#i admit i rarely use that function

[yonglixx]

I see u

it was queued 😂😂 idk why this made me laugh

[ceilidho]

hound dog

prompt: You pick up Ghost from a bar for a one night stand. Too bad Ghost isn't interested in a casual hook up. (nsfw, 6.7k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

-

Rare is the day when a stupid girl doesn’t do stupid things.

This is just one of many such occurrences. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar—the one miles from your place, reeking of tobacco and leather and motor oil, the noxious perfume of week old sweat and weed stinking up the joint, pardon the pun—with too much eyeliner and mascara on, and a skirt too short for you—and would you just stop fiddling with it? But you can’t because that would mean admitting that it barely fits over your ass, that putting on a skirt so short was a choice, an invite, a teasing little taunt to the men in the bar saying, what are you waiting for? I’m asking for it, aren’t I—

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

It’s why you’re planted at the bat some six weeks after being dumped, two weeks after being ghosted for the third time in a row, a smile on your face despite your crumbling self-esteem. Pride hanging in tatters. Grimacing when you find the bartop sticky with congealed liquor, the residue sticking to your skin when you quickly lift your elbows off. But there’s a time for self-pity and a time for getting it the fuck togther. This just happens to be one of the latter times.

“What’m I gettin’ you?” the bartender in front of you asks, barely impressed with your get-up. Not even attempting to conceal his distaste when he eyes you up and down, lingering on the way your tits are practically spilling out of your top. 

“Do you have any cocktails?” you ask. Wrong question. The eye roll isn’t even suppressed for your benefit when he makes it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s whatever he can pour straight from a bottle or the fancy bar for cityfolk down the road. He says it like that, the word practically sneered out. Cityfolk. 

Nerves shaken, you sip at your red wine after he leaves you to your own devices, your glass poured straight from the box. It could function passably as lighter fluid if the circumstances called for it. Still, you swallow it with a positive attitude, emboldened by the knowledge that you’re here for one thing and one thing only:

to get fucked within an inch of your life by one of the greasy-haired, cut-wearing, cigarette-smoking men lining the bar. 

Even the thought sends a thrill down your spine. 

It’s an age old question, isn’t it? What’s a girl to do (when her love life’s falling apart / when her credit score just bottomed out because her ex-boyfriend ran up her credit cards behind her back / when her job’s steadily becoming unbearable but quitting would mean scrambling to find a job that’ll pay anywhere near to what this one’s paying her) to get a drink around here? 

Evidently, the answer isn’t to use a dating app; you can say that confidently after waiting around in fancier bars than this for several no-show dates. 

You’re feeling appropriately over the whole thing. Ready to call it quits. Uninstall all of the apps on your phone and hire a matchmaker or ask a friend to set you up with a coworker of theirs. But that’ll be later, down the line when you aren’t dealing with the issue at hand.

The issue being that—

you’re really fucking horny. 

Embarrassingly so. Enough that you were willing to travel miles away from home to avoid accidentally hooking up with anyone you might run into later on while out getting groceries or on a morning run. 

It’s just better to play things close to your chest. Keep your romantic life and your sexual exploits far apart (not that you’d know much about keeping things separate; you’ve never had much of a sex life to keep hidden) lest you get mired in a stickier situation than you’re comfortable being in. 

Despite the rough start, the bar you chose seems promising. There’s a man at the other side of the bar that keeps drawing your eye. It’s the hulking size of him at first, then the grime clinging to the folds of his skin, worn in from years of hard labor. He looks like a man fresh off a fourteen-hour shift or a fortnight spent on an oil rig in the middle of the Baltic sea, freshly washed ashore, kelp and barnacles still fused to his skin, not yet pried off. 

Rough is the only word you’d use to describe him. A face covered in nicks and old scars, his upper lip slightly puckered and scarred from cleft lip surgery. When he turns his head to say something to the bartender, you catch a glimpse of a cauliflower ear, the cartilage of his tragus and antihelix swollen and deformed. 

He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. If you’d given it more thought, you think you could’ve conjured up an image of the man across the bar all by yourself. It’s like someone plucked him straight out of your head. Big and brawny, broad shoulders that you can imagine dangling your ankles off, and well-muscled arms that you can imagine digging your nails into. It would take both of your hands and extra to wrap around his bicep. The thought makes you shiver.

You try to catch his attention subtly. Looking over at him from under your lashes, quick, smoldering glances meant to draw his attention to you, so that he approaches you first. You keep waiting for the moment when he’ll notice your stare and hold your gaze, a question being asked and answered between your eyes before reeling him in with a coy little smile. 

But when a half hour goes by without a single glance your way, your hope begins to wane. 

He doesn’t look up no matter how many times you glance over at him. It’s frustrating; you know he feels the weight of your stare. His disregard is purposeful, deliberate; like he knows your attention is fixed on him but he can’t be bothered to so much as return your stare. You wonder if that means he’s got a lady at home, a little bird cooped up in his house that he’s more eager to get back to after he’s had a drink to take off the edge than flirt with some trussed up floozy at the bar.

That makes you squirm, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head again. Maybe you made a mistake coming here. 

It’s not as though you’re being completely ignored, it’s just that the caliber of men that have approached you so far haven’t really inspired much, carnally speaking. You’ve sent the few braver ones away, a half-hearted thanks but no thanks when they offer to buy you a drink. Most leave without a word, though a few mutter obscenities under their breath before shoving their hands in their pockets and stalking away. Bitch. Dumb cunt. 

Calling it a night feels like a natural next step. With the attitude you keep getting from the bartender and the way the only man you’re remotely attracted to refuses to so much as glance your way, it doesn’t feel right to stay out any longer. Embarrassment heats you like a low grade fever, warm in your belly. Wine sloshes around in your stomach when you slip off the stool, hunger now another pressing concern. 

You’ll ask him on your way back from the bathroom. If he turns you down after that, you’ll slink off into the night with your tail tucked between your legs. There’ll always be next weekend to try again. You promise yourself that because the alternative is acknowledging how defeated this entire experience has left you, no less disappointing than going on the same boring first date with a guy from Tinder. 

In the bathroom, you dab your face with water and stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years; finger smudges and white strains streaked across the glass. You wonder how many strangers have fucked in this bathroom over the years. The thought makes you grimace even more when you notice that the floor is slightly sticky, the ground sounding tacky beneath your shoes. 

When you come out, the man from across the bar is waiting by the door, so close that you flinch, eyes widening. The narrow hallway means that he’s barely three feet from you when you stand in the doorframe. 

“We leavin’ or what?” he growls, voice as deep as you thought it might be, gruff and husky. 

He’s just as imposing in front of you as he was from across the bar. Maybe more so. You’re forced to crane your neck to look up at him this close, lips parting on an inaudible exhale. There’s something about a brutish man that’s always taken your breath away; everything from the blunt chin to the pronounced brow. His face is flecked with pale, keloidal skin; rubbery nodules from old injuries. 

Dumbstruck, you can only nod, following behind him when he turns away from you, headed towards the parking lot out back where his truck is parked. 

You’re really doing this. You’re really doing this. That’s the only thought in your head when he unlocks his truck and pops the door open for you, waiting until you’re buckled in before slamming the door shut. 

He’s quiet on the car ride back to his place, unconcerned with getting to know you or defusing the tension in the truck. You can’t say you blame him. There’s a reason you chose a bar so far from home as a hunting ground. If you wanted to get to know someone, you would’ve met someone at a coffee shop. 

When you ask his name, he grunts it out like it’s an inconvenience. Simon. He doesn’t give you more than that, even when you awkwardly ask him what he does for work. Blatantly ignores your questions. The rebuff smarts for some reason, makes you frown and duck your chin to your chest, shoulders hunched.

His demeanor is so off-putting that halfway through the drive, you wonder if you misunderstood him somehow, if he means to drive you home instead of taking you back to his place (but that can’t be right, otherwise wouldn’t he have asked for your address?). It’s just hard to reconcile his churlish attitude towards you with his ostensible invitation to fuck. 

Maybe he doesn’t intend to fuck you at all. Maybe you managed to pick up the one serial killer in a twenty mile radius and stupidly followed him back to his truck without telling anyone who you planned to go home with. Your blood curdles at the thought, hackles raised when you imagine him sizing you up from across the bar, all prettied up and doe-eyed, easy prey. 

Your breathing picks up. “I, um…actually, c-could you…could you just drop me off at my place?”

Simon rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost audible. “Not gonna kill ya, bird.” 

That doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you, but you don’t dig your heels in and demand he take you home either. 

“Do you live nearby?” you ask, suddenly chatty. Why, oh why.

Simon looks over at you, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He drives a manual, you notice. A few too many seconds go by in silence. You wish somebody would just staple your mouth shut already. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, turning back to watch the road, taking a left turn up ahead without using his signal. So it’s that kind of drive.

You keep your mouth shut for the rest of it lest he decide you’re too much of a hassle and turn back. You’re poised right on the edge of something new and exciting, and the thought of that slipping through your fingers makes you feel a bit crazy. So many men before have shown you that same snap dislike. Like you’re tolerable over text or as a dimensionless photo, but not as a flesh and blood person, the real mechanics of you all wrong. It’s an intolerable thought—that people can only like you when you smile and keep your mouth shut.

Still, you’ll do it now, for a price. 

Part of you expects him to pull you into his lap when he pulls into his driveway and puts the truck in park. It’s what you’ve seen in movies. The rest of the night plays out in your head in piecemeal flashes; ravenous passion, hands tearing clothes off each other’s bodies, a shoe left on the porch in your hurry to get inside. Hungry, devouring; slick mouths parting for barely long enough to breathe.

Then Simon cuts the engine and gets out of the truck without so much as a glance your way, like you aren’t even there.

He still comes around to open the door for you. You frown at him through the window, affronted. Baffled at his continued nonchalance. Like even keeping your mouth shut isn’t enough to keep a man’s interest. Where you expected passion and fervor, you’re met with cool indifference. 

Simon pops the door open. “Get out.”

The house itself is nothing special. A two-story cookie-cutter house built in the seventies; weathered, beige-coloured vinyl siding and a neatly trimmed lawn, with a few patches of overgrown grass and weeds. There’s a trailer parked in front of the closed garage, a few planks of wood strapped down in the bed. When you follow him up the walkway, you notice how quiet the neighborhood is, and for some reason that makes you even more jittery. 

You stop in the doorway, frustration breaking your timidity like snapping an ampoule. “Do you even want to—” fuck me, goes unsaid. Too humiliating to even ask. But you ask anyway, the question itself implicit even in so few words. 

Dark eyes stare down at you, impenetrable. You’re struck by the sense of something primordial slithering under his skin. His expression is hard, his face carved from granite; when his expression shifts, it’s like watching tectonic plates create mountains, plates pushed upward by mantle plumes.

He fits a big paw under your chin, fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks hard enough to make your lips purse. Your heart skips a beat when he angles your head from side to side, looking you over like a pet he’s considering bringing home. You almost go cross-eyed when he bends down, his forehead nearly brushing yours, so close that you can smell the scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, see the grease smudged on his face and the folds around his eyes. 

A grin flickers across his lips, gone as it came. “Yeah. I do.”

And doesn’t that tie your stomach in a knot? Your nerves in a pretty bow? 

Inside, his house is just as unremarkable. You’d know in a single glance that a single man lived here; a functional, no-frills living space. Nothing more than a worn couch, a TV, and a few pieces of obvious hand-me-down furniture. It’s hard to glean anything from the minimal decoration around his place, but he doesn’t give you much of a chance to look around. That’s not the point of why you’re in his house. 

“Eat anything yet, bird?” Simon asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge without purpose. It looks like more of a reflex than anything, the first thing he does the second he gets home for the night and the last thing he does before going to bed. From the size of him, it makes sense; his body is muscle on muscle, covered by a healthy layer of fat, just a surface layer over the bulk beneath. 

You shake your head. “No.”

“Have a bite, then.”

“I’m not, uh, hungry though,” you deflect rather than saying the obvious, which is, I came to your house to have sex, not make sandwiches at the kitchen counter together. 

He shuts the fridge door, pinning you with his stare. “Your call. Could’ve used the energy though.”

You swallow. 

The first thing you do after he herds you into the bedroom is try to pull him into a kiss, cupping his cheeks and standing up on your tiptoes. Before your eyelids flutter shut, you catch a glimpse of a cocked brow. Then you press your lips to a slack mouth that doesn’t move no matter how much passion you infuse in your kiss and feel embarrassment flare up in your guts. 

Bastard. You should’ve expected that he wouldn’t kiss you back. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, breaking the facsimile of a kiss and dropping back down onto your heels. 

You flinch when he grabs you by the back of the neck and reels you back in, forcing you back onto your tiptoes, “Don’t be,” grunted against your mouth before fusing your lips together. A pathetic keen climbs up your throat, eyelids slipping shut. 

His greed leaks from him like tar, his kiss so messy and violent that you’re almost too jarred to do anything apart from hang on. Teeth clack against yours, a horrid sensation, the lust in your belly abating long enough for the real world to slink back in and you get flashes of it: hands winding around a thick neck, a scratchy cheek against your lip when he twists his head to angle your noses better, a tongue shoving into your mouth unceremoniously, no finesse at all. Straight to the main point. 

A shudder wracks you from head to toe when you try to break the kiss only to find the hand on your neck firm, holding you in place. The subtle reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you, that you willingly went home with a man big and strong enough to pin you down and fuck you however rough he wants. 

“Simon,” you whine, squirming against him, gasping a breath and his name again when he wrestles you back into the kiss. “No—Simon—”

“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snarls against your lips, and you freeze, knees going weak when his fingers dig into your jaw to hold you in place.

The endorphin rush nearly makes your vision white out. A sudden winter storm, the blood rushing to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your breath coming out quick and choppy. Lungs barely filling up with each inhale. 

“Get this off,” Simon growls, tugging on your skirt when you don’t move fast enough. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, content to wrench your skirt off himself instead, your panties along with it. 

It takes your breath away, how fast you go from clothed to partially nude. Trying to match his fervor is a losing game, so you just try to keep up. Your hands tug at his belt, desperately trying to undo it, and he chuckles when he notices; big hands paw at your ass while you shakily pop the buckle out of the first loop. 

He takes over after that, popping the button on his jeans one-handed. 

“Wanna handle the rest?” he prompts, an eyebrow jutting up, expectant. Lazy with his arrogance; oozing rugged masculinity. It’d infuriate you if it didn’t get you so hot. 

Your fingers are numb by the time you pull his jeans down, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him with wide eyed devotion as he kicks off his boots and shakes the pants off his legs, nothing under his jeans. His pale white thighs are dusted in fine blond hairs, mottled with burns and scars and old, faded cigarette marks, like someone used his legs as an ashtray. The thought makes your throat close up.  

He shucks off his shirt while you stare at the shaft heavy with blood hanging between his legs, drooping with its own weight. Flushed red at the head and streaked with dark veins, leaking a steady drip of precum. The hair at the base of his dick is of a darker shade, gold like straw. 

Your stomach swoops at the sight, dropping to the pits of you. You swallow. Maybe you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew. A lot more.

As if sensing your unease, a wide hand is suddenly firm on the back of your head, urging you closer. “Gonna give it a kiss?”

It’s not a question. You know that and you know that you’re way out of your league; that if you panic now you’ll flounder. So instead of fighting it, you lean forward and press a shy kiss to the weeping head of his dick. 

You lick your lips instinctively when you draw back, lapping up the precum smeared across them. The taste makes you wrinkle your nose. It’s salty; bitter. Not altogether pleasant. 

Simon wraps a hand around his dick and holds it to your lips. “Open your mouth, bird. Get me nice ‘n wet.”

A shudder rolls through you, but there’s little else you can do except part your lips and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a struggle to fit more than just the head in your mouth, his dick too wide to take more than that. Your eyes water at the stretch, the musky taste of his cum overwhelming. 

Any experience you’ve had before this pales in comparison. It’s like the first time all over again. His cock is heavy on your tongue, instantly making your eyes water. The grip he still has on the base of his cock tells you that he doesn’t expect you to swallow the whole length (an impossible task; you go cold with dread at even the thought), but Simon doesn’t hesitate to grip your head firmer when he feels you falter, forcing you to take as much as you can.

When you gag, he shushes you. “Keep at it—you’re fine.”

You wonder if he thinks by saying it, it makes it true. You’re very much not fine, struggling to breathe through your nose and suck him off without scraping his cock with your teeth.

Your exhale when he pulls you off his cock by your hair is full of both relief and trepidation. Your lips feel swollen and tender when you touch them with your fingers. 

“Can we please have sex now?” you ask, dazed enough to be bold. 

Simon cracks a smile at that, endeared somehow. “Gotta get up for that, bird.”

You have to brace your hands against his chest when you get to your feet, the blood that rushes to your head making you wobbly. Even on your feet, he’s so much taller than you, a behemoth. Men like him have always been your type, but Simon is really in a league of his own. 

Glancing up at him from under your lashes, you bite your lip. You’ve seen that in movies before, starlettes bringing men to their knees with just a look. Coquette; demure. It’s harder to replicate than you thought, but you’ve never rehearsed this before. This is a one-time, live performance. The culmination of everything you’ve ever read or watched or studied. 

You keep up the ruse of being sexy by crawling onto his bed on your hands and knees, dropping down onto your elbows once situated in the middle of the mattress. The debauchery of wiggling your ass back at the man who took you home from the bar would overwhelm you if you weren’t playing a part right now. Role playing. This isn’t who you usually are, but if it’s only for one night, you can force out the self-scrutiny and timidity. 

Silence hangs in the air like a bubble, waiting to be burst. You fight the urge to look over your shoulder at him. 

Then Simon exhales, breaking the silence. Goosebumps ripple down your arms. 

The mattress dips under his weight when he settles behind you, hands immediately sinking into the flesh of your ass and pulling your cheeks apart. No preamble. You open your mouth to say something, but thick, coarse fingers are already dipping between your thighs and playing with your hole, sinking a finger in up to the first knuckle. 

You breathe out shakily, shoulders tensing. The sheets reek of him, musky and ripe; you concentrate on that instead of the fingers penetrating you, getting you ready for his dick. Your walls squeeze tight around his fingers when he forces another one in. 

When he finally feeds his cock into you, the stretch is nearly unbearable. The sharp stab of pain that accompanies it almost makes you flinch away, but Simon drags you back by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere, bird,” he rumbles. “Relax. It’s going in.”

What can you say to something like that? 

His whole frame presses you into the mattress, the breath forced from your lungs. Bigger now that he’s got you on your belly. Suddenly making two hundred pounds seem less abstract, more real. He bullies as much of his cock into you as he can, paying no mind to the way you squeal and kick your legs. 

“Real tight cunt,” Simon grunts, humming with his pleasure when his hips punch forward and your pussy squelches around his length. So lewd.

His knees on either side of you keep you trapped in place, nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. All you can do is lie under him and let him rut between your thighs, gasping for breath with every thrust. The sweat is slick down your back, half yours and half his. 

“Ya let other men fuck this cunt, bird?” he asks. It sounds hypothetical, like it’s said half to rile himself up, and though it prickles at your nerves, you don’t complain too much because he fucks you rougher after the words slip out of his mouth. 

When you don’t answer him though, concentrating more on filling your lungs and not biting your tongue off, he grabs your face and twists your head until you’re looking over your shoulder at him, neck aching with the strain. 

“Answer me,” he demands, sounding almost pissed off. 

“N-no—”

“Good,” he grunts. Satisfied.

His words should piss you off. How dare he ask you about fucking other men as if he were your husband or boyfriend. You have half a mind to cuss him out, but then he pumps his hips forward and your face goes numb from pleasure. Electric impulses zip up and down your skin, sizzling your nerves. 

Besides, maybe it’s hot that he’s acting like you belong to him. Like you’re his; his girl that he picked up from the bar after a long shift, eager to go home and lay her out on the bed so he could fuck his pretty girl into a tongue-tied stupor. It certainly does it for you, a thin filigree of pleasure winding its way down your spine. 

It’s an intoxicating fantasy—being wanted by a man in a real, visceral way. It’s one you’ve never gotten close to before, never even grazed with the tips of your fingers, no matter how far you stretched out your arms. You don’t know what men see when they look at you, but it can’t be anything worth keeping. 

He fucks you like he wants to pry you open and leave a piece of him inside. A big hand fits around your neck and tightens; a collar, a manacle. 

Hard to feel anything but grateful though. It’s everything you wanted but never thought you’d get out of this experience. You expected to feel like a body on a butcher’s block, hacked limb from limb. Marble ribbing on the inside. Brought to a high only to be left out in the cold after. 

You never expected apotheosis. You never expected the filth murmured into your ear, the lurid, coarse diatribe in surround sound, all perfect fuckin’ pussy, can’t wait to shove my tongue inside, gonna make you suck my cock while I eat that perfect cunt out—

All—

Perfect fuckin’ girl; you don’t give this to anyone else, do ya? Knew you were gaggin’ for it back in the bar, but wanted to wait ‘n see; turned the rest of ‘em down, didn’t ya? Not a fuckin’ slut. Jus’ for me—only hungry for my cock—

It’s too rough, too much. Overpowering. Musk and body heat and raw strength, his forearms planted on the mattress on either side of your head. The scent of him suffocating, smothering. Heady. In your pores, on the back of your tongue, in your belly. He’s everywhere.

If only you could put it into words. The fire in your belly growing so wild, so out of control, that it threatens to incinerate you. Thinking dangerous thoughts—that you could be his, that he wants you so bad he can’t stand the idea of anyone having you before him, that he’ll kill anyone that touched you before, rip them apart with his bare hands, cut out their hearts and slice it ‘em up real thin so he could feed you the strips with his hands—

“Fuck—” Simon pants in your ear, pulling his cock out of your cunt. You whine, clenching down on nothing, suddenly empty, until he turns you roughly over onto your back and grabs one of your flailing ankles, hooking it over a burly shoulder. “Cunt this good oughta be locked down. Should just chain your leg to the bed so I can wake up to this pussy every day. Would’ya like that, bird?”

Like it? You think wildly—

Keep me, keep me, keep me, pleasepleaseplease.

The leg not hooked over Simon’s shoulder gets pulled around his hip, spreading your legs wider to accommodate the width of him between them. The scour of his voice threatens to erode you, smash you to pieces. There won’t be anything left after he’s done with you. 

He’s just so big. Built like an ox, broad and solid. When he braces his forearms on either side of you, his biceps bulge, skin pulling taut over the muscle. The dark hair of his pits is stark against pale flesh. 

Blood roars in your ears and over you, he moves like a wave, filling you up again and again. You’re swimming in uncharted waters now; gazing out into an unfamiliar and dangerous sea. A swell this big might take you right under. 

Too bad for you, the hazy adumbration of danger in his words is pitted against the maw in your soul, the deep, cavernous hole that yawns wider with each passing year. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: overlooking a sea of evergreen peaks illuminated by a silky moonlight hue, winding a long, narrow road darkened on both sides by tightly clustered trees, your arms wrapped around your chest. Cold layered like a skin, sinking deep into your bones, cold wet like a damp hate; trees clustered around your wandering soul, spurned into wandering like a little undead ghost with teeth clattering in Morse code, saying: so many wrongs done, it is almost incomprehensible.

Is it too much to ask to be wanted? 

You need it like air. 

The issue is that—

more than horny, you’re really, really fucking lonely. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: a dream of being a lighthouse keeper, skin saltwater slick, seafoam on the backs of your knuckles, slathering over frozen fingers clutching at the gallery railing. Beckoning something to you.

What it is, you do not know.

“Look at tha’,” Simon says wonderingly, grabbing your face and yanking it towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “Just needed to get turned out on a fat cock, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good, Simon, ohmygod—”

“Only this needy for me, right?” The glint in his eye is terrifying.

“Only you, only you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, bearing all of his weight down on you, forehead to forehead. His sweat-slick chest slides against yours, cock buried so deep that you can taste him at the back of your throat. Dark eyes stare down at you with an intensity that steals the breath from you, glossy like he’s rapidly losing the ability to be consciously present, but ever attentive to the pleasure rippling across your face. 

When his cock grinds into the soft plug of your womb, his eyes narrow when yours bulge, and he batters that spot until you seize up and spasm around him. His buzz cut gives you nothing to hold onto, so you dig your nails into the bulky planes of his back instead. 

“Fuck—hold on, Christ, fuck; here it comes,” he spits, the veins in his neck protruding when he grits his teeth. 

Your blood goes red hot when he rams deep into you, each thrust deliberate. Hips losing their rhythm. You don’t notice the first spurt of cum, too preoccupied with the smell and weight of him blanketing you, infiltrating every crevice of your body, but the second is hot. Scorching. You ignore the screaming alarm at the back of your head, barely coherent enough to parse out its meaning. All you can focus on is the warmth spreading inside you and your own walls pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him. 

Time blurs. You lose some of it. 

You don’t come back until Simon rolls over onto his back, taking you with him. His cock is still buried inside of you, his cum running out in rivulets, pooling at the base of his dick lodged at your entrance. You’re going to be messy when he finally pulls out. 

Despite the ache already setting in, you feel reborn. Renewed. The old, dead skin flayed off. You can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got your energy back, when even tracing your eyes across the other side of his room doesn’t take tremendous effort. The traces of him littered around the room make you curious. A half empty glass. Steel-toed boots sticking out of a half-opened closet. A damp towel crumpled into a ball on the floor. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s no use trying to fill the gaps in. Whoever Simon is won’t matter in the light of day. You repeat this to yourself until it sticks. 

When you try to get up, planting both hands on his chest, he pulls you back down, forcing your head onto the pillow of his chest. “Simon, the sheets are wet—”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Simon says, eyes already shut, on the verge of falling asleep. “Now shut up. You’re ruining the fucking afterglow.” 

You wake up the next morning covered in bruises and bite marks and dried cum between your thighs and on your belly, so sore that even twitching your finger hurts.

It takes awhile for everything to come back to you. When it finally does, consciousness snaps back into you, discomfort giving way to quiet self-satisfaction. You managed to do it. Your first one-night stand. A real milestone. The tacky sheets beneath you are proof enough of your accomplishment. 

The sadness slithers in when you realize that it’s over. One and done. In a half hour or so, the man plastered against your back and breathing heavily on the crown of your head will wake up, groggy and bleary eyed, and side-eye you until you put back on your clothes from the night before and slink out, tail tucked between your legs. A few hours delayed from when you were planning to throw in the towel at the bar, but still. In the end, it always comes around. 

A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach and shoving his raw cock into your cunt and it’s only now that it dawns on you that you were too horny last night to remember to ask him to use protection. 

The thought is wiped from your head when he bucks his hips forward, impaling you on his swollen length. You lose track of time after that. 

Breakfast is an informal affair. Cereal from a box and a bit too much milk, and a cup of instant coffee. You wince when you sit down across from Simon at the kitchen table, your inner thighs still tender and pussy sore from the battering it just took. If it strokes his ego to see how gingerly you sit down, he doesn’t show it. 

It’s weird sitting across the table from him after last night. Hard to just leave it unaddressed, the truth simmering in the air. The red marks across his back make you wince, cheeks heating. Thin crescent marks and scored nails. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with the girl from last night. 

He eats in silence for the most part though, ravenous after the night before. Doesn’t comment on the state of his shoulders or the way you shift on your chair. Not even bothering to make eye contact with you. Your appetite takes a bit of a hit watching him shovel food into his mouth, hardly even pausing long enough to breathe, but you’ve seen plenty of hungry men eat before. 

Still though, silence has always had a way of getting under your skin. You’re not comfortable around it, prone to chattering. So you can’t help the way your mouth opens and the words come out involuntarily. 

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I don’t shit where I eat,” Simon grunts dismissively.

The expression makes you grimace. “So do you usually pick up girls elsewhere or—”

The look he gives you could melt the flesh off your bones. You realize your misstep, interrogating the man you just fucked about his other hookups. Best not to ask questions. It’s not like you’ll see him again after this. 

These last few moments are bittersweet. There won’t be many opportunities like this in the future, mainly because you don’t think you’re cut out for one-night stands. Last night proved that. As good as it was—and for as many times as you came, another time in the wee hours of the morning when Simon rolled over on top of you and shoved your legs apart to eat you out (a midnight snack)—in the light of day, you feel world weary. Like something monumental happened and passed you by. 

You almost want to thank him for making it special, but the anxiety around finally pissing him off is more than you can bear. You want to leave on a good note. It’s better this way. You’ll never have confirmation about whether he’d eventually grow tired of you like everyone else. Never know if he’d one day manage to lose interest in the real you, not the made up sex kitten from the bar. 

It’s better this way.

You tell yourself that when you push your chair out and stand up, hands fisting in the oversized shirt Simon made you wear before leaving the bedroom. “I should get going.”

He stops eating, staring up at you. His eyes are inscrutable, and the longer he stares, the less you understand his look. 

You shift from foot to foot. “Thanks for… I had a good time.”

Simon doesn’t say anything, but when he drops his spoon into the bowl, the metal clang makes you flinch. 

His silence leaves you off balance, like you’ve overstepped somehow. All motion stills under his scrutiny. 

“Got somewhere ya need to be?” he asks, a vague, almost menacing undercurrent in his voice. It’s said like a warning. There shouldn’t be anywhere else you need to be. 

“I…—don’t you want me to leave?”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “You gonna walk home like that?” His words make you tug at his shirt, pulling it down to cover your thighs.

Your whole life has been made up of misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Men who you thought loved you vanishing into thin air. You’re a poem often lost in translation. A long game of hide and seek; people run towards you then feign right, leaving you in the dust. 

Whatever this is, you don’t recognize it. 

You swallow on a dry throat. “…No?”

Simon searches your expression for something before he nods, satisfied. “Then sit the fuck back down. Finish your damn breakfast.”

You sit back down (wincing when you do) because the alternative is admitting that you don’t know what’s next. That you’re out of step again, but this time without that sinking feeling in your belly. A wild fluttering instead. That thought again that maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew. 

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

[janitorhutcherson]

Marked Only for Me (Olderbf!Mike Schmidt NSFW)

hii!! okay, i have never written smut before, so i am begging you all to plz be patient with me! this is very long, so my apologies.this is a part of my olderbf!mike series, so hope u guys likeee. also, for this let's make the assumption mike went to college and all of that before his security jobs. he just had burn out and was there, hence why he's working for a major company with what would be little experience. anyways, lmk what u think!

summary: mike comes home and needs to blow off some steam

warnings: nudity, sex, name calling, hair pulling, choking, marking, possessiveness, an implied free use situation, fluff at the end!!

word count: 2,925

nsfw after the cut!!

You were sitting at the kitchen table doing homework in the home you shared with your boyfriend, Mike. You're 20, a couple of years into college, drudging through math problems that make your head feel like it's sitting inside a frying pan. You had to admit this wasn't your ideal way to relax after a 10-hour shift at the bookstore you helped run. Things had been hectic with Black Friday, your store doing a special sale where everything was 50% off, and bookworms were coming out of random corners to fill their already overflowing shelves for cheap. Of course, being younger, you were the one who had to do the grunt work, carrying piles of books to and from inventory, dealing with the more demanding customers as your older coworkers would tell you that they "just couldn't handle kids these days" and that it'd certainly be better for the younger one to do it. Luckily, though, Abby was at a friend's house, meaning you didn't have distractions. You were as focused as could be with a cup of coffee beside you, the sunlight that was once beaming through the cracks of the blinds now completely gone. You were focused, your brain functioning as much as it would with the problems. Things were quiet.

...That is until Mike stormed in. He was frustrated, angry, an invisible red-hot aura beaming off him. His hair was messier than it typically was. The softness in his eyes was instead replaced with a cold look. His eyebrows were furrowed together on his forehead, his jaw sharp and defined as he gritted his teeth. Although this wasn't common, it wasn't necessarily rare either. Mike worked for a publishing company as a marketing manager. He'd gotten the job after a few months of hard work to make up for the slack on his resume after working at the mall and the pizzeria. He moved up the ladder quickly, his company admiring his friendly attitude and his somewhat shy but personable behavior. He loved his job much more than his past ones. He felt happier, got more time off, was less stressed, and was definitely safer. Even with that being said, sometimes shit just pissed him off.

Today's big issue was a meeting with his marketing team, which also involved the big guy over his head. He felt like he was criticized, demeaned, dragged through the mud, and all in front of the team he was supposed to be respected by, listened to. On a typical day, this might not have pissed him off so much. He might've mentally plotted the demise of his boss, but he wouldn't have caused the outburst he did at work, and today had been particularly awful. He'd been late, burned his breakfast, knicked himself while shaving, and even gotten into what he considered to be a little fight with you the night before. Even though you'd both settled the argument, made up, and kissed before bed, he had been thinking about it all day. He'd then spilled coffee on his brand new tie, leaving a stain, and then... that happened. Mike snapped. He yelled at his boss, showing his ass in front of everyone, causing a meeting in his boss's office to end with an inevitable write-up. 

Now, he was home, trudging in all his bad energy, disrupting your study time. You couldn't even be frustrated with him, his demeanor proving he'd obviously had a bad day. You went to stand up to greet him with a hug, a kiss or two, but before you could, Mike stormed over to you, grabbing your arm harshly. You gasped, slightly thrown off by his sudden actions. He pulled you closer to him, his eyes locked on yours and his breath heavy against your neck.

"What the fuck, Mike?" you said, your eyebrows furrowed as you stared into his cold brown-green orbs.

"Listen to me," he grunted, his voice low and gravely. "I have had a very, very bad day, and I need you to be a good girl for me, okay? I don't want no shit, no back talk, you'll listen to what I say.. do you understand?" 

His hand still gripped your arm, his fingernails digging into your skin. You could feel yourself starting to drip, your panties feeling damp against your skin as your body buzzed with excitement. All you could do was nod your head, your eyes locked on his as they clouded over with lust. Mike snapped his fingers in your face, looking at you from underneath his eyebrows. 

"Use your words," he demanded. 

"Yes sir, I understand," you stuttered out, your cheeks flushing red. Mike's face was now pleased, his entire demeanor softening a little. His hand stayed wrapped around your arm as he tugged you into the living room, pushing you roughly onto the couch. You huffed from the impact, your eyes widening as Mike dropped to his knees before you. He slid your sweatpants off, prying your knees open to reveal your see-through pink panties soaked beyond belief. His eyes were hungry, his mouth open, almost drooling as he looked directly into your eyes. 

"All for me, babydoll?" he teased, his hand sliding in between your legs as he drew small circles around your clothed clit. You nodded your head as a whimper escaped your lips, the aching in between your legs only growing worse.

"What did I tell you?" he said, his words sharp as he smacked the inside of your thigh.

"Yes sir," you corrected, your words wavering after the impact from his hand. Mike nodded, satisfied with your answer, as he slowly slid your panties down your thighs, wasting no time. You gasped once again as the cold air hit your wet cunt. Mike exhaled sharply, taking a moment to admire you in front of him. His eyes trailed up to your pathetic look, your already-glazed-over eyes, down to your barely clothed chest, only a sports bra covering your breasts he loved so much, then down to in between your legs, where you were so wet, and all just for him. His lips trailed up to your tummy, sucking on the skin in different areas, from above your abdomen all the way up to right below where your sports bra stayed, purple marks forming.

He then dove in without hesitation, his large hands gripping your sides as he leaned in, moving one hand to take his index and middle finger to spread your pussy lips. His mouth instantly attached to your clit. You yelped as you bucked your hips forward, his lips meeting the sensitive area. Mike pinched your thigh, a sign to quiet down until he said to do otherwise, two of his fingers reaching out to be shoved into your mouth.

“Suck,” he demanded, his fingers going as far back down your throat as they could. You did what you were told, sucking on his fingers and drawing your own circles with your tongue. His tongue drew tiny and slow circles against the set of nerves, your hands reaching down to tangle in his hair from desperation. God, he loved eating you out. The way you yelped, quivered, shook underneath him, your hands tangled in his hair to keep yourself from going over the edge. He fucking loved it, you were the perfect cure to his anger, calming, something he could take it out on in a productive way that made everyone feel good. Your whines were suppressed as you bit your lip, your teeth digging into the softer skin. Mike pulled away for a moment, his eyes locking with yours once again as he admired your face, your now swollen lips.

“You know what, baby? Be as loud as you want for me now, princess,” he mumbled, going back to attacking your wet cunt. Slurping sounds filled the living room mixed with your moans and whimpers as his tongue slid up and down your slit, his lips wrapping around your clit to suck as hard as possible when his tongue wasn’t fucking inside of you. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. His cock was rock hard inside of his work pants, his own face flustered as he rocked back and forth against himself. His tongue continued to lap at your clit as he slid two of his large fingers in and out of you, your walls clenching around them. You could feel yourself drawing close and Mike could tell. Your thighs attempted to clench around his head, but before they could his calloused hands pried them open, holding them apart. Just as your eyes began to clamp shut, your thighs shaking as the knot in your stomach started to untie, Mike pulled away. You gasped as he slipped his fingers out, furrowing your eyebrows as you stared at him with an angry glare. He chuckled as he stood up, raising his eyebrows up and down as he leaned down, his hand lifting your chin up.

“Poor baby, was all ready to finish for me, hm? You were gonna be ‘Mikey’s little slut,’ weren’t you? That’s what you tell me you are, right? My little slut?” he teased, no remorse behind his eyes. You huffed, punching his arm before crossing your arm, too out of it to say anything from the knot that remained in your stomach but too angry to take initiative.

“Awh, don’t be mad, princess,” he snickered, shaking his head as he leaned further down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “You really think I’m done with you?”

With that being said, Mike pushing you back on the couch. His right hand held you down as his lift struggled to unbutton his pants. He pulled his pants down, letting them fall around his ankles as he yanked his boxers off, his cock springing out. He stepped out of them, letting you go for a moment to unbutton his shirt before tossing it off as well. Mike then looked over to you, leaning forward, ripping your thin sports bra off of your chest, your breasts now exposed to him. He licked his lips, excitement overflowing his body. He crawled on top of you, attempting to make the two of you fit on the couch. His mouth attacked your nipples, biting and gnawing at your skin. His mouth moved up to your neck, sucking and prodding and biting until purple marks were left all around, ones you were all too aware would be impossible to hide later on. He moved down to your chest once again, marks all across your collarbone, your tits. Mike’s hands gripped onto your neck as he sat up, looking into your glossed over eyes. He pressed his lips to your ear, a soft kiss against your earlobe.

“’M about to fuck you so hard you see stars,” he said, his voice causing prickles to cover your skin. Then, without hesitation Mike slammed into you, his pace staggered. Your moans were as loud as could be, the sound of skin hitting against each other and the echoes of both of your voices filling the living room. His thrusts were sloppy as he felt himself starting to get close to the edge, his hands pushing your hips down and into the couch. Your entire body sunk into the cushions as he used everything in him, his cock abusing your poor cunt. You swore you saw stars until you felt his hand gently smack against your cheek, your eyes averting back to his gaze.

“You’re gonna look at me when I fuck you, princess,” he growled, his hand sliding up to your hair as he tugged. You grew close, clenching around his length, your thighs starting to shake. Your core was threatening to come undone.

“Fuck, Mikey, baby, I’m gonna fucking cum,” you whimpered out, closing your eyes as your head leaned back against the side of the couch.

“Cum for me, baby,” Mike stated. You did as he demanded, finishing around his cock as your liquids gushed against him. His thrusts grew sloppier before he pulled out, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“You’re such a good girl, you know that baby? You did so good for me, listening to what I said, letting me use your pretty cunt,” he stated, his thumb caressing your cheek. He then resituated, pulling you off the couch, pushing you onto the ground. You were now in the same position he was in earlier, completely fucked out. Your lips were dull from exhaustion, your cheeks red and your hair knotted in certain areas. Mike’s cock was directly in front of you, his hand guiding for you to suck on him. Your lips wrapped around his tip, the tip of your tongue licking his slit. You worked your mouth down his length, licking the sides. Mike’s moans became frantic, desperate as your mouth worked its magic. His hand tangled in your hair as he pushed your head up and down, thrusting up into your mouth.

“That’s it, baby, feels so good,” he grunted. With no warning, Mike pulled out, spilling his load all over your face. He twitched, his moans loud and low, your tongue stuck out to catch his cum. His body laid against the couch, feeling heavy as his head leaned against the back of his couch. A tired grin was on his lips as you also smiled up at him, licking yourself clean. Mike looked down at you, a chuckle releasing his lips. It was obvious all of the tension and anger was gone, as his once cold eyes were once again the soft loving brown they used to be. He looked at you with adoration, always amused by how gorgeous you were even after rigorous activity and getting your face painted.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, picking you up bridal style as he leaned down to kiss you, not caring about his own load that was now on his face. He sat you down on the bathroom counter, grabbing a washcloth out of the cabinet, running it under warm water. He started to wipe away all of the liquids covering your face, pressing kisses to your skin here and there, looking your body up and down as he admired all of the marks he left.

“You always know how to make me feel good and how to take care of me after,” you croaked out, your voice laced with exhaustion as you smiled. Mike smiled back at you, his hand tenderly touching your cheek before pushing your hair behind your ear.

“I love you, of course I want to make sure ‘m taking care of you,” he said softly. His lips once again pressed against yours. “Thank you for letting me… you know.. blow off some steam,” he said, wiggling his brows.

“Of course, honey. I was worried, though. Is everything okay? Do you want to talk about it?” you asked, leaning forward as you slid off of the counter, grabbing a new washcloth and beginning to wipe his face with it as well. Mike sighed, shaking his head as he looked at her with sad eyes.

“I just- I got into it pretty badly with my boss at work and got criticized, I felt like a wounded animal, like I had to fight. I’m so used to having to fight that I don’t know how to shut up and listen,” he mumbled. “It was so bad, Y/N, and I got written up after that awful day I had this morning… I just.. I don’t know. I do know I feel better now, and would feel even better if we cuddled for a bit and then went out for food?” he suggested, spilling his thoughts to you. You giggled, nodding your head as you reached up to press a kiss to him. You dragged him into your shared bedroom, the two of you cuddling up together under the blankets. You turned to your side, your eyes locked with his.

“I love you, Mike, so much. And I’m so, so unbelievably proud of you. Thank you, for always making me feel good too, for taking care of me, for being such a good brother to Abby, just… thank you,” you said softly. Mike looked back at you lovingly, his appreciation for you apparent.

“I love you, princess, you don’t even know how much,” he mumbled. His eyes were heavy. He leaned over and set an alarm for an hour from now, the two of you planning on a night of dinner out and grocery shopping. He curled his arm around you lazily, your body limp and exhausted against his as you yawned.

“Oh, and baby?” he asked. You hummed, lifting your head to meet his eyes. “Wear a crop top when we go out, I want everyone to see you all marked up.” You giggled as you laid your head down, drifting off to sleep.

When you two went out, you did just that, wearing a cropped scoop neck shirt with a low-rise flowy skirt. He showed off any marks you’d left, too, your possessive boyfriend holding you close anytime someone’s eyes linger too long. Mike was strange, possessive, and sometimes a little of what most would say was unsettling, but to you, he was the love of your life, the man who made you feel good, the one who fucked you until you couldn’t think. You loved him, and you always would, blessing you with a lifelong supply of angry sex and aftercare cuddles.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。RIGOR — AL-HAITHAM.

contents. mild injuries (al-haitham), established relationship, fluff, really bad banter, al-haitham is left handed because i say so

notes. literally just 2k embarrassing words of you taking care of al-haitham after he’s injured from a trip to the desert. yeah.

“that stings,” al-haitham hisses, glaring at you—which earns him an equally as harsh glare back. “why don’t you just pour the entire bottle of antiseptic down my arm at this rate?

“don’t yell at me,” you hiss back, scowling as you dab at the (already clean) wound some more, “i’m not the one who came back with this. why didn’t you get it checked?”

to your utter dismay, al-haitham comes home from a visit to the desert injured. gravely.

well, truth be told, it’s not really grave. that’s just how you see it because anything beyond a scratch is enough to throw you into a fit of panic. he’s not really used to coming home to someone fretting over him like this—standing between his legs as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, dabbing ever so gently at the small (and hardly deep, he’d like to point out) cut on his arm.

running into eremites is an inevitable part of most visits to desert ruins. usually, al-haitham manages to come back unscathed, but sometimes, things don’t always go accordingly. in his defense, he’d thought he’d be able to dodge the blade of the eremite he happened to be fighting. al-haitham has the precision and athletic ability to not only manage, but excel at dodging things that are thrown at him. but still, even he has his moments of miscalculation, and just by a hair, he feels the sting of a blade’s edge tearing through the surface of his skin.

it’s unfortunate, but it’s not a big deal—at least, that’s what he thought. apparently, but not unusually, you have a tendency to disagree with him on most things.

“i was going to check it myself,” he says simply, “it would’ve been fine.”

“oh, i didn’t realize you graduated in linguistics and biology,” you raise a brow.

al-haitham is a well rounded man—he reads books from just about any subject so long as it’s informative and offers him new knowledge that can assist him in being well versed in any topic. more importantly, al-haitham rarely loses arguments, and in order to be able to always win said arguments, his understanding of most subjects is required to be thorough.

he knows how to treat a small wound or two, especially with as often as he lands himself in small fights as he explores ruins.

he looks up at you with an unimpressed stare as he mumbles, “i’ve taken at least a few classes from every darshan.”

“i hate you,” you huff. he exhales tiredly.

“it’s only a cut,” he argues, “there’s no need to be so worried—”

“i’m always worried,” you sigh, staring dejectedly at the injury littering his arm. no one should ever leave a mark over his skin—unless it’s you, and that’s only in a very different context. “does it hurt?” you ask quietly.

a small part of him feels guilty that he’s worried you over his well being, that he’s come home harmed even the slightest bit and disrupted your peace. but the larger and more rational part of him reasons that injuries of this nature are common and inevitable in trips to the desert like this, and he’s skilled enough to ensure that nothing serious ever happens.

still, for your sake, he mumbles, “no.”

it’s a bit of a white lie—it does sting a bit, and the antiseptic you pressed just a few moments ago didn’t exactly help, but admitting to you that he’s in any sort of pain is only opening up more avenues to making this into a larger deal than it really is.

al-haitham is fine, and he’s doesn’t need anything for the slightly inconvenient but not serious laceration on his skin. he’s sure of that.

but then, you cup his cheeks and press a small kiss to his forehead as you murmur, “my poor baby,” with a small pout, “i’ll feed you dinner, okay? they got your left arm.”

he wants to tell you that his motor skills are good enough that he can function with his non dominant hand—being left handed in a world catered for right handed individuals forces you to acquire functionality in both hands. but before he can open his mouth, you kiss down his cheeks, tracing your lips along him until they map out his jaw.

it distracts him for a moment, making hie eyes close and his breath hitch as he lets your warmth settle into the deepest crevices of his skin.

“don’t worry, haitham, i’ll take care of you until this heals,” you murmur sweetly.

and just like that, al-haitham is a bit conflicted now. in his two plus decades of life, he has always been an independent and capable individual—more than most his age. he doesn’t need the assistance of anyone, nor has he ever really needed the assistance of anyone. but you’re making it very hard to resist with the way you’re doting on him with affection.

“i’m fine,” he tries to argue, “really—”

“i should run you a bath,” you mumble, cutting him off. he gets the strong feeling you’re taking more to yourself than him. “and i’ll wash your hair for you too.”

even with the self control someone like him has, even he can’t help but sigh in content when your fingers slip into his hair, stroking through the strands and scratching gently at his scalp. it’s a bit nice—he has to admit that being taken care of, even as minimally as fingers in his hair, is nice.

“you don’t have to do all that,” he mutters.

“i don’t want you moving that arm,” you huff, “would it kill you to stop acting high and mighty for once? most people would take advantage of being spoiled.”

“i don’t enjoy taking advantage of others like most people,” he shrugs.

“you know what i mean,” you glower, rolling your eyes.

it’s a common understanding to most that al-haitham is a bit difficult—you don’t think you ever remember a time where he hasn’t been. he’s stubborn and always believes his views to be correct, and he’s not ashamed of arguing his point no matter who it is. you’re surprised that mouth of his hasn’t landed him in trouble yet—although, you suppose he’s not exactly in the good graces of most at the akademiya.

and as the akademiya’s acting grand sage, you admire his unwillingness to back down. but, as your boyfriend and the man you love, you wish he’d just compromise sometimes—and maybe let you wash his hair and hand feed him dinner for a bit as you nurse his injury back to health.

just this once….and maybe just a few more times later on too. you don’t ask for much, you like to think.

“i’ve gotten injuries like this before,” he reasons, “i’ve survived.”

you look at him with that delicate look of yours, the one that makes him feel like maybe he’s been living his life wrong this whole time. that it only became correct once his life involved you.

he thinks that’s might just be the case when you grin slightly, pinching his nose as you lean down, pecking his forehead and mumbling, “you don’t always have to just survive. you can indulge a bit, you know.”

“is that so?” he raises a brow, his good arm snaking around your hips.

“yes,” you hum, “if you give it a try, you might just enjoy indulging here and there,” you grin, stroking a thumb over his cheek as you admire his features, relearning every curve and every angle of his face. you don’t think you’d ever get bored like this—just standing in your bathroom, staring at him. you think you could comfortably stay right here like this forever.

maybe longer.

“i see,” he says slowly. al-haitham has always had a strong sense of control. but that was before you—he’s now forced to admit that his resolve is a bit weaker, just a bit shakier after you’ve come along. “does this begin with washing my hair?”

“and feeding you dinner,” you nod, tracing your thumb over his brow, letting it wander along the hook of his nose. “do you want me to kiss your arm better too?”

“is that really going to help?” he asks in amusement, making you giggle.

“oh yes,” you tease, “it was in a class i took from amurta. you probably didn’t take it—it’s far too rigorous for you.”

“oh,” he nods playfully, “of course. you’ll have to excuse my lack of understanding. not everyone can be as advanced as you.”

“here,” you grin—and it’s wide, and it’s warm, and it’s far too bright to ever be dimmed by the light of your bathroom as you stare at him, “i can demonstrate if you want. hands-on learning is always the best.”

“i must ask—have you ever learned hands-on like this with anyone else?” he raises a brow.

“and if i have? would that make you jealous?”

“perhaps a little,” he admits, fighting desperately to keep his own smile hidden. it’s hard not to smile when you’re around—how could he not when you swallow the sun with your lips every time they curve upwards in that honeyed way that they do?

“don’t worry,” you giggle again—and god, he thinks, he really loves that sound. he watches you lean down and kiss softly along the edges of his wound, tracing the cut slowly as you say, “you’re my only academic partner now.”

“i’m most grateful.”

“well?” you peck his shoulder, “a kiss helps, doesn’t it?”

“it does,” he chuckles quietly, “maybe you can show me a bit more.”

he’s given into you completely by now—you can tell by the way his body is relaxed on the edge of the bathtub. you can tell by that easy grin plastered on his usually blank face. you can tell by the way he leans into your touch every chance he gets. you can tell by the way he asks you to kiss his wound some more—the same wound he didn’t think you needed to care about.

but you always care, and he’s starting to understand you always will. so he stares at you hopefully, expecting just a few more presses of your lips.

so you do, kissing along his arm, peppering scattered pecks along his shoulder, pressing your lips gently along the column of his neck as he sighs softly and closes his eyes.

maybe being taken care of isn’t so bad—maybe he’s been missing out all this time….but then again, he thinks it’s just that he’s always been missing you. like he was born to find you. like he was made to be yours and you were made to be his and you both were made for each other if nothing else.

if nothing else, al-haitham is glad to be yours.

“does it still hurt?” you ask after some time.

“just a little,” he lets himself admit, “it’s nothing i’ve never dealt with before.”

“you really worried me you know,” you breathe quietly, making him squeeze your hips in reassurance, “don’t hide next time you’re hurt.”

“and will you kiss me back to health if i tell you?” he hums, leaning his head back to let you kiss his jaw easier.

you smile against his skin, letting your touch linger for a moment before you mumble, “of course, it’s only the best treatment. only those who take rigorous classes would know that.”

“good thing i have you to teach me.”

“yes, you’re really quite lucky,” you say with a cheeky smile.

there’s a warm bath waiting for him after this. and a hand fed meal. and perhaps a few more gentle kisses. but most certainly a lifetime of you—that much he knows.

i feel like i’m borderline violating myself by posting this bc it’s so self indulgent but here u go

[tanoraqui]

In Which Space Orcs are Men

[AO3] A "what if humans are space orcs" take on Dagor Dagorath. (Aka the prophecied apocalypse of Middle Earth. Scifi story accessible to non-LotR nerds!)

Elves weren't really supposed to leave Earth. That's what they told us—the Elves, that is, told people thousands of years ago, when Elves could still be found here and there. When I was born, elves were nearly as much a fairy tale as they’d been on Ancient Earth.

Elves weren't supposed to leave Earth, the Elves said in the fairy tales, and in a few old scraps of records scattered around known space. They literally weren't made for it. They could only do it if they brought Earth with them—Arda they called it, leaves or dirt, water or a rare bubble of air, perfectly preserved in a white crystal. There are tons of tales about Elves losing their lifeline jewels—their hearts, their silimirs—and roping people into epic quests to get them back before they—the Elf—faded to nothingness. 

Even the jewels weren't enough, though. That's why there are also stories about Elves who fell in love with a person or a place and stayed there until they faded, or Elves who charmed someone into following them back to Fairyland on Earth...because whatever they said, Elves didn't really live on Earth. Humans have maintained their home planet as a monitored nature reserve since like the 40th century, open only to vetted research teams and serious Human religious pilgrimages. The most confirmed accounts of Elves that exist are of their ships appearing out of nowhere, with no trace of any tech that would enable it, at random, always-changing points within 100 miles or so of Earth.

Nobody ever came back from trying to follow Elves home. Mostly Elves tried to dissuade people from trying. But there are always crazy and curious people—and Elves usually attracted those, because any Elf who left the home they were "made" for was usually crazy and curious themselves. 

Those were the stories I grew up with. There was a cave near the orphans' creche which was supposed to be haunted by a faded Elf. I didn't really believe it—like I said, the last confirmed Elf was last seen like 5,000 years ago, and not even on my planet. People have met two dozen new sentient races since then. We've discovered that reincarnation is probably real (just functionally untrackable), prompting the Pan-Religious Reform Wars. The last person to see a live Elf was still traveling via natural wormholes—they literally didn't know that you could loop pi.

.

When the Human natal sun started to turn really red, it wasn’t that big a deal at first. It’s a very important, very sad event for any species, but it happens to everyone eventually. It happened to the Hectort just after we invented interstellar flight. There were some unusual gravatic waves around Earth’s Sol, but nothing worth noting to anyone who didn’t already care for personal reasons.

Then the Elves sent us a message.

The local Parks Service picked it up, of course. I bet the Humans meant to hush it up at first—though the Centaurian government still won’t admit anything—but someone leaked it immediately on the intergalactic net. It should’ve only been famous as a joke of a hoax, but…

It was basically just a metal box with rudimentary fire-thrusters soldered on the sides. It contained two things. The first was a recording/replaying device so antiquated that the only way they got it working is that it was already playing on loop, and didn’t stop until someone disconnected it from its power source.

The message was in Ancient Bouban, which some folklorist soon announced is the latest language an Elf could know, since the last known Elf went back to “Arda.” The voice somehow sounded melodic to every species with a concept of music, from the screeching Vesarians to the deep-sea sub-sonic Thinkers, even when translated through cheap, staticky speakers. And to most species, the speaker was audibly distraught.

They said,

This is the final message from the Firstborn of Eru to the Secondborn, and everyone else. The Battle of Battles has come, and we…are losing. If there are any who remember the ancient love and loyalty which bound our peoples, if there are any heirs remaining of Thargalax the Magnificent, of Nine-Fingered Frodo, of the noble Houses of Haleth, Hador and Beor—

The speaker drew a sharp breath, there.

—by great oaths and greater friendship I bid you now to raise your swords and ride to our aid. Ride as swiftly as you can!

We will hold for another year. We will, they said determinedly. After that, it is unlikely that…

Another, shakier breath. A smile forced into a voice which would rather weep.

Fëanáro and Nienna believe there is a way to destroy the Straight Road. If we must, if it comes to it, we will do so, and trap the First Enemy here in this dying world with us. Though I don’t know about—

Hair-aristocrat! a more distant, slightly less perfectly melodious voice called, in a language so dead that they needed computers to decode it. The walls are falling, we need to go!

If you never hear from us again, and no sudden discord arises among you, you will know we succeeded, the first speaker said quickly. If otherwise…I am sorry. Either way, I bid you all only, remember us! Oh beautiful flames, remember us, as we have ever remembered y— 

There was a sudden screech of tearing metal, a defiant, musical battle-cry, and a jarring silence. Then the message restarted.

And that wasn’t even the strangest thing in the box. The strangest thing was the recorder’s power source, which was powering the whole tiny rocket mechanism as well. It was an Elf-jewel right out of a fairy tale, a fist-sized, translucent not-quite-diamond—but instead of rock or water or a much-loved scrap of plant, the only thing it held was light.

...Kind of. It isn’t normal light. It arguably isn’t light at all, as we know it—scientists now think it’s technically some sort of plasmoid aether, except it only acts like a plasmoid aether about half the time. 

It has no detectable source within the jewel. It fully illuminates whatever space it’s in, no matter how big. Its visible radiation is a frequency, the scientists say, that matches a hyper-accelerated version of what the universe must’ve sounded like in the split second after the Big Bang.

It makes people remember things, when they see it in person or sometimes even across a holo. Some remember a similar light in a strange traveler’s eyes. Others, dreamily enchanted valleys where spring never faded, or tall castles, bright swords, and stern and glorious lords and ladies. And some of us got hit with a whole lifetime of memories in one go: an identical gem on the brow of a sober forest king, friends who slipped through trees like shadows save for their merry laughter, an impossibly beautiful gold-haired maiden dancing in a glittering cavern...

(And all the pain and loss that came with them.)

And some people just remember the sight of a distant star—in another world, in another lifetime.

Reincarnation was provable but untraceable…until now. 

The Thinker ambassador on Astrolax Station 5 was the first to kick up a fuss. Most Thinkers never leave their home planet, they're too huge and aquatic. But like I said, there's always crazy and curious people. The ambassador started bellowing the second che heard the message, without even seeing the light, because, "I know him! My Wisdom! We must send aid!" That made some news, and random other people shared their own, less dramatic revelations, and soon a compilation swept the net with timestamps showing that most of them were organically independent, not just jumping on the bandwagon….

Even that might've gotten written off intergalactically. The Thinkers are big in reincarnationist circles, on account of how they claim that deep in their planetary ocean they can hear echoes of their past lives. But being mostly planet-bound means they're not really influential on a big political level. Or it would've sparked another surge of the Reform Wars, and everybody would've remembered the rock, but not the recording. Or there would’ve been a fight over this potentially infinite energy source (though that is so last giga-annum)….

But first it was shown in person to the current Director of the Admiralty of the Astral Alliance, President of the X-ee Empire and Matron of the House of S,sh, Ch’ees/i’i S,sh. I was actually there—I was Captain of her ceremonial Alliance guards, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage my career after Zanzibus. Very ceremonial, considering the X-eee have laser-proof shells and pincers and I have, what, opposable thumbs? Vestigial tusks?

I wasn’t paying attention at first, too busy being suddenly assaulted by all my own memories. So I missed the President freezing mid-step and gasping (in X-eee), “Mother.” I also missed her rising alarm call of an attempt to speak Ancient Elvish without an Elvish tongue or lips.

I sure didn’t miss her snap back to X-eee for a sharp call to attention, and everything that followed: the call to arms! The rousing of the Alliance! A tour of the galaxy, to find anyone and everyone else in whom the Light could awaken ancient memories! And for the love of X'eeh, why had nobody figured out how to get back to Fairyland with this thing yet, and every warship in the quadrant?!

If I believed in the One Behind, or in any other creator god or gods—I'm not saying I do, but if I did, if there really is something out there all-powerful and all-kind—then it'd be because out of every soul in the entire universe, the probably one in the best position to act on the Elves' message turned out to have, from a past life, two parents and a much-loved twin still in Fairyland. Like, that's insane, right?

I stayed with the Director's ceremonial guards for the whole tour, actually more than ceremonial for once—it was the weirdest mission of my life, and I've been on a lot of weird missions. Or supposedly routine missions that got weird (and usually disastrous). My friends joke that I'm cursed. S,sh requisitioned an Inquiry-class ship, so the science boffins could study the Light and jewel along the way, and we started wormholing at weft speed, hitting a new planet every week. Sometimes every day. In each major spaceport and ground-city, S,sh stood with the jewel on the highest available point and gave a recruitment speech for going to save the Elves and fight the oldest enemy of all reality. 

Honestly, it seemed a little redundant? The Astral Alliance was made for this sort of rescue mission (and for escorting trade convoys). But I was...if not happy, then sure as hell more self-certain with my ancient memories restored, and most people who joined up seemed to agree. It was mostly people who remembered, when exposed to the Light, who joined—so before long, we had a whole tag-along trail of mostly civilian ships, trying to get up to Alliance Fleet standard on the road in less than a year.

Three different religious sects tried to kill S,sh for "profaning the mysteries." Five others tried to steal the jewel because we were apparently appropriating a holy object. The boffins announced that, bar the can't-prove-a-negative possibility, the evidently sourceless Light should be counted as an infinite energy source, and at least seven different groups, ruthless financiers and sustainability idealists, immediately tried to steal it for that. And I still don't know what the rival thief-queens of Likkiliani were about, except that I got tied up upside-down from a palmdar tree for two hours trying to stop one, the other paid me 700 cron then threw me off a cliff, and in the end they recognized each other from past lives and just made out on worldwide live-holo before joining our growing fleet. 

It turned out they were the Director's past life's great-grandparents, and a Canid pop princess was her niece. The Thinker ambassador was some sort of ancestor, too. Crazy extended family. 

Most people who remember just remember the sight of a star in the sky. A buddy of mine from Fleet Academy remembered looking up at it as a Human sailor. The historians—and you’d better bet we picked up some Earther historians on this mission as well!—say this jewel or one like it was probably astrologically conflated with the planet Venus by early Humans.

(The more time I spent around the jewel, the Silmaril, the more I remembered, of my first life and more. Lifetime after lifetime with bad luck dogging my steps, killing loved ones in my arms, destroying cities I was supposed to save… One restless, haunted night, I met a Rigilic in the cafeteria who’d been awake with some of the same nightmares, who’d been my dead older sister once.)

The tour was cut short when word came from the Earth system that there was a black hole growing in the center of their reddening sun. 

No, the sun wasn’t compressing into a black hole millennia ahead of schedule—one had just spontaneously manifested within it, like it’d teleported in. No, not literally—that was impossible. We were pretty sure. No, the sun wasn’t falling into it…somehow. Yet. The black hole was only 17 quectometers wide, but it was growing at an erratic but unceasing rate. If their best estimation of the pattern held, it would consume the sun 2 months before the Elves’ deadline, and the Earth 4 to 950 minutes later.

We pulled back to Earth—well, to the dwarf planet Eros, on the edges of Earth’s star system. That’s where the nearest shipyard of any note was, and we were gathering the whole Astral Alliance. This is exactly the sort of thing the Alliance is for. 

I was released back to ship duty. Zanzibus was still a black mark on my record, as was Jorab, and really everything on the AAS Endeavor…and that thing in third year of Fleet Academy… But no matter how bad my curse, I was an experienced captain and one of the best pilots in the Alliance. For this, we needed all the best.

The boffins had pretty quickly mastered limited manipulation of the Light, using modified aetheric resonators, and every day they came up with something new for us to test. They focused the Light into a laser cannon like no one has seen before. They laced it through plasma shields until a fully shielded ship glowed like a distant star. They managed to nearly replicate the Silmaril’s crystalline structure, so they could make “copies” that shone like the original for first a few hours; then, with refinement, a full week…

The one thing they couldn’t pin down with any real confidence was how to get to Fairyland. The frequency of the Light resonated with large bodies of Earther saltwater in a particular way, and models suggested that if the Light source moved horizontally along the water within a certain range of distance and velocity, the resonance would create a wormhole-like ripple in space—but wormhole-like, was the key word, and models suggested. The closest anyone had seen to that spatial distortion was in a logbook of dubious veracity from the Delta Quadrant, four hundred years ago. Alteia, my Academy buddy who’d been a Human sailor, took the Silmaril in an M-wing on a series of highly monitored test flights above the Atlantic Ocean, and space did repeatedly start to hollow in front of bom—so bo had to stop every time, rather than risk vanishing with our single, maybe-one-way ticket.

Then Earth’s moon stopped shining in the sky. Its albedo just dropped nearly to zero, from one night to the next. There was nothing wrong that anyone could figure out—nothing with the orbit, nothing with the surface rock, nothing with the artificial atmosphere. Inhabitants reported feeling colder by several degrees, but no measuring equipment recorded anything.

The black hole slightly off-center in the middle of Sol was now 844.9 zeptometers, and growing more steadily.

We didn’t have time to keep testing. We needed to raise our swords and make our ride, even if we only got one shot at it.

I was given command, for seniority, skill, and because I was the one who managed to talk S,sh out of leading the fleet herself. (If my lives had taught me anything, it was the importance of having someone, anyone, ready to be emergency backup.) Ironically, I was back on the Endeavor, with most of my old crew—though we got permission to rename the ship, in honor of the mission. A lot of people did. Alteia was now commanding the AAS Elendil on my right flank, star-friend in Ancient Elvish. That Canid pop princess had taken over a hospital ship and renamed it Rivendell. An Earth Park Ranger, of all things, remembered being my dad—briefly—and he was leading the Rangers plus my Rigilic drinking buddy on the EPSS Elfsheen. 

We weren’t sure if any ship but the one with the Silmaril would get through. The fleet numbered in the hundreds in battleships alone, not counting scouts and scuttlers. Twelve races had sent ships on top of their typical Alliance Fleet tithe, and S,sh had brought about half the full force of the X-ee Empire. We all just locked tractor beams and hoped. 

I was piloting as well as captaining, with the Silmaril between my forehorns. It was held in place by about a dozen wires and other connectors to the ship, like an old-timey pilot’s headset. We took off in orbit around Earth, as close as possible to the surface—not very close, in warships of Class S and higher, but within range of the oceanic resonance. A Likkilianian thief-queen stood at my shoulder, ready to advise if anything “Musical” started to happen.

Think about what you’re trying to get to, and why, the boffins had advised, so I did—bright-eyed kings and dancing maidens; lost friends, families, cities, planets and all. The jewel got warmer against my skin and shone brighter with every pulse of the engine, brighter than we should’ve been able to see through.

The silver-gold Light twisted and diffused as space did around us. But there was no familiar rippling wormhole boundary—instead, spacetime thinned to a curtain like driving rain, like Vesarian silver-glass.

A ghost appeared next to me. She looked like the oldest, grumpiest writing teacher at the crèche, though I knew that was only in my head.

“There you are,” she said, impatient and relieved like I’d been hiding in the sandbox again, rather than coming to class on time. Her sewing scissors went snip snip snip as she darted them around my body—and a chain on my soul faded into guiding threads.

Before she’d even disappeared again, I punched the engine and blasted through the silver-glass curtain.

Fairy tales said there’d be a peerlessly beautiful land on the other side, green with eternal spring, full of endless light and laughter. They said there’d be sunlit shores and shimmering waves, with welcoming docks for sea-ships, sky-ships and space-ships all…

We flew into the worst battlefield I’d ever seen, in any lifetime. It was more desperately vicious than Jerusalem V at the height of the Reform Wars, more ruined than Glaurung’s wake, more desolate than Zanzibus after the nuclears fell.

Either a massive supercontinent or a small moon had been shattered, leaving nothing but a roiling debris field. The brand-new meteoroids ranged from pebbles to rocks the size of a small space station, and included space-frozen corpses, forests, and what might have once been city blocks.

I gave the helm back to my Pilot Officer—zer had, I can admit, slightly better reflexes for dodging debris—and focused on captaining.

Most of the life signs were clinging to the larger rocks. There shouldn’t have been atmosphere for them, but walls of thunderstorm wrapped around every shard with even a single life sign—wind and water desperately hand in hand to safeguard the last of the Elves. The only thing visible through the impossible storms was the Light of a second Silmaril, on a meteoroid shaped like half a broken eggshell.

A corpse lay at the epicenter of the explosion—what might’ve been a corpse, if it wasn’t also shattered. The broken pieces of a massive stone humanoid, taller than my ship if it’d stood beside her, still bleeding lava so hot that it burned even in frozen space. Another titan knelt at the shards of its head, a figure of towering bark and leaves, wailing with grief even worse than the end of the world. 

A slimmer tree-woman stood with one hand on her shoulder, comforting, and the other wielding a skyscraper-sized club spiked with incandescent wildflowers. Guarding her sister’s heartbreak, she fended off a swarm of bat-sized monsters with wings of darkness and whips of flame. 

Bat-sized relative to the gods of Elves and ancient Humans. About the size of an M-wing, in flight.

Countless more of the bat-things flung themselves at the storm-bubbles, like carnivores chasing the prey hidden inside. They were fended off by an equal army of creatures with wings of light and swords of lightning, led by a towering figure who seemed to dance from one bloody battle to the next.

The biggest battle by far was the farthest away, over where the sun had been. In this dimension of stories over science, Sol was another woman-shape, smaller than the others but burning just as brightly as her star. Also just as blood-red. The light was centered on a fist she kept clenched at her chest, and instead of containing the black hole, the unseeable thing that it was here surrounded her, striking at her with a thousand hungry jaws and grasping legs, and she had only a one-handed whip of a solar flare to fend it off—

But she didn’t fight alone. A warrior tore at the Darkness’s spidery limbs with his fists, image on the cameras flickering impossibly between every hero I’d ever heard of. A snarling figure bit at it with jagged teeth, gored it with horns, shredded it with claws and talons, and generally made every ancient prey-instinct in me scream. And a queen with a crown of stars, a shield like the night sky and a sword like a streaking comet, stood dauntlessly at the sun-holder’s side. 

With all that, and with the speed of even her most exhausted strikes, I thought the sun-holder could probably have gotten away if she’d tried. But I knew how a person fought when they weren’t willing to leave a friend, and a smaller, silver figure lay at her feet, unmoving and drained of light.

But even the battle for the sun wasn’t what grabbed my eye. No—all my attention, all my guiding threads of fate and the quick temper that always used to get me in trouble, before (and sometimes after) I learned to leash it in an Alliance uniform— All of that took me straight to the fight happening orthogonal to the stone giant’s corpse.

It was another one-versus-many. Morgoth, the First Enemy of Elves and Men— Master of Lies, Maker of Chains, Sonofabitch Curser of Bloodlines—towered over even his fellow gods. His shape changed constantly, sickeningly, but it was always black-armored with eyes like dying stars that hated you personally. His maul dripped with lava and every other kind of blood.

He fought against three great gray figures who moved as one. The tallest wielded a star-studded scythe with swift, efficient strokes, and wore the dark gray of corpse-shrouds. The shortest shimmered with more colors than even a Stamotapadon could dream of, and his weapon shifted likewise. The third was the clear, clean gray of skies after rain or tears run dry, and fought with only a shield—and hit harder with it than either of her brothers.

Around their heads darted the only Elves on the battlefield, in small fliers more like sea-ships than aircraft. But they moved fluidly, pestering the Dark Lord like flies, pricking his skin and threatening his burning eyes.

Until Morgoth swung his maul with a roar of fury that traveled even though soundless space. My ship and heart both shuddered. The gray gods all staggered back, and the Elves fell from the no-longer-sky—all but their leader, more fire than flesh, who wore the third Silmaril. Morgoth caught him in one massive black hand and with sharp claws plucked the jewel away, as easily as a ripe berry from a tree—

“All power to fore-cannon and fire,” I ordered—and the jewel on my brow shone bright again as several stored months’ worth of infinite Silmaril-Light slammed into Morgoth’s chest with all the force that the best scientists in the Astral Alliance could engineer. 

He stumbled. He dropped both the jewel and the elf-king (who’d been trying to bite him). The Lady of Mercy tossed her shield to catch them, staying low and out of sight—though she needn’t have bothered. The so-called “Lord of All” had already found his next enemy.

“All ships, move forward and join shields,” I ordered, and met his burning stare though the viewscreen. “Then broadcast me on all external frequencies.”

The wires on my forehead shimmered as we shifted Light-flow to the shields—and to my right, so did the Elendil, and to my left, the Cosmian Blade, and all around us the Minas Tirith, the Elfsheen, the Muse, the Rivendell, the Heart of Zanzi, the Longbottom Leaf… They were still soaring out of the silvery distortion behind me, tractor- and Silmaril-towed: sleek Rigilic eels-of-prey and Centaurian cruisers full of Humans eager to fight for their homeworld, Betan mine-ships and Canid X-M-wings and my own Hectoan starlighters, a full third of the X-ee navy with their X-eee–shaped six-engine dreadnoughts, and hundreds more. 

“This is Captain Pel Cinia, once Túrin Turambar, of the Astral Alliance ship Gurthang,” I said. My words were broadcast from every ship on every frequency in every language that the people of Arda might know, as the Fleet assembled from forty-plus different worlds flew into position. Our Light-infused shields blazed and locked together, until we formed a seamless wall right in the Enemy’s face, with the Elves and their other allies safely behind us.

I’ve never felt more proud to recite the most cliché line in the Fleet:

“We got your distress call. We’re here to help.”

[callsignfate]

Valeria Garza HC's

(These are random hc's in no particular order, I would say mainly relationship hc's. Enjoy)

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

♤She is and will use anything against you. Shorter than her? She's going to 100% use that against you. Scared of spiders or the dark? She will make fun of you for it. It will be in a slightly mean way, but its kinda her love language.

♤You can't tell me this woman isn't SMOOTH. She will say the most beautiful and flirtatious thing in Spanish.. even if you don't know Spanish.

♤If you don't know Spanish? She will speak to you in Spanish in hopes you'll slowly learn it. Not that it helps or teaches you. She will make fun of you for it.

♤She's very transparent when you guys first get together that you'll now be a target and that you are now basically her willing prisoner. She will take you out and do things with you, but only with her. She doesn't trust her men to keep you safe properly. 100% believes that if you need to get something done right, she has to do it herself.

♤This woman is in control. Take that as you will, but she is. She doesn't change that fact for anyone. Control makes her comfortable. You ask her to let you take the reigns? She will laugh at you and shut that down immediately. This woman gives off "fuck around, find out" and boy will you find out.

♤Valeria's bed is the bland. Two pillows and a bland blanket. This woman prioritizes function over everything else. Her room is bland too. Barely any furniture and MAYBE a TV (that is covered in dust because she never uses it.)

♤She. Is. Possessive. She doesn't have to leave hickeys or anything on your skin. She doesn't have to. Her men know who you are and that you are hers. Do not try to leave hickeys on her skin. She will not be happy. She 100% feels like they are something horny teenagers do.

♤Valeria's way of showing love is picking on you endlessly. If she sees you actually struggling, she's not stupid and will tone it down or stop. She can be loving and soft if needed, although you tell anyone, and she will deny it.

♤She obviously has an attitude. A big attitude. She wins most arguments 100%. She might compromise by letting whatever you argue about happen if she thinks on it and realizes she was in the wrong. Do not expect her to admit she was wrong. She will take that shit to the grave.

♤ Hate someone? Don't tell her about it. She would kill for you. Once she loves you, she will move heaven and earth for you. Devoted. This woman would be DEVOTED to you.

♤She knows your insecurities and won't make fun of them, but she will tell you in her own way that she likes them. Now, if you're ever insecure about your relationship or worried that one of her men likes her? She would 100% degrade that person and tell you how much she genuinely doesn't like them or hates them.

♤She knows what she does to you. She loves to know you're obsessed with her in every way. She will 100% figure out every little thing about you and what you like about her and use it against you in any way possible.

♤I feel like she struggles to say that she loves you. You say it? She will 100% say "and I, you" or something to get around saying the exact words. I feel like she may say it in Spanish.

♤Nicknames? All of them are somehow mean in a loving way. All of them are in Spanish as well. If they make you melt, she will only call you by them. (Will call you idiot in Spanish as a nickname)

♤She can cook, and she likes to on days that weren't particularly long or busy (which is rare). If you know how to cook, and you cook for her, she will eat it. She will tell you things that were wrong with it if she finds any.

♤Valeria is blunt. Straight to the point. She will tell you if you are doing something wrong, call you stupid, laugh at you, then she will call you a cute nickname and help.

♤Do you wanna dress up for something or some reason? Go right ahead. She won't. She will wear the same style and type of clothes. Pants and a shirt. I feel like she 100% feels more comfortable and confident in pants and a shirt. I think she almost prefers it because she needs to make sure she's ready for anything.

[another-lost-mc]

a/n: inspired by this ask and the others that have flooded my inbox since. rofl. I might tinker with these a bit more. a nsfw version might be coming later, maybe? we'll see.

➤ shadow-walking with mc | the demons + solomon

1.9k words | gn!reader | sfw | descriptions of canon-typical violence

Shadow-walking requires the demon and human to have a pact. MC is a rare human that shares this ability with all the demon brothers.

Solomon shares this ability with Barbatos and Asmodeus but rarely uses it.

It's normally used as an offensive or defensive ability as needed.

The demon brothers re-purpose it as a way of still "being" with MC and spending time with them even when they can't physically.

The demon and their human master share a telepathic bond that lets them communicate through thoughts and emotions. This allows them to "speak" to each other.

Only one demon can share MC's shadow which means there's usually a queue of demons waiting for their chance to sneak in next.

None of the demon brothers believe they need a formal system to decide who gets to spend time shadow-walking with MC because that's just embarrassing to admit. It ends up being a first-come first-serve free-for-all unless they negotiate some sort of agreement in advance (which usually involves threats or bribes).

Belphegor spends the most time in MC's shadow—his subconscious is constantly trying to gain access even when he's asleep.

Only powerful demons can sense when MC is shadow-walking with another demon if their shadow form hasn't manifested yet. This would catch arrogant lesser-demons completely by surprise if they think MC is a lonely, vulnerable target.

When the demon's shadow form "awakens," MC's shadow changes to the shape of whichever demon is shadow-walking with them at that time. This usually happens when the demon senses something is wrong or MC is troubled; it gives them more access to MC's surroundings so they can detect danger more easily.

Shadow-walking's final form is a corporeal version of the shadow come to life. It manifests as a dark, muted visage of whichever demon is present. They are generally not capable of regular speech and rarely make noise or sounds at all.

The shadow forms are capable of offensive and defensive magical abilities, and some may even fight with conjured weapons. They all have increased agility/reflexes and enhanced strength.

Shadow forms are able to communicate telepathically with Little Ds that share their sin attribute. Little Ds can also be controlled as offensive minions in MC's defense.

The demon brothers have limited control over their shadow forms. The shadows function on instinct fueled by emotion and their natural desire to protect their precious human master at all costs.

MC can use direct commands or pact magic spells to temporarily block the demon brothers from entering their shadow. This prevents any unwanted interruptions if MC is doing someone something private, or if MC simply wants to be alone.

LUCIFER

Lucifer sometimes shadow-walks with MC as an alternative to stringing up his brothers when he's frustrated.

He also shadow-walks with MC when he's working in his study or relaxing with a glass of Demonus by the fireplace. Their link allows MC to hear whatever cursed record he's listening to without succumbing to any of the negative side effects.

Shadow Form manifestation: appears in a gust of wind behind a flurry of black feathers. He hovers off the ground behind MC. Even though the shadow forms are dark and generally void of colour, his eyes and gloves are still noticeably red.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: In addition to enhanced physical combat abilities, he is capable of telekinetic control of objects. His shadow form's wings can also block MC like a shield and the feathers can slice through most materials including demon flesh.

MAMMON

Sometimes he claims he does it when he's bored or it's "his turn to babysit MC" but really, he does it because he misses them.

If MC goes to the club or casino without him, he's usually lurking in their shadow instead. MC's luck is amplified when Mammon is in their shadow, but he can't replicate that same good luck in-person which frustrates him to no end.

Shadow Form manifestation: He spawns in a pool at MC's feet and then sprints past whatever is bothering MC. The threat turns around and sees Mammon's shadow, crouched low and grinning with his fangs on display before he pounces.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: Capable of flight and is the most agile of all his brothers in this form. He normally uses hand-to-hand combat to overwhelm whoever or whatever is threatening MC. He can summon a protective barrier around MC that reflects spells/physical blows back at the attacker.

LEVIATHAN

He gets very jealous of the others when he has to wait to shadow-walk with MC.

Sometimes he'll keep gaming when he shadow-walks, but most of the time he goes to his bathtub so he can focus all of his attention on MC instead. He's more confident communicating with MC this way. He's less awkward and more outgoing, especially when he can sense how happy MC is too.

Shadow Form manifestation: His shadow ripples like inky black water before he emerges. His silhouette almost looks like a naga until he steps forward and his tail uncoils itself from around his body.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: He uses shadow-infused water magic. He can summon a defensive water shield around MC to absorb any magical or physical blows. His tail is strong enough to wrap around and crush the body of most weaker demons. If the threats are too strong or if he's particularly angry, he can summon Lotan whose immense power is enhanced with shadow magic. (He's never had to do this because he knows it should be used as a last resort—the collateral damage would be catastrophic.)

SATAN

Shadow-walking is one of the easiest ways for him to calm down.

When they shadow-walk together, they talk about school or books or movies or their other shared interests—it's like walking for a casual stroll together, but with extra steps.

Shadow Form manifestation: He crawls out of the shadow, and his sharp claws leave visible marks on the ground. The wispy shape of his feathered boa and his tail curling around his body makes him look bestial and menacing.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: His teeth and nails are longer and sharper. He attacks brutally with uncontained fury and his opponents are often left in bloody, mangled messes by the time he's ensured MC's safety. His shadow form is capable of distorted growling noises when angry or purring noises when content.

ASMODEUS

His motivations for shadow-walking are to spend quality time with MC but he's also extremely protective of them. He gets worried when he can't be there with MC directly.

He likes to shadow-walk with MC when he's having a spa night or when he's out shopping. He sends MC visual images of things he's doing or clothes he's trying on so he can get their feedback. He will purposefully block out any images of things he buys for MC so he can surprise them with gifts later.

Shadow Form manifestation: The first thing you notice before his shadow appears is a soft, condescending chuckle. It's distorted and deeper, like an old audio recording. A pair of shadowy hands curl over MC's shoulders—or around their waist—as he slowly wraps his arms around them from behind. He pulls MC against his chest and hooks his chin over their shoulder, eyes flaring and mouth widening in deadly amusement while he assesses the threat.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: His wings are stronger and capable of flight easier in this form. He uses shadow-infused charm magic that tortures his enemies with pain and batters away at their mental defenses. Sometimes he prefers a personal touch and conjures a pair of poison-tipped daggers to eviscerate anything that dares to harm his MC.

BEELZEBUB

He feels bad that fights literally break out over access to MC's shadow so he tries not to be greedy for MC's sake. Belphie will usually give up some of his "shadow time" so Beel can have that time with MC too without feeling guilty about it.

He likes shadow-walking with MC when they're out shopping or doing other errands. He can boost MC's strength so that it's easier for them to carry things that might ordinarily be too heavy on their own.

Shadow Form manifestation: His shadow form is a blur that launches itself from the ground into the sky. His wings flutter rapidly against his back while he assesses the threat. When he goes in for the attack, he's like a comet plummeting to the ground.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: His wings are constantly buzzing and he can use shadow-infused wind magic to attack enemies or create protective barriers around MC. If he enters a rampage, he prefers to attack with his bare hands and teeth—his and Satan's shadow forms are the most gruesome to witness. (Satan doesn't usually eat his victims, though.)

BELPHEGOR

He would camp in MC's shadow forever if he could. Even when he's sleeping, his subconscious is still capable of communicating with MC but he uses raw emotion and abstract images rather than telepathic speech in that situation.

Shadow Form manifestation: His shadow grabs onto MC's clothes while he climbs up their body and pulls himself off the ground. He nuzzles into MC's neck or shoulder while he yawns and flicks his tail in annoyance.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: He can attack threats personally if he needs to, but usually he's too lazy. He drapes himself over MC's shoulder and wraps his tail around them protectively while he summons the Dark Specter of Despair and lets that do the work for him.

DIAVOLO

He's inspired by the bonds MC shares with the demon brothers but he's also regretful that he doesn't have a pact with them too.

He's able to expel the demon brother in MC's shadow with his own power, but usually they know better than to try and intrude on MC's visits with Diavolo out of respect.

BARBATOS

He can shadow-walk with Solomon but rarely chooses to do so. However, he shadow-walks with Solomon if he knows the sorcerer and MC are together. (Sometimes he and Asmo fight over Solomon's shadow if another demon brother is in MC's.)

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: he mostly ignores Solomon and lets the wizard take care of himself; he focuses on protecting MC instead. He can use time-altering shadow magic to freeze or slow enemies. He can also teleport MC directly to his physical body's location out of harm's way.

MEPHISTOPHELES

He doesn't have a pact with MC and he swears he will never have a pact with MC (and will never ever want one, ever). However, he still feels prickly when he senses MC is shadow-walking with one of the demon brothers. He doesn't insult MC as much, but he does insult Lucifer loudly and with even more colourful language than usual. Most of Lucifer's brothers think this is hilarious.

SOLOMON

Most of the corporeal shadow demons are surprisingly hostile towards Solomon for no apparent reason. He finds it odd that they always appear whenever he's trying to cook something for MC. The shadow forms that are more tolerable of him are Asmo, Barbatos, and to a lesser degree, Satan.

Solomon doesn't get many opportunities to shadow-walk with his pact demons so he finds it fascinating to watch, but none of them will tolerate his experiments. He's also jealous that he doesn't get to spend much time alone with MC because one of the demons is usually lurking within MC's shadow.

[runawaysiren940]

Here's the full script for the most recent video, minus where I ad libbed:

Dr. Moumita Debnath, a 31 year old doctor trainee, was found dead on August 9th, 2024. After taking a break half-way through a 36 hour shift, her corpse was found on a blood stained mattress. Her body bore the wounds of torture, from the wounds to her eyes, her pelvis, genitals, arms and legs. As noted in The Publica’s report, “The post-mortem report also noted that over 150 mg of semen was recovered from the doctor’s body, indicating that up to 30 men could have been involved in the violation of Debath’s body. The normal volume of semen produced by a male upon ejaculation typically varies from 1.5 to 5.0 mg, according to the online medical encyclopedia MedlinePlus” (Biase). Her family was told that she died via suicide, though her wounds made it obvious that this was not the case; however, this claim allowed the principal of the school to avoid filing a police report. The attempts to hide the crime did not succeed, and have resulted in protests across India and the medical industry, both in response to the lack of protections for medical staff, and because of the attempt to hide the crime. 

In the aftermath, searches for footage of Debnath’s gang rape have trended, as “According to Google Trends, queries such as “Moumita Debnath porn” and “Dr. Moumita Debnath video” have experienced surges across India, with “Moumita Debnath rap[e] video” experiencing a 110% increase in searches. As of the time of this writing, of all the queries associated with her name, “Moumita Debnath photo video” is the 5th most searched in India, while “Moumita Debath last video” is the 12th most searched overall” (Biase).

This isn’t the only horrific case of gang rape, torture, or extreme violence against women. In fact, back in 2023, Vidya Krishnan wrote an opinion piece published in the New York times on the topic titled, “In India’s Gang Rape Culture, All Women Are Victims”, where she writes: 

It is the specific horror of gang rape that weighs most heavily on Indian women that I know. You may have heard of the many gruesome cases of women being gang-raped, disemboweled and left for dead. When an incident rises to national attention, the kettle of outrage boils over, and women sometimes stage protests, but it passes quickly. All Indian women are victims, each one traumatized, angry, betrayed, exhausted. Many of us think about gang rape more than we care to admit.

In 2011 a woman was raped every 20 minutes in India, according to government data. The pace quickened to about every 16 minutes by 2021, when more than 31,000 rapes were reported, a 20 percent increase from the previous year. In 2021, 2,200 gang rapes were reported to authorities.

But those grotesque numbers tell only part of the story: 77 percent of Indian women who have experienced physical or sexual violence never tell anyone, according to one study. Prosecutions are rare.

Indian men may face persecution because they are Muslims, Dalits (untouchables) or ethnic minorities or for daring to challenge the corrupt powers that be. Indian women suffer because they are women. Soldiers need to believe that war won’t kill them, that only bad luck will; Indian women need to believe the same about rape, to trust that we will come back to the barracks safe each night, to be able to function at all. (Krishnan)

Just from recent memory, I can recall several other horrifying cases. 

In a rare case of justice, in May 2024, a pair of brothers were sentenced to death for the rape and murder of a 12 year old girl. To hide the crime, they then burned her alive in a coal furnace. (The Hindu Bureau)

In 2012, 22 year old Jyoti Singh was “beaten, gang-raped, and tortured in a private bus in which she was travelling with her male friend, Avnindra Pratap Pandey. There were six others in the bus, including the driver, all of whom raped the woman and beat her friend.” She later succumbed to her wombs, while her friend supposedly committed suicide. (Khan)

Many rape cases end with the woman dead. It is horrifying to me, from across the globe, to know that women live under constant threat of sexual assault, and while all assaults are horrific, the cases which break into the international news sphere from India are especially cruel and disturbing. It is the culmination of a deeply traditional and patriarchal society, wherein the devaluation of women is compounded with caste and religious issues, along with the rise of pornography. Porn is the instruction, and rape is the practice; though clearly, there was no need for instruction. 

Famous cases include:

The Suryanelli rape case, where in 1996, a sixteen year old was lured with a marriage promise, kidnapped, and was raped by 37 men during her forty day captivity. Although initially 35 of 39 accused were found guilty, in 2005, all 35 convicted were acquitted of charges. 

The Pararia mass rape, where in 1988, at least 14 women were gang raped by the police force, and had their homes looted after they protested against being removed to make way for a damn being built. “India Today reported Sinha's concluding statements were: "It cannot be ruled out that these ladies might speak falsehood to get a sum of Rs 1,000, which was a huge sum for them." (Bonner)

In many caste altercations, women are targeted because to rape a woman is not done just to her, but is meant to be an insult to the community and the community’s honor. In an environment where religious and social conflict occurs, women are especially vulnerable as targets of sexual violence. 

However, what the internet has provided is an avenue to share the debasement and horror of gang rape with other men. It prolongs the suffering and harm to the victim and her family; but also serves as a warning to other women, and as an enticement to other men. Come, they say. Look at what we did. See how we were despicable and got away with it? You can too. 

A 28 year old tourist and her husband were robbed, then man beaten, and the woman, raped by seven men in March of 2024. Since they have taken down the video detailing the event from their social media, I will not show that here, or go deeply into detail. However, in the reactions to the incident, one can note a pattern of behavior, not just from Indian men, but also women. 

The BBC reported: 

“The chief of India's National Commission for Women, Rekha Sharma, also sparked criticism after she responded to a post from a US journalist who wrote that while India was one of his favourite places, "the level of sexual aggression" he witnessed while living in the country was "unlike anywhere else I have ever been". He also gave a couple of examples of sexual assault faced by women he knew.

"Did you ever report the incident to police?" Ms Sharma wrote. "If not then you are totally an irresponsible person. Writing only on social media and defaming whole country is not good choice."” (Sebastian)

Victim blaming is constant, and serves as a deterrent from seeking help, reporting incidents, or enacting change. In the aftermath of the 2019 gang rape and murder of 27 year old Priyanka Reddy, Indian filmmaker Daniel Shravan ranted on social media that  “The government should encourage and legalize rape without violence,” and, “Girls above 18 should be educated on rapes and not deny the sexual desires of men.” He also went on to say that, “Rapists are not finding a way to get their bodily sexual desires [met],” which is compelling them to kill.” (“After a Woman in India was Raped and Murdered, Her Name Trended on Porn Sites”). Because assault and violence against women is so common in India, it makes sense that victim blaming, from both sexes remains so strong, as “according to Inside Southern, the reason for victim blaming is: “People may blame a victim in order to remove themselves from an unpleasant event and therefore confirm their own invulnerability to the risk. Others may perceive the victim as different from themselves if they label or accuse the victim. People console themselves by saying, “Because I’m not like her, and I don’t do that, this would never happen to me.”” (Ram).  In other words, it a pacifier, a way to manage the dread that comes with realizing the ubiquitousness and unpredictability of sexual assault. If there is something you can do to avoid being assaulted, then it must be her fault. And you must be safe, because you don’t make those choices. 

That men make up a large contingent of the judges and lawmakers that in turn pass the laws which allow rapists to walk free iillustrates the universal truth that Anna Maria Mozzoni, a popular Italian feminist theorist, wrote about in 1895, “You will find that the priest who damns you is a man; that the legislator who oppresses you is a man, that the husband who reduces you to an object is a man; that the libertine [anarchist] who harasses you is a man; that the capitalist who enriches himself with your ill- paid work and the speculator who calmly pockets the price of your body, are men.”

It’s easy to forget when the violence is not happening in front of you, when you can excuse it, or look away, or claim that there are forces at play that you don’t understand. It’s easy to say that the problem is with a people or a religion- 

But the truth is that woman hating is universal. A passing interest in anthropology will only show the manifestations of this hatred in creative ways throughout space and time.

Works Cited

“After a Woman in India was Raped and Murdered, Her Name Trended on Porn Sites.” Fight The New Drug, December 2019, https://fightthenewdrug.org/woman-in-india-raped-and-murdered-her-name-trended-on-porn/. Accessed 21 August 2024.

Biase, Natasha. “Name Of Female Doctor Who Was Gang Raped And Murdered In Indian Hospital Appears On Porn Sites As Men Seek Out Footage Of The Assault.” The Publica, 19 August 2024, https://www.thepublica.com/female-doctor-who-was-gang-raped-and-murdered-in-indian-hospital-appears-on-porn-sites-as-indian-men-search-for-footage-of-crime/. Accessed 21 August 2024.

Bonner, Arthur. “Pararia mass rape (1988).” Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pararia_mass_rape_(1988). Accessed 21 August 2024.

The Hindu Bureau. “Two get death for raping, burning alive minor girl in Bhilwara.” The Hindu, 20 May 2024, https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/rajasthan/two-sentenced-to-death-by-pocso-court-in-rajasthan-court-for-raping-burning-alive-minor-girl/article68195867.ece. Accessed 21 August 2024.

Khan, Aamir. “2012 Delhi gang rape and murder.” Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Delhi_gang_rape_and_murder. Accessed 21 August 2024.

Krishnan, Vidya. “Opinion | In India's Gang Rape Culture, All Women Are Victims (Published 2023).” The New York Times, 2 June 2023, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/02/opinion/india-women-rape.html. Accessed 21 August 2024.

Ram, Anjali. “Never Ending Tales Of Victim Blaming And Shaming.” Feminism in India, 12 December 2022, https://feminisminindia.com/2022/12/12/never-ending-tales-of-victim-blaming-and-shaming/. Accessed 21 August 2024.

Sebastian, Meryl. “Outrage over Brazilian tourist's gang rape in India.” BBC, 3 March 2024, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-68444993. Accessed 21 August 2024.

[spiderfreedom]

my suffering is profound and legitimate, yours is frivolous nonsense

Just reading a blogger I like but I had to laugh because she was talking about how beauty practices are bad for women's mental health, and she left a note saying "unlike gender affirming care! gender affirming care improves people's mental health and it's nothing at all like cosmetic practices."

TIL, when an older woman gets botox to remove her wrinkles and avoid facing the inevitability of decline and death, her problem is spiritual/structural and she needs to Do The Work to deprogram her ageism, unlike people with dysphoria, who of course have legitimate claims to cosmetic alteration.

And it is cosmetic - no part of the body that is altered by HRT or SRS or any of the feminization/masculinization surgeries is failing to function or functioning poorly. The problem is with the brain, which perceives the body parts as foreign or undesirable. We may sympathize with someone struggling with such a condition, but that does not change that the body parts being altered were already healthy and the alterations are cosmetic, and the relief being brought about is mental.

But plenty of trans people openly admit that separating body dysmorphia and gender dysphoria is a losing game. Contrapoints's video on "Beauty" (transcript) has the observation that she feels least dysphoric when she is meeting feminine beauty norms:

But I also think that trans people often talk like gender dysphoria is this intrinsic, personal experience that's always 100% valid and never has anything at all to do with the external pressure of beauty standards. But in fact, gender dysphoria is not sealed away in a vacuum away from the influence of societal ideals and norms.  [...] When I try to psychoanalyze myself, I find that my desires to look female, to look feminine, and to look beautiful are not exactly the same, but they're woven together so tightly that it's kind of difficult to untangle them. And the opposite is also true, that for me feeling mannish or dysphoric usually goes along with feeling ugly. I don't have a lot of days where I walk out the house thinking "well, I'm giving femme queen realness, but apart from that I look like absolute shit". 

Max Robinson's book "Detransition," from an FTM perspective, points out how the prospective trans man views his suffering as unique from and distinct from women's, even as the surgeries they seek are not especially different:

The stereotypical cosmetic surgery patient is seeking to become closer to being perfectly feminine - she wants to be beautiful. Transitional cosmetic surgery, on the other hand, is widely understood to mark the patient as ex-female and therefore unfemale; this is part of the meaning FTMs seek to create through surgery. FTM desire for cosmetic surgery is positioned as something totally different than the stereotype of a woman who 'merely' seeks beauty at her frivolous leisure. FTMs are deemed to have a rare affliction that needs urgent, life-saving treatment. Conversely, there is nothing more common than for a woman to become obsessed with her socially-deemed 'unsatisfactory' looks and desperately seek to change them, believing that such a change is the only thing that can restore her quality of life. This comparison will feel like an insult to the FTM. It will feel that way because we believe other women's suffering doesn't matter, and recognize how much ours does. Women's suffering is ordinary but ours is extraordinary. For us to matter, we must be differentiated from the silly little woman who wants to be pretty so badly she'll pay thousands of dollars (now billable to credit cards and loan programs designed to pay for elective surgeries!) to risk her life and health. These women don't need to be fixed; we do. FTMs know that we don't deserve a woman's fate but have not yet realized that no woman does.

I have more to write on the topic of the relationship between gender identity and beauty culture, but I'll end this one here. It makes sense that somebody who is identified with the opposite sex would also be affected by the standards of beauty expected of that sex. (Non-binary identification is more complicated and requires separate treatment.)

[whiskersz]

hii! could u separate headcanons for Husk and Vox x Male Overlord! Reader who is kind and sweet but has anger issues? love your writing!

Of course! I didn't go too in depth with the Overlord part simply bc I had no idea what powers they'd have - could edit these so they're more specific ^^

dividers : cafekitsune

Husk / Vox x Overlord! Reader with Anger Issues

Husk

✦ Husk appreciates your kind nature; it’s really admirable how you always try to be sweet to everyone, even to people he wouldn’t be able to be that way with. Especially with you being an Overlord, this is quite the rare attribute.

✦ He also loves when your kindness is directed towards him; even though he doesn’t really like to admit it, he’s a bit lazy, so any act of service is greatly appreciated. Also, after a tiring day of tending to the bar and listening to other demons’ worries and struggles, he really needs someone who’s willing to lend a listening ear to him in return, and you’re usually the first individual who’s willing to do that.

✦ Sometimes though, and Husk knows this, anger gets the best of you.

✦ The first time this happens, he’s taken aback: kind words are replaced with spewed insults and sarcasm over things that he considers small or petty; he might even try to hold you back if you try to get physical or break something over whatever’s happening, enraging you even more.

✦ When your anger subsides a little and all you’re left with are anxious feelings, you break down and tell him that this is ‘the real you’, and confess to struggling with anger issues. Expecting him to be afraid and leave you, you’re surprised when he reassuringly pats your back and tells you that he gets it, everyone feels angry sometimes, it’s not something you need to feel guilty over.

✦ Being a very calm individual in general, Husk understands that the worst thing he could do would be to lash out in response to your own anger. Instead he gives you all the space that you need and tries to understand what your triggers are so he can avoid angering you himself.

✦ He’s also aware that he shouldn’t be expected to fix your anger issues and he is in no place to be trying to do so, so the best he can do is stay calm when you’re angry and offer you comfort when you calm down.

✦ He absolutely refuses to make you alcoholic drinks, especially when you’re not in a good mood. Alcohol is known to impair cognitive function, and he doesn’t want to be a partial reason as to why you get angry. He tries to bring this up in a moment where you’re calm and relaxed so you can understand his reasoning. Instead he mixes you non-alcoholic drinks and he’s willing to make you a simple tea or infusion to help with the nerves.

✦ Overall, unlike other demons, Husk is not really afraid of you despite you being a powerful Overlord who could destroy several things in one snap of your fingers. If you do end up making use of your powers though, it’s going to be harder for Husk to try and hold you back or get some sense into you.

Vox

✰ Vox surprisingly has the ability to stay calm in most situations; as seen in the series, he doesn’t get upset when his phone gets thrown against the wall and ends up broken or when others around him are angry.

✰ So, when it comes to you having anger issues, he doesn’t have much of a reaction. He’s not scared of you being an Overlord, besides he can defend himself very well if needed.

✰  At first he might make the mistake of using his acoustokinesis if you’re straight up yelling at him, to get some sense into you, but, when he realizes it’s very much like yelling back, he’ll stop and give you space to rant instead.

✰ He might even excuse himself for a while until you’ve calmed down if it gets really bad, and come back later to comfort you the best way that he can. Sometimes breaks and time alone can be very helpful when it comes to anger, they give us time to think and come up with a better solution that isn’t yelling or mistreating things.

✰ Vox also knows that your anger doesn’t really define you, and that you’re actually a really pleasant individual to have around; your kindness and sweetness are a much appreciates breath of fresh air at the V tower, you’re usually the one dealing with other demons’ problems and trying to help everyone.

✰ You’ve also tried multiple times to help Vox with matters regarding Alastor, but he reassured you that he could deal with it on his own or get somebody else to help.

✰ He’s also grateful for smaller things, like how you always tell him if there’s something on his screen or how you’ve helped him several times to tend to his aquarium. Your kindness really isn’t a quality to be ignored, especially when you’re surrounded by people like Valentino.

✰ You actually have helped Vox calm down after certain situations as well; he might be well mannered around others and able to keep a straight face at most things, but he does get irritated as well, so who can give him better advice than a person who deals with anger on almost a daily basis, really?

✰ It’s also very validating when you seek each other’s comfort; one of you will be ranting, and the other will agree that whatever thing you’re talking about was very annoying.

[railingsofsorrow]

New Traditions

[spencer reid x reader]

summary: you bring him coffee from his favorite coffee shop, he brings you your favorite blueberry muffins. it's a silent routine you've established with one another. but maybe, just maybe, you'd like something more than coffee and muffins during work hours. and maybe, just maybe, he'd like that too. 

or. . . in which this is a sequel to this blurb. 

pairing: s.reid x gn!reader

w.c: 4K

warnings/content: spencer & reader being a Simp ™ for e/o; discussion regarding addictions and intoxication; expectations being uphold; friendly banter; I love you but I'll never admit it trope (hang tight with me); self-doubts; language; fluff fluff fluff; making out.

A/N: I guess this can be read as a standalone but it'd make more sense if you read this one first. enjoy! 

navi

masterpost

━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Spencer arrived in the Bureau that morning, he did his usual ritual: place his satchel on his chair and retract immediately to the pantry to make his coffee. He couldn't function without it. Actually, he was pretty certain no one in his team could function in the morning without any type of caffeine. Some of the times, when he was the first to arrive — it's rare, Hotch is always there — he'd prepare a coffee pot, fill up his mug, add seven sachets of sugar and cream, and leave it there for whoever wanted it. 

It was the same thing every day. His routine was drab but he liked it the way it was.

Spencer wouldn't consider himself a person inclined to changes. Everybody knows that and everybody is used to it. But he's accustomed to it. He's came around to the fact that life comes with lots of surprises and unexpectancy, even if he's not fond of it, he's gotta take it and stop whining about it. 

You were the change that made him not despise surprises that much. Your arrival at the BAU was one of the best choices the department made. To the team. And to him, of course. Not that he'd ever tell you that. 

It changed how he felt listened. He was used to being brushed off by his co-workers whenever he started rambling, so much so that he begin to contain his urges to spurt out statistics in random conversations. Then, you came along and actually paid attention to what he was saying in these moments. In every moment, precisely. 

You wouldn't stop asking him about the history of the movies and the snacks they were selling during that night at the Korean Festival. It was a week ago. He wished he could come back to that day and see your mesmerized face as he explained details of the culture. 

He had so much fun. He didn't do it a lot; hanging out. Being with people was totally tangent to his comfort zone. Spencer cherished his alone time. The silence, the peace and the no-need-to-pick-up-on-social-cues part — he was really bad at the latter.

But he loved spending time with you. He'd like to do it more often. If only he was able to stop hyperventilating and shaking whenever he thought about asking you out. 

Not as a date. As friends. Because that's what you were. 

Definitely not as a date. 

That morning, when he arrived at his desk, a coffee sat upon it. Remember those changes he mentioned? Yeah. This is one of them. You started bringing him coffee from his favourite coffee shop near Quantico. And it was his exact order. 

He felt his heart swell every time he'd see your messy handwriting in the cup holder. 

“Did you know that Mr. Oscar Wilde had a photographic memory? He was able to remember long passages and then effortlessly recall them later. That reminded me of you. Although I'm sure you certainly can remember three entire books from the 1st page to the last one and quote the whole thing. Wilde would be jealous, Spence.”

Ps: I know photographic memory and eidetic memory are two different things, it just reminded me of you :)

Since the beginning of the week you had this little thing going on. He didn't know what it was, he didn't know if you knew what it was. But you'd bring him coffee with random curiosities and he'd bring you blueberry muffins with quotes from your favorite poets. 

“What's that smug grin for?” His neck snapped up at the voice, Derek was sipping on his coffee with a curious look. He was sizing him up. 

“Nothing.” Spencer smoothly covered your little note with his hand and took a sip of the beverage. Eyes shutting in delight. Fuck. How can you do everything right? This is perfectly sweetened. “We got a case?” He mentioned Penelope walking straight to the conference room, distracting himself from the obvious profiling Derek was doing. 

“Yeah.” Derek clicks his tongue against his palate, tilting his head. “Pretty boy...”

“What?” Spencer gave him an innocent look, grabbing his stuff. “We should go.”

Derek chuckled behind him, “You're not slick, Reid. I can see it!”

“What are you talking about?” He shrieked out, taking a seat across from Emily while carefully placing his cup on the table. Garcia was already preparing the images to detail the case. 

Derek pointed at him and mouthed I see you before sitting down beside Hotch, JJ taking the seat at his right. The middle of his forehead twitched slightly when he didn't see you. Were you late? Did something hold you up? No. You had brought his coffee, you must be—

“Morning, Reid.” 

He just had to look at his side. Your soft smile greeting him. He's going to have a great day. 

“Good morning,” he replied, the corner of his lips quirking up when he saw the brand sticker on your coffee cup. Seems like it wasn't just his favorite place anymore. The little bag inside his satchel didn't have a chance to meet your hands yet, he'd usually put beside your computer as soon as he arrived. 

He'd have to give it to you later. He knows you don't like having any breakfast in the morning. But you still shouldn't spend the day on coffee and an empty stomach.

Fortunately or not, it was a local case, so you didn't need the jet this time. You ended up stuck in the Geographical profile while everyone else head down to the ME's office. Penelope abandoned her cave to keep you company. 

“Hey,” she called out, not looking up from her laptop. By the long time you knew your friend, if there was one thing she could do, that thing was multitasking. Don't fool yourself thinking that she wasn't paying attention to everything that's going on around her just because she's focused on something else. Sometimes, you convicted yourself that she was a robot. 

“Yeah?” Your eyes lingered on the board before you drifted to her. “What's up?” you questioned while picking up your water bottle.

“Is there something going on between you and our resident genius?” 

Luckily enough, you hadn't drank anything yet or you'd probably have choked up with the accusation. 

“What do you mean?” You guped down the water quietly, feeling your neck heat up. Now, she was looking at you, a smirk dancing on her features as if she knew something you didn't. 

“You and Reid.” She kept on typing, and clicking clicking clicking. “What happened in the film festival. You went together, right?”

You hummed, turning back to the triangulation process you were trying to finish. There was just one area missing, you couldn't see the pattern but you had a hunch. 

“So, what happened?” 

“We watched the movie. What else is there to do in a film festival?

Penelope clicked her tongue together, “Uh-uh. I see what you're doing. But watching the movie doesn't give you that stupid smile you have plastered on everytime he's around. And you brought him coffee, I noticed. I saw it.” Well shit. “Not to mention that's not the first time you do that either, missy.” She was pointing her sparkly pen at you and you had to hold yourself back from laughing. That was a threat in Penelope Garcia's style. 

“Friends can treat each other, Penelope.” 

“Sure they can,” she nodded vehemently. “Just as people on a relationship do as well.”

The heat lifting up your neck was enough for you to curl into yourself in the chair. You pushed a photo into her hands, clearing your throat awkwardly. “I need you to find info about this guy, please. Brian Englebert, I'll go... I have to... yeah.”

Penelope's giggling was the last thing you heard as you left the room. 

Falling in love is like a drug addiction. 

According to some researches, falling in love with someone gives you the same sensation as feeling addicted does; the release of euphoria and triggering of brain chemicals like dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline and others. Ergo, the more time you spend with this person, the more addicted you will become. 

Spencer knows all about addictions. How it can affect your brain and your life in general. He's also aware that if you just ignore it, without the rightful treatment, it will just proceed to get worse. 

Ah, there's also that. Spencer is awfully good in ignoring things. Pretending they aren't there. But when something is imbedded into his brain, continuously causing his synaptic connections to go haywire, he can't just keep ignoring it, can he?

Because looking at you from the bullpen entrance, happily eating your muffins as you surveyed some files in your desk... that made him feel something. That made his heart to want to burst out of his chest. How is this possible? Why is his face heating up? Why is his mouth dry? Is he about to die?

“Wilde was also considered a genius back on his days. I believe that he would also be considered a genius today given his literary accomplishments and the way he spoke loudly about banned topics.” He gulped down the rock in his throat while licking his dry lips. You looked over your shoulder, mid-bite into the muffin when your eyes crinckled up by your smile. At him. You were smiling at him. Were you happy that he was there? Or was he being a nuisance by interrupting your snack break? 

He couldn't stop talking and when he was about to begin another monologue, you cut him off.

“You don't believe in the genius terminology, do you?” You spoke, politely cleaning the corners of your mouth with a napkin even if they were perfectly clean. “You've mentioned it before.”

You pay attention to what he says too. How could he not fall for that?

“No,” he says, quietly sitting down in a chair that you had pulled closer to yours. “The methods to classify someone as a genius usually refer to high IQ or when one has great accomplishment in science or related areas.” He declined when you offer a muffin to him, a smile spreading around his face. “There's a lot of people who have made great accomplishments in many other areas, like music or art. They don't get the same recognition though,” he shrugged, fidgeting with his satchel. “I just think it's unfair.”

You nodded, thoughtfully, “That makes sense. I hadn't thought through this perspective yet.” Your attention lowered back to your desk and he thought he had lost your attention until you pulled up a blue post-it. His face reddened immediately. “No other word makes my mouth as tender as your name.” You recited, a warm feeling embracing your heart, when your eyes locked with his, you exhaled softly. “How did you know? I never mentioned this book to you, nor the author.”

It was your favourite book from all times. You had found it in an old bookstore on your hometown, it was your last purchase before you moved away. It's the last memory you made there. You never spoke about it. It's kind of the secret you keep to you from someone you no longer knew but craved once in a while. 

“You have it with you all the time,” Spencer said timidly, eyes nervously shifting away from your gaze. “You—You were reading on the jet once and I saw the title and I always see it on your bag when you're fixing it in your desk and—” after a sharp inhale, he started gesticulating with his hands. “Not that I go through your stuff or anything! I saw see it really quick I didn't even touch—”

“Spence.” 

“... because it's not mine! And it would be really impolite for me to do so—”

“Spence?”

“I swear I'd never purposely go through your stuff, Y/N—”

“Spencer,” your tone was soft but stern, at least to convey you needed him to stop talking without sounding rude. His lips clipped shut and his cheeks were pink with shame. Rambling. You finally got tired of it, he was waiting for it to finally happen— “Hey. I didn't imply that you went through my stuff,” you said calmly with a smile lifting the corners of your mouth, reaching out to him with your hand. You waited until he grasped yours, a silent request for consent to touch him since you knew he wasn't very fond of it. “I'm just kind of... flattered? That you pay attention. I didn't know I was interesting enough for you to notice these things, Doctor Reid.”

“You're the most interesting person I've ever met.” 

He didn't realize until it was out and then he looked down at your hands in embarrassment. You chuckled softly, playing with his fingers on yours. He's so lovely.

“You're the most interesting person I've ever met, too, Spencer.”

He blinked up at you, surprise traveling across his features. “I am? Me?” 

Fondness embraced your orbs just as your heart hammered in your chest. Spencer. There's so much you don't know. So much that you've no idea. . . 

“Mhm.” You hummed, pulling one of his unruly stands behind his ear. Spencer almost melted when your hand grazed his cheek. “You, Spencer Reid. You've no idea how much I learn with you every day and how it amazes me, don't you?” 

Spencer was out of words for the first time in his life. 

Your finger trailed down his cheek, the middle of your forehead creasing slightly. “You're amazing.” But you don't know that. You don't realize that. Why?

Air didn't reach his lungs and Spencer felt like hiding and never letting go of you at the same time. Oh, it's been so long since he felt like that. . . It was almost too great to love someone that was good to you. A healthy love — Yes, it is love, he admits it now. He can be a fool no more — It seemed foreign. The idea. Spencer never thought he deserved much than what he had and what he received. But maybe, maybe he did. Could he deserve you? 

He decided to be bold. “You—” but Aaron Hotcher cut him off and all his courage went down the drain. Seems like the universe wanted to joke with him. He was a fool, afterall. 

“Go home,” Hotch walked by, pointing at the manila files on your desk and then at you and Spencer. “Get some rest, the two of you.” 

When you looked around, there was just you and Spencer in the bullpen — and Anderson, because you were sure he never really left the precinct. You'd find all of his stuff somewhere in the pantry — Everyone must have gone home, already. The Bureau was slightly frightening when it was a deserted island. It reminded you a lot of a liminal space. 

You obeyed your boss. By the time you cleaned up your desk, Spencer was gone. Disappointment taking over your features. Well, what did you expect? It's not like it was his obligation to wait for you. He wasn't your boyfriend. He wasn't your anything. You had no right to put expectations on him.

Stepping into the parking lot, the cold breeze immediately involved your body. Too bad you had chosen to wear a tank top exactly today. It was warm in the morning! 

“Did you know that approximately 28 million people read poetry in America?” You jumped in your spot, gasping at the silhouette beside your car where you were about to get in. 

Spencer gave you a little wave.

“You...” a relieved sigh escaped you, shoulders descending. “You scared me, Spencer.”

“Sorry.” He said sheepishly, pulling at the strap of his satchel. “Ehm, t-this number doubled up in the age range of 18 to 24. It's proven that—uh, social media actually helped the growth of these numbers. It pushed people's interests into poetry a lot more.” 

You stared at him in complete bewilderment. Your mind was working fast to seek out an answer for his rambling, but you were so confused that you just stayed quiet. And he gave you a grimace. 

“I'm being weird.” Spencer nodded, “I know. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay—”

“I'm just trying to tell you something— ask, yeah, ask you something but that's what came out. I am so sorry. I should go, yes, I should—”

You leaped forward, surprising even yourself from the move. You had grabbed his wrist and quickly retracted your hand. “Sorry.” you apologized, biting your lip. “I— you can ask, Spencer. I was just a little confused.”

He let out a long sigh, his hands were shaking and they were starting to sweat too. But he told himself that this is when he stops being a fool.

“I'm a mess.” Yes, great way to start. “I'm a mess because I don't know how to stop talking. I don't understand social cues — I'm actually getting better at that — and I'm still scared of the dark. I have to sleep with a lampshade on. That's embarrassing.” his knuckles were turning white from how hard he was holding his shoulder strap. “I'm not great at letting people be there for me because I've been taking care of myself my whole life, I don't see the appeal in letting anyone in, it's too much work. My brain doesn't stop, I'm always thinking and it tires me out. Sometimes I wish it all went silent. I don't have a favourite book, I've read many great ones and I find it unfair with the authors to just choose one. So I don't.” For the first time since he started talking, he breathed in. You took a step forward, expecting him to just crumble down in front of you. Where was he getting with this? You wanted so badly to hug him but you didn't know if he wanted it and you weren't given an opening to ask. He didn't let you. “I don't know how to love.” That made you frown. Before you could retort, he carried on. “I've learned there's no pattern for it and people are different everywhere. I can't plan it, I can't see the numbers. I can't control people because they aren't meant to be controlled.”

Your eyes softened. “No, no they aren't, Spence. And it's okay, you know? You don't have to plan everything.” you finally spoke as he let you. But he didn't seem to be finished so you remained quiet. You didn't expect him to take your hand in his, to which he chuckled nervously at your startled reaction. 

“But I think... I think I'm starting to love you.” What was breathing? You never learned. “I'm not sure if that's the right thing to say when I'm trying to ask you out—”

“You want to ask me out?” The failed tone made his face fall and you shook your head vehemently, pulling him towards you. “That's not how I meant it! I just— God, Spencer. Do you want to give me a heart attack?” you exclaimed. “I wasn't expecting this.”

He frowned, looking down at your hands to avoid looking into your eyes. “What were you expecting?”

“Rejection,” you said, earning a look of confusion. Then, enlightenment and them disbelief. It was cute to watch him tech the conclusion. “It was a clear setting in my head so I never tried.”

“Why would I ever reject you? I've lov— I've had a crush on you since the moment you stepped into my sight.” Spencer added, covering his slip-up but you noticed it. You didn't comment on it, you'd wait for the right time. “Do you—does that mean that you feel the same?”

A breathy laugh left your lips. “Oh, Spence.” you approached him slowly, hand raising to his cheek. He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut and you smiled. “I feel more than the same. I feel everything for you.” And I'm starting to love you too.

His eyelashes tinkled against your hand before he lifted his gaze to you, he was trying to avoid breathing just like you were. Afraid this moment would be lost in the wind by a single action. Spencer's eyes drifted down to your mouth.

“Can I—”

“Do it.”

Your lips didn't crashed together. They met in the middle, carefully joining into one space. It didn't felt as if you've been waiting for this — the both of you — it was a perfect pace. That until your body was being pressed against your car and his hands were roaming all over you. You needed to breathe, as much as you didn't want to.

“Hi.” You whispered, cracking a smile as you stared down at his swollen lips. Your hands pressed against his chest. 

He sighed, burying his face into the croak of your neck. “Hi.”

A chuckle made your body shake slightly and his hold on you tightened. 

“You just kissed me like that and you're suddenly shy?” You teased, fingers caressing the back of his neck. “Is that all an act to make me fall for you? It's working.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled with a shake of his head, leaning back to meet your eyes. You studied the glint in his hazel orbs with a warm feeling spreading on your chest. “I've just— I've wanted to do that for a long time.”

You quickly peck his lips, cupping his face as your features turned serious. Even if you couldn't stop smiling. 

“I've wanted to do that just as long, Spencer. Trust me.”

You know when wine makes you less inhibited? A few too many glasses can make you less serious, less controlled. Alcohol causes the oxytocin levels of one's body to increase, which is why people tend to feel more confident and comfortable while drunk. Spencer understood now all of those researches that talked about how being in love can make you feel as if you're drunk. Because he was drunk and he was completely addicted to you at that moment. 

“Ask the question, Doctor Reid.” You traced the tip of his nose and chuckled as he scrunched it.

“Ask what question?”

“The one you came after me for.”

“Oh.” you were able to feel his fingers nervously shifting against the exposed skin of your tank top. “I... Mhm.” He gulped, gaze meeting yours apprehensively. “Would you like to go on a date... with me? You don't have to say yes. Don't feel obliged to because—”

“Because you just took all my breath away?” You learnt that you loved to make him blush. “I'd love to go on a date with you, Spencer.” you said softly. 

His eyes widened in surprise, “Really?

“Yes.” you assured him, tucking a curl behind his ear. “So, is there another film festival I don't know about?”

His eyes brightened in excitement and you knew he was about to talk your ear off about something. And you couldn't wait for him to start. That was something you could easily get addicted to: his ramblings and his kisses. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N: anybody recognise the book quote on the blue post-it? 👀

━━━━━━━━━━━━

sources: [1] [2]

━━━━━━━━━━━━

taglist: @lilyviolets

[itgirlgyu]

how i think txt would react if their female best friend sat on their lap

requested!

YEONJUN...

oh my god totally bitchless behavior coming in within 0.4 seconds

like this man will stop functioning, like is it normal to have your hands on the side?

tries to strike a pose

like daniel,, bby you're embarrassing yourself

swear he thinks he's like aha so fine

might lean back to play it cool

but you know he stiff as hell

like basically it's that dad pose when you know you've disappointed him and you're about to sit with him in a dark living room to soak in the immeasurable shame you've brought to the family.

his undergarment is drenched from stress sweats

might actually start stuttering

pls get off him before his dry sex life makes him pop a boner and the friendship gets ruined for life.

SOOBIN...

his head starts overheating due to overthinking the moment you sit on his lap like

the only two option were the floor where beomgyu spilled his drink or any of the dudes lap and he's your bestie boo so ofc you'd pick him

right?

tries to gaslight himself into thinking it's fine

like sure this shit is fine and it's normal to sit on each others laps.

but inside his head there are 4 tabs open, two of them are having a debate on the pros and cons of having your best friend on your lap and other two are playing tiktok random hits and he doesn't know which one he should tune in to

for the peace of his own mind, he tries to sit on your lap the next time

tit for tat he says.

BEOMGYU...

starts acting like you are crushing his thighs

he knows you playing so he's like aha two can play the game

girl you really thought you will outdo the doer

the og mr. mood breaker?

will straight up start moaning in your ears

starts squirming and whining like

'oooof my thighs are so fragile,'

does not give two cents about the place he is in

or the situation

or what people will assume

if soobin is the overthinker, beomgyu rarely thinks

its like his brain just takes off in a rush and it's taken over by the sheer need to annoy the fuck out of his bestie.

he's like the fly you can't just quite swat away

literally starts doing his own echo moan from one ear to another

you have to admit the defeat and get up on your own.

TAEHYUN...

will not straight up push you off him.

but the look he gives you, he might as well just put in the physical effort and do it.

his face is like, 'you did this for what?'

'why not?'

'why though?'

tries to get used to you sitting on him

like its chill

you're his bestie and he's a gym goer

so it does work out nicely

but the thing is like,

your back is blocking his vision

like its all chill and cute in movies but irl your sight will definitely get blocked and it has nothing to do with the person's height!

he tries to adjust so that he doesn't need to kick you off of him

and hurt your feelings or something

man is here jumping through hoops to seem effortless in order to continue his debate with hyuka about the importance of the balance between peanut butter and jelly in the sandwich

you see his struggle and move over on your own with a new found respect for terry the terrance taehyun kang

HUENING KAI...

he's looking at your head like, hmm you kinda sus

but that lasts like a whole lot of ten seconds before he's like nothings even on him

although he tries to smell the top of your head like what is the difference between a baby's head and an adult's crown

he is a curious little crow, it's one of his charms

makes a quick mental note to break it to you gently that you might need to take a lil bit more hygiene care on the top of your head.

he leans back

unlike yeonjun the daniel choi, he's fr chill

also man's broad as hell

he's like meant to be a chair at this point

you can lean in as much as you want on him and you know he would fine with anything

like he barely feels you on him anyway

you can probably just lean back on him and he'd cradle you like his first born

just maybe not kiss the top of your head

but he finally got an idea what to gift you on your birthday!

so it all worked out for the best!

© to itgirlgyu. feedbacks are highly appreciated and welcomed!!!!

[akutasoda]

Hello, can I request a request for chuuya,dazai,akutagawa and fyodor

With a s/o with yuta okkotsu (jujutsu kaisen) powers and his backstory

a curse from the past

synopsis - how are they with a someone that's seemingly haunted by there past?

includes - dazai, chuuya, akutagawa, fyodor

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, some angst, jealousy, hints to deaths, wc - 789

a/n: i got slightly angsty of some parts haha

osamu dazai ★↷

↪the first thing he could recognise about you was the sort of crushing pressure that followed you like a ghost. he almost felt overwhelmed by it.

↪it was a stark contrast to your quieter nature. but despite you rarely speaking to those you weren't familiar with, when you did he could tell you did hold a high intelligence.

↪then he learnt of your ability. he absolutely adored it, he had so many questions about it. could you copy his? if so what would happen if you both used it on eachother? and such.

↪ he also adored your swordsmanship. he loved to watch you in conbat as he always could admire one that was good with such a weapon.

↪and when he became closer fo you he learnt of that pressure you carried around. he understood why you didn't just shell that information out to whatever passerby should ask.

↪ he'd lost someone dear to him aswell. someone from his childhood too. so while he probably isn't that good with touchy subjects, he could still sympathise to a degree.

↪he almost felt envious really. he'd lost someone and he'd never be able to see them again. yet here you were having lost someone but atleast they still stuck by your side even in a different form. how unfair it was to him...

chuuya nakahara ★↷

↪while he initially had a strong discomfort to your presence, due to the overwhelming pressure you seemed to exert, he did quite like your combat skills.

↪from your swordsmanship to your hand to hand combat. he loved it all - he can never not admire good skill in combat.

↪he also found you rather easy and nice to hang around in general. your quiet nature was easy to be around and he could get along with your calm way of thinking.

↪your ability he was rather indifferent on. while it was admirably strong, he didn't like it's functionality. many because he was scared if you ever tried to copy his. would it even work?

↪and yet again, when he got closer to you he became more sympathetic than indifferent. he'd lost many of his friends, if they could be called that. but he saw the curse that stuck around you as a rather bittersweet reminder.

↪he could imagine how it must be rather rough, having your childhood friend hang around you and you both barely able to understand each other.

ryunosuke akutagawa ★↷

↪he only started getting to know you after a mission. he deemed you probably weren't that bad to be around, a complete three sixty from when he first met you. he saw the aura you admitted as uncomfortable and refused to be near you.

↪but seeing that you yourself weren't that bad he became a cautious presence around you. he enjoyed the fact that you were rather silent yet so calm and sort of collected in situations.

↪your ability wasn't much to him. sure it was rather strong but that was about it. abilities are abilities he wont form many opinions on other peoples. he's got his, you've got yours. until you copy his.

↪your little seperate 'ability' did slightly unnerve him. just the pressure of it made him stand on guard and be very wary. and that wouldn't change when he saw it's true form or even when he learnt of it's origins from your past.

↪ bittersweet is what he would say. losing your childhood friend just to be practically haunted by it must be conflicting. he struggles significantly with conveying emotions but he dies feel a tad bit of sympathy for your situation.

fyodor dostoevsky ★↷

↪as he did for everyone, he never really took notice of you. especially because you were always silent and never really made your presence known.

↪he only began to get close when he realised how easy you were to be around, unlike some of his colleagues. and mainly because he learnt of your ability and found intrigue in the strong presence that hung around you.

↪the ability to copy abilities was very intriguing to him. a rather strong ability that he wanted to learn more about such as limitations. but at the end of the day if he could, he'd remove it alongside all other abilities.

↪his main interest still resided in that presence you carried however. he investigated it so much that you didn't even have to inform him of your past for him to know.

↪he felt no sympathy for how it came about. but he was intrigued on how ypur past childhood friend had became this curse that hung around you. especially how could you utilise it's power? it seemed to be through your emotions however.

[tinykonig]

Ghost x reader headcannons

im so glad you guys are enjoying these??? i love making them and its helping me procrastinate finals :) as always these are written for afab, and sometimes include references feminine terms. if you like how i write for ghost, send me a lil request and i might turn it into something :)

NSFW indicated in post 🤍

Genuinely it takes fucking forever for Ghost to admit having feelings for you. He is in denial for soooo long

What finally makes him crack is getting critically injured on a mission and all he can think about is how he should have told you

He resolves to tell you once he comes to in the hospital. He figures it would be stupid to waste any more time

You come to see him and you think he doesn’t want you there because he can’t make eye contact with you and that’s rare for him

You just kind of awkwardly apologize for coming and turn to leave and he just barks out “Wait.”

When Ghost is getting something off his chest he gets it all out. So he’s just very bluntly telling you that you were all he could think about when he thought he was going to die and he doesn’t see the point in hiding how he feels any longer

At the end of his speech he looks at you and you are getting a little emotional and this motherfucker has the audacity to be like, “… why are you crying?”

Like you just spilled your heart out to me give me a break!!!

His entire body relaxes when you tell him you feel the same way. He didn’t even realize how tense he had been

You don’t leave his side until he’s recovered and able to fully function back to normal

He doesn’t say thank you with his words but rather his actions. His eyes tell you everything anyways

Sometimes he will glance around him to make sure no one else is watching and then just lift you into the most earth shatteringly wonderful hug

Puts you down after a few seconds and returns to whatever he was doing without a word. You grew used to this eventually

So protective. Like wont even let you walk on the side of the sidewalk thats closer to the road. Puts himself between you and any dangers

You will be his passenger princess. There is no way he lets you drive sorry thats his job, he looks damn good doing it so you dont mind

(holds your hand over the center console)

Big on acts of service. Does little domestic things for you like folds your laundry while you take a nap and offers to cook dinner every other day

Stares at you when you sleep. He thinks you look so angelic and peaceful and it makes him feel all warm inside but he’s definitely scared the shit out of you a few times

Not a fan of going out a lot. He’s a homebody when he’s not in the field

The best listener!!! He will offer advice when you ask for it or will just lend you sympathy when you don’t want advice

He does have his moments where he needs his space, and if you try to push him he can get mean

After he’s recharged and feeling back to normal he is touch. starved.

Likes to spoon, likes to watch movies with you in between his legs and laying on his chest, likes standing behind you while you are doing anything and just holding your hips

He always buries his face in your neck and just breathes deep. Could drown in your scent and be happy

It takes him awhile to remove his mask freely around you because its a feeling of vulnerability that just gnaws at him

He warms up to it over time and you see his face more and more often. Loves that you act the same either way

He has dimples (fist fight me if you disagree)

He can grow a killer beard, but trims it based on your preference because he doesn’t care either way

Very thoughtful with gifts and always remembers your birthday (sometimes forgets his own)

Knows your order for every restaurant and will make sure its correct and if its not he IS letting them know. How dare they

Literally mocks whatever accent you have constantly. Playfully but he’s brutal

If you are being stubborn he is not against just picking you up and slinging you across his shoulder

Sleeps like a rock this one

Likes to watch sports on tv and catches himself cheering his team on and then gets embarrassed (its so fucking cute)

If his mask is off and he sees any exposed part of your skin- he’s biting

And then going about his business like he didn’t just bite you???? So weird

NSFW BELOW THIS POINT

The biting happens in the bedroom too, specifically when he cums. Your neck will have teeth marks

Switch, switch, switch

His bedroom eyes are soo severe , he just gives you a single half lidded stare and your clothes are coming off

He loves to degrade you, he doesn’t talk a lot but when he does he is telling you how pathetic you look crying on his cock

Loves to be degraded too :) Whines if you call him pussy drunk (because he is)

A little rough but king of aftercare

Loves watching you come undone on his fingers. Has a thing for wearing his gloves when he fingers you

OVERSTIMULATION thats all

Against the wall is a specialty of Simons

Grunts a lot, growls sometimes when he is close

You go down on him and he sometimes lets go and moans

Always returns the favor

Doesn’t do quickies or risky places

Will do about anything else

[rs-hawk]

I feel like FtM monsters are pretty rare, even in the admitely niche context of trans monsters

I love FtM monsters. My favorite FtM piece I’ve done is this piece about an Orc Husband! I’ve only done a handful here but I’ll definitely be doing more, including this post.

Átahsaiais

You had grown up hearing the stories about the cannibalistic demon who lived in the mountains. A giant as tall as three men, with the strength of ten. He would snatch you up and eat you, cooking you into a stew and using your bones as tooth picks. The stories made you shudder, but they never stopped you from exploring.

You decided to go hiking in those mountains, and a long hike turned into an overnight camping trip, where you took refuge in a cave. You giggled to yourself as you thought about how the stories talked about a young woman getting trapped in a cave and having to rely on a God to save her from Átahsaiais. As the memories of the way the stories sounded coming from your grandmother’s lips filled your head, you drifted off to sleep.

When you were woken up, it was still dark out, but there was a sort of pounding sound coming from outside. It sounded like foot steps. Suddenly, you were glad you had forgotten a flashlight. Crawling on your belly, trying to be quiet and remain out of sight, you approached the mouth of the cave. Just outside, you saw a monstrous sight.

A creature that was so tall that it was blocking much of the moonlight. Gray, stringy hair that fell in thick ropes down his knobby and cracked skin. You swallowed back a stunned cry as his head turned, catching you in his line of vision.

You were frozen in place, and while you knew if you scooted back you would be out of his reach, you couldn’t move. Átahsaiais. A true monster amongst monsters.

With a large hand, he swiftly pulled you out of the cave, his breath making you cringe and he brought you up to his face. “Human,” he said in a growl that send shivers down your spine. “Woman. Why are you here?”

You swallowed hard before babbling about your hike. How you stayed out too late. Started it too late in the day. You just wanted to get some sleep before going home. Fat tears rolled down your face as you choke back sobs and he just… laughed. He set you down, your knees trembling so badly you almost fall.

“You will be caught by much worse than me if you stay out here,” he said, his voice rough like the way boulders sound when they start to fall.

You were unsure, but the sound of a howl ripping through the air made you jump closer to him. He chuckled as he curled a large hand, nearly the size of your entire body, around your torso to guide you. Soon enough you’re in his home, now a warm and well lived in cottage. You expected something more… terrifying.

He sat you down, pushing a cup of hot water into your hands before he disappeared behind a curtain of beads, seashells, and gemstones. He grumbled out a good night and told you to sleep wherever you like out there as the swinging curtain slowed. You felt relieved but also oddly disappointed. He was supposed to be a man eating monster and, what? He saved you from wolves, brought you to his home, and then decided to go to bed and offered you to sleep as well?

After a little while, with the fire dying down, you decided to at least sneak a peek at what his room is like. You imagined it being decorated with the bones of his victims and enemies, but it wasn’t. Instead, where you expected skulls and bones, there were vines that hung from the ceiling, with blooming flowers. A small hole in the wall, functioning as a window, had a bird’s nest tucked away in it.

You couldn’t decide how you felt as you slipped deeper into the room. The sounds you heard as you did you attributed to the small hole once you saw it, until you saw Átahsaiais on his bed. Two of his large, rough fingers were pushing in and out of his dripping cunt as his other hand teased and played with his t-dick.

Your mouth watered as you watched the way his chest heaved, his thick, gray, porcupine quill like hair splayed around his head- his eyes clenched shut with his mouth slightly open. Of their own accord, your feet took you to his bed. That was when you hesitated, but a sharp intake of breath from him told you he was close, and you wanted to help so badly that you couldn’t explain it.

You crawled between his legs, finally admitting your presence to him. His fingers and hand faltered for a moment before you fixed your mouth around the tip of his t-dick, struggling a bit with how much thicker it is than a regular human cock.

“Little Human,” he grunted slightly, his hand twitching at the base of his t-dick before he slid it to the back of your head, encouraging you to take more of it down your throat.

When he came, you couldn’t help but moan in excitement. It felt so good to know you’d helped him. A wet spot had formed between your own legs, which clearly hadn’t gone unnoticed by him. In seconds, he had you pinned to his bed made of feathers and animal hides, his hands easily ripping off your pants before his fat tongue eases inside of you.

You see stars. His tongue itself was bigger a than a human’s cock, and the way he coaxed orgasm out of orgasm out of you made you realize why he was called a man eater.

[icarustypicalfall]

you are home

john price x reader

comfort fluff <3

warnings: none

note: i didn't include the huge ahh skin care step by step cuz i am lazy 💅🏻

"will you ever get sick of me?"

"loving you is the antidote"

Once in a while, you and John found solace in the comfort of your home, far away from the base, the burdens of war, and the constant threats that loomed. With his relentless responsibilities, it was rare for the two of you to have a moment alone, as John always seemed to be on the run.

But tonight was different.

After tidying up the kitchen from the delightful mess you had made together earlier. You watched John with immense admiration as he skillfully prepared one of his magnificent recipes. Little did he know what you had planned for him.

As your husband reclined on the bed, oblivious to your intentions, you quietly snuck into the bathroom, gathering an assortment of skincare and body care products.

John looked confused, never quite understanding why you needed so many products or why you spent such a long time in the bathroom every night. Nonetheless, he never minded and generously indulged you by providing for all your skincare needs.

He once mentioned his willingness to learn more about caring for your hair and skin, wanting to pamper his beloved.

"Whoa, love, are you going to teach me how to use all those? Not sure I'll remember everything," John chuckled, his eyes filled with amusement, as you playfully rolled your eyes, a mischievous smile gracing your face. You carefully placed the basket on the bed before turning to your adoring husband.

"Well, I thought tonight I would take care of you, my dear," You'd announce, expression quickly transforming into a genuine smile as John's face brightened.

"Who could resist someone as beautiful as you, love?" John replied, his voice tender. After explaining the plan, he settled himself back on the bed, pulling on the bunny ears of the headband you placed on his head.

"Well, Bonnie, I'm glad my men are away. Can't have them seeing me like this. You're turning this old man into a bunny," he playfully remarked.

Your laughter reverberated softly through the room as you lit your favorite candle and selected some soothing jazz music. The ambiance was warm and inviting, carrying the gentle scents of cinnamon, clove, and the faint aroma of John's morning cigars, creating an atmosphere of peace and contentment.

Feeling a gentle squeeze around your waist and observing the eager military veteran adorned with bunny ears, you were reminded of the task at hand.

Throughout the entire experience, John asked about the different products, attentively memorizing each name and their functions. Although he hesitated in admitting it, he secretly reveled in the divine indulgence of this shared skincare night—having you close, pampering him, and later receiving a massage to soothe his tense muscles. Fatigue started to claim him, and he struggled to stay awake, feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time.

By midnight, sleep beckoned, and you had succumbed, donning a sheet mask as you rested your head upon John's leg, which you had just finished massaging. John couldn't help but chuckle, taking in the sight of your comfortable yet slightly awkward posture, the trail of drool from your chin, and your serene expression.

He quietly snapped a photo, deciding that he would tease you about it in the morning. For now, he gently guided you back into bed, setting the skincare basket aside.

He brought your hand to his face, placing a tender kiss on your smooth fingertips. The softness of your skin against his lips felt heavenly.

He nestled his head back, keeping an arm wrapped around your waist, as he gazed at the moon's glow from the crook of the curtains. He couldn't ask for anything more than this perfect moment. In fact, he was content with everything life had given him. Expecially you.

(this was short cuz i wrote it in the morning and cuz im exhausted i hate studying man 🥹💀 but anyway I'll be making more comfort stuff)