#icy imagery

[dawnleaf37]

all my friends have senses I see them as like color. And noise and

[dailyoverview]

The icy waters of Lake Michigan surround snow-covered Chicago, Illinois, USA, following a multi-day cold snap that swept across much of the northern United States this week. The “Windy City” had wind chill temperatures as low as minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit, and high temperatures during the week never rose above 5 degrees for the first time in nearly 30 years.

41.881944°, -87.627778°

Source imagery: Planet

[ozzgin]

The eating rocks anon ask reawakened a weird thought I had…so I must share it with you now🙃

I imagine going camping out in the icy, snowy, winter cold with my yandere monster. And instead of packing a tent and other supplies, I just live inside their mouth for the time being. It’s like a lil kangaroo pouch, all nice, safe, and warm. Except being a monster’s mouth instead 🙈

I apologize for the cursed imagery I’ve bestowed upon you 😘

P.S. I love how I’ve become your drug dealer for “decadent ideas,” instead of one of the many people in your harem. My trench coat contains the finest monster fucker crack 😂

-👘

Noooo I actually love this imagery, especially with snouts haha. You just reminded me of it.

Thank you for yet another successful business trade, anon. <3

[kquil]

POLY MARAUDERS | HEROES IN TATTOOS PRT.7

07 : APOLOGIES & COMFORT

CHPT. SUM. : sirius and remus are both very stubborn and need you to help them make amends, thankfully james is there

REQUEST. : could i request a hurt/comfort blurb with poly!marauders in the heroes in tattoos series where r is having really bad cramps and they comfort her- maybe when they're busy with clients and she doesn't want to disturb them but they notice? - requested by an anon (i had to make some tweaks, i hope you don't mind, my darling)

TAGS. : modern au, muggle au, tattoo artist!sirius black ; tattoo artist!james potter ; piercer!remus lupin ; hurt/comfort ; fluff ; mvp james ; james becomes a menace though so is he really the mvp? ; wolfstar fluff ; making up ; reader is also an mvp ; accidents happen ; period things~ ; remus is on the brink ; somebody save this man! ; no! somebody save reader from this man! ; assumes that reader does not take medication to regulate her periods ; assumes that reader wears sanitary pads for her periods

LENGTH : 4.3k

← PREV. : 06 | SELFISH DESIRES | SERIES M.LIST

“Sirius…” Remus sighs as he sits across from you and the man in question. 

“If you have a problem, I hope you know that I don’t care,” you feel the tattooist smirk against your temple as he presses another searing kiss into your skin. The tension from the room hasn’t fully dissipated yet, however, most of the fiction was swept aside leaving the air clear enough for a more civil conversation. 

With Sirius’ insistence, you were left no choice but to sit in his lap as Remus sits across from you. This left James to sit all on his lonesome, occupying the grandfather chair to your left as a warm smile reveals his asymmetrical dimple, directed solely at you. 

Remus groans in frustration and stands to his full height in order to pull his sleeveless sweater off. Sirius peppers light kisses along the column of your neck but it isn’t quite enough to distract you from the image of Remus undoing the top buttons of his button-up shirt nor the way he rolls up the sleeves to his elbows - a weak attempt at trying to cool down from the heat of the previous encounter. 

You’re tempted to look down once again but are too embarrassed to do so; the images that pervade your mind are too inappropriate and they taint the gentle and kind image you have of Remus… Although, maybe that isn’t too bad. A gentle giant masking an indelicate second face was quite attractive in your eyes. Maybe he’ll finally suit the rouge-ish image that comes to mind when you take in his many tattoos, which were often suppressed by his soft, dark academia-inspired fashion. 

Massaging away some of the tension in his taut wrists, his large and veiny hands on full display, Remus sits back down with a frown, “This is a fucking mess—”

“—you’re a fucking mess,” Sirius shoots back, a mischievous hint in his tone as the heat in your cheeks continue to increase until you’re positive you have steam steadily rising out of your ears. 

“This is serious, Sirius,” Remus calls his name almost mockingly and the icy stare Sirius sends him in return is so icy you feel the chill run down your spine without having to look. 

“Oh, I am serious, don’t you know who I am?” before the tension could rise to dangerous levels again, you launch yourself off of Sirius’ lap, willing the butterflies from your stomach away and suppressing all imagery of the affection Sirius was just drowning you. It was his attempt at distracting you from the tense situation but you’re fed up of it now. It also breaks your heart seeing them like this when you know their true affections for one another.  

“That’s enough!” you stand as strong as the finality ringing in your statement, “you two need to make up!” Remus and Sirius face the point of your accusing finger with disgruntled expressions, “I thought you two loved each other,” your disappointed tone makes their shoulders sag in shame and their eyes avoid one another’s. 

“Dove, please—”

“—Listen…” the careful intonation in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed and wills them to hear you out with care, lips sealed shut, “you were both right — you both had good reason to act the way you did and I can’t blame either of you for wanting to steer things into a certain direction but I’m also to blame for this, okay? I was horrible at communicating my true emotions and that led to a lot of unnecessary heartache on both sides,” with a deep breath, you establish your resolve, “can’t we all just make up and move forward together?” everyone in the room knows that when you said ‘we’, what you really meant was just Remus and Sirius. 

James has been an absolute angel throughout all of this, collateral damage to their bickering and unloving behaviour towards each other; stuck between a rock and a hard place. You only have sympathy for him being caught up in the middle of it all.  

“Dove, it’s not—”

You swiftly interrupt, “I love all of you,” your confession makes them all stutter and flush pink in the cheeks. It’s an image that makes you smile warmly just before insecurity creeps over and your smile turns shy, “don’t… don’t you love me too?…” it was now clear in their actions that they reciprocated your romantic affections and so you weren’t wrong to assume that they wanted you to take part in their relationship…right?

The drawn out silence that followed was too much for you to bear. Even after taking some of the blame off their shoulders and confessing your love, they were still too stubborn to admit their wrongs and make up. Huffing, you make your disappointment and frustrations known with a deep frown, thoroughly concealing your heartache from their silence .

“We just need—” Sirius finally begins, stubborn as ever, only to be glared at harshly by both, Remus and James. This was not the right time for excuses. You had just worded your true feelings for them and they needed to reciprocate in kind. But those words were hard to come by, the timing for a confession also wasn’t ideal for the moment. Then again, when would it ever be. They’ve all just proven how incompetent they were at emotions despite being in such a loving relationship, and yet, you were still willing to accept and be with them romantically. The words they have for you reached beyond that of just love; they were also grateful, astonished and embarrassed for their incompetence. 

“I love you too, angel, so so much,” James finally speaks up, eyes bright and his smile warm with his adoration of you. He ignores the high tension in the room, eyes fixed solely on you as he glowed like the summer sun but he doesn’t reach out for you in any way, he simply sits and admires. Admires how beautiful you look, admires how strong you are, admires how loving and sweet you remain despite all the trouble and anguish they’ve put you through.  

You feel the world disappear around you and narrow your focus onto the only person you were grateful for in the room at that moment. Year heart pounds with warmth and devotion and all you want to do is be close to him. Helping yourself into James’ lap, you smile up at the bewildered look on this handsome face, “Oh James, you’re my only saving grace,”

James smiles at your words as his arms wrap around your waist, securing you in place, “yeah?” his voice is a faint whisper and airy with his adoration for you. 

“Yeah,” reaching up, your arms wrap around his neck and pull him close so you can press your face under his chin. Behind you, you feel the baffled attention of Sirius and Remus, “how about I feed you some lunch again? Like we always used to do?”

Without waiting for an answer, you lean over to swipe up one of your lunch containers and proceed to feed him, completely ignoring the grumbling and whining emitting from Sirius and Remus. 

“I like your thinking, angel,” James giggles adorably and happily accepts your affections as the two of you silently agree to ignore the other two until they make up. In the mean time, you’ll enjoy each other’s company in your own little bubble of love. 

“How does it taste?” you ask sweetly, blatantly ignoring Remus and Sirius, sitting side-ways on James’ lap but keeping your full attention on him. 

“Delicious! More than delicious!” James exaggerates and basks in the bell-like giggles he draws from you, he doesn’t want the sound to ever stop, “You’re always such a great cook, angel!”

“I made it all with love, just for you, Jamie~”

He hums low and appreciative, “I’m so fucking lucky, aren’t I?” 

As you continue to feed him, James takes the opportunity to look over your shoulder and smirk at the miserable faces of his two lovers. They know they deserved this unfair treatment. They also know that, to remedy it, all they have to do is abandon their pride and apologise, which is always worth it when your love is on the line — it should be easy for them. All things considered, this was just light punishment.

Faced with only one solution, Remus and Sirius turn to each other. Sirius still grumbles under his breath as Remus sighs. The brunette accepts that it was entirely his fault for pushing Sirius to suppress his natural way of loving just for his own personal fear that things would turn out horribly, otherwise. And judging from the way Sirius avoids his eyes and continues to whine, Remus knows it’s up to him to make amends. 

‘But it’s not so bad’, Remus smiles to himself; seeing one of his beloved partners grumpy and stubborn was oddly charming. And now that most of the conflict has dissolved, Remus had no other reason to hold back an apology other than for his own personal pride. 

Making his way over, Remus kneels down beside his grumbling lover and whispers his name affectionately, “Sirius,” Remus waits, patient and unhurried, until his beloved in question finally looks at him. As soon as they meet eyes, Remus is left thinking the same devoted thought he’s always had when drowning in his boyfriend’s diamond-grey eyes, ‘how did I get so lucky?’ which is then quickly followed by a guilty, ‘why did I ever let it get this far?’

“Remus,” 

“I’m sorry,” the piercer doesn’t wait for a response and, almost desperately, leans up to capture Sirius’ lips. The kiss is filled with emotions, a mix of sincerity, love and forgiveness. The sentiments were so keen they almost smother the murmured, unspoken words on Sirius’ tongue, “what was that, love?” Remus asks against his lover’s lips, unable to pull away fully. He missed this…

“I’m sorry too…”

It was a unanimous decision to have you spend the night at the boys’ shared flat. They’ve been kept away from you for too long and tonight they wanted to make up for lost time. High on emotions and desperately missing their presence in your life too, you agree as long as you dropped by your place first for a change of clothes. But not before having Remus and Sirius apologise to James for their neglect of him. 

“You know, we really are so happy to have you in our lives, dollface,” Sirius utters, leaving feathery kisses on your lips as he pushes the door to their flat open whilst carrying your duffle bag for you. He was kind enough to take you to and from your flat on his motorcycle just for the quick collection of your night time essentials. 

“I’m happy you’re in my life too, Siri,” the situation has finally dawned on you but you still can’t believe the events that have lead you to this very moment. 

“Stop hogging her, Padfoot!” James whines, sweeping you off your feet and hurrying to the living room with you in his arms. Once there, he sits you on his lap triumphantly, “Aha! You’re finally mine!” he cheers and attacks your neck with a flourish of kisses, tickling you and infecting the air with your melodic giggles. 

“Now you’re hogging her Prongs, stop being a hypocrite!” Sirius pants lightly after rushing to the scene from the hallway, a grin plastered on his lips despite his accusing words. 

From the kitchen, Remus smiles to himself at the sounds of merriment in the air and continues to cook dinner. 

This is how it should be…

Remus wanted to sort the conflict with Sirius out more, so he insisted that you spend the night in James’ bed which you happily agree shyly, James grinning widely at your side. All three of you agree as Sirius whines and makes adorable grabbing motions at you but it’s no use as Remus keeps the tattooist pressed tightly against his side, dragging him off and trapping him in his room for the night. The sight made you giggle but it was a brief reprieve from the anxious nerves that soon had you avoiding James’ eyes. 

“You’re so cute,” James whispers affectionately at your shy behaviour, resisting the urge to kiss you as he leads you to his room and gestures to his en suite, “you can change in there, beautiful, I can change out here and brush my teeth at the kitchen sink instead,” 

With a small smile, you move past him with your duffle, eager to get ready for bed but squeal in surprise when you feel a teasing pinch at your ass. An explosion of heat blooms across your cheeks when you glance over your shoulder and observe James’ sly wink and devious smirk directed at you. 

“James—!”

“Angel with a cutest ass, aren’t I a lucky bastard?” he chuckles and presses a devoted, almost possessive, kiss onto your lips, “I never did say thank you for making those two apologise to me,” he purrs and nips at your bottom lip, “you make me feel seen…god, I love you so much,” you squeak into the fierce kiss that follows, almost losing yourself in the embrace but pry yourself away with a squeal when his hands travel too low and squeeze greedily at your ass. 

You rush into the bathroom with butterflies in your stomach as James licks his lips and laughs merrily. He’s come to love teasing you and you didn’t know whether to argue or welcome it with open arms. Shaking the thoughts out of your head, you move on to change into your pyjamas - an oversized shirt and shorts - before proceeding with your night time skincare routine. For a moment, you contemplated taking a shower but rule against it, not wanting to prolong your night time routine. No more than fifteen minutes later, you were out of the en suite bathroom feeling refreshed and ready for bed but giggle at the sight of James already tucked under the covers. He looks so cosy and innocent, it almost makes you forget about his devious behaviour earlier on. 

“All ready?” James asks with his usual boyish grin and sits up, allowing the covers to drop from his chest, at which point you quickly realise that James is a liar. He didn’t need to change into anything! All he did was take off his shirt and he was all set for bed! “I changed into comfier pyjama pants, though,” he argues lightly as you slip into the right side of the bed. 

“That’s just half changing!” your retort has him laughing aloud, your flustered state beyond amusing and incredibly adorable in his eyes.

“Am I making you shy, princess?~”

“…No,”  

“Oh yes I am~”

“Go to sleep, James,”

“Not without a goodnight kiss from my angel,” he leans over you with his naked chest on full display and you stutter in embarrassment, “don’t be shy, come and give me a fat smooch~” he puckers his lips above you and awaits your compliance with closed eyes. 

“James—”

“I’m a very patient man, darling, I can do this all night long,”

“No you’re not,”

“Yes I am,”

“You’re not,”

“I am,”

“Not!”

He finally peaks an eye open. Then slowly opens both eyes as he un-puckers his lips to smirk down at you, caged in between his muscular arms as he props himself up with his elbows, “You just like staring at my beautifully muscular chest don’t you?” you watch as his ego inflates to dangerous levels right in front of you, “My tattoos turn you on too, angel?~”

“Oh for goodness sake!” you finally relent and lean upwards, your smile matching his own when you finally capture his lips in his much desired, goodnight kiss. With one arm holding himself up, James uses his spare hand to hold your face in place, prolonging the kiss. You have no choice but to accept his needy demands as your hand searches his bedside table for his lamp switch. 

Morning comes with you groaning in discomfort as a syrupy wetness coats your inner thighs and painful pangs make you want to curl up into a ball. Your bleary morning fog makes the situation difficult to decipher but the realisation soon comes crashing down like a landslide and you lift the covers with a scream, the scent of iron becoming more potent. Beside you, James jumps awake, fully alert as his worried, hazel eyes scan you, trying to discern what may be the problem. 

“What’s wrong, angel?” he asks, voice deep and groggy with sleep but dripping in concern.

“James, I’m so sorry,” you sob into your hands  and curl up into yourself, hiding your face away from him. 

“What do you mean?” he reaches forward, inching closer to you in the process and quickly realising what’s wrong when he feels an unusual wetness seep through his thin pyjama pants, “oh angel, don’t be upset, it’s okay,” he coos, gently prying your hands away from your face so he can kiss your forehead tenderly, “it’s normal. Are you okay?” he asks softly, looking over you without an ounce of judgement or anger on his face, only concern and soft, kind, heart-fluttering love in his eyes. 

“Th-the blood—”

“I don’t care about the blood,” he insists gently, “I just want to make sure that you’re okay,” you remain silent from the embarrassment but he’s understanding, “do you want me to get you some painkillers?”

As soon as you give an affirming nod, he’s out of bed and hurrying down the hall. It doesn’t take very long for him to come back to you, a glass of water in one hand and a pack of painkillers in the other. 

“Thank you,” you finally utter with a small smile, still upset at having ruined the sheets but so incredibly grateful for his tolerance. Patiently, he waits for you to take your dosage before he’s sweeping you up in his arms and carrying you into his en suite. 

“Get cleaned up, angel,” he voices into you hair before placing you back on your feet, “I’ll change the sheets in the mean time,” he leaves you with a kiss before you could utter another word of apology. He wasn’t going to take it, he made that very clear, because it wasn’t your fault. And it was nothing a little oxi stain remover couldn’t fix. 

The start to the day wasn’t ideal but James, Remus and Sirius made one of the most agonising and frustrating times of the month for you much more enjoyable. James woke his two lovers up while you were showering in his bathroom, thanking your lucky stars that you bought a spare change of clothes just in case you wanted to shower, and they all made the effort of getting you comfortable. 

James changed his bedsheets and laid a dark coloured towel down for you to lay on top of just to catch any more potential leakage. He made sure you didn’t see his bloodied sheets again too so that you wouldn’t continue feeling guilty and happily took care of the stains away from your line of sight. Sirius worked on breakfast as Remus made you some tea and a hot water bottle and, before James steps out of the flat to buy you period pads, you hear Remus call out helpfully, “look for the long, heavy flow pads and make sure to get the ones with wings,” their thoughtfulness makes you smile. 

“How did you know to get these ones?” you ask when James comes back, panting as he hands you the pack of pads through the door of his en suite. 

“Remus told me, and I heard girls experience heavier flows on the first few days,” his answer draws out a proud smile. You have no doubt you’d be well taken care of in this relationship, though it does make you bashful. 

“Thank you, James,” 

For breakfast Sirius cooked you french toast with strawberries and honey, apparently it was the only good thing he could cook. Remus balanced the sweetness of the meal out with some eggs and toast, while James brought over the tea and hot water bottle Remus had also prepared. Breakfast was pleasant but they boys were insistent that you stay in James’ bed and call if you needed anything. As much as they wanted to spend the full day right by your side, they were preparing to make the announcement of returning their business into full operations and were still taking calls and responding to client emails at home. You didn’t argue, you knew the shop was important to them so you didn’t want to be a burden. 

The day drags by and you know they’ve made it clear that you could freely call out to them whenever but the hours drag by and they haven’t heard a single peep. They didn’t mean to lose their full attention in their work; it’s been so long since they were last filled with the motivation to keep up with their business that emails and paperwork on equipment orders had piled up significantly so they were swamped. Thankfully they were finally inspired enough that the work didn’t feel laborious. Unfortunately, that meant seeing them in their element though James’ open doorway and shying away from redirecting their attention back to you. 

It wasn’t until you willed yourself to walk to their kitchen that you finally caught their attention. All phone calls, email responses and paperwork filing was stopped as soon as you stepped into their line of sight when your craving for a snack became too much. They had gone for a quick shop to buy you an array of snacks from sweet to savoury that morning and had left the bag on their kitchen counter. You were just reaching for the bag when Remus caught your wrist and swept you up into his arms in order to carry you back into James’ bed. 

All three of them felt incredibly guilty for having neglected you, unintentional or not, they even neglected themselves in the process by prioritising their work and forgetting about lunch. In Remus’ head, everything circled back to the night before as a chain of linked events. As you laid in bed, curled up and nibbling on a chocolate bar, you watch and listen as Remus scolds the two about how, if the outburst didn’t happen, they wouldn’t have asked you to stay the night, you wouldn’t have agreed and you wouldn’t have had to suffer from their incompetent care. Remus was being too hard on himself, which reflected directly onto Sirius and James.

“This is why I said we needed to be careful and. To. Be. Patient,” Remus snarls under his breath, almost growling at Sirius and James who stand at the foot of the bed. James nods with a disappointed sigh as Sirius crosses his arms and huffs in defiance. They’re developing a bad habit of speaking about you when you’re still in the same room but, at least, it means their thoughts are open to you.

“I didn’t see you complain when you watched James and I practically devouring her sweet little mouth yesterday,” Sirius’ challenging comment makes the tips of James’s ears turn visibly pink as an embarrassing heat climbs up your neck to bloom across the apples of your cheeks. Interestingly, James can barks and bites to his heart’s content with you but if anybody else brings it up, it seems that bashfulness isn’t far behind. 

Remus shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, “don’t start now, Sirius—”  

“—I-I don’t mind, we’re all learning to love together and I know how important the tattoo parlour is to all of you so I really don’t mind…” you interrupt their bickering with flushed cheeks and shy eyes, unprepared for the reaction you would receive. 

Remus snaps his full attention towards you in that moment. Your words were innocent and you look the picture of virtue, shy and sweet as you peer up at them with glittering doe eyes and a small smile. Remus doesn’t think anybody else could be more beautiful than you right now. You appreciate his passions, you support it even, you’re understanding, you’re kind, you’re loving, you’re sweet and you’re so incredibly lovable, he wants to keep you away from the rest of the world forever, selfishly keeping you for himself. He wonders if you know how much of a tease you’ve been to him this whole, working him up over and over and over again until he finally snaps.  

Morals and patience be damned — he can’t resist you anymore. 

Remus’ face carries an unreadable expression as he gives a slow exhale and strides over to you. Sirius and James watch from where they stood, unmoving but with sly smiles on their lips — they know you’re the perfect image of Remus’ weaknesses bundled into one being and they both knew this was coming. It was about time… they applaud him though, he has more patience than them — but he had more desires too. 

It all happens too fast for you to register but Remus was quickly looming over you, propped up by a hand on the bed as his other gripped at your chin. His eyes were piercing and held such promise within them, un-breaking and passionate, that you couldn’t look away. 

“Don’t tempt me, beautiful girl,” his voice lowers several octaves and is underpinned by a hypnotising vibration that corrupts your limbs with minor tremors and a ferocious heat. Shamelessly, he captures your lips in a soft and tender kiss, an antithesis to the dark gleam in his feral eyes, “I’m not above making a mess in the bedroom,” you gasp at the implication and, for a moment, your cramps become pleasantly arousing. Again, Remus can’t help but hold your lips hostage in an increasingly impassioned embrace. He greedily eats up your pretty moans, the muffled sounds going straight to his groin and making his smart trousers uncomfortably tight — a prickling warning to his precarious conduct, “so be a good girl and sit pretty until after you get over this, okay?” he utters roughly against your lips. 

He’ll wait just a little bit longer…it’ll be worth it.

NAVI. | SERIES M.LIST | NEXT : ... →

A/N : goodness me, this was so much harder to write than previous chapters, i kept changing so many things but i think i'm satisfied with the final product, i hope you darlings do too~ the next chapter will be a pretty big one i think, so i won't be posting it for a while, however, i may post short additional imagines/scenarios for this series that don't necessarily follow the chronological order just to satiate some of you XD anywho~ i hope you darlings enjoyed this chapter and look forward to the next one

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[theminecraftbee]

before EXACTLY TODAY i was like "you know the stellar bodies imagery for the winners isn't super my thing, i get why people are into it but it always seems kind of forced and like a weird cause of fandom arguments". then i saw someone suggest cleo as pluto and i will now die for this symbolism. i get it. pluto, distant not-quite-actually-a-planet, the winner who doesn't really fit in with the rest. pluto, who wears its heart on its sleeve, the most notable thing you see in images of it. pluto, icy and distant and seemingly unapproachable. pluto, the god of death. pluto, the planet of destruction and then rebirth. pluto, which i also associate with time because i'm a sailor moon fan and i'm allowed to bring in "i think cleo would make a fantastic sailor pluto" if i want to. cleo is pluto and i love this for them,

[aurorawritestoescape]

BAD BLOOD - Part II

Pairing: step uncle Joel Miller x f!reader x stepdad Tommy Miller

Summary: your step uncle Joel visits you in your bedroom and then you have a chat with your stepdad Tommy.

Tw: +18, mdni, smut, step-cest, big age gap (reader is 22, Joel and Tommy are in their late and mid-40s), everyone is still horrible, perv!Joel, dark!Joel, dark!reader, darkish!Tommy, slight somno, m/f!masturbation, fingering, cum eating, degradation, tiny bit of praise kink, daddy kink, blackmail, that chin caress but make it filthy, swearing

Word count: 3,5k

A/n: thank you for giving pt 1 such a warm welcome❤️ special thank you for your comments and rbs- your kind words mean the world to me🫶 I hope you’ll like this one!😘

Series masterlist || Part I || MASTERLIST

*******

You wake up feeling a hand on the back of your thigh. You’re lying on your stomach, legs tangled in the blanket. The hand slides down, caresses the back of your knee, then trails up your thigh again, reaching your ass. You feel strong fingers squeeze your ass cheek over your skirt. Still half asleep you imagine a faceless man lying on top of you and piercing you with his cock. You bite your lower lip, while bliss and arousal are spreading all over your body. In your mind the stranger turns into your stepdad and you slightly push your ass out into the hand with a soft moan.

“Naughty girl,” you hear a gruff voice and immediately open your eyes and turn on your back. Your heart is ready to pop out of your chest when you see Joel, your step uncle, sitting on the bed next to you and watching you.

He’s wearing a tight-fitting gray henley and dark blue jeans. His muscles are bulging under the sleeves and a lot of his chest is showing. He looks annoyingly hot.

“The hell are you doing here?" you rasp, covering your thighs with the blanket and straightening your top. You remember you don't have any panties on and squirm under Joel's intent stare.

"Just checkin' on you. Wanted to make sure you got home safely yesterday," he says as his gaze slides over every exposed inch of your body.

"Cut the crap, Joel. I felt you groping me in my sleep," you grumble furrowing your brows at him, "I know you're a scumbag but you still manage to surprise me."

He smiles at you, his eyes dark and icy, "Don't act like a fucking prude all of a sudden, angel. Tommy told me how big of a slut you were."

"Oh, so now you're gonna lecture me on the importance of celibacy or something?" you giggle rubbing your sleepy eyes.

"Not before I fuck you, sweetheart," he replies and the air in the room gets heavy.

You don’t wanna laugh anymore, your pussy tingles and you squeeze your thighs together. Joel notices the movement under the blanket and smirks,

“Need something, angel? Maybe this?” he turns away from you and reaches for something on the bed. When he faces you again you see your vibrator in his hand.

“Give it to me, Joel,” you stretch your arm and open your hand waiting.

“Is it better than a real man?” Joel asks, leaving your words without attention.

“Less annoying for sure.”

“You think of your stepdad when you torture your clit with this?” his gaze pierces you as he’s rubbing the toy with his thumb.

“Fuck off, Joel,” you spit out at him and he smiles, the emotion not reaching his eyes. “Where’s he by the way? Tommy,” you ask, chewing on your lower lip.

“Don’t know. Haven’t seen him since yesterday. You scared him shitless with your ‘yes, daddy’, ‘bye, daddy,’” Joel makes his voice higher, imitating you and you roll your eyes, “he left the bar soon after you. Probably fucked his fist at Walmart’s parking lot, poor guy.”

Joel laughs and you smile dreamily imagining Tommy jacking off to the thought of you. The imagery makes you space out for a moment until you hear Joel’s murmur, “Thinking of daddy’s cock, angel?”

You scoff and bite back, “What about you, old man? You got all riled up too yesterday. Were drooling like a hungry dog all over me.”

“Come on, sweetheart, you can’t blame me, when all your skirts look more like belts,” he returns his gaze to the part of your legs not covered by the blanket and licks his lower lip.

You can’t help but glance at your toy in his big hands. What if he uses it on you? Just this thought makes your core warm and tingly.

“Can I have it?” You sit up reaching for the vibe but he pulls his hand away and you grab air instead. Your chest is pressed to his shoulder now and the mixture of his cologne and sweat makes you gush. Your desire blooms and gets overwhelming.

His gaze slides from your eyes to your lips and chest. You glance down noticing your perked up nipples visible under the top and look back at him not hiding away,

“Like what you see, Joel? How about you show me what a real man can do for me?” you purr while your hand snakes to his thigh and trails up closer to his bulge. He grunts and pushes you back down on the bed with his hand splayed on your chest.

He tosses your toy away. “Open up, angel,” he says with a calm yet stern tone. You hesitate for a second, your heart is pounding, and he raises his brows as a signal to hurry up.

You pull away the blanket and slowly bend the leg that’s further from him. Your skirt slides off your thighs and he takes a deep breath when he sees your wet folds.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts reaching for his belt. He unbuckles it with one hand and unzips his jeans. Your eyes follow his every move, hungry and desperate for anything this perv gives you. He tugs down his boxers and lets the band stay under his big balls.

You see his cock as he takes it out and you grunt through your teeth realizing that you’re fucked. Whatever power he’s had over you by now triples when you see what he’s packing. His cock is thick and long, more gorgeous than anything you’ve seen, both in real life and in porn. Two thick veins on the shaft are calling for your tongue. You desperately want to trace them and take that angry fat head to the deepest part of your throat. You want his cock in every hole you possess.

You lock eyes with him and see him smiling proudly,

“Like what you see, angel?”

Holding his dick in his big veiny hand Joel looks back at your desperate pussy and his warm palm glides up your thigh. He pushes your skirt completely out of the way and grazes your shiny seam with his knuckles. You feel a slight pressure on your clit and take a shaky breath.

“Pretty pussy,” he mumbles, “not the prettiest I’ve seen but she’ll do.”

“Asshole,” you whimper watching his thumb and index finger spread your folds.

Joel whistles. “Have you been this wet the whole time? Dripping on the sheets and talking to me? Naughty girl.”

His cock is fully hard now and he’s slowly stroking it. The sight of it along with his gentle touches send a new surge of arousal to your center and your wetness beads at your entrance and slides down toward your asshole.

Joel catches it with his thumb and brings it to your clit before gently rubbing it.

“Fuck, you’re such a slut, letting your uncle do this to you,” he murmurs pleasuring you and himself.

“Step.. uncle,” you moan, fluttering your eyes shut and arching your back.

The degradation, the depravity of what you two are doing make your pussy clench around nothing over and over and you open your blown eyes desperately looking at his weeping cock.

He notices your hunger and asks motioning to his member, “Want it, angel?”

You nod but it’s not enough for him.

“Say - ‘please, give me your cock, uncle.”

You whine scrunching your nose and his hand leaves your pussy and rests on your belly.

“You’re not my uncle,” you whine, bucking your hips in search of his hand.

“Let’s try again. ‘Please, give me your cock, uncle’.”

Not being able to contain yourself any longer you repeat it through gritted teeth and he tuts, “that’s not how good girls ask. I know you’re far from that title but you can act like one. I saw you do it in front of Tommy. Was cute.” While he’s talking to you his palm is rubbing your mound making you squirm while your pussy’s throbbing for him.

“You’re disgusting.”

He chuckles, torturing you without shame.

You look up at the ceiling feeling anger boiling up in your gut, but your pussy aches more and more and you want him inside you so badly you might cry.

“Give me your cock, uncle, please”, you mewl and his mouth twists into a smirk, your humiliation creates wrinkles around his eyes.

“Good girl,” he praises you sarcastically and leans down to your face. You put your palms on his biceps and he kisses the tip of your nose. His facial hair tickles you, his breath smells of cigarettes and beer.

“I’ll give you my cock when you keep your end of the deal, little slut. And after I’m done with you, ya gonna be so desperate for more, you’ll drag your cute ass to Austin following me like a stray dog.”

You wince ready to snap back at him but suddenly he grabs your pussy and pushes a thick finger into your hole. You gasp and lift your hips into his hand with a whimper.

Joel starts pushing his digit in and out of you, quickly adding the second one and your soaked pussy squelches with every pump of his hand.

“Listen to this sloppy cunt. She wants a nice juicy cock. Or maybe two cocks, angel? Will you take mine and my brother’s dick at the same time?”

You mewl as the image of your stepdad and step uncle ruining your pussy flashes in your mind. The third finger slides in and Joel sits up watching the pleasure twist your face and ripple through your body. Then he starts shaking his hand pushing on the spongy spot inside you with the pads of his fingers as the heel of his palm is hitting your clit at the same time. Your whole body is shaking and a loud moan leaves your lips. He quiets you, covering your mouth with his big hand,

“Shhh, angel…, you’ll scream for me but not today..need you to be quiet…or your daddy will get jealous.”

His words tip you over the edge and you cry into his hot palm, sound muffled and desperate. He’s fucking his fingers into you while you shiver and tremble clumping around his thick digits.

“Yeah, just like that, my little slut,” he whispers, talking you through your high and drinking in your ecstasy.

When your climax subsides, his hands leave your mouth and pussy and not granting you a respite he grabs you by the arm and pulls you up.

You stand up on weak legs and Joel slides his hand through your wet folds. You whine with overstimulation while he gathers your creamy cum. He spreads it over his cock and pushes you to your knees.

You kneel between his thighs, ready to please him and give him the sloppiest head. His throbbing cock is bobbing in front of your face and your hand darts to take it from him but he slaps it away groaning, “Hands off, slut. You don’t deserve it yet. Show me your tits.”

Your anger rises up again and you glare up at him sitting back on your heels. No one has ever said ‘no’ to a dick sucking from you. You still follow his command, yanking your top down and exposing your breasts. “Good girl,” he praises you, starting vigorously pumping his cock and panting heavily, “Gonna come on your pretty face. Want my cum, angel?”

“Yes,” you mumble, mesmerized by his fingers gliding along the thick shaft and over the tip.

“‘course you do, cock hungry slut!” he hisses, grabbing you by the back of your neck and pulling your face closer to his length.

It takes a few more strokes and he curses and begins shooting the ropes of cum over your mouth, nose, chin and cheeks. You lick the bitter liquid off your lips staring up into his half lidded eyes.

When he stops coming he doesn’t let go of your hair. Still holding you close between his legs Joel starts spreading his cum all over your face. You take a sharp breath and close your eyes hastily as his hand covers every inch of your skin with his milky spend.

“Joel,” is the only thing you could utter, and the humiliation makes your pussy tingle again.

You carefully flutter your eyes open as his index finger and thumb slide down your jaw, caressing your chin. “Much better” he comments, looking down at you with a smirk. Then he wipes his hand on your bedsheet and gets up. You’re watching with your mouth agape as he tucks his cock back into his jeans, pats your head and leaves your bedroom.

***

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Tommy..” Tomorrow morning my ass! You curse yourself inwardly for telling Tommy that you’d see him the next day wearing his favorite pjs. Of course the fucking weasel left the house as soon as he could to avoid meeting you.

You were so excited to inform him that he would get to fuck his hot stepdaughter and now you’re in the house all alone. Joel left as soon as he came all over your face and your mom is out too probably with Tommy.

Jealousy and anger are eating you alive, you hate them and yourself. On top of everything you are horny. You replay the images of Joel’s hand on your pussy, his fingers stretching your little hole over and over again. You watch a couple of stepcest porn videos imagining Tommy and Joel in place of the actors, listen to the bar recording and come a few times on the couch in the living room - on Tommy’s favourite spot. You don’t clean your creamy slick off the couch after yourself, wishing he’ll notice it.

The sun sets and it gets dark but you don’t turn the lights on in your room. You're lying on your bed, waiting for Tommy to return. You nearly fall asleep a few times but you’ve decided to talk to him today so you slap your cheek to wake yourself up and continue waiting.

Just around midnight you hear a car driving up the street. You glance out of the window and see Tommy's car pulling up the driveway. Excitement and anticipation make your stomach flutter but the happy moment blows out like a balloon when you see your mom getting out of the car as well.

Disappointment twists your face shifting into rage and you grind your teeth.

They enter the house and you hear Jess laughing loudly. “Drunk bitch,” you think and jealousy returns in full force.

They go upstairs and head to the master bedroom. You hear nothing for a while and then the sound of a shower starting. You sneak up to the bedroom and peek through the door.

Tommy’s standing at the foot of the bed taking his shirt off, revealing a white tee underneath which is strained by his broad shoulders and muscular back. His arms look massive as he’s been working out a lot recently. His butt also looks perfect in his dark sweatpants. You drive away your horny thoughts and decide to act while your mom is taking a shower.

You walk into the room, your steps muffled by the carpet and glance at the closed bathroom door.

Knowing Jess you have 15-20 min. You come up to Tommy from behind and snake your hands around his big torso.

“Out already?” He asks, apparently mistaking you for his wife and you smile when he lets you hug him. You nuzzle your face against his nape breathing in the piney scent of his soft hair.

Tommy puts his hands over your forearms and only then realizes his mistake. He turns around rapidly, pushing you away.

“Fuck! What’re you doing?” he hisses as his eyes dart nervously between your face and the bathroom door.

“We need to talk, daddy. Been waiting for you all day,” you pout fumbling with the hem of your silky pj shorts. The ones he likes.

“The hell you’re calling me daddy for?” he asks and shakes his head. “I can’t. We shouldn’t,” he mumbles hurriedly, “let’s talk tomorrow, ok?” He grabs your arm and tries to lead you to the door but you plant your feet on the floor and don’t barge.

Instead you pull him closer to you by the hem of his shirt and open your hand showing him an earbud.

“Sit for a second and listen to this,” you motion to the bed with a warm smile, “please, It won’t take long.” He's glaring down at you, his lips pressed in a tight line.

Slow so as not to spook him you raise your hand to his head and put in the earbud. Still clutching his tee with one hand you take your phone out of your hoodie and play a recording. The recording.

The moment it starts playing his expression changes. His eyes get wide, plush lips part. You drink in his fear and gush seeing him listen to the filthy things he said about you. His eyes are looking through you, concentrated on the dialogue in his ear.

Suddenly his hand darts to your phone, and he commands, “Give it to me!” You’ve expected it so you hide the phone behind your back but he’s reaching for it pushing you with his torso and making you stumble backwards. Your back hits the dresser and his hand clasps your wrist, his face inches from yours, “Give me the phone!”

You look up at him with defiance and say, “Even if you delete it off my phone, it’s in the cloud, daddy!”

You know well that these old men know nothing about the cloud and you see with satisfaction the way his face falls.

You’re enjoying yourself too much. He’s crowding you against the dresser practically hugging you into his strong body. His size, his strength, his scent overtake any sense you have and you buck your hips into him with a whimper. You feel a hard shape of his cock against your lower belly and your heart sings at the realization you’ve given it to him. As if burnt Tommy pulls away from you, his fury replaced by fear. You take a deep breath collecting yourself as you don’t have much time.

“Relax. Take a seat,” you coo, stepping up to him and pulling the earbud out. You push him towards the bed and he obediently sits on its edge, eyes downcast.

You use his shock as a distraction and stand between his knees. Then you carefully perch your ass on his thigh and wrap your arm around his neck, placing the other on his chest. He glances up at you, asking quietly, “what do you want to do with it?”

You feel his stiff length with the side of your thigh, and purr smiling, “it’s a great audio, right? I listened to it twice yesterday. First time live in the bar bathroom…and then again later on my big pink bed. I came so hard listening to you talk about my tight pussy…” you nuzzle his cheek and he flinches but doesn’t push you away. His mustache tickles your face and you giggle.

You bring your lips to his ear and whisper, “I want it too, daddy. I need a real man. And those silly boys…they can’t give me what I want.” Your lips graze the shell of his ear and he shudders. He puts his hand on your naked thigh and for a moment you’re scared he’s going to push you off his lap but instead he gives it a light squeeze.

You're soaking your shorts and probably his sweatpants and moan into his ear, “I…I wanna be loved, Tommy. And I feel loved only sitting on a nice fat cock. You have a perfect one, daddy. And you’re so caring and sweet. Fuck me and I’ll delete your confession. Mom will never know how much you want this,” you look down and he drops his head as well watching your fingers move your shorts to the side exposing your wet pussy. Tommy breathes in sharply and curses. You slide your middle finger between your folds and swirl it around your pulsing clit as the other hand clasps his shoulder, “Just a sneak peek, daddy,” you whimper softly. “And a little taste,” you add, leaving your aching pussy and raising your hand. You show him your middle finger, shiny with your slick and bring it closer to his lips.

Tommy looks at it, eyes dark and hungry under the furrowed brows, glances up at you and mumbles, “you’re sick.”

You shrug your shoulders not putting the finger away. You wait. A gasp leaves your parted mouth when he takes the tip of your finger between his lips and you feel his tongue dance around it licking off your juices. His cock twitches and pulses against your naked thigh and you squirm on his lap, desperate for any pressure.

With a sigh you remind yourself that your time is almost up so you pull your finger out, peck the corner of his mouth and whisper, “I’ll text you the details.” With that you get up, walk to the door and leave just in time before the water stops.

*********

Thank you for reading!💖

Comments and reblogs will make me very happy!💕

Part III

General tag list: @nervousmumbling @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist

Tag list for the series: @milla-frenchy @missannwinchester @koshkaj-blog @survivingandenduring @nana90azevedo @mermaidgirl30 @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @obscurexsorrows @tammythr @cherriescream

If you want to be tagged for this mini series or everything else of mine please let me know!❤️

[bits-and-babs]

Your fics are amazing! Would you ever write about König?

𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐃 — 𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆

synopsis : rumours of an elite soldier have the base reeling. murmurings of 'monster' and 'freak'. what happens when you come face to face with the beast, only to find he's nothing like the whispers cautioned?

pairing : könig x f!reader

warnings : 18+ mdni. war, violence, graphic gory imagery, self-conscious könig baby, little bit of hand kink, basic bitch smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, size kink, tight fit, sugar-sweet teeth rotting smut. this feels so basic… but I was struggling. please note, kilgore is a name previously linked to könig. I have used it as a codename 🙂

könig masterlist ୨୧ main masterlist ୨୧ join taglist ୨୧ ask

Warfare training preps for the inevitable—those moments you need to fire a weapon and how to camouflage and navigate enemy territory without detection. These inescapable horrors are 'another day in the office' by the time you enter the field, the prickling chill of fear driven out of your system. Whistling RPGs are not dissimilar to the scream of your Drill Sergeant's commands, the cold, hard ground of a dilapidated building no more uncomfortable than the standard-issue barracks mattress you would ease your wearing bones into after training. 

Fear, beaten out of each man and woman that slipped on the uniform, held no commonplace in the military. Weapons, the call to war, brutality and sirens did little to raise the blood pressure. 

Whispers held far more weight and struck unease into the hearts of even the most desensitised of fighters. 

It was inarguable that each military in every country, at any time, had its own 'boogeyman'. Notorious fighters with absurdly large kill counts consisting of three digits that inevitably earned a bounty for their head, funded by the enemy—elite warriors who acquired a legendary reputation that ultimately became horror stories. The Ghost of Kyiv, The American Sniper Chris Kyle. These military cryptids kept their enemies awake at night, baying for blood and begging for the piles of bodies they left behind to stop growing. 

After years in the SAS, you were beginning to think that there was no such thing. Each soldier was prolific, brutally efficient and inarguably the best of the elite forces. It was only upon entering Task Force 141, a genuinely mean feat, that you began to hear the unshunnable, hushed whispers of Kilgore. 

“Did you hear about Berlin?” 

“Kilgore? Yeah, heard he blew away a whole Al-Qatala cell.”

“Twelve of ‘em. The hostages were traumatised.”

These mumblings had persisted for months, consistently updated with crazy tales of whole garrisons blown to smitheries by this massacre-happy hulking mass of pure military precision. You, like the rest of 141, elected to ignore the gossip. This was a battlefield, filled with elite soldiers, not a school playground. 

                            ✰

Austrian mud splatters your camo-clad shins as you sprint through the forest terrain, your heart lurching in your chest as your rain-soaked fingers almost fumble your gun to the sodden ground. It’s freezing cold, the gush of rain edging on a flurry of sleet as lightning cracks above your head. Clothes soaked through, the moisture and icy wind form something of a ‘Pact of Steel’, working together to deep freeze the marrow of your bones. 

As you slip in the mud again, heel skidding across the slick soil, you realise how dire the situation truly is. Separated from 141 during the firefight, you’d navigated north. You continued running for the safe house once discovering your coms had been dispatched by a stray bullet— that certainly would have ripped through your heart and dispatched you instantly if not for the layers of plastic settled over it. 

Thunder rumbles in the clouds above, the boom reminiscent of a distant air strike. Slurried earth gives way beneath your feet as you push on. Exhaustion gnaws at your joints as you scramble for safety, bested only by the adrenaline that buzzed in your ear like a vicious drill sergeant. “Move it! Do you wanna die?! Well fucking move!” 

You can hear their boots in the mud, the advancing Al-Qatala mercenaries chasing after you and shooting blindly at your heels, competing with the distance and dense foliage. You’re like an injured fox, feverish bloodhounds nipping at the end of your tail— what could they do with an SAS hostage? How much leverage would it buy? 

Bullets whistle by your feet, the proximity of some enough to set your hair on end. They’re closing in, jowls dripping with slobber as they attempt to close their teeth around you. Just a little mor—

Crack. 

Chaos erupts behind you, the thump of a body and a flurry of shouts. Panicked voices overlay each other in different languages, Urzik and Persian. You scramble for cover behind a treetrunk, the bark cutting at your palms as you brace for incoming fire. 

"Kilgore!" Someone shouts, and your blood runs cold, eyes wide as they dart around the foliage for the legendary soldier. The whizzing of high-powered bullets persists, dropping Al-Qatala mercenaries into the mud beneath them. You hear the yelled orders, Urzik fighters urged to retreat.

You're unsure if one fails to hear the directive over the din of warfare, but you hear the advancing feet of the mercenary advancing on your position—the squelch of the mud beneath the rubber sole of his combat boots. You scramble with your weapon, checking the gun's safety and readying for a one-shot shoot-out. 

When a bullet shreds through a victim's head, the sound is reminiscent of a watermelon being cracked open. It's a sickening crunch. A wet spray of warm blood cuts through the downpour of rain, splattering across your face. Some of it is solid, brain matter and shards of cranium. 

It's not silent by any means. The rain continues to beat against the floor, pattering in the puddles that had formed in sole-shaped prints in the soaked earth. Cracks of thunder sound in the distance, and the droplets drum against the leaves in the forest's canopy. However, the sounds of the firefight cease. 

"You can come out," a voice calls to you. Accented; Germanic. You hesitate for a moment, once again strengthening your grip on the gun you'd clung to. Your lungs strain with the sudden intake of breath, ribs crushed beneath your tac-vest. "Ghost sent me." 

Easing your head out from behind the tree trunk, you marvel, somewhat horrified, at the gigantic, hulking build of the man who stood in the clearing. Fallen enemy combatants surround him, a blanket of corpses draped across the turbid forest floor. A black veil covers his face, and his equipment litters his tac-vest. 

You'd be lying if you said you were unperturbed by the sight. Instead, fear lurches in the pit of your stomach, and you freeze in place. It's only when your eyes catch the crystal white slicing through crimson on the patch sewn into his shoulder that the airy voice, which certainly doesn't match his enormous frame, brings you a sense of safety. 

"The safe house is ahead. We could get you warm–– clean you up?"

                            ✰

Staring into the bubbling pan of water settled over the small fire, you relish in the warmth that creeps across your chilled body. Still, you're soaked, the damp clinging to the threads of your clothes. The scent of iron still assaults your nose, the water that you pick off the fire cautiously heated enough to scrub the blood from your face. 

Kilgore, who informed you upon entering the safehouse preferred to be called by his name König, had seated himself in the corner of the large, relatively empty room. He looked ridiculous like this, attempting to compact his body into the crevice. You don't doubt it's an attempt to ease the nervous energy bleeding through your pores, your hands trembling as you attempt to dip the rag he had gifted you into the hot water. 

"Did..." You swallow thickly, glancing up at the Austrian, "Did you tell the Lieutenant where we are?" 

"Mhm-hm," he nods slowly, his jade eyes watching you from beneath the face veil. They're sharp and bright, contrasting so strongly against his uniform's muted and inky shades. "He's planning evac." 

You scrub the gore from your face, wincing as you feel the shards of bone scrape across your face. König's eyes bore into you from the other side of the room, watching you struggle to remove what was left of the grime the rain had failed to wash away. 

"I've-... Heard a lot about you," you speak to him, attempting to cross the vast space he had consciously put between you. His green eyes gaze at you, unblinking as he watches your expression. König is trying to read you, trying to comprehend how you feel. He's cautious, trying not to push you outside of your comfort zone. 

"About Berlin?" He asks, and his voice is so soft that it reminds you of a child attempting to speak after being reprimanded by their parents–– wary of a second bout of raised voices. 

"Yes," you mumble, dipping the crimson rag into the water before laying it across your skin again, "About Berlin." 

König hums softly, casting his eyes to the aged, wooden floorboards. The woodlice have chewed through them, moss growing in some parts. You can see he appears uncomfortable, his knuckles white from the fists that form in his lap. 

"I didn't mean to scare anyone," König admits in a whisper, catching you off guard. His shoulders sag slightly, and you see him pick at loose threads in the knees of his camo trousers. 

"N-No... I meant to say how courageous it was," you point out, watching his fidgeting hands still suddenly, "You risked your life for those hostages... saved them singlehandedly. No one else would have done that." 

Hesitant silence settles between you both, König considering your words carefully as he stares at his lap. You can't see his face, the veil concealing all but his eyes, though you're almost sure he's stunned by your comment. It takes him a moment to discern his next step, but he finally lifts his body from the wooden chair he'd pulled into the corner. It creaks with the shift in weight distribution, floorboards straining as he walks across the space towards you. 

"You also saved me," you point out, watching him kneel before you, "Faced a whole cell..."

König steals your words from your mouth when his huge hand settles around the bloodied rag in your palm. He doesn't speak at; first, silence hanging between you once again as he dips the cloth into the water. Then, he soaks it until it drips, droplets pinging off the surface, and wrings it out. His dorsal muscles ripple beneath the backs of his palm, veins a ballpoint colour and standing out against his pale skin. 

"Ghost asked me to," he mumbles, carefully holding the damp fabric and slowly reaching for your face. He gives you time to pull away–– you don't. 

"You could have ignored him," you whisper, suddenly breathless with this proximity. He still towers over you, even balanced on his knees, head and shoulders slumped over you. You can see the ocean green of his eyes clearly, the halo of brown flecks that cover the circumference of his pupil. His eyelashes flutter when he blinks, so pretty and oddly feminine. 

The pressure of the cloth against your skull is so delicate. König appears to be afraid of hurting you, gently brushing away the flecks of blood in your hairline. He shakes his head gently, considering your kind words. "What kind of man would I be, Leibchen?" his voice is airy, tone flimsy.

Those stunning eyes take a moment to gaze into yours, searching for your answer. Instead, all you manage is a weak shrug. 

"Were... Are they afraid of you?" You whisper to him, struggling to find the words to broach a topic that appears to affect König so profoundly. It's his turn to answer wordlessly, offering an equally frail nod. 

König takes your chin ever so gently in his hand, his palm almost eclipsing the lower half of your face, and turns your head in search of further blood-spatter. He sweeps the makeshift face-cloth over your skin, focusing on removing the grime altogether. 

You'd heard the cruel rumours, the whispers of 'monster' and 'freak'. This König you'd met couldn't possibly be the same they uttered about maliciously. He held a child-like kindness, the brutality of the job seemingly doing little to chip away at his humanity. The same couldn't be said about the others. 

"König," you whisper his name softly, watching as he continues to focus on clearing up your skin. His soothing touch smoothes across your temple now, removing some mud speckles. "Don't listen to them."

You can see his eyes soften, once again turning to yours as you reach to fiddle with the edge of his veil. Upon tracing the border between the pads of your thumb and forefinger, you find that it's t-shirt material, the zigzag seam stitching rough against your touch like barbed wire. "They haven't seen you like I have." 

Those eyes gleam with amusement, little crows-feet creases forming in the corners. He's smiling, and your heart stutters against your chest. 

"That right, Leibchen? I've had a mask on this whole time."

The gentle teasing lilt to his tone makes you lightheaded, urging you forward with your frankly ridiculous plan. You begin to lift the edge of his veil upwards. You take it slowly, his pupils dancing across the bare skin of your face as you reveal the point of his chin. His skin is equally as pale there, barely exposed to sunlight.

König doesn't stop you as you continue to lift the fabric from his face, exposing the curve of his lower lip. The skin there is soft and plush, little creases in the flesh making your heart thud awkwardly against your ribs. Finally, you stop at his cupid's bow, so soft and subtle it's barely there at all. 

You can feel his gaze warming your skin as you trace his lips with your eyes. Hesitation holds you still, uncertain about the final step of this stupid plan. König, as ever, doesn't push you. Doesn't even breathe. When you lean forward, the tip of your nose brushing his own that still lay beneath the cloth, you hear a sharp yet gentle inhalation. It triggers goosebumps across your forearms, butterflies battering the pit of your stomach. 

Soft. His lips are so soft when you mould your own to their shape. König's veil tickles the skin of your face when you kiss him, and you feel his gigantic hands settle on either side of your neck as he begins to return your affections. They swallow you, and your pulse leaps against his palm. 

König smiles, and the kiss turns toothy and a little lopsided. You can't help but giggle nervously, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as he presses gentle pecks to the edge of your mouth. Despite his massive, intimidating frame, each action is deliberate and soft. 

"... Are your clothes still wet, Schatz?" He's breathless despite his seemingly put-together appearance, his nose bumping yours as he interrupts your answer for another fragile kiss. "We could get you out of them." 

                            ✰

Your standard-issue military t-shirt slips and falls from the cot's mattress as König gently pulls your hips towards the edge. His fingerprints have already bruised into your thighs despite his attempts to be gentle. When he'd begun to panic, you told him not to worry–– he'd already bruised up your neck with his teeth and lips; what was a couple more?

Butterflying your legs out for him, König groans softly as you expose your glistening cunt for him. You're shy, covering your face with your hands as his fingers massage the soft, malleable flesh of the inside of your thighs. 

"Schatz," he whispers, and you peer through the gaps of your fingers. König gazes down between your legs, green eyes gleaming as he positions his cock between your folds. "So beautiful." 

It's ridiculous, you think, staring down between your legs. König is huge in every sense, the shaft of his cock thick and veiny and drowning out the seam of your sex as König shifts his hips forward to swipe the length of him across your weeping cunt. You can't help your mind running away with itself–– surely he needed a weapons license to carry that thing-?

A weak chuckle sounds above you, and you crane your neck to catch his eye. "I will take it slow, Schatz, I promise you."

You believe him. He had been so delicate with you this whole time, laying you down gently on the bed, careful when removing your gear and your clothes not to let the material snag on your nose or chin. 

König's hand disappears beneath the face veil, spitting into his palm before he smoothes it over the head of his cock. He groans, eyelids fluttering beneath the mask as he drags his hand over the length. It's a pretty sight, you think, such a colossal man shuddering in bliss. When he sweeps his cock through your folds again, he carefully taps the tip of his dick against your clit to illicit a whimper. 

"Mhmm, gentle. I promise you," he repeats, inching the tip of his cock down until it settles at your entrance. The soles of your feet find purchase on König's hips, and he massages your calves gently as he begins to inch into you at your nod of approval. 

Oh, Christ. 

König stretches you the moment he sinks inside. There's a delicious burn, one that has you lifting your hips with a whimper as you equally try to escape and dive into it. He's wheezing, eyes glued to where your bodies meet as he watches you flutter around his size. 

"Ha-So tight, Schatz," he groans loudly, stopping when you firmly grip the bedsheets. He notes your expression of slight pain, the tears welling in your eyes as your body attempts to accommodate the intrusion. König seemingly can't help the flurry of apologies that fall from his mouth as he leans over you, settling his thumb against your clit in an attempt to ease you open. "Here. I want you to feel good, Engel." 

The tremors in your thighs rattle against his hips as he circles your clit slowly. It's blissful, the sticky, warm arousal that blooms through your abdomen as he teases at the sensitive nerves. You arch your back against the mattress, moaning out his name breathlessly as he continues to inch his cock further into you. You barely notice when he finally settles the rest of him inside, wailing softly when it twitches and knocks something earthshattering inside you. 

"O-Oh fuck––" you choke on your curse when König shifts his hips forward, jutting into your cervix and winding you suddenly. You probably look ridiculous, eyes rolling back into your skull as you claw at the vast expanse of his chest. You drag pink lines down the pale skin, drawing blood to the surface, but it does little to phase König this far along.  

"Good, Liebling?" He murmurs, continuing to assault your clit. You can barely form a coherent sentence in response, drooling around a string of 'yes, yes, yes'. It's all he needs to find comfort in advancing, easing the length of him out of your weeping cunt before driving it back in at an achingly slow pace. 

You want to slam your fist against his pectorals and insist he go faster, but you're not sure you're ready for it when he slides into you balls deep. It's as though he's settling among your lungs, filling you so good that you're seeing static in your line of vision. 

The sound of a desperate groan from above barely brings you back down to earth, noting how he's staring at your face. His pupils are blown wide, almost devouring the green of his irises. It takes you a moment to realise you're drooling, his slow and steady pace already pushing you to a mindless edge. 

"Oh-" you moan, digging your nails into his abs. They ripple beneath your touch with each deliberate thrust, and König hisses at the sharp sting and the crescent moon indents they leave behind. "F-Fuck, König- Too much-!"

"It's too much?" He wheezes, eyes searching your face. You desperately shake your head, terrified he'll pull away from you despite the inching arousal building at the base of your spine. Wrapping your legs around his hips, your heels press into the small of his back and hook him in place despite your protests. 

It sparks something feral in the hulking man, his hips surging forwards and jolting you up the mattress. Your breath escapes you in a squeak, arousal soaring and buzzing thickly in your abdomen as König mumbles in German, his soft voice coming out all gritty under the strain of his exertions and bliss. 

"Mhmmm- fuck-" you babble, eyes rolling again as you lift your hips to meet his. He sinks impossibly deeper, and your breath stutters as you feel the telltale tug of your orgasm. "Oh God- König, I'm-"

"Tell me," König whispers, rutting up inside you. He doesn't bother to inch out of you now, repeatedly battering so deep inside you that you struggle to inhale as your orgasm approaches fast. 

"Hngngg- hah-ah- I'mgonna- c-cum-" you choke with each sudden thrust, his thumb quickening its pace against your arcing clit. Perhaps he shifts his hips slightly or reaches even deeper than before, but he brushes against something utterly debilitating, and you cum with a loud shriek of his name. 

It bursts through you with blistering heat, your fingernails sinking deep into the curves of his bicep as you brace against the waves of bliss that crash over you. König keeps fucking into you, your walls squeezing tight around him as his thumb persists in its assault on your throbbing clit. Tears stream down your face, and König can't hold on much longer as you strangle his cock. 

"Hah-Shit-" he slurs, his voice barely reaching your ears as he buries himself as deep as you can take him. He cums with a haggard moan, body trembling as his cock spurts inside of you. There's so much of it, too, leaking out of you before he even manages to move. 

Both of you take a moment, both stunned by the overwhelming ecstasy. König doesn't bother withdrawing from your heat as he slumps beside you, turning you on your side to face him. He offers no words, burying his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tightly. 

Your chest heaves as you suck in oxygen, skin prickling with heat as König encases you in his massive arms. You don't need the sheets, his body-heat burning hot beside you as you press your skin to his.

No words need to be said, you think. König had offered his feelings in the form of his reverent touches and delivered his thanks for your kindness in the delicate kisses he'd pressed to your lips as he carried you into the bedroom. 

As you lay in the dark, settled into König's side, you trace your fingers over the curved scars, the bulletholes that have healed over against his ribs. They rise and fall beneath your touch, lungs expanding and deflating with each breath. It's a sobering moment, the thrumming of his pulse against your palm reminding you of his humanity despite the whispers at the base that had insisted upon his bestiality. 

You realise those who speak cruelly of him and ruin his self-worth don't understand their impact. To them, he's a cryptid–– his very existence called into question. They hadn't seen him with their own eyes, only heard the mind-boggling tales of his startlingly impressive missions and monstrous size. 

They hadn't felt his heart, the way it fluttered against your touch when you'd offered compliments. Hadn't experienced the soft plush of his lips pressing into your own in heartbreakingly sweet kisses. He was no monster. 

And when Lieutenant Riley came for you the following day, choosing to ignore the marks left on your skin and the way you hesitated before climbing into the helicopter to offer the Austrian a gentle wave and a promise that you would return, you began the mission to rewrite his story. To change hearts and minds.  

It didn't take long at all.

"Did you hear about Kilgore?"

"I did! He saved a member of 141. Incredibly brave–– I heard the situation was dire."

"She spoke very highly of him. Said we could count on him."

"I certainly wouldn't mind fighting alongside someone so dependable and courageous." 

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[guiltyidealist]

autism loading screen tips

Did you know: You can brush your teeth at any time of the day! Try brushing for 1 minute next time you're in the bathroom.

If showers are hard for you, try wiping your body down with baby wipes instead!

Dry hands every time you wash them? Apply extra lotion to your wrists and forearms. After washing, wet your wrists and rub the lotion down your hands! Pat dry.

In a pinch, a little Icy Hot can help ground you during an episode or meltdown. Apply a little to your arm and focus on the sensation

Dysmorphia, dysphoria, or self-esteem impairing your bodily hygiene? Try bathing in dim lighting (lights off might not be safe!) to impair your body issues back!

You're literally so cool (:

Struggling with oral hygiene because of spoons? Any little bit counts, even if you can't do the whole routine. Just swishing mouthwash or brushing without paste still helps!

Pro tip: everything is a stim tool. All you have to do is stim with it

Foster hydration by having a mini-fridge full of water next in your leisure area or bedroom. You can even add flavorings!

Did you know? The more similar to us we think someone is, the more we favor them-- You are psychologically predisposed to love yourself!

Biophilia refers to the natural affinity for... well... nature. Empirical data shows that humans fare better when exposed to imagery of nature. Harness these effects for yourself by opening windows or displaying rocks!

Noise-cancelling headphones are your best. friend.

the abolition of capitalism is the only way to make things right for this planet and all its inhabitants

[genericpuff]

say sike right now, she's actually going back to The Doctor Pepper Show-

Like, this is just "What if The Doctor Pepper Show and LO had a baby?" Because at this point it's very clear Rachel only knows how to write from inside her own head, which is full of unresolved salt towards her childhood and medical fetish shit. The imagery in the first panel is very LO, and the imagery in the second is literally The Doctor Foxglove Show-

Evidently she's been reskinning the same shit for years-

Listen, I've been, for the most part, keeping my lips sealed on a lot of Rachel's old projects and what I've dug up on her previous works, for a few reasons:

1.) We were all cringe on the Internet at some point in time and a lot of these older works, such as Freak Scene Surgery and The Doctor Pepper Show, would have been from when she was in her late teens / early 20's. I'm not here to judge Rachel's personal preferences or whatever kind of fetishes she's into. It's totally normal, expected even, for a lot of creators to have older works they're trying to bury or disconnect themselves from because it's simply not them anymore.

2.) Ultimately I've been focused on discussion around Lore Olympus and Rachel as she currently operates as a creator, so I don't want to go digging up her old skeletons as any sort of "gotcha" towards LO today. Ultimately a lot of these works don't have anything to really 'do' with LO as it exists today.

That said, the reason I'm bringing it up now is because these new series... are bridging that gap that I've been avoiding for ages now. The gap that's filled with skeletons of Rachel's past that she's trying to both disconnect herself from but now fall back on with LO come and gone. It almost goes to show that her being a one-note pony goes back since far before LO - these are literally the only ideas she's able to come up with at this point, and it's painfully obvious in how both these new "graphic novel pitches" are pretty much the exact same and could apply to the same character, and that character may as well just be Persephone, i.e. Rachel, all over again.

Like, I'm calling it now, Patients in the Dark is just gonna be more "moms are bad" rhetoric, and Eleanor's Deathbed is gonna be Hades and Persephone, but replace Hades with some death god and Persephone with a training mortician, which is basically also still just Foxglove training to be a doctor, and Icy Shaw bragging about fondling corpses.

If anything, now that Webtoons is no longer carrying her around on their shoulders, this is gonna be Rachel's moment of "put up or shut up". She can either actually put in an active effort to write something that's decent, or she can flounder under the weight of her own tired mediocrity that's been knocking at her door for years now. As much as she's using her labels that were bought for her to sell these books which aren't even in real development yet-

-Webtoons isn't gonna be there to buy her Eisners forever. This is entirely on her and the imprint that Webtoons shoved her into. Her process is still the same, she's learned nothing from the experience of making LO, she's just got the money and awards now and is trying to run with it, but all she has are the same tired pitch lines that she's been using for decades now and just so happened to work with LO because LO had both Webtoons and the appeal of it being a Greek myth "retelling" to carry it into fame.

I'm gonna go into a bit of a tangent here, but it's been weighing on my mind since I found out this news and have been discussing it with pals within the ULO circle. Rachel once said in an interview that she wanted to use her platform to raise awareness of issues regarding sexual assault, mental health, and "the patriarchy":

"Who do you know that hasn’t been sexually assaulted? The number is depressingly low, right? Why is that? There is no short answer or an easy fix. I have a platform. I can tell a story that will hopefully educate and help others feel acknowledged and vindicated." - Rachel Smythe, Interview with Gossamer Rainbow

"...obviously I'm very feminist, and that sort of stuff really matters to me, um, the best way to approach this question is… I began, the pilot was written in sort of mid-2017, and I think what I wanted, what I wanted to achieve, and I don't even know… probably in 5 years time I don't know how I'm going to feel about this but I'm taking the risk, I really wanted to write a story where, uh…this female character goes through these things and I think what I wanted to do, what I wanted to achieve, was like a really common, I can't speak for like, men, but I can definitely speak for like, you know, if you're sitting in a group of your female friends and you're like "Hey! Who's been sexually assaulted?" … The response is going to be really depressing… Most female people that you know have probably experienced sexual assault to, on one level or another, and I'm like, for me I'm like "Why is that? Why?" And is it because there is a lack of information, lack of education, like what is it? And I'm lucky enough to have a platform and I'm like, if I could just provide some information in story format, would that help? Is this what I can contribute? So I feel like, especially, when writing sexual assault in media often it's… it's a way for the main male character to be, like, uplifted to hero-ness by, usually like, violence is the way to fix the problem, and that's not the approach that I want to take… um, I think [sighs], oh god, sorry I've lost my train of thought, [sighs], yeah, I think a lot of the time in movies when they, like, show rapists or something it's generally someone who's jumped out from behind the tree at a lady in a park and it's not really how it is like 90% of the time [laughs], so I just wanted to make something realistic where people could at it and be, like, "hey, nagging someone into sex isn't cool" or like removing all of their opportunities to say no isn't cool, or for someone to look at it, and just like feel validation, this is me trying, trying my best to make a difference with the platform that I have, and yeah, this is my roundabout answer for it" - Rachel Smythe, Interview with The Comic Source

And yet not once has Rachel actually used her platform for good outside of herself. She just asks the question, "Sexual assault?" and then writes off the answer "yes, it's bad!" and it especially shows in LO where the resolution to the one plotline she kept around to draw in readers was "assaulters are sent to the timeout corner!" Sure, it works for the readers who are simply seeking validation that their experiences aren't unique to themselves, but is it actually doing any real work to talk about the systems in place that leads to people like Apollo being created? Is it doing anything to address purity culture as it exists and the double standards that exist for women who are navigating sexual relationships? Is it doing anything to take the discussion outside of the narrative and put it into action through support of women's shelters, charities, mental health support for men, etc.? Not really. Like many of Rachel's ideas throughout LO, she simply goes, "Men, amirite?" and the answer is "yeah men suck!" and nothing more. The answer to the entire SA plotline is "rape is bad, don't do it" when anyone who could even relate to that conclusion in the first place already knows that.

Ultimately the activism she claims she's trying to do doesn't actually service the issue at hand - it just services herself and her own insecurities, her own unresolved trauma, her own need for validation through Eisners and merch sales. She asks the question, "Who hasn't been assaulted?" so that when she responds to the women who come forward and relate to Persephone, it's with the intent of getting them to read LO and buy her merchandise. She winds up making herself the center of other people's experiences, even ones that she cannot relate to. At BEST her attempts to "use her platform" as a means of starting discussion around ongoing societal issues like the patriarchy and sexual assault towards women is about as effective as Bell #LetsTalk, it's purely performative, self-profiting, and offers nothing of real tangibility.

If she just wants to write her own self-empowering personal works, that would be fine. Plenty of creators do it. Art is, at its core, self-expression. But it's extremely telling that she's built a platform off her self-expression, and twisted it into what she believes to be "activism" and "feminism", so that she can continue to profit off it in her future works such as this, which, again, are just reskins of her previous projects which were largely centered around the fetishizing of abuse towards women.

I don't want to claim that this is what it is, but... how much of the "feminism" in LO is done purely through the lens of victimizing women? Why is there more effort put into torturing female characters like Hera, and Demeter, and Minthe, and even Persephone to a certain degree, than there is into actually addressing the larger issue that she's claiming she wants to shed light on and resolving her questions with actionable answers?

That is the only question I will leave you all with. I am absolutely 100% not planning on touching these works with a ten foot pole, even if they should come to fruition. With the recent realization that she was into artists like Trevor Brown, alongside the fact that we've known for a long time she's into Lolita and there are very clear parallels to draw between it and LO, I think it's safe to say at this point that Rachel's work is not something I want to continue to support even when it's "hate reading". Again, I'm not going to outright accuse her of anything, but I feel like the writing is clearly on the wall here and I'm taking that writing as my warning to steer clear.

I didn't want to discuss the elephant in the room - her older works as they exist in the distant past of the early 2000's - but she's now riding the elephant.

[goosecastle41]

Idk just the imagery of Kremy using Gideon for warmth

Like yeah okay we’ve all thought of this cause duh alligator man and fire man go good together blah blah

But the imagery of Kremy slinking out of his tent on a cold night out in the woods. He and Gideon have been traveling together for a good while now; started just as the weather was wearing off from winter, the warmth coming back into the world. They’ve been traveling together for so long the weathers turning bitter.

Their fire had long since been extinguished and the wind whips around their makeshift campsite. Even despite the trees, the cold air rushes through like waves, chilling Kremy’s already cold blood to ice. No matter how deeply he burrows into his tent, swathed in his blankets, he can’t seem to retain any of his heat.

I just I magine him pulling his thickest blanket tighter around himself as the wind beats against his shivering body, looking towards the second tent in the small clearing. Debating with himself; “Would he even be okay with this?” “It’s just for warmth.. He’s a god damn walkin’ heater, it only makes sense…” “But he didn’t sign up for THIS-“

Another wash of icy wind sweeps through, making Kremy flinch and pull the blanket just the smallest bit closer. He concludes as he walks to Gideons tent that, Gideon in fact DID sign up for this when they created their contract. Gideon is Kremy’s bodyguard, and in return Kremy feeds Gideon and gives him a percentage of whatever cons he helps Kremy pull off. Kremy can’t feed and pay him if he freezes to death in his tent overnight.

Imagine Kremy creeping towards the tent, seeing a soft glow emanating from inside. He can see from a crack in the tent flap the embers in Gideons hair and beard. Even in his sleep Gideon burns hot. Opening the tent flap is like opening the door to a stove; hot air rushing out at him due to the colder air outside. The warmth blankets Kremy and he can’t even begin to think about stopping the sigh that leaves him.

I imagine Gideon as a light sleeper. He never slept well while he was held on the train; hell he couldn’t even sleep laying down without his arms being hung in the air thanks to the chains attached to the car walls.. But he could and did sleep on the train. The constant noise and rattle of the cars, the sound of the fire he constantly stoked, the voices and laughter of those awful hobgoblins, the trains blaring whistle.. it was all his lullaby for years. Despite how horrible those years on the train had been, the first night he tried to sleep off of it, he laid awake in bed until sunrise.

Gideon couldn’t hear a thing over the sounds of the train. There really wasn’t much else to hear expect for the sounds stated above. There wasn’t much else to worry about. But outside of the train and it’s constant noise… there was so much more. Gideon knew what to expect from the train.

The sigh wakes Gideon from his sleep. His eyes pop open, immediately alert as he quickly scans around his tent. It takes nothing more than a second for Gideon to spot Kremy and relax the tension that flooded into his shoulders.

“Krem? Ever’thin’ ‘lright?” He’d ask, his voice thick with sleep as he moves to sit up in his bedroll.

Kremy would hesitate to open his mouth a moment, having forgotten to actually come up with what to say to Gideon. He could just be upfront and explain that he’s cold… But making up some long winded excuse that doesn’t involve looking weak willed has always been Kremy’s go to.

When he does actually open his mouth to start on the second option, another blast of cold air hits and makes Kremy shiver hard, eyes squinting against the torrent of sharp winds. He ducks deeper into his blanket cocoon, anything he could have said blown away with the wind.

Gideon watches this and immediately gets the picture here. Gideon can be.. a dense man. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer ya know. But he cares for Kremy. Kremy’s done so much for him over the time they’ve been together.. He’s given Gideon some kind of purpose. He’s given Gideon a sense of belonging. He’s given Gideon a constant companion… He gave Gideon that little comb, the first thing anyone has ever given to him of their free will.

The least Gideon can give back is some warmth.

“Geez, man, get in here and close that behind ya, would ya? Lettin’ all the heat out.” Gideon would say, moving to lay back down again while shuffling to the side to allow Kremy into the warm spot that had been beneath Gideon.

Kremy blinks once, twice.. Unsure. A smaller gust beats at his back, forcing Kremy into the heat of Gideons tent. He quickly secures the tent flaps closed before he practically dives into the warmth Gideon has offered.

Kremy curls up on the warm patch of tent ground Gideon had just been on moments before while Gideon is radiating heat to Kremy’s back that he can feel even through his blanket burrito. Kremy closes his eyes, more than content with the way these events have gone.

That is until he feels Gideons hand on the blanket. Kremy’s eyes pop open again as he hears Gideon speak,

“Share. You’ll get warmer faster and stay warm.”

He feels Gideon pull one side of the blanket out from under him, moving to pull it over himself before he shuffles back closer to his original spot. He’s practically pressed against Kremy’s back, hardly an inch separating them. Kremy stiffens up like a board, waiting with almost bated breath to see what comes next… But Gideon just settles behind Kremy, not touching him but just a hairsbreadth away from it…

“Can’t have you freezin’ on me now…” Kremy hears Gideon mutter behind him.

“Yeah… who would feed ya if I did?”

[madaqueue]

eternally, yours

chapter 6 | innocence

synopsis: 'forever' is a peculiar concept - how can something persist, unchanged, throughout time? when our bodies halt their aging, do our minds continue to evolve? do our hearts? choso was comfortable with his version of forever, one of solitary loneliness; that is, until he meets you. forced to confront the harsh realities of being human, the fragility of life, his definition of 'forever' changes as he stares down the barrel of eternity.

pairing: vampire!choso kamo x f!reader

themes/content: non-curse modern au. fluff, smut. language, religious imagery, mentions of parental loss. degradation (slut, whore), fingering, p in v (doggy). 18+, MDNI

word count: 5.6k

a/n: GUYS I FINISHED THE SEMESTER YAYYY !!!! i can finally pour all of my thoughts into silly little writing instead of memorizing medication names lmao

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

In the winter, Choso came alive. The darkness that falls allows his own light to shine, at peace in the cold air encompassing his skin, chilling the world to its core - but not him.

After your conversation about his true nature, you feel even more comfortable with him, bridging the gap between you with trust, a path you now dare to walk; things have changed, but you couldn’t imagine going back to how they were before. In his honesty you uncovered a new piece of his soul, slowly working to complete the patched-together mosaic of his past.

He easily weaves his way into your life, the golden thread of his presence in every moment, every memory. When the first snow falls, you and Choso pull Megumi and Yuji out of school, taking them through town. The serenity of winter falls over the four of you as you walk in silence through the white-coated sidewalks. Both boys sip their hot chocolate, the heat warming their bodies as their small hands grip the cups. When Megumi’s whines of, “I’m tiredddd,” fill the air, Choso picks him up, carrying him the rest of the walk on his back.

A warm comfort fills you, a pleasant calmness within your soul, as you watch the pair before you. Your life - and certainly Megumi’s - hadn’t been easy. The loss of your parents spiraled you into instability, a constant earthquake beneath you as you both struggled to find your footing in the world. The moment the chaos seemed to lull there was another shockwave, sending you both reeling. But now, with Choso’s firm grasp around Megumi’s legs as he rests against him, it seems like things have finally settled into place.

Small fingers return your thoughts to the present as Yuji tugs at your coat. “Hey,” he whispers, a devilish smile pushing up his rosy cheeks, “throw this.”

Cold ice is suddenly shoved into your hand as he passes you a loosely formed snowball. Mischief crackles between the two of you as you grin, fingers closing around the snow. Flashing a wink at the boy, you plant your feet, readying your throw.

“Hey, Cho,” you call coyly.

The moment he turns around, your arm swings, launching the snowball at him, hitting him square in the chest. Before he can even react, Megumi squeals in excitement, a new energy bubbling inside him as his arms wrap around Choso’s neck.

“Oh no you didn’t,” Choso laughs in shock, tightening his grasp on your brother as he runs to a snowbank on the opposite side of the road. Ducking behind it for cover, he releases Megumi onto the ground. “Okay buddy, we gotta get them back,” he states. “How’s your aim?”

Megumi beams, any hint of tiredness behind his green eyes dissipated as his hands form the nearby snow into a rough sphere. “It’s amazing,” he giggles.

While Choso and Megumi hide behind the pile of snow, you and Yuji take the opportunity to build up your arsenal, preforming icy grenades and stockpiling them beside you. In unison, Choso and Megumi appear from behind their hiding spot, a flurry of white being suddenly hurled in your direction.

“Yuji, now!” you yell through giggles as you return fire, an onslaught of snowballs tossed at the two across the street.

“Truce, truce!” Choso finally proclaims, stepping out from their protective shelter with his hands raised, Megumi standing behind him with a grin plastered on his face as he matches the older man’s motions, his palms held in the air.

Laughs echo through the otherwise empty streets, leaving the four of you soaked and cold as the heat of battle dies down. Continuing your path towards home, Megumi returns to his place on Choso’s back as Yuji tightly holds your hand. Despite the cool winter air, your heart is warm.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

As winter settles, Choso’s presence continues to grow, settling into the roots of your life. Which is why it’s no surprise that as Megumi’s birthday approaches, your brother absolutely insists on inviting Yuji and Choso, his pleas more of a demand than a request as he scribbles out a handwritten invitation addressed to both of them.

When the day of his celebration arrives, Choso finds himself in your apartment as you prepare to entertain twenty children. He’s busy in the kitchen, whipping up the cake Megumi requested to be “the most chocolatey chocolate with even more chocolate” while you tack streamers to the wall.

He maneuvers around your space easily, having grown familiar with it over the past few months - you’ve seen each other at least weekly, sneaking in visits between his work, even if it meant he’d come over just to hold you while you slept before he had to quietly sneak out to make another shift in the morning. He’s truly grateful for his body’s lack of a need for sleep despite the drawbacks intertwined in his vampirism, namely the ever-increasing frequency at which he consumes blood bags. Yet, it’s a trade he willingly makes if it means he’s graced with your presence. So, he takes all the time with you he can get. Every moment with him becomes cherished, a slowly growing gallery of your memories together. From the first day you met you felt at ease in his presence, your comfort only growing as the seconds together turned to hours, days, weeks, to months.

“Hey, could you c’mere for a second?” His deep voice tugs you back to the present as he beckons you to the kitchen.

In front of him lies a glass bowl, currently housing a chocolatey concoction. He takes the whisk he had been mixing with, gathering some of the batter and holding it out to you. Collecting some of the liquid on your finger you place it onto your tongue, sweetness immediately overtaking your senses.

“Holy shit, this is delicious, Cho,” you murmur in awe, licking your lips.

Immediately you poke your finger into the mixture, grabbing another glob before you shove it between your lips.

A smile graces his lips before he smacks your hand away as you reach back towards the bowl. “Thank you,” he chuckles, “but save some for the cake.”

You can’t help but laugh as he continues swatting away your attempts to maneuver your hands around his, ultimately forfeiting as you reach your hands around his waist and pull him into a hug. “I didn’t know you knew how to bake,” you hum, leaning up to place a kiss to his lips.

A hint of chocolate lingers on your tongue as you lean into him, his palms finding your back as he pulls you closer.

“You think I lived this long without picking up a few skills?” he smirks, amusement lacing his tone before pressing his lips back to yours.

Upon your confirmation that his work was sufficiently appetizing, he pours the dark batter into a pan and slides it into the oven. Gliding into the living room, Choso assists you in hanging up the remaining decorations, his height easily granting him access to nail the hand-made ‘Happy Birthday Megumi’ sign you two constructed the night prior into the wall.

Plopping down on your couch, you both alternate blowing up and tying balloons until they cover your floor. By the time you’ve finished, your apartment certainly looks festive, covered in various shades of green, Megumi’s favorite color, along with printed posters of his chosen dinosaurs.

There’s a certain innocence to it, a childlike wonder that fills your chest in warmth. When you were his age, your mom was trying to take care of you by herself - you knew she worked hard, that she’d give anything for you. And sure, that knowledge helps ease you now, but as a seven-year-old it felt impossible to grasp, like she was always just out of your reach. So it was no surprise you never had parties, never were celebrated like this; she felt ashamed of the life she provided you, an implicit knowledge that her work wasn’t enough.

She never asked you to care for yourself, but how could you not? When she’d come home late, exhausted, of course you learned to cook dinner; when she’d have to pick up extra shifts on the weekends, of course you learned to entertain yourself; and when she got called in on your birthday, despite the card she left on the table, despite the love she meant to shower you in, of course you learned to celebrate yourself.

It wasn’t her fault, really. She wanted a better life for you than the one you were granted, and you couldn’t fault her for that. You certainly couldn’t fault her for giving into the promises your father whispered to her when he returned to your life, promises of protection, prosperity, family. She craved it as much as you did, the safety of being cared for by another. And you couldn’t fault her when he left, again, the day she found out she was pregnant with Megumi.

Maybe it was too much for him, maybe he didn’t feel like he was ready, like he could provide what you needed, fill the hole that was left in your life where innocence should be. All you could hope is that Megumi never felt that; he deserved a childhood, he deserved the love you had to learn to give yourself.

As you stand back to admire the work you and Choso completed, banners coating the ceiling, balloons covering the floor, the scent of chocolate wafting through the kitchen, you can’t help but smile.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

Children’s laughter fills the air, Megumi’s the brightest of all. He bounces between friends, smiling wide enough his cheeks hurt as he converses and plays. Every so often he runs up to you, face flushed in excitement, chanting “thank you, thank you, thank you!” as he throws his arms around you before returning to the chorus of his name from where his classmates sit on the floor.

Seated on one of the chairs surrounding your dining room table, a smile rests on Choso’s face seeing you interact with your brother, seeing how you care for him. Yuji is obviously ecstatic to be spending the party with his best friend, Megumi’s excitement similarly bouncing off him as he unwraps his presents. Choso hasn’t seen Yuji this happy - shit, ever? He can’t even remember the last time he’s seen him laugh like this, with such ease. Yuji had always been energetic, his happiness infectious, but he often seemed preoccupied with the emotions of others, worrying about what he could do to make them happy. At times Choso found himself thinking he was almost too mature for a child, too aware of the pain of the world, as though he was born with the duty to alleviate it. Which is why, as he watches his younger brother throw his head back in laughter, his pink hair catching the sunlight filtering in through the blinds as his cheeks blush a similar hue from the warmth of his joy, he admires the pure happiness in it, an untainted innocence.

When it comes time to sing ‘happy birthday,’ Megumi manages to blow out all seven candles in one sweeping breath, cheers erupting from his friends. Locking eyes with Choso, you exchange grins from across the room.

There’s a certain tenderness behind his gaze, one that makes your heart flutter. Something in your soul draws you to him, taking every opportunity for the rest of the afternoon to saunter past him, fingertips gently gracing his collarbone or the back of his neck. At every touch his eyelashes flutter, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips - your motions come second-nature, easy, as though being near him was your natural state of being. When the kids are off in the other room as they play with some new game Megumi got, you can’t stop yourself from caressing him, your lips leaving gentle kisses along his neck as you whisper how grateful you are he’s here, how lucky you are to have him, how stunning he is, how handsome, how sweet.

When your palms linger, your breath grazing his neck, a new flame ignites within him. In your flowy pink sundress, a reminder of the warmth of summer despite the flurries of snow falling outside, you look absolutely perfect, your movements so fluid, your skin so soft. Each stroke of your fingers along his arm makes him long for more, his adoration threatening to overflow, his love for you nearly enough to drown him.

Eventually, the party begins to dwindle. Yuji and Megumi leave together, taking Sukuna up on his offer to host the boys for a sleepover. Standing in the kitchen, you begin to clean up the mess left behind by the dozens of children that have finally cleared out from your apartment, a comfortable silence settling in. Suddenly you feel Choso’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his warm breath hitting your skin as he nuzzles into your neck.

“Hi, Cho,” you purr, reaching a hand up to ruffle his hair.

“Been thinkin’ about you all night,” he hums, never lifting his head from between your shoulder.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, beginning to trail wet kisses up your neck. He’s not sure what comes over him, normally proud of his self-control, but something in watching you with Megumi has his heart swelling; beyond that, your lingering touches throughout the night, the sly smiles, the sweet nothings you whispered when nobody was listening, has had his mind fuzzy for hours. “Been thinkin’ about how bad I need you…” he trails off before he leans forward, his words carrying a certain desperation.

You giggle as his hands slowly make their way over your body, your heart beating in excitement at just how hot and bothered you had managed to get him. “Is that all, baby?” you taunt through a devious grin.

Slightly arching your back, your hips grind against him, evoking a low groan from his throat. The words are spilling out before he can stop himself. “Was thinkin’ about how much of a fuckin’ tease you are.”

A shiver runs up your spine at the gruffness in his voice, desire beginning to build in your chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you smirk, tilting your head to give him more space as he continues working his lips across your skin.

“I think you do.” His palms snake around your body, brushing under your dress as his fingertips drag along the outline of your clothed pussy. Even through your panties, the coolness of his skin makes you shiver, leaning back further into his touch. His lips curl into a smirk against your neck as he feels just how wet you are. “Because you can lie to me, but this cunt can’t.”

Heat floods your cheeks - he never acts like this, the unabashed directness - and hearing his crude words only emphasizes how absolutely and utterly desperate he is for you right now. He can feel it too, his standard eloquence gone as he falls deeper into the trance of his lust, one you had been slowly lulling him into over the past few hours.

A soft moan leaves your lips as his thumb brushes over your clit through your now-soaked panties, your knuckles turning white as your grip on the counter stiffens. His free hand tightens its hold on your hip, allowing him to press his growing erection against you through his jeans.

“I think you’re just needy,” you weakly hum as his thumb picks up its pace, rubbing agonizingly slow circles over your bud.

A low chuckle rumbles through Choso’s throat, a certain darkness to it you can’t see but can certainly feel. “Oh, I’m needy?”

The moment you open your mouth to reply, any sound dies in your throat as he suddenly pulls your panties to the side and inserts his middle finger into you. A choked “a-ah mmm” falls from your lips as he languidly pumps his hand in and out of your heat.

Grinding down onto his palm, desperate for any additional friction, your body knows that it’s not enough. “M-more,” you whimper, mindlessly circling your hips in an attempt to drive him deeper.

All Choso does is laugh, a breathy deepness to it that has knots forming in your stomach. Every motion is too slow, as though he’s purposely avoiding grazing his fingertips against the one spot that would have your legs shaking. “More?” he taunts, clearly taking pleasure from seeing you squirm. “I thought I was the one being needy, hm?”

“Cho, please,” you pant, eyes screwed shut. It’s nearly tortuous the way he moves, some cosmic retribution for how you had tempted him throughout the night, the universal scale finally tipping in his favor.

“Please what, darling? If you’re going to be so demanding, at least use your words.”

“I-I want your cock in me, please,” you stammer - you intended it to come out much more commanding, more in control, but the words end up breathy and desperate.

Again, Choso chuckles from behind you. Before you can process it, the sound of his zipper being undone lands on your ears as cold air hits your heat, your panties ripped down to your knees. The tip of his cock slides against your wet folds, making your hips rut backwards reflexively, a carnal plea.

“Tch, needy little thing,” he mutters to himself as you writhe under his grasp, your body now pressed between his chest and the counter from where you still stand in the kitchen.

After what feels like an eternity he finally slides into you, an involuntary moan leaving your lips as he stretches your walls so sinfully. His palms hold you firmly in place, preventing any movement as he bottoms out. But instead of moving, he stills, returning his lips to your neck and gently sucking on the space above your collarbone.

“C-Cho?”

“Mhm?” he hums, not bothering to lift his head from where he rests against your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” The words sound pitifully close to a whimper as they leave your throat.

“I’m doing what you asked, love, remember?”

Electricity courses through your body, your breathing picking up as desperation threatens to consume you. You can barely think straight with his cock inside you like this, his hips pressed against your ass; it’s so close to what you need, your salvation, yet for some reason he refuses.

Your feeble attempt at grinding your hips backwards fails as his hold on your hips tightens. “Sorry baby, but I wouldn’t want to risk doing anything else, since I was being so needy earlier,” he muses sarcastically.

A whine leaves your lips, your skin hot in lust. He’s punishing you, he has to be, pulling you from the heights of heaven into the ground until you feel dirtied in sin, left begging for more.

“Please, Cho, just move,” you breathe. “Move, fuck me, anything, please.”

“Aw, how sweet,” he coos, trailing kisses up your jaw. Your cheeks burn red beneath his cool lips, yet his breath is hot as it fans across your face. “Didn’t know this was all it took to have you begging like a needy slut.”

A wave of heat courses through your body, pussy clenching around his cock as the words hit your ears. Something in them has your mind dizzy, tension already building in your core.

“Holy shit,” Choso chuckles in awe as he feels the way your body automatically reacts, “you like that, huh?” His mind races, words spilling out. “Like being fucked in the kitchen like a whore? Couldn’t even make it to the bedroom, y’had to get dicked down out here?”

Another tsunami of pleasure crashes over you, your thoughts clouding and legs beginning to shake. A weak “mhm,” the sound already close to a whimper, is the only response you can muster.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, “you’re clenchin’ around me like you’re gonna cum already.” He suddenly adjusts, moving one hand up to grab your jaw and turn you to face him over your shoulder. Slowly your gaze manages to focus on him, the sight of your glassy eyes enough to make his cock twitch inside you. “Don’t worry, I know a depraved slut like you can take it.”

He can’t hold back any longer, finally pulling his hips back before roughly thrusting into you. After so long of teasing you, when his length finally prods against your walls, your eyes roll into your skull, a weak moan vibrating past your parted lips.

As he repeats the motion he tightens his hold on your jaw, pulling you into a rough kiss. His tongue swipes against yours fervently as his pelvis smacks against your ass. Gone is his precision, his reservations - all he knows is a feral need for you.

Moaning into each other’s mouths, he pumps into you. If it wasn’t for his tight grasp around your waist your legs surely would have given out by now, the ecstasy overcoming every muscle, every cell, within your body.

Pulling away for a moment a string of saliva connects your lips as he gazes into your eyes, their normal hue now nearly black through blown-out pupils. He looks equally fucked out, his bangs sticking to his sweat-coated forehead, cheeks flushed a soft pink.

A rough hand reaches over to your neck, the other trailing down your back, pushing you into a sinfully deep arch with your forearms braced against the cool marble of the counter. “C’mon baby, I know - hah - I know you can do better than that,” he breathes. Rising your hips slightly further off the ground, a guttural groan vibrates his throat. “Uh huh, juuuust like that.”

“S-so deep, Cho,” you whine out, overtaken at the sensation brought on by the new angle, his length absolutely ravishing your insides.

“Know it’s deep, baby,” he coos, “but y’can take it, yeah?” Bring a palm to your stomach, he finds the spot where his tip presses through your skin. “Feel me right here?”

All you can do is loosely nod, knees buckling under the pleasure, immensely grateful for the tight hold of his other hand on your hip and the table for providing a shred of stability.

His actions are greedy, thighs clenching with each pump into you. Grasping at the path to heaven, he claws his way up the stairs until the gates stand before him. Each thrust another step towards salvation, each choked moan a call for redemption. He’s never felt such electric desire, an insatiable need to consume every ounce of you.

The lewd sound of skin on skin fills your otherwise empty kitchen before being broken by Choso’s deep rasp. “You’re all mine, y’know that?”

Your thoughts are slow, too focused on the burning pleasure to give a more coherent response than a weak, “mhm.”

It’s enough for him, though, the affirmation sending waves of warmth through his body. As your bodies meld into one, he knows it: you are his, and he is yours.

His motions become increasingly erratic as he pulls you both closer and closer into the height of ecstasy. Faint little repeats of ‘ah, ah’ leave your throat with each thrust, knocking the air from your lungs each time his cock hits deeper. Your chest heaves with each forceful breath, unable to move your gaze from his.

He can tell you’re getting close as he leans forward, angling his cock somehow further into you. His words slur together, his standard clarity muddied. “Y’gonna make a mess? Y’gonna cum f’me?”

You whine a soft “mmm”, his voice making it harder and harder to form full sentences. All of your nerves are on fire, heat building and building within your chest as your walls begin to clench around him.

A smirk plays across his face as he murmurs, “Gonna let me finish inside you? Let me fill up this filthy cunt?”

All you can choke out is a weak cry of “p-please,” the combination of his words and actions enough to throw you over the edge. Tidal waves of bliss wash over you again and again and again, your legs shaking beneath you - certainly they’ve now given out as Choso takes over carrying your body weight. As your cunt flutters along his length he loses himself, pumping thick ropes of seed into you as he buries his head into your neck to muffle his whines.

Both of you are left panting, your head falling forward in exhaustion as his arms wrap around your torso to hold you up. In contrast to the roughness of his body just moments prior, he peppers gentle kisses along neck, your collarbone, any inch of skin he can find.

His breathing finally slows enough to speak. “Y’know I don’t actually think you’re a slut or anything, right?” he asks hesitantly.

A soft giggle bubbles from your lips into the now still air of your apartment. “I know, Cho.” Turning to face him, you see an earnestness behind his gaze, full of endearment. Leaning up you place a peck to his cheek as you ruffle his now-messy hair, your fingertips trailing over the contours of his jawline. “And for the record,” you slowly kiss him before pulling away, “there’s nothing wrong with being a little needy.”

“I know,” he blushes, a bashful grin tugging at the corners of his lips, “I just…sometimes I feel like I don’t know what to do with all the love I have for you. It feels like it’s eating me from the inside but I just keep feeding it more and more and more until there’s nothing left of me in there. But honestly, I don’t even mind - I’d happily give myself to you every day until the end of time if it means you’ll be happy.” Pausing, he shifts uncomfortably before sighing. “See? Like that, I didn’t mean to ramble, or get so serious, I just-”

Cutting off his nervousness, you press your lips to his, hands cupping his firm jaw. Warmth blankets your skin as you melt into his touch. Pulling you in closer, your body melds to his, souls blending.

“I love you,” you murmur into his parted mouth, “so much.”

“I love you too,” he whispers.

Pulling away you lean back against the counter, a soft smile plastered across your features as he gingerly lifts your panties back into place. “Now, will you help me actually clean up from the party?”

Choso grins, reaching down to pick you up as your legs wrap around his torso through a surprised squeal. “Of course,” he laughs as he spins you around, “just let me clean up my beautiful girl first.” Carrying you down the hallway, your shared giggles echo through your apartment.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

Days continue to shorten as the cold bite of winter settles, now a familiar gnawing inside your chest whenever you find yourself outside in the darkness of late December. Choso, of course, remains unbothered by the cold, consistently offering you jackets or mittens or anything he can think of to share warmth with you during your limited outings. Instead, the two of you find yourselves inside more and more, spending nearly every free moment together wrapped in blankets on your couch. Since Yuji and Megumi began their winter break from school, you take the opportunity to celebrate the close of the prior year with the four of you in your apartment.

New Years celebrations were never something you thought much of, often brushed aside as an afterthought. What is there to celebrate, anyways? The passage of time? The chronic aging? The loss, pain, and sadness of the past twelve months? The idea never made sense to you until now, when you finally have others to share the moment with.

Which is why, on December 31st, you find yourself drumming with excitement. Megumi and Yuji’s shared energy certainly has something to do with it, you think, as the duo runs from room to room, verbally reporting how many hours, minutes, and seconds remain until midnight.

Choso tries to follow them before their unending enthusiasm becomes too much for even him, opting to lay on the couch next to you until the boys tire themselves out. When they finally return to you, panting through grins, Choso takes the opportunity to share the New Year’s traditions he has collected over his lifetime (one he never explicitly specifies the duration of in front of Megumi and Yuji, of course).

He details superstitions, their corresponding tales captivating you and the boys as his eyes glimmer in recollection. The four of you attentively eat your soba, giggling under your kitchen counter as you pop grapes into your mouths, and silently wrap coins in tinfoil before placing them outside on your balcony. The magic behind the motions fills you with glee, a shared belief that your behavior can finally be doing something good.

Around 9:50 p.m., you find yourself on the couch, Choso sprawled on the opposite side with Yuji and Megumi lying between you. The boys’ eyes grow tired, slow blinks growing increasingly longer as a New Year’s Eve countdown plays softly from the television. The announcers are preparing for the actual countdown, one that replays every hour to account for audiences from various time zones. Your gaze meets Choso’s, an idea silently shared between you. Glancing around quickly, you confirm the absence of any visible clocks from the couch before enacting your plan.

Yawning dramatically, you stretch your arms out, garnering the attention of Yuji and Megumi. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s already almost midnight,” you muse, allowing the words to hit the air.

Megumi and Yuji almost immediately perk up, a brief burst of energy as they turn excitedly towards you. “No way, already?” Yuji squeals excitedly before grabbing Megumi’s shoulders. “We made it, we stayed up!”

Megumi giggles, overjoyed at their shared accomplishment.

“You sure did,” Choso’s deep voice fills your apartment as he smiles. “Look, they’re about to start counting down,” he observes as his gaze falls to the TV.

The boys cheer in excitement, Megumi’s hands clapping joyously as they attentively watch the numbers flashing across the screen. “Ten, nine, eight,” they begin.

You and Choso join in, chanting with them. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!”

Cheerful laughter erupts from the four of you as Megumi runs to you, wrapping his small arms around your body in the tightest hug he can manage. Yuji follows similarly, launching himself at Choso as he catches him on his lap.

“Happy new year,” Megumi murmurs into you through a soft grin, his futile fight against sleep becoming increasingly challenging with each passing second.

“Happy new year, buddy,” you smile, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “Now, let’s get you guys to bed, hm?”

“Okay,” he hums, resting his head against you as his eyes flutter closed. Looking across the couch, you see Yuji out cold against Choso. As his eyes meet yours, you both smile contentedly.

Tucking the boys into their makeshift beds on the couch, you and Choso retire to your bedroom. Illuminated by warm lamplight, his dark eyes seem to sparkle as they flit across your face. Cool fingers trace small patterns along your back as his other hand absentmindedly plays with your hair, the comforter soft beneath your skin.

The remaining hours to midnight pass easily, and before you know it the sound of fireworks breaks the tranquil silence you found yourselves in. Glancing to the clock resting upon your bedside table, a bright “12:00” shines into the darkness of your room.

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Under the flashing lights of fireworks you seem to glow, absolutely radiating beauty. Choso similarly had never understood the point of celebrating the closure of a year, the date one that primarily signified nothing more than the passage of time. Throughout his extended life he had been forced to watch those he loved pass away, plagued with the finality of senescence. Each year more lights went out, in spite of his best efforts to keep them illuminated, to prolong their flames; yet, every time, his attempts remained futile.

Over time, he detached himself, as though ignorance could protect him from the unrelenting march of time. He willingly purged his mind of dates that served to remind him, forgetting his own birthday, the anniversary of his family’s death, anything that recalled the tortured memories of his past. Maybe if he could remove himself from his own existence it wouldn’t be as painful when he was forced to confront the loss of others’.

Yet, as your eyelashes flutter, your cheeks pushed up as you softly grin, the smooth skin of your fingertips tracing his collarbone, he’s overcome with the notion that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. Every moment with you seems to slow, the seconds stretching as he silently gazes at you. In all his years he had never felt like this, this alive. Finally, he found something worth looking forward to, the fire of his love bright enough to warm you both.

The crackle of fireworks returns his attention to the present, adoration flowing from his very soul. “Happy new year,” he whispers.

“Happy new year, my love,” you hum.

Placing your lips to his, he kisses you gently, a newfound tenderness in his actions. He’s unhurried, patient, allowing every second to slowly pass you by.

Falling into a comfortable sleep, your thoughts wander to all the things the future holds, the moments you have yet to experience. All the time you’ll get to spend with Choso. Yet, you can’t seem to shake the nagging fear in the back of your mind, the whisper of darkness clouding your peace. How many more years do you have left? When will your flame go out?

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[kaedekolya]

clarence and his counterparts: man or monster?

So we were talking about Clarence’s new android SSR (Faint Night Light) in the LBC discord server, and it got me thinking about the monster allusions that seem to be a common thread across Clarence’s main stories. Then we discussed the diary entries from his White Day event, and it occurred to me that this monster imagery also ties into his modern-day counterpart – and with that, this post was born.

In other words: is Clarence a man, a monster, or somewhere in between?

[ SPOILERS: Clarence’s main stories and Chrono Theatre diaries. This meta analysis is structured as story-specific sections, namely Godheim, Eden, and the modern world, so you can skip over the world(s) you haven't read yet. No Awakening spoilers, don't worry! ]

- ☽ -

Godheim: Archmage Clarence

First, let’s talk about Godheim Clarence. As the Archmage, he bears a heavy responsibility upon his shoulders – to oversee the Magi Tower, to fight the Glacial Butterflies, and, ultimately, to protect the country and its people.

In order to fulfil this duty that he has chosen to undertake, Clarence seals his heart and shuts others out. He denies his emotions, and resents himself for having these emotions, to the point that he disparages MC for “[acting] impetuously” and belittles her capabilities when she shows concern for Amelia’s wellbeing. Archmage Clarence’s impassivity is his shield against the emotions he views as a hindrance.

Yet he was not always this way. Clarence is a casualty of cruel circumstances, a tender soul torn apart by trauma. When MC is confronted with the truth of the mages’ magic, having witnessed a mage die before her very eyes, she notes that “[there] is no pain or compassion on Clarence’s face,” because “[this] is a sight he has seen all too many times before.” Decades of watching his fellow mages succumb to the Glacial Butterflies that nest inside them, and decades of having to end the lives of mutating mages under his purview, have conditioned Clarence into numbing his heart to such pain. How else could he have stayed sane, after a century of bearing witness to suffering wrought by his own hands?

Archmage Clarence’s disposition is initially described by MC as an “[icy] presence,” but this is the facade that he projects as a defence mechanism, not his genuine self. Clarence is so accustomed to the chill of the Glacial Butterflies within him that he has taken on the frost as a personality trait, believing that his frigidity defines him. He does not view himself as a human capable of warmth; instead, he thinks of himself as a mutant, as an icy monster.

Even so, Clarence cannot deny his innate inclination towards kindness. When he notices that Amelia isn’t feeling well, he tells her to sit in the carriage. When Amelia’s temperature drops, he casts a spell to warm the shivering child up, even as he grumbles that he’s wasting his time and magic. When Amelia’s death is imminent, he tries to send her off in the gentlest way possible, then grants her final wish by conjuring a connection to the water mirror. Clarence may insist that he does not care, but his actions reflect his compassion.

It is this very kindness that steers him towards a path of selfless sacrifice, for the sake of his country and its people. The life of a mage may have been forced upon him, by the man that gave a gravely injured child no other option but the potion that would transform him, yet Clarence learns to harness his power for good. He spends his youth eliminating Glacial Butterflies and protecting the village of the snow plains, and despite the harsh conditions of the path he now treads, he does not hold a grudge against the family that sold him off and thrived in the resulting profit. Instead, he returns to check on them from afar, and when an onslaught of Glacial Butterflies attack, he protects them with every last bit of energy within him.

Still, his family’s betrayal left an indelible mark on his psyche. Back when he’d been given the potion, he’d resolved to succumb to his injuries rather than drink it. Despite his instinctive desire to live, MC notes that his “will to live [had been] virtually non-existent,” because there is “[no] despair greater than being betrayed by your own family.” The young Clarence had not seen a reason to live, when his family had forsaken him. It is only when MC saves him, urging him to live on, that he resolves to survive and repay this debt. Each time MC encounters him in her voyage through time, he is on the verge of death, and each time, his dwindling will to live stems from his despair over those he could not save. What ultimately keeps him alive is the vow he swore to his saviour.

This characterisation is one that carries through his immortal lifespan. Clarence does not live for himself; he lives for others. Whether that means risking his life to defend a village, or sacrificing himself in a ritual to save the country’s inhabitants, the underlying premise is the same – Clarence lives for the person who saved him, and for the promise he made to them. He allows others to form negative opinions of him based on the assumptions they’ve made, in order to keep the secret of the ritual and the Glacial Butterflies from them, because their scorn towards him matters less than their safety. He closes himself off from others, never permitting them to reach out to him, because he cannot allow companionship and compassion to distract him from his purpose. He “[cannot] afford to be sentimental,” because he cannot have anyone or anything clouding his judgement. Better to be the enemy of the state that saves it, than the friend of the state that cannot do anything as it crumbles. 

It is ironic, then, that Clarence’s devotion to his promise leads him from striving to live and fulfil it, to voluntarily dying for that same promise. His life, his existence itself, is secondary to the promise he has made. He will live to protect the world for his saviour, but if the only way to protect it is to die, then die he shall. Perhaps he views it as a penance of sorts, an atonement for the sins he’s committed. Perhaps he believes the new world would be better off without a monster like him.

For all his calculative callousness and stoic solitude, Clarence is deeply self-aware. Not only is he conscious of the suffering he inflicts and the ramifications of his actions, but he also ruminates upon his sins until they turn to guilt in his gut and self-loathing in the deepest recesses of his soul. He does not turn a blind eye to the pain he witnesses; instead, he looks it straight in the eye, internalises it, and forces himself to feel nothing at all.

Clarence may appear to have no qualms about exploiting people and reducing them to cogs in a plan greater than its constituent parts, but his interactions with Amelia prove otherwise. Right before he sends her off on what is meant to be a suicide mission, his carefully-crafted defenses slip, and he asks whether she hates him. Clarence believes that he has failed to live up to the Archmage’s title, that he has fallen short of being a “guiding force for all the mages” and a “protector.” He condemns himself for his callous strategies and merciless manipulation, since he has been treating people like chess pieces and “using them as [he sees] fit.” He disparages himself for “[standing] by on the sidelines, safe and sound.” He believes others hate him because he’s given them all the reasons to, because he deserves to be hated, because he, too, hates himself. All this while, he fails to recognise that he has taken on the greatest sacrifice of all – the burden of leadership, of decision-making, of being responsible for all the blood on his hands.

This downplaying of his own suffering, alongside his disregard of his own well-being, is what drives Clarence to self-sacrifice time and time again. When a theory about the Glacial Butterflies begins to take shape in his mind, he does not test it out on one of his mages, because he does not view them as expendable despite what he claims. Instead, he uses himself for his experiment, slicing his chest open and bearing the agonising pain in order to ascertain the truth of the magic within him.

On the verge of being overcome by the Glacial Butterflies, despite having prepared for this eventuality by shackling his limbs, he makes one last selfless request. “My Lord, you must kill me before I turn,” he entreats, willing to relinquish his own life for the safety of others. Even when Philip protects him from the Glacial Butterflies, refusing to kill him, Clarence believes that there is no place for him in the future that his Lord envisions.

Decades later, he still echoes this same sentiment. “There is no future without sacrifice,” he tells Lars, and he does not see himself as part of that future, does not see himself as deserving of that future. Archmage Clarence thinks of himself as a monster, not a man, and a monster is better off dead than alive.

It is a revelation, to him, that Amelia does not hate him. MC does not hate him. Lars, Alkaid, the mages that carry on the legacy of the Magi Tower, none of them hate him. They do not view him as a monster; they view him as a martyr, a protector, a saviour. Someone who did his best, and gave his all. Archmage Clarence leaves behind a legacy through his sacrifice, spurred by the human heart he still harbours deep within.

- ☽ -

Eden: Falcon Clarence

Next, we have the Falcon Clarence of Eden. The lone ranger of the desert, the mercenary that eliminates Sandswimmers with impeccable precision and works with no one else.

“A bait that only knows how to cry is a burden,” his mentor tells him, and Clarence internalises that into his cognitive framework and guiding compass. It is “the first lesson Liore taught [him];” that he must prove his worth in order to live. His scent lures the Sandswimmers to him, and so he must make himself useful by seeking out danger.

Valued only for his utility as bait, Clarence learns that his worth is determined by his fighting skills. With no other way to survive, he becomes a NEOS by fusing Sandswimmer gems into his body. Clarence pays the price of this acquired power through the gradual erosion of his memories, but that is far from the only thing he has lost. His decision to accept the integration of these foreign, beastly objects into his body has changed him irrevocably. He thinks of himself not as a human, but as a mutant being only one step away from becoming a monstrous Lost. Still, he endeavours to “remember [his] humanity,” because he refuses to become a “mere weapon [that knows] nothing but destruction.” Falcon Clarence understands that he is, by definition, a monster, but he refuses to relinquish the last shreds of his humanity.

In his first encounter with MC, he is rational and pragmatic as always, scrutinising her motives and seeing no reason to work together. Years of solitude, with no one else to depend on, have honed Clarence’s reflexes into an “instinct for self-defence.” Yet his reaction to MC’s request reveals that his solitude has been shaped by circumstance, not entirely by choice. When MC explains her reason for seeking out Eden, even though it does not sound particularly convincing, Clarence accepts it as sufficient and agrees to lead the way. Despite the potential risk of allowing a stranger close, he offers MC a ride on his motorcycle. Subsequently, he continues to help her out, defending the children’s shelter and giving her the gems he’d collected, even as he refuses to follow her any further.

Falcon Clarence claims that he works alone, but everything he does is for the sake of protecting others. He fights in the desert to protect the shelters from Sandswimmers, and he fights in Eden to protect Lin and the other NEOS from the Lost. He brings MC to the NEOS Association, so that she can rest for a night and learn essential skills from Lin. He knows that the night is dangerous, so despite his own preference for working alone, he ensures that MC has a community of protection around her.

Even as he dismisses everything and everyone else as burdens, his actions speak otherwise. Despite having met MC for only a single day, he offers his assistance to her time and time again, from rides on his motorcycle to filling water bottles with her. He could easily leave her to fend for herself, but he chooses not to leave her behind even when that would be the easier way out.

Perhaps the reason Clarence refuses to work with other people is that he’s afraid. Afraid of dragging them down, afraid of becoming their burden. He fears that history will repeat itself. He cannot bear to lose someone he cares for again, so he refrains from caring about anyone at all. Each time Clarence chastises others for being a hindrance, he is reproaching his past self for his inadequacy. Each time he risks his life to protect others, he is atoning for his failure to save his mentor.

MC says that she understands how Clarence feels, because “acting alone means nobody will be hurt because of [him].” In a way, acting alone also protects himself from being hurt. It is a defence mechanism born from his past, when he had to “learn to accept [his] losses” from a young age. He couldn’t afford to grieve Liore for long, not with the constant threat of the Sandswimmers, and so he could do nothing else but “live on with what memories [he] had left.” He’d forced himself to harden his heart to his emotions, but he could not suppress them entirely.

Clarence blames his moment of weakness, of emotional folly, for causing Liore’s death. It was her humanity, even in her final moments as a Lost, that held her back from killing him and caused her to die. He regrets his choice to this day, and perhaps it is this survivor’s guilt that pushes him to fight harder until he reaches the brink.

It is this same guilt, alongside his resolve to not lose anyone else he cares for, that drives him towards self-sacrifice. When he realises that MC needs a soul stone – his soul stone – to open the door within Central Control, he unflinchingly raises his gun to his head, as if it were the natural and logical decision to make. He is ready to offer his life without a moment’s hesitation, because that is the utility he can offer in this moment, in order to keep MC safe and help her achieve her goal. She has given him a reason to fight, and he will die trying to fulfil it.

Ultimately, it is his encounter with MC – and the companionship which blooms from it – that saves him. Without demanding anything in return, she cries for his pain, fights by his side, and shoulders his burdens with him. Clarence doubts his humanity, even as he holds fast to it, since he is all too cognisant of the monstrous traits within. In turn, MC’s unwavering trust reaffirms the humanity within him, reminding him that he is worthy of living.

Falcon Clarence may not be fully human on a biological level, and he may still succumb to the effects of the monsters within him from time to time, but he has managed to preserve his heart and his humanity. His tale is one of healing, of opening up, and of learning to value himself for who he is and not what he can do.

- ☽ -

Modern World: Clarence

Finally, let’s circle back to modern-day Clarence. At first glance, he’s the calm, collected, and capable Student Council president, who always seems to have affairs in order and circumstances under control.

Then, in his Chrono Theatre diary entries, we learn that he had a psychiatrist observing him from a young age, due to his gifted aptitude and exceptional intelligence beyond that of his peers. This revelation sparked a discussion in the LBC discord server, which spurred this message of mine that then became the basis for this meta post:

Clarence is well-versed in decorum, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it comes naturally to him. It’s likely that he learned social etiquette by picking it up from observing how other people behave, so he knows the appropriate responses to give and the socially-acceptable ways to carry himself. However, because this social understanding is not an innate trait but a learned one, there are often times when he doesn’t recognise the need for social niceties, and instead his instinctual response – founded on his internal logic – comes through.

One example of this can be found as early as his second interaction with MC, after she paints an artwork of him:

The polite thing to do would be to express interest in or appreciation of the finished product, regardless of one’s actual feelings towards it. However, Clarence “doesn’t show the slightest interest” in MC’s painting. Does this mean that he doesn’t care for it, and doesn’t see the need to put on a pretence? Quite the contrary. Instead, it’s because he thinks he doesn’t have anything useful to offer in response, and thus he stays silent.

Here, we see a disconnect between how Clarence understands the world, and how other people tend to view it. While most people would appreciate receiving praise or validation, Clarence doesn’t particularly see the need to receive either, and thus doesn’t immediately think of giving them to others. Rather, he takes a more pragmatic approach, focusing on utility; a piece of work deserves feedback for the effort poured into it. However, as a law major, he does not have sufficient knowledge or expertise regarding art. As such, he believes that his feedback would not be useful, and thus it is better not to say anything at all.

This ties into how Clarence views himself as his roles, and the functions he can serve. He understands that he has worth, but he evaluates this worth through his services as the Student Council president, or his contributions as a law intern. When he assists others, he doesn’t think of it as going out of his way to help them; instead, he views it as part of his rightful duty.

As a result, Clarence doesn’t view himself as simply “Clarence.” Rather, he thinks of himself as Clarence, the Student Council president; Clarence, an upperclassman; Clarence, a friend. If he can fulfil someone’s needs through a role that he holds, he will do it, even at the expense of himself.

We see this most prominently in Clarence’s “Break Time” R card story:

When the senior who’s supposed to interpret for an academic speaker falls ill and fails to attend, Clarence steps up to fill their shoes last-minute. William notes that Clarence can be counted on to show up whenever and wherever he’s needed, and MC agrees that he’s “the only one who’s up to the task.”

However, what most people don’t recognise are the sheer lengths Clarence will go to in order to fulfil his duties. On top of his regular responsibilities, filling in for the interpreter caused Clarence to “[burn] the midnight oil” preparing for the speech, and taking care of the sick speaker meant that Clarence could not sleep for two days. He doesn’t recognise that he’s constantly going above and beyond, because to him it’s a given, but he is in fact pushing himself past his limits, and past the line that most people would draw.

It’s interesting to examine MC’s thoughts here, because she interprets Clarence’s willingness to take a nap as a rational understanding that he needs to rest in order to keep functioning. However, this only happens after MC coaxes him into taking a break. If she hadn’t intervened, Clarence would have continued pushing himself until he completed his task – he was already at “the brink of collapse,” and he “only agreed to sleep after [MC] practically begged him to.” Clarence prioritises his responsibilities to the point that he does not recognise his own needs, and thus neglects to take care of himself.

Although modern Clarence doesn’t think of himself as different, or as anything less than a person, it’s evident that he views himself as the roles he fulfils rather than simply as who he is. In turn, this mindset is reflected in his behaviour, which then shapes other people’s perceptions of him. This is how Clarence becomes characterised as the aloof and intimidating Student Council president in the students’ eyes, even though he cares so deeply and helps out so much; most people are unable to look deeper and see Clarence as the person that he is, because he perceives and presents himself through the lens of his roles.

As such, other people often view Clarence as different from themselves – as if he’s operating on a different wavelength, or existing on a separate plane entirely. Modern Clarence’s genius sets him apart from his peers, but more than that, his perspective of himself winds up alienating himself from other people. Clarence views himself as like others, but others view him as unlike them. He blends in well enough, but he doesn’t quite fit in; he has a place in society, but he doesn’t quite belong.

- ☽ -

Clarence, across time and space

Out of all the Clarences thus far, modern Clarence is perhaps the most well-adjusted, and this reflects the importance of having a support system. Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence were isolated from a young age and survived alone throughout most of their lives, whereas modern Clarence had family and friends around him. He may not have had the most conventional childhood, but he grew up with his older sister Jaclyn and his close friend Luca, and he also had his psychiatrist Ford observing and monitoring his development. Subsequently, after he enters St Shelter Academia, he gains a circle of friends he can rely on, such as William, O’Connor, and, of course, MC.

Expanding upon Clarence’s St Shelter Academia bonds, we see that Clarence has people around him who genuinely like him for who he is, and are willing to support him unconditionally. O’Connor affectionately refers to Clarence with a nickname – “Shi-kun” in the Japanese voiceover, or “Little Si Lan” in the Chinese one – and for all his devious teasing, it’s clear he looks out for his Student Council successor. As for William, he may whine about Clarence’s by-the-book discipline, but his clumsiness and complaints do not preclude him from helping out when needed. For all that Clarence often chastises William, he still relies on him to assist with Student Council matters, and he knows William is someone he can trust.

Compared to these two, MC is a relatively newer connection, but her bond with Clarence runs deep. Right off the bat, she’s able to meet him on his level and banter with him, and he lets down his guard enough to subtly tease her for trying to trick him. As their relationship develops, Clarence grows to trust her, sharing his inner thoughts and admitting his vulnerabilities. MC is a safe haven for him, and she understands him on a level deeper than most. While the other students may fear Clarence for his aloof disposition, or hesitate to approach him due to his detached rationality, MC sees the earnest sincerity woven into his actions and the warmth laced through his words. Others may think of him as an unfeeling robot or a terrifying monster, but MC loves him for the human that he is.

There’s a subtle but interesting juxtaposition here, in which Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence – both possessing monstrous mutations within them – view themselves as monsters while most others do not, whereas modern Clarence – wholly human – views himself as human while most others do not. All three Clarences are keenly aware of what constitutes them, allowing this biological understanding to shape their perception of themselves, but they do not recognise that their actions paint a different picture to others.

Regardless of the world he inhabits, Clarence constantly straddles the line between man and monster. His selfless nature and dutiful diligence often lead him to self-sacrifice and superhuman feats, creating the illusion of a monster – but beneath this facade lies, always, the heart of a human.

- ☽ -

thank you for reading!♡

if you have any thoughts about this post, i'd love to hear them! responses are always welcome, and my ask box is open~

up next: android clarence, and the inevitability of tragedy. where is the line between human and machine? stay tuned for my thoughts on clarence's awakening main story!

[anananass]

NSFW Wriothesley x Fem!Reader ~ Snake Eyes

warning: Nsfw, as per usual

Tags: oral (giving), praising (as usual), almost getting caught, semi-public sexy stuff, sucking under the desk (spoiler), inappropriate usage of a tongue piercing, slight choking, dom Wrio but he is soft, he gets a little bit pissed and turns into a small asshole at some point (not directed at you, never)

wc: 2,2k

summary: spicy time under his grace’s desk. It was about time you spoiled your beloved Lord a bit, though someone disturbs your fun time.

note: piercings are hot

“I have an idea.” You insisted with a glint in your eyes proving that what you were about to say would be of tremendous interest to him.

The Duke raised a curious eyebrow and immediately offered you a smirk of intrigue, but he kept silent, awaiting your thoughts with much enthusiasm and utter craving.

You were seated right under his desk, between his legs doing something seemingly… interesting. Your hands were already resting on his hips at a narrowing distance away from his crotch. Despite that, his throbbing tent remained uncovered though if someone were to walk in on you two, it would be like you were just about to do something unholy. Not that it would be the first time the two of you would be caught doing something like that, but that wasn’t of any importance right now.

Voyeurism aside, your idea was innovative, something he’d easily get obsessed with, but You wouldn’t just serve it on a silver plate without starving him a little.

Hushed and delighted, you peered deeply into his icy eyes, your vision thinning into a squint with each second that passed. You just required a little stimulus, nothing more, but the Duke’s tolerance was running out and with it, his hunger only kept growing.

A little impatient with your quietness, Wriothesley gently wrapped his fingers around your neck, leading you to lift your gaze. Something a little unexpected, but he’d surely use that to his advantage in some way, right?

“Go ahead, spill it.” He urged you through ragged breaths that he hardly held under control, though the seductive eyes you were giving him made it even more difficult. “Don’t just leave me hanging like this.”

You felt his grip tighten around your throat, the applied pressure feeling pleasurable with each second he was digging deeper and deeper into your sensitive skin.

Maybe you shouldn’t have toyed with his grace like that when he expected something the most, or maybe you should have done it every time if that meant he would choke you just the way you liked it.

His clutch only caused you to gulp your arousal. “What if I do things a little differently this time?” you finally spoke out but as soon as he gave you that look of intrigue, you felt your cheeks boil.

“Is that so?” he questioned in a guttural voice that sent cold shivers down your spine until you were nothing but a trembling mess. “Why don’t you show me?” he tilted his head and soon after, tightened the grip around your neck.

The way he said that in such a hoarse voice made your knees weak and you didn't care about toying with him anymore, you just wanted to savor the opportunity of pleasing him in a new way.

“Yes, your grace.” you murmured softly, emphasizing the words ‘your grace’ and he seemed to like that with how much his member was twitching underneath that thick layer of fabric.

Upon hearing that, he expected you to lower your head but instead found himself watching you open your mouth. Shortly after, the imagery of you sticking out your tongue for him to see the snake eyes you had on your tip made him wonder if that’s what you meant by different. Just what were you planning to do with that hint you gave him? He couldn't figure, but that was fine, he would feel it soon enough.

With how much you were making him question your plans, you felt this new necklace of yours loosen up. That was your opportunity to surprise him with a new sensation, one he’d surely hope for once more in the near future.

Slowly, your digits crept closer to his aching bulge. You took all the time to unbutton his grace’s garments, making sure nothing would hinder the treatment he was about to receive. Wriothesley watched you closely the entire time, paying close attention to every single thing you were doing, and the closer you got to removing his boxers, the more he felt his breath grow steadier. Still, he wouldn't rid you of the image of a cocky smile smeared all across his radiant face. He knew very well that it was your fuel, apart from other particular reasons that are best known among you two.

Finally, once you took away the last layer of cloth and watched his member come out with an incredible bounce, you gave the hardness a good look before lifting your gaze back up. You let out a playful chuckle that was suspicious enough to push him to move his hand to the back of your head, and once enough time passed, you lowered your head.

The first thing you did was wrap your fleshy lips around his dripping tip. As a consequence, he let out a muffled moan that only went lower with each inch you were beginning to take in. Oh, he liked that so much. It was a sensation he could hardly explain, but the way his mouth opened partly and his eyes grew heavier was enough to make you aware that you were spoiling him rotten.

Soon enough, your lips parted ways with his head and without a place for pause, you stuck your tongue out and began running it down his shaft at a slow pace. You applied close pressure to where the Pierce would make contact with the sensitive buds of his length. The cold sensation of the steel had his blood boiling with a different kind of arousal. You wondered for a second whether he liked it or not but once you saw him bob his head back, clench his teeth, and growl, you figured you hit the spot.

“Jesus, Y/N.” Wriothesley gasped, letting out another moan the moment he felt you hit the base of his member. His free hand seized the hardwood of the chair, and every time he sensed your tongue grind a bit more diligently he dug his nails in and clawed. Soon after, you noticed his other hand grab onto the back of your head, tugging at your hair with each moan that escaped out of his throat.

Hearing him so weakened pushed you to take another go but this time with a little more spice. You lifted your head and instead took his head inside once more, this time gradually bobbing your head up and down whilst applying the same pressure against his slickness. You slowly increased the speed at which you were taking him in and out, and with it, rubbed his nerves harder and harder.

“Fuck.” was all he muttered while finding it difficult to keep his head straight and not just arch it back against the chair. Yet you looked so nice taking him in like that, he couldn't just miss on all that.

His grip tightened, so much that you felt him beginning to push you deeper into him. Simultaneously, he began bucking his hips into your mouth, as if his instincts were activating. Shortly, you sensed them evolving into gentle thrusts which was a little surprising, but maybe he just didn’t want to mess that pretty face of yours.

It was a little hard to keep yourself in place with all the ongoing motions, but thanks to him holding your head down like it was nothing, you only needed to reinforce your touch around his knees.

Groans began pouring out of his mouth with each second you spent like that, it was a melody to your ears. This was your first time seeing him so vocal during a simple act like this one, it was intriguing really, and definitely, a must-do again. Well, you’d surely do it again with how much he was enjoying himself in that position.

The aroma of his precum mixing with your saliva was infatuating. A flavor of bittersweetness exploded in your mouth and at that moment, all you could think of was how this quickly would surely turn into something more lengthy, as it always does. Every time he proposed that you two have a little fun time between breaks, that break would end up taking more of his time than you anticipated. It made you feel hot thinking about it, so hot that you too began accompanying him with some whines of your own. That and the addition of his continuous growls caused your folds to soak a little. Your insides were beginning to boil in anticipation as you looked forward to what he would do in return for you because let’s be honest, he would repay you back.

How could His Girl leave unspoiled after treating him so well under the desk? Until then, you decided to focus on the task at hand.

Suddenly, you heard the loud clicking of the metal door making a pounding sound as if it just got closed. Did someone enter his office? You questioned in your head, taken aback by the unannounced visitation. You halted your motions as you’d normally do but the Duke kept moving your head in and out, desperately signaling you he didn't want you to stop. He even flashed you a serious look whilst his brows furrowed into a demanding expression. He looked more tense than before but that was probably because he was preparing himself to deal with the situation.

Then, he took his hands away from you, allowing you full control, hopeful you’d keep going since your body was hardly noticeable under his desk. So you obliged and deepened yourself in his length. Truthfully, this moment was hindering. You had to keep silent which was a lot more difficult than you imagined. Even he could feel it since you squirmed slightly.

“Your grace-” finally came from the voice of an officer that was already going all the way up.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” wriothesley barked back, a little annoyed with this intrusion. “I thought everyone knows they should first check whether I’m available or not.” he pointed out this time more roughly. His eyes analyzed the scenery to see when he’d make eye contact with the officer. You seized that opportunity to rub your teeth against his shaft to toy with him a little, and in response, he held back a muffled groan.

Despite your successful attempt, his eyes didn’t lower to your head anymore although you could feel how much he was yearning to do it.

“Yes your grace, but-” the officer spoke out upon reaching the final step. “I have just finished the cafeteria report you asked for.”

“Is that on the priority list?” Wriothesley didn't hesitate and cut him off almost immediately. If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was people coming up with low-priority tasks rather than high-priority ones. That and being bothered during his special break time. “Didn’t I specify this is a low-priority objective on this week’s list?”

“Yes but, I just finished it.” the officer cried out, sounding perplexed as to why the Duke was displeased with his arrival.

Right before he could answer, you accidentally brushed your tongue a little too hard against his member. Not only did it cause it to throb, but the consequence had a small effect on Wriothesley too. He frowned and stayed silent for a little longer than he meant to, maybe because he was composing himself.

“Then you could come by later on and tell me all about it. Right now I’m on a break.” he insisted, sounding more distracted than present in their conversation. “So please, help yourself and leave this for further discussion. Take a break too, a small one.”

You didn’t hear anything more from the officer but a hum, after which he finally spoke. “Yes, your grace. Enjoy your break!” the young man exclaimed, sounding clueless. Immediately, you heard his footsteps once more, and finally the pounding of the door.

Wriothesley sighed deeply as soon as it was the two of you again. He leaned back on his chair and reached for your head once more. His fingertips caressed your hair, drawing small circles.

“Sorry about that.” his apology took you so much by surprise that you gradually decreased your pace until finally retracting your face so you could look up at him.

“What are you apologizing for? There is nothing you should apologize for.” you contested.

“I know but-” he paused for a second, time in which he backed his chair away. You stared in bewilderment at his gesture but trusted that he wasn’t just terminating this moment. “How about you come out of there?” his hand reached for yours to guide you out of the desk. “And allow me to return the favor?” he urged as soon as he had you right in front of him. Then, he further directed you to come sit on his lap, your knees must have been sore from all that time spent there.

You were about to reply but when the corners of his lips curled into a broad smirk and his face slowly capped the gap between your faces, you gasped with utmost anticipation. His hands began wandering around your hips, gripping bits of skin with each inch they traversed. His member on the other hand throbbed against you, which left you desperately squirming for more.

“Yes, please,” you whined as the gap between your lips and his narrowed even more, though you noticed that his mouth was merely trailing closer to your neck.

“Right away, darling.” Wriothesley chuckled and didn’t wait even a second to begin nibbling on your sensitive skin.

[mojogojocasahouse]

Satoru Gojo x gn!reader

Spoilers for JJK260 plus some made up plot 😂

wc: 494

C: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, some graphic imagery

“Toru!”

Icy December air surrounds you, the warmth of the blankets dissipating as you sit sweating and panting in the black winter night. The hotel is unsettling, with unfamiliar walls on all sides, scratchy sheets, and quilts that are far too thin. All you can hear is your heart hammering in your ears as it matches the panicked thump in your chest, the echoes of the cries of your comrades resonating with each thud.

“Ssshhh.” That sound is soothing, but barely breaking through. “It’s okay. C’mon, you’re freezing.”

A rhythmic sound beats in tandem with your pulse, heat spreading from the solid body pulling you back into a cocoon of white robes and long, muscled arms. Your fingers find the long, puckered seam that just hours ago had been severed in two, tears pricking at your eyes as you recall the sight of a body in multiple pieces.

The man beneath you had been dead just mere hours ago.

“Toru…” you whimper, burying your face in his neck, breathing in his arid, sweet scent as if it would be the last time.

You’re holding him so tight it hurts your own joints, tendons pulled taut as you squeeze what had been all but lost to you when the sun hung high in the sky. You’d watched his upper half fall to a bloody heap, you can still feel the iron grips of the hands holding you back from sprinting to his side right on the battlefield, your only hope being to see the galaxies swirling in his eyes one last time before they were swallowed by darkness.

Satoru Gojo had died.

The very same Satoru Gojo who is currently running his fingers soothingly up and down your spine. The owner of the heart beating strong and steady against your ear. You’d traced the cold, lifeless features of his face, willed him—begged him—to come back as Shoko worked to the point of exhaustion while Utahime danced to an imaginary song. You’d been the first thing his reawakened eyes had seen, a small smile stretching onto his face as you collapsed down, finally letting the sobs you’d been holding in free.

Then you’d bid him goodbye once again as he went to face the same threat that had taken him from you once already.

“Please don’t leave,” you beg, lifting your head enough to find his lips, kissing him before he could respond.

“I promise,” he murmurs, his palm swallowing your jaw and cheek whole, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“That’s not funny!”

But he’s laughing, grinning against you as he pulls you in tighter. Your back hits the mattress the moment you release some of the tension you’re holding, arms chasing you in as he nuzzles his nose across your skin and into the dip behind your ear.

“I don’t know what you were so worried about,” he purrs, dragging his teeth across your pulse point, “I said this was forever, didn’t I?”

[outmakingmoonshine]

Punch Blanch Freeze Fry

I think punch, blanch, freeze and fry are the underlying themes of season 1-4 and the beef (the meat/the substance/the real connection) will be the underlying theme of a possible season 5.

For context in this scene in 1x01 Ebra, who represents an older version of Carmy, keeps asking Carmy for the beef before he can do anything else. Carmy either ignores him or tries to divert him to do other tasks first. Carmy tells/asks Ebra if he can punch 'em, blanch 'em, freeze 'em and fry 'em before the beef.

Seeing as 3 of these words are specifically talking about preparing food, I googled extensively what punch means in terms of cooking and found nothing and you wouldn't literally punch a raw potato or onion, if anything that would come after the blanching. So it's not referring to a food preparation method like the other 3 so it can only mean literal or metaphorical punching.

S1 - Punch

Coincidentally Carmy was literally punched in 1x01

There were multiple metaphorical gut punches in S1 too. In the first few episodes, most of the season really, he was taking metaphorical/verbal punches from everybody at The Beef. Meeting Syd was a less negative, shock to his system kind of gut punch. We saw him being psychologically beaten down by Chef David in 1x02, being mistaken for Micheal in 1x04, the review & Syd leaving in 1x07, finding out Mikey left him a letter in 1x08, then reading the letter and Syd coming back. Tbh there are gut punches for Carmy every season but early S1 was heavy on the theme of him basically being everyone's punching bag.

S2 - Blanch

Carmy was in "hot water" with Syd, their chemistry was heating up and things were getting "steamy" between them at the start of S2

He was plunged into cold, icy water when he ran into Claire, hence all the heavily blue filtered scenes since then. But the cooling process in blanching isn't meant to last for an extended period of time, it's only supposed to be seconds, much quicker than the cooking process itself.

Carmy entertained/endured Claire (the ice cold water) for awhile in the supermarket, then he tried to get out of the ice water almost immediately by giving her a fake number but she (and Neil Fak) kept him submerged. There's also the blue scenes of S2 that got gradually darker the more time Carmy spent with Claire and the implication/imagery of him drowning and being suffocated by her at the end of their very dark blue sex scene.

Also the fire suppression was in S2! "Fire suppression" is basically what the process of blanching is; cooling down/regulating heat. But the cooling isn't instant, there's still residual heat and "steam" as the cooling process is happening:

And even after the "successful" fire suppression in 2x08 the heat was still there:

Blanching isn't supposed to make food frozen or even cold necessarily, it's just meant to cool it enough to stop the cooking process so there should still be some warmth left.

But Carmy spent way too long in the ice water with Claire and ended up too cold or frozen by the end of S2.

S3 - Freeze

Self explanatory. The theme of S3 was Carmy still being stuck in the freezer, frozen and unable to get himself out of the ice. He can't escape the ice cold water (his relationship with Claire) even in his thoughts, he's submerged and trapped in it. There was barely any heat left between Sydcarmy even though Carmy tried to keep the fire going. Carmy was cold and rigid (like ice) for most of S3.

3 out of 4 line up almost perfectly with the themes of each season and if this theory is correct then the theme of S4 will be frying, which means heat, which means the fire between Carmy and Syd is going to ramp up/become evident again somehow. Probably through frustration with each other as they continue to not communicate properly. Mostly I think Carmy's just gonna be getting cooked. By Claire, by Syd, by Richie, maybe even Nat too.

We kind of saw Carmy take a metaphorical step out of the freezer in 3x10 after confronting Chef David and speaking to Chef Terry (I think it started in 3x09 when he asked Syd to go to Ever tbh, he definitely let himself feel some heat for a second there). So in 4x01/4x02 he's probably going to be dropped straight into the frying pan having to deal with the fallout of his actions towards everyone during S3.

If you think about what happens to frozen food when you put it straight into very hot oil; the pretty volatile reaction when the ice hits the hot oil, the splaterring and spitting oil that will burn if you're too close, the loud noises, the steam that gets released as the temperature drastically changes, the hardening of the outer layer etc (which I hope means Carmy grows a thicker skin and is able to finally tell Claire and the Faks no), I'm guessing that process is along the lines of how things will play out in S4. Similar to how the blanching process played out in S2.

If there's a season 5 I think the theme will be beef/substance/real connection, if not it will be at the end of S4 but I definitely think it's coming. At some point we're going back to the beef/the substance/ the real connections that the show was built on in S1.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Screaming from the crypt (or how the past haunts the present on Midnights)

I know it's been discussed so much since Midnights came out but just.

I love how there is such a clear narrative throughout the album (and perhaps especially on the 3am/Vault tracks). About questioning and regret and choices and coming to terms with all of it. It is one long story about how we're all a mosaic of the choices we make, each one taking something from us and leaving something else in its place.

(And now a disclaimer: I'm looking at this mostly through a narrator/subject lens, and trying not to dive too deeply into real-life events or speculation except for in a general sense. For this purpose I like to look at the body of work as art, like literature, because I find it makes it easier to see the common threads in the different songs and cohesion in the narrative.)

In looking at the 3am+ tracks in particular, it's fascinating how some turns of phrases or themes repeat themselves in different songs, in different contexts. (I'm only focusing on the non-standard tracks because there are too many songs and I'd be here all day but I bet I could do a part two lol.) I know many people have pointed out the parallels throughout her discography already and I’m not saying anything groundbreaking by writing this, but I love how these parallels run through in the same album, because it makes it seem like it's one long story, or at least, one long rumination on many different stories that are coalescing into a single narrative.

Battle (let’s go)

For instance, the one that jumped out at me when I started writing this post the other week was, "Tore your banners down, took the battle underground," in The Great War and "If clarity's in death, then why won't this die? Years of tearing down our banners, you and I," in Would've, Could've Should've. It's a story about staying stuck in the same cycle of reliving trauma and coping mechanisms and bad habits over and over again and fantasizing about how taking the “antagonist” out and gaining the upper hand for good would bring closure (WCS), but the truth is that nothing ever will. All that cycle does, though, is repeat itself in other situations, and in this case pushes someone away the narrator cares for (TGW). The difference is that the imagined battle in WCS is a two-way street in her mind (that is ultimately unwinnable because it was never a fair fight), but in TGW it's one-sided -- she's the one fighting dirty, taking shots, the way she'd been doing in her imagination (or nightmares) all these years. But the person in front of her isn't fighting back the way the person in her mind in WCS would, because their intentions are honourable instead of exploitative.

And that's paralleled in another pair of lyrics from the two songs, "And maybe it's the past talking, screaming from the crypt, telling me to punish you for things you never did," (in TGW) and "The tomb won't close, I fight with you in my sleep," (in WCS). In both cases, the funeral imagery makes it seem like this past event should be dead and buried in WCS, but it keeps rising from the dead, haunting her no matter what she does and in TGW, another (or perhaps the same?) tomb that won't close keeps unleashing new ways to hurt her and in turn the new person in her life. In other words, the trauma from the past continues to bleed into the present.

(Again from a literary point of view, I'm not saying the events of the two songs are linked IRL, but they're fascinating textual parallels on the album as a string of chapters, which is why Dear Reader is so compelling, but that's a whole other essay.)

To keep the battle motif going, there’s yet another parallel, this time between TGW’s "[You were a] soldier down on that icy ground, looked up at me with honor and truth," and You’re Losing Me’s "All I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier, fighting in only your army.” In the former, the subject is laying down his armour in the war she’s projecting onto him, waving the white flag, and she realizes that she’s about to destroy something if she doesn’t put her sword down too. By the time we get to YLM, the roles are almost reversed; at the very least they’re supposed to be on the same team, but in this case she’s doing all the heavy lifting, fighting for their relationship in contrast to his apathy killing it. It’s also pretty interesting (if not outright intentional) that one of the 3am+ editions of the albums starts with The Great War, where they find themselves in conflict (even if it’s in her head) that ends in a truce, and ends with You’re Losing Me signalling the end of the relationship, evidence that the resolution in the first song wasn’t an ending but merely a ceasefire before the last battle.

Putting the rest under a cut because this is waaaaay too long now ⤵️

(There’s also another metaphor there in The Great War with its battle imagery: World War I, aka The Great War, was supposed to be the war to end all wars, because loss on its scale was never seen before and when it ended, most thought never again would the world embroil itself in such battle, the horrors and implications were so devastating. Two decades later, the world found itself in WWII, with an even larger scope and more horrific consequences, the intervening time between the two a period of festering conflicts and resentment leading to some of the worst acts the world would see. Bringing real life into it for a second, there’s something a little poetic, though sad, about The Great War the song being about a fight that could have ended the relationship that they ultimately resolved and was meant to be evidence of the strength of their love, but so too did it end up being a period of détente, the greater battle coming for them years later. But that is not the point of this post.)

If one thing had been different

Another major theme in these editions is pondering the "what ifs?" of life, but I think it takes on even more significance in the broader context of the album in the lyrics of "I'm never gonna meet what could've been, would've been, should've been you," in Bigger than the Whole Sky and the repetition of would've/could've in Would've, Could've, Should've (I would've looked away at the first glance, I would've stayed on my knees, I would've gone along with the righteous, I could've gone on as I was, would've could've should've if I'd only played it safe, etc.) In both songs, the narrator is mourning an alternate course their life could have taken* and questioning what they could have done differently, in the aftermath of trauma and loss, and the regret that comes with that loss, and with the loss of agency in the situation because ultimately it was never in their hands. In an album full of questions, wondering about the path not taken, or the forks in the road that have led to a different version of your life, it's digging deeper into the contrast of choice vs. fate, action vs. reaction, dwelling on the past vs. moving on. When you're supposed to let go of the past, what do you do when it is holding your future hostage?

(*I know there are different interpretations/speculation about BTTWS which I am not getting into on main. I'm just saying that whatever the song is about, it's grieving something that never came to be. The literal origin of the song is less important to the album than the sense of loss it portrays. Whatever the inspiration is, it's crafted to tell part of the story of Midnights of ruminating over how, to borrow from her previous work, if one thing had been different, would everything be different?)

(Also I was today years old when I realized that the words are inverted in the two songs. Apparently I've been hearing BTTWS wrong this whole time.)

There's also an interesting tangent in the role of faith in both songs: in WCS, the events of the story cause her to lose her faith (e.g. "All I used to do was pray," "you're a crisis of my faith,") and question all the things she felt had been unquestionable until that point in her life (e.g. "I could have gone along with the righteous"), whereas in BTTWS, she questions whether that very lack of faith is to blame for the loss in that song ("did some force take you because I didn't pray? [...] It's not meant to be, so I'll say words I don't believe"). It's like pinpointing the moment her life changed and upended her beliefs (WCS), but as a result then leaving her unmoored in times of crisis because ultimately there's no explanation or comfort to be taken from what she used to hold true before that (BTTWS). The words she once relied upon to guide her have long since lost their meaning, but in times of trouble it leaves her wondering if that faith she once held then lost could have prevented this pain.

(Shoutout to WCS for being Catholic guilt personified lol.)

To keep on with the vaguely faith-y notions, an obvious parallel is the line in Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve about, “I damn sure never would've danced with the devil at nineteen,” and, "When you aim at the devil, make sure you don't miss," in Dear Reader. All of WCS is about her fighting with an antagonist who haunts her, with whom she wholly regrets ever becoming involved. DR could be seen as a reflection on that fall from grace, warning the audience that if you choose to go after the person (or thing) haunting you, make sure you do so clearheaded enough to be decisive. Again, these “devils” may not be related in real life: the IRL devil in DR could be speaking about her naysayers, or Kim*ye, or Scott & Scooter B, etc., meaning not to cross your enemies until you know you can win. But taking real life out of it and looking at it textually, I am intrigued by the link between WCS and DR, so that’s what I’m going with here. And perhaps that’s even the point in a wider sense; there will be multiple “devils” in your life, or threats to your well-being. If you’re going to commit to taking them down — whether it’s an actual person, or the demons inside you that refuse to let you go — make sure you have the right ammo so that they can no longer hurt you. (Of course, one lesson from these experiences is that sometimes you can’t win, and you have to live with the fallout.)

(Sidebar: I know that “dancing with the devil” is a turn of phrase that means being led into temptation and engaging in risky behaviour, as opposed to describing the actual person. Given the religious metaphors in the song, that could very well be/is the intention, particularly when it’s preceded by, “I would have stayed on my knees” as in she would have continued to follow her faith — in whatever sense that means — had she never met this person, which could also be a more eloquent way of saying she would have continued to be live her life in a way that was righteous (even naive) and seen the world in black and white. Either way, it’s a force she wholly rejects. Like I said, multiple devils, same fight.)

Regret comes up too: in WCS, she says, "I regret you all the time," obviously directed at the person who manipulated her and led to her perceived downfall, citing him as the one impulse she wished she'd never followed, because it won't leave her no matter how hard she’s tried. In High Infidelity, she tells the person to, "put on your records and regret me," and on the surface, it’s like she’s turning the tables, painting herself as the one now causing the regret in someone else, the one inflicting the pain this time. Yet the verse preceding it and the lines following it in the chorus depict a partner who is also emotionally manipulative and vindictive like in WCS (“you said I was freeloading, I didn’t know you were keeping count,” “put on your headphones and burn my city,”). It’s not so much that she’s intentionally harming the person (the way the person in WCS does to her), but rather that the venom in the subject’s feelings towards her seeps through; she’s imagining the way he’s going to feel about her when she leaves, hating her just for by being who she is. (There could be another tangent about how in both songs she’s there to be a “token” in a game for both of the men, who play her for their own purposes.) The regret is dripping with disdain. It’s as though she’s picturing how the person is going to hate her for doing what she’s thinking of doing the way she hates the person who first hurt her.

Sadness, unsurprisingly, shows up in a few lyrics. In BTTWS, “Everything I touch becomes sick with sadness,” sets the scene of a person so overcome with grief that it permeates everything around them; they cannot see their way out of it and feel like the fog will never lift. In Hits Different, it’s, “My sadness is contagious,” the result of a breakup where the person’s grief again touches everything and everyone around them, pushing them further in their despair and loneliness. The reason behind the grief in either case may vary, but regardless of the source, the feeling is overpowering and isolating. They may be different chapters in the story, but the devastation is hauntingly familiar. (As is a recurring theme in Midnights as a whole: there are situations and feelings that present themselves at different points in her journey and colour in the lines in different ways along the road. Like revisiting an old vice and realizing the hit isn’t quite the same as it was in the past.)

Death by a thousand cuts

She also writes about wounds on this album, which isn't surprising I suppose given that the whole conceit is that these are things that have kept her up at night over the years. WCS is perhaps the driving narrative on this never ending hurt when she sings, “The wound won't close, I keep on waiting for a sign, I regret you all the time,” suggesting that no matter what she does, the pain of this experience has permeated everything she’s done afterwards. (Not unlike the overwhelming grief in BTTWS, for instance.) Elsewhere, in High Infidelity she sings, "Lock broken, slur spoken, wound open, game token," and in Hits Different, "Make it make some sense why the wound is still bleeding.” Again I'm not suggesting they're about the same events; the line in HI is about a situation where a partner crosses a boundary, hits below the belt, picks at an insecurity (or creates a new one) and treats the relationship like it's transactional, opening the floodgates in turn. In HD, the wound seems to be more self-inflicted, where she's pushed the person away. (Over a situation real or imagined she feels she needs distance from.) But again, something has picked at her like a raw nerve, and just like in the past, she's hurting, even in a different time and place and person. Almost like the wounds of the past break open over and over again to create new scars. If one were to extrapolate further, it wouldn’t be the biggest leap to wonder if the wound open in WCS, then torn apart in HI makes the one in HD hurt even more.

(I once wrote a post about how I think as time goes on, WCS is going to turn into one of those songs that will be found to drive so much of her work, because it’s just… kind of the unsaid thesis statement of so much of her songwriting.)

Another repeated theme is that of the empty home and loneliness. In High Infidelity, she sings, "At the house lonely, good money I'd pay if you just know me, seemed like the right thing at the time," painting a picture of someone who may have everything they'd want to the outside world, but in reality feels metaphorically trapped in their home (or at least alone amidst abundance), a symbol of a relationship gone sour and a failure to build connection. She just wants someone to understand her, want her for her, but as she's written earlier in the song, she's just a pawn in the game, a trophy from the hunt. Home, in this case, is lonely, isolated, an emblem of her fears. In Dear Reader, she continues this thread, then singing, "You wouldn't take my word for it if you knew who was talking, if you knew where I was walking, to a house not a home, all alone 'cause nobody's there, where I pace in my pen and my friends found friends who care, no one sees you lose when you're playing solitaire." It's the same idea, admitting to listeners that the gilded cage she lived in kept her distanced from her loved ones and real connection, keeping her struggles close to the vest but feeling desperately lonely amidst her crowning success. She's pushed people away and it may have felt like the right thing at the time, but in the end maybe felt like she was trapped. And when you push people away, eventually they take you at your word and stop pushing back; you’re a victim of your own success at isolating yourself. What starts out of self-preservation then further perpetuates the underlying problems.

(There's another interesting link about "home" also feeling unsafe with HI's "Your picket fence is sharp as knives," which further leads into the theme of marriage/domesticity feeling dangerous, which is a whole other thing I won't get into here because it's another discussion and may derail this already gargantuan word salad.)

In a slightly similar vein, we have the metaphor of bad weather for a rocky road or unstable relationship, in High Infidelity again with, "Storm coming, good husband, bad omen, dragged my feet right down the aisle" and You’re Losing Me’s "every morning I glared at you with storms in my eyes.” They aren’t speaking of the same situation or even same kind of breakdown, but it is pretty interesting how the idea of clouds/storms/floods/etc. play such a role in Taylor’s music to signal depression, apprehension, fear, uncertainty, etc. In HI, I think the “storm” coming is the looming threat of commitment to a partner who makes the narrator uneasy (if not fearful). In this case, the idea of making a life with this person is not one that incites joy or comfort, but instead makes the narrator feel that dark times are ahead if she continues down this path. Perhaps in some way, the “storms” in YLM have made good on the threat in HI in a different way; it’s a different home, a different relationship, but the clouds have settled in regardless, and some of her fears have come to fruition in ways she did not expect. The person she once trusted no longer sees her or her struggles (or worse, doesn’t care), and the resentment and pain build with each passing day.

Coming back to heartbreak, one of the obvious "full circle" moments is the beginning of a relationship in Paris, where she says that, "I'm so in love that I might stop breathing," clearly enthralled in a new love that allows her to shut the world out and grow in private, capturing the all-encompassing nature of the relationship. This infatuation has consumed her in the most wonderful way (in contrast to the sorrow of some of the previous songs), and it feels like a life-altering (or even life-sustaining?) force that is so strong she may forget what it’s like to breathe. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) By the end of the album, though, in You're Losing Me, that heart-stopping love has become a threat: "my heart won't start anymore for you." In the former, her racing heart is full of excitement, but by the latter, her heart has given out completely under the weight of the pain she bears. (YLM is full of death/illness imagery which I already wrote about awhile ago so I won't hear, but needless to say that song deserves its own essay for so many reasons.) She's gone from the unbridled joy of the beginnings of a relationship to the unrelenting sorrow of its end, two sides of the same coin.

Love as death appears elsewhere in the music too, for instance, in High Infidelity’s, “You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love, the slowest way is never loving them enough" and You’re Losing Me’s “How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dying? […] My face was gray, but you wouldn't admit that we were sick.” Though not completely analogous situations, they both tell the tale of one partner’s apathy (or at least denial) destroying the other. In the former, the partner’s actions (or inaction) are more insidious, if not sinister; in the latter, the lack of momentum (or admission of a problem) is passive. In both cases, the end result is the narrator’s demise; it’s a drawn out affair that chips away at her morale and her health and her sense of self. (Breaking my own rule about bringing in alleged actual events into the discussion, but the idea that the relationship in High Infidelity, which was obviously fraught with unease and even fear, ended in a similarly excruciatingly slow and hurtful death by a thousand cuts as the relationship in You’re Losing Me almost did at that time must have been so painful. It almost feels like YLM is wondering why what used to be a source of light in her life was mirroring a situation that caused her such pain in the past.)

From the same little breaks in your soul

I said early on that part of what is so compelling about Midnights is that it feels like an album about ruminating — on choices, on events, on people — and the two final “bonus” tracks of the album depict that as well. In Hits Different, she sings that, “they say if it’s right, you know,” an ode to the confusion of a breakup and struggling with the aftermath of calling it quits. It’s a line that has always intrigued me, because the typical use of the phrase is in the sense of, “you’ll know when you meet the one,” but here it seems to have a double meaning, a reassurance perhaps from the friends (who later on tell her that "love is a lie") that she’ll know if she’s made the right decision in calling it off, but could also be her wondering if the relationship is right, she’ll know, and want to reconcile. In the final bonus track, You’re Losing Me, she sings, “now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time,” this time leaving no doubt about the dilemma she faces, though it’s no less fraught. She’s wondering, perhaps for the last time, if now is finally the moment to end the relationship for good. They say that if it’s right she’ll know, and now she’s wondering if that feeling inside her (that once told her her partner was the one, which is why it hit differently), is telling her that it’s time to go for good. Wait Alexa play “It’s Time To Go.” These are not only the things that keep her up at night, but the things that play over in her mind like a film reel in her waking hours.

Midnights as a whole is a deeply personal album, as is most of Taylor's work, but the 3am+ edition tracks seem to dig even deeper to a lot of the issues raised on the standard album. Almost like the standard tracks are the things she wonders about on sleepless nights, but the bonus tracks are the things that haunt her in the aftermath. The regret, anger, sadness, grief, relief, even joy— they’re the price she pays for the memories she keeps reliving. Midnights might be the most cohesive narrative of all her albums, and really does feel like we’re watching someone work through her journal over time, stopping short of outright naming those giant fears and intrusive thoughts (except for when she does) but making them plain as day when you connect the songs together, and perhaps never more clearly than in the expanded album. It’s incredible how the songs stand on their own to relay a specific moment in time, but that they are also self-referential to each other (whether thematically or overtly) to weave a larger web over the entire work. We’re so lucky as fans to have these stories and to keep peeling back these layers as time passes. (And my literature-analysis-loving ass loves her even more for it.)

This is obviously by no means an exhaustive list, and I know there are more parallels and probably even stronger links (particularly when you add the standard version into the mix), but these were the ones that particularly struck me and I’m just glad I’ve had a chance to sit with this and think it through. ❤️