#anyway that last one is about the depth of fear

[starpros-sunshine]

We <3 hearing things

[abyssalpriest]

"omg when you're doing something new like playing poker or golf and he comes behind you and holds your arms to help you play... So romantic..." ok but have you had your god puppet your body subtly. Have you felt his energy slowly vibrating inside your flesh. Have you felt your nerves become tiny tubes through which you now feel him like a basket star spread. Have you felt the parasite expansions of slow moving abyssal divinity begin to drown your own mind in deep seawater to the point your head is always above the surface, kept there by him letting you maintain control, while he holds and drowns the rest of you. Have you walked with the distinct impression of someone else inside your limbs, muscles, your body inhabited by two. Have you had his hands on your fate strings and impulses and him recreating himself inside your instincts.

[fairyysoup]

easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again. 

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever. 

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you. 

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world. 

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing. 

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you. 

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you. 

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt. 

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture. 

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough. 

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you. 

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him. 

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else. 

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me. 

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.” 

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?” 

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.” 

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.” 

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.” 

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur. 

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear. 

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.” 

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t. 

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now. 

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected. 

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin. 

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier. 

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate. 

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is? 

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet. 

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window. 

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes. 

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins. 

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?” 

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now. 

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder. 

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again. 

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan. 

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs. 

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief. 

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.” 

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.” 

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it. 

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again. 

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you. 

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap. 

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness. 

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head. 

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it. 

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does. 

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down. 

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet. 

To keep you quiet. 

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.” 

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table. 

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other. 

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss. 

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear. 

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

[sparklingblu]

Limerence (ft. ILLIT Minju)

I don't even know what to call this. Somewhat of a fluff but not really a fluff either. Something that just pops into my mind.

"So he asked 'Is it better to speak or die?' "

"That's the stupidest story I have ever heard"

Minju leaves no chance for you to savour that feeling that comes after quoting something particularly clever. Or she's just being a jerk as usual.

"You are just anti-romantic"

You protest though you know she will have thought of a retort before you finish.

"There's nothing romantic about this story"

"It's a love story for christ's sake"

"Where's the 'love' ?"

You slump back in your chair, defeated. Either she's too dumb to understand your point or you are just bad at telling stories. The latter's probably more likely.

The story's not an ordinary one in the first place. It involves a knight and a princess but it ends neither with a 'happily ever after' nor a bloodbath where they both rip their hearts out. There isn't even an ending.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

The last sentence on this paper of the dusty hard covered book which has turned yellow from the years it have endured. It's a mircale how it's still intact.

You mummur the question under your breath, trying to make sense of the words. But they are still nothing more than a jumbled mess in your mind.

The funny thing is, this is not your first time reading this story. You are actually too familiar with it. The setting, the characters, the way it almost seems to tell the secret you have carefully hidden; it doesn't make sense that you are still confused what this single question everything has lead up to mean. Still, you are here, no wiser than the first time you have read this tale.

In some time immemorial in an unknown kingdom lived a princess and a knight, each a good friend to another. Perhaps because of this closeness, the knight started to feel something more than companionship to the princess. Feelings that shouldn't exist given their scoial status. The princess knew it too though she ptetends to be oblivious. Nonetheless, the knight found himself unable to express his desires - torn between the fear of losing what he currently has and the turmoil of hiding himself. So one day, when he took his usual walk with the princess through the garden, he mustered up the courage to ask one single question.

"Is it better to speak or die?"

The End.

Anyone can guess at this point that the knight meant if it's better to put his feelings into words and sacrifice their friendship or die knowing that he will never have what he wants. You wish it's that simple.

You and Minju have been stuck in the same page for an hour now, still having no idea how to progress your assignment. The task was a paper on an in depth analysis on a tale of your choice. Now you regret not choosing 'The Tortoise & The Hare".

"Why do you choose this one anyway? There are like a million other better choices"

Minju says, gesturing at the endless shelves of books that surround you on all sides. Not millions but perhaps a thousand other choices you could have made in this rectangular bank of knowledge; the local library.

Somewhere distinct, you hear a bell chimes, signaling the arrival to the later hour of the night. You glance at your watch. It's already 9 pm. A cough reasonates from the counter near the entrance, emitted by none other than the librarian. The ghastly old woman seems to be signalling that we don't have much time left.

I don't have much time left.

Minju's translucent pupils are fixed on you, still waiting for your answer. You break out of the haze.

"Because it's.."

'Relatable'. The word is 'Relatable'. But she doesn't need to know that. Never.

"Interesting I guess"

You finish, not quite daring to meet her eyes. She might see the guilt of your dishonest words in them.

"Seriously? This is interesting? Next time you think something is interesting, feel free to ask my opinion"

"Not everyone have great taste"

You mean it to be a playful jab but her face distorts to something along the line of fury and hurt. And her lips part.

No. Please don't be mad.

Please.

"Jerk"

Her words put out the flames of fear threatening to rise in your chest. There. All good. She's not mad.

You let out a sigh of relief but quickly mask it as a half formed scoff. She can't know. So you waver her attention.

"Tell me then. What's your opinion on this story apart from it being hopelessly stupid"

Her lips stretch to a soft smile. You have put her back into her comfort zone.

"It's not about love like you think. It's about cowardice"

"Enlighten me"

She crosses her arms, the pose she always takes before her rosy lips spill out a waterfall of the most beautiful syllables. It also makes her look superior. The table, which is the only thing between you two seems like a brick wall now.

"The knight doesn't say 'I love you' or anything of that sort, does he? He's scared out of his wits so he decided to go for a safer alternative. That question. It literally says 'I'm a coward who can't even properly confess' "

Is she mocking you?

Probably not. She doesn't know. She will never know.

Still....

'Is it better to spek or die?'

A coward's attempt at love; complicated and imperfect. At least he has the courage to mutter those cowardly words.

"You are not wrong but can't it be that he's just scared of losing her?"

Yes. You are referring to yourself.

But she won't know.

"He already loses her after saying these words"

"You don't know that. You don't know what the pericess's answer was. She could have accepted him"

"You don't know that either"

Now she's fighting you with your own words.

"What would you have answered if you were the princess then?"

Is that an indirect confession? An attempt to ask her opinion without facing the shame that comes after rejection? You hope not.

"I don't know...I would probably ask him to speak in English"

"Not funny at all"

Your answer makes her raise her brows in disbelief as if saying - "I know I will never not be funny to you. You are too obsessed with me not to."

But that's impossible. She doesn't know.

Has she spoken these words aloud, you would happily agree with her. But that's just momentary courage. Your tongue would be tied to knots in a hearbeat if that ever happens.

That begs the question again.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

"Whatever" she says in exasperation. "I'm not lovey dovey enough for this"

"Seriously. Just tell me what you would have said"

There. You are pushing again, desperate for that answer even if it's not directed at you. You would cling to a tiny hope if it's ever a positive one.

"I don't know. Probably tell him to speak because I don't want anyone going suicidal mode because of me"

"He will still go suicidal if you reject him after he confess"

"Why are you asking me those? Were you in such a situation before?"

You surpress a chuckle that nearly slips your tongue.

What a fool you are Minju. You can't even spot the truth that's hidden in plain sight. The truth that has gone rusty and rotten because it has been locked up for so long. Still, it's not her fault.

You have hidden it so well.

She doesn't need to know.

"Yes"

You can't believe you say the word. It's as if someone has possessed you and put those words on your tongue.

"Poor you"

And just like that, it ends.

You have expected her to push you, given her curious nature. You want her to lend you the courage to say those words you have mummur countless times in your dreams. But she just leaves you hanging there like that. Cruel.

Can't blame her though.

She doesn't know.

Another cough pierces through the invisible viel that has seperated you two from the world outside.

9:25 pm.

5 minutes away until this tedious session of back and forth ends.

Why is it that you don't want it to end?

The papers in front of you are bare as they were an hour ago. The book still turned at the same page. The question that haunts you still lies there, imprinted in black.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

Neither. Because that's a stupid question just like Minju said. It's constructed to mess with your mind. You gotta stop dwelling on it.

"Anyway-"

Chimes

That sound. It can only mean one thing.

Minju pulls her phone out of her pocket, the glow of it illuminating her angelic feature as she turns it on. Not a moment sooner, her lips hold the prettiest of smiles.

And in all the wrong ways.

"Gotta go"

Her dismissal cuts through the tense air as she hurriedly put the papers back into her bag. Is she that desperate to get away from you?

"My boyfriend's waiting for me. We have a date tonight"

You are not angry. It would be wrong. Though it's only natural to envy the one who's living your fantasy. But the faults are not in our stars.

"Alright. Goodnight"

Minju's footsteps echo on the mahogany floor as she finally escapes the torturous session you have put her though, flying away to an embrace better than yours in every way.

But it's ok.

Because she doesn't know.

She gives a quick wave to the old librarian who does nothing to reciprocate the action. That hag doesn't know how lucky she is.

"Minju"

You call before the rest of her form disppears through these creaking doors. She turns on her heels, a stray strand of hair clinging like an unifinished piece of art to her forehead. The shadows cast by the moonlight does nothing to hide her.

"Yes?"

You breath.

And utter.

"Is it better to speak or die?"

___________________________________________

Took the famous question from the movie "Call me by your name". Though I alter the story. Thanks for reading this madness.

[dceasesd]

why juni ba’s the boy wonder has my favorite jason characterization of any contemporary comic run: a needlessly in-depth analysis (pt.3)

go check out part 1 and part 2 if you'd like! this is a long one, sorry guys.

if you haven't already i'd recommend you check out pt. 1 & pt. 2 (linked above), but if you haven't checked them out i've been going over some of the main things people have been criticizing ba's characterization for: 1. the typical boiling down of jason's character to "the angry one" 2. his lack of strategy going into the fight with the demon is out-of-character 3. the neighbor's kid interaction

alright, so this last point is purely based off of one page of the entire comic: the one where the child of one of jason's neighbors is dragged inside his home when his mother see's jason coming.

first off, i love this page. it might be my favorite page in the entire issue. everything about it is great. just thought i needed to say that.

anyway, there's some people who are seeing this page and reading it as "jason protects kids! that's one of his big things! why are they scared of him?"

here's the thing, though: the kid isn't scared of jason, the mom is. the kid is literally playing dress up as the red hood-- he's not scared of jason, if anything he's trying to replicate him. little kids dress up as their heroes all the time; why is this kid any different? it doesn't really make sense for the kid to dress up of something he's scared of (not everyone is as weird bruce wayne), especially a real person that could be a real threat rather than a concept. i doubt you see many kids in gotham dressing up as the joker or something, because that's just asking for trouble.

the dress-up honestly seems like a ploy for attention to me. the kid clearly knows that red hood lives in his building (which is honestly so funny. take off the mask jason you're giving you're position away (actually this is a really good instance for analysis but i'm determined to not go on a tangent)). if the kid knows red hood lives in his building, what better way to get his attention that dressing up as him and playing pretend? if the kid was scared of him, he wouldn't want to draw that sort of attention to himself. if he had a sort of hero-worshippy thing going on like i suspect, then he would want to get jason's attention. to sum it up,

it's the mom who pulls him away when jason nears, because she either a) perceives him as a threat, b) doesn't want her kid to try and replicate him even more, or, the most likely option, both! the kid isn't scared of him, but the mother believes they should be.

once again, we come back to the whole perception vs. reality theme i talked about in part one! we've come full circle, everyone!

when looking at the neighborhood's perspective of the red hood, ba gives us a few contradictory examples. there's the kid and the mother, obviously, but there's also a slew of other citizens who interact with him at the beginning of the issue, both in fear and camaraderie.

the unhoused man and the people outside of his building clearly have a familiarity and are comfortable with him, while the shopkeeper is terrified and literally has a banned poster on his wall featuring jason (i am so curious what he did to deserve that, if he even did anything at all). from this, it appears that jason's reputation teeters between fearful and familiar-- a sentiment that also colors jason's relationship with his family.

furthermore, this concept underscores just how lonely jason is-- one of the only good relationships he had in his current life was his fucking landlord, for gods sake, and he's dead.

i think it's important to note that jason doesn't respond to the friendly greetings from the men-- he could attempt to build camaraderie, the roots are there, but he chooses not to. he could work to try and show the mother that her son is safe with him, but he chooses not to. why? jason is obviously lonely (as ba states in the panel below) and he caves pretty easily when damian asks him for help (both of them are so desperate for human interaction its tragic). so why does he distant himself from the community?

obviously it is in part due to the vigilante lifestyle, but it is also jason's perception of himself and how he believes others perceive him, especially in regards to his family (ba is literally hitting readers in the head with that theme baseball bat).

he doesn't see that the kid with the mask looks up to him, all he sees is the mother pulling him away. he sees the banned poster in the store. and, as ba narrates, "he was sure he'd been forgotten about" by his family. utrh is jason's twisted way of attempting to reach out and connect with bruce, and obviously that doesn't work-- so he chooses loneliness over rejection.

like in part one, though, damian refutes this idea by describing bruce's perspective, showing how what jason believes differs from actuality. bruce hasn't forgotten about him and doesn't hate him, as he suspected, but instead harbors guilt over the situation and desires to make it better, which jason must come to understand to be able to open the locked door and begin to move past his trauma.

so, that's what the little kid in the red hood outfit looks like to me. i actually have a lot more i'd like to say about the boy wonder, especially in regards to the whole "door to my past life" thing and what ba does with lighting and blocking in his artwork, so i may do a little post on that as well! i was gonna try and shove it into this one, but i've run out of room! i hope you guys liked my analysis, if you'd like to chat about the boy wonder or any other comics, my dms, asks, and reblogs are happily open! thanks for reading! :)) <3

pt. 1 / pt. 2

[gale-force-storm]

He refuses to fall for the first person to show him kindness. He may be feeling sorry for himself, but that's a bridge too far.

Even if they are beautiful. And kind to everyone, not just him. And brave. And clever. And strong. And they love animals, and reading. And they have a wry sense of humour that he adores.

He won't. He can't. Besides all else, this is decidedly not the time. A bomb in his chest and a worm in his head and a weight on his shoulders and a shame in his stomach and a shattered heart he's still trying to gather the pieces of. Desperately clinging to the cloak of his past, wrapping himself in his former confidence, pretending it hasn't been worn threadbare with time in isolation and eaten ragged by the moths of doubt and fear and past mistakes.

He fell from grace so far so fast, but he cannot beg affection off the first hand to offer him help up, even if it is the first time he's touched another person in months. Even if that hand did send a sudden warmth through him and feel so right in his own he could almost cry from it.

...This is getting out of hand.

He can just be friendly with them, surely. How does one make friends, again? Shared interests? He mostly just has the one, so he'll share what he can. They pick it up quickly, and the warm magic that surrounds them is a balm on his soul. Right up until they imagine kissing him, and his heart skips a beat. It can't be. It can't be. They can't want him back. It's not possible. And how, after it all, after everything, is he meant to resist the overwhelming temptation of being wanted?

They don't let up, either. Lingering glances. Warm smiles. All but propositioning him at the tiefling party. If there is a single positive thing to be said about his year of orb-imposed abstinence, it's that the willpower he had to build up and the practice denying himself were the only things that enabled him to decline their advances.

Well, that and the risk of blowing up the both of them, along with everyone else in or near the camp.

The warm smiles and lingering gazes and casual touches still continue, though.

This is fine. He's fine. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, someone cared for him like this, and he can't do a damn thing about it, but he's fine. Everything is fine. As fine as it can be, anyways, given everything else about the situation.

He supposes he should probably be more upset about Mystra's orders. At this point, though, it's hard to feel like it's anything besides a way out. A relief that he can be good for something. One more miserable experience, and then he's done with it, and all their problems are solved. There are worse things.

Except.

They're so angry about it. Everyone is, but them especially. Arguing with both him and Elminster the entire time, insisting there's another option. That they'll find or make one. Whatever they have to do to keep him around.

Gods help him, but he does want to stay with them. Stay for them.

He sleeps that night, and awakens with a jolt, a groan, and a realization. He's glad that prestidigitation exists to clean himself up without leaving his tent and risking the others' notice. His body had, apparently, caught up with certain implications before his brain. Though from what snippets of his dream he remembers, maybe it was only his waking mind that had been lagging behind.

He wants them, and he can finally have them. Can give them as much of himself as he's able, in the time he has left.

He had refused, at first, the idea of falling for the first person to show him kindness. And he hasn't. He's fallen for someone who is so much more that that. And he will not, cannot, die without letting them know. If he has to leave them, and he fears he will, then he will not leave them feeling unappreciated, or uncherished, or unloved. Not when he can finally embrace the full depth and breadth of what he feels for them. Has felt for them for what can't have been more than a tenday or two, but feels like a lifetime and a moment all at once.

He will not leave without showing them the full scope of his admiration and appreciation and sheer joy at their presence. The full scope of how impossibly deeply he already loves them. Not while he has any say in it.

[koishiro]

# - 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 📍

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : originally planning to sit through hours of pain by the hands of a blond tattoo artist - who you know is very well off limits - bakugo finds a way to calm your nerves

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 : smut

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 : aged up!characters, oral (f!receiving), doggy style + missionary, SLIGHT nipple play

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 : tattoo artist!bakugo x f!reader

masterlist | bnha masterlist

“Fucking - shit!”

You'd started just after a late lunch, and the day was drawing to a close. This was your second sitting too; there was a lot of detail in this one and you'd probably be back anyway. A couple of hours was all you could handle, realistically – otherwise you'd stand up from the couch and fall straight back down again.

The first time you tentatively opened the door, you were pretty nervous. Everyone had been raving about the place, and it felt intimidating – not in a grimy way, but more like out-of-your-depth. It was so clean – spotless even – professional and artistic. There were some incredible pieces of art on the walls and retro tattoos everywhere. The other artists were hipster types with beards, rimless glasses and flesh tunnels in their ears.

This time you weren't quite so unnerved. It was busier when you returned for the second appointment, but livelier too – three or four artists working on clients, everyone talking, the artists laughing and their subjects trying not to for fear of moving.

You stood on a chair as he applied the stencil to your lower leg. You watched from high up as the blond carefully positioned it just-so, his head bowed over his work, his own tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt, creeping up his neck. He blew a lock of blond hair away from his face as he straightened, telling you to lie face down on the padded massage couch.

It hurt like hell on the back of your calf. More than the first time, when he'd worked around the side and over your shinbone. You distracted yourself with your phone, checking your Instagram account, emails- anything really. You noticed last time that he hadn't been much of a talker. You tried to engage in conversation, curious about the man who was leaving permanent marks on you and while he was perfectly polite, it seemed like he didn't want to chat.

"Smacks on that bit, huh," he'd said, as you took a break for a moment to adjust your position. You had done your best to stay still, but joked as you started that you'd have to make a real effort not to kick him in the face. After a while you had to fidget, because you had held yourself up on your elbows and were starting to tire.

"Too right," you sigh. "Ah well, it'll be worth it in the end”

He'd laughed with his colleagues but didn't seem to want to make small talk with you. As you lay back down, you glanced backward, appreciating how he looked as he concentrated on changing the needle in the tattoo gun. You went back to your phone, quickly squashing your thoughts. His girlfriend had been there, spending the last of her lunchbreak with him. And you had your own man at home. You were quite happy. Nothing wrong with appreciation though, you thought. No-

The sting on your leg made it hard to think anyway, so you looked around the room. One of the tattoo designs on the wall depicted a buxom young woman bent over a sailor's knee, taking a spanking, her heels flailing in the air. You wondered who'd drawn that one, and entertained the faint hope that it was one of yours. That you liked the idea.

The afternoon was drawing in and you'd almost finished. The other artists had completed working on their clients and all but one had disappeared for the afternoon. The read-head dude in the drainpipe jeans.

"Oi Bakugo, you almost done there?" Red-headed guy called over.

"Yeah, just some highlights and a bit of shading to go. You head off. I'll lock up”

"You sure? Thanks man. She doesn't look like the mugging-for-the-takings type," Red-head-dude grinned at you. "In fact she's been as quiet as a mouse”

"I didn't shut up first time round," you smiled back. "Nerves I guess”

"Ah, you got no reason to be nervous now though," smiled your artist. "Pro now, aren't ya? See you in the morning, dude," the man you now know as Bakugo, raised a hand in farewell to his colleague, and the bell on the door rattled as he closed it.

You laughed quietly.

"What?"

"You, taking the piss out of me. Just because it's only my second tattoo, and you're covered…”

"I wasn't!" he protested in mock horror. "Besides, these have been collected over years”

It was odd, you noticed, but as the needle burned on your skin, you felt Bakugo’s gloved fingers as he pulled the skin taut. He was gentle, but where his fingers made contact, you could feel the same burning sensation as where the needle buzzed. Like it was transferring pain. How strange that it should feel that way.

"Where'd it hurt most on you, then?" You asked, feeling a need to fill the silence of the shop.

"Hmm..." he tried to recall. "Probably the same place – or ribs, I think. That's always sore”

"It's transient though isn't it," you mused. "I'd still rather do this than be pierced. This hurts less”

Bakugo laughed. "I guess that depends on where you're pierced though. And piercing's quicker. Come on then, own up... Where?"

He was more talkative when there was no-one else around. You chuckled and dropped your head between your arms, onto the couch.

"Oh, now you're asking!"

"Ohhh... One of those, was it?"

"Yup. It's weird, sitting there fully clothed from the waist up, while someone's bending over your nether regions with a fucking great needle”

"Oh… Oh! Shit! I thought you were gonna say nipple!"

"Erm, no. I'm told that's bloody agony, although I do kinda fancy it. No, this was… well… they call it a VCH" you were pretty sure he'd know exactly where that went.

"Takes all sorts, I suppose. You don't look the type," he said.

"Is there a type..? I didn't keep it anyway. It was really annoying. What about you?"

"Oh.. um.. no. I stick to ink"

You could see that. Bakugo wore long army type pants but you could already guess that his lower legs were covered, as were his arms, and you noted that there must have been something across his shoulders at least. Still, that seemed to be par for the course – you never met a tattooist that didn't have shitloads of the damn things themselves.

"Okay.. just about done here. You did well – no wriggling. Wanna look?"

You sat up slowly. you go and look in the mirror, and decided to get moving. you dropped your feet to the floor and stood up, but it must have been too fast. Your head spun.

"Woah, easy there!" He grabbed your shoulders before you’d fallen, and you found yourself blinking up at his concerned face. You were too wobbly to trust yourself and just stayed there for a moment, half on the bench, half standing, with Bakugo supporting you. You felt like an utter twit. And you felt acutely aware of his proximity.

"Smooth huh?" You giggled weakly.

"It's okay, don't worry. It happens a lot. Even people who have had loads of tats still get cocky and overdo it”

He had strong hands. Big, and warm on your shoulders. You shook your head to clear it.

"You okay yet?" He still looked concerned. Fucking hell, you wished he wasn't touching you right now. Sure, he'd spent the last couple of hours touching you, but that was different. You were weirdly giddy. Like being slightly drunk, you thought. Your mouth ran away with you and you nodded toward the spanked girl on the wall, blurting out:

"One of yours?"

He withdrew, and looked sheepish. You eased yourself off the bench, standing on you’re own. Shaky, but standing.

"Ah. Ha.. Yeah. Yeah, that's mine”

He was rummaging in a cupboard behind the counter. You could see just a mop of spiky blonde hair, and then his eyes, as he rootled around.

"Don't normally do this but I reckon you could use it..."

He had found a small bottle of Jack and poured a slug into a disposable cup, passing it to you. With a shrug, he poured one for himself. You weren’t sure why – it wasn't like he'd got the shakes, was it? No, definitely not – his hands were as deft as ever as he covered the new tattoo, gently wiping away excess ink and blood, carefully wrapping your leg with clingfilm. You wished you were as steady.

You narrowed your eyes at Bakugo over the rim of the cup as you sipped gingerly.

"Don't give much away, do you?"

"Huh?" he was baffled.

"The… You know, the girl. So you distract me with hard liquor rather than risk me asking about her,"

Fucking hell, that'd be bravado from the whiskey, plus the close call from nearly hitting the floor. In a detached sort of way, you could imagine your sensible side looking down at your recklessness and sighing.

Bakugo bit his lip, which made something low down in your stomach twist, so you downed the rest of the booze because it seemed like a better alternative than staring at him. You’d almost forgotten the sting in your leg in favour of an ache - Yep, you thought, that kind of ache – in your nipples, and between your legs. So bloody typical, really... here you were, no makeup, ratty old jeans with one leg rolled up, socks with holes in, in front of an inexplicably attractive man who'd just spent a good couple of hours making you suffer.

You almost spat it straight back out again when you heard him say quietly "Yep... Gotta love giving a good spanking. Don't get the chance much these days, the girlfriend doesn't go in for it, but…”

Jesus, jesus, jesus. You didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to imagine being bent over his knee. Didn't want to imagine how the texture of his clothes would feel against your bare skin. Or what his hands would feel like. Oh fuck, big hands. Big, clever, rough hands. Bakugo must have seen how your skin flushed, how you licked your lips, because he stepped closer to you again. He took the plastic cup from you. You backed up, the small of your back bumping into the couch.

He followed. He was just an inch or two from you and you were sure he could see how your breathing had changed. You looked up at him.

"Shame," you murmured.

And Bakugo moved like lightning, his mouth crushing yours, one hand flying to the back of your head. You opened your mouth for him, and his tongue pushed, hard and insistent. You whimpered at the sensation of being so wanted, and he kissed you even harder than you thought possible, growling as he pushed one warm hand under your shirt, tugging roughly at the cup of your bra. He tasted of whiskey, with the slightest hint of cinnamon. His tongue was so hot it almost burned.

The couch banged up against the counter as he pushed you against it. His fingers found your nipple and twisted, hard. You squealed into his mouth and he laughed, pulling away just enough to catch a breath.

"Like that, is it? Thought so..."

You just looked at him, your swollen lips parted, breathing hard and fast. He held your gaze, his clear vermillion eyes unflinching. He was smiling, a small wry smile that spoke volumes. He knew what was happening just as well as you did.

You moved your own hands up, slowly, not daring to race. Twisted your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. Pulled him down again, and kissed him again. Slower, at first. This was the chance you’d given him – a moment to withdraw that he'd not taken. They both knew that they shouldn't have even been in the same room alone together, not really. But it was between the two of them, now. He hadn't run for the hills. Your blood sang with the thrill of realisation; he wanted you, right now. You moved your other hand up the side of his body, enjoying the warmth of him, but now you slipped it under the waist of his shirt, to feel his patterned skin. He groaned into your mouth and his tongue slipped deeper, taking over.

His hand fell to your jeans, pressing right there between your thighs, cupping you. The heel of Bakugo’s hand was hard against your clit through the thick denim and you were breathless. Jesus fucking christ on a bike... You dared to daydream, and here it was – a fantasy from your own faithless imagination. Your mind was spinning, so close to losing all reason and functioning on instinct alone. Fuck… The smell of him!

He tore at your t-shirt, dragging it over your head, and scrabbled at your bra. 99% of men you’d ever been with were useless with these things, you mused, and yet suddenly it was on the floor with your shirt. He unbuttoned your jeans and shoved them down, then caught himself mid-action, easing them over your sore leg gently. It put his head right next to your pussy, covered only by a pair of unsexily practical plain panties. He breathed in through his nose, his eyes closed... Then looked up at you with a downright mischievous look playing over his face.

"On the bench," he directed. You hopped up, your legs swinging like a small child. He'd found one of the low rolling stools, and sat down in front of you. He pushed your knees apart. A wet spot darkened your cotton panties, and you blushed despite herself. You weren't quite sure of his intentions until the blond brandished a pair of scissors at you – and you must have looked worried half to death, because he cocked one eyebrow: "Safe hands, come on..."

Before you knew it he'd snipped the underwear away. You were exposed completely.

He dipped his face towards your pussy and breathed you in again. You leaned back on the couch, supporting yourself up on one elbow, wanting to watch his face – but automatically closing your eyes in shocked bliss as that searing hot tongue licked you from bottom to top, spreading your lips apart, giving away just how wet you were.

"Fuck," you breathed. You were incoherent – now wasn't the time for intelligent conversation.

His thumbs held you, spread wide, and he lapped at your clit, drawing it into his mouth, nipping unbelievably gently with his teeth. You shuddered. You opened your eyes and saw him watching you, and he was smiling again. He dipped back down and this time his tongue pushed into you. Your back arched and you grabbed the back of his head, hissing at the extremity of the sensation.

You were disbelieving of it. You’d never known a man to do this... to eat pussy with such clear enjoyment. The sensation was amazing – the warmth of his breath, the smooth slickness of his tongue on your hot flesh, the scrape of his barely noticeable stubble on your thighs a harsh counterpoint.

You couldn't help but push yourself against his face, wanting more, murmuring words that didn't make any sense. You yelled out as he pushed a finger into you, teasing you, knowing exactly where to touch. He added another and you gasped. You could hear yourself! Christ, you were so soaking wet that as his hand moved, your cunt made obscene noises. Worse, you loved it. He lifted his face, still finger-fucking you with three fingers now, his thumb running over your clit.

"I think you needed this, didn't ya?"

You could only groan in agreement. Oh, you definitely did, but you sure as hell hadn't expected it. Bakugo laughed that quiet, knowing little laugh again and pinched your clit with one hand, while fingering you faster with the other. You squealed and your hips lifted, wriggling as you felt an orgasm building. You were amazed – it wasn't normally so easy to make you come – and you managed to gasp out a warning just before your whole body stiffened and shook.

He dragged his fingers from your pulsing cunt and strummed your clit hard, making you wail aloud as your pussy squirted hot liquid over the bench. He exclaimed, a mixture of surprise and delight, and pushed his fingers back into you more slowly now, dragging them over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your juice over his hand. Your head dropped back to the bench, your chest heaving. You were spaced out and stunned – you didn't think you’d ever cum that violently before.

"Holy fuck," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. Then you realised what a mess you’d made. "Sorry! Ah shit.. Dammit..." you sat up, about to scout around for paper to clean up. He laughed at you and grabbed your arm.

"No chance, babe," he smiled wickedly. "Get over here. Right now"

Bakugo helped you stand, shakily, and led you towards the chestnut-brown buttoned chesterfield sofa that waiting clients would normally loll on. You half tumbled onto the cushions and landed, naked, staring up at him. He flung his own shirt into a corner and tugged his jeans over his hips. You stared dumbly, drinking in the sight of his lean, inked torso. The patterns, words, pictures, life stories you supposed... they carried on downwards, over his hipbones, to meet the tattoos that ran up his legs.

His cock was rock-hard and he stroked it, not taking his eyes off you.

"Get on all fours," he said. You complied, your forearms resting on the arm of the sofa. He sat slowly behind you, running his hands over your ass, grabbing it and spreading you wide. He abruptly buried his face in your pussy, tongue diving inside. He came up for air and gasped, "Fucking hell, you taste so good..."

You felt him manouvre behind you, his hands still on your ass, his thumb occasionally drifting over the pucker of your hole, and then suddenly he was inside you. His cock slid into you smoothly, opening you up, stretching your cunt, and he kept on going until you were utterly full of dick. You squealed as his cockhead nudged your sensitive cervix. He withdrew achingly slowly, letting you get used to the sensation, and then rammed himself home hard and fast.

You felt his hand twist into your hair, tugging your head upwards, and arched your back. The pain of the pull on your scalp was exquisite, ebbing and flowing as he pounded you from behind.

"That's it, babe," he murmured. You could hear the smile in his voice. "Come on, lemme hear you”

You couldn't help yourself – you were squeaking in pain each time his dick slammed into you, but you adored it. You heard the smack of skin on skin as his hips met yours, and your cunt was making deliciously obscene wet sounds.

"Please," you gasped out. "Please, please, please..."

Bakugo didn't cease his movement, groaning in pleasure. "Ah... Please what? Do you want more? Fuck, your pussy's so damn tight round my cock... Don't ask me to stop now”

"No, not stop,". you could hardly get your words straight. "I want to see..."

"Oh!" He understood you breathless gabble, and pulled himself free of your tight hole. The air felt cool on your lips and you savoured it briefly, before he pulled your hips back and helped you lie back on the couch. You looked up, wanting to watch his expression as he pushed himself back inside you.

He did so slowly, his eyes closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. You squeezed his cock, once, as hard as you could, using your pussy muscles to show him just how hard you could work it. His eyes flew open and it was his turn to cry out.

"Fuck, babe... Do that again and I won't last five minutes”

You met his gaze, and held it as he began to move, more slowly now. He bent forwards and sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth – then released it and moved his mouth to yours, kissing you, opening you up with his tongue as he opened your cunt with his cock. You dared to tangle a hand in his hair, now, and moaned your need into his mouth.

He sat back, and pushed his thumb between your lips, wetting it, then dragged it over your clit, watching your face for a reaction. You tensed and a red flush began to creep over your chest. A faint smile played over his face and he moved faster, fucking you a little harder, massaging his thumb in circles around your stiff clit, flicking it hard and feeling your body respond.

Your eyes had drifted closed as you enjoyed the sensations, but he wasn't having that.

"Look at me," he said softly. "I want to watch your face when you cum for me”

Christ. Just those words were enough, but he sped up, moving faster and harder. You hadn't been fucked like this for a long, long time – with a lot of guys it was all over in minutes, but he was too damn good for that. His thumb pushed your clit against your pelvic bone and you screamed. Your entire body was rigid as you came, your cunt muscles bearing down hard, trying to force his cock out of you. He pushed hard and deep into you though, prolonging your agony, and true to his word he was watching your face, only pulling his cock out right at the last second – and you wailed, loud and unbelieving, as your orgasm peaked, your cunt walls squeezing tight, and again – again! At some level you marvelled – a rush of hot fluid soaked your thighs as you squirted.

You sagged backwards, breathing fast, and put an embarrassed hand to your mouth.

Bakugo tugged it away, gently, smiling wryly.

"Oh no. Not gonna have you feeling all self-conscious about that. That was... amazing”

And he slid himself inside you again. He was close to coming, so close, you could see it in the lines of tension on his face. It was your turn to encourage him.

"Come on then," you murmured. You cupped your tits with you hands, tweaking your nipples hard, offering him a target – you expected him to unload all over your chest, but he growled, grabbed your hips, and surged forwards. You looked him in the eye and was met with a piercing, almost animal stare as he roared with the release. You felt the heat of his cum deep inside, as he punctuated his final few thrusts with words.

"Holy… fucking… hell," he uttered between clenched teeth. He sat up, and swiped at a sheen of sweat on his forehead. A worried look flashed across his face and your own smile vanished – oh, god, now he'd realised what he'd done, hadn't he?

He leaned down and checked the dressing on your leg. Then raised an eyebrow at you.

"Don't look so worried, it's fine," he grinned. He unfolded himself from the sofa and started to dress, throwing your clothes over for you to do the same. It was weird, you thought, that you could expose your most private places to someone, do the filthiest things, and then only afterwards did you feel awkward.

Bakugo passed you a glass of water, which you gulped greedily at, still slightly out of breath and still slightly disbelieving. "I've… well, I have to... Get home, you know..." you blathered.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "Really. I'm not saying anything" He kissed you, softly, slow and sweet.

"Message me though, when you want to book in again. That leg piece will need a couple more hours work”

—

— 𝘒𝘰𝘪 𝘹𝘰

[yan-critter]

Can you do more of Yandere Childe fics? And your art, it’s so delicious like 😍😍🫵👌👌

Do take requests? How about a yandere husband Childe with a childhood friend darling. The darling hasn’t seen him for a long time, and when they do, childe straight up proposed to her or have an arranged marriage of sorts, hehe

Take rest and drink water everyday for good health 🤭🤭

I like writing for Childe because of how versatile he can be! A lapdog one moment, a wolfhound the next. Glad you liked my art too! I wasn't sure about posting it but so far it's been well received so maybe I'll post more in the future. Anyways, I loved your request, it was such a fun scenario I might've gone a little overboard lol

Enjoy!

★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★

Childe, who returns to his hometown after years of absence as a newly crowned harbinger, enveloped in the nostalgia of a familiar place. Amidst the tranquil snow-covered streets, he stumbles upon you, his childhood sweetheart.

Now a fully grown adult, you’ve become a prominent figure in the village, obvious by the way the local children tug at your clothing for attention. He approaches you, all smiles, and you recognize him immediately. His tawny hair is as bright as ever, and it’s all the more beautiful in the snowy landscape of your home. You’re elated to see him, his presence stirring up old memories of laughter and innocence.

But something about him seemed different now, almost…

Unsettling.

Before you could even offer a greeting, Childe was already prattling off about what he had been up to, and how much he had missed. You laughed, amused by how little he had changed from the energetic child you knew back then. His cerulean eyes twinkled at your laughter, a light blush coating his face in response. You’ve gotten so lovely since he last saw you, a vision of beauty perfect to Childe’s tastes.

After a few minutes, you invite him into your home, hoping to continue the conversation away from biting winds and prying eyes. He readily accepts, and you falter for a moment as you notice the odd yearning in his tone. But you brush it off, assuming he just wants to get out of the cold as fast as possible.

Offering him a cup of tea, you sit together at a small table and begin catching up. Hearing about his difficulties rising within the ranks of the fatui, you begin airing out your own complaints. The town’s resources, your finances, your parents declining health as they grew older, the list goes on. His face lights up, offering a solution in the form of an arranged marriage, a proposition veiled under the guise of providing for your family. He was a harbinger now after all, with immense power and wealth, truly lacking nothing. He could make you happy!

Plus, he could finally fulfill the promise you two had made as children.

Taken aback by the suddenness, you politely declined. It had been so long since you had last seen him, and with how much time had passed you were both different people now. You hardly knew this version of Childe, the 11th harbinger of all things, and he had missed so much of your life as well. Besides, you were only children then! Making silly vows by the lakeside that didn’t actually mean anything. The man's face dropped, frozen in his seat as he absorbed your words.

“Didn’t… mean anything?”

In an instant, Childe's demeanor shifted, his once-charming smile contorting into a mask of desperation and resentment as he slams his hands down onto the table. The dam breaks, angry tears forming as he confesses his undying infatuation with you, revealing the depths of an obsession that had festered over the years. Adamant that you were being heartless, to deny him so easily when he was being so so kind. You were the only thing keeping him sane during his time in the abyss, pushing forward with the hope of marrying you once he escaped, and now you do this?

You want to be cruel? He can show you true cruelty.

Your heart pounded with fear as his tone turned sinister, threatening to use his connections as the newest lord harbinger to ensure the village would never receive supplies from the mainland ever again.

The sincerity in his voice makes you flinch, throat constricting with terror. He wouldn’t do that, would he? Doom all the people he once loved over, what, some old flame he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade? But as you look up and see his form looming over you like a predator, eyes glinting with a ferocity you’ve only seen from abyssal beasts, you’re certain he’s not bluffing.

The innocent, bright-eyed boy of your childhood now seemed like a distant dream, shattered by Childe's twisted desires. Every word he uttered dripped with malice, his possessiveness morphing into a chilling display of dominance. His power a dark shadow looming over the safety of everyone you love. You shiver, the realization of how easily he could have your entire town wiped out being nightmarish.

As the snowfall blanketed the peaceful village, you knew that escaping Childe's grasp wouldn't be without its victims. Who were you to say your life was more valuable than an entire community? A life with Childe would not be peaceful, a prisoner within his domain where the line between love and obsession blurred into a chilling reality. But he would take care of you, and you would be sheltered and safe within his grasp. They would be safe too. Your gaze is downcast as you compose yourself, silently mourning the freedom of the countryside you took for granted all these years. You couldn’t let them suffer, not for this. Not by him. Resigning yourself to your fate, you reach forward and embrace him, the venom in his expression melting away as he sighs. 

And as you stand there held against him, the spitting image of two lovers reunited, a thought occurs to you both.

You had to be his.

[mediumgayitalian]

part one

———

Nico’s memory is…screwy.

The Lethe warped things, but the body stores memory in strange ways. The only image he has of his mother is the gentle swish of her skirts as Zeus incinerated her, the echo of her fond scoff and curled r’s. Even that memory was shown to him. Most of his childhood memories are from the Lotus Casino, really, running after Bianca through the flashing games and then running away from her, laughing, when she forbid him from driving on the racetrack. His sister is the centre of his memories. He keeps them under lock and key, buried in the same place he keeps Mythomagic stats and his constant string of fear.

(The key is rusted and the lock is loose. He sees her in every mirror, now, in every mirror. She was pretty. Beautiful. He always thought so. She hid herself in too-large sweaters and shapeless skirts, crooked stockings and her floppy green hat. Kept her hand curled around his, turned away from the boys who smiled at her, touched her shoulders. She was his entire world, and he is beginning to realize that he was her world, too, only she had no one to care for her. It makes Nico ache to think about, the tears he sometimes saw welling up in her dark eyes, the creases in her angular, beautiful face. Her pain is as familiar in his reflection as the shape of her nose, identical to his.)

(Gorgeous, Will called him.)

Warped as his memories are, Nico isn’t completely stranded — he has dreams.

His dreams, although rare, are clear. He is a spectator of himself, and voyeur of his own life. He does not remember Venice, does not remember his bedroom, the country side, the kitchen table. But he remembers every dream he has.

Including, embarrassingly, a lecture that had both him and Bianca red-cheeked and scowling.

“You-a smart, bambina,” Maria had said to Bianca, squeezing her chin with flour-covered hands. “Una belladonna giovane, si, Niccolò?”

Nico had snickered into his hands, legs kicking, looking at his sister cross-eyed with his tongue sticking out.

“Bianca è una picchia,” Nico had teased, repeating his mother’s words from the last time she’d been scolded. “Una piantagrane!”

Bianca’s eyes had flashed. “Nico, I’m gonna sell your stupido toys —”

“Sonno worries forra my Bianca,” Maria had interrupted, eyebrows raised. “Ragazzi comma running. But you, Niccolò.” She dragged him back by the cuff of his shirt, cutting off his escape attempts. ““È importante, capisci? Lookame. Niccolò. Lookame.”

He spent a lot of time fidgeting, he remembers. Bouncing off the walls.

His mother was patient.

“You gonna be uno marito, un giorno. Gonna marry a nice-a girl. You gotta sai come fate.”

He wakes up from the dream embarrassed.

He knows why it was brought from the depths of his subconscious. He’s not dense. But he wishes, as he rips the sheets off his sweaty body, that it had stayed in those stupid trenches.

His mother’s raspy, cigarette-smoker voice twists with Will’s smooth rumble: You gonna be uno marito, one day. I’ve had a crush on you for forever.

He buries his burning face in his knees. What is Will’s problem. Who says that?

Nico has had crushes before. Telling Percy made him nauseous for three days. And Will just — said it. Said it!

He rolls onto the floor, refusing to think about it any longer. He has things to do today. Children to humble. He cannot afford — distractions.

Of course, he is distracted anyway.

He hears the kids in his sword fighting class whisper to themselves. They usually do, but there’s an audible difference to it; they sound more like the giggling naiads than nervous kids. Nico spends all three of his classes tense as a rod, stiffer than he usually is a suffering for it.

He dismisses each one of his classes early.

By lunchtime, he’s exhausted. He’s tempted to skip all together, but yesterday he ran out of snacks, and if he skips two days in a row Will’ll come marching, which is the last thing he needs. He lingers in the amphitheatre, biting the inside of his thumb, weighing his options. Eat with a crowd of people, go hungry.

In the end, the choice is made for him.

He startled when his name is called by a group of people, each with similar levels of enthusiasm. Leo, Piper, Jason, and Annabeth — Percy is with his mom this week, Nico recalls — approach him, waving.

“We are flagrantly breaking the rules and eating at Jason’s table,” Piper says, smiling. “Sit with us.”

She says it like an offer, but Nico has a feeling it’s more of a command. He nods, hesitantly falling in step with Annabeth.

(His friendship with her startled him. So many years seething with jealousy, simmering with misplaced hate and pain; only to find out she’s stubborn, like he is, and kinda cagey. She knows what it’s like growing up glancing over your shoulder. They stand the same, shoulders loose but knees locked; and eat the same, like they’ll never see food again. She knows when to let him have his silence. He knows when to let her have her space.)

She nods at him, smiling slightly. Her grey hairs are dyed with pink, today. It clashes horribly with her camp shirt. It suits her.

“Kids do alright today?”

“Yeah.”

“Harley blow anything up?”

“Yeah.”

“Impressive, that one.”

Nico smiles. “Yeah.”

They’re the last ones to the dining pavilion. Most tables are already full, conversations rising and lulling, food disappearing from plates. Several people duck close to their friends as they walk by, whispering. Nico pretends not to notice, pretends not to see Annabeth’s frown.

“Nico! Hey! I was just about to come find ya!”

Tripping in his haste to get up from his table — or maybe over his snickering sister’s extended foot — Will bounds up to meet him, hair flopping into his eyes, grin wide and blinding.

Nico’s palms begin to sweat.

“Will,” he acknowledges, after a beat too long.

Will doesn’t seem to notice.

(Everyone else does.)

“Just wanted to let you know that I was up last night digging through the records, and I found a hymn that’ll fix up your face faster. Not that it needs fixing.” He winks, or maybe tries to. What he really does is blink both eyes, beam so bright it forces smile lines. Nico goes bright red. “So just drop by whenever! I’m not on duty today, but it’s cool, just come find me. Better sooner than later, right?”

He doesn’t wait for Nico’s response, already half turned away by the end of his sentence. “See ya!” he shouts, too loud for the limited size of the dining pavilion, already stumbling back to his table, halfway through a new conversation with Austin. He watches him, amused, indulging.

“So,” says a teasing voice, dragging out the vowel, gleeful. Nico turns to find four identical smirks. “He sounded eager.”

“Nope,” Nico says immediately, turning back the way he came. His face continues to grow exponentially more red, which at this point must be some kind of hazard. “Food is overrated. I’m gonna —”

“Oh, no you don’t,” and then there’s a hand clenched in the back of his jacket, pulling, and four echoing cackles, and he’s dragged over to Jason’s table kicking and hissing. “Time for you to spill.”

———

part three

[thedarkestrivernymph]

Caught

Yandere!Demon x Gn!HauntedReader

warnings: mentions of bullying, sleep paralysis, mentions of hallucinations, paranoia, drugging, attempted kidnapping, attempted murder, murder, gore, death

©Copyright -2024-thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

Slender gnarly hands slithered over your exposed skin, curling around your throat, squeezing so tightly that black spots floated around your vision.

You were being chocked.

A silent scream was caged in your throat, while your eyes ripped wide open and death was awaiting you, and you couldn't do a single thing other than stare into two large orbs of never ending black depth.

This was your final moment, the last seconds on earth, you had to do something, anything or else you were going to die—

Or were you?

Hiccuping and gasping you awoke to your sheets drenched in sweat, trembling all over with the sensations of needles pricking your limps, all of them heavy and uncomfortable.

You were always a weird kid, since childhood to be precise. You see things that are not there, feel things that shouldn't be able to be felt and hear whispers in the dead of night. You know of things that you should not know of, things that no one else has discovered yet.

Groaning you drag yourself up, swinging one leg over the other, ascending to your numb feet, barely catching yourself before you fall down again. It's horrible, each morning you awake to a body exhausted and aged, as if you were never granted rest.

Another day of your boring job, simmering away in an office, an occupation you loathe, with coworkers regarding you with the same disturbed glances and hushed whispers that have haunted you your whole life.

Perhaps you may feel strongly, stronger than any other person in the room, but they can sense it, the air of animosity around you. That cursed energy emitting from you.

Maybe that's why every single man you were interested in, killed himself after the very first date.

The hours in the office rolled around painstakingly slowly, yet somehow the seconds faded into minutes and then into hours. You were used to the lingering judgement around you, that none of your colleagues meant it when they smiled at you waving you goodbye as you finished for the day, yet what you weren't used to was for him.

He, your office crush, to approach you.

“Good work today.” he mentioned casually, dropping praises onto you as if you were a golden hen instead of the mascot for all things depressing. You knew what they whispered behind your back, how unbearably edgy you were.

“Uh, Thanks.” you sputtered overwhelmed by the sudden attention, which wasn't unwelcomed by any means but definitely alarming. Alarming in that sense that you now feared for this man’s life.

“Would you like to join us? We’re going out to eat at the new Italian. Might be fun.” he offered lightheartedly with the same picture perfect smile that you fell for.

Instead of joy, you felt your fear now unfolding infront of your very eyes. You just couldn't allow him to also commit the same mistake as all the others. So you flashed him an anxious smile, acting as if you were oh-so busy, apologizing profusely and thanking him.

Yet he was more stubborn than you initially assumed.

“It's really not that expensive if that's what you're worried about! And the food is great. Besides I think it wouldn't be so bad if you opened up more, would make you certainly more popular among our colleagues!” he exclaimed energetically, overly confident, with such a glimmer in his eyes as if he knew, knew about those gnarly fingers that kept trying to choke you. You shook your head at yourself, you were succumbing to paranoia again, this had to stop besides he was right though, you needed to at least try to make this better for you, and it wasn't a date anyways.

So it was win-win, right?

That's at least what you had hoped for. And yet it turned out yo be a disaster. Their burning gazes never leaving you, so penetrating with unfiltered judgement bordering on almost hatred, you couldn't stand it.

Admittedly as the night progressed and you after you managed to pull yourself together after a mini meltdown in the bathroom did things starten to loosen up, well your colleagues certainly did through the help of alcohol. So you started to be drowned in the mass of boisterous laughter and messy gossiping, making you finally stop sticking out like a sore thumb.

Perfect that's what he wanted.

While everyone was too occupied, it was easy to watch you in silence, face a perfect facade, he knew you, that knew the moment you staggered, blinking slowly.

“Hey—everything okay?” asked one of your colleagues who was intimidated by you, yes, but not heartless enough to not notice the odd way your eyes moved, pupils dilating and shrinking, while you felt fuzzy all over, as if you were the one that chugged two beers instead of her.

Before you could even answer, your colleague who had been so kind to invite you jumped up in concern. Worry lacing his tone as he suddenly laid his palm flat against your forehead, startling you with the sudden intimate gesture.

“Are you sick? I wouldn't have suggested you join us if I knew you were sick.” he muttered seemingly more to himself than you, while all you could do was watch in silence, your voice refusing to work no matter how hard you tried.

From then on it was all a blur, you heard all of the noise at once, everything overwhelming and overly stimulating your senses as a arm was draped over your waist, squeezing your midrift slightly as the restaurant faded into nothingness.

There was something like a breeze softly tickling your nape, no, it was someone breathing down your back—it was him, you made out, the colleague who was guiding you to his car.

“Don't worry.” you felt something wet against your neck, body so numb you were uncertain how you were even able to walk. “I will be gentle.” he breathed into your ear, reminding you of same haunting voices that whispered into your ear every night.

You didn't even understand what was happening, his words failing to properly register into your mind, as he dragged you into his car, placing you in the passenger seat like a ragdoll while you couldn't even keep your head upright.

There was only this silent scream deeply plunged in your chest, some sort of instinctive panic, that tried to wake your body up, but nothing, you could only sit there trying to fight off sleep as the engine started.

“Took some time.” he groaned, starting to laugh. It wasn't a laugh you ever heard from him before. That laugh was unhinged, squeaky and something you would hear from a killer in a horror movie.

“Y’know how hard it was to get my fingers on that drug? Phew! Took ages to be discreet! But it worked! God it worked!” he laughed, his tone starting to sound like nails scratching against those green boards you saw in school.

“Fuck—you’re a real weirdo but so hot, god! No one would miss you anyways—easy. And you're just so dumb too! You didn't even think twice about trusting me—or well you didn't have another choice with how drugged you are right now!” you felt your chest tighten, thoughts muddled yet one was clear, concreted in the forefront of your mind—that you had to find a way to escape.

And that opportunity presented itself to you so swiftly, so brashly and so painfully you regretted wishing for it.

You couldn't even make out what occurred, only the sudden flickering of lights, something indescribably loud ringing in your ears, making you want to claw your eardrums out and before you realized it the car tumbled over and crashed.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in Breathe out—

For a moment there was only this ringing, similar to that of a buzzing of a phone, before you glanced over at what remained of you colleague; a pulp of red, raw flesh.

You gagged, but before you could lose yourself in a sea of despair you felt slender, gnarly, icy cold fingers caress your cheek.

“You're mine, human.”

it was an omnipresent voice, words not uttered but received by you nevertheless.

Cursed with the gift of knowing things others couldn't, you were also cursed with living with the owner of those gnarly fingers that gently wrapped around your throat squeezing so tightly until peace crept inside every nook and cranny of your brain, lulling your eyes back into your skull.

[narcissistcookbook]

about thirteen or fourteen years ago @inkylizard told me about this show Sleep No More (description beneath the cut) they'd seen in an early run in Boston, and i had such bittersweet feelings listening to them talk about it because 1) it was absolutely my kind of thing, and 2) it was basically impossible to see it because it was so far away (i'm Scotland-based)

and since then i probably thought about the show more than most people who have seen it. i ended up working some of what kit described to me into my own music and shows, in a very vague sense

anyway, fast forward over a decade and i'm in NYC for ten days prior to tour and kit tells me that Sleep No More is still on, and it's about to close forever so this is my first and last chance to see it

so anyway

i finally saw it and it was amazing. for once hype wasn't the joy killer. it was inspiring and empowering and it's made me want to explore some of the more outlandish ideas that have been tickling my brain in terms of music writing/performance

i almost went again today, but low energy mixed with a fear of not wanting to dilute the magic by returning to the source convinced me otherwise. i think it means more to me to wait over a decade to see it, and then never be able to see it again.

Brief description of Sleep No More if you haven't seen it and aren't aware of it, told from the perspective of someone who had it described to them once and then saw it once 13 years later and has done no reading or research beyond that. Apologies if I describe it in a way that makes you squirm and go "nooo you aren't explaining it right" 💜

Sleep No More is an adaptation of Macbeth told mostly through the medium of Dance and Vibes. It takes place across the breadth and depth of an entire five floor building called the McKittrick Hotel, which is a dreamlike network of TV/movie-quality sets (a ballroom, a hotel, a city apartment, hell, a street of open shops, a mental hospital, a forest, witches' dens, a huge room full clocks connected to a tiny prayer vestibule, there's too many to mention) and masked audience members are encouraged to wander freely and explore the entirety of the building in any way they like

all the sets are fully explorable and designed to be examined in close detail. if you dig around you'll find letters, medical records, diaries, a fully stocked and unguarded sweet shop, hidden dressing rooms, discarded props, again much more than I could list off here. rooms have backrooms which have other backrooms. secret passageways connect parts of the building/story to other parts.

and through all this the cast are whirling and screeching and sprinting from place to another with little regard for who is or isn't following their storyline. at one point I was one of only two people watching an actor sew up a disembowled teddybear in a child's bedroom - and in the mirror, the same bedroom was reflected covered in blood. at another I was the only person watching a nurse tuck a man made of rocks into a hospital bed. at another, I turned a corner and one of the witches (with about twenty people in tow struggling to keep up) barrelled into me on their way to a scene elsewhere (he stopped and gave me a boop on the nose). another time, i walked into what I thought was an empty interrogation room only to realise after *far too long* that one of the characters was hiding in there with me

and on top of all this, each character has a scene they will only perform to one other audience member chosen by them

the magic for me is that not only can you not see the whole show in a single visit, but that it's basically impossible for anyone to see the whole show period no matter how hard they try. someone i know has seen it seven times and i've seen parts of it that they didn't even know about. it creates a sense of longing for what you'll never see, a sense of loss for the parts you missed, and a deep sense of personal connection with what you were lucky enough to see

what a banger

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 6

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Series Masterlist

—

You’re surrounded in warmth.

The storm outside is gone, the blue wash of dawn filtering through the nearly transparent curtains and your eyes flutter open, focusing on nothing. A tickle of breath skims across the nape of your neck, the weighted drape of an arm curled over your side and you are limp and boneless.

Sated, relaxed.

Tucked away safely in the solidly soft embrace of his body, you fall back asleep.

–

When you wake again hours later, it’s much brighter outside and the warmth is gone.

Reaching your hand back, you find nothing but wrinkled sheets and an empty space, cool to the touch. You skim your hand over it anyway, as if the imprint of his body would still be found if you search long enough, but it isn’t and needing a confirmation of the night before, you reach down underneath the blankets and let your fingers run a path up the inside of your thigh. Smooth, velvety skin and then – the barest trace of tightness across the surface; dried and flaky, smeared there and left.

At least the two of you had the wherewithal to do that, even in your sleep soaked need.

The clean, masculine scent pressed into his pillow brings to life the ache between your thighs and shifting, you note how different it feels between them. Still slick, worked open and used. A pleasant reminder lingering there, your eyes close as you let yourself lie suspended awhile longer in the memory.

His panting breath filling your mouth, the stretch of every push inside. A phantom fullness felt in your core, his beard brushing against your lips. The husky rasp of his voice, the tightness of his grip. The gleam of his eyes in the dark.

Thinking about how he pulled himself back the last time he kissed you, you stay tucked away in the safety of his bed until it seems too late to stay asleep. Not wanting to leave it for fear of finding a different man than the one who held you last night, you eventually force yourself up and fishing your underwear and shorts out from the bedding, go to find him.

Out on the deck, the outline of his body is highlighted in the sun with his green and red flannel taut around his shoulders, his broad back facing you and when you walk out to join him, he turns at your hesitant, creeping steps.

A shyness you’ve never felt with him has you averting your eyes, and coming closer, you keep your arms tucked tight around your torso.

“Good morning.” His greeting is a quiet one, fitting for the peacefulness of a morning after a storm.

Lifting the corner of your mouth, your gaze flits over to him. “Hi.”

There is mutual silence; the restlessness of his body giving him away: the drum of his fingers on the wooden railing, the white knuckled grip he shifts into as he fiddles with it and thinks. He peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, and you look over at the garden.

The leaves of the plants are sodden and limp, dripping with moisture but still very much alive.

“How are you feelin’?” he asks, keeping his eyes downcast on his hands.

“Sore,” you admit, looking over at him. Pulling your bottom lip into your mouth for a moment, a frown forms deeply between his brows, his jaw shifting under his beard. “But I mean, it’s okay. It’s not bad or anything.”

He lets out a huff of laughter, laced with self disgust.

“I was too –” he starts and stops himself, his finger digging into a dry crevice in the wood as he searches for the right words. “It’s been a long time since –”

He stops again, and taking a breath, he steels himself and pulls himself upright, facing you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rough. I shouldn’t have even–”

Your hand rests on his automatically, your chest tightening at your fear playing out in real time. The action stops him as he looks at your hand on his and then at you, expressive earnestness spilling from his endless, brown depths. You know what he is trying to say, even if he can’t seem to get the words out.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. Your thumb sweeps a path across the back of his hand, and his eyes drop down to watch the movement. “I wanted you to.”

He shakes his head, disappointment flashing across his face. “I know you did, but I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You didn’t want to?” The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and you hold your breath, waiting for an answer he gives you right away.

His face is stern when his head pulls up to meet your eyes. “You know I did.”

The lowness in his reply and the blunt confirmation of what he’s wanted swirls inside you, heady and rich. The open acknowledgement of it frees your hesitancy, even just a little, and something inside you preens at the speed of his reply.

“Then it’s okay,” you say quietly.

His eyes search yours for a moment, and you let him look.

Please, you think. Please don’t say it was a mistake. Please agree to more. Please. Please.

Weighted air fills the space between you, his eyes leaving your face to scan the yard as he buys himself time. You let him think, your fingertip tracing the line of a vein on the back of his hand, following the path of it to his wrist and his eyes drop down to watch your careful exploration. Afraid to push him too fast, you don’t want to break this tentative truce; this liminal space where he’s neither going back on his actions nor forward. Your touch stays on him as a silent offer, just like the one you gave him last night.

Nothing and then, he lifts his thumb to brush against yours, the corner of his mouth lifting only just.

He nods and you let a slow breath out, his hand lifting off the railing to take yours. You let him take it, threading your fingers together.

“You want some breakfast?” he asks, leading you into the cabin and you smile, following.

“Sure.”

–

His hands deftly pulling the soaking clothes from the line, he wonders how it’s possible to want you even more now that he’s had a taste.

Shouldn’t the pull lessen? Shouldn’t his thirst be quenched? Shouldn’t he be able to stop thinking about how good you feel now that it’s not a mystery anymore?

He grimaces at the memory of what you said. Sore. He was way too rough last night. Too eager, too hungry, too unable to stop himself from taking what you were offering. Stripped bare having just come out of that dream, he could say he didn’t know what he was doing, but he knows that’s not the truth - he knew.

The comfort of your body was too much to resist, his hands searching for your soft warmth and the taste of your mouth, and when you didn’t even try to stop him, he told himself it was okay to finally take.

When he woke before you this morning, he watched the slow rise and fall of your breathing under his arm, and studied the swirls of hair just behind your ear. Your back was bare against his chest, a sensation long lost to the days of before and that’s what finally pulled him from you: a tightness along his sternum; the velvet skin of your spine fitting just right over it.

Glancing over at you, he watches as you kneel over the barrier of the garden, checking on your plants. Yours, because even though they technically belong to both of you, you were the one who nurtured them to life. Through careful attention and delicate touches, through a gentle coaxing out of the confines of their small, stunted beginnings to give them space to stretch their roots and grow as they soak up the sun.

The sun, a joy he had forgotten about.

You use your knuckle to swipe a stray lock of hair out of your eyes, and his gaze trails down the length of your body: the delicate line of your neck, the swell of your breasts under your shirt, the plump curve of your bottom sitting on your ankles. If he tries hard enough, he can feel your smooth skin under his palms and pulling himself away from the memory of his dark bedroom, he goes back to what he was doing.

One by one, he takes each piece of clothing off the line and wrings it out, his forearms straining as he works the fabric into a tight spiral. Water pours from each one onto the grass below, splashing onto his boots and when you come over to join him, his doubts from earlier fade as he pushes down the sudden urge to drop the cloth in his hands and reach for you.

“Oops,” you laugh, looking at the heavy clothes. “I guess I forgot to bring these in yesterday.”

“Good thing they didn’t tear off the line,” he says. “Find my shirt up in a tree or somethin’, with that wind last night.”

He wants to tease you for how shameless you are when you watch him wring out another shirt, but wasn’t he just doing the same himself? A silent acknowledgement runs through his mind: this is how it could be, if he lets it.

“God, wasn’t it bad?” you say, bending down to pick up a large stick. “These things are everywhere.”

“Yea, I was gonna gather them up in a bit, stick 'em somewhere for later maybe.”

His old backyard in Texas flashes quickly through his mind; the square patch of grass, the domestic act of taking pride in his property as he cleaned up the morning after a storm. He hasn’t stayed anywhere long enough to care about doing something like that since then, and he’s surprised he even remembers.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad not to be sleeping outside,” you say and he looks sideways at you with a smirk, glad when you match it. “I mean, for a couple of reasons.”

He hums, his grin stretching and you bite your lip and tap the back of his thigh with the stick.

“Hey now,” he laughs. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Sure you didn’t.” You hit him lightly again, poking him with the edge of it and he gives you a look.

“You better watch it, honey. Don’t dish out what you can’t take.”

“You think I can’t take you?” you tease back, swatting him this time on the small of his back and he stops what he’s doing, turning towards you. Anticipation swirls in his gut when you grin, somehow light for how present it is when you take a small step back for every one of his forwards.

“Oh I know you can,” he says lowly, the words heavy with implication.

Caught unawares by his statement, he uses your pause to his advantage and reaches for the stick, swiping it from your hand to toss it carelessly behind him into the grass.

Your eyes brighten with excitement, your foot taking another step back and when you turn to run from him, he’s ready for it. One lunge forward and he’s snagged you around the waist with his arm, tugging you back against his body and he smiles at the laugh you let out that pierces the air. The sound breaks out into the sky, brighter than the sun above and then he’s tackling your squirming body to the damp ground, pinning you down.

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he says, breathless as you try to fight him off and his hands wrap around your flailing wrists, pressing them into the grass above your head.

You say nothing, stilling underneath him with a smile. These playful touches so far have been like arcs of tension filled energy, bursting and catching against each other as he tries to find the edges of this new boundary. He’s still within it, but the longer he looks at you, your face shifts into something else. Your chest heaves underneath him, and he twitches in his pants, the tight drum of fabric pressing against your stomach.

“I do want it,” you urge beneath him.

He knows you do: can see it in your hooded eyes, in the way they keep dropping to his belt buckle. They roam greedily over him, your mouth parted as you take him in and though he wants nothing more than to break these newfound, uncharted boundaries and take care of you like he always does, he can’t.

Slow. He needs to go slow. It’s only been hours, and the sound of your voice saying “sore” echoes in his mind. Reaching into the depths of his memory, he recalls long ago dates with lingering touches, knees pressed together beneath bar tops, teasing words murmured into ears full of promises that would be fulfilled later.

Later, when the need became too unbearable to hold back.

Later, when his fingers and mouth would find an eager, wet warmth.

Later, knowing that when he eventually got there, they would be ready to take what he needed to give.

Later.

There hasn’t been a later for a long time. Later is a thing of the past, now when every day is lived one day at a time and just like you’re teaching him the power of later with this garden, he needs to relearn it for himself. Reach deep inside for those long neglected reflexes, brush them off and polish them through practice - starting right now.

He bends forward, until his mouth is resting just above yours and he can feel the absence of your breath, as if you’re holding it.

“That so?” he hums, watching your eyes flutter shut.

Light plays across your face, sliding over the soft, familiar features and he drinks you in, finally allowed to look as much as he wants. He feels the tension held in your limbs as you try to stay still underneath him, his hands tightening subtly around your wrists while he watches your pulse thrum beneath the skin of your throat. His mouth waters in memory of the salt taste of that exact spot.

Your lips part slightly, and he knows if he shifts forward just a bit more, he would be able to touch them with his own…but he doesn’t.

Instead, he brushes them along the curve of your cheek, leaning forward to whisper directly into your ear.

“Later, honey,” he murmurs, savoring a sweet little inhale from you. “We’ve got chores to do.”

–

It’s criminal, how good he looks doing yard work.

Almost as good as he looks holding his rifle or his bow, but not as good as he looks when he makes a kill just for you.

You had thought there was something wrong with you the first time he did it – the way your breath quickened with arousal, your belly pulling tight with need. You had blamed it on adrenaline in the moment, but hours later when your body was still thrumming with it every time you called the image back, you knew it wasn’t just that.

You had quickly reasoned that it was due to many things: the implication of his protection, a confirmation of the lengths he was willing to go for you. A fierce protector in this terrifying, brutal world, with his competency never more present than when taking out a threat, you knew he didn’t do it out of love for you, but your body attributed his actions to something akin to it.

You want him the same way now, watching him gather sticks in the yard.

He’s stripped his flannel, draping it over the railing of the deck. His arms are tanned and thick, his body so blatantly masculine in its broad muscles and width, and he’s holding a bundle of broken, wet pieces of wood as he bends to pick up each one. He dumps them in the corner of the lot, the pile growing bigger with each round and then he’s adding larger branches, ones that got knocked from the trees during the storm.

A slick ache beats between your legs, remembering the weight and heat of him as he straddled your body, the solid thickness of him on top of you in the grass earlier and you keep watching.

He wipes his hands on the back of his jeans, his ever present knife hanging on his belt just to the side of his ass and when he turns, you quickly go back to what you were doing.

Enough. He said later.

–

Dinner is a quiet thing, the protector you were ruminating about earlier gone and replaced by a version of himself that seems looser, without the tight winding tension that’s usually present in his form. There is still some there though, and though he gave a promise of more to come later, there has been a piece of you all day that has waited for him to change his mind. To pull back, to give into the doubts he clearly had before.

You’ve been watching for signs: for him to fall silent, to get that far away look he has on his face sometimes when he ticks his jaw and thinks, to pull away when you come near him - but he hasn’t.

At least, not for today.

When you come in from outside just before bed and he’s settled in his own room without you, your self doubt creeps back – just as slowly as you creep across the hallway, to his room.

“Hey, can I come in?”

He’s sitting up in bed, warm light spilling from his lantern and he quickly sets his book face down on his lap, like he was waiting for you.

“Sure, yea. Of course.”

He shifts on the bed to make room, shadows pooling and sliding over his bare chest as he reaches over to turn the light off and you stretch out next to him, rolling onto your side to face him.

“You didn’t need to turn the light off. You can keep reading, if you want.”

“I don’t want,” he says lowly, scooting closer to you. His hand settles on your hip, tugging you closer.

“Oh yea?” you tease, smiling in the dark. “What do you want?”

His hold slides up the side of your body, a rumble of satisfaction rolling through his chest and then he’s even closer, his hand cupping your jaw to pull you close.

“This,” he breathes, kissing you.

His mouth finds a rhythm with yours immediately, and for all that was frantic the night before, it’s matched by tenderness tonight. Still just as hungry and demanding, his mouth insists you open for him; the sheets rustling as you slide and shift against them.

Delving his tongue deep, he explores the way yours brushes and slides against his. His mouth is just as competent as his hands are, just as sure in its intent.

When you sigh into his kiss, he breathes it in.

When you ask for more, he relents.

He helps you out of your pajamas and then peels his own bottoms off, tossing both sets onto the floor below and then he’s reaching for you again, his slow, careful movements giving way to hunger as he guides you onto your back. You make room for him between your thighs, letting the weight of him settle there.

“I wanted to do so much last night.” His voice is low and full of want, sending shivers across your skin in the dark. “Wanted to taste you, or fuck you with my fingers. Should've got you ready.”

“Do it,” you moan, your thighs involuntarily dropping open wider and he grinds himself between them, his hips a sure, steady roll.

“Yea, honey?” he asks, his breath humid as it blows across your parted lips. “You want my mouth?”

“Please. Please.”

It’s something you’ve been dreaming about for months, never confident that it would ever come true and your eagerness is reflected in the slight whine in your answer, in the way you arch into his hands when he lowers to pull the peak of your breast into his mouth. He sucks on it for a moment, giving another long, lingering kiss to the underside. Another one scrapes across your belly, one pressed into the hollow of your hip, and he works his way down, his shoulders forcing your thighs open wider.

His mouth finds you in the dark, the edges of his shadowed form between your knees making you wetter under his touch and when his tongue dips into you, your fingers curl into a fist, grasping his sheets.

You suck in air, your back automatically arching at the sensation of his wet, scorching mouth and he gives you a longer lick, a more intent one that slides up to your clit. He circles it, dragging the tip of his tongue over the peak several times and then he swirls it around to taste it, letting out a deep groan. He presses his face closer, his whiskered cheeks brushing against the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs, and his mouth opens wider as he gives you an open mouthed, messy kiss. His tongue slips inside you with a thick push, your hips rolling against it.

When he finds the pearl of your clit with a light suck, you start to beg. “Joel, please. Please.”

The sound encourages him, his large hands wrapping around the top of your thighs to spread you wider for his mouth and your fingers curl into his hair, the silken locks slipping in your hold. Rolling your hips up, he flattens one hand wide across your belly to keep you in place and then he’s sucking on your clit again, just enough to make your whole body focus on that singular, bright sensation. A flash of heat ripples through you, your core clenching around nothing and then his tongue is there; his groan of relief a deep rumble into the heart of you.

You let yourself get lost in it – pleasure soaking you underneath his mouth and spreading with heat through your limbs. He’s good at it, just as competent and sure as he is with everything else and your thighs tense the longer he laves, your moans growing higher in their pitch.

The slick heat of his mouth pulls and draws and takes, ignoring the way you pull back in order to push his face deeper with a low, long groan and then you’re pushing lightly on the firm round of his shoulder, your body pitching forward into ascent. Starlight bursts across the inside of your eyelids when you breathlessly tell him that you’re coming, and he keeps going, his tongue working faster.

His finesse slips, his careful, practiced touches and licks given with intent slipping into something more base, something that pours from the inside out, just like the deep, satisfied groan he lets out when he tastes your release. He eats you like he can’t stop, his hips shifting to grind into the mattress and then it’s too much all at once, your hand reaching down to push him away.

“Stop,” you plead, breathless and desperate and the need that he pulled out of you with his mouth has you shifting and sitting up, guiding him onto his back. His chin glistens in the dark, his whiskers dark and damp and his mouth tastes like you when you lean down to kiss him. He sees your need and matches it, cinching up to kiss you harder and his own grasp on your hips turns demanding and rough as he helps you settle into place on his lap and then just like last night, he’s lining himself up and pushing himself inside, only this time you’re so unbearably wet that you take him effortlessly.

“Oh fuck, honey. Fuck.”

His head drops back onto his pillow, his lips parted as he lays back and his hold slides up your arms to skate down over the delicate line of your collarbones and then he’s palming the weight of your breasts in his hands. They grasp and touch, his thumbs dragging across the peaks and you think about how he’s handled so much with these hands.

These brutal, deadly, efficient hands. These capable hands, now skillful and careful and deliberate in their touch with a lightness you didn’t know they were capable of. He uses them just as deftly on your body, sliding them down to curl around the meat of your hips to encourage you to ride him faster and his thumb seeks out your clit, nestled just above where you’re stretched open for him.

‘Yes,” he groans, his drawl slipping deeper. His words are soaked in rough pleasure, husky and low. “Come on, pretty girl. Come on.”

His breath comes fast and heavy, his plush lips open and inviting as you lean forward to drape yourself over his chest, seeking out his embrace with a kiss. He wraps his arms around you, one hand splaying across your tailbone to keep you in place and the other around the nape of your neck, and then he’s fucking up into you, his feet planted on the mattress for purchase.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it,” you breathe into his ear, repeating his own words to him from earlier and his response a wordless growl as he clenches his jaw and his grip tightens ever harder, his hips moving faster.

This Joel you know. This Joel you’ve seen: the one who delivers brutal blows with singular focus, taking out any and all threats with a fierceness you’ve craved. The same look of intensity is on his face now only softened with lust — but it’s the same black pitch to his eyes, the same intent.

“Take what you want,” you tell him, your lips catching on his just for a moment. “Take it.”

He does — immediately rolling over and taking you with him with a grunt and then he lets himself go, his groans crawling out of his throat with a delicious strain. His filling strokes speed up, his hips fitting tightly into the cradle of your thighs, and you know you’re going to be sore again tomorrow, but you don’t care – you don’t care, every thought being fucked right out of your head.

“You feel so good, honey. So good. You’re gonna make me come.”

You tighten around him in wordless encouragement, the scent of his skin and the heaviness of his body and his warm, gusting breath and low groans enveloping you, forcing you higher beneath him. It’s all consuming like it was last night, and his hand comes up to wrap around the back of your knee, tugging it higher.

“Joel,” you cry out, the depth he’s reaching pushing you over the edge and then he’s pumping into you one, two, three times more before pulling out with an abrupt jerk of his hips, spilling in hot spurts across the sheets.

There is a beat of silence, each of you breathing heavily and his skin sticks to you, tacky in the places where it meets. He shifts, his muscles relaxing.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, a low chuckle rolling through his chest into yours and you smile, reaching up to push a lock of hair away from his brow.

“What?”

He drapes himself on top of you, letting his weight push you into the mattress and he drops his head to fit into the crook of your neck, his mouth seeking out the curve of your jaw. Your hands linger on his biceps, thick and strong under your palms and you drag your nails over the back of them, content under the heat of his body.

“We gotta sleep in a wet spot,” he mumbles into your neck, and you laugh underneath him, feeling him grin against your skin.

“Hang on.” He pushes up with a groan, the same he makes when he’s been kneeling for too long, and getting off you, leaves.

The room loses its heat without him, your bare skin exposed to the air, and you wait until he gets back with a towel, scooting over so he can lay it down. He crawls back into bed, the two of you settling into a comfortable position.

With you next to him, his eyes are already sliding shut, a low, contented hum leaving his throat as you drag the tips of your fingers along his skin in a soothing pattern, lulling him to sleep.

His chest rises slow and steady beneath your touch, and the edge of your lips curl up at his grumbling about the wet spot. This, from a man who has spent countless nights in some of the most uncomfortable sleeping spots imaginable.

Comfort something that hasn’t been a guarantee for years, he’s been quick to acclimate to it. Not all things have come as easy: he still scans the yard endlessly, still checks the traps every day, still makes note of the rations and only just allowed himself the comfort of another human being, but a soft, warm, dry bed – that was something he took to instantly.

Your nail traces a line up the sternum of his chest, your palm sliding over the firm round of his shoulder and tucking your face into the crook of his neck and fitting your leg between his, you start to fall asleep — but not before you feel the weight of his cheek, his head tilting to rest it against your hair.

—

a/n: I lost track of the amount of times I asked @mourningbirds1 for help on this one — I love you my dear; only you know how much. Thank you ❤️

[beelzebubsis]

something i'll never be able to get over with the bbh and dapper relationship is what dapper wrote in the laboratory journal:

"But if I am a sun for him, aren't stars suppose to burn either way?"

because only dapper could take bbh's incredibly sincere and loving phrase of endearment and see the negative connotations of it, not out of distrust or resentment but rather pure logical reason. that yeah the sun is a star and stars do burn and don't truly last forever (don't get me started on the fact that bbh is canonically immortal so there's another level of angst regarding dapper fearing not living as long as his dad). that this phrase capsulate the initial feelings that all the parents had towards the eggs. because at first all the parents really did see the eggs as a means to a end, that they were the latest task / challenge presented by the island. and its not like they weren't vocal about that fact to the eggs, they explicitly asked the eggs and bragged to them about raising them the best and talking about the "prize" for raising them.

i feel like dappers the only egg that's really touched on the fact that the eggs weren't really suppose to last. that he isn't afraid of death but rather his fathers reaction to it, because it was the parents attachment to the eggs that has kept them around. dapper has always been very transparent with his mortality and potential death but i feel like this quote is the first time his character has actually touched on dapper's feeling about dying. i think another level of this quote is also the connotations of "burn" because its really makes me think of the parents interest in the eggs "burning" away (burnout) because of all the parents bbh has been the one to log on everyday and care for both him and the other eggs. and its questioning when is his father investment in him going to burn away too, because its the parents attachment that kept them around but how long can the parents remain attached.

i dont know. i absolutely adore this quote. its just got some many levels and connotations and its adds so much depth to dapper's character. i love the server lore and etc but i wish we got more from the dapper secret labortory arc because it was such a interesting arc for dapper character. anyway this quote is my roman empire.

if you've got any other interpretations of the quote i'd love to hear them.

this tik tok is also good

[summerclementine27]

Sign of The Times 🌹

Summary: Harry Styles is a Roman General who led his legions to many victories. He was favoured by the Emperor and known as an honourable General. Everyone also knows that he loves his wife, Y/N, more than anything, more than victory even, and dreams of seeing her again.

Time and place: Roman Empire sometime between 180 - 192 AD

warnings: bit of smut, breeding, and also old timey vibes due to roman era (so the smut is written in a funky old timey way but i decided to post it anyway).

notes: this is part three of my series of Harry Styles one shots that are inspired by his first album, I’m not doing the stories in order of the tracklist, and I also know that I am changing the meanings of the songs to fit the stories so for instance, sign of the times is about a mother who is dying while giving birth, but I changed it to be about a wife who is urging her husband to come back.

- pics of Harry or AI from Pinterest and the inspiration for this fic is gladiator lol.

The dust of Germania still clung to my skin, mixing with the iron scent of blood that had dried on my tunic. The battlefield had been ours, a victory to be sung by bards and etched into the annals of Rome. But as my men celebrated, raising goblets of wine to their lips, my thoughts wandered far from the camps and the spoils of war.

I could feel the ache in my side where the enemy's blade had found its mark—a shallow wound, they said. Easily mended with time and rest. Yet I craved neither the salves of the medics nor the comforts of the Roman city.

My thoughts were with Y/N, the woman who had waited for me through the years of war, who had kept my heart safe even as my body waded through the carnage of battle. The memory of her letters, the soft parchment that had borne her words across the miles, was a balm to my weary soul.

I cared for nothing as much as I cared for her, for all I prayed for during these years of battle was her safety. “Blessed father, watch over my wife with a ready sword. Whisper to her that I live only to hold her again, for all else is dust and air.” I recited every night, yearning to be in my ethereal wife's embrace once more, where the weight of the world would melt away in the serenity of her seraphic presence.

One of her last letters had arrived not long before the battle. I could still hear her voice in the words she had penned, a voice that had carried me through the darkest nights. I drew the letter from my belt, the parchment worn from too many readings, and let my eyes trace the familiar lines:

“My dearest Harry,” the letter began, “as I write this, I can feel the sun warming my skin, and I think of you, far away in the cold lands of the north. I miss you with every breath I take, and I pray for your safe return each night before I sleep. The fields here are flourishing, the olive trees heavy with fruit, but without you, this bounty feels hollow. The land awaits your return, as do I. I long for the day when you will return to me, when I can hold you in my arms once more, and we can live in peace, away from the horrors of war.”

Her words were sweet, like honeyed nectar upon the lips of a lover, gentle and soothing at first. Yet, as I read on, they grew earnest and urging, the ink heavy with her profound concern. My eyes were drawn irresistibly to the portion of her letter that held the deepest weight for my heart:

“Yet I know, as you read these words, your soul is entrenched in the depths of war, I understand that your mind is consumed with thoughts of victory, that your heart beats with the pulse of battle. But remember, my love, that while you fight for the glory of Rome, Rome shall endure, as she always has. It is you who may not, and it is you I fear to lose.”

Her words were like a gentle whisper, coaxing me back to the world beyond the battlefield. "I beg you, take care of yourself and do not tempt death, for you cannot bribe the door on your way to the sky, you cannot offer coin to the gatekeeper of the heavens, nor sway him with silver as you ascend. You look good down here on this mortal realm anyway. Do not die for Rome, live for her.”

“What shall become of us if we never learn? We have been here before, me tending to the fields of Hispania and you running from the arrows and swords, yet the two of us with the same fate; always caught stuck and running from the bullets. I know what the emperor demands of you, and I know you have led many battles to victory. You hesitate to leave, but you must, my love; you must find your way back to me. Just stop your crying, for this is but a sign of the times.

Stop your weeping, and have the time of your life. Break through the atmosphere of war and bloodshed, things are pretty good from here, Remember, everything will be alright.

Come home to me, my love, come back.”

I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me, a balm for my weary soul. Come home to me, my love. The phrase echoed in my mind, a mantra that had sustained me through the darkest moments of the campaign. It was these words that had driven me to push forward, to fight for Rome but also to fight for my retirement. To earn the rest of my life back and spend it with my divine wife.

As I rode back to the camp, the letter tucked safely away once more, I repeated the words to myself. “Come home to me, my love.” It became a rhythm, a beat that matched the thudding of my heart, the pounding of my horse’s hooves against the ground. Each step brought me closer to her, to the life we had built together, and to the future that awaited us.

The camp was abuzz with the clamour of soldiers and the scent of roasting meat as I entered, my body still bearing the marks of battle and the weight of victory. The Emperor, draped in his imperial regalia, stood amidst his entourage, his presence commanding the respect of every man within sight. I approached with the measured steps of one who has fought hard and earned his rest.

He turned his gaze upon me, his eyes as sharp as the glint of his ornate armor. “General Styles,” he intoned, his voice carrying the authority of the throne, “when was the last time you were home?”

I stood tall, the weight of his question a heavy mantle upon my shoulders. “Two years, two hundred and sixty-four days, and this very morning,” I answered, my tone steady and resolute. The Emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps in surprise or contemplation, as he considered my words.

His gaze lingered on me with a mixture of respect and expectation. “You have led our legions with great skill and valor, General. Rome still has need of such a commander. I urge you to remain in your esteemed position, to continue guiding our armies with the same honor and prowess you have so richly displayed.”

A solemn silence fell over the tent, the air thick with the weight of his request. I took a deep breath, my thoughts drifting back to the letter from my beloved wife, and to the quiet promise of peace that awaited me.

“Your Excellency,” I began, my voice steady but imbued with the gravity of my decision, “I have fought and bled for Rome, and I have served with every ounce of my strength. But my heart and soul yearn for a different path now. I have earned this respite, this time to lay down my sword and return to the life I once knew.”

The Emperor regarded me with a measure of frustration, his fingers drumming upon the armrest of his gilded throne. “You have been a pillar of our military might, General. To leave now, at the zenith of your glory, seems a disservice to the empire that has benefited so greatly from your leadership.”

I met his gaze with unwavering resolve, feeling the echoes of my wife’s words in my heart. “It is not disservice, but rather a fulfillment of a promise I made to myself and to her. I seek not glory nor honor from further battles, but the simple joy of returning to my wife and the life we dream of. My time as a general has been an honor, but it is time for me to embrace a different chapter, one of peace and companionship.”

The Emperor’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding—or perhaps resignation—crossing his features. “Very well, General Styles,” he conceded, his voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration. “If it is your wish to retire and seek solace in the embrace of your beloved, then it shall be granted. Rome’s gratitude will follow you, and your legacy will endure.”

I bowed deeply, the weight of my decision finally lifting from my shoulders. As I walked away, I felt a sense of anticipation and relief wash over me, knowing that soon I would return to the fields of Hispania, to the life and love that awaited me.

"My lord," one of the younger centurions approached me as I prepared to leave camp, a bandage in hand. "We must bind your wound."

I waved him off, though I knew the pain would only worsen on the long ride home. "I'll let my wife take care of me," I said, the words tasting sweet on my tongue, like the promise of harvest in a fertile field.

The journey back to Hispania was slow, each day stretching out like the endless plains we crossed. My thoughts were full of her—Y/N, my beloved, my anchor amidst the storms of war. The land of our villa in Hispania, a sprawling expanse of olive trees and vineyards, awaited me. But it was her presence, her tender touch, that I yearned for with each passing mile.

As my horse’s hooves drummed against the sun-baked earth, I imagined her in the fields, the wind tugging at her hair as she worked, her hands—those skilled, delicate hands—tending to the earth as she did to me. I could see her smile, that secret curve of her lips that had the power to unravel me more than any barbarian’s sword.

Finally, the fields of our home came into view, the golden light of evening casting a warm glow over the land. My heart quickened as I urged my horse forward, a boyish impatience overtaking me.

As I dismounted my horse and set foot on the familiar ground of our estate, I saw her standing there—my beloved, just as I had envisioned, her figure framed by the setting sun, a basket of olives in her arms.

The moment our eyes met, a wave of joy surged through me, overpowering the aches and weariness of battle. Her face, illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun, radiated a warmth and love that I had sorely missed.

Without hesitation, she ran to me, her movements swift and graceful. The air seemed to hum with the electricity of our reunion. As she enveloped me in her embrace, I was struck by the intoxicating scent of her—lavender mingled with the faint, sweet aroma of the earth, a perfume that spoke of home and tranquility. It was as if every hardship and wound I bore dissolved in the presence of her love.

Her arms, tender and gentle, clung to me with a fierce affection. I could feel the softness of her skin against my own, a stark contrast to the roughened textures of my armor and the hardened scars of war. Her touch was both soothing and electric, a balm for my bruised soul.

As our lips met, her kiss was a sweet, fervent promise, a bridge between the years of separation. Yet, as I pressed closer, a sharp twinge from the wound on my side made me wince. She noticed instantly, her eyes filled with concern.

“Harry,” she breathed, her voice soft and filled with an anguish that mirrored my own. Her fingers, delicate and gentle, brushed against the tender spot on my side. “You’re hurt…”

“It’s nothing,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper as I drew her even closer. I buried my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of her, the very essence of comfort and love, was a haven amidst the chaos of my return. “Nothing that your touch cannot heal.”

She led me inside, her movements tender and deliberate as if each step was meant to convey her deep affection and concern. The grand hall, though warmly lit by the flickering glow of the hearth, could not compare to the solace I found in her presence. As I sank into a plush chair beside the roaring fire, the heat from the flames did little to ease the persistent ache in my chest that only her touch could truly soothe.

I watched her with a heart full of gratitude as she worked with quiet diligence, her hands gentle yet skilled as she unwrapped the makeshift bandage and began to clean the wound. Her brow furrowed in concentration, each touch and movement imbued with a mixture of love and worry that spoke volumes of her care.

“You should have let the medics tend to you,” she chided softly, her voice a tender reprimand laced with concern rather than anger. The chiding was a balm, soothing and familiar, reminding me of the times we had shared before the endless battles.

“And miss the chance to be in your care?” I replied, my voice hushed but earnest. I reached up, my hand cradling her cheek, my thumb gently caressing the delicate curve. “I’d rather bleed out.”

Her lips curled into a small, affectionate smile despite her worry. She shook her head, her eyes reflecting a mixture of exasperation and adoration. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, General.”

“For Rome, perhaps,” I said, my thumb brushing tenderly against her skin, “but not for you.”

Once she was satisfied with the bandage, carefully wrapping it with a practiced hand, I drew her into my lap. The firelight danced in her eyes, casting a warm glow that made her seem even more ethereal. Her body fit perfectly against mine, the familiar curves and warmth a reminder of all that I had missed. As our eyes met, the hunger in mine was mirrored by the tender longing in hers.

“I’ve been gone too long,” I whispered, my lips finding their way to her neck. I trailed kisses along her soft skin, savoring the sweetness of her closeness. “I have missed you more than words can convey.”

Her hands wove into my hair, fingers trembling slightly as she tilted her head back, offering me more of herself. “And I you,” she whispered, her voice a soft melody that seemed to float between us, a song of longing and love that had played in my dreams during our separation.

I lifted her effortlessly, cradling her in my arms as I carried her towards our bed—the same one we had shared since our wedding night, a sanctuary of our love and devotion. The silks beneath us felt cool and luxurious as I laid her down, the gentle moonlight streaming through the windows, casting a silvery glow that highlighted the exquisite beauty of her form.

As I undressed her with a reverence that bordered on worship, I whispered against her lips, my voice a soft murmur filled with longing and affection. “I have won many battles,” I said, my fingers tracing the curves of her body with a tender touch, as if trying to memorize every line and contour. “But none so sweet as the victory of coming home to you.”

Her hands, delicate yet determined, moved to the laces of my tunic, undoing them with a familiar urgency that made my heart race. “Then claim your victory,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of desire and anticipation.

I lifted her into my arms, cradling her with a gentleness that belied the strength I had honed on the battlefield. As I carried her to our bed, my heart pounded not from the exertion, but from the overwhelming love I felt for her. The silk sheets, cool beneath us, seemed to whisper promises of solace and intimacy as I laid her down.

The moonlight streaming through the windows cast a soft, silvery glow upon her, making her skin shimmer like alabaster. I gazed at her with a deep, aching adoration, my eyes tracing the graceful lines of her form. Her beauty was both a balm and a flame, soothing the wounds of my soul and igniting a fierce, tender hunger within me.

I began by brushing my lips against hers, savoring the sweetness of her kiss as if it were the nectar of the gods. The taste of her was intoxicating, a blend of warmth and familiarity that made my heart swell. I lingered there, lost in the softness of her lips, my hands gently caressing her face, committing every detail of her to memory.

Slowly, I trailed kisses down her neck, my lips lingering on her pulse point. The sensation of her warm skin beneath my mouth was a caress to my senses, and I felt the urgency of our reunion deepen with every touch. Her breath quickened, mingling with mine, as I moved lower, pressing my lips to the delicate curve of her collarbone.

With trembling fingers, I worked at the laces of her dress, the fabric white and pure, reminiscent of the gown she had worn on our wedding day. As I loosened it, the dress fell away, revealing the soft, flawless skin beneath. My gaze was ravenous yet reverent, taking in every inch of her with a fervor that spoke of my adoration and longing.

I kissed her shoulders with a devotion that made each touch a silent vow. My lips traveled down her arms, leaving a trail of tender kisses that made her shiver with delight. Each kiss was an offering, a testament to the depth of my love for her. As I reached her breasts, I pressed my lips to the soft curves, my tongue exploring with a reverence that bordered on worship.

My kisses continued their journey down her stomach, lingering at the gentle rise and fall of her ribs, tracing the lines of her hips. I marveled at the warmth and softness of her skin, my hands following the path my lips had taken, reverently mapping every contour. The sensation of her skin beneath my touch was a heady mix of comfort and desire.

When I finally reached her most intimate place, I paused, my breath coming in ragged whispers. My heart raced with a powerful mix of longing and adoration. The moment was charged with an intensity I had yearned for during the long years apart, and I could feel the heat of her skin beneath my lips.

With a deep, reverent kiss, I pressed my lips against her, my tongue gently exploring the softness and warmth of her. Her taste was intoxicating, and the sensation made my entire body shiver with pleasure. I heard her gasp, a soft, breathless sound that urged me on.

Her hands gripped the sheets, and I could feel her hips moving subtly, seeking more of the contact she craved. "Harry," she moaned softly, her voice a desperate whisper of desire.

I looked up at her, my eyes filled with devotion and love. "You feel so incredible," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. "I want you to know just how much I adore every part of you."

She responded with a breathless sigh, her body arching instinctively towards me. "Please, don't stop," she pleaded, her voice trembling with anticipation.

My kisses became more fervent, turning into reckless licks, my movements ever so insistent as I reveled in the sweet, warm taste of her. The sounds of our pleasure filled the room, a symphony of soft moans and urgent whispers that only deepened my desire.

I was consumed with a profound longing for her, a desire that had only grown more fervent over the long years apart. Every moment of our separation had amplified my need to show her the depth of my affection, to make her experience the boundless pleasure that only I could bestow. I was keenly aware of the passage of time and wondered if she had discovered any means to reach such ecstatic heights as I would now bring her. The thought of her satisfaction, the notion of her feeling pleasure as intensely as I had imagined, drove me to the brink of my restraint.

With my touch, I sought to awaken her senses, my fingers caressing her with an ever-gentle firmness, the warmth of my hands mingling with her soft skin. My other hand began a tender exploration, slipping slowly, reverently, into her most cherished sanctuary. Each movement was deliberate, intended to elicit the utmost response from her.

“You like that, my dearest?” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion and desire, my breath hot against her ear.

“Yes, I do,” she replied, her voice a melody of pleasure and anticipation, her breath catching in soft gasps.

“I am determined to make you feel nothing but bliss,” I continued, my heart pounding with the intensity of my commitment. “I wish to taste and honor this sacred chamber of Venus, to give you pleasure that will leave you breathless and yearning.”

I leaned closer, my lips finding their way to her most intimate folds. With tender, loving care, I began to explore her, each kiss a testament to my devotion, each touch a silent vow of my love. My goal was to bring her to the pinnacle of delight, to ensure that every sensation was as exquisite and overwhelming as possible, so that she might feel the depth of my longing and the fullness of my return.

In the quiet sanctuary of our shared chamber, a question lingered on my lips, charged with both tenderness and longing. “Did you pleasure yourself while I was gone” I inquired, my voice a gentle murmur.

Her reply came softly, laden with devotion and a hint of wistfulness. “No, my love. I awaited your return.”

Her words stirred something profound within me, an awakening of emotions that had lain dormant through the years of separation. I felt a deep, aching desire to make amends for all the time lost, to bestow upon her the pleasure that had been denied to both of us.

“I yearn for you to find your release, my dearest Y/N,” I said, my voice trembling with fervent intensity. “Release it all, love.”

As her body trembled with the aftershocks of her climax, I could feel the shudder of her release against my tongue. The sweetness of her pleasure was intoxicating, a testament to the depth of our connection. In that moment, I knew that we both craved something more profound, a union that would fulfill the yearning that had grown between us over the years.

With a fervent determination, I slowly withdrew, my breath ragged and my heart pounding with a mix of longing and anticipation. I positioned myself above her, our eyes meeting in a gaze filled with mutual desire and unspoken promises. The need to be fully united with her, to deepen our connection, surged within me.

Her gaze was filled with trust and desire, and I moved with a tenderness that spoke of my deep affection and longing. Slowly, deliberately, I entered her, feeling the warmth and softness envelop me and savoring the way she wrapped around me, the way she sighed my name as if it were a prayer.

“Harry,” she moaned, and I grew concerned, fearing that the unfamiliarity of my touch after so long might be causing her discomfort.

“Are you alright, my love?” I murmured, my voice low and tender, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Her eyes met mine, filled with a mix of pain and yearning.

“Just... a bit,” she replied, her voice trembling with the effort to contain her emotions.

I continued to move with gentle persistence, my hands exploring her body, seeking to soothe her discomfort. As I found a rhythm, she began to relax, her moans growing more fervent, more eager. The shift from discomfort to pleasure was evident in the way her body responded, and I felt a deep satisfaction in knowing that I was bringing her the release she had longed for.

“Tell me, my love,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to hers as we moved together, “how does it feel?”

“It feels... so much better,” she gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders as her body arched beneath me. “Harry, yes…”

“I want to give you more,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “A family, a future... I want to watch you swell with our child, to retire from the battlefield and spend my days here, with you.”

Her breath hitched at my words, and her eyes shone with a mix of desire and longing. “Yes, Harry… I want that too,” she whispered, her voice a melody of affection and need.

As we continued, I found a rhythm that was both passionate and tender, the connection between us deepening with every movement. I kissed her lips, my hands roaming over her body, savoring the softness and warmth of her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed as she lost herself in the sensation, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer intimacy of our union.

“I will plant my seed in you,” I vowed, my voice filled with raw emotion. “And you will carry our legacy. Our child will grow strong in your womb, just as our love has grown in this land.”

Her climax hit with a shuddering intensity, her body tightening around me as she cried out my name. The sound was both a release and an invitation, and I followed her over the edge, spilling into her with a groan that echoed my deepest feelings. In that moment, I imagined the life we would create together, the child that would be born of our union.

As we lay entwined in the soft embrace of our bed, the flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over our bodies. The silks beneath us were cool and comforting, a stark contrast to the heat of our passionate union. The scent of her, a delicate blend of lavender and the earthiness of our garden, filled the air and enveloped me, mingling with the aroma of our shared pleasure.

Her skin felt like silk against my fingertips as I traced lazy patterns across her shoulders and down her sides. Her breathing was slow and deep, a soft rhythm that matched the steady beat of my heart. Every sigh and murmur from her lips was a melody I’d missed more than I realized during our years apart.

“You look radiant,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion as I gazed at her. Her hair was a tangled cascade of dark curls, spread across the pillow like a halo. Her eyes, still clouded with the remnants of our passion, sparkled with a light that seemed to illuminate the room. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long.”

She turned her head slightly to meet my gaze, her lips curved into a smile that was both teasing and tender. “And I’ve waited for it just as long,” she replied, her voice a soft caress. “You’re as wonderful as I remembered, Harry. I’m so proud of you, all you’ve accomplished. And this house—” she gestured vaguely around us, “—it’s been my joy to care for it, to make it a place where you could return and feel at home.”

Her fingers traced a gentle path along my chest, sending shivers of pleasure through me. I cupped her cheek, my thumb brushing across her soft skin, and leaned in to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “I’m proud of you too, for everything. For holding our home together while I was away, for your strength and your love. It means the world to me.”

Her eyes softened, and she nestled closer, her body pressed against mine in a way that made me acutely aware of the new life we had created together. “And now,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe and wonder, “we have something even greater to look forward to. I’m honored to carry our child, Harry.”

I let out a deep, contented sigh, my hands resting on her still-flat belly. “You’re going to be breathtakingly beautiful with our child growing inside you,” I said, my voice husky with anticipation. “I can already imagine the way you’ll glow, the way your body will flourish as you carry our little one. You’ll be radiant, like a goddess.”

Her laughter was soft and musical, a sound that filled me with an overwhelming sense of happiness. “I can’t wait to see you as a father,” she said, her eyes shining with love. “Our child will be so lucky to have you.”

I kissed her again, this time more deeply, my hands roaming over her curves with reverence. “And I can’t wait to watch our family grow,” I said. “I imagine them running through our garden, playing in the sun, filling our home with laughter and joy. We’ll watch them grow, teach them, love them. It will be a new adventure, one that I’m eager to begin.”

Her smile widened, and she traced a finger along my jawline, her touch light and playful. “And I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way. Together, we’ll build a life full of love and happiness.”

As we lay there, our bodies intertwined, the weight of the past seemed to lift from our shoulders. The wars, the battles, the bloodshed—they were behind us. What lay ahead was a new journey, one of love and life, and I knew that with her by my side, it was a victory I would cherish for all my days.

[vermilionsun]

It's me again, I heard the song that goes "get your filthy fingers out of my pie" and I had an idea for a prompt : How would the LIs react to a female MC that hate men ? (Due to trauma or due to the fear of being abused)

Anyway I hope you're having a great day ! xoxo

I hope these turned out good - I got so excited for this req 'cause Florence + the Machine are an all-time favourite of mine agbdvuqvfcujkscv

Tysm and hope you have an amazing day as well <3

Leander

🗡 Bad first impression of each other

🗡 Leander would likely be intrigued and possibly see it as a challenge

🗡 He might approach her with his usual charm but would quickly realize that his typical tactics won’t work.

🗡 He needs people to like him and wants to prove that he can change her opinion.

🗡 “I can fix her” type

🗡 At first, he'd likely try to understand the reasons behind her feelings, showing empathy and attempting to build trust.

🗡 He would do everything in his power to make her feel safe and respected, always being there to support her through her struggles, even if she's hesitant or resistant.

🗡 However, he'd also be mindful not to push her too hard or make her feel uncomfortable

🗡 e̶v̶e̶n̶ i̶f̶ h̶e̶ h̶a̶s̶ n̶o̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶

Vere

✦ Vere’d initially seem indifferent or playful about the MC's feelings, potentially teasing her in a light-hearted manner.

✦ That only lasts until he realizes the depth of her trauma/pain.

✦ Once he realises, Vere would become incredibly protective and supportive.

✦ Vere’s understanding of suffering would allow him to approach her in a more subtle way while getting to know her on a deeper level.

✦ He’d balance his teasing with moments of genuine care and concern, gradually showing her that he can be trusted.

✦ He's simply there to offer her company and support

✦ Vere would show her that she deserves nothing less than love and respect,

✦ hoping her heart may come to soften towards men, or at least, towards him.

✦ i̶f̶ n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ w̶o̶r̶k̶s̶, h̶e̶ c̶a̶n̶ a̶l̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ e̶a̶t̶ h̶e̶r̶

Ais

✩ Ais’d be respectful of the MC's boundaries from the start.

✩ Reserved and cautious

✩ He would approach her with a calm, steady presence, offering protection without demanding anything in return.

✩ Ais would likely focus on actions over words, demonstrating his trustworthiness and reliability until the MC feels safe enough to open up to him.

✩ He would create a safe space for her, knowing that trust is something that must be earned.

✩ He would patiently encourage her to express herself and share her experiences, knowing that growth requires vulnerability.

✩ He would listen attentively, offering support and comfort without judgment.

✩ He would respect her boundaries and let her set the pace for their interactions, always making sure she feels in control.

Kuras

✞ He'd be a bit taken aback and thrown at first.

✞ Assuming the hate comes from trauma, he'd be understanding, if a bit awkward about it to start.

✞ He would probably try to be friendly, but he's not going to go out of his way to do extra stuff for her, either.

✞ Patient and trying to respect her boundaries,

✞ but he might get annoyed at some point 'cause he'd want to get to know her and try to develop a good relationship.

✞ He is a man with enough trauma of his own, though, so at the end of the day he'd understand where it's coming from.

✞ He's very protective of people he cares about, and he'd probably start to worry that she'll be ostracized or attacked by people

✞ If she's a misandrist just for the sake of it, he's not going to deal with that

✞ He doesn't care enough to get angry, at least not outwardly, so he'll just stop trying to get close to her, and would ignore her/keep interactions to a minimum

Mhin

🕊 Mhin would be cautious and probably keep their distance from her

🕊 They would probably end up being a silent ally

🕊 On one hand, they keep their guard up and maintain a distance

🕊 On the other hand, they quietly observe her and look for any signs of distress or trouble, ready to intervene if necessary.

🕊 They’d be internally frustrated by their own actions, feeling conflicted about helping someone who harbors such a… strong dislike

🕊 They'd eventually try to approach her carefully, aiming to have a few conversations with her, asking open-ended questions about her past experience, thus allowing the MC to open up at her own pace and decide how much to share.

🕊 Brief and to the point

🕊 They'd keep any personal information or feelings hidden away

🕊 They might feel a sense of guilt, as if they had personally wronged her.

[itstheoneshot]

Kinktober Day 27

Aphrodisiacs - Yeosang

!dom Yeosang

Yeosang was smart, so much smarter than he gave on. He did research, as did you, science, natural remedies, plants that could alter your state, and his current fascination was with chemicals that increase your libido.

“Drink up,” He urges you, “I promise, it tastes good.”

You lift the cup to your mouth, the sweet aroma fills your nostrils as you let the liquid enter your mouth. Hot tea, herbal, a concoction created by the man sitting across from you who is consuming the same beverage. He was correct, it did taste good, warming your insides immediately. Yeosang reaches over to take your hand, staring at you lovingly at first… and then hungrily.

You were sceptical that a few herbs, leaves and spices could make you feel this way, but your cheeks warm up from not just the temperature, and that warmth continues downwards, tingling, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end, and alerting you to the source and centre of that heat.

“Come,” Yeosang murmurs, “Finish it.”

There was only a mouthful left, and you drink it quickly before placing the now empty cup down on the table. Yeosang squeezes your hand gently, feeling that same warmth, his eyes focus in on the way that you lick your lips to catch a stray droplet before he looks up at you again. It is exciting, partaking in his little experiments when they benefit you just as much as it does him.

“This was different to the last one,” You observe, “What should I expect?”

Yeosang chuckles, “Just feel it, my love… just let your body feel the way that it makes you.”

You follow Yeosang out of the dining room and barely make it a metre down the hall before you really begin to understand. Drawn to him more than usual, are you imagining this? Yeosang feels it too, turning you to face him with ease and stepping you back up against the wall with a fiery kiss, a warning of what is about to come. He is eager, dragging you down the hallway without pulling away, it is messy and desperate, each second apart is too long, he needs you and you need him now.

Finally reaching your bedroom, in an attempt to take control you pull him down on top of you, but not thinking it through, you have given him all of the power. With him hovering over you, your legs spread apart to give him space between them just so that you can wrap them around him, desperately trying to get him closer as if there were any space between you in the first place. Your hands slip under his shirt, needing it off him, needing to feel those perfectly sculpted muscles, a request which he happily obliges, only pulling back from the kiss for a moment to remove the clothing before he begins to work on yours. You don’t know which of you is more attracted, obsessed, and you swear you have never needed him like this before.

“Holy shit.”

It takes mere minutes to be fully undressed, you are already dripping, and Yeosang is rock hard, as he enters you without preparation, but you didn’t need it anyway. He fills you up, but again, this time it feels different. Increased pleasure, increased attraction, was this really all from a single cup of homemade herbal tea? You cry out his name as he pulls back to thrust into you again, letting your legs fall so that you can use your strength to lift yourself up and give him a better angle to fuck you in. Your back is arched and he reaches depths that he could not normally, his eyes roll back in his head and low moans leave him in harmony with yours of a much higher pitch.

“Good girl,” He praises you, “Do you believe me now?”

You weren’t really sceptical, you knew that there had to be some merit to the drink, and all the ingredients in it, maca root, ginseng, yin yang huo, what else was there again? but you had no idea that it would work so well. He fucks into you hard and fast, keeping you on edge for so long that you fear you are going to go crazy.

“Yes,” You nod enthusiastically, quickly remembering to answer him, “Yes, Yeosang, oh fuck, yes!”

The focus of his kisses soon move from your lips, to your jaw, and down your neck. They move back up, right to your ear, heavy breathing against it has your mind racing, vision blurring, you have got to be close. Your fingers tangle in his long black hair, soft to the touch, everything feels different now, in the best way possible. His skin is soft and smooth, muscles more… hard, veiny, and oh god, his cock, curved just a little, each thrust into you helps you up, up, up, and over… orgasming in his arms, so overwhelmed that you start to cry from the intensity of the pleasure. One orgasm leads to two, three, again you feel that nothing has ever felt this fucking good. You need him like oxygen, and you could go for hours if your body allowed it.

You are practically screaming when Yeosang finally pulls out, his hand racing to his cock to pump it only a few times before he releases, the force of his load so hard that it reaches your neck. Watching him while your own legs shake with the aftershocks of your high, mind still racing, body still reeling from the help that you had, it is too much, and you are already counting down for another round. You glance down at your body, stomach and chest slicked with his seed, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. Yeosang leans down to kiss you, not caring about the mess, just wanting to be with you, unable to be apart. It is hot, the hottest you have ever felt, not quite sure if you can find the words to describe it.

“I hope you kept that recipe,” You murmur in between a deep kiss, “I will definitely want us to drink that again.”

———

kinktober masterlist