present your face to him when he pulls out and strokes himself over your face, cum spurting from his tip and landing in rivulets all along your cheeks, lips, nose, even getting into your hair.

You’d look so good, all messy and out of breath and covered in him him him, just as he is you. 

He bares his teeth as he feels himself right on the edge, his fingers clutching onto the vial so tightly he nearly shatters it, his cock bobbing and throbbing, balls clenching as he curls in on himself, small chants of your name mumbled under breath and then he’s coming, cum spraying everywhere as he gasps, hips bucking involuntarily into the air, chasing after his fist with every pump, aching to be releasing inside you, where it belongs. 

He takes a moment to come down from his high, chest heaving and eyes wide, staring down at the vial in his shaking hand, the weight of his orgasm shocking him. He’d never come so hard, like every muscle in his body was spasming, the pleasure nearly overwhelming. His eyes flick over to the clock, and he splutters, seeing the time. 

3:08, meaning only three minutes had passed since he’d snatched up the vial, feeling your spit against his skin, feeling you against the sensitive skin of his cock. 

His eyes close, his breath finally evening out, before he’s carefully setting the vial aside, recapping it and laying onto his back, trying to process why the hell he’d come so fast with something as grotesque as your spit to help him. He’s not sure, but then the images return of you on your knees for him, face still covered in his release and telling him that you want more, please Feitan, will you give me more? 

He groans as he feels his softening cock suddenly begin growing once more, his hips twitching as he reaches down to lightly grope at his balls, swallowing and deciding whether to dip his fingers into the vial yet again - he only has a limited supply, after all, and he’d be needing it again tomorrow night when he inevitably lets his mind wander to thoughts of you tied up and begging for him. 

He grumbles, a strained sort of sound, before getting to work once more, spitting into his hand and letting a small, barely there smile grace his lips, the slight flush still high on his cheeks. He’d have to get some more, he decided, because this? 

Well, fucking you was surely better, but Feitan would be a food to not capitalize on this new discovery - and when he’s painting his chest with ribbons of cum again a few minutes later, he decides that he’ll never go back to not having something of yours to aid him while he gets off. 

It’s just more intimate this way, better, like you’re really there - like you’re really naked and ready to fulfill every need, desire and fantasy of his. 

Like you want him. 

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your face

In general, Feitan thinks you’re attractive. He’s hesitant to say beautiful or pretty or really anything of the sort, if only because the way he feels for you is a bit more complicated than that. 

You’re not just pretty; you’re alluring, someone that always seems to catch his eye no matter how hard he tries to stop it. 

You’re not beautiful; objectively, there’s nothing about you that he hasn’t seen in hundreds of other women, whether it be your hair, your lips, your figure, or anything else. (Except maybe your eyes, or maybe your smile - things that are just so unapologetically you, things that Feitan thinks he could recognize with his eyes closed.) 

You’re nothing particularly special, physically speaking, and yet there’s something about you that he just can’t shake, some involuntarily thing that motivates him to always have his eyes on you, his body unconsciously facing you, his senses just so very aware of you. And because Feitan spends so much time simply watching you, he’s become extremely well antiquated with your features, with your pretty face that always seems to pull him in, like a moth to a flame. 

He’s memorized the way your lips curve, the soft skin puckering and moving with every word you say, and he often finds his gaze flicking down to watch while you talk, eyes sitting there idly as he lets his mind wander to what else you can do with those lips, what other shapes they can make. 

He’s studied every slope of your nose, the shape seeming to fit your face perfectly, and he even finds himself turning his lip when he sees models or celebrities with the same nasal structure - it doesn’t look nearly as good on them as it does you. 

And of course, your eyes - he’s spent more hours than he can count looking into them, unwilling to break the eye contact as he stares, fascinated with the color, how they shine in the light, how sunlight seems to make them glow, making you glow. 

So while there’s not any particular thing Feitan can say makes you attractive, you just are - enough so that he’s found himself seeing flashing images of your face late at night, when he’s unable to sleep and polishing his weapons, letting his mind wander and inevitably stumble into thoughts of you. He’ll relive the way you look when you smile - your grin is wide, teeth exposed, the pretty skin of your lips all stretched to accommodate your joy. 

You look good like that, and all too soon his innocent thought process of you is slipping into something sinister, something dirty and risqué, because now he’s imagining the way you’d smile up at him when he’s got you underneath him, your pretty little pleas and desperate begs for him to touch you making his skin tingle and his throat feel stuffy. 

He’s imagining the way you’d lick your lips when he tells you to get on your knees, his cock mere inches from your face as he strokes  himself, the eagerness and hunger in your eyes making him rush forward and bury himself down your throat in one go.

He’s imagining the way you’d look when he’s got you creaming on his cock, face pressed against the mattress and a mixture of tears and drool slipping down your chin, the pleasure just too much, even while your hips grind back on him, wanting more more more. 

He just likes your face, finding it oddly pleasing, and when the two of you are intimate, he finds himself eagerly searching out your facial expressions as often as possible - it’s the way he knows what you like, if you’re enjoying what he’s doing to you, if he’s doing a good job. 

So really, exaggerate the expressions, make it clear exactly what you’re feeling, and Feitan will be over the fucking moon - pounding into you with a new vigor, a sudden resolve to get you coming at least twice before he’s done with you. You’re just too attractive for him to resist, and he’s only a man, after all. 

His hands 

In general, Feitan is a fan of showing his feelings rather than articulating them, and even then only to an extent. 

There’s only so far he’s willing to expose his vulnerability, and it just becomes easier and less scary to just show you, to let his actions speak louder. And despite it taking a very, very long time for him to grow comfortable enough to actually act on this philosophy, one of the first ways that he’ll settle into touching you is with his hands. 

They’re rough, the skin calloused and scarred, pale fingers just the slightest bit off in certain spots, evidence of the multitudes of times he’s broken them. His fingers are lithe, nimble, quick and dexterous, evidence of his abilities with swords and the various tools he uses for work. And so, once he turns his hands onto you, you’ll notice all these things. 

It starts small - a fleeting feeling of his fingers pressing against the small of your back, merely a ghost of a touch that leaves you wondering if you really felt anything at all. 

He’ll reach out to flick at your forehead if you do something dumb (something endearing, but dumb), glaring at you and telling you to stop it, though his fingers are tingling where they made contact with your skin. 

He’ll lightly lay his hand on your hip, or on your thigh, keeping it there for a few moments before snatching it back to his own side, his hand flexing and the muscles tightening up because god, did you like that? Did you like it when he touched you? 

He gets in his head way too much about how you react to his touch, but the truth is that Feitan is incredibly touch starved, particularly when it comes to any sort of positive or romantic touch. 

He’s a criminal and has grown up in horrible conditions, and he’s simply never cared. But now that you’re here, someone for him to live out all those cliche, stupid romantic tropes? Well, he can’t directly ask for your affection, but you’ll notice the way his hands lay on your body for just a beat too long, just enough to make you wonder whether that touch was really as innocent as he seems to think it was (it’s not, at least not as much as he wishes - every time his skin brushes yours, this spark of electricity dances up his spine, making him gulp and tense up, because while the feeling blooming in his chest is warm and good, it’s still foreign, still something he hasn’t quite gotten used to yet).

And even once he reaches the stage where he’s grown comfortable enough with the concept of being intimate with you to actually touch you, he still relies heavily on his hands. Particularly, Feitan grows an affinity for fingering you - he loves the way your cunt just seems to suck his fingers in, as if your body is begging for more and more of him, craving his touch and the pleasure only he can give you. 

He’ll experiment a lot with you at first, curling his fingers or scissoring them, dark eyes appraising your face and checking for any changes in expression that could hint at what rhythm or area you like. 

(You’ll wonder where he learned some of the motions he tries out on you - he’ll never admit to watching porn to learn some ideas, nor that he practiced them before trying them out on you, his hand sandwiched between two pillows as he diligently curled them, perfecting the ‘come hither’ motion or letting his thumb practice rubbing tight, firm circles against the cotton. No, he’d rather die than have you learn that - you can’t know how badly he wants to please you, after all.) 

He likes to watch his fingers dipping inside you, the way they emerge all wet and glistening, a ring of white sitting right above his knuckles and filling him with pride. 

(Often, he finds himself idly staring at his fingers after you’ve fallen asleep, your body sore and exhausted after the fucking he’d put you through. He’ll spread them, staring from all angles, remembering the feeling of your wet heat around them, how your walls clamped down on him, even how your lips and tongue flicked across them when he’d shoved them into your mouth earlier. He’ll bring them to his lips, idly sucking on them, trying in vain to get every last drop of you off of them, so that he can taste you for just a moment longer, just to satisfy himself for as long as he can.) 

He’s a late bloomer and it will take him a long while to reach the point of being willing to touch you sexually (though he wants to from pretty much the get-go, much to his embarrassment), but once he does, you’d better get used to the feeling of his hands against your skin - after all, he’s insistent, and you do not want to reject his touch. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just moan and sigh and tell him it feels good, because Feitan is just so much more agreeable when he’s happy - you’ll get to come that way, too.

DRIVE:

Generally speaking, Feitan’s libido has never been especially high. Sex has never been a priority for him, and even once his days as a Troupe member begin, this doesn’t change. He doesn’t see the attraction to sleeping around, to fucking random women just for a few minutes of fleeting pleasure. 

It’s just so much work to be around others, to have to communicate and hear their complaining when he doesn’t put effort into making them feel good – it’s just not fun, not something he wants to spend his time with. And so, while Feitan is certainly no saint, he doesn’t actively seek out sexual partners. And he especially doesn’t seek out touching another person, letting himself be touched, becoming vulnerable in any possible way.

So, once you step into his life, this self-inflicted celibacy doesn’t really change all that much. Of course, the idea of touching you is significantly more attractive than it would be to touch a random stranger, but Feitan is still not especially eager to fuck you once his obsession develops. 

He’s a bit of a late bloomer, taking a while to let his emotions warm up to you. In doing so, it takes a long, long time for his sexual urges towards you to appear, because Feitan prides himself on having good self control. But once he fully gives in to the fact that he wants you, in a way that’s entirely new and scary and foreign to him, the urges begin appearing. 

The idly thoughts wondering what you’re wearing, what you’re thinking about, if you’re in the mood… He’s still not as horny as some of his fellow Troupe members, but Feitan begins regularly imagining fucking you, the thoughts seemingly popping out of nowhere and completely unannounced. 

Frankly, it’s irritating; why is he imagining you without a shirt on when Phinks is telling him about the latest job Chrollo had paired them up for? (It’s a pain in the ass to hide the slowly growing tent in his trousers from the blond - he always just seems to know, and Feitan would rather die than be subjected to the never ended teasing.) 

Why is he imagining the way your lips would feel wrapped around his cock when he’s slicing off that man’s head, the cut clean and clear yet the only thing he can think of being how your cheeks would hollow as you suck? 

It’s annoying, and although he tries to fight it at first, he eventually gives up. There’s only so much he can stop himself from imagining, and as his obsession grows deeper, the perverse fantasies he holds towards you only grow more numerous, more pronounced, more longed for. He finds himself actively wanting to be intimate with you, and while he won’t act on that desire for a very long time, it’s left to quality sit, festering and brewing inside him until one day it’s all just too much, a dam bursting that forces him to finally take that last step, to let himself rest a hand on you or brush his lips against your cheek or graze his finger along your nipple. 

He doesn’t move very fast, but Feitan’s in no rush - after all, you’re stuck with him for the rest of your life, and he’ll be the only other human you’ll ever interact with. By the time he’s ready to progress your relationship forward, you’ll likely have come around, desperate enough for human contact that you’ll want him to touch you, that you’ll want to touch him back. 

Just the thought makes him gulp and flex his fingers, excitement and anxiety settling into his stomach, his cock growing half hard even as his mind winces. 

However, because he has so many issues surrounding intimacy and vulnerability, Feitan will likely never actually force you into anything. 

Because you’re likely to come around and develop Stockholm Syndrome by the time he’s ready to touch you, you’ll be more than eager to let his hand rest on your waist, or to let him stand behind you so that your ass is pressed against his crotch, the tent in his pants more than apparent. You’ll be ready, but until he’s ready, he has to find alternatives. 

Because he’s still frequently experiencing sexual urges towards you way before he’s willing to act on them, Feitan finds himself quite sexually frustrated. He has all these dirty thoughts, all these possessive, insistent feelings urging him to just take you, to stake his claim on you by stuffing you full of his cock and cum, and he has to release them somehow. 

And so, he falls back on a method that he isn’t necessarily proud of, but does find some sick, twisted sense of pride and amusement from. That is, because he’s the one supplying literally everything to you once you’re trapped under his roof, it’s not so hard to tamper with some of the ingredients of your essentials. 

Your conditioner, for instance; he buys you the brand you love (something he tells you is coincidence but most certainly isn’t), and as he opens the cap and smells it one day while you’re asleep in the next room over, he can’t help but notice how creamy it is, how thick and how white it is.

It make shim gulp, and after quickly making sure to lock the bedroom door you’re trapped behind, Feitan shakily returns to the bathroom, exhaling deeply. It’s just a coincidence that the conditioner resembles something that he produces, right? 

It’s an amusing twist of fate that your favorite conditioner (with the scent he can only describe as you) looks almost exactly like his cum, right? 

Feitan thinks so, and as his mind wanders back to the little stunt you’d pulled earlier in the day, he finds himself settling onto the closed toilet lid, reaching into his pants and pulling out his cock, already drooling precum and sensitive to the touch. 

You’d been laying on your bed, blanket barely covering your body as you slept, the skimpy pajamas you’d fallen asleep in in disarray on your figure. Your shirt had bunched up, letting one pert, supple breast slip out, your nipple on display, not even the blanket managing to cover it up. 

(He’d froze when he noticed, slowly creeping closer, licking his lips and unable to stop staring.) 

And those damn sleeping shorts, always getting moved around and never quite sitting right on your hips when you wake up, were twisted a bit, the holes for your legs angled just right so that if he looked the right way, he could see the very edge of your cunt, one lip covered with pretty pubic hairs, looking soft and warm and so fuckable. 

You were asleep, and somewhere in Feitan’s mind he knows you weren’t doing it on purpose, but it’s hard not to blame you for being so indecent, for hoping to tempt Feitan into giving in. You’re such a fucking minx, all teasing and daring to show off your assets, and how was Feitan supposed to react to this? How was he not supposed to immediately grow aroused and flustered, unable to tare his gaze from your vulnerable body?  

Eventually he’d managed to, shutting the door behind him and taking a few uneven breaths, trying desperately to not replay the image of your breast over and over in his mind. It’s no use, however, and as he splashes his face with cold water in the bathroom, that’s when his eyes land on the conditioner bottle. 

His hand moves fast as he fucks his fist, hissing under his breath over and over as he steadily gets closer, driven forward by the idea of lewd it will be to have his cum in something as personal as you conditioner. 

He can’t stop thinking about how you’d have no idea, waltzing around with his cum soaked into your pretty hair, maybe even making you smell like him - He’s groaning, the thoughts pushing him closer and closer to the edge, his orgasm hurtling forward as he imagines the way you’d lather it in your hands, humming and making sure every square inch of your hair is covered in it, covered in him. 

He imagines the way you’d bring it up to your nose and deeply inhale, sighing because it’s your favorite scent, wondering why it smells a bit more musky than you remember, but not minding. Maybe you’d even like the new scent, and just the thought of that is enough to push him over the edge, a sharp growl slipping past his lips as he aims his cock right into the bottle, cum spraying all over the conditioner, the white colors matching perfectly. 

He’s breathing hard, a seemingly never ending series of spurts coming from his swollen tip, and once he thinks he’s done, he grasping his length and lightly shaking it, lodging any loose bits of cum out, coaxing them to join the pile. Once done, he’ll gulp, letting a small smirk slip onto his lips as he closes the bottle, shutting the lid tight and shake the bottle, making sure to thoroughly mix it. 

He won’t tell you about his little ‘gift’, of course not - but you’ll know something is up when he’s standing stiff as you exit the bathroom, towel wrapped around your body and wet hair having been marinating in the special mixture he made for you, and when he’s eagerly sniffing your head every chance he gets after that, you’ll have to realize something is amiss. 

When he’s asking you if your hair feels particularly soft, you’ll have to know he’s trying to get at something, some layer underneath the surface that he’s really speaking about. 

It’s enough to satisfy him for the time being, his possessiveness over you quelling ever so slightly because even though it’s not in your cunt, where it belongs, at least he’s got his cum somewhere on you - and until he’s ready to fuck you properly, that’ll have to do. It’ll become habit, and one day you may even stumble upon him midway through the process, your conditioner bottle an inch or so from his tip as he frantically tugs and pulls. 

(He’ll freeze, unable to process that he got caught, and frankly, he’ll just try to ignore that you ever saw it, not willing to broach the topic - and you won’t be either, because what the fuck?)He just really, really desires you, and Feitan is a resourceful man - so I hope you like the smell of musk and a bit of iron, because you’ll be smelling like it for weeks.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Orgasm Control

In general, Feitan has to be in control in the bedroom. It’s not that he’s particularly onto any dominant or submissive roles between the sheets, but more because he doesn’t like the feeling of vulnerability that accompanies letting other people pleasure him. Something about being at the mercy of someone else’s touch or whims makes him nervous, an unpleasant feeling blooming in his stomach that leaves him fidgety and jumpy. 

And so, every sexual interaction with you will see him starring as the dominant role, always calling the shots, and nothing exemplifies this sentiment quite like the way he treats your orgasms. Despite not having a huge amount of sexual experience prior to his infatuation with you, he’s very obviously aware that both partners are capable of orgasming in any given sexual interaction, that it should be expected and achieved regardless of methodology. 

With other women, Feitan wouldn’t care in the least – he’s selfish by nature, and if he were to ever have sex with anyone other than you, in no way, shape or form would he pay any mind to their pleasure, only chasing after his own release. 

But with you, this sentiment is a bit different; he wants to get you off, if only because seeing the way your body responds to him, shaking and shivering and moaning and clenching, gets him harder, his breath more ragged, his palms sweatier. There’s something incredibly pleasing about seeing the way your body is sensitive to his every touch that makes him giddy, an odd mixture of power, arousal and eagerness filling him. 

He wants to make you a mess, to get you gushing and creaming and whimpering as he fingers you, as he shoves his cock inside you, even as he tongues at your clit (eating you out isn’t something that happens often, but when it does, Feitan expects you to come from it). He likes the sight of you falling apart for him, and consequently, that desperation for power and control comes hurtling back – so that he is the one in control of your orgasms. 

He wants to be the one choosing when, how, and why you’re coming, every one of your movements a result of him. 

He tends to rely heavily on edging you, enjoying the way you squirm and beg for him to keep going. He’ll have two slender, nimble fingers buried inside of you, curling and scissoring, the stretch a bit painful but in a pleasure-tinged way, making your toes curl and your bottom lip catch between your teeth. 

His thumb will rub consistent, steady circles at your clit, the little nub sore and swollen, and he’ll keep his ministrations up until you’re breathing heavier, your stomach and thighs clenching, the telltale signs that you’re nearing your high. 

(He’s very, very good at reading your body when it comes to your sexual pleasure – he’s spent so long stalking you that he’s seen you touching yourself more times than he can count, and while watching the way your cunt takes the toy is very, very difficult to tear his eyes away from, he’d made sure to study every other part of your body, too. He’s watched the way your face morphs as you get closer, your brows shooting up and your lips parting a bit, your eyes fluttering and threatening to close as the pleasurable knot in your gut grows tighter and tighter and tighter. He’s watched the way your legs shake, the muscles in your thighs visibly twitching and clenching, trying desperately to close and clench together, prompting him to imagine how they’d feel around his head, around his waist, around his cock. He’s even noticed your breathing, how you sound, the way your voice gets higher and more breathy, your moans increasing in intensity until you let out this sudden, strained gasp that gets him swallowing harshly, a thick pearl of precum dripping from his tip from the mere sound.)

He’s constantly observing you even while he's intimate with you, those dark eyes never wavering from your form, and he’ll bring you right to the edge, noticing with a tightness in his throat that your legs are starting to tremble, that your voice is climbing up, that you’re starting to get all gaspy and your abdominal muscles are clenching, and god, you’re squeezing around his fingers so damn tight – 

The confused, desperate whine you let out when he suddenly pulls his fingers out of you makes him smirk a bit, the way your watery eyes blearily blink up at him, half clouded in lust and disappointment making him reach out to pinch at your pebbled nipple. Not yet, one more time. He’ll tell you, laughing a bit as you whine and gulp, chest heaving and your fingers twitching. He’ll make you wait, maybe even reaching down and jerking himself off a bit, making a show of hissing under his breath and making sure that you can see him, hearing the wet noises as he flicks his wrist and imagines it’s your sweet little pussy wrapped around him rather than his own fingers.

He’s embarrassingly sensitive when he does this, his own touch making him buck his hips as he stares down at you, spread before him, underneath him, where you belong. He’ll make sure to give enough time that you come down from your sensitivity, before resuming his ministrations, making you gasp and bite your lip. 

He’ll keep doing this over and over and over, denying you of your orgasm some five or so times before he finally, finally decides that you’ve behaved well enough, that you deserve to feel good. (Often, what finally gets him to cave in is the fact that he too is very close, and while it’s cliché and stupid and a bit pathetic, he really likes it when you both come at the same time, your orgasms matching up so he can feel like you’re doing it together.) 

He’ll work you through it, not stopping his motions, which brings up another aspect of how Feitan likes to tease you and assert his control over you – he doesn’t like overstimulation quite as much as denial, but he’s not shy about going faster, harder, his motions seeming almost frantic as you start whining and shaking, going on about how it’s too much, Feitan it’s too much I can’t! 

He’ll just growl and shut you down, slapping (not too hard) your clit and seeing you way you jerk, telling you to shut up and take it, you’ve done it before. He likes seeing your eyes get all teary, your body spasming and shaking even harder, the overstimulation making you cry out his name with a renewed fervor. 

(He’d never admit it, but that’s one of his favorite parts – he never pegged himself to be a fan of loud moans, but there’s something about the way that you do it, when it’s his name you’re moaning, that makes him throb, his cock twitching without any stimulation. You sound so destroyed, so wrecked and utterly desperate for him that it makes his head spin, his chest filling with pride and lust and satisfaction because you do need him, and your body is just proving that.) 

He’s cruel, often pulling three or four orgasms from you every time he touches you, those dark eyes staring unblinking down at you, almost studying you as you fall apart on his cock, on his fingers, on anything he chooses. It makes him feel good to know that he’s in full control, that he can choose when you come – it shows his place above you, helping him to justify the fact that he’s pleasuring you, that he’s taking the time and effort to make you feel good when he really doesn’t need to. 

He’s just being generous – you should be grateful he even cares about your pleasure at all. 

(Say thank you to him as you orgasm and he’s gone – cum is dripping down your skin or out of your pretty hole before you can process what’s even happening, the man above you gasping and heaving, trying desperately to make sure you don’t see the slight red staining his cheeks.) 

He wants you to follow his commands, so just let him do as he pleases – you’ll come eventually, most of the time.

Bondage

Tying into his preferences for holding control in the bedroom, Feitan has a certain affinity for seeing you restrained. 

There’s something about the way your body is presented to him when you’re all tied up that gets him feeling hot, his hands twitching and yearning to reach out and touch you. He’s not picky about what he uses to bind you – the tried and true rope is never displeasing, and the variety of pretty knots and positions he can force you into this way leave him nearly drooling at all the different sexual fantasies he can carry out with you. 

He’s particularly fond of tying you up in ways that are just the slightest bit humiliating, positions that make your neck and cheeks feel hot, embarrassment eating away at you because god, everything is exposed. 

He likes when your legs are spread, a bit of rope keeping your calves firmly pressed to your thighs while your pussy is exposed to open air, the perfect amount of space between your legs for him to slip into. He likes when your breasts are free, jiggling and bouncing with every thrust, the rope digging into your sternum or ribcage as you moan and writhe. 

(He also likes when the rope crisscrosses over your chest, digging into your nipple and making you whine in pain and pleasure, and when he undoes the ropes, he loves the way your nipples are so sore and swollen, a much darker color than they normally are and practically begging to be pinched at, to be twisted and pulled on until you’re a sniffly, moaning mess.) 

He’ll often tie your wrists together behind your back, rope connecting from your waist to the back of your knees, keeping your legs bent while he forces your ass into the air, mounting you from behind and absolutely destroying you. 

Rope is his favorite, if only because there’s something so familiar, so comforting in using it – of course, he never desires to fuck any of his victims, but he knows how to manipulate the material in order to get you bent the way he wants you to be. 

And while he has no desire to do anything to you that he would to those he tortures, there’s something oddly sexy and taboo about the fact that he’s using the same kind of rope on you as he did to the man the other day. It’s dirty, sinful, if only because this is as close as he can come to mixing two of the things he loves most – you, and his job. 

You’re safe this way, not liable to be cut or maimed or anything of the sort, but you’re still utterly at his hands, vulnerable to every whim or desire he wishes to enact on you. He likes how helpless you are when you’re tied up, unable to reach out or take control of your own pleasure, entirely reliant on him to do everything for you – something as big as stretching you out on his cock, or as small as pushing away a stray piece of hair in your face as he fucks your throat. 

The power trip is insane, and while he won’t hurt you, just the knowledge that he could makes him harder than he’s ever been. He’s a fan of other alternatives to rope, too – handcuffs are fine, a bit too mainstream for him to use regularly, but in a bind it’ll do. 

(Especially if he’s grown more comfortable with you, willing to show a more vulnerable side, because handcuffs give him less control and allow you to actively participate in your pleasure, letting you grind back against him or wrap your legs around his waist or any number of other things that can signal that you want him too.) 

Silk ties are fine, and on days where he’s feeling a bit more sentimental or emotional, he’ll prefer to use these because there’s less chance of you bruising or getting any burns or rashes. (Plus, there’s something so fitting about you being shrouded in silk – you, who’s so weak and soft and dainty, matching perfectly with the fabric. It makes him snort a bit, because you always look like such an angel when you’re all tied up for him in this way – like a beautiful, naïve little angel just begging to be destroyed and tainted by his hands, a feat he’s more eager and impatient to accomplish than he’d care to admit.) 

He’s even willing to use clothing to get you restricted – maybe the shirt you’d been wearing (his shirt, one he let you borrow, the one he finds adorable on you even if he’d never tell you) will get tied around your wrists, keeping them firmly above your chest as he sinks into you and squeezes his eyes shut, biting back the moan that threatens to tumble at his lips because you’re just so damn tight. 

He’ll use your panties as a gag, though he doesn’t do this often because he really does like hearing your sounds – especially when they’re any sort of praise or his name. 

(Often, after he’s stuffed the panties you’d been wearing past your lips, he’ll steal them back afterwards, sneakily storing them somewhere for later, for late at night when he’s standing over your sleeping form and breathing shakily, staring at you and rubbing the material – wet with both your spit and your slick – all over his cock.) 

His preference is always to have you restrained in some manner, and it’ll only be once he feels as comfortable as possible with you that he won’t tie you up. To have you free means letting himself be vulnerable to your touches, and even your rejection of his touch, and just the thought is enough to get him nervous, having to wipe his slightly sweaty hands onto his jacket. 

He’s had fantasies about fucking you without any restraints separating you before, but the moment it happens, you’ll notice that he’s oddly sensitive, his breath coming out harsher and more labored at touches that would normally leave him largely unaffected. It’s just so emotional for him, so scary and frightening, and he’ll stay inside you much longer than normal after he’s come, relishing in the warmth and wetness of you while your fingers maybe brush over his shoulders, maybe even running through his hair. It’s the sort of fantasy he’ll never, ever tell you about, though – and for now, he’ll stick with tying you up so that you’re easily accessible, provoking and arousing to stare at, and in no position to argue when he manhandles you into doing exactly what he wants.

Dry humping

While he has sexual, lewd thoughts about you from pretty much the moment he truly accepts his feelings for you, Feitan takes a very long time to begin acting on those feelings. 

Even more, it takes him a long time to get comfortable enough to be naked in front of you, much less actually fuck you. And so, while this hesitancy persists, he finds himself using other routes to sate his growing desire to be intimate with you – routes that are less invasive, less opportune for embarrassing accidents (like coming too fast, or facing your rejection). 

And while it still feels awfully pathetic, Feitan finds that the simple act of grinding on you is enough to satisfy his desires, at least for the time being – there’s just something oddly enticing about it, something arousing and the pleasure just dull enough to thwart him from coming within three or four minutes of touching you. 

He doesn’t like initiating it, though, finding it a bit too pathetic, even for him, even for the way he feels for you. Instead, he holds his breath, hoping that every time you brush against him (normally by accident, your whole body freezing up the moment you realize what you’ve done) that you’ll do it again, because even just a single bit of friction between your (fully clothed) bodies is enough to get his neck feeling warm, the ghost of an erection springing to life in his pants. 

He’s just so, so touch starved, and so as time goes on, he’ll start subtly trying to get into positions where you might accidentally grind on him, sometimes without you even realizing. He’ll make you pick something up off the ground, then choose the exact moment that you’re bent over and your ass is in the air to walk behind you, letting his hips just barely graze against you.

He’ll manage to hold back the little strained noise he makes, but at some point you’ll notice that it’s happening much too often to be a coincidence, and you’ll eventually realize that the strange hardness you feel when he does this is actually him. 

He won’t ever just grab you and rut into you, but god does he want to, especially when he sees your hips swaying, or when you’re sitting down, the fat of your thighs splayed out and your hips looking wide and full and perfect to grab onto. 

He’s embarrassed by his own thoughts, but eventually you’ll probably realize what it is that he wants – you’ve felt the way he tries to subtly make it happen, and while you were at first confused and shocked (you’d had no idea Feitan wanted anything sexual with you, as he’d never made a mention of it or acted in a way that would suggest it), you eventually start getting a bit brave, too. 

You don’t love Feitan, far from it, but you’ve been trapped with him for enough months to start craving any form of human contact, and so you’ll pounce – Feitan can’t help but sharply inhale when you grind back against him one day while you’re bent over, the feeling of your ass moving against his cock making him struggle to breath. 

He’s not sure what you’re trying to do, too pessimistic to let himself believe that you’re the one grinding on him, but one day you’ll find yourself sitting next to him on the raggedy old couch, the TV playing some mindless horror movie that Feitan had thrown on, and your hand will just sort of move on its own, slowly, carefully placing itself very lightly over his thigh. He’ll tense up at the sensation, dark eyes flicking between your hand and your face, your own gaze nervously set on the TV in front of you. 

It’s silent for a moment, but when he doesn’t move your hand, you’ll get braver, turning to look at him and asking in a soft, unsure voice if you can sit in his lap. Feitan doesn’t know how to respond, simply staring at you with narrowed eyes, wondering if this is some sort of trick – but eventually he’ll nod, telling you to be careful, don’t try anything. 

You’ll position yourself so that your ass is pressed against his crotch, his thighs on either side of your hips, but you don’t lean back, even when you hear Feitan inhale slightly, having leaned forward to smell your hair. It’s a good twenty or so minutes later when you begin moving your hips slowly, nervously, listening to hear for any displeased noises or harsh commands for you to stop your movements. 

Feitan is frozen behind you, staring at your hips and trying to understand what you’re doing – he likes it, but he doesn’t like the way his body is reacting, blood slowly starting to head south at the slight friction, at the way you’re so damn close to him, at the way he can smell you and can feel the heat radiating off your body. 

It’s all too much, and suddenly he’s telling you to get off me, before quickly storming out of the room and locking himself in his bedroom. 

His cock is in his hand within minutes, memories of how you’d felt against him, even with layers of clothes separating you still fresh in his mind. You’ll be left to believe he didn’t like it, that you’d totally misinterpreted his actions, ashamed and a bit afraid for how he’d respond moving forward. 

Except, there’s no grand punishment, no mocking you for your actions – instead, the next night he turns on a new movie (still horror, gory and full of screaming and killing) and looks over at you expectantly. 

His legs are spread this time, leaving a space between them, and for a moment you’re confused, unsure of what he wants. He just raises a brow at you, unwilling to articulate what he’s wanting, hoping you’ll understand it without him needing to say it. 

You’ll shuffle closer, still staring at him, but soon he’ll just grumble, a hand reaching out and pulling you down to sit between his legs before you can even realize what’s happening. You’re stiff and unsure, unwilling to relax, and Feitan doesn’t like this. He wants you to move like you did last night, and after a few minutes of you sitting stone still, he’ll hiss into your ear do it again. 

You’ll start slow, testing the waters, and you nearly jump when you feel Feitan’s hand ghost over your waist, setting his fingers against your shirt as if wanting to fully touch you, but not quite letting himself. He’ll occasionally tell you to go faster, the movie still playing in the background, the feeling of his cock digging into your tailbone making you a confusing mix of scared and aroused. 

Eventually, he’ll let out this strange, unusual little sound, something like a grunt but much higher and strained, and you’ll feel something warm and wet pressing against you. Don’t mention anything, because Feitan doesn’t want you to say a damn word, not wanting to admit that the feeling of you grinding on him for roughly seven minutes has him coming in his pants, cum covering his cock and getting him all sticky. 

He’s embarrassed, but it will become something of a ritual between the two of you – every time he turns on a movie, it’s your place to sit in his lap (eventually you actually will sit in his lap, fully on his lap, not just pressed against him, though this takes some time) and to gyrate your hips at that certain rhythm he likes, all up until you feel him tense up beneath you, seeing his fingers clutching at the couch cushions at your sides. 

It’s a slow buildup into any sort of sexual activity between the two of you, but Feitan likes this, something about the intimacy making him extra sensitive, the feeling of you actually touching him (even peripherally, with clothes separating the two of you) making him feel lightheaded and airy. He likes it, and this will be the jumping off point for him to begin getting bolder, to begin letting himself actually fuck you, to finally do what he’s been craving for months. 

And once you become aware that he likes it, please start imitating it – give him look and ask if you can um, sit in your lap? 

He’ll almost always say yes, even if he’s in the middle of doing something, even if there’s not even a chair or couch nearby – he'll rush (not running, but very, very nearly) to the nearest surface, swallowing hard and staring at you, growing impatient when you don’t move fast enough for him. 

Often, he’ll already be half hard, and while he prefers when your back is facing him, if you were to climb into his lap so that you were straddling him? Well, Feitan finds it much harder to look you in the eye, because now it’s your cunt grinding down on him rather than just your ass, and that’s much different, isn’t it? 

Even once he’s progressed to stage of actually being willing to touch you, of being willing to let you touch him, Feitan still enjoys when you hump at him. And he particularly enjoys humping you, though he’s only willing to do this in the dead of night, when you’re fast asleep, your body ripe and vulnerable for him to touch, to explore, to use. 

He doesn’t want you to be awake and see the way he crumbles when he drags his cock along the curve of your ass, if only because he doesn’t want you to see how pink his cheeks get, how he starts mumbling under his breath, how his every muscle is flexing and straining because he wants to go faster, needs to go faster, but he can’t risk waking you up. 

It’s his dirty little secret, so you’d better start working on your stamina for grinding onto him – sure, he doesn’t last long, but he expects it often, and you can’t exactly refuse him. 

Or else.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Begging

Feitan likes knowing that you want him. He feels so inferior and weak for having developed such strong, scarily dependent feelings for you, and it makes him feel good, satisfied, justified when you beg for him, all whiny and desperate for his touch, for his body, for his cock. 

While he’s not particularly vocal between the sheets, he likes when you are - your voice is sultry when it gets all airy and gaspy, your little praises and pleas for him to go faster or please don’t stop making him double down and go harder, his desperation to please you driving him forward. 

He won’t ever explicitly ask you to beg for anything, but you’ll be able to tell that he likes it. 

You’ll see the way his eyes widen just a hair, the way his dark bangs settle over his forehead as he dips his head down, the exertion of moving his hips or wrist faster making him squeeze his eyes shut. 

You’ll feel the way his thrusts get more insistent, hips slapping against yours while his balls clap against your ass, the sound lewd and only getting faster the more you beg. 

You’ll be able to hear it in the way his breathing starts getting ragged, no amount of stamina adequate for hearing you beg for him, for him to touch you and pleasure you. 

He wants to feel needed in the context of your sexual pleasure, as if you can’t get off without his help, as if you’re incapable of bringing yourself to orgasm when he so easily manages it. It’s unrealistic and he knows it, but he’s able to immerse himself in the fantasy of you wanting him when you’re begging him, able to delude himself into believing, if only for a bit, that you’re just as frantic for his love and affection as he is yours. 

If you really want to get him going, a surefire way to have his cock springing to life and his heart lurching into his throat is to praise him a bit, then following it up with a plea for him to keep going. Tell him that it’s s’good, you feel so good Feitan, please don’t stop, just like that, fuck! 

Tell him that you belong to him, that you’re his, that your cunt is his cunt, that you want him to come inside, that you need more more more. He might tell you that you’re greedy, grunting out something about you being a greedy slut, but the twitching of his cock inside you and the way his fingers tighten their hold on you will show you that he isn’t as unaffected by your words as he’d like to pretend. 

He really just likes knowing that sex affects you just as much as it affects him, so please, please beg him - he’ll almost always do exactly what you want, almost like it’s a reward.

(After all, just getting to touch you is reward enough for him.)

Sensory deprivation

Because it takes Feitan so long to grow comfortable with letting himself be truly vulnerable with you (especially in the context of sex), he finds ways to get around this mental roadblock, so that he can experience everything he wants to without giving up any of his control. 

And one of his favorite ways to do that is to limit your senses - specifically, Feitan loves to blindfold you. He doesn’t really want you to be looking at him during sex, too nervous and awkward and embarrassed, because once he gets inside you, his control over his facial expressions, his bodily responses, his everything is severely limited. 

It takes all his will power to stop himself from coming prematurely, especially towards the beginning of his sexual relationship with you, and he’ll be damned if he lets you see the way his face crumples when he slips inside your wet heat, his dark brows drawing together and lips parting, eyes squeezing shut while he wills himself to calm down, to take deep breaths and not let himself get carried away. 

He doesn’t want you to be able to look at him, but he wants to be able to see you - he wants full viewing pleasure of your body, and while this method does block seeing your eyes get all glassy and pleasured, it’s better this way. 

This way, he gets to stare at the way your tits bounce as he fucks you, the soft fat jiggling and practically begging to be groped and squeezed at. 

This way, he can stare at your ass he pounds into it, grabbing a handful of cheek in each hand and kneading the fat, spreading them apart and taking a peek at your pert, cute little asshole, seeing the curve and arch of your back. 

He can let himself relax more this way, allowing his face to present every emotions and sensation he’s feeling, and he can let himself indulge in some of his more embarrassing urges - like reaching out to cup your hips when your bodies are facing each other, his fingers never quite brushing your skin but awfully close. 

He’ll lean in close as if to kiss you, letting his breath fan over your lips but never actually closing the distance, just indulging in the smell of you and the idea of kissing you. He’s still very reserved, but this way he can do all the things he fantasizes about when he’s alone at night, his mind wandering to you and his body growing cold and lonely. 

Plus, Feitan gains a certain amount of control this way - he gets to choose what happens to you, and because you can’t see anything, you’ll have no idea what’s coming next. 

Will it be his hands, a vibrator, his cock? 

You won’t know, and Feitan likes it that way - he wants to keep you guessing, to leave you unsure and awaiting his next move with baited breath. 

He just likes how dependent you are when he’s got the black blindfold tied around your eyes, so you’d better get used to it - he’s not good at compromising, after all. 

BIGGEST FANTASY:

While Feitan doesn’t harbor any desire to hurt you, there’s a certain allure that blood holds for him. 

Of course, he doesn’t want to actually draw blood from you (the thought of you being in pain because of him makes any boner of his die immediately), but he discovers - by accident - that there’s a solution to mixing the two. 

There’s a way to combine the two things that turn him on most - you, of course, and the slightest bit of blood - in a way that is safe for you yet still arousing, still enough to get him panting and his trousers feeling uncomfortably tight. 

That is, Feitan discovers that he absolutely loves getting intimate with you while you’re on your period. It doesn’t matter if you get horrible cramps, mood swings, or are even totally unaffected - you’re sensitive, body needy and practically begging to be mounted and fucked, and who is Feitan to deny you?

Once he grows comfortable with intimacy, you’ll never be able to pull him away from you once the blood shows up in your panties. He’s obsessive, tracking your period for you, making sure that he knows the exact days that you’ll be starting and stopping. 

He likes the way you respond to his touch so easily, your pretty pussy all messy and red and puffy, even the slightest touch making you buck your hips and gasp his name. 

It’s euphoric, and when he slips inside you it becomes incredibly difficult to not immediately orgasm - you’re just so wet, so warm and wonderfully lubricated, and the sight of blood staining his cock when he pulls back to thrust back in makes his head spin. 

You’re perfect when you’re menstruating, and you’ll notice he’ll be in a much better mood once you shyly report that it started, could you pick up some more pads for me? (He toys with the idea of actually collecting your blood, investing in one of those menstrual cups that you can remove once it’s full, just because the concept of drinking it is enough to make him fidget, the thought taboo and dirty and so very enticing.) 

You can’t really say no to him normally, but you especially can’t deny him when it’s your time of the month - you will be getting fingered, fucked, even facefucked, if only because Feitan needs you, your pretty blood and pretty body making him go crazy in a way he didn’t think possible. 

You make him go crazy in ways he didn’t think possible.

“Feitan, I - we can’t, not tonight.” You tell him, averting your gaze away from his as his hands grab at the old t-shirt and short you’re wearing. Unconsciously, your hand travels to your stomach, laying idly and making Feitan’s eyes narrow. 

“Why not?” He asks, his voice clipped and suspicious. You didn’t often tell him no, and although there’s a bit of doubt swimming in his chest, he wants to know why you’re suddenly not welcoming his touch. You’ve reached the point of leaning into his cold, harsh hands, so why’re you suddenly being so standoffish? He doesn’t like it, and his hands stay idly resting on your shirt hem. 

You’re embarrassed, he can tell, but he doesn’t drop the issue. Instead, he lets the silence sit heavily over the two of you, waiting for you to fill in the space. 

“Well, um, you see…” You start, before squeezing your eyes shut and squeaking out, “My period started yesterday and it’s too messy.”

Feitan blinks at you, unsure what to say. Your period? You were bleeding?

“Okay, and?” 

Your eyes peel open, daring to sneak a glance at your captor, who only stares at you, unimpressed. “Well, I mean, it’s going to be messy and gross and it probably smells bad and -”

“Shut up, we’re doing it.” He cuts you off, hand yanking at your shirt to bring it over your head. You grimace, already nervous for him to take off your shorts, because although you’re sure he knows what a period is, you’re sure he’s never actually been around a woman menstruating. Or at least, not sexually. 

Actually, you’re pretty sure he’s never been with a woman sexually in any capacity. 

He’s yanking at your shorts next, pulling down the material even as you voice your protests, but one scowl from him has you shutting up, embarrassment pricking up your spine as he grabs your thighs and manually spreads them, the scratchy blanket covering the bed biting into your ass. 

He’s staring, dark eyes a bit wider than normal, and you feel yourself shrinking in on yourself, the embarrassment eating you alive. Why was he staring? Why wasn’t he doing anything? Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“Feitan..?” You mumble, biting your lip and letting your arms cover your bloated stomach. He doesn’t respond, but you feel his grip on your thighs tighten, to the point where you think you might see bruises tomorrow. 

His eyes slowly, painstakingly, drag up from your exposed cunt to meet your face, and to your surprise you see the slightest dusting of a blush on his cheeks, as if he too was embarrassed. But before you can say anything, he’s rushing forward, lips pressing against yours in a messy, clumsy kiss, full of teeth knocking against teeth and too much spit. You’re not sure what’s gotten into him, but just as soon as he rushed in he’s pulling back, instead moving to bring his face level with your leaking hole. 

Feitan can’t stop staring - there’s blood everywhere, and while he’d normally be thrown into a state of panic at seeing so much of your own blood staining your skin, somehow this is different. Somehow the sight of it staining your pussy, the red color all along your inner thighs and part of your asscheek making his mouth water, his cock already painfully hard. It’s so pretty - red against your skin, your lips visibly swollen, your little clit engorged and peaking out. You look good, like something he wants to taste, and before he knows what’s happening he’s diving forward, tongue licking a long stripe up your slit. 

You taste like iron and musk and something oddly sweet, and immediately he’s diving in to taste more, tongue lapping at you like some dog in heat as he keeps his fingers firmly digging into your thighs. He can barely hear your sound of shock at his actions, too overwhelmed by your taste and your scent. 

“F-feitan, stop!” You manage to force out, eyes squeezed shut as your hips shake and stutter. “It’s too much, I’m too sensitive, I can’t!”

Feitan stops at that, pulling away from your body with blood smeared all over his lips, chin and nose, staring at you with a look in those wide, dark eyes that makes you shiver. He looks like an animal like this, something primal and carnal - and when your eyes peek down to see his cock - throbbing, bright red and stiff against his stomach - you can’t help but feel as if you’re some sort of prey caught in his jaws. 

“Not too much, you will survive.” Is all he says, before he’s resuming his actions, bringing a finger up to prod inside your walls while his tongue gets to work on your clit. His fingers curl and rub, but you’re so damn tight, your walls impossibly clenched, and it makes Feitan grunt against you. You’re even wetter inside than normal, the blood practically running down his hands in copious amounts, making it remarkably easy to slide his fingers in and out. Almost too easy, it would seem. 

You’re blabbering his name, the stimulation hurtling you towards your orgasm much quicker than normal, your heightened sensitivity and emotions turning you into a moaning, whimpering mess. And Feitan loves it - those dark eyes are peering up at you from over the crest of your pelvic bone, blood tinging his cheeks and visible to you. 

When he angles his fingers to press against the spongey, sensitive spot he knows you love, you suddenly gasp, a hand flying to tangle into his hair, the other gently pinching and rolling at your nipple. 

“Feitan, oh fuck Feitan ‘m gonna, I’m gonna come-!” You’re squealing, something that makes Feitan cock a brow, the pure desperation in your body as you squirm under his touch making him feral, his hips beginning to rut against the bed before he can even think about it. You just look so sexy like this, with your nipples swollen and sensitive, your cunt all warm and wet and sweet, and he’ll watch with wide eyes as you orgasm around him, your walls clenching down so hard that they force his fingers out, his tongue and the circles he’s drawing on your clit the only thing grounding you. Your back arches fully up off the bed, tits thrust out into the air, and Feitan bites back a groan as his own pleasure hits a peak, the blanket ruined as cum oozes from his tip and seeps into the fabric. 

You’re shaking, literally fucking shaking, and Feitan finds himself trembling too, his hands not as steady against your skin. If he’d known you would taste like this, how sensitive you’d be, how easy it is to get you orgasming while on your period, he would’ve done this long ago. 

You’re out of it, blinking up at the ceiling and heaving uneven breaths, but even as sensitive as he is from his last orgasm, Feitan is quickly shuffling to his knees, grabbing the base of his cock and sinking into you, face contorting into something between a grimace and a gasp. You’re so damn warm, and he groans lowly as he sees the way his cock has pink slick all over it when he pulls back, a mix of your blood, your slick and his cum decorating his length. 

Fucking you is heaven, the way you clutch at him and writhe, nearly screaming his name as you come on his cock, and Feitan can only grit his teeth and go harder, spurred on by the way your walls are caressing his length, massaging and gripping like a fucking vice. 

It feels good, and by the time he’s emptied himself inside you, he’s already made a mental note to mark down when your next period will be - just so he can get ready, so that he can get prepared. So that he can prepare you, too, because you won’t simply be allowed rest after the first night. 

God no, not if you’re like this the whole time.

[deakyjoe]

Southern Charm

Pairing: Phillip Graves x Reader (afab, she/her, use of “girl”)

Category: smut

Summary: You’re supposed to hate him but you just can’t resist that southern charm.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, unprotected p in v sex (one day I’ll get characters to use a condom), creampie, vaginal fingering, biting, grinding/dry humping, thigh riding, pet names (good girl, naughty girl, darlin’), praise & degradation kink, quickie, cum eating, slight choking, Graves is a bit of a dick but we love him, slight dom!Graves, slight sub!Reader, slight slut-shaming, jealousy

Word count: 3k (how did that happen?)

A/N: That’s my pookie. He can do no wrong. He has committed many atrocities. I want him to wreck me.

Consider buying me a coffee :)

You didn't know how you'd ended up here.

Well, you did. But you were in denial.

You knew you were supposed to dislike him, considering the rest of the team did. Slimy. Untrustworthy. Suspicious. Creepy. Dodgy. Sinister. Menacing. Sly. All words that had been used to describe the man. And you agreed with every single one of them but just couldn't find it in yourself to feel the same way they did, and maybe that did make you loathe him a little. How was he so irresistible to you?

He had just waltzed in, all charming smiles and inviting voice, and expected to take over the whole operation. Bastard. But when he looked at you, you couldn't help the heat that would crawl to the surface of your skin and make you yearn for him, crave his touch. And you knew he felt the same.

You’d been exchanging meaningful glances for weeks, full of tension and future promises. Yet neither of you dared to act on it for a while, knowing it was too risky. But sometimes things just have a way of happening.

But when you’d been walking down one of the many hallways on base, him just a few paces behind you, you couldn’t help but slip into the nearest room with a quick glimpse back at him. It had taken him less than ten seconds to burst through the door after you.

So that's how you'd ended up being pushed against a wall with his knee between your legs and his tongue in your mouth. A quickie in a tiny storage room with someone you weren't supposed to like was not your style. But maybe today it was. It had to be because this was all you had.

"Shit." You cursed when one of his warm hands snaked under the hem of your shirt, and curled around your waist, and the other reached up to squeeze your breast through it.

Graves only smiled against your mouth, enjoying the effect he was having on you. It was only further proof of what he already knew.

But your mind kept straying to the door of the room that was very much unlocked, considering there was no way to bolt it from the inside, and the fact that anyone could walk in at any moment if they chose to. What would your team say if they caught you like this with him? The shame was almost too much to bear.

"We should stop." You mumbled against his mouth, making no effort to get away and actually just pulling him tighter against you instead. One of your fists gripped the fabric of his shirt and the other curled around the back of his neck and into his hair. You were insatiable.

He knew you didn't want to stop. Neither did he. "Mhm, sure."

He kissed you harder.

You let him.

"We could get caught." You said, during your next pause for air. Rational thought was escaping you fast and you knew you had to at least pretend that you cared that this was wrong.

"Nobody comes in here. Just girls like you waiting to get fucked."

You pushed on his chest, breaking the kiss. "I didn't think you'd follow me."

You did.

"Bullshit." He laughed. "I've seen the looks you've been giving me, darlin'. I know."

You frowned at him, defiant nature kicking in. He was too cocky for your usual taste no matter how attractive you found him. Perhaps it even made him more attractive to you. "Know what exactly?"

His eyes sparkled. "How much your pussy aches for me."

He wasn't wrong. And you hated that. Hm, maybe you did despise him a little.

He saw the look of embarrassment flash across your face and could only laugh. "It's alright. Do you know how hard you make me?"

It was pressed up against you so, yes, you knew very well. But you bit your bottom lip and shook your head anyway. And he was all too enthusiastic to take one of your hands and guide it down to his crotch so you could palm his hardened length through his clothing.

"Fuck." Graves groaned at your touch, head dropping and eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

You giggled, liking how easy this was even though he'd been the one teasing you a moment ago. "You like that, Commander?"

His head snapped back up again, playful look back on his face as he pushed his whole body up against you further. It got to a point where the only way for the two of you to be any physically closer would be if you were to remove your clothes. And you certainly weren't doing that in an unlocked storage room on base.

"Naughty girl." He mumbled, craning his neck to trace his lips over your jawline. “Calling me by my rank. You like that sort of thing?” He lifted the knee between your legs up higher when you nodded so it pushed against you harder, making you whimper in pleasure. "You do this often?"

"Do what?" Your brain was too fuzzy from what he was doing to you to properly comprehend whatever he was talking about. It probably didn't help that you shifted your hips to start grinding against his thigh.

"Send wicked glances to all your higher ups and then fuck them in closets? You a barracks bunny, hm?" One of his hands slid to the belt on your jeans, undoing the fastening slowly. Too slowly.

"I don't work for you. You're not my higher up." You pulled his face away from your neck and tugged him down to kiss you again, wanting to shut him up. But you couldn't deny that what he was saying was turning you on even more. You weren’t interested in sleeping with your team or anyone else on base but his implication of it was… slightly exciting to say the least.

"Oh, darlin'... you know you'd submit to me easy enough. All I gotta do is ask."

You definitely despised him. Despised the fact that he could read you so well. To be fair, you hadn't really tried to hide your interest in him. You were sure he'd known since the first moment you laid eyes on him. If it were possible, you were sure he would've been able to see your eyes blown wide with immediate lust and the heat that pooled in your lower abdomen. He just really did it for you. Maybe it was the accent, maybe it was the hair, maybe it was the scar, maybe it was the over confident nature. Whatever it was, he just clicked right for you.

"You're such a dick, Graves." You finally replied, breathless and about two seconds away from pushing his hand fully into the front of your jeans if he didn't speed things up.

“Yeah, but you like it.” He chuckled, moving his attention to the finger that had finally reached your clit and was providing the much needed stimulation you’d been thinking about since you’d first met him.

“Shit, fuck.” You gasped, head falling back to hit the wall.

Graves huffed at your groan of pain and used his free hand to hold the back of your head in order to prevent any other injuries. How sweet and out of character for him. But you didn’t question it, just thankful that he didn’t seem to want you to give yourself a concussion.

His hand slipped down further. “Goddamn, you’re wet for me. Huh, darlin’? Didn’t know you were that desperate.”

Your eyes rolled back when he slid a finger into you. It was almost humiliating how easy it happened, how wet you were from so little.

“Oh, my god.” You squeaked, clutching onto his shoulders and moving your hips to grind against his hand.

“I will be your god soon enough, I can promise you that.” Graves’ hand moved with you, knowing exactly what you needed to make you feel good.

“Shut up.” You sighed, not really caring what he had to say anymore. You were about one orgasm away from agreeing with anything he had to say. That was dangerous territory. But you were sure it would pass once you had this, had him, out of your system.

“I mean it. Gonna ruin you for all other men. You’ll only ever think about me after this.” His forehead furrowed as he watched his wrist disappearing in and out of the waistband of your jeans, fully concentrated on that.

You wanted to disagree but you could already feel it happening. It didn’t help that you were already so attracted to him. But if he made you come? Then you were screwed. Literally and metaphorically.

When he added a second finger to the mix, crooking them inside of you to meet that sweet spot and the heel of his hand grinding against your clit at every little movement, you knew every sane thought was lost for the near future.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You babbled, nails digging into his shoulders to drag him down to meet your mouth again. It was all teeth and tongues, technique abandoned in your ecstasy, and you could feel him holding back a smile against you. Always so fucking smug.

“Come on, darlin’. Be a good girl and come for me.” He mumbled against your cheek after the kiss was broken.

The use of good girl did it for you.

Your hips rocked against his hand wildly as your orgasm washed over you, desperately trying to chase the high even further.

Graves guided you through it, trailing kisses up and down the skin of your neck as well as the area of chest and collarbone that was left exposed by the neckline of your shirt. “Good girl, that’s it. Such a good fucking girl for me, hm?”

You whimpered when he pulled his hand out of your jeans, and his fingers out of you, and planted a kiss on your lips as a reward for coming. You didn’t really understand the logic as you thought you should be rewarding him for making you come but you weren’t going to complain if that worked for him because it was certainly working for you.

He licked the essence of you from his fingers, moaning at the taste. “So sweet.”

You could only watch with hooded eyelids, both from exhaustion and arousal.

When he kissed you again, you could taste the remnants of you on his mouth and you just pulled him impossibly closer. You knew he wasn’t done with you yet, his hard cock being pressed against you was evidence enough of that.

When he broke away, his eyes flitted over your face. “Knew you’d be easy. Didn’t know it’d be this easy.”

Your nose scrunched. It was things he said like that that made you know that you should like him a whole lot less. “What made you think I’d be easy?”

He beamed that dazzling grin. “My good looks and outstanding personality.”

"Been using the southern charm on me, huh?"

His eyebrows raised. "It's been working, hasn't it?"

"Confident." You scoffed.

"Only because you came on my fingers less than two minutes ago." He reminded you, smug smile plastered across his face. "Thought that was a telltale sign, darlin'."

You grunted and nodded at him, hands falling to unbuckle his belt.

“Eager?”

“Horny.”

He laughed again and pulled your own jeans and underwear down to the ground, the cold air making you gasp.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You asked, gaze flicking to the door.

“How’d you expect me to fuck you if you got jeans on?” He glanced up at you from where he was crouched down.

“Good angles and a little effort.” You replied but still kicked them off of your ankles.

“Can’t do this if clothes are in the way.” He stated as he stood up straight again, each hand swooping behind your thighs and lifting you in the air so your legs could wrap around him and your back rested against the wall. “This a good angle for you?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“And enough effort?”

You nodded again. “Yes, Commander.”

He shook his head in amusement. “Good.”

And he kissed you again, pushed fully up against you to use his own body to keep yours up. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and fingers tugging on his roots. His hips rutted against yours and you laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just fuck me already, Graves.” You whispered, trailing one hand down the length of his torso.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Pushing his jeans down a couple of inches was enough to free himself from the confines of his clothes. He pumped himself a few times before pausing, eyes snapping up to meet yours.

“Shit.”

“What?” You asked, confused.

“I haven’t got a condom. Do you?”

You laughed. “Yeah, I just carry them around with me with the rest of my gear.”

“Shit.” He looked disappointed.

“Easy, Commander.” You said, brushing a hand through his hair to make him calm down for a second. “I’m on birth control, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He visibly relaxed. “Thank, god.”

“No, thank me.”

The flirtatious smile returned to his face. “And how’d you want me to do that?”

“I think you know.”

With a quick nod of confirmation between the two of you, he placed his tip against your entrance.

You held your breath.

And he exhaled heavily when he pushed into you steadily. “Fucking… fuck.”

“Yeah.” You replied, eyes fluttering shut and head falling forward to meet his shoulder.

“Darlin’, you’re so…” He trailed off but you got the idea.

“You too.” You turned your head to suckle on a spot on his neck.

He liked that.

His hips slammed into yours. “Jesus! You gotta warn me. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Sorry.” You weren’t. In fact, as you said it, you moved to graze your teeth against his jawline.

Graves grabbed you by the side of your neck and forced you back to look at him. “You not gonna be a good girl and listen to me?”

“I’m sorry.” This time you were. But only to hear him call you a good girl again.

The hand on the side of your neck curved to meet your cheek, his thumb running against your lower lip. “I wasn’t joking earlier. Are you the barracks bunny around here?”

Fury burned in your chest, a scowl crossing your features.

Graves laughed. “Oh. Upset you, did I?”

"Fuck you." You hissed, venom in your voice and lust in your blood.

A smirk tipped up the corners of his mouth as he leant in to whisper in your ear. "You already are."

And with that, he pulled out of you before pushing back in again. An embarrassingly loud moan tumbled from your mouth.

Graves chuckled. “How am I not supposed to assume you’re the resident slut when you get off fucking your commander in a closet?”

“Not a slut. Not my commander.” You replied, rolling your hips against his as best as you could.

“Hmm… You fuck your lieutenant then? Or your captain? Tell me, what’s Price like in the sack?”

The loathing you were supposed to feel for him grew more and more by the second. But so did the want. You wondered if he was jealous. Which would explain why he was pressing you about whether you’d slept with the other members of the team.

“Haven’t fucked Price.” You responded, a jolt in your voice as he pounded into you.

“What about the rest of your team, hey? Or anyone else around here?”

You were frustrated. “Fuck! None of them, okay? Just you.”

He loved that answer. “Just me?”

“Yes, just you.”

He kissed you. “Good.”

You whined against his lips, sweat starting to glisten on the surface of your skin and the wet sounds of him pushing in and out of you filling the room. You were sure that if anyone were to walk past the room, too close to the door, that they’d be able to hear the two of you. And they’d certainly be able to smell if they were to come in after the two of you had left. The air smelt distinctly of sex.

The hand on the side of your neck fell to move between you, the thumb that was previously teasing your bottom lip now eagerly circling your clit.

Graves watched your face intently to take in every minor reaction you gave him. And when you crashed into your second orgasm, he swallowed your moans with a firm kiss. Only pulling away again to whisper sweetly in your ear. “Good girl. That’s my good girl.”

The feeling of you clenching around him did it for him as well as he slowed down slightly before he twitched inside of you and pumped you full of him.

“Fuck, darlin’.” He grumbled as he rested his forehead against yours for a few moments before gently lowering you back down to the ground. His arm wrapped around your waist when you stumbled on shaky legs. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You replied, steadying yourself against the wall and sending him a short smile.

He nodded and tucked himself back away in his jeans before helping you to get yours back on. When that was done, and you’d flattened his hair as much as you could after tousling it up as much as you did, you just looked at him awkwardly. You could feel him dripping out of you and making a mess of your underwear.

He didn't strike you as the romantic type so it surprised you when he leaned in and gave you, what could only be described as, a very tender kiss. You figured it was his version of aftercare. It was surprisingly nice. You'd take it.

He pulled away and looked at the wall over your head. “Go take a shower and clean up.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not going to join me?”

“You wish.” He snickered. “No, I was supposed to meet Price in his office ten minutes ago.”

Your eyes widened in shock. “What?”

Graves shrugged. “Got distracted.”

You could only smile back at him in disbelief as he sent you one last cocky smirk and sauntered out of the room.

Yeah, his southern charm worked. You definitely didn’t hate him.

A/N: hope you enjoyed <3

[treysimp]

Sleepy? (TWST X OBEY ME)

GN!Reader/Leona Kingscholar (Twisted Wonderland) | VERSUS | GN!Reader/Belphegor (Shall We Date? Obey Me!)

Rating: T (Language)

Tags: Crossover, petty jealousy, love at first sight, Leona can never spit it out because he’s a tsundere, GN!Reader, reader’s body is not described nor are pronouns used, this is mostly silly and I just wanted to see the boys being bratty haha

Words: 1.5k

Want more TWST? Here’s my masterlist!

This fucking guy.

Leona was irritated. Of course he was. How could he not be?

This guy, this dumbass, sleepy, blue-haired asshole, was getting his demon smell all over the herbivore.

That job is already taken, buddy.

How did his day even end up like this?

He knew he should have said something the second this guy sauntered his way into his business, but he just assumed that a demon wouldn’t care about something as trivial as a human.

That was a mistake. Clearly.

Earlier that afternoon, Belphie was trying to reconcile the pain of the less-than-literal hell of his time on the Night Raven exchange trip with his enjoyment of visiting somewhere new.

As excited as he was to get the chance to explore, he also had barely gotten any sleep. He felt like he might pass out at any moment, and while taking a nap was easy, finding somewhere comfortable is not.

Wandering aimlessly on campus looking for somewhere comfortable to waste a few hours, Belphegor found himself quite taken by the large and elegant greenhouse that lurked on the outskirts of campus. It reminded him of the Devildom Botanical Garden, which was a perfect place to relax. Hopefully it was just as comfortable. With a shrug, he wandered inside, trying to spot a nice bench or a patch of grass to occupy.

As soon as he passed into the barrier, Belphie was overcome with a lovely herbal smell. Like chamomile tea and moss after the rain. Following the smell, he saw something unexpected.

You.

While Belphegor wasn’t the quickest to warm up to humans, he had gotten better at being at least civil to them. He was not the type to pay much attention to humans around him (especially in a place like this, with enough wizards to feel like there were hundreds of excitable little Solomon’s running around) but something about you was different.

Something about you was intoxicating.

He watched you from afar, listening to you quietly speaking to the small plant that you gently brushed with your fingertips. You had a book in your hand, and seemed to be reading it to the plant from it.

From what he could hear, it sounded like you were reading out care instructions and then asking the plant if they were correct. It was mindless chatter, clearly the habit of someone who liked to talk themselves through their thoughts. Cute.

While Belphie had been rather set on having a nap, you seemed far more interesting at the moment.

Having an idea, Belphie approached you, putting on his most innocent look as he shyly tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants.

“Hey, I’m lost. You’re a student, right? Can you help me?”

Your eyes raise to meet him and Belphie feels like his heart could fall out of his chest when you smile up at him.

“Ah… that uniform. You’re from the Devildom?” You asked. Belphie nodded excitedly at your question.

That saved him an explanation. Cute and clever. You were just getting better and better by the minute.

“Sure, where do you need to go?” You were seemingly prepared for the question, giving off the impression of being someone that is used to answering similar inquiries.

Straightening yourself to your feet from a crouch and brushing the dirt off of your knees, Belphie felt his mouth getting dry. This was too much for a first meeting, but everything in him was begging him to touch you.

You had donned a lab coat and some goggles, over your uniform. The oversized goofiness of your outfit only making you look all the more charming with the dichotomy. He could now see that the book you were holding was named ‘Plants Care Laid Bare: Making Potions On the Cheap’.

There was certainly something here he wouldn’t mind seeing bare.

“It’s embarrassing, but I was trying to find a place to take a nap. I don’t have a dorm assignment yet and I’m dead on my feet. Are there any good places around here?” He asked sweetly, keeping his tone friendly and sheepish in order to get closer and encroach on your physical bubble just a bit. Unsurprisingly, you were even cuter up close.

You giggled, which caused your nose to wrinkle just so. Oh man, he hadn’t fallen this fast since he… okay, we aren’t going to think about that actually.

“I have it on good authority that over there is actually the preferred nap spot of a friend of mine.” You say helpfully, pointing over to a cove comprised of flowering bushes.

Belphie looked over to where you were indicating, noticing what looked to be a… rope of some kind peeking out. Huh.

“Unfortunately it’s currently in use.” You say with a wink, reading the questioning lilt of his expression.

“There’s a patch of clover near the flower garden though, which is my personal favorite spot.”

“Oh, really? Will you show me there?”

“Sure!”

And that started your flirtatious friendship with Belphie. You spent time sitting in the clover talking for hours that day, getting surprisingly deep. You talked about your school, your friends, your likes and dislikes. Time went by both slow and fast, causing both of you to drift into a comfortable nap under the sun.

By the time you woke up, Belphie had nestled into your side and you felt a small trail of drool coming from the side of your mouth. Ew. Thankfully Belphie was asleep.

You felt a light kicking at your ribs and heard an irritated sigh.

“Hey. Herbivore. Wake up damnit.”

And here’s the reason you woke up in the first place.

“Hey Leona. What brings you here?”

Leona’s lovely face was knit with irritation. His emerald eyes were narrowed and strangely intense with an expression that you weren’t familiar with. His hair slipped gracefully over his shoulders as he leaned over you, blocking the sun and giving him a halo in the light that peeled around the edges of his silhouette. It was exhausting how pretty he was sometimes, you thought.

Belphie stirred from his place on your chest from the sound, hazarding an eye open to see a man with animal ears and a tail glaring down at him.

Putting two and two together, he looked at the newcomers expression of irritation and the playful smile you gave in response.

And from your earlier comment… that wasn’t a rope earlier, he thought. It was this guys’ furry widdle tail.

Looking at the appendage that was swinging in irritation in front of him, a smirk crossed Belphie’s lips. Did he have competition here?

“The hell you think you’re doing cuddlin’ up to a stranger in the middle of the day?” Leona groused.

And why wasn’t it him?

“Belphie and I were talking and accidentally fell asleep. I’m sure the king of naps himself can relate?” You say with a raised brow.

Okay, yeah you had a point. Even Leona had to agree with that one.

“Whatever. It’s dinner time anyway. Don’t be late or your annoying friends will come and bother me about where you are again.” Leona huffed, flipping his hair over his shoulder and planting a hand on his hip.

Belphie had to resist a giggle fit. If his competition was this guy, then he had nothing to worry about. This kind of smug, ruggedly-pretty boy would rather choke than show a real emotion. Easy pickings.

Belphie murmured your name softly as he put his hand over yours. He met your surprised gaze with a sweet smile.

Leona felt his eye twitch from seeing this grimy demon put his mitts on his precious friend. Did this little cud-chewing brat really think he could just waltz in here and steal your attention?

“Can you show me to the cafeteria? I should probably find my brothers.” He said, giving you a positively infectious smile.

You nodded and stood up, offering your hand to help Belphie stand up. Taking your extended arm and using it to get to his feet, with a ‘thanks’, Belphie conspicuously refused to let your hand go once he’s finished getting up.

You can feel the tips of your ears burning slightly.

Leona can feel a vein in his forehead about to burst.

“See you at dinner, Leona! Text me if you want me to grab you anything.” You say habitually, waving goodbye to your sourpuss of a buddy. What’s his problem today?

You and Belphie walked out towards the exit, and before you make it out the door, Belphie spared a glance to see the hilarious seething expression of his haughty rival.

Feeling smug, Belphie made eye contact, wiggled a brow, and made a lewd motion that is best left to the imagination.

Leona returned the lascivious farewell with a one-finger salute and stalked off, wanting to throw something at that little jackass.

If that little calf thought he could just waltz into the lion's den and steal what wasn’t his, he was going to have another thing coming to him.

Belphie is such a troublemaker I just wanted to see what he would do to get under Leona’s skin. So cute. 🥰

I hope y’all didn’t mind the crossover but I’m dying at all the possibilities hehehe

Let me know what you thought, love you reader!

Requested Tags:

@naniky , @lotus-sukimoto, @angrybees , @supernatural9000 , @youaskedfurret , @omg-its-ailatan , @acherrytart , @venniin , @chillywinterbreeze , @shytastemakerthing , @lovelynai, @fightmeucowardlmao, @riddle-simp , @leonkae , @kit4kat256, @dari-kun , @bluesylveon2 , @fr0llo, @witch-waycult , @stillserene , @rebel-faes-writing , @chopid-lulu, @rosalie-in-twisted-wonderland , @sunnyseaside, @sarahyumiko2 , @star-gods , @ninjas-are-the-shit , @kumiko-desu , @aikochan4859 , @hxlcyon , @buckketboy, @sideofblog , @daeda21 , @yandere-kou , @readinganas

[enhyqenn]

❝ him and i ❞ — n.rk

📁 … !? pairing. idol!niki x fem!reader | wc. 0.3k | genre. fluff, drabble | warnings. reader is described to be an 04 liner (a year older than niki), mentions of insecurity | note. can you tell that this is self-indulgent…

“you didn’t choose the cougar life, it chose you,” he grinned.

scoffing, you shoved your boyfriend away, rolling your eyes at the words he chose to ‘comfort’ you. but as you tried to turn to the opposite end of the couch, riki grabbed your wrist, forcing you to stay next to him.

“you suck at comforting people,” you frowned.

his head tilted ever so slightly, smiling a little less than before as he rested an open arm behind your shoulders. “yeah, it’s not one of my strong suits.”

“i just…” you trailed off, contemplating how to properly express your feelings without inviting insecurity. eyes darting to the wall behind riki in avoidance and your tongue going dry, you sighed in defeat. “you don’t think i’m…weird?”

“no,” riki said. but he mulled over your question for a second more. “well…you’re definitely weird, but not just because you’re a cougar.”

jaw unhinging, you stared at him, trying to come up with some witty comeback to save you from your boyfriend’s merciless teasing. “well at least i don’t have 11-year-olds that want to date me.”

riki’s smile dropped, his eyes creasing with disgust as he suddenly pulled away from your personal bubble. he said nothing as he scooted away.

you huffed out a breath, nudging his knee with a foot before saying, “sorry, i know that’s a sensitive topic for you.”

when his gaze snapped toward yours, eyes narrowed, you couldn’t help but foster a grin in satisfaction.

“it’s not a sensitive topic for me,” riki said, each word dripping with disgust. “it’s just incredibly uncomfortable to be aware of. you’d feel the same way if it was you.”

“oh, yeah, sure,” you nodded, sarcasm lacing your tone as you grabbed his hand and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, back to where it had been previous of his fit. “but let’s not dwell on the amount of little girls that have a crush on you. especially when you have a perfectly mature and grown one your age right here on your couch.”

riki breathed heavily through his nose, pulling you closer and pressing his mouth to your temple. “of course, my love.”

© enhyqenn 2023 | do not repost, republish, steal, or translate !!

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Not Having It, Death

Alien shape shifter appears: Fear me and tremble mortals, for I am your death.

Human: Bullshit; you’re not death.

Alien: Oh but I am.

Human: Death is covered in chocolate, and I doubt your dry ass is white chocolate.

Alien: What?

Human 2: Yeah I don’t get it either.

Human: What’s not to get?

Human: I am deathly allergic to chocolate, therefore death is chocolate.

Alien: I will not suffer this inso-

Human 2: Now that’s not the same thing.

Human 2: What you are describing is what will kill you, not death itself.

Human 3: At best that could be argued that chocolate is your personification of death.

Alien: I-

Human: Well even if chocolate is my personification of death, and it kills me; then clearly it still is death!

Human 3: *Turns to human 2* He does have a point there.

Human 2: By that logic anything that you are allergic to can be considered death.

Human 3: It’d be gerbils for me.

Human 1 & 2: *Look at human 3*

Human 3: What?

Human 3: I flare up when I touch their fur and my throat closes up.

Human 3: I’d be dead in minutes if I touched one of those furry fuckers.

Human: So death for you is tiny little gerbils?

Human 2: *Snickering*

Human 3: It’s not fucking funny!

Human 3: Those little bastards scamper all over the place and you can barely hear them.

Human 3: One could brush up against me and I wouldn’t know till my throat locked up.

Alien: Are you all implying your species version of death is what you are allergic to?

Human: Well yeah.

Human 2: What else would it be?

Alien: GUNS! KNIVES! MONSTERS WITH SHARP TEETH!

Human 3: Well we deal with those all the time so they’re not really as scary as you think.

Alien: Why does death need to be scary!?

Alien: Death is death!

Human 2: Exactly!

Human 2: Which is why death is really being eaten alive by those little fish at malls that nibble on your dead skin cells of your feet.

Human 1 & 3: *Groaning*

Human 3: Show me one instance of that actually happening and I will admit that those little fish are really death.

Human 2: That’s just it!

Human 2: There are no examples because they cover them up!

Human: I have seen our government fail to cover up sex scandals in the highest seats of political power, but you’re telling me that they are really just diverting all their efforts to cover up deaths by little mall fish?

Human 2: It’s a bigger business than you would think.

Human 1 & 3: *Groaning again*

Human 3: You sound more like a pyramid scheme now.

Alien: As fascinating as this philosophical debate is about what death is, I really just want to kill you all and harvest your life essence.

Human: Look at Mr. Fancy britches over here.

Human: *Mocking tone* I’m too important to wait on you, so just die already. Hurdy, hurdy, hur.

Human 2 & 3: *Laughing*

Human: Look, we’re going to let you kill us but we first have to decide on what form of death you take or you won’t get as much life essence.

Alien: *Stops itself from eating Human 3* Wait, really?

Human 3: *Still between the jaws of alien* Oh yeah; when we are killed by the real death we give out a shit loads of life essence.

Alien: Why are you telling me this then?

Alien: Why not save your selves by trying to distract me?

Human 2: Because in our way we feel the least amount of pain.

Human 2: So giving us less pain gives you more life essence; win win for everyone.

Alien: *Sets human 3 down and nods*

Alien: Why not let me kill you each one at a time, so I can be your own versions?

Human: Won’t work now since we all know we have different versions.

Human: We need to agree on all the same version or it won’t benefit any of us.

Human 2 & 3: *murmur in agreement*

Alien: Okay then, why don’t we start what you all think is death and we’ll narrow down from there?

*Six hours later*

Human: Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll get my fingers slit open when I open those little blue candy bars and I’ll bleed to death.

Alien: *Banging head against rock*

[naavispider]

Obstinate

Missed the blorbos so made up a late night convo 🥺 This is very early on in Quaritch and Spider's dynamic, possibly the first night they spent in the forest together.

Words: 1,723

Read under the cut or read on AO3 💞💙💞💙

The boy sat lonesomely at the edge of the fire. It was almost enough to make Quaritch feel sorry for him. The rest of the Colonel’s squad were dispersed around the campsite - some setting up comfortable sleeping areas or tapping away on their holopads, but most were congregated around the flames, enjoying a card game or sharing stories. The reflection of the fire in their dark pupils highlighted something deep and dark that Quaritch couldn’t quite put his finger on. Since returning to this life as recombinants, something inside each and everyone of them had changed. Fundamentally they were all different people. 

Even Spider. He was no longer the baby that Quaritch remembered with such mixed emotions, but he was still capable of eliciting the same confusing feelings as he had when he was small enough to fit into the palm of Quaritch’s hand. Currently, the teenager looked deep in thought, his chin resting atop his folded up knees, the firelight dancing in the reflection of his mask. He’d been sitting like that for an hour or more, refusing to interact with anyone in the squad. 

They’d left him alone, mostly, preferring to let Quaritch himself deal with the kid. Quaritch didn’t know why they seemed wary of interacting with him. It was almost like they were afraid of stepping on Quaritch’s toes. He took a deep sigh, deciding that enough was enough. 

Spider didn’t shift as Quaritch approached. He didn’t even look at him. The recom took a seat on the soft ground next to the boy, bracing himself for whatever kind of pissy attitude he was about to mop up. 

“You a selective mute or somethin'?”

Spider continued staring forward, although he made half an attempt at a flat eyeroll.

“Ah, you got a lot on your mind,” Quaritch waved a hand in sympathy, speaking as if Spider had just given a full verbal response. He glanced sideways at the boy in time to see Spider chewing the inside of his mouth. The expression was so reminiscent of Paz that for a second Quaritch just stared. Eventually he looked away and let the silence stretch on, trying to think of something else to say. “You gonna sit here feeling sorry for yourself all night, kid?”

Spider closed his eyes in a way that could only be described as condescending. 

“You ain’t gonna accomplish anything like this, you know.”

Irritation flickered across Spider’s face. Success. 

“You may as well join the circle,” Quaritch pressed in an overly optimistic voice. “Get to know some folks.”

“Why would I want to do that?” 

Quarich’s heart sang. He shrugged. “I guess you wouldn’t. But it beats sitting here like a depressed loner.”

“I’ll take depressed loner over a traitor to my people any day, thanks.”

Quaritch let out a low whistle. “Damn, kid. You got some heart. But it ain’t all that. You’re just less likely to be eaten by a wolf if you’re closer to us.”

Finally, Spider turned to him, anger folded into every crease of his face. “You know nothing.”

That stumped Quaritch. He flexed his jaw. “They not in these parts then?”

Spider let out a dry laugh, but didn’t elaborate. 

Quaritch was starting to get frustrated. Spider was just a little shit after all. He forced himself to remember that Spider was under a lot of stress, and that he didn’t fully trust the recoms yet. For all the kid knew, they’d abandon him to the wildlife or throw him back in a cell without a second thought. 

“You’re feeling it right now, I get it. But come into the circle where I can at least keep an eye on you.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?”

Quaritch frowned. He thought Spider at least remembered the part where he’d pulled him from the neuroscanner. The kid had been out of it, but he must have remembered that it was Quaritch’s arms that carried him back to the cell? He sniffed. “It looks bad on my report, kid. Can’t have people thinking I can’t look after one moody teenager in the field, no matter how obstinate.”

“Your job is not to look after me.”

The confidence with which Spider said the words triggered something… sad inside Quaritch. It was clear the boy didn’t believe Quaritch had a shred of concern for him. “My job is to keep you safe so you can help us. That means protecting you.”

Spider muttered something under his breath - but Quaritch suspected it was Na’vi. 

“What was that?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Spider had turned back to face Quaritch, but the furious expression on his face was water off a duck’s back to the Colonel. “Explain then. You don’t need protection?”

“Faysawtute! Protection from what? From my home? My people?”

Your people? “Pandora’s no place for a kid, Spider.”

Spider made an incredulous gesture, looking around at the forest which had come alive at night. “You have eyes, but you don’t see,” was all he said. 

…Right. Quaritch had had enough of playing nice. “Get your ass closer to camp or I’ll drag you myself.”

Spider was clearly fuming, because he balled his fists and then carefully unclenched them, his jaw set and his eyes deep with mutinous thoughts. Quaritch watched the bioluminescence of the moss fade where Spider had been sitting, and immediately missed the boy’s presence, despite Spider doing what he was told. He watched the kid move closer to the campsite, although it still wasn’t quite close enough for Quaritch to be truly satisfied. 

It would have to do. 

He’d had to seriously consider what he’d do if Spider made a run for it in the night. He suspected the boy could be plotting something, but the type of resentment Spider was currently displaying put Quaritch strangely at ease. It was as if the boy had accepted his fate. Spider was smart after all - he knew that running would achieve nothing. 

After a moment, Quaritch pushed himself off the ground and followed Spider back over to the camp. He took a seat next to Wainfleet on a fallen log, making sure the sulking teenager was in his line of sight. 

For the rest of the evening, Spider remained distant and solitary, facing away from him and curling up under some kind of giant, glowing mushroom. The sight was so ridiculous it reminded Quaritch of a scene from a fairytale. Only after the final embers had died and ninety percent of the squad had clocked off for the night did Quaritch approach Spider again. Half of him wanted to check if Spider was asleep, the other half was secretly hoping for another chance at conversation. 

Quaritch stretched widely and approached Spider’s spot cautiously. If Spider was asleep, he didn’t want to wake him. However quietly he thought he was being, it wasn’t enough. Spider’s head snapped around his body tensed, searching for the source of danger. 

“Easy tiger, it’s only me,” Quaritch reassured. 

“What do you want now?” Spider half sat up, the soft hissing of his exopack the only sounds in the vicinity. Above them, the faint light from Polyphemus shone delicately through the canopy. This moon didn’t seem to know true darkness. It was amazing that the boy was able to sleep properly. Then again, Spider had never experienced a truly black night, so he had nothing to compare it to. 

“Just checking up on you,” Quaritch mumbled.

“I still have two arms and two legs if that’s what you’re worried about. Haven’t been dragged off by nantang yet.”

Spider was almost endearing when he was trying to sound tough. Quaritch chuckled. “You be sure to let me know if they grab you in the night.”

“Have you ever considered that they’d more likely go for you? They’re smart.”

Quaritch wrinkled his nose playfully. “Nah, I’m too old and bitter.” And I’m fully armed with over 30 years of combat training and field experience. 

Spider turned over fully now, so he was facing Quaritch properly. Confusion flickered across his features. “How old are you?” he asked. 

Quaritch had to stop and think for a moment. “You’re gonna need to clarify the question, kid. I’m no philosopher.”

“Your body,” Spider emphasised. “When did they start growing you?” 

Quaritch couldn’t help the involuntary flinch that overtook his shoulders. He desperately hoped Spider hadn’t noticed. This was still a weird topic. “Twenty years young.”

“You’re literally only a few years older than me.”

“Bullshit. I’m fifty one.”

Spider frowned. “So old, yet still so dumb.”

Quaritch took a risk. He extended his hand and shoved Spider in what he hoped was a playful way. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a little shit?”

Spider didn’t even flinch. “All the time. Do better.”

Okay, Quaritch could play this game. “You’re a rude, bratty, hormonal teenager.”

“I am not fucking hormonal!”

“Who knows how this planet’s affected you.”

Spider was looking at him like Quaritch had just announced he was going to start classical ballet. “I’m bigger and healthier than other Sky People kids.”

Quaritch pulled a sarcastic expression. He could practically see Spider’s hackles rise. “Eh. You still got some growing to do.”

Spider’s face grew serious, as if he remembered where he was, and who he was talking to. “Leave me alone and I can get on with it then.”

He’d blown it. Spider turned away from him and returned to his fetal position on the floor, back to Quaritch. Still, they’d managed to have a half decent conversation and that was progress. Something kept Quaritch crouched on the ground, but he knew it was his cue to go. He reached out a hand and did something he’d never done before. He ruffled the kid’s hair. 

Spider squirmed away from him, but didn’t say anything. 

Quaritch took it as a win. 

When he returned to his pack a few yards away to finally get some shut eye, he couldn’t help but watch Spider’s sleeping form long into the night. He told himself he just needed to make sure the kid wouldn’t attempt a jailbreak. He told himself he was watching out for predators or God knows what kind of poisonous bugs Pandora harboured, despite Wainfleet standing duty. He would never be able to accept that maybe, just maybe, he was fascinated by the child that his previous life had borne.

[mommyashtoreth]

we all also love the sound of your voice. as a treat tell us abt ur opinions on crowley when she’s exhausted and suffering

Oh this is a good one. I've been exhausted and suffering quite a bit myself lately so it's a great matchup. I think we DO get a lot of exhausted (or at the very least very strung-out) and suffering Crowley in season 2, and I like that it's a good side of her to see. Muriel obviously describes s2 Crowley as "grumpy," and I've seen people on here describe her as "moody," and I think both of those are fair assessments. I think the more exhausted and suffering Crowley gets, the snappier and drier and more sarcastic she becomes, until she goes home and curls up on the floor and wine-drunk ugly-cries herself to sleep for the next three days. Dare I say, the more she's pushed the more typically "demonic" she becomes, less like her normal self (who is still certainly dry and snarky and wicked, but in a more playful way, like she's having fun with it), and more and more like, yknow, Beelzebub. Idk I imagine Crowley gets down in these big funks and she spends them either brooding in her apartment or storming around the bookshop or going for long drives and causing big accidents and traffic jams and running over wild animals to see if it makes her feel better (it doesn't), and a lot of people don't pick up on them because, well, that's Crowley, she's goth, she's grumpy, she's quiet, she's a demon. But she's not really usually like that! And this is cliche I know but I think Aziraphale can pick up on it almost immediately and is like one of the only people who can successfully talk her down out of it. Like idk lately I keep thinking abt like... Crowley being in one of these moods and maybe she hasn't quite had a big blowup yet but like it's building, and she's sulking and simmering and all tense and Aziraphale just. talks to her. Makes her stay still and sits down next to her and puts her big soft arms around her and they ground each other. Christ can you tell I've really been going through it. Anyway that's my long-winded way of saying that in s3 Crowley should be sitting fully clothed in a bathtub again drinking six-packs and listening to Pink Floyd in the dark. Because that's just how it's fucking been lately

[funkytrashcan]

You lost me at "I love you".

An exploration of my experience with love, romance, and media.

Today, I read the last chapter of the Rain World fanfiction "Seeking You, Stunning Me". It's a good read if you like two gay supercomputers discovering each other and themselves through anonymous chats.

The thing is, despite the ship showcased in the fanfiction being one of my personal faves (platonic or romantic), when the two of them inevitably admitted their feelings to one another, I just... I don't know. It was strange to read them say "I love you" to each other, or give each other a "kiss" (not literally because, well, supercomputers), or describe themselves as "girlfriends". And the pining for each other in the previous chapters just felt... disingenuous?

I will reiterate that I am not disparaging the author in any way over this. Their fic was just the one that got me thinking about this.

And, well... thinking about it, if the explicitly romantic stuff was taken out, if it was just about their blossoming friendship or the romance was left vague... I dunno, would I be less conflicted? Would I have an easier time reading it? Maybe?

There's the same problem with other fanfiction with romantic stuff. I'm fine with the physical affection, the chemistry between two people, but as soon as they say "I love you" that first, definitive time? I just... feel myself disengage, or become a bit uncomfortable. Not enough for me to stop reading, but...

I've... only been in one serious romantic relationship in my life. With a childhood friend, back in high school. He had been dropping hints for a while, but I didn't really register it until he asked me out point blank. I wanted to at least try it. The thing is, my feelings about him never really changed. No romantic spark or 'aha' moment. I tried to be a good partner, but he moved away and we just started talking less and less, until he ultimately pulled the plug on the relationship, feeling like I wasn't meeting his needs. We parted ways respectfully, and though there were a few hiccups, we have both moved on with our lives. I am a bit sad that I lost him as a friend, but from what I can tell he's living out his best life. He's found someone else to love, and for that I'm happy for him.

I kinda wish that romantic relationships weren't so emphasized in media. Simultaneously, I understand the need, especially for queer relationships. I'm a bit wary of this for my own fanfiction, where I'll eventually explore the relationship between the same two characters that were the main subject of SY;SM. I don't want people to feel baited if I don't explicitly say their relationship is or isn't romantic. Right now the relationship is marked as platonic on AO3, but if it does go in a more romantic-y direction, yet I don't call it as such, I'm... worried for how that'll look.

I suppose that's a flaw in AO3 tagging. There are only two options; platonic or romantic. I understand the need to have separate tags, but they are... quite cut and dry. Not a lot of room for nuance.

I don't know where I'm going with this to be honest. Just my experience being an acespec and arospec person, I guess.

[tenebriskukris]

Oshi No Ko Chapter 157 - My Thoughts/Analysis

Terribly paced chapters really do seem like the bread and butter of this manga for the past few chapters, so the less said about that the better. Let’s get down to business. As always, spoilers for Oshi No Ko 157 below.

The chapter starts off with a pseudo(?) timeskip? Or a series of flashbacks detailing Ruby’s concerts as an idol. One of the larger pitfalls this series has displayed over the various chapters is its inability to both keep a consistent timeline as well as communicate said timeline to the viewer. This would be fine for a series that doesn’t ground itself as heavily as reality as Oshi No Ko, but the massive number of timeskips and large number of events that happen offscreen really make that an annoyance for the reader. 

Another thing that sort of irks me: Showing off these B-Komachi concerts. It’s a shame we never got to see more of them in detail. Kana unfortunately hogged the spotlight during their first public concert, and we never got to see Ruby or Mem’s emotions about performing and being an idol when on stage in more detail. A shame too, since out of the three members Kana is fundamentally the only one of the three who simply is not an idol—she’s an actor. She has the least emotional investment out of the trio about the job and her feelings on it are less about being an idol itself and more about being an idol to get into Aqua’s pants.

And we’re finally back with the twins. Are we going to get any important details on the status of their relationship or the plot or is the manga going to focus on something else? Judging from the first few panels of them interacting it looks like it’s going to be a more casual chapter. 

It’s your first day off in a while. You may want to take a breather with your friends. And the way Ruby and Aqua smile at each other…damn. Makes my heart go all gooey seeing it. How long has it been since we’ve seen Aqua smile? It implicitly conveys to the reader that there’s nowhere else Ruby would rather be than with Aqua at this moment since free time is such a luxury for people in their lines of business.

Aqua drying Ruby’s hair!!! He remembered!!! Interlude 4 seems like such a long time ago. Heavens only know where that takes place on the timeline now that we’ve flashed forward so much since then and without much to ground the reader. 

Is being an idol…fun? This is an interesting question from Aqua. My first impression is that he isn’t really asking Ruby if being an idol is fun—Ruby being an idol is something we’ve seen her actively enjoy and pursue throughout the series. It shouldn’t be a fact that he has to clarify directly with her.

Perhaps what’s hidden underneath his words is: Is being an idol fun after everything that’s happened? Namely, all the stuff that Ruby’s experienced in becoming an idol? I don’t need to turn to read further to already know that it’s a resounding yes. Now that she has Aqua next to her and supporting her—she doesn’t have any hangups. Her own revenge scheme to avenge both Ai and Goro has been fulfilled—even though I have plenty of issues on how it was basically shoved down the readers’ throats offscreen and not enough screentime for it to feel organic—and the person she’s spent her entire new life looking for has been by her side and is now supporting her. There isn’t much more that she could ask for.

Of course, this could also be touching up on something that we saw in Chapter 123: Namely, the fact that Ruby described being an idol as difficult—and not always fun. For all that Ruby enjoys being an idol, it’s still not something that can be considered easy by any means. With enough experience and the right people around her, the process of performing as an idol and all its ups and downs becomes easier, but I don’t think it ever becomes easy. The amount of restrictions that any person with sufficient popularity has in the western world is already suffocating—and it’s even more draconian in Japan where idols are under much more scrutiny than the average Hollywood movie star.

Everything that Ruby did in order to avenge Ai and Goro also slot nicely into this. Ruby going to such great lengths to achieve popularity isn’t something that I see her pursuing unless she was driven by revenge. While playing the industry game is a skill that isn’t widely advertised to anyone that’s looking to get their foot in the door—it certainly isn’t something that can be discounted for anyone within the industry itself. For all the “critiques” that the series has about the idol industry at large, it never quite seems to quite remember that the idol industry is still an industry. Those who can achieve more success than others in similar positions will obviously be able to shine brighter than the rest.

I do wonder though…how much did Ai do behind the scenes to reach the heights of popularity? Ruby was able to achieve success by going beyond what was expected for her as a sheer idol and gaining popularity via playing the industry game—but we never quite get to see how Ai was able to do the same. The obvious answer is that she basically followed in similar paths that Ruby took—since Ichigo was there to advise her—to achieve that level of popularity in a more moderate manner. Just a thought.

It’s also curious to see that Ruby’s mentioning performing at the Dome. Obviously this is setting up what we’ve already seen in the earlier interview flashforwards—a topic that should definitely get a hell of a lot more screentime and quality than the horribly executed Aqua-Hikaru confrontation—but there’s also the fact that we don’t know when exactly B-Komachi’s going to be performing at the Dome. My first instinct is before Kana graduates but at this point who knows. The series and its inability to convey timescales strikes again.

An ordinary day like this is also wonderful as long as you’re here with me. And Aqua smiling again after Ruby says that? Correct me if I’m wrong but I don’t think we’ve seen the other girls make Aqua smile. I could be completely wrong though, but I don’t want to spend my limited time reading through over 150 chapters in this mid-ass manga just to confirm it. Still, it’s a very cute moment in my book. Aqua definitely could use some more happiness in his life.

A series of snippets of them cooking for Miyako and spending time together. Very cute and domestic. That’s a two page spread of them lying together close to the ending panel, too. And with the same effects as Chapter 143? It’s a cute little touch and reminder that we still haven’t shown Aqua’s reaction to that entire mess. The authors aren’t slick for that detail—I’d much rather have confirmation as to the nature of their relationship rather than leave it hanging in between the margins for readers with less reading comprehension.

The chapter ends with a Miyako appearance commenting on how close the twins are. Nice to finally see her back. I was waiting for the plot hammer to drop during this entire chapter and for something to happen. This chapter almost screams the calm before the storm.

All in all, this was a decent chapter to see after the clusterfuck that were the previous ones—in a vacuum. There’s nothing wrong with a chapter whose only purpose is to take a breather, but placing it just after the key reveals given a few chapters back is just bad form all around. Really, this couldn’t have been done before the massive flashback we got a couple chapters ago? Hell, it would’ve even been slightly better placing this one before said massive flashback and the movie screening since this chapter actually gives dates on its first few pages. Give that sense of time passing, y’know? It’s not like there are a thousand other plot relevant points that need to get touched up on and were shunted offscreen—or were promptly discarded.

That said, it’s so utterly hilarious seeing people try and brush off this interaction as evidence that they’ve transitioned their relationship to be more platonic—especially when they used the same effect that was done in Chapter 143 during the kiss scene, as I’ve mentioned. Kind of the opposite image that the writers want to convey if that was the case, y’know. If it was Akane or Kana who had this entire interaction with Aqua so close to the ending there’d be considerably more noise about shipping and romance and all that jazz.

One final thing I want to consider before I end this off. I wonder if we’ll see another nightmare/dream inside Aqua’s subconscious now that Ruby’s right beside him. I highly doubt it—since the narrative seems to be shrouding Aqua’s inner thoughts and internality ever since the movie arc has started—but it’s a possibility. One that could finally solidify this entire will-they-won’t-they dynamic between the two of them that the series sorely needs at this point for clarity.

[naffeclipse]

Heya Naff, slightly late but Happy New Year!! 🎆 Hope you’re doing well and I wish you much inspiration and many good things this coming year! <33

I had a little query pop to mind recently if that's okay:  what if reader in the Deep Dreams universe had megalophobia and/or perhaps even thalassophobia? 

I know this might make less sense for fisher Y/N as we know them, so it could hypothetically be some other person, a friend or a future Y/N who makes friends with juvenile Sun and Moon and then only later discovers they've grown to be big sea beasties - maybe seeing them in their dreams is fine but for real it's a different matter, at least until they get used to them :)

How might the boys react?

Having a slight bit of megalophobia myself, the best way I can describe my experience is a gentle anxiety with the need to seek shelter and cower there, but people's experiences can vary (and possibly change depending on the conditions). Also that kinda makes it 10x funnier that I have an affinity for giant creatures xD

Hi, Piixel! Happy New Year to you, too, babe! ♥ Thank you so much, ahhh, you're much too kind! :D I hope you have a beautiful year and an abundance of lovely things happen to you!

Oh ho! Fear of big things and of large bodies of water? I'm sure that totally wouldn't be a source of great fear and conflict with a poor little reader soulbond to a couple of mers hehe (The Sea Beast is an excellent movie btw!! ♥)

Y/N with megalophobia and thalassophobia wouldn't be caught dead on the ocean. You have dreams about two massive mers, and those creatures are always sweet and gentle and attentive, but you're still convinced it's some weird nightmare (even though no real spooky events unfold in said dreams). The mers coax and plead with you to go out to sea so you can all meet, but that's a solid no from you.

Then through a very terrible chance of fate, you're on a boat for whatever reason but very much against your desires, before you get swept away by a rouge wave and left behind. You're alone, struggling to swim in a massive ocean when—oh goodie, that looks like a giant mer floating right below you. What else could go wrong today?

Needless to say, after seeing Moon, then Sun, and realizing that these massive mers you've had dreams about are here in the flesh, you pass out from sheer fright. It's a lot for you to wrap your brain around, but when you come to, you're on Sun's back as he floats gently along the surface, keeping you dry as you begin losing your mind out of the horror of it all while Moon watches you from close by. You can't jump into the great wide ocean to escape the mer carrying you but you can't stay on the thing's scaly back either, so you may have a panic attack. Sun stops and turns his head back to give you his full attention while Moon tries to take you in his hands but that does not help your situation. They can feel your panic and horror, but you can feel confusion and distress at not being able to help, and in fact, them being the cause of your fear.

Their attempts to calm you down are met with resistance as you want to be anywhere but here in the ocean with two giant mers.

Sun and Moon are bewildered and upset, to say the least. You did often seem nervous in your little dream rendezvous but they thought they did a lovely job of reassuring you it was alright and that they would never hurt you and there's nothing to be scared of. Turns out, not quite. So, they take you safely back to the island shore where you more or less escape from the massive monsters and flee inland. But, there's not a whole lot of places to go on the little island and you've got to sleep eventually, so Sun and Moon decide to spend more personal time with you and show you that really, they're the two baby mers you happened to scoop up one summer day when you were just a tot and didn't realize how scary some things could be.

They'll be patient. You'll see that there is no place safer than with them in the water. They'll help you face your fears and then reunite with you.

If you ever leave your house again, that is.

[changelingirl]

Summer Schoolmistress (a fallen london lore post)

This is the result of me and @mayli-song throwing things back and forth as soon as she got released. The Summer Schoolmistress is a Whitsun special and costs Fate so everything is below the cut, but LETS TALK ABOUT TREES!

First: some of the Fun Clues that tip you off to, and then outright state, what she is physically! This part isn't really up for debate. She's a tree. She'll tell you outright. (Why a tree looks like a person is another question. Gijinka headcanons real question mark.)

She rests her fingers in a bowl of black liquid on a side table, and lets them drink like the roots of a tree. Her flesh goes taut and strained, and she shudders.

Once you've watched her kids a few times, you can ask her what she is and actually get a response; funny enough, she starts off with the weird esoteric stuff and then becomes more understandable. From "asking about her nature":

She picks up a teacup. The cup is miniscule in her palm. "I was not born in the usual way. It was a subtractive process: all acts of consumption have their byproducts. Accidents. Waste. I am the remnant of one such consumption." The teacup rattles the saucer as she sets it down without taking a sip.

From asking her why she cares for all the Whitsun babies:

"I know a little of parental duty. Of how it feels when it is not upheld. I will not permit such failings while I am able to prevent them."

(Given that she outright states that the Bazaar is her parent, and the Whitsun children, at least some of them, are also sentient and aware of their parentage--from the Tracklayer city plotline--I put my first speculation here, regarding her motive; she lives outside the city, but still near it, and watches the children. She both resents the Bazaar and yet refers to the Sun in a derogatory way for not coming back to it. Very eldest-daughter-who-had-to-raise-her-siblings energy, complete with the very complicated feelings about your parent that it can instill if you're aware of whatever they're going through and yet still had to raise your siblings.)

When you can finally ask her about the Bazaar;

..."Four catastrophes in, and not a one has seen it yet – the Bazaar is a saprotroph, and drains his cities dry." Are you imagining it, or is there now less tea in her cup? "One thing would sustain him truly." She looks to a painting of the Sun, hung above the mantle, and closes her eyes. "But he is too immature and craven to return."

A saprotroph is a fungus, or another organism that feeds on dead bodies. I think this is probably more metaphorical than anything. She speaks in plant metaphors a LOT.

This is also the part where she's rude to the Sun.

Eventually, she'll tell you about her mother.

"In some ways, I am my mother. In many others, I am not." Her voice is soft; her gaze distant. "She was the oldest tree in London when it fell. Her roots are my roots." A long pause. "We all grow where we may, and accept any kindnesses we can. You, I think, have been kind."

And returning to the first thing she said;

"My birth was a process of subtraction. All that remembered the Sun was wrung from my parent like water from a sponge, to satisfy his unrequited pining."

So; the oldest tree in London. The Bazaar took the part of the tree that remembered the sun, and she is what's left. (Not sure yet whether this is more of a graft/cutting situation or if she is literally the same tree in a Rose Quartz/Steven Universe kinda deal. It honestly sounds more like the latter with how she describes it, but she talks in a very roundabout metaphorical way pretty constantly.)

Anyway the oldest tree in London is called the Totteridge Yew;

Now technically, this tree is located outside of London city, in the suburb of Totteridge. I briefly toyed with trying to figure out whether it would've been taken in the Fall before Mayli put me on the right path once again, via Mutton Island's trees. At one point when bringing back supplies, Summer brings back a withered apple; one of the only places in London where apple trees are still growing, however badly, is Mutton Island.

Mutton Island was stated to previously have been a suburb of London; the word resembles Totteridge in the kind of loose way that a lot of Fallen London's location names resemble their surface counterparts. And more importantly, Totteridge is located in Barnet--and Low Barnet is located right underneath Mutton Island.

Conclusion: I think I can pretty safely say that the Summer Schoolmistress's mother is the Totteridge Yew. Also, RIP to all those suburbs in between central London and Totteridge that presumably just kinda fell into the Zee.

[the-ninja-legacy-whip]

How will turning into a ghost affect Cole and his powers? Will it mess with his attunement? Also, if you're okay with answering it, how will that affect Jesse?

Well I was gonna answer this like a normal person but then ya went and mentioned Jesse—

. . .

"Careful there, Jess." Though he speaks with a tilted smile, no amount of pleasantry can mask the misery that bleeds from Cole's tone. "Or I'll start to think you're more upset about this than I am."

Jesse swallows a hiccup as he shoots Cole a look from across the room, not appreciating the stab at levity when prickling glitter trails down his cheeks the same way his tears do. He's been sobbing uncontrollably ever since the news was less-than-delicately dropped on him. Only now, being alone with Cole in the aftershock of the chaos, forced to face this new reality, does Jesse finally start to come to grips with it all.

But, a surprise of the cruelest flavor makes it all the harder to swallow.

And it's not that Cole hasn't had his own share of wallowing over the situation either—but his crying was just louder, hollow, hauntingly tormented, and dry. Only a mere echo of what he was once capable of.

Now, any tears he could've shed—were it still possible—would have killed him in more ways than one.

Cole stares at his boyfriend and yearns, wanting nothing more than to thread his fingers through Jesse's stupidly soft hair and soothe him until the pain of the situation becomes numb enough to bear. He wants to hold other boy tight and let their arms mingle with one another. Wants to hold his gentle face, wants to press kisses to his cheeks, wants to lean against him as they share headphones over a handpicked playlist, wants just to touch him one more time; to keep with him the memory of something he hadn't realized was so fragile.

And he knows from the look at the edge of Jesse's gaze that he longs for the same thing too.

Cole swallows around the lump in his throat. Of course, that would be a sensation he'd get to keep—not anything he'd actually want.

"It...it might not be forever. I'm not dead, just...cursed. We could find a way to break it somehow," Cole tries again, attempting to be positive for the both of them. Although 'cursed' and 'dead' are pretty much synonyms to him at this point. Jesse doesn't need to know that though. "And Master Wu said there's...ways I can make this work for me, y'know? And even if I am cursed like this forever...we know it's possible to at least become corporeal enough to be somewhat normal, thanks to Harleigh. Maybe one day, we won't even notice the difference!"

Jesse swipes a sleeve across his eyes, gazing at Cole but also through him at the same time. His stomach churns at how Cole seems to disappear even in his vision—and keeps slipping through his fingers—but he stamps his roiling feelings down. He's...just going to have to get used to this. Baby steps.

"...on that note, I've been wondering...What...um, what does it...feel like? To...be a ghost?" Jesse asks in a desperate bid to understand, and in lieu of anything else to say, though his voice is raw from screaming in horror for days on end. Cole wilts with every forced out word. "Is that...okay to ask?"

Cole curls his fists against the blanket of the bed he sits upon; the fabric remains undisturbed beneath him. The overwhelming sensation of nothing when there should be something wracks through him and steals away a breath he doesn't have.

He doesn't think there's anything that could describe the sheer ache that notion leaves him with.

"...not everything feels like something else." Cole withers when glitter trickles from the corners of Jesse's eyes again. But Jesse remains patiently listening. "...but, if I had to say...it's...mostly like...being in a fog."

Jesse's head tilts curiously. "A...fog...?"

"...Yeah." Cole gnaws his lip as he strings his thoughts together. "Like I'm mostly here, but not really. Like I can see something in the distance thought a mist, but not a clear picture. Like sometimes, people speak at me, and their voices are garbled like I'm underwater. And every motion I make is like trying to push through a cloud...and the feel of the cloud is featherlight, barely there, brushing against my hands, just a...wisp. But then I know in my heart—or what remains of it—that there should be...something more."

Cole lifts a translucent hand that yields neither the warmth nor strength he's become accustomed to. There's some sensation; something akin to a dulled static. But it's a far cry to the subtle earth-made vibrations he could once pick up on instinct.

The Element of Earth still thrums just beneath his "skin"—no curse could ever take that away from him. The earth is always shifting, even in the subtlest of ways, and he's still in sync with that much. In the slow erosion of a cliff at the seaside, in the tumbling of the sands of a beach, in the crumbling of a foundation when it finally gives way, in the spinning of the world as time marches on, in the throes of an aftershock of a earthquake...all of that he can still sense with his soul.

And yet, when it comes to his powers, the disconnect is immense—he'd describe it like a chasm suddenly cleaving his elemental connection, but even that would still yield contact with the Earth. No, this is more like the ground is slipping away from him—he's falling in reverse, going upwards, drifting farther and farther away, with nothing to tether him down—nothing to keep him grounded—

His body is no longer solid. There is no longer a foundation for Earth to be supported by.

He's never felt less attuned.

"And, overall..." Cole wraps up his thoughts, pulling his knees up to his chest. He shakes, longing for something he can anchor onto other than himself. "Everything feels...lacking. And I feel...very empty."

Pulling out of his puddle of self-pity, Cole chances a glance at Jesse. Everything in him seizes up upon witnessing Jesse openly crying again. It's not as broken and utterly devastated as before. Now, though...he cries not for what's been lost, but what he can no longer have.

"I just wanna hold your hand and comfort you so bad," Jesse confesses in a weep. "And I can't."

"...heh, yeah. Master knows I could use it right about now," Cole agrees. Even his voice is inconsolably trembling now. His heart clenches. "And I'm also dying to kiss you senseless, but ha, that's even less of a no-go. Cuz, y'know—"

It's an attempt at a joke—albeit a very true joke—that only sends Jesse deeper into a sobbing fit. And Cole can do nothing but watch it happen—watch as he's the cause for Jesse's continued turmoil. He can't even lend a shoulder for him to cry on, for there technically is no shoulder to offer, and Jesse's tears would prove to be lethal anyway.

He may not be able to feel much, but he certainly can feel how much pain he's causing for Jesse. He...can't do this to Jesse. He can't keep doing this to Jesse. He can't burden him like this, as much as he craves Jesse's comfort otherwise.

"Why do these things keep happening to you?! Why can't you—we—be blissfully happy for two seconds?!" Jesse trades his tears for a fit of protesting frustration. Cole lets out a weary, humorless chuckle in response.

"Hey, I told you I was hard to love. Just...maybe not this hard." Cole fights for it, but he can't keep the plastered smile on his face. Horror flashes across Jesse's; Cole's voice starts to crack. "But maybe...I mean–you deserve...better than a ghost, y'know. Better than a wisp of a person, in any case...not that I was all that great even before 'dying', ahahaaa...still can't believe you would've wanted me, heh..."

Jesse's blood runs cold. "Cole. Cole. C-Cole, no don't do that—"

Cole presses on. "But if this, y'know...changes anything between us—changes how you feel about me, then I...I-I would understand if you...it would be okay if...if y-you wanted to lea—"

Jesse jumps to his feet and claps, punctuated by a sound that fills the room and drives away the rest of Cole's tirade. Jesse's expression is pinched as he draws a ruby red rose from his sleeve, tilting it gingerly in Cole's direction.

"And I told you, I'll love you regardless." It's the most resolute Jesse's sounded in days. Cole can feel the imitation of his heart skipping a beat. "So, come what may...I'm going to be here for you. I'm going to be at your side, if you'll have me. Unfortunately, you can't get rid of me so easily, darling. Not even death itself could drive me away from you!"

"...jeeeeeez, so dramatic." A lightness flows through Cole and he eagerly chases the high of it. Jesse smirks in spite of himself. "But, it is one of your many adoring qualities."

Scoffing, Jesse presses a kiss to one of the petals of the rose. He spins it twice between his fingers, the blessed petal now facing towards Cole.

"It's going to...take some time to adjust to this. But we'll work together on it, just like with everything else. You're right, and we will figure something out. This...doesn't have to be the end of the world."

Cole leans forward now, matching his lips to the petal presented to him. He may not be able to feel the delicacy of the flower, but the Jesse's sentiment he receives in full force.

"I couldn't agree more, sweetheart."

And, just maybe, Cole doesn't feel quite as empty as he thought.