#lessons in writing

[leevingthisplace]

Lessons in Writing: The Power of the Sympathetic Asshole

Welcome to Lessons in Writing, where I, a student in writing, tell you very unprofessionally about the things I learned recently.

First things first, a good character and a good person are two different things; a character can be one without being the other and vice versa. I would even argue that the best people can make for some of the least interesting characters. The purpose of a good person is to be moral, or ethical, to make the right decisions with the least amount of drawbacks for others. The purpose of a good character is to carry a story, and a story lives off of conflict. You don't get conflict by being moral or always making the right decisions (what are the right decisions anyway).

Story and characters are intertwined like nothing else: interesting characters makes for an interesting story. Think about it: we often like the characters more who influence the story the most. I think that's often why we're drawn to villains. Take the villain away, and you won't have that story. But you often don't need a villain, not really. You need conflict.

Interesting character create conflict, but what makes a character interesting? Depth. Fears, goals, misbeliefs, rooted in their backstory. An interesting character makes you ask questions externally, and answers them internally. So we need actions that cause questions, and backstory that provides reasons, our answers. That's where the sympathetic asshole comes into play.

Someone who does what you expect them to do doesn't raise questions. Someone who breaks those expectations does. We often expect characters, especially protagonists, to act morally (I think that's in general the expectation we have for everybody, not just in fiction). So when they don't, we ask: why?

But the answer part is just as important as the question part. If someone does a lot of shitty things seemingly just because, they're just an asshole. To be a sympathetic asshole, we need to know why, we need to know the reasons. A question raises suspense, a question that never gets an answer creates frustration. The reasons for asshole behavior are often rooted in the backstory, in trauma, grief, loss, separation, shattered dreams, unfulfilled fantasies, broken promises, etc.

Let's take a look at an example: Six of Crows

Kaz Brekker didn't need a reason. That's the first sentence of the second chapter. But well, he does have reasons, that's what Inej thinks at least. And she's right. The content of the second chapter doesn't only set up our setting, the city of Ketterdam and the barrel, but the character of Kaz Brekker. It leaves us with questions. How is he only seventeen and already practically leader of a gang? Why does he have a cane? What's with the gloves? Why does he feel the need to be so cruel about revealing and punishing the betrayal of one of his gang members? And so on. Later in the book we get our answers in the form of a backstory that leaves everyone to stare at their wall for at least five minutes. I won't spoil that here, but I truly think it's one of the best backstories to exist.

In a way, this could be applied to any character that breaks expectation. We can even set up the expectation of the reader by introducing them to the setting of the story and other characters that behave in a certain way, and then bring in someone who does not behave this way at all. That behavior could be any behavior. To an extent, we see this in Inej from Six of Crows. Gang member, right hand of Kaz Brekker and the notorious thief of secrets called the Wraith, yet she's not greedy, still follows her religion, doesn't want to kill and doesn't even like the name "Wraith".

What can we take away from all of this? Set expectations, break expectations and don't be afraid to make your characters assholes sometimes, if they have reasons for it.

[m00wd]

Sometimes you need to sleep, sleep a lot. Not to escape, but to rest your soul from your feelings. Because everything, absolutely everything devours you. Completely.

—Brain

[lilydrafts]

The moment you decide you are worthy. The universe starts to agree.

[whendidmythoughtsgocrazy]

If hurting me does not hurt you, you don’t love me. You’re using me.

k.b // by jerry flowers jr

[emivipers]

“I lied and said I was busy.

I was busy;

but not in a way most people understand.

I was busy taking deeper breaths.

I was busy silencing irrational thoughts.

I was busy calming a racing heart.

I was busy telling myself I am okay.

Sometimes, this is my busy -

and I will not apologize for it.”

- Brittin Oakman

- Artwork : Sivan.ka

[forestechos]

As a 31 year old I’m telling you, life does not end after your twenties nor are you old in your 30s. I might have a smile line or two and some new aches in my body but there is so much more life to live. If you are feeling the inevitable passing of time a little more lately, I just want you to know that it is okay if you don’t have it all figured out yet by 18, 22, 25, or any age after. And you certainly don’t have to fit any mold that society has placed in front of you. Go at your own pace, be kind to yourself.

I promise there is time left for you.

[lipikkawrites]

If life can remove people you never dreamt of losing, it can replace them with someone you never dreamt of having.

-@lipikkawrites

[star-struck09]

Slowly, I will learn what it means to be kind to myself.

[isaacsdevil4108]

Lewis Pullman + muscles💪🏼

you're welcome! ;)

[heritageposts]

What does life in North Korea look like outside of Pyongyang? 🇰🇵

Hey, I'm back again with a very scary "tankie" post that asks you to think of North Koreans as people, and to consider their country not as a cartoonish dystopia, but as a nation that, like any other place on earth, has culture, traditions, and history.

Below is a collection of pictures from various cities and places in North Korea, along with a brief dive into some of the historical events that informs life in the so-called "hermit kingdom."

Warning: very long post

Kaesong, the historic city

Beginning this post with Kaesong, one of the oldest cities in Korea. It's also one of the few major cities in the DPRK (i.e. "North Korea") that was not completely destroyed during the Korean war.

Every single city you'll see from this point on were victims of intense aerial bombardments from the U.S. and its allies, and had to be either partially or completely rebuilt after the war.

From 1951 to 1953, during what has now become known as the "forgotten war" in the West, the U.S. dropped 635,000 tons of bombs over Korea — most of it in the North, and on civilian population centers. An additional 32,000 tons of napalm was also deployed, engulfing whole cities in fire and inflicting people with horrific burns:

For such a simple thing to make, napalm had horrific human consequences. A bit of liquid fire, a sort of jellied gasoline, napalm clung to human skin on contact and melted off the flesh. Witnesses to napalm's impact described eyelids so burned they could not be shut and flesh that looked like "swollen, raw meat." - PBS

Ever wondered why North Koreans seem to hate the U.S so much? Well...

Keep in mind that only a few years prior to this, the U.S. had, as the first and only country in the world, used the atomic bomb as a weapon of war. Consider, too, the proximity between Japan and Korea — both geographically and as an "Other" in the Western imagination.

As the war dragged on, and it became clear the U.S. and its allies would not "win" in any conventional sense, the fear that the U.S. would resort to nuclear weapons again loomed large, adding another frightening dimension to the war that can probably go a long way in explaining the DPRK's later obsession with acquiring their own nuclear bomb.

But even without the use of nuclear weapons, the indiscriminate attack on civilians, particularly from U.S. saturation bombings, was still horrific:

"The number of Korean dead, injured or missing by war’s end approached three million, ten percent of the overall population. The majority of those killed were in the North, which had half of the population of the South; although the DPRK does not have official figures, possibly twelve to fifteen percent of the population was killed in the war, a figure close to or surpassing the proportion of Soviet citizens killed in World War II" - Charles K. Armstrong

On top of the loss of life, there's also the material damage. By the end of the war, the U.S. Air Force had, by its own estimations, destroyed somewhere around 85% of all buildings in the DPRK, leaving most cities in complete ruin. There are even stories of U.S. bombers dropping their loads into the ocean because they couldn't find any visible targets to bomb.

What you'll see below of Kaesong, then, provides both a rare glimpse of what life in North Korea looked like before the war, and a reminder of what was destroyed.

Kaesong's main street, pictured below.

Due the stifling sanctions imposed on the DPRK—which has, in various forms and intensities, been in effect since the 1950s—car ownership is still low throughout the country, with most people getting around either by walking or biking, or by bus or train for longer distances.

Kaesong, which is regarded as an educational center, is also notable for its many Koryŏ-era monuments. A group of twelve such sites were granted UNESCO world heritage status in 2013.

Included is the Hyonjongnung Royal Tomb, a 14th-century mausoleum located just outside the city of Kaesong.

One of the statues guarding the tomb.

Before moving on the other cities, I also wanted to showcase one more of the DPRK's historical sites: Pohyonsa, a thousand-year-old Buddhist temple complex located in the Myohyang Mountains.

Like many of DPRK's historic sites, the temple complex suffered extensive damage during the Korean war, with the U.S. led bombings destroying over half of its 24 pre-war buildings.

The complex has since been restored and is in use today both as a residence for Buddhist monks, and as a historic site open to visitors.

Hamhung, the second largest city in the DPRK.

A coastal city located in the South Hamgyŏng Province. It has long served as a major industrial hub in the DPRK, and has one of the largest and busiest ports in the country.

Hamhung, like most of the coastal cities in the DPRK, was hit particularly hard during the war. Through relentless aerial bombardments, the US and its allies destroyed somewhere around 80-90% percent of all buildings, roads, and other infrastructure in the city.

Now, more than seventy years later, unexploded bombs, mortars and pieces of live ammunition are still being unearthed by the thousands in the area. As recently as 2016, one of North Korea's bomb squads—there's one in every province, faced with the same cleanup task—retrieved 370 unexploded mortar rounds... from an elementary school playground.

Experts in the DPRK estimate it will probably take over a hundred years to clean up all the unexploded ordnance—and that's just in and around Hamhung.

Hamhung's fertilizer plant, the biggest in North Korea.

When the war broke out, Hamhung was home to the largest nitrogen fertilizer plant in Asia. Since its product could be used in the creation of explosives, the existence of the plant is considered to have made Hamhung a target for U.S. aggression (though it's worth repeating that the U.S. carried out saturation bombings of most population centers in the country, irrespective of any so-called 'military value').

The plant was immediately rebuilt after the war, and—beyond its practical use—serves now as a monument of resistance to U.S. imperialism, and as a functional and symbolic site of self-reliance.

Chongjin, the third largest city in the DPRK.

Another coastal city and industrial hub. It underwent a massive development prior to the Korean war, housing around 300,000 people by the time the war broke out.

By 1953, the U.S. had destroyed most of Chongjin's industry, bombed its harbors, and killed one third of the population.

Wonsan, a rebuilt seaside city.

The city of Wonsan is a vital link between the DPRK's east and west coasts, and acts today as both a popular holiday destination for North Koreans, and as a central location for the country's growing tourism industry.

Considered a strategically important location during the war, Wonsan is notable for having endured one of the longest naval blockades in modern history, lasting a total of 861 days.

By the end of the war, the U.S. estimated that they had destroyed around 80% of the city.

Masikryong Ski Resort, located close to Wonsan. It opened to the public in 2014 and is the first, I believe, that was built with foreign tourists in mind.

Sariwon, another rebuilt city

One of the worst hit cities during the Korean War, with an estimated destruction level of 95%.

I've written about its Wikipedia page here before, which used to mockingly describe its 'folk customs street'—a project built to preserve old Korean traditions and customs—as an "inaccurate romanticized recreation of an ancient Korean street."

No mention, of course, of the destruction caused by the US-led aerial bombings, or any historical context at all that could possibly even hint at why the preservation of old traditions might be particularly important for the city.

Life outside of the towns and cities

In the rural parts of the DPRK, life primarily revolves around agriculture. As the sanctions they're under make it difficult to acquire fuel, farming in the DPRK relies heavily on manual labour, which again, to avoid food shortages, requires that a large portion of the labour force resides in the countryside.

Unlike what many may think, the reliance on manual labour in farming is a relatively "new" development. Up until the crisis of the 1990s, the DPRK was a highly industrialized nation, with a modernized agricultural system and a high urbanization rate. But, as the access to cheap fuel from the USSR and China disappeared, and the sanctions placed upon them by Western nations heavily restricted their ability to import fuel from other sources, having a fuel-dependent agricultural industry became a recipe for disaster, and required an immediate and brutal restructuring.

For a more detailed breakdown of what lead to the crisis in the 90s, and how it reshaped the DPRKs approach to agriculture, check out this article by Zhun Xu.

Some typical newly built rural housing, surrounded by farmland.

Tumblr only allows 20 pictures per post, but if you want to see more pictures of life outside Pyongyang, check out this imgur album.

[blindfolded-nakedtruth]

The best compliment is to accept someone with whatever they have.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Held Tight, Taken Deep

Lewis Pullman x Ovulating!Fem!Reader

warnings: SMUT 😝

You barely step inside the grocery store before Lewis locks eyes on the water aisle, like a man on a mission. You know what’s coming, but you’re powerless to stop it.

He strides over, muscles flexing under that thin black T-shirt, sleeves tight around his biceps. You watch breathlessly as he bends down, hand closing around the massive 48-pack of water bottles at the bottom shelf.

The sight is more than you can handle.

His forearms tighten, veins standing out like cords beneath his skin. His jaw clenches with the effort — a soft, almost involuntary grunt escapes him.

You don’t mean to, but the pressure in your belly and the wet heat pooling between your legs overwhelm you.

You almost moan.

A quick, sharp sound — not quite a moan but close enough — slips past your lips, and suddenly you’re painfully aware of every eye in the aisle. Your cheeks flush hot, but your body betrays you.

Lewis stands upright, turning slowly to face you. His eyes catch yours, dark and full of wicked amusement.

“Jesus, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with promise. “Did I just make you want to come right here? In front of the bottled water?”

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, eyes flicking away, cheeks burning. You press your thighs together, but your body still trembles from the need only he can awaken.

He steps closer, the scent of him filling your senses — a mix of leather, sweat, and something distinctly his that makes your pussy clench without control.

His voice drops to a husky whisper, lips brushing your ear:

“You’re ovulatin’, aren’t you? I can feel it. Smell it. I bet you’re dripping just from me picking up a pack of water.”

Your breath catches — you’re so wet you’re practically leaking. Your fingers grip the cart’s handle so hard your knuckles turn white.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you start, voice trembling.

“No? You just nearly moaned, sweetheart.” His smirk widens. “You’re soaking through those panties, shakin’ like you want me to fuck you right here.”

His hand suddenly slides down your back, resting low on your hip. The warmth of his palm burns through your sundress.

You shudder.

“You’re such a filthy girl when you’re ovulating,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal. “Clenching around nothing but your own wetness, waiting for me.”

You bite your lip, trying not to beg, trying to keep yourself together. But your legs feel like jelly, knees weak.

Lewis presses his body against yours, hand slipping just under your dress to brush over the curve of your ass.

“Be good for me,” he commands softly, voice almost a growl. “I wanna watch you hold all that for me while we finish shopping. You can’t give in until we get home.”

Your breath hitches painfully. Your body is screaming for release.

“Please,” you whisper, barely audible, voice breaking. “Lewis… I can’t wait. Please, just—here, now. Please…”

His eyes flash with pure wickedness as he leans in, voice dripping with dark promise.

“You want me to fuck you right here? In front of the pickles and the pasta? You want me to ruin you where everyone can see?”

You nod, trembling, lips parting as you fight to keep quiet.

He grins devilishly, fingertips trailing slowly down your side.

“God, you’re so desperate,” he breathes. “But no. You’re gonna be such a good girl. Hold all that wetness tight for me. Keep those thighs clenched. I swear, I’ll make it worth every second when we get home.”

You swallow back a sob, pressing yourself against him.

“I’m trying,” you whisper. “I’m trying so hard.”

He kisses your temple, his hand squeezing your hip possessively.

“Good girl.”

Lewis pushes the cart forward, his fingers ghosting over your hip one last time before he turns toward the next aisle.

You follow behind, trembling, soaked, and completely undone — and all you can think is:

Please, let me survive this grocery store. Because the second we get home, he’s going to ruin me.

The cart rattles forward as Lewis casually reaches for hamburger buns, but you barely register the bread. Your mind’s a storm of heat and desperation, muscles clenched tight enough to hurt.

He strolls behind you, fingers deliberately brushing your lower back, slipping slowly down toward your hip with every step. The lingering touch sends jolts through your body, each one more electric than the last.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs in your ear, voice low and teasing. “I can feel how wet you are through that dress. You’re soaked, baby. Soaked for me.”

You bite your lip hard, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Lewis, please… not here.”

“But you want it here, don’t you?” He presses a hand to the small of your back, sliding it down until it rests possessively on your ass. “Can’t stop thinking about me filling you up while we pick out potato salad.”

Your breath hitches, and you stumble slightly. He steadies you with a crooked smile.

“Don’t fall apart now,” he warns. “We’re not done shopping. You gotta be my good girl first.”

You squeeze your thighs tighter, heart pounding like a drum in your ears. His hands are hot, heavy, and everywhere—impossible to ignore.

At the soda aisle, he presses closer, his chest flush against your back as he whispers:

“Imagine me bending you over the kitchen counter later, spreading you wide, filling you deep. You’re going to be so full, baby. So mine.”

A wave of heat rushes through you, and you let out a quiet whimper, quickly covering your mouth with your hand.

Lewis chuckles darkly.

“You can’t hide that from me. Not ever.”

He trails a finger down your arm, tracing slow circles on your skin.

At the chips aisle, his fingers sneak under the hem of your dress, teasing the barest touch on your upper thigh.

“Almost done,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. “Think you can survive the checkout line without begging me?”

You glance around nervously, cheeks burning, breath shallow.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whisper.

“Better try,” he smirks, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Because the second we get home, I’m going to make you forget every single second of this torture.”

You nod, trembling, ready to collapse, but also desperate for whatever reward he’s promising.

———

You ride home in agony.

Lewis drives with one hand on the wheel and the other glued to your thigh. His fingers stroke over your skin slowly, teasing you just enough to keep your pulse pounding but not enough to satisfy.

“Bet your pussy’s still fluttering from earlier,” he murmurs, smirking like a menace. “Poor thing—walkin’ through produce all wet and needy, holdin’ in those little moans.”

You whimper, pressing your thighs together.

“I was good,” you breathe. “You said—”

“Oh, baby, I know.” He leans in, lips grazing your ear. “And I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you for it.”

Your hips rock involuntarily as he growls:

“I’m gonna get you inside, toss you on the kitchen table, and push so deep into you the only thing you can say is my name. You hear me?”

“Yes—please,” you whisper, already halfway undone.

He parks the car. Your heart thunders in your chest.

The bags sit forgotten in the back as Lewis unbuckles your seatbelt, then slides his hand under your dress—finally dragging his fingers over the soaked fabric clinging to your cunt.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thumb pressing in just right. “You’re soaked for me.”

You gasp, hips bucking toward his hand.

“Lewis, please—”

“Get your ass in that kitchen,” he growls, “before I bend you over the fender.”

You fling the door open and half-stumble toward the house, barely able to walk straight, nerves buzzing with anticipation.

You’re three steps from the front door when—

two car doors slam.

Your stomach drops.

Lewis freezes behind you.

“No. No no no—” you whisper.

“Oh, come on—” Lewis mutters.

You both whip around.

And there they are.

His parents.

His mom, in a soft floral top, waving enthusiastically with a big Pyrex dish in her hands. His dad, unloading trays of raw meat from the back of their SUV like it’s the goddamn Fourth of July.

“Hey, sweetheart!” his mom beams. “We thought we’d come by early to help you two set up!”

“Yeah,” his dad chimes in. “Got the grill tools, marinated ribs, and your mom made her baked mac—figured you could use an extra set of hands!”

You are one more word away from collapsing to your knees and sobbing.

Lewis looks like he’s watching a dream die in real time.

“…awesome,” he says, voice deadpan. “Perfect timing.”

“What was that, honey?”

“Nothin’, Ma.”

He turns to you, jaw clenched, eyes murderous with frustration.

“Get the bags,” he mutters under his breath. “Before I throw ‘em and fuck you on the damn porch anyway.”

“I hate everything,” you whisper, dragging yourself toward the trunk.

“I was gonna put a baby in you next to the coffee pot,” he growls. “Now I gotta make small talk about deviled eggs.”

———

You’re standing in the kitchen, still trembling from the car ride over, with Lewis behind you, jaw tight, hands full of grocery bags.

You were three steps away from being fucked into the linoleum like a woman possessed. His fingers had just touched your soaking wet panties. Your breath was shaking. Your body was ready.

And now?

Now his mother is unpacking napkins and flag-themed plates. His dad’s at the grill already talking dry rub. And your own parents—smiling, well-meaning, and completely unaware that their daughter is seconds from bursting into tears—are pulling into the driveway.

“Is that—” you whisper, peeking out the kitchen window.

“Yep,” Lewis mutters. “Your dad. And your mom. And your cousin with the cowboy boots.”

You blink. Hard.

“Why the fuck is my auntie here, Lewis?”

“I don’t know, baby,” he says, low and dangerous, “but I swear to God, if one more person walks through that gate, I’m gonna bend you over the veggie tray and take what’s mine.”

You glare at him, thighs clenching. You’re still soaked. The ache between your legs has bloomed into full body desperation.

He leans in, whispering dark filth right against your temple.

“You were gonna let me fuck you in the kitchen like my cock was the only thing you needed. You were so ready to be filled, weren’t you?”

You nod, breath hitching, eyes fluttering closed for half a second.

“Yeah?” he says, grabbing a bag of hot dog buns and palming the back of your ass as he passes. “Still ready?”

You whimper.

But the screen door creaks and slams.

“Hey, sweetpea!” your mom calls. “This your house now? You better give me a tour!”

You almost black out.

⸻

Twenty Minutes Later.

The yard is full.

The grill is smoking.

Someone brought corn on the cob. A child is screaming about sunscreen.

You are ruined.

Lewis is everywhere—acting sweet, handing out drinks, playing host like he wasn’t whispering “I want to come so deep inside you you taste it” not twenty minutes ago.

But every time he passes behind you, he touches you. Lightly. Possessively. Sinfully.

One hand on your hip while you’re pouring lemonade.

A slow palm over your lower back while you’re talking to his grandma.

A filthy whisper while you try to pretend your thighs aren’t shaking:

“You’re leaking through your panties, aren’t you?”

“How much longer you think you can take this?”

“Bet your body’s just begging for me to breed it.”

You nearly drop the bowl of pasta salad when he brushes your ear and says:

“I’m gonna take you inside the second they leave. Not gently. Not sweet. Like you’re mine.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. You are seconds away from crying into the grilled corn.

⸻

Three hours later.

Sun’s going down. The guests are winding down. Your cousin is packing up tinfoil-covered plates like she didn’t just witness a full hormonal breakdown in your eyes.

Your mom kisses your cheek. Your dad says, “Tell Lewis the grill was perfect.”

The last guest waves.

The last foil-covered plate is packed.

The screen door slams shut.

You and Lewis stand in the middle of the kitchen like you’ve both been holding your breath for hours.

Silence.

No cousins. No parents. No toddlers yelling about popsicles.

Just him. Just you.

And everything he’s been promising since the second he picked up that damn 48-pack of water.

You turn to speak—but you don’t even get a word out.

Lewis is on you.

One hand in your hair. The other gripping your waist, dragging you to him like the whole world’s on fire and you’re the only thing that’ll put it out.

“Inside,” he growls. “Now.”

You’re already inside—but you know what he means. Not the polite, family-friendly, burger-flipping version of him. No. This is the Lewis who spent all day whispering filth in your ear while his mother asked if you needed more napkins.

His hands are on your hips, under your dress, dragging the soaked fabric up.

“You did so good,” he mutters, voice low, breath hot. “Kept quiet. Let me touch you in front of everyone. Let me talk like that and didn’t say a word.”

Your panties are still wet. You never dried. You never calmed down.

He notices right away.

“Still drippin’,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours for one aching second. “You’ve been like this all day?”

You nod, breathless.

“Just for me?”

“Only you,” you whisper.

His lips crash into yours. It’s not sweet—it’s starving. His hands lift you onto the edge of the counter, spreading your knees, pulling you forward until your chest’s flush with his and your breath is shaking.

“You were beggin’ for it in the store,” he growls against your mouth. “Said you couldn’t wait. That you needed it right there. Think I forgot?”

You shake your head, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“You think I didn’t notice how many times you clenched every time I said I was gonna fill you up?”

“How bad you wanted me to take you right there between the ranch and the corn chips?”

He kisses you again, deep and filthy, all teeth and tongue.

“You were so patient, baby. So good.”

He pulls back, eyes dark, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“Now I’m gonna be so fuckin’ good to you.”

And when he drops to his knees in front of you?

That’s when your whole body knows:

You’re not leaving this kitchen the same.

He drops to his knees like he’s worshiping something holy.

Like this is sacred.

And you? Sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, thighs spread, soaked and shaking from hours of teasing—you are.

Lewis doesn’t speak for a second.

He just stares.

His hands trace up your calves, then your thighs—slow, reverent, full of quiet hunger. His touch is firm. Possessive.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’ve been leaking for me since the damn grocery store.”

He presses his mouth against the inside of your thigh. Then again, higher. Then again, even higher.

Each kiss is slow and deliberate—like he’s marking you.

“You’ve been clenching all day, haven’t you?” he says, dragging his tongue in a line up your inner thigh. “Just waiting to be touched. Waiting to be ruined.”

You can barely speak. Your hands are shaking. Your head falls back as you whimper his name.

“You earned this, baby,” he growls. “You didn’t beg in front of my mama. You didn’t let anyone see how messy you were. You waited. Just for me.”

He kisses the spot where your thigh meets your hip, humming as he presses his mouth closer, hotter, filthier.

“So I’m gonna take my time,” he says against your skin. “You’re not gonna come fast. You’re gonna sit there and let me play with you. Let me taste how desperate you got just from being near me.”

You whine, trembling already—and then his mouth moves.

He doesn’t go straight for it.

No—he circles. He teases. He taunts. He moans against you like he’s the one being ruined.

And all the while, his hands hold your thighs wide, firm and unrelenting.

“Keep ‘em open,” he murmurs when your legs start to shake. “Take it. Let me hear how good it feels.”

You do. And he does not stop.

He praises you for every twitch, every whimper, every second you keep your legs spread and take everything he gives.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Takin’ me so good. You’re so sensitive, huh? All that build-up… now look at you.”

When your hands clutch the counter and you’re gasping like you can’t handle it—

He slows down.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in one long, devastating stroke. “You’re not coming yet. I haven’t had my fill.”

Your whole body is trembling. You’re dizzy with it. And he’s still worshipping, like this is his favorite meal and he’ll take you apart one bite at a time.

You start to cry.

Not from pain. From pleasure. From the unbearable edge he’s got you on.

“Aw, baby…” he says softly, kissing the softest part of your thigh. “You crying for me already?”

You nod, gasping.

“You’re so good when you suffer,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Now let me ruin you the way you deserve.”

And then?

He goes back in—with purpose.

All tongue. All praise. All filthy, relentless, kinky worship.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train—twice.

One right after the other. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. Your thighs try to close around his head and he won’t let you.

“Take it,” he growls, holding you wide. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

You cry his name, shaking, leaking, wrecked.

And he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re whispering:

“Lewis… I can’t… I can’t anymore…”

Only then does he rise.

Only then does he cup your face, kiss your lips slow and deep—with your taste still on his mouth—and whisper:

“We’re not done yet.”

Your body is still trembling, every nerve buzzing from the first time Lewis filled you, but he’s not finished. Not even close.

He’s heavy on top of you again, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, voice rough and low:

“You think that was enough, baby? Think I’m done taking what’s mine?”

You shake your head, heart pounding, body aching for him again.

His hands find your hips, gripping them firmly, pulling you flush against him as he slowly slides back inside.

This time, he doesn’t rush.

He takes it slow—slow—letting you feel every inch, making sure you soak him in like the mess you are.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “Still dripping for me. Still mine.”

His hands roam lower, thumb dragging in lazy circles over the sensitive skin at your hipbone.

You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan, but it slips out anyway—a shaky, desperate sound that makes him growl deep in his throat.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. So ready. Can’t wait to breed you again.”

His hips move with a slow, relentless rhythm, each thrust deep and measured, like he’s marking you—claiming every inch with purpose.

Your hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as your body tries to match his pace, hips rolling up to meet him again and again.

“You feel so good around me,” he pants, voice ragged. “So tight. So perfect for this.”

His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the soft skin as he bites down gently.

“You’re gonna take every last drop, baby. You’re mine to fill.”

You gasp, chest rising and falling, your thighs trembling as the pressure builds again—slow, steady, delicious.

“Not letting you come yet,” he murmurs, voice dark. “Not until I know you’re all mine.”

His hand slides down your body, fingers curling around your thigh, holding you open, exposed, so fucking vulnerable.

You cry out when his pace deepens, hips snapping forward like he’s driving home his claim.

“You’re so good for me,” he groans, voice breaking on the words. “Waiting all day. Holding all that need.”

Your breath catches, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation overwhelms you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me how much you want it. How bad you need me to fill you.”

“Please,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Please fuck me. Fill me. Breed me.”

His teeth nip at your earlobe as he groans, the sound low and filthy.

“That’s my good girl,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re mine. Every inch. Every moment.”

He slows just enough for you to catch your breath, but his hands don’t stop moving—caressing, holding, claiming.

You feel your body tighten around him, ready to shatter again.

“Not done,” he promises. “Not by a long shot.”

You’re breathless, still trembling from everything that came before, but Lewis isn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He’s heavy on top of you again, hands steady and sure, lips brushing your temple as he murmurs low and urgent.

“Round three, baby. I want you full again. I want you mine—deep inside, nowhere to run.”

His movements are slow, deliberate. Every inch of him pressing into you, owning you, marking you as his.

Your body responds, every nerve alive, every muscle tightening around him as if to pull him closer.

“You feel that?” he growls softly. “That’s me, baby. Filling you up. Staying. Not moving until you’re soaked with me.”

His hips roll slowly, each movement deliberate, savoring every second.

You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as waves of pleasure build steadily—deep and slow, nothing rushed, everything owned.

His voice drops to a growl right against your ear.

“You’re so good for me. Taking me like this—wet, needy, perfect.”

His hands cup your face, thumb tracing your cheek as he pulls you into a bruising kiss.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying inside you. Filling you up. Marking you.”

The world shrinks to just the two of you—your ragged breaths, his quiet groans, the slow rise and fall of your chests pressed together.

When he finally lets go, he stays inside, heavy and warm, fingers tangling in your hair.

“Mine,” he whispers. “All of you. Every part. Every moment.”

You nod against him, overwhelmed, wrecked, but utterly his.

The world feels quiet now, the storm passed but the warmth lingering everywhere.

Lewis carefully pulls back, still heavy inside you, and lets you both catch your breath. His hands gently brush your sweaty hair away from your face, thumb soft and steady against your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and tender. “You did so good. So strong. So perfect.”

You rest your head against his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart as your body slowly unravels, safe in his arms.

He strokes your back slowly, soothing every tremble, every shiver.

“I’m right here,” he whispers. “Not going anywhere. You’re mine. Always.”

His lips find your temple, pressing soft kisses that make your eyelids flutter closed.

You sigh—a slow, happy sound—and lean into him, feeling all the tension melting away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion.

“No, baby,” Lewis says, voice warm and sure. “Thank you. For being mine.”

He holds you a little tighter, as if willing to shield you from everything but love.

“Rest now,” he says gently. “We’ll take it slow. All night if you want.”

And in that quiet, safe space, you finally let yourself drift—wrapped in his arms, praised and cherished, full and utterly loved.

[mournfulroses]

Euripides, transl. by Anne Carson, from "Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides," published in 2006

[lilydrafts]

Love yourself a little extra right now. You're creating the life of your dreams and you absolutely deserve it. It's about to get magical for you.

[whendidmythoughtsgocrazy]

Sometimes, it isn’t the one who takes your breath away, it’s the one that reminds you to breathe.

k.b. // by jennifer johnson

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Not beating the allegations.

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