#men so irrevocably in love with the other

[myths0f01d]

On occasions Arthur would go out hunting. Though that is what he told Uther. He'd take Merlin and a few close guards, such as Leon, and ride out to a forest far and over the land. They would settle and Leon would nod at the two as they left separate to the party. The knights would hunt and those who wished not to, would go with Merlin and Arthur to a far village that did not know what the prince of Camelot looked like. So as the nights reigned on, Merlin and Arthur would drink their fill, gambling and placing bets and having a merry time. On rare occasions Merlin would be brave enough to take Arthur's hand, as it was common amongst far villages for men to be in love, and he would pull Arthur to the floor as they danced with others. Merlin dorned a large wondrous smile while other wore eyes of a love struck fool, a smile to match that of Merlin's. And they would dance. They would have fleeting touches as their breath grew tiresome from the laughter and their feet grew sore. And when all was well and done they would retire to a room upstairs. The candle light flickering softly to illuminate each feature on their faces. Arthur would trace a finger gently down Merlins face and Merlin would place soft kisses on Arthur's hand and knuckles. A sign of devotion and utter love each held for the others. These moments were rare. They happened few. They did not dare to do more for fear of Uther finding out. And so on these rare trips to outer lying villages as common with a man to another, the people would look away as they felt they were breaching an intimate and private moment amongst the two as they looked in eachothers eyes. With their secret touches when garnered. And so as the night went out and dawn rose so did they. Merlin and Arthur and any knight that joined them would head out back into the forest to meet with the hunting party, what they caught was their proof. And as Merlin and Arthur mounted their horses they pretended. The pretended to not hold such love for the other. Pretended their touch was little more then that of need and they pretended to be surface level friends as they bantered, such as what was appropriate for a servant and a prince. Though as they rode at the front back to Camelot, the knights looked on, they look with sorrow in their eyes knowing the two could be nothing more until Uther was well and away, no longer on the throne. And on those ever rare occasions when Merlin and Arthur were alone, Merlins eyes would light up with gold, Arthur's breath hitching as molten butterflies of many gold and sparkling colours the likes of jewels would flout around them, one landing on his very nose. They would dissappear in puffs and slow sparkles like the drizzling rain, Merlin would bless him with a kiss on the nose and nothing more would happen. This went on for many years, trips to outer lying villages. Forest for hunting and tavern nights lit my the stars and candle light, when laughter was a comforting sound and the people were welcoming of them. On those nights they both cherished.

And as the years went on and Uther passed and Arthur became king did he finally allow himself to court Merlin properly, in the light of day amongst many people, no longer holding fear and secret. Magic was returned to the land and they built Albion together from top to bottom as years passed. Druids were welcomed back to the citidale and any practice of magic was legalized. Though that of ill will and intent would swiftly find themselves at the feet of Emrys.

And as the bells rang day end and night out it signaled the final union of the two. Arthur taking Merlin as his husband. The kings consort. To rule by his side for ever and always.

And as the people looked upon them with peace and true happiness in a longer time then any would rather admit, they saw, they saw how in love the two were. Irrevocable and unconditional soul bound, so in love.

People would strive to find a love like the king and his magical consort. None ever coming close but always finding their happiness in the end.

And as the ages went by and Arthur retired the throne, he and Merlin went off to a land over on the other side of the forest, built a cottage and become farmers, a simple and truly happy life Arthur always wanted with Merlin. Their friends knew where to find them and if Canelot should ever raise her calls of need they would head her and help.

And that is how they spent out the rest of their days.

In flowered meadows and trickling streams, on grassy hills and sunny trees, on a breeze so light and warm and the air filled with honey and all things of comfort.

That's how Arthur and Merlin spent it with one another. No longer with secret touches or fluttering gazes. But instead with prolonged touches and eyes staring for hours in the simple being of each other.

They loved wholly and truly.

And that's how they ended.

In love and at peace.

[womanmanipulator]

prove your love

spencer reid x bau!fem!reader

synopsis: lila gives your boyfriend heart eyes. when he’s assigned to stay over at her place you’re pissed. when spencer comes home, he makes sure to show his love for you. SMUT!!! minors dni

warnings: dom/sub, praise kink, oral sex (fem receiving), piv, various positions, overstimulation, pet names such as trouble, sweetheart, love, etc. very cheesy.

~

you slip your heels off in the hall with an aggravated huff. ‘look on the bright side, the case is over.’ your brain tries to tell you but the many sights and experiences of lila disrespecting you and glaring at you wasn’t going to leave your brain anytime soon. meanwhile, spencer got the opposite treatment, compliments, heart eyes, and lingering handshakes the entire time. she even slipped him her number, that little—

“hey,” spencer says, knocking you out of your thoughts. he can tell your brains conjuring something up. he can practically see the cogs turning in your head. “what’s got you so worked up?” he asks, taking a step towards you. his hands settle on your hips then travel to your lower back. he smiles down at you.

“nothing.” you dismiss, light and airy. trying to act unbothered. “why do you think i’m mad?” you question back, a little too defensive for your liking. “are you asking me to profile you?” he grins. you don’t get the chance to speak before he starts, “for starters, you practically ripped your heels off and threw them, you’re all tense, your fists were balled up and i can tell your thinking hard about something.” he exaggerates.

“you’re wrong because i am perfectly fine.” you state matter of factly. brushing his hands off you and walking to the bedroom. he follows after you. “holding in emotions, specifically anger, can have detrimental effects on one’s mental health. the constant internal struggle to suppress emotions can lead to even more stress, anxiety and even depression.” spencer explains. you just hum in response, searching in your closet for something comfortable, your mind doesn’t stop running about stupid lila though. he watches you. it wasn’t uncommon, he loved to observe you. most of the time it was just to see your pretty face while you were in thought but other times he liked to study your behavior and learn your routines. spencer liked to do it with you.

“you’re staring,” you comment. “i can’t help it.” he flirts. “oh please, did you tell lila that too today?” you let slip. you flush. glad you aren’t face to face with spencer right now. “that’s what this is about?” he chuckles. “cmere,” he says. you stumble over to the bed and he pulls you onto his lap. “you know i love you right?” he says. you nod. not looking at him. “so much, like i am unconditionally and irrevocably in love with you, or whatever bella said.” he makes a twilight reference. you were the one who forced him to watch it. you giggle a little, meeting his eyes. he smiles. “there’s my girl.” he murmurs. your heart swoons. his hands settle on your waist and he leans in. you kiss, it’s almost like a breath of fresh air. when he pulls away, still keeping close he speaks. “i think i need to prove how much i love you, hmm?” he hums. “you don’t need to.” you mumble. “but i want to, please?” he pleads. you don’t protest for long. “okay.. if you must.” you giggle. he smiles. he’s so pretty you feel like your going to explode.

as he places you on your back, unbuttoning your shirt, he starts to spit out another fact. “did you know men are more jealous of sexual infidelity than emotional?” he asks. “women are actually the opposite, they get more jealous with ‘emotional cheating’ than sexual.” he takes his time, you always loved how smart he was. it turned you on.

“i wasn’t jealous,” you say. “oh really?” he snorts. slipping off your shirt. “yeah.” you say. he instructs you to lift your hips so he can slide your pants off. “mhmm..” he says. eyes focused on your body, he’s too distracted to make a smart comment. “she was pretty, i guess.” you try to say. lila was gorgeous. he just chuckles and shakes his head. not bothering to comment. he dips down and kisses you. nose accidentally bumping against yours and teeth clashing. it was messy, just how you liked it. “what was that thing about kissing and shaking hands?” you ask, just to hear him talk.

“the number of pathogens transferred from just a single handshake is staggering. it’s safer to kiss,” he says into the skin of your neck. “that’s interesting, tell me more.” you smile. he groans. “i can tell you all about it later, can’t i just take care of my baby now?” he smiles. “baby? what happened to trouble?” you grin. “you are trouble,” he sighs. lovingly of course. you giggle as he kisses down from your neck to your collarbone, then unbuckles your bra without struggle. pulling it off. he trails down to your tummy, pressing little kisses here and there. making you antsy. he reaches the spot you need him most and smiles into your skin as you squirm a little. “patience, trouble.” he says. he plants a firm kiss on your hipbone and pulls your panties down with one hand. “you’re so pretty,” he smiles. eyes flickering to your face. “all mine, hmm?” he hums and you nod enthusiastically. he chuckles and thumbs experimentally at your clit.

you press your hips up into his touch, leaning into it. chasing that feeling. he smirks, inserting two fingers slowly. he paws at that spongy spot within your walls. you let out a quiet moan and spencer doesn’t deem it good enough, he starts punching at the spot. abusing it almost. this pulls another moan out of you and he speeds up the movements on your clit. you almost see heaven as you arch your back, eyes rolling back. he leans down, attaching his lips on your clit and sucking harshly. thank god you weren’t standing because you would’ve doubled over with how strong your orgasm was. you try to get the words out but only pant. spencer can tell, “gonna cum, trouble?” he asks. then continues his attack on the bundle of nerves. the coil in your belly snaps, climaxing with his name on your lips.

the sound of your slick fills the room as spencer works you through your organism. eyes trained on your pussy. his fingers are pulled out, given a quick lick and suddenly his mouth is on you. lapping and drinking up your release like a man starved. “spence, wait— gimme a minute-“ moan.

your begs fall on deaf ears as he’s absolutely lost in you. there’s no pulling him out. you reach your hand down and bury it in his hair. pressing your hips into the bed to escape the overstimulation. trying to tug him off, he doesn’t listen though. moaning into you when you pull on his hair. the vibrations make you even more sensitive before, his nose brushes up against your clit as two strong hands come to hold you down on either side.

you moan, tears pricking in your eyes from the overstimulation. everything’s magnified by 10. the obscene sounds of your pussy fill the room as your poor clit is abused, spencer’s tongue prodding into you, milking you for everything you have to offer. the familiar hear fills your belly and you can feel the coil start to unwind. “spence—“ you sob. cumming again. riding against his face. you can feel that bastard smirk against you as he greedily laps up your release. “you’re okay,” he coaxs. finally pulling off of you. he presses a kiss to your mound then pulls himself up, he kisses your cheek. then wipes the stray tears on your cheek.

“hi pretty,” he says with a smile. your eyes meet his and you smile, a little dazy. “you have something on your face.” you say, remaints of cum. “do i?” he chuckles. he wipes it off with the back of his hand and kisses you. you can taste yourself on his tongue. “love you so much,” he mumbles against your lips. you don’t get the chance to respond before he’s kissing you again. a little tongue slipping in as he gets carried away. he messily kisses the corner of your mouth, then latches onto your neck. he works at his zipper, multitasking.

begrudgingly, he pulls away from you, slipping down his pants and kicking them off haphazardly. you tug at his shirt and he takes the hint to pull it off. undoing his tie and throwing it somewhere. when he FINALLY takes his shirt off you get to run your hands along his torso giddily. “y’so pretty,” you mumble. “this isn’t about me, it’s about you, trouble.” he says. slipping off his boxers. his cock slips angrily against his stomach and you almost whine. he leans down and kisses you as he slowly pushes in. the stretch burns but is bearable. “i know. its okay,” he whispers. he presses to the hilt, nudging against your cervix. you feel full, his hand slithers down and presses against your lower belly. “mmphh.” you whimper against his lips. he devours the sound and keeps his lips on yours as he starts to thrust in and out of you. pulling his head back to see your face every so often as the tip nudges against that sweet spot. it’s torturous how slow he’s going. you’re so overstimulated, tears start falling out of your eyes.

he smiles down at you, picking up the pace a little. his face contorts and he lets out a moan. you involuntarily clench at that and it punches out another sound. “trouble— can’t keep doing that.” he slurs. the wet sounds of him shoving your slick out of you fill the room as your hips collide. teeth and noses brush together messily and he’s practically devouring you. everything’s happening so fast. before you know it you’re coming again, his name recited on your lips. he works you through it, slamming into you with a feverish pace. you constrict around him and he’s not long after you, pressing himself as far as he can into you and coming. he’s whining,

you pant, he’s collapsed ontop of you. buried in your neck. tears roll down your face. “good girl, good job. taking me so well.” he praises breathily. taking? “..taking..?” you say. “don’t you mean took?”

“we aren’t done.” he lifts himself up from your shoulder, pushing his glasses up. the both of your climax leaks around his dick and spills out of you slowly. “i can’t!” you start to cry as he pulls out, he presses your knees to your chest and shoves himself back in. so much for catching your breath. “you will,” he says softly. beginning to thrust in and out of you, he’s so deep you feel it in your stomach. “that’s it, my good girl huh?” he praises into your neck, a pang of arousal shoots through your body and you can feel yourself get wetter. “spence—“ “none of the whining, you can take it.” he says. he bites at your jawline. you moan loudly. everything feels so good, it’s too much. he reaches down and starts to rub figure eights into your clit gently, a contrast to the brutal pace he had going. “there ya go, taking me so well.” he murmurs, pulling his teeth off and kissing gently. “ah- i- gonna.. cum.” you force out. almost forgetting how to talk. “let go baby.” he says. your back arches, eyes rolling back, clinging to him as if he was the one keeping your grounded. he follows after, shooting cum into you with a whimper and a “nngh.”

it’s unreal. you see stars.

when you come down from your high, your sat on spencer’s lap, dick still intact. you sob, falling into his shoulder and clinging onto him. “i can’t spence.” you sniffle from the overstimulation. if you had to come again you’d probably scream. you’d also scream though if he pulled out.

“the world record for most female orgasms in an hour is a hundred and ah- fuck, thirty six” he says as you clench around him. “i think you can.” he smirks. you push his glasses up.

you bite back, “nerd.”

-

that’s it

not proofread

i’m sick asf rn 🥰

[splitting-infinities]

the barbie movie is not "anti-man", it's anti-oppression.

in the real world, that oppression takes the shape of patriarchal power and women feeling like an afterthought or an accessory. in barbie land, it takes the shape of kens not knowing who they could become as independent beings because their existence has been irrevocably tied to barbie. barbie occupies the place of power, and ken is the afterthought and accessory.

the point of the movie is that any imbalance in the equality of any group of people makes the world a bad place to live in. ken feels unfulfilled and unappreciated in barbie land. He's been told his purpose is Barbie, but he's failing at that and doesn't understand what's wrong. He doesn't think he could be more than Barbie's love interest. Similarly, women in the real world feel forgotten, stunted, and held to impossible standards. Their purpose has been warped by other people telling them what it should be.

That's why it's So Important that both ken and barbie have their own reckonings of how they've reaped benefits at the expense of each other. neither of them wanted to hurt the other. Barbie just liked being a hero in Barbie Land and Ken liked feeling appreciated (and horses) when he was in the real world. But they both see and dislike how the other has been hurt by the power disparity in the real world and in barbie land. And they resolve to not perpetuate that cycle of hurt.

the reason barbie is a good movie is precisely because its main thesis is not Women Better Than Men. Nor is it a preservation of the binary or gender roles.

It's main thesis is that your identity is not the same thing as what you are to other people. And that's not exclusively a moral for Barbie herself. Sure, Barbie isn't Barbie because she's Ken's girlfriend - she's her own person to the point that the actively chooses humanity at the end. But a large portion of the movie also is devoted to explaining that Ken isn't Ken because he's Barbie's boyfriend. That Ken is his own person and should be allowed to be that, because that's (k)enough. Even Alan exists separate from the binary convention and has his own identity and story arc. He serves as a foil for the falsely symbiotic Ken/Barbie role dynamic.

anyway, my point is, no one should be (exclusively) defined by what they mean to someone else, or by what they have (whether that's power, a casa house, or a romantic partner). Everyone is a person deserving love, equality, and their own story, whatever that is.

[netherfeildren]

Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation. 

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands. 

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him. 

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone. 

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him. 

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity. 

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face. 

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question. 

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut. 

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that. 

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware. 

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this. 

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor. 

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now. 

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry. 

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you. 

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you. 

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort. 

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either. 

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me. 

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all. 

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you. 

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him. 

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet. 

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car. 

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of. 

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake. 

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you. 

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach. 

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as. 

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage. 

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this. 

-

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be. 

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found. 

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be. 

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl. 

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller. 

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted. 

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of. 

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time. 

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here. 

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying. 

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching. 

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt. 

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl. 

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good. 

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm? 

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good. 

-

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you.  And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

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[floralcyanide]

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 - 𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐞

jonathan crane x f!reader

“I broke apart my insides, I’ve got no soul to sell. The only thing that works for me, help me get away from myself.” “I wanna fuck you like an animal, I wanna feel you from the inside." "You can have my absence of faith, you can have my everything.”

warnings: smut, rough sex, choking, first time, penetrative sex, p in v sex, unprotected sex, spitting, spitballing, cum eating, fingering, oral (f and m receiving), face fucking/ deepthroating, nipple play, orgasm denial, porn with some plot, pwp, wow there's a lot here lol

word count: 2316

authors note: if Dr. Jonathan Crane has a million fans, then I'm one of them. if Dr. Jonathan Crane has one fan, then I'm THAT ONE. if Dr. Jonathan Crane has no fans, that means I'm dead. anyway, I love this man and his character so much, so I had to be feral about him. he's so pretty, and for what??? also Closer by NIN is soooo Jonathan-coded. I don't make the rules. (not beta read, we die like men here)

main masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist | add yourself to the taglist here

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Six months have passed, and you’ve yet to have any form of sex with your boyfriend, Dr. Jonathan Crane. You get that he’s busy most of the time and doesn’t really hold sex to a high standard like most men do. But god, you wanted him to have your way with you already. Jonathan looks like he was hand sculpted by the gods themselves with his piercing blue eyes, strong jawline, and perfect lips. You’d do anything to have his stunning face between your legs. And you seriously mean anything at this point. Both of you trust each other with your lives. Jonathan has taken a while to open up to you, and the last thing he’s yet to show you about himself is his sexuality. 

For the last week, every time you so much as kiss Jonathan, you get irrevocably turned on. Sometimes he’ll give into you and let his tongue explore your mouth, but then he’ll pull away with a satisfied smirk. It’s almost as if he teases you on purpose. But then again, you doubt Jonathan would do it for this long, purposely depriving you of physical affection. But the things he does, don’t surprise you anymore. He could very well be torturing you without you realizing it. 

Everything changes when you stay at Jonathan’s apartment one night. You take a shower and put on your favorite pair of matching lace underwear and a shirt you stole from Jonathan’s dresser the first time you came over. You have no makeup on, you’ve just finished brushing your teeth for bed, and you haven’t put on any pants as of yet. The hem of the shirt is tucked into your underwear unbeknownst to you. So, when Jonathan walks into his bedroom, he sees you standing in the doorway of the en-suite bathroom with his old white t-shirt inside your bright red underwear. You barely notice his eyes turn three shades darker as you go to rinse your mouth.

Jonathan comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you’re ducked into the sink, spitting out the remainder of your toothpaste. He presses himself against your ass when it sticks out as you bend over. You don’t pay much attention to Jonathan and him being close to you. He was surprisingly clingy. But when you stand up straight and look at him behind you in the mirror’s reflection, you notice his features are much darker than usual.

“Are you-“ You begin to ask if Jonathan is okay, but before you can finish your sentence, his mouth attaches itself to your neck.

With his hands splayed across your stomach underneath your- his shirt, he pulls your hair away from your shoulder. Jonathan then makes eye contact with you in the mirror as his hands travel up your abdomen to your breasts. He gives them a harsh squeeze as he bites down into the skin between your neck and shoulder. You hiss at the feeling of Jonathan being so close to you, touching you like this. You wonder what’s gotten into him but push that thought aside when his fingertips delve past the lace covering your nipples. You gasp as Jonathan circles one with his index finger, licking up your neck and jaw slowly until he reaches the side of your face.

“You look irresistible,” Jonathan breathes into your ear, nibbling at the lobe.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” you ask, biting your lip in anticipation.

Jonathan picks up and throws you over his shoulder, carrying you over to his bed, where he all but gently throws you onto it. Before you can react, Jonathan is on top of you, ripping your underwear clean off your legs. 

“Let me take care of you, darling,” Jonathan coos, pushing the shirt up and over your head before unclasping your bra next.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this,” you sigh, tugging at his white button-up that he’s yet to change out of.

“I think I have an idea of how long. Show me how bad you want it,” Jonathan says, moving his hands off of you completely.

The urge to rip the man in front of you apart bubbles up in your lower stomach, and you sit on your knees in front of Jonathan. You rip his shirt open, buttons flying everywhere in the room. You leave open-mouthed kisses on his chest as he slides his fingers through your hair, gripping it harshly as he pulls your head back so you can look at him. You stare at him unwaveringly; your eyes half-lidded with growing lust. After studying the smirk on your face, Jonathan lets go of you, and you immediately go for the button and zipper of his trousers. Unbuckling his belt, you yank it out of the belt loops and toss it on the floor. You pull his pants down his hips far enough for you to get where you want. Pulling Jonathan’s cock out, you marvel at it momentarily before taking his head into your warm mouth. There was no way you’d be able to take all of him without gagging, but you’re going to try anyway. You’ve waited too long for this.

“Fuck,” Jonathan keens as you swivel your tongue around him, gathering his precum.

He realizes he’s definitely waited too long for this.

But he has been nervous about being vulnerable around you. He actually cares about you, believe it or not. And doesn’t want to hurt you- not severely, anyway. Only as much as you’ll let him. 

Before Jonathan can tell you to hurry up and take his cock, you slam your nose into his pelvis, letting his tip hit the back of your throat. He lets out the dirtiest moan you’ve ever heard, sending heat straight to your bare core. You’re impossibly wet, rubbing your thighs together as you bob your head along Jonathan’s length with fervor. You let him thrust into your mouth as you helplessly gag around him, spit dribbling down your chin as tears fall from your eyes. Jonathan face fucks you, and you simply take it, enjoying every second of his perfect cock in your mouth. Your fingernails dig into his hips, causing him to bite his lip as he looks down at you. You peek up at him through your eyelashes, pulling him out of your mouth and flicking your tongue on his head. Suddenly, your face is ripped away from his body.

“Lay back on the bed like a good girl for me,” Jonathan growls, your hair in a vice grip in his hand once again.

You quickly crawl to the pillows, lying down as Jonathan discards the rest of his clothing, completely naked and revealed to you at last. You scan his body, freckles dotting the places his clothing hides. They’re not just dusted along his cheeks but his shoulders too. His back is also covered in constellation-like freckles. Jonathan tries not to notice you studying him, but he can’t help but drink in your appearance too. How your waist and hips make the perfect shape, how your breasts are perked up from your arousal, and how your skin looks in the room's lighting. Jonathan looks perfect to you, and you look flawless to him. 

“Beautiful,” Jonathan sighs, kissing your ankle and up your calf until he meets your thigh.

Your breath hitches as his face lingers at your pussy, right where you need him, but then he goes to your other thigh and sucks a mark into your skin there. You throw your legs over his shoulders, and he tilts his head to the side, looking at you with that sassy yet emotionless look of his. 

“Impatient, are we?” Jonathan asks, hovering his lips right over you as his breath hits the sensitive, wet skin.

“Very,” you drawl, glaring at him playfully, “I’ve waited six months for you to eat me out, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Jonathan says, his eyes carefully taking in your anatomy, “I want to make it well worth it, dear.”

You reach down and rake your fingers through his hair, pushing his head closer to you. Jonathan wordlessly attacks your folds, licking intense stripes up and down your slit. He’ll circle your clit with the tip of his tongue before flicking it back and forth on the bundle of nerves, causing you to entangle your fingers deeper into his hair. Jonathan then takes both hands and spreads you open, flattening his tongue and shaking his head vigorously as he laps at you like a thirsting man. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan, thrusting into his face.

Jonathan sneaks a finger into your entrance, curling it against the spongy spot he finds inside you. He strokes it teasingly to the same rhythm of his tongue against your clit. You clamp your thighs against the sides of Jonathan’s head, essentially trapping him. He slips another finger into you, slamming them in and out of you as the sound of your arousal bounces off the walls.

“That feel good, baby?” Jonathan hums, his mouth pulling away from you despite your thighs, his darkened blue eyes boring into yours.

“Mhmm,” you nod, rocking your hips onto his fingers as he adds a third, stretching you out.

“That’s right, fuck yourself on my fingers,” Jonathan gasps, thrusting them faster and harder into you as his thumb finds your bundle of nerves, pressing into it.

You’re so close that you can already feel the knot in your stomach about to come undone. Your hand finds Jonathan’s cheek, caressing it as his eyes meet yours again. You arch your back close to your peak. But then, Jonathan pulls his fingers from you, tucking them into his mouth as you glare at him. He just chuckles darkly at you before grabbing you by the throat.

“Open your mouth,” he demands.

You obey, Jonathan’s grip on your neck dizzying you. He gathers your slick and his spit in his mouth before spitting it into yours, forcing your mouth closed.

“Now swallow like a good girl,” Jonathan says, holding his hand around your throat once more.

You taste yourself on your tongue, swallowing the spit as you were told. 

Jonathan’s hand travels to your face as his thumb pulls your mouth open so he can thoroughly inspect it, “Perfect.”

He sits up, spreading your legs further open so he can line himself up with your begging entrance. Gathering some of the wetness there, Jonathan pushes himself into you slowly. Your hand flies to his shoulder blades, your nails digging into his pale skin. Finally, Jonathan fills you up completely, his hips flush against yours. You throw your head back at the feeling of fullness, the sting of the stretch turning into pleasure. 

“God, Jonathan,” you move your hips a little, “You feel amazing.”

“You’re so tight it’s almost ridiculous,” Jonathan dryly jokes, his hands finding purchase on your hips as he pulls all the way out, then slams back into you.

“Fuck,” you seethe, and one of Jonathan’s hands find their way back to your throat.

He repeats his motion, pulling his hips back then snapping them forward again, gaining a steady pace. You’re a moaning mess as he quickens his rhythm. Jonathan’s face is leant down to your ear as he grunts into it. The headboard begins to slam into the wall behind you, but neither of you care about the dent it’ll probably leave in the drywall. 

“Jonathan,” you drawl out in a high pitched cry, his cock hitting your cervix just right.

“I shouldn’t have waited so long to destroy you like this,” Jonathan says in between his groans, “I love seeing you fall apart underneath me.”

Your eyes screw shut, rolling into the back of your head as he fucks you hard and fast, sure enough to leave you sore tomorrow. The sound and smell of sex fills the room as sweat beads on your forehead. You’re moving your hips at the same time as Jonathan, matching his quick and harsh thrusts. He’s hitting every spot within you just right, the shaft of his cock rubbing your clit perfectly every time he pushes it into you. You start seeing stars behind your eyes from the pressure his fingers are putting on your throat and the building orgasm in your stomach. 

“God, I wanna cum,” you scream, “Please make me cum,” you’re nearly begging incoherently now.

“Fuck, that’s right, beg me. Show me how long you’ve wanted me to fuck your witty little brains out,” Jonathan says behind gritted teeth, his own orgasm peeking over the horizon.

You start babbling and repeating, “Please,” like a mantra until Jonathan hits a spot within you that causes the stars behind your eyes to explode with white light. You feel yourself gush around him as his thrusts become sloppy, your clenching sending him over the edge. Jonathan spills into you as you both ride out your orgasms, whispering each other’s names weakly.

Jonathan runs a hand over his hair, sitting back as he catches his breath and pulls himself out of you. Your chest heaves as you feel the mixture of your cum and Jonathan’s cum seep from you. 

“That was amazing,” you sigh, melting into the mattress.

Jonathan lays down next to you, pulling you into his chest, “We can clean up later. For now, just rest a moment.”

After a brief moment of silence, you finally ask the begging question.

“Why did you wait so long?”

“I was nervous,” Jonathan confesses, “I haven’t let anyone in, in a long time. And I’ve finally let you in enough for you to experience this part of me.”

“I see,” you say, curling your arms around his that are crossed over your breasts.

“Was the wait worth it?” Jonathan asks, burying his face into your neck.

“I think one more round will make it even.”

taglist:

@baizzhu @aporiasposts @hjmalmed @queenshelby @amanda08319 @naty-1001 @orijanko @raineeace @nela-cutie

[bluberryfields]

"David is very easy to fall in love with." - Michael Sheen

Hi. How are you? Good, I hope. Okay, so can we talk about just how fucking beautiful David Tennant is? And by “we” I mean “I” and by “talk” I mean “babble incoherently into the void”? Great! I’ll attempt to impose a bit of organization on this just to satisfy my pathological need to inflict structure on words (thanks college/job/brain), but I can’t promise much. Also, there will be A LOT of pictures and gifs. (you’re welcome?)

And this isn’t just because I am deep in the bottomless well of Good Omens fandom and that Crowley is basically the most breathtaking creature that has ever existed. Well, not just because of that.

*cue Aziraphale's "good lord" from 1793*

ANYWAY, like a lot of people, I became a fan of (i.e., fell deeply and irrevocably in love with) DT during his run as the 10th Doctor. He was young and bright and full of just about everything – joy, sorrow, wit – making him incredibly watchable. His look was also so charming: big bouncy rooster comb of hair, absurdly cheeky smile, expressive-as-fuck eyes and eyebrows, and a tall, lanky form that seemed to be made of rubber and the kind of granulated sugar that could only be found in candy from the 90s that are now banned in all first- and second-world countries.

So yeah, I was super into him and his Doctor’s adventures. And I continued to watch him in other projects and still swoon (looking at you, slutty Hamlet)

even at characters where that was not the desired reaction (fuck you, Kilgrave, you delicious monster).

I would also always become a bit (a lot) weak in the knees at his voice regardless of which accent he took on, though always preferring him doing any Scottish brogue because of fucking course.

Roll that tongue, you sexy beast.

But what I want to get into today is just how incredible he looks in the year of 2023.

He’s 52 years old and I am somehow even more attracted to him. Maybe it’s because I am myself older, and my tastes have matured alongside? I certainly do enjoy gray hair way more than I did 10 years ago.

He’s aged incredibly well, probably a combination of good genes and good health, and he’s clearly not clinging to the Hollywood idea of “youth”.

(insert obligatory grumble about the double standards of men being praised for aging and women being demonized…the potentially problematic nature of the term “aging well” in general…acknowledge this with my enlightened brain but ignore this with my slutty heart…fuck the patriarchy, etc. etc.)

He’s still tall and skinny, even gangly at times, all long arms and legs that can move in impossible directions with unfathomable grace.

His face is leaner, that incredible bone structure creating sharper edges that draw the eye. Speaking of the face, he’s got these creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and mouth that are evidence of time spent well: smiling, laughing, living. Makes you want to trace your fingertips along each one.

Oh god that smile? Good lord. It’s weapons grade charm that can also be quite intimidating. Sweet, humble, silly, scary…full spectrum of options here! His shark smile is the definition of “irresistible” in my Dictionary of Delicious Dudes.

I am both proud of and grossed out by my own word choice.

Continuing with that face...the hawkish nose, the dimples you want to drown in, the big eyes, those motherfucking eyebrows...

I could seriously write a whole essay about those eyebrows, but I already give my therapist enough to worry about.

Oh those eyes. “Piercing” is a term usually reserved for blue eyes, but I would argue it applies to DT’s bottomless chocolate pools in that they slice through my heart every damn time.

Honorable mention does go to those Crowley snake eyes because they could have been distracting and diminishing to his overall look, but they absolutely are not.

Such a pretty shade of yellow.

Random tangent to swoon about his hands. For whatever reason, I like checking out a man’s hands, and DT’s got a set that drives me wild. I can’t even really explain why, but I just really like the way he articulates with them. Crowley is a perfect example, what with the miracle snaps, caressing globes, and holding whisky glasses. Yum.

Delicious demon digits

Fresh tangent: How does this fucker look good clean shaven, with stubble, and a goddamn beard? How is that allowed?

He's got a face that makes me wanna take up sculpting

Further, how is his fucking neck so hot? Like, seriously, show me the math. I can’t stop staring at it. And when it’s cloaked in a turtleneck? Please, sir, may I have some more?

Fuuuuuuuck

With no segue whatsoever, I am absolutely obsessed with his hair, across all contexts. Big, bold, blood-red Crowley coifs (especially in Season 2)? Check.

Proper gentleman side part? Check.

Side shave with cartoonishy springy 14th Doctor shock? Check.

Lockdown locks with and without headband? Check!

It’s a goddamn buffet of delicious options.

Oh damn speaking of that 14th Doctor look? Good fucking Christ on a buttery Ritz cracker. The whole DT collection is on display: the hair, the eyes, the bone structure, the smile, the clothes, and even the glasses!

To quote Pam on Archer, “I swear to god, you could drown a toddler in my panties right now! I mean, not that you would.”

Now that you (I) mention the clothes, I never cease to marvel at how he can wear pretty much anything and look amazing. Stripes, patterns, wild colors, etc. He just always looks…not exactly comfortable, but sort of at ease like the clothes were created with him in mind. And this goes across the spectrum of Casual to Costume to Promotional (e.g., interviews and premieres).

They are almost illegally cute together

We all know by now how ridiculously tight those Crowley pants are and how it influenced his signature serpentine swagger (thank you, Costume department, you’re the real heroes). That said, he and those slinky hips still looks so incredibly natural in them like they came from his actual closet.

Stupid sexy snek

And he pulls off the look of more ridiculous stuff like full Shakespearean costumes or that sad gray-hoodie-black-shorts-and-Wellington-boots combo from the first season of Staged. He somehow gives off the air of “whatever, they’re just clothes, man” while also looking like a damn model.

Georgia is a very lucky woman

Final thoughts: I know DT dislikes talking about how people think he’s so attractive because I’m sure it feels a bit icky if you just want to live your life and do your job. But my guy also clearly understands that he’s not some ghoul who has succeeded on incredible personality and acting chops alone. So, that said, maybe he'll forgive me for posting such a long, rambling, ode to him?

[lcvclywon]

hurt people, hurt people.

back to masterlist

synopsis ᯓ You thought you and Heeseung would last forever, well it seemed so as your 3 year relationship was smooth sailing. But that all changed one night when he abruptly ended things between you two. Now it's been a year and you could successfully say you've healed from the breakup, but when you get a call from him the night before he leaves for uni, that statement might not be so set in stone.

now playing > •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:10 the grudge - olivia rodrigo

warnings ˎˊ˗ cursing, crying, fighting, toxic relationship, heavy heavy HEAVY angst, err no comfort soz i feel evil

genre ⭑.ᐟ angst

pairings: non-idol ex!heeseung x female reader

wc ᵎᵎ 1.21k

thoughts frm yuya 💭 this is me projecting lolz sorry

Oh for fucks sake. 

You let out a frustrated sigh seeing the caller ID that popped up on your phone. It had been 1 year since you and Heeseung had broken up and quite honestly you were doing great. You had finally healed from ending your 3 year long relationship, you were loving your life, meeting new people, you felt better. But that all came crumbling down when you saw that dreadful notification pop up on your screen.

In all honesty you really should’ve blocked his number, you had done so on every other social media platform, but for some reason you couldn’t really bring yourself to block his number. Whenever you try something simmered in the guts of your stomach stopping you. It was the same sensation you felt whenever you tried to throw away the last letter he had given you for your 3 year anniversary. You had tossed all the other letters, gifts, and sentiments out the second you ended things with him; but you could never bring yourself to throw out that last letter. Perhaps because that would mean Lee Heeseung would truly, permanently, and irrevocably be out of your life for good. But that’s what you wanted…wasn’t it?

Don’t pick up, a small voice in your head whispered. “Hello?”

“I thought you blocked my number” he replied, you could hear him laughing from his nose. Fuck you hated it, you hated it but you wanted to ingrave his laugh into your ribcage. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel so absolutely hollow whenever you forced out a laugh on multiple cafe dates with numerous other men. 

“Well, I obviously didn’t” your voice was still shaky as you let out quivering exhales. Great YN, not even a full 5 minutes into the conversation and you already want to cry. “Why are you calling?” you manage to force out, tone still hesitant. 

“Um-” he started “It’s my last day today, I’m flying out to uni soon…”

You didn’t realise his departure had already arrived. “I know.”

“I just uh-” you could hear from the other end of the line how he cleared his throat, before continuing with a voice mirroring the apprehensiveness of your own “I wanted to apologise, one last time before I leave” 

“Oh…” you mumbled out

“I’m sorry for ending things like that” the moment he said that it all flashed back to you. That night you tried to lock away in the back of your mind suddenly unleashed itself from its cage. To describe your breakup in one word it would be: abrupt. 

“We should end things” Heeseung uttered, leaving you standing there notebooks in hand, mouth agape, and heart absolutely shattered. 

“What are you talking about” you managed to reply with, words choked out and shaking.

“I leave for university next year, I just-” he paused to look down before continuing “I don’t think we could ever be long distance, it’s too much for you and me. You’d still be in highschool and I’d be busy adjusting in uni, it just- I don’t think it’ll work. You were never even really attentive to me when we’re just a few mere minutes away from each other, how could we ever do that long distance?” 

Coward couldn’t even look you in the eyes before breaking your heart. 

“I was, really just an ass-” heeseung continued, snapping you back to the present “you didn’t deserve that and we both know it. I was just- really scared I think, of course that’s not an excuse…but yeah I’m sorry” 

“It’s okay…” it wasn’t 

A beat passes.

Now two. 

You remain in an awkward limbo of deciding between ending the call or continuing the conversation. All the words you had pent up for the past year were on the tip of your tongue just itching to be said, but some part of you just wouldn’t let them. 

“Do you-” he finally says between sniffles, oh great so he’s crying now “did you ever see a future with us?” 

Of course you did, hell you didn’t even expect him to end things and he has the audacity to ask this? What was his issue? “Kinda I guess” you mutter out, barely eligible 

“I did” A lie. That’s nothing but a lie. How could he even see a future with you when he walked out so easily? “I saw a future with us YN, I saw it and- I got scared to be honest. It was a future but it was built upon uncertainty, and I wasn’t ready for that. I shouldn’t have done that though.” 

“Heeseung it’s fi-” 

“Did you ever think about breaking no contact?” he interrupts “I did.”

“Heeseung.” his name is bitter as it leaves your tongue “Stop it. You’re being selfish.”

“Wh-what how am I being selfish” absolutely unbelievable. 

“You’re saying this the night before you leave to uni, the night before you change your phone number, the night before you fly off to a completely new country not giving me any chance to ever see you again. That’s selfish. You were selfish when you broke up with me and you’re being selfish now.” you’re fully crying at this point 

“YN I-” but you don’t let him finish that sentence 

“You know you really aren’t allowed to make my life a living hell for 6 months and then waltz back in like you did no damage-” you choke out between sobs, you’re not even sad now, it’s just pure unrivalled rage and disbelief “You’re not allowed to do that, it’s not fair. None of this was ever fair. How come you can tell me over and over again how I’m never doing enough and beg for me to be more attentive to you then leave and cut me off so easily?” 

The other end of the line remains silent.

“You’re not allowed to be the one to walk out, I wanted to be the one to do that. I was meant to be the one to cut things off, to leave, to walk out. I wanted to be the one to finish things, how could you do that?” you’re clutching onto your heart with a pain you could only remember experiencing once in your life: the night he walked out. 

“YN I’m sorry I really am, I don’t know why I even called you tonight,” he stuttered out before pausing to curse under his breath “I just, I couldn’t just leave without apologising.”

“So what, you wanted to hurt me one more time before leaving?” you spat back, words plagued with anger and remorse 

“I wanted to say that I loved you for fucks sake!” oh. 

You loved Heeseung too, you knew that the moment you laid eyes on him across the basketball court when he shot that three pointer. You knew the moment he flashed that toothy grin. You knew the moment he traced his fingers across your waist as you laid together in the quiet of the night. And you still knew you loved him when he spat out those words that changed your life forever. 

“Bye Heeseung, I really can’t fucking do this right now” 

“I love you YN, I don’t think I ever stopped.” 

You don’t return that sentiment before ending the call

perm taglist (send an ask to be added!) @floweryang @cupidhoons @msauthor @dimplewonie @cholexc @i2ycat @bunnbam @tobiosbbyghorl @jlheon

[herinsectreflection]

I'm So Evil, And Skanky, And I Think I'm Kinda Gay (Bad Girls)

In 1872, a full twenty-five years before the release of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Irish author Sheridan Le Fanu published Carmilla. This story depicts the relationship between the young and innocent protagonist, Laura, and the confident and mysterious title character, Carmilla. A friendship blossoms between Carmilla and Laura and the two become close, but over time Laura becomes suspicious of Carmilla’s strange behaviour. She flees from her, and it is revealed that Carmilla is a vampire who has been preying on Laura – feeding on her nightly and attempting to turn her into a creature of darkness. Carmilla is confronted, killed, has her head removed and body burned, and the ashes of both are thrown into the river. 

A simple story and much shorter than a true novel, Carmilla’s historical impact outweighs its length. Not only is it one of the earliest and most notable pieces of vampire fiction, and a great influence on Dracula itself, it is also the origin point of one of the most controversial tropes in this genre of fiction: the Lesbian Vampire.

The vampire myth as constructed by Dracula and its compatriots positions vampires as a corrupting sexual influence upon women. Older men sneak into the bedrooms of virginal young women, penetrate them, and therefore transform them into something tragic and ungodly. They personify a threat to patriarchy; a threat perceived in the form of female sexuality. The idea is that an unmarried woman having symbolic sex will irrevocably twist them into some kind of monster.

The Lesbian Vampire exists as an extension of this idea, focusing on one of the most diabolical threats to patriarchal ideology – a woman who sexually desires another woman. Carmilla’s victims are exclusively female, and her pursuit of Laura is very visibly romantic in nature. She kisses Laura, confesses love for her, the two take walks in the moonlight and embrace each other. This is what leads to Carmilla feeding upon Laura and threatening her death. Symbolically, there is no separation between the two. The danger Laura is in is caused by same-sex desire. Carmilla’s villainy is her lesbianism. The trope does not have to include vampires in a strict sense, but more generally the link of sapphic seduction leading to corruption.

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[mrzombielover]

- slow ride ch1

feat. sinner!adam x fem!hotel worker!reader

series masterlist | next chapter

warnings: NSFW, enemies to fuckbuddies, adam and reader both suck, unhealthy relationships, size kink oooops, light degradation

a/n: oh my god this is so self indulgent. something is fr wrong with me bc all my favorite men are irrevocably fucked up and toxic and emotionally damaged and would treat me like shit teehee

wc: 2.2k

“You took my shame and you took my pride / And now you gonna take me for a slowride”

When even Charlie is trepidatious about checking someone in to the hotel, you know they’ve fucked up bad.

Adam had shown up, tail between his legs, admitting something about how he’s “desperate enough to try anything,” even this “stupid delusional humiliating hotel.”

Charlie, who’s more like an angel than Adam ever was, had ultimately decided that he could stay. After a lengthy and heated discussion, she’d reminded the group that the hotel’s policy states that everyone deserves a chance at redemption, regardless of the sins they’ve committed. Considering he killed your friend, you thought that was bullshit, but it’s Charlie’s hotel at the end of the day, and you’re just along for the ride.

You like Charlie, which is why you put up with having Adam around. She’s a good person- genuinely, deep down. There’s no hidden motives in her actions. You’ve not met many good people in your life, so she’s won your respect, even if you have your doubts about the hotel’s premise.

But for as much as you love her, you briefly questioned her sanity when she asked you to keep a special eye on Adam.

“…and how exactly is that the job of treasury secretary?” You deadpan.

“Wellll…” Charlie trails off, looking away for a moment. “It isn’t really. Buuut what if I was asking as a favor, for your friend?” She clasps her hands together, giving you a smile. You have to avert your eyes from the hopeful look on her face before your resolve cracks.

“No way in hell,” You say quickly.

“Please!”

“No,”

“Pleaseee!”

You bite your lip as you think. He’s obnoxious, yes, but what’s really the worst that could happen? You close your eyes and sigh.

“…you owe me one,”

You regret accepting every day. Nobody got along with Adam. Well, nobody except for Nifty, who seemed thrilled to have a real bad boy staying in the hotel. You, however, got along with him the least of all.

For someone who’d come to the hotel in his time of need- who was in no position to ask for anything other than forgiveness- Adam sure has a smartass mouth. It seems Charlie just wants to give you a brain aneurysm, that’s why she gave you this job. Even if that wasn’t her goal, that’s certainly the stage you’re approaching, because fighting with Adam everyday is 100% going to make you pop a blood vessel.

You can’t help it. Something about him- the way he acts, the forced proximity, just gets under your skin, makes your eye twitch. He should be groveling, begging for forgiveness, putting his heart and soul into bettering himself, yet all he does is bitch and moan. Constantly complaining would be one thing, hell’s full of whiners, but he also feels the need to voice every thought he’s ever had, which often includes insults and snide remarks about those around him. You’ve never been one to take that shit- though, nobody at the hotel really does. It seems to be much worse with you two, specifically, though.

The problem comes in because, as much as you hate to admit it, you might sometimes occasionally have some things in common with him. No, you’re not quite as loud or crude or obnoxious, you don’t generally insult people for fun, but if someone deserves it?

You’ve tore into people for way less than murdering your friend, showing up on your doorstep and being a pain in your ass 24/7, especially if you’re in a particularly shitty mood. Reduced people to tears for mildly inconveniencing you, having an annoying voice, wasting food, etc etc… all of which Adam does.

Generally, you’re apathetic to what goes on around you, especially at the hotel. You’re fed, don’t have to pay rent, and can pretty much do whatever you want, so dealing with the annoying, traumatized, dramatic residents and staff is a fair trade off in your eyes. Adam should, in theory, be no different than the rest of them to you. So you cannot, for the life of you, figure out what about him makes him so much worse than the rest.

You just try not to think about him as much as possible. But when you ignore him, he just seems to get worse.

“Jesus, you don’t think it’s a bit early to start drinking?”

You mentally groan as you hear his voice, avoiding eye contact as you crack open the bottle.

“I mean, Isn’t this shithole supposed to be for rehabilitation?” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice as he opens the fridge.

“Why don’t you focus on your own rehab first, dick? Been weeks now and you’re still an asshole,” You snap, before taking a swig of your beer. He shrugs, grabbing the orange juice from the fridge and placing it on the counter. He walks past where you’re leaning on the counter to get a glass.

“I mean, damn, you didn’t even try today, huh?”He laughs.

“Why are you pickin’ a fight with me right now?” You raise your voice a little, exasperated and too hungover to deal with this.

“oh, uh, i dunno… i’m bored?” He shrugs again, looking over to you with a self satisfied smile. You groan in frustration, then sigh, forcing yourself to keep it together.

“…and you wonder why your wives left you,” you mumble with a roll your eyes, turning to quickly leave the kitchen. you don’t see his face, but judging from the sound of a crash and footsteps quickly following you into the hallway, you hit a nerve. oh, god, here we go…

“you fucking junkie bitch!” he yells after you as you stomp up the stairs.

“you’re proving my point right now!” you say over your shoulder.

“Like you have room to talk? Let’s bring up your love life, huh?!”

“oh my god shut up!” Angel yells through the door as you pass his room. “Every fuckin’ morning with you two!”

Adam ignores him, continuing to rant as he follows closely behind you, every degrading name he can think of spilling from his lips.

“…fucking whore cunt- whose not even fucking listening to me!” he says as you turn into your room. you turn, attempting to slam the door, but he sticks his foot in the gap and grabs the door, shoving it back open.

“what in the fuck is your problem today?!” you yell.

“it’s you, bitch!”

“oh my god- how do you care about anything this much? Seriously, it’s not that deep!”

you jump a little as he suddenly slaps the beer bottle out of your hands, the glass shattering loudly and the leftover beer soaking your socks. your jaw drops, outraged, and you can’t help the reflex to reach up and smack the side of his head.

“ow!” he yelps, and you raise your fists to hit him again, when-

“you- fucking bitch-!” he shouts. you cry out in surprise as he grabs your wrists and yanks you with surprising ease, shoving you roughly into the wall behind you.

theres a struggle, both grunting with the strain of pushing against each other as Adam wrestles to keep the upper hand. You go to knee him, but he moves quicker, slotting one of his legs between your own and pressing his body against yours to pin you completely against the wall.

then, something changes. he pauses, the close proximity seems to have finally registered in his brain. his eyes widen and you pause too, both panting, faces inches apart. his grip loosens, and a flicker of confusion crosses his features.

“wait, what’s-“

“shut up,” you snap suddenly. before you even realize what you’re doing, your hands are on his chest, and you’re shoving him towards your bed.

“take off your shirt,” you command as the back of his knees hit the mattress and he’s falling backwards. he quickly does as you say, looking up at you with wide eyes as you straddle him and rip your own shirt off as well. he mumbles a nice when he sees you’re not wearing a bra. you reach to tug off the sweatpants you had on, and as soon as you can kick them away Adam’s hands are on your waist and flipping you over. He hurriedly rips off the rest of his clothes before he’s back on you, leaning down to eagerly press kisses down your neck. you have to tilt your head to make room for the horns now permanently attached to his head, and you think of the irony of this situation.

the sound of fabric ripping followed immediately by two of his fingers finding your clit makes you gasp. you bite back a whimper as he begins to rub rough and sloppy circles on your clit. the pleasure doesn’t last long before he’s pulling his hand back, only to shove a finger inside your cunt quickly, and you gasp again. being so unprepared, the stretch burns a bit. fuck, has he always had such big hands? he’s gentle at first, as he works the single finger in and out of you, and once the pain subsides, he quickly adds a second one.

“Oh, fuck,” you can’t help the curse that slips past your lips, and before long you’re rocking your hips against his hand. his movements are rushed and sloppy, impatient as he stretches you out. he chuckles dryly, and you shoot him a glare.

once again, before long, he’s pulling away, and grabbing you by the shoulders to make you sit up with him. you whine involuntarily at the loss of contact, and the cocky bastard laughs again.

“So impatient, babe,” He grins.

“Shut up,” You say again, pushing him so that he’s sitting up against the bed frame. You crawl over to him, and straddle his lap. His hands find your ass, groping it roughly while you grab the base of his cock and align the tip with your entrance.

You both gasp in unison when you swiftly lower yourself to take his full length. A strangled moan escapes from your lips and you let your head fall forward to rest on his shoulder. Eyes squeezed shut, you wait so you can adjust to his size. Seriously, how had you never noticed how big he was before now? Prematurely, Adam angles his hips and suddenly thrusts up into you, making you cry out in pain and pleasure.

“Oh you like that, bitch? Huh?” He says teasingly, running his hands up and down your back before moving his hips again.

“You have seriously got to learn to be quiet,” You retort through gritted teeth, reaching up to pull his hair from the roots. He lets out a groan, followed by a more pathetic whine as you begin to move on his length.

It must be all the pent up emotion, because you’re very quickly unable to speak beyond a few curses and wanton moans. Adam however, can’t seem to stop talking. Mumbling about how good you feel- for a whore, how he didn’t think you’d be so tight, how you’re so fucking sexy he wishes he’d done this sooner.

“Ugh, Adam- shut up!” You groan as you move desperately. He whines as you pull his hair again for emphasis, biting his lip as you feel his hips snap up into yours.

“Oh, god-“ You’re squealing, back arching as you can feel your whole body tense. You’re on top, but as you grow more limp, he’s holding you upright as he roughly fucks into you. “I’m close!” You warn, and it comes out a strangled sob.

You’re so, so close. Euphoria clouds your brain, and collapse onto him as he continues to hold you up to thrust into you.

You fall backwards, and Adam follows, caging you underneath him as he chases his own release now.

“oh- fuck- don’t stop!” You’re practically screaming as your orgasm crashes over you, and you wrap your arms around and claw at Adam desperately, fingernails leaving marks on his fleshy back. You only faintly register the breathless laugh he lets out at your state as he now pounds into you.

He slams into you with an intensity that forces the air out of your lungs, and even Adam can’t form thoughts or speak anymore.

“Oh, fu-uuck, fuck, fuck, oh my god,” He can’t believe the noises that are coming from him, but he also can’t find it in himself to care when you feel this good. You’re so sensitive, and still tight from your previous climax, and he can feel your pulse in the walls of your cunt as you clench around him.

Pleasure quickly turns to overstimulation, and you moan his name again, reaching up to pull at his hair, horns, wings, anything, as tears begin to prick at your eyes. Hearing you moan his name, seeing the look on your face, knowing he’s the one doing this to you is what he needed to send him over the edge.

“o-oh my god-“ he groans, hips stuttering as he presses his body as close to yours as possible, spilling his cum deeply inside of you with an actual moan.

He stays still for a moment, both of your breathing labored, sweat making your hair stick to your foreheads and necks, but you stay holding eachother. While both your brains are still fuzzy, thoughts muddled from the aftershocks, he takes a hand up and wipes your hair away from your face, and the tears from your eyes.

Eventually, he sits up and pulls out of you, rolling over to lay next to you on the bed. Neither of you say anything, too fucked out to think of the repercussions from your actions.

[mickeyswhore]

Jealous of Him

Request: hi!! can i request jealous tommy shelby x best friend reader? nsfw is possible as well 💗💗 ps, i love ur writing

A/N: Thank you so much, Nonnie. I hope you enjoy this because it was great writing it. 🥰

Summary: When Tommy comes back from the war, he finds out that you're no longer single, he does not appreciate it at all.

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff

Your father has been friends with the Shelbys for years, you are five years younger than Tommy but that didn't stop the two of you from becoming friends. The only problem in your life? You are irrevocably in love with Thomas Shelby, and he doesn’t know, in fact he has referred to you as his ‘sister’ way too many times.

But you care about Tommy, if he found love with someone that wasn’t you, that relationship would be supported by you. Your father knew that you were in love with the Shelby brother but he tries not to intervene, the best he can do is incentivise you to find a boyfriend.

When the war came, you were the first person Thomas went to tell that he was getting drafted. You cried with him and he slept in your bedroom before leaving you without saying goodbye, that hurt way more than when you used to see Tommy with a woman, he left without saying goodbye. But that wasn’t the worst part, you sent letters as much as you could but Thomas never replied to any of them, you asked Polly if he wrote, she said that he did but nothing for you.

You were devastated, Thomas fully erased you from his life and you had no idea why. For months you were depressed and your father was worried about you, so he incentivised you to go out with your girlfriends to make you forget about Thomas but it was useless, as soon as you came home, you were still writing him letters hoping that he would finally reply, but he never did. Your father was on a mission now, finding you a boyfriend so you could put Thomas behind you as quick as possible. But he didn't have to do much, you found someone on your own.

You were walking back home from buying groceries, the bag was heavy but you kept walking.

“Miss, allow me to help please.” The man was much taller than you, he had dirty blonde hair and green eyes. You allowed him to take the bags and you smiled at him. “It would be a sin to allow a pretty lady like you to struggle with a heavy bag.” The two of you smiled and looked down, you were embarrassed by his comment and he was happy about the fact that he made you smile. “My name is Matthew, let me walk you home.” You nodded, and you introduced yourself.

“Thank you, Matthew.” That is how your relationship with Matthew has started.

It did wonders to your mental health, you finally stopped crying for Thomas and writing him letters. You found out that Matthew had one leg bigger than the other and that is why he wasn’t in the war. He made you smile, he was an orphan but he had a good job as a solicitor and his own home outside of the city. Matthew and your father got along very well, Matthew came to your house almost every day to have dinner with the two of you. He often says that he prefers to be in your apartment rather than his empty home.

Matthew was a godsend in your life, everyday you wake up and you thank God that he showed up in your life, but of course your feelings for Thomas didn't go away, they simply went dormant, but you were not concerned about that now.

-----------------------------------------

The war was over.

You were so happy that bloodshed was over, that all the men got to come home and move on with their lives. You had no idea what happened with Tommy and his brothers but you prayed for them every night that they got home alright. You and Matthew have been dating for six months, and everything was going great but now you knew that sooner or later you’d have to see Tommy again and made your heart skip a beat, you thought that you were over him but perhaps not.

You decided to go on about your day, try to forget the fact that Tommy was back. Matthew was coming to dinner today, so you decided to focus on that. You were making a roast dinner, it was Matthew’s favourite and you loved doing it. Things weren’t going your way, you were messing up the recipe, and having to start over but you had plenty of time. But the night that Tommy left was in the forefront of your mind, you wanted an explanation of why he cut you off his life completely. 

The desert was almost finished when you heard someone at the door, you hoped that it wasn’t Matthew, you wanted to shower and get changed before seeing him. When you opened the door you were speechless, Tommy was right in front of you, after all these years. His whole demeanor was different, it looked as if he was a completely different man.

“What you’re doing here?” You didn't want sound so rude, but you were. He left and didn't even reply to a single letter and now he wants to waltz in your life?

“I wanted to see you.” His voice sent shivers down your spine, you hated the fact that he had that much effect on you when he basically abandoned you all those years ago. “May I come in?” You allowed him to enter and he had a smile on his face, and you hated it.

“Why do you want to see me?” You crossed your arms, you were fighting the urge to hug Tommy and he definitely noticed that. “You left that night without saying goodbye, you didn't reply to any of my letters, you made yourself pretty clear that you do not care about me, Thomas.” Ouch, Thomas…he visibly winced at you using his name, and not Tommy.

“I thought that I was going to die, I didn't want to make you even sadder.” You rolled your eyes, that was the worst excuse you could ever hear.

“You’d think that I wouldn’t mourn you if you died?” You yelled at him, and Tommy looked down.

You heard the door opening and it was your father, he looked surprised to see Tommy here.

“Tommy, you’re back.” Your father hugged him and Tommy hugged your father back. “Are you staying for dinner? I’m sure that Matthew won’t mind, will he sweetheart?” Thomas looked at you, and the only thing that was in his eyes were jealousy.

“Who’s Matthew?” He tried to hide his anger, he had no right to be jealous but he didn't care.

“My boyfriend.” You whispered, it felt as if you were embarrassed about your relationship.

“He is great, Tommy. You’ll meet him.” Your father patted him on the back and he simply nodded.

What you didn't know is that Thomas was madly in love with you, he was just too much of a pussy to admit it and now he lost you. But he wasn’t going to take this lying down, he was going to have you.

“May I speak with you in private, love?” He whispered to you and you simply nodded, and he followed you to your bedroom.

“What do you…” Tommy didn't let you finish your question.

“I love you, I’ve loved you from the first moment I’ve ever saw you.” You were speechless, but you were so angry at him.

“How could you say that? You abandoned me and now you’re jealous?” The two of you were getting closer and closer.

“I am jealous, because I’ve loved you all my life and now you’re with someone that’s not me.” Both of your breathing was hard, the two of you were looking into each other’s eyes. 

He finally kissed you, and you kissed him back. His hand went to your hair and your arms went around his neck, your heart was bursting and the it felt as if everything was right in the world.

“Don’t be with him, be with me. Please?” Thomas asked you, what you were going to do now?

[g0j0s]

men who are irrevocably & hopelessly in love with their beloved are so endearing. they who tend to their beloved with such gentle affection, walking the fine line between adherence & withdrawing, ever so graciously.

they who understand the intricacies of the multi faceted feminine & honour it diligently.

when living in a world that dances on the symphonies composed by the rigid & greedy; they who choose to denounce such flimsy hierarchies embrace all worldly & other worldly victories.

[ravenna-reid]

Whiskey, Sultry Tunes & Vigilantes

JASON TODD x JAZZ CLUB SINGER READER

Jason just needs to go to the most famous Jazz club in Gotham to gather intel then quickly leave, but a certain singer makes him stay longer than he anticipated... No warnings <3

I actually rlly like this one so pls lmk if you do too!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A magnetic violet blanketed the room from the lights that constantly streamed inside of the club, setting a soft, sensual mood. Guests sat before the stage, a few residing along the quiet bar. Subtle discussions and the clinks of scotch and wine glasses simmered in the air, along with the melancholic yet powerful tune that came from the band and their instruments. The sombre cello, the soulful piano, the triumphant trumpet.

And the famous Jazz singer of the club.

The Blue Room’s jewel. 

Sparkling diamonds hung from your ears and adorned your neck. Glistening eyeshadow, slick eyeliner and plump lips. A black silk dress hugged at your body and draped down to the floor, gloves the same colour running up above your elbows complimenting your dress. The wig you wore looked unbelievably real, the cherry red catching glints of the deep purple from the stage lights above as you sung the sultry tune. Men from across the city always came to watch you sing. Voice sweet like honey, smooth like whiskey, strong like thunder. All eyes were trained on you, and people either wanted to be you, or be with you. There was no inbetween.

Jason had merely heard the gossip about the Blue Room. About its perfect blues music and its reputation for the best served scotch and wine.

He’d also heard about the alluring singer that sang there almost every night.

But not being a fan of crowds or anywhere where parties were often thrown, he never went. Until tonight.

“And you’re sure Black Mask and Penguin are conspiring together in the private booths at this club?”

Dick had asked Jason earlier that week as they both went over their limited evidence on the case in the Batcave. 

“No, that’s why I’m going to go investigate.” Jason answered without looking up from the papers sprawled out in front of him. 

“It’d be a shame if it were true,” Dick sighed, “I love that place.”

“Of course you do.” Jason shook his head.

“Can I come?”

“No.”

Leaving the bustling alleyway behind as he entered the club, the atmosphere around him immediately shifted. The rhythm and blues that so often enveloped the club filled his senses instantly. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the LED lights that set the mood for the performance, the sound of the band…

And her. 

One gloved hand holding her microphone, the other gently stretching out to the crowd as she lulled them with her song. Her voice, her words, her eyes…

A softness painted her expression, mixed with subtle confidence and a magnifying aura. Elegance. Strength. Heartbreak.

So much emotion in just one song. So much emotion lacing her angelic voice. 

Jason was irrevocably drawn to you. 

The sudden sound of bellowing laughter from a table in front of him drew Jason back into reality. And he was soon reminded that he was there for work, not for entertainment. 

Blood rushing and heart racing – which was actually ridiculous – Jason ignored you and turned down the side of the bar to the more secluded part of the club. Round, mahogany tables that were much larger than the ones before the stage were occupied by couples. The music became more drowned out at that end of the club, more suitable for those who were wanting a romantic date night. Further down though, along the wall and past the bar sat the four private booths. Two were open; a lit bulb in the centre and purple velvet couches on display. But the other two had their curtains drawn.

As Jason crept towards one of the closed booths, his ears fought to listen to your voice. His legs fought to drag him back to the stage. His eyes fought to steal glances of you. Coming to a halt at the first booth, he ripped the curtain back. Two lovers, one on the other's lap, immediately look up at Jason, mortification frozen on their faces. 

“Sorry, wrong booth.” He quickly said before hastily drawing the curtain closed. His cheeks became a rose red as he moved to the next booth. 

Green eyes, so horrifically mesmerised, found their way back to you again as he searched for your figure through the crowd, his eyes following your voice. It was coming to the end of the song, and just as you were hitting the high note, a silence fell over the room as people listened. Giving a subtle shake of his head, he pulled himself back together.

“Come on, Jason.”

Jason was just about to draw the curtain to the second booth open when –

Ears straining to re-hear what he thought he heard, Jason let go of the curtain and looked to his side. Muffled yells could be heard. Past the bar and bathrooms down a dimly lit corridor. A man in an ivory tuxedo, obviously custom made, gripped at the collar of a man in black before him. The man he was grabbing looked fearful as he desperately tried to talk his way out of the situation. But the man in the tuxedo was past practical discussions. He wanted something. And he didn’t want to have to wait any longer. Cheeks a violent red and the hair he had left a dishevelled mess, he finally let go of the man. 

Thunderous applause caught Jason completely off guard as his focus shifted back to you. 

You gave a small, polite bow to the audience, and when you looked back up out into the crowd, your smile instantly gleamed brighter than the lights and jewels that surrounded you. You took the air from Jason’s lungs. 

The band members behind you nodded their heads in appreciation to the crowd. Whistles filled the air alongside the applause. Someone threw a daisy onto the stage. Jason scoffed.

Daisies aren’t nearly pretty enough for her.

Looking back down the corridor to see what the men were doing now, his heart sank when he found they were gone. 

“Shit.”

Ignoring his desire to look back at you one last time, worried you were finished for the night, Jason began down the corridor. Once he reached the end, there were two doors. One that he was sure led to the back of the building where the dumpsters and connecting alleyways sat. Another, however, looked like a small office. Thankfully, the door was slightly open. Jason peered through it to find the one who was just abused by the man in the tuxedo sitting at the desk, head in his hands. Stacks of paper were his only company, alongside framed pictures, certificates and awards for his business, posters of famous singers, and a shimmering gold plaque.

A plaque that read his name.

Jason took a mental note, but his eyes wandered as he wondered where the man in the ivory tuxedo went.

The man in black was sudden in his movement, sending a spike of anxiety through Jason’s chest. He quickly stood from his desk and went through another door in his office; a door that led to the dressing rooms. As Jason listened, he assumed the man was talking to and preparing the other singers that would soon take your place for the remainder of the night. Taking his chance, Jason quickly crept into his office and grabbed a few notes, envelopes, and folders from his desk. Slipping them into his jacket, he was gone in a blink of an eye as the man made his way back into the room. 

But performers were beginning to fill the back area, and Jason had to quickly leave. Walking back down where he came, he opened the back door and stepped outside.

The warm breeze instantly brushed through his raven black hair and against his skin. The dark, Gotham night sky stared down at him from above. Distant sounds of traffic filled the air. It was in no way better than the atmosphere inside of that club, but it was familiar. Comforting. 

Securing the documents he had obtained in the inner pockets of his jacket, Jason was ready to leave until something caught his eye. 

Silky gloved hands ran up and down your arms. Soft cherry red curls swayed against the skin of your back in the wind. 

Jason couldn’t believe it. It was you. It was actually you.

Your eyes were trained on the night sky above, searching for the stars that hid behind the clouds, and although Jason couldn't see your face, he could imagine the serene expression that was painted across it. 

What were you doing out here?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he got to see you one last time before he left. And suddenly all thoughts and questions centering around the man in black and the man in the ivory tuxedo vanished like mist.

He soon realised you hadn’t heard him come outside. He continued standing nimbly behind you. Fiddling with his fingers and feet rooted in the ground like trees. Heart beating faster than a hiccup. 

Say something. Say something. Say something. Say something.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone you know.”

Voice so soft, so gentle. You looked over your shoulder up at Jason, your eyes catching the light from the street lamp beside him.

Jason’s breath hitched.

Shit.

Part Two Soon

[romanoffsbish]

A Bumpy Ride

Scarlett Johansson x Actress!R

Elizabeth Olsen (Wanda) x F!R (a blip of a scene)

Request by: 🦥

A/N: I wrote the EO x R kiss as if I was writing a Wanda fic, literally just wrote the imagined scene. | Also, if this is too beyond what you wanted, feel free to request a do over fic. I might’ve gotten carried away.

Warnings: Jealous/Possessive Scarlett.

Smut: Daddy (Top-R), Kitten (Power Bottom-S), Fingering (S), Face-Riding (S) Kinks: Lactation, Praising, Slight Degradation.

18+ | Minors DNI

Labeled, please don’t report.

Scarlett wore a wide smile as you guided her through the set of your current Marvel film. This was a nice experience for her, watching as the legacy she had an integral part in building continued on through you, and the others.

It was rather bittersweet too though, seeing images from the iconic movies past, when she was younger and in the fittest shape of her life. Now she wears her post pregnancy tummy pouch with reassured pride, and eats a far less restrictive diet as she holds no obligations to have a widely unobtainable superhero physique.

—

Without Marvel she wouldn't have skyrocketed in her career, and she is beyond grateful to them for that, but she more importantly has them to thank for finding you, and the sweet, domestic life she now lived with you and Leo. The pretty little boy grew in her body, but he shared your likeness, as you hadn't the time to be pregnant yourself, so IVF it was until 2026 when your contract with Marvel was finally up.

When you finally turned to take in your wife after droning on about today's filming, you noticed the deep pout she wore, and you softly pecked it away. "What's troubling you, love?"

"I miss Leo," she confessed quietly, and you smiled sadly at her, the ache in your chest was the same as his smiling face tauntingly flashed through your mind, "Me too my love, I miss his kissable little face, and his sweet giggles at the inappropriate hour of 2am," you kissed her pout away, and smiled as she herself giggled.

"It'll be okay soon, my last scenes today and tomorrow you'll have that important meeting, then we'll steal him back from your moms."

Scarlett burrowed into your offered embrace with a muffled huff, "I miss his baby smell."

"Me too," you snorted as you swayed her body.

"Wait, did you say you had a steamy scene with Lizzie today?" Scarlett's mind finally caught up to your previously uttered words, and that once soft pout of hers slipped into a deep scowl.

You chuckled softly, "I'd hardly call it steamy," your wife however wasn't amused, "It's a kiss."

"A kiss that will create a hoopla of rumors."

"Scarlett," you sighed, it was always the same insecurity, and you'd never get mad at her for it, the fans edits can be quite convincing seeing as how you and Lizzie are literal best friends.

"They have been shipping us since the dawn of time, and that's cause I'm an amazing actress," you subtly reminded her of your profession, the one she shares with you, "Do you know how many men I've had to see you macking with?"

Scarlett shrugged, a silent gesture in attempt to brush passed your honest counter to hers.

"It doesn't really matter either, because I am assured every night when I come home to your loving embrace that you're all mine, and it's not a question baby, I'm irrevocably yours."

"I just wish they'd stop it, you know? We're all married now, with our families in the making."

"Yeah, but also Scar, when you agreed to marry me you knew Lizzie was apart of that deal," you teased her as you brought her into the dressing room so you could prepare for the kiss scene.

Scarlett rolled her eyes, it was the truth, she of course saw Lizzie as family, but she didn't have to like the way the world of Hollywood works.

Elizabeth was your first connection at Marvel as you started filming together, so it was no shock that the two of you hit it off. Then your alliance was set in stone from the moment Age of Ultron hit theaters. People shipped your character with Wanda's, but it was a different era, so the palpable chemistry between you and your new friend was swept under the rug, and it was exchanged for a queer coded on screen pining on your character's ends as she explored the more sellable at the time ship with Vision.

As fandoms do though, they took the shipping a step further and soon it was you shipped with Lizzie. Clips from differing press junkets were stitched together, along with solo interviews where you'd be questioned about the other. Elizabeth and you were platonic soulmates, so it was easy for fans to romanticize your replies.

At the time you were out, you never once hid from Hollywood, and neither had Lizzie, she didn't expressly label herself, but the way she spoke so candidly at times gave her away. So the shipping didn't bother either of you much. But it did bother Scarlett, she had her eyes on you from day one, and once she had you she was constantly afraid you'd leave her for the mutual friend who wasn't still hiding away.

Throughout the years it had only got more and more aggressive, and it infuriated your now wife. It occurred at its peak during a time when Scarlett hadn't wanted to have to come out yet. She was still trying her darnedest to wipe away her forced image as a sex symbol, the last thing she needed was creeps fetishizing your love.

However, after about three interviews with your posse of girls during the Infinity War junket your lover finally lost her composure. Four years of having the love she'd built up with you overshadowed by indecent rumors, well that was enough to drive her to break.

They'd handed the three of you a bin of spicy tweets, and when she was handed one to read about you topping Lizzie she lost it, she glared at the unsuspecting man, throwing the ball of paper at him just before staring directly at the camera as she muttered: "The only person Y/N is topping is me, so suck on that scwitch22."

Scarlett wasn't even embarrassed afterwards, she simply took the spot in your lap, and the interview continued on without a hitch, the tweets were significantly thinned out though. No one wanted to risk another outburst from the shockingly intimidating blonde woman.

"Yeah, as our good friend, not my sister wife," Scarlett eventually huffed after moments of silence, she was too busy watching you change. You looked up to see her arms crossed under her enlarged chest, with her plump lips pursed, and you just could not help but to tease her.

"Well, Leo will one day call her auntie, why not change it to mom?" You dodged her hand as she tried to slap your exposed shoulder, "Y/N, stop testing me, I am still rather hormonal, and unless you wish to be on Snapped, I'd stop."

"A feature on my favorite show?" You gasped with a hand flying over your grinning lips, "You're just the sweetest wife ever my dear."

Before she could actually bring life (or death) to her words you snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her in for a pre hair and makeup kiss. "Stop stressing over the press, you have nothing to worry about, I'm yours!"

The kiss was sickeningly soft, and far too quick for either of your likings, "I love you," you whispered against her lips. "I love you too," she tried to mindlessly chase your lips, but as you pulled away with an apologetic smile she pettily grumbled, "I'm also still mad at you."

"Story of my life," you remarked with a laugh and an indifferent shrug of your shoulders.

Scarlett rolled her eyes at your retreating figure, then after three short minutes stood alone she reluctantly (desperately) followed after you to the trailer for hair and makeup.

Watching you getting into character brought a smile to your lover's face, she adored how you took this role so seriously. Resentments to the rumors aside, she admires the way you and Liz had crafted such a beautiful, long winded story for the fans to devour. Today's scene is actually monumental for the MCU, it's the first intimate confirmation for Wanda and Eliza, so she let her anger go in favor of supporting you.

"You're gonna do great," she whispered into your ear from behind your designated chair, she'd seen your tightly furrowed brows, all she wanted to do was make you feel at peace. You slowly peered up from your script to lock eyes with her through the mirror, and she smiled reassuringly along with her words. "Thanks."

Scarlett nodded, "How can I help my love?"

For the next ten minutes you ran lines with her, there was no reason to worry about her leaking the contents, she wasn't Tom Holland. The woman was a MCU veteran, and knew how to deflect even the slipperiest of questions.

A smirk graced her face as the loosely described kissing scene was up next, she was always looking forward to practicing such lines with you, whether for her film or yours, it didn't matter much; the prospect of letting your costar taste her on you was too exciting.

"Hey ladies."

Speak of the devil...

"You ready Y/N/N?" Lizzie side hugged your scowling wife as she spoke to you with a knowing smirk, "You're a cockblock Olsen."

"Can't have you macking on my woman," she jested, dangerously if Scarlett's glare was to be translated, "She's my woman, remember that."

"She was mine first," Lizzie continued to goad your wife, she would've kept going too, and left you with a monster to drive home with if not for the saving grace of your favorite stagehand.

"Mrs. Y/L/N—Johansson, Mrs. Olsen, the set is ready, and the director sent me to collect you."

Lizzie left with him instantly, knowing when to retreat from a standoff with your wife, and you were two seconds away from doing the same, but your stewing wife stopped your attempts. Her hand swiftly cupped the back of your neck, she pulled you into a bruising kiss, tentatively sliding her tongue in your mouth, unfairly arousing you as she groped your clothed ass. She kissed you until you were near breathless, and mindlessly chewing on her fruity gum.

"Scar," you went to whine, but she traced her thumb around your lips to quell your worries. The lipstick was promptly cleaned off your skin, and a fresh layer was reapplied, it was as if she had never even touched her lips to yours. But the dizzy look in your eye tells her the memory was strong enough without the mess.

For the sake of your career she slid her hand into yours, and guided you to your outdoor set, "Go get em tiger," she winked, and you simply chuckled as she referenced your character's feline tendencies, her silly antics always helped to settle your heart, she was the ideal partner.

Scarlett waved to the familiar director before she settled into your chair, then her eyes zeroed in on the leather jacket they slid over to you, and then she saw the motorcycle. Natasha was always on a motorcycle, it was like her signature ride so she was familiar with the set up for the scene. Scarlett had never been on one though, which now that she thinks of it is rather odd since riding was a leisurely passion of yours up until Leo was born. The Harley taking up space in the garage a daily reminder.

That familiar twinge of jealousy returned to her with a renewed passion as soon as she heard the director call 'action' because then she saw a scene play out that she wanted as her reality.

—~~~~~—ACTION—~~~~~—

Wanda was in the process of slipping on her signature red leather jacket, the one she got (stole) from her mentor all those years ago. As soon as the tight fabric melded to her body you were behind her, slipping your hands just below the chilled fabric to grip her by the waist. Wanda hadn't even a moment to think before a squeal of surprise left her parted lips. With an undeniable strength, and incredible ease you lifted the redhead by your grip on her body, settling her onto the bike, then you seamlessly walked around, hand still on hip, so that you could face her, "You're a bit of a show off..."

"I learned from the best," you sadly stated, a subtle nod to the fallen Avenger who'd trained the both of you into the heroes you were today.

Wanda nodded solemnly, a beat of silence held before you went on, "You ready to go honey?"

You went to step away as she nodded, but the redheads hand shot out to wrap around your wrist to halt you. "Would you judge me if I said I was nervous?" You chuckled softly, but your eyes softened when you realized she meant it.

"Baby," the world rolled off your tongue with a familiar ease, and it successfully made the woman blush, "You've literally flown hundreds of miles above ground without a parachute."

"Eliza," she groaned, her grip tightening at your incessant teasing, "I have control over that."

"Yeah, and this is a walk in the park for me baby girl, I am an expert at this sorta thing."

Wanda bowed her head, a new nervousness settling within her bones as you continued to drop the pet names. "What's wrong Wands?"

The redhead picked her gaze back up, shaking her head from side to side, "Nothings wrong."

"You can't hide from me," you pulled a hand free from her loosened grip, and softly caressed her cheek, her breath promptly hitched, "Eli."

"Mhm?" You smiled innocently, but your eyes shone with an understanding that made her stomach erupt with a soft fluttering. Suddenly your faces were closer, breaths mingling as you both waited on the other to close the small gap.

Wanda felt your hand drift to behind her neck, anticipation built within her as you caressed her heated skin softly. Once your eyes fell to her parted lips she knew it was coming, but in a moment of desperation she surged forward to rush the process along. Her lips pressed to yours firmly, there wasn't much room to move at first as she sought to keep you against her, but when she felt your fingers playing with her baby hairs, while your other hand laid against her hip she knew you weren't going anywhere.

You soon guided the kiss, tilting her head with your firmer grip in her hair you slipped your tongue passed her lips. Even with the kiss deepened, you maintained a softness, exploring her mouth with a tenderness that equated to an 'I've loved you for eons, and I will continue to,' she melted into you in total reciprocity.

"We really have to go baby," you whispered once you pulled away, she panted affectedly while your breathing remained steady enough.

"Why?" The witch whined pitifully, "I don't want this moment to end Eliza, it's perfect."

You smiled in agreement, "Yeah, it was."

Wanda pouted as you spoke of the moment in the past tense, meaning it was over, and so you leaned back in to peck it away, "It'll be even better when we get to a safe house sweetheart."

Wanda sighed, "I'm holding you to that then."

"How about I hold you to me instead?" You teased the witch as your leg flew over the bike behind her seamlessly. Wanda rolled her eyes, but she wore a wide smile that you couldn't see.

Wanda melted into your form as you pulled her body back into yours, your arms slid beneath hers so that you could reach for the handles. Her body shuddered once you placed a kiss to the nape of her neck just before you slid a helmet onto her. "Safety first, Avenger or not."

Wanda giggled, then her hand spun in the air, and a helmet appeared over your head next, "The rules apply to you too, nine lives or not."

You snorted, then instead of prolonging the teasing banter you kicked the stand of the bike up, revved the engine, then shot off abruptly.

—~~~~—SCENE—~~~~~—

Scarlett watched the heady kiss without even flinching, it was a bit of a surprise to her, but she found herself envying Elizabeth's chance to ride on the bike with you more so than the making out. The directors had trusted you enough to actually race around the lot, and when you and Lizzie returned in a fit of giggles she felt the jealousy only intensifying. It was not fair to you, but she only gave you a curt nod when you asked if she was okay, she once again cleaned the lipstick off your face, then left to try and simmer her rage inside your trailer.

"What's the matter now?" Lizzie joked from your side, and you only shrugged, but you'd never struggled to read your wife, the way she had glared at the motorbike as if it had killed her entire family was all you needed to know.

This silly scene here opened you up to a future night full of making it up to your wife. You sighed softly before turning to your scene partner, you watched a grin take over her face as a realization of sorts had dawned upon her.

"You're welcome," she winked before turning around to return to the set, you two had one more follow up scene to shoot, and then you'd have to face your attractively jealous partner.

—

The ride home was radio silent; literally, she slapped your hand away when you tried to fill the tense silence with your favorite playlist.

Scarlett pulled into the garage, a heavy sigh left her lips as she unbuckled, but she didn't speak.

Her door slammed shut, she attempted to race into the house, but you were too quick for her. Scarlett's breath hitched when your hands held her firmly in place, "Now, now kitten, why must you make this difficult by running?"

Scarlett tried to keep her angry front up, but when you manhandled her into the air she lost any semblance of control, you spun her around in your hold so that your lips brushed teasingly as you plopped her onto the Harley backwards.

"Is this what you needed baby?"

Scarlett mindlessly leaned back against the handles, her legs spreading as she did, and you couldn't help but to chuckle at the sight of her.

"Such a beautiful, desperate mess you are for daddy, look at you, you're soaked on through."

Scarlett's skin flushed, she didn't need to hear you say it to know it, the lacy, red material was uncomfortably stuck to her skin, and truth be told it had been like that for hours now. Ever since she'd kissed you breathless, and when she watched you handle that scene with a sexy flair she couldn't stop imagining you handling her in a more sinful way. You drove her wild.

"Tell me what you want," you stepped closer to her, ghosting your lips over hers, "I'm not a mind reader baby, but I do aim to please here, so just tell daddy what it is you need from her."

"Can you give me a ride on the bike?" Scarlett was confused herself as the words left her, it was what she genuinely wanted, but you both know she wanted something else much more.

"Oh, I can," you smirked as your lips met hers, "You can ride me however you want Scarlett."

"Fuck," she sucked in a breath as your fingers slid the sticky fabric of her panties to the side.

"Be good for daddy," you coo'd as your fingers trailed teasingly through her folds, she bucked her hips on instinct, causing the bike to shake, so you held her hip down firmly with your free hand, "Relax my love, you know I've got you."

Scarlett's always been super reactive with you, but as she hadn't been touched like this in over six months she was beyond her normal arousal. Her cunt was dripping all over the leather seat, and if it wasn't so hot you might've even cared about it, but honestly the bike needed a polish.

A mewl left your wife's lips as soon as one of your fingers entered her, you kept a slow pace, too afraid to overwhelm her, and even then you still did, she cried out in shock, "I'm leaking."

You looked down, noticing the pebbles of white that left your wife's breasts, she'd only recently stopped breastfeeding your son as her leave was quickly coming to an end. You were truly enamored by the opportunity here, the urge to taste her milk had always been there, but the chance had yet to present itself until now.

"Oh love, that must hurt," you rasped, and the aroused blonde whimpered her agreements as she looked into your blackened orbs, the need you clearly felt for her was palpable, and it only made the sloshing between her legs louder.

You kissed down her jaw, nibbling enough to make her moans sweeter, but not to mar her skin until you reached the valley of her breasts. You sucked harshly, a deeper red blossomed over her hot skin, the sensation only spurred her moans on, and the sound was addicting.

"There you go kitten," you kissed up the side of her sensitive breast en route to her nipple, "Let daddy know how good she's making you feel."

Scarlett nearly toppled your bike over when your lips wrapped around her nipple, the way you curled your fingers just as you began to suckle made her mind go blank, and legs shake. The sound of your delighted moan made her feel an overwhelming warmth, an unexpected wave of pride flooded her chest at the idea that you'd like her milk enough to moan like that.

"Thank you daddy," she clutched tightly to your biceps, curling her nails into the skin for grounding that she usually found in bed sheets. As you moved in rushed kisses over to her other breast you could feel her hips trying to meet your thrusts, shaking your bike again.

"Stay still," you mumbled around her nipple, making her urge to move higher, but even in her dizzy state she still managed to cooperate. In the bed you wouldn't mind, normally you'd encourage her desperate thrusts as you teased her, but this wasn't your usual spot; the bike wasn't exactly the safest place for her writhing.

Scarlett's quick compliance made you beam, "You're always such a good girl for me."

Scarlett smiled dopily, she was a sucker for your praises, her walls clenched tightly around you when you returned her smile. Nothing could ever really describe just how much she loved your beautiful smile, it was almost always all she needed to want to jump your bones.

"Kiss me," she begged, the desperation clear as day when her lip had trembled in anticipation. You didn't waver in your stare as you neglected to give in to her pleas, you instead continued to piston three fingers into her slick hole, curling them every few thrusts, and doing so before you couldn't resist the temptation to kiss her.

"You're close," you panted the truth against her lips as you reluctantly pulled back, if you could you'd kiss her until your lips went numb. She whined, her eyes then fluttered open at the loss of your sensational lips took effect on her. The pleading in the haze of her eyes was clear, she needed you to give her permission, to send her tumbling over that edge. "Go on kitten, come for daddy, mess up my bike like a good girl."

Her back instantaneously arched into your handlebars, the horn being set off as her body trembled, her orgasm had taken it's full effect. You watched in amazement as her arousal gushed around your digits, it was only her first release of the night and she squirted all over.

"Let's get you cleaned up," you whispered as you nibbled down her jawline, soft red marks left behind that you knew would fade come morning, she had a meeting tomorrow after all.

Scarlett was beyond dizzy, your moves turned her brain into mush, but even in a delirious state she knew what she wanted, and she'd get it. You had both always had such high libidos, but with the baby neither of you had the time or better yet the energy to keep up with them.

But in this jealous fueled daze Scarlett was not short on energy, no, only patience. As you went to guide her to the bedroom for aftercare she stopped you, even with shaky legs she managed to shove you down onto the couch, "Lay down, and let me mark my territory," you knew she wasn't asking, clearly you weren't rebutting.

"Thank you daddy," she straddled your thighs so that she could lean in to peck your lips, you saw the way she eyed your top, so as a reward for her manners you slipped it off as she rose.

"Come on kitten, let daddy make you feel good," you beckoned the short circuiting woman forward, and without letting another minute fly by she crawled up your body, her abundant wetness smeared on your skin, and the feeling left you salivating for her essence.

Neither of you felt like teasing tonight, so the blonde plopped her sopping folds onto your face, so you followed her lead, and immediately began to devour her. Raspy, choked moans echoed off the walls of your quaint living room, with how sensitive she was it didn't take long for her to grow sloppy with the way she rode. Without even looking you gripped her hips, now guiding her thrusts, and pressing down harshly to help your tongue reach her deeper.

With your arms wrapped tightly around her thighs you used all your strength to flip her onto her back, the jostling movement led your tongue to press into her sensitive spot just as your thumb showed up to stimulate her clit.

"Oh fuck," Scarlett bucked her hips in sync with your tongue as you continued to fuck her fluttering hole even after her cum shot down your throat, and her entire body subsequently slumped into the lived in couch cushions.

Scarlett's face was serene as she rode out the bliss you'd given her, she tiredly smiled when your lips trailed over her body, tenderness was all that you offered as you kissed over her skin. Lips lingering over the marks she'd despised until you made her love them the way you did.

"Daddy," she groggily whimpered your title, her hands haphazardly reached down for you, and her nails dug into your shoulder blades so that she could pull you up and into her lips.

"You're insatiable Scarlett," you chuckled as she relinquished her lips hold on you, she met your amusement with a smirk of her own, "If you had a smoke show for a wife you'd be too."

"I do," you deadpanned, and she smirked even wider as she winked, "Glad you're self aware."

"Oh, I am, the amount of people that want you is endless," you huffed, a twinge of jealousy to rival hers showing through, but she helped to melt it away with another kiss to your lips.

"We're clearly just Hollywood's hottest couple," she reasoned, "I guess I should have expected all the attention, of course people want you."

"I really do hope you understand that you're all I'll ever want Scarlett," your eyes glistened with happiness, visions of your future with her all you needed to bring you to tears, "You, and Leo are my entire world, nothing will change that."

"I miss him," she reaffirms her earlier feelings, as do you, "Same, I need my bubba butt back."

"But wait, I have a proposal," she mused, and looked to you with a sinful grin and dark eyes.

"I'm listening."

"Well, my meeting won't end until like five, and it's over an hour away to my moms," she spoke with feigned exasperation, "Why would we pick him up tomorrow near his bedtime? That's just irresponsible. We should let him sleep, and use our bonus night off for an overdue date."

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending as if you were actually thinking over her sex coded offer, "I could just pick him up in the morning," you didn't mean it, but you'd never give up the opportunity to tease, and neither would she.

"Nope," she popped the p, and smirked up, "You're coming to the office baby girl, and we'll be taking your bike so no room for the baby."

"Oh, we are now?"

"Yeah, you are my guinea pig for the day as we test out our newest products, I didn't tell you?"

"No, you most certainly didn't," you grumbled, and climbed off of her, she went to protest the loss of your warmth but she didn't get the chance as you threw her over your shoulder.

"If I'm your guinea pig tomorrow, then you're my cum dump for the night," you threw her down onto the mattress, smirking as her dilated eyes widened at your promise, and so you winked. "What? Might as well use our free time wisely."

Scarlett smirked victoriously once you turned away to collect your strap, her plans for a full weekend now coming to life before her eyes. Leo's return will likely be postponed, it's a good thing she already confirmed a Monday pick up.

——

4,908 Words

❤️ Kaitlyn 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

[soundbulb]

my friends tease me for loving manosphere stuff, which is true, but they always find it kind of baffling and I guess I did too until I realized the manosphere men admired the men in these shows. obviously we all wish we could monologue in beautifully paced and well articulated philosophy, that's not what I'm saying, but the men who like this story seem incapable of viewing rust cohle as someone who is expressing beliefs that create ironic tension in his own narrative, same as marty.

it's not quite as bull in a china shop as marty saying "a man needs boundaries" in monologue while we watch him break down the door of the twenty something woman he's cheating on his wife with. but from the moment rust brings up "encouraging the capacity for illusion" it becomes glaringly obvious rust's mainlining of the secrets of the universe -- as well as the bulk of his philosophies outcropped from grief -- are exactly that same encouragement of illusion. "the world needs bad men" and "it was never supposed to work, the whole man-woman thing" is hitting you over the head in the context of the show; rust is ducking and hiding. it's intolerable, how grief irrevocably changed him as a person, the marriage that crumbled from that grief ("we turned on each other"), and the resentment it bore, and not because nature programmed it to end but because it all just did.

but that belief, that nature programmed it to end, is an extension of his idea of time as a flat circle. if you will be reborn into the life you've always been born into, than none of these choices are really yours to begin with. none of what happens has anything to do with you, which is how it feels when you lose everything to an accident on some regular day. so if you believe you're wrought through every motion in repetition, then in this repetition you're exponentially separated from anything resembling agency. but still, nature's programming is You, somewhere at some point in imperceptible time; You at one point lived the life for the first time, then over and over and over, it's Your programming, Your design. the marriage ended who knows how many times. it was never meant to work. your kid died who knows how many times because she was always going to, and you have to continue even though it feels like you're trapped inside a predetermined motion, predetermined not by a benevolent power, or even a malignant one, but by You. everything you ever did or everything done to you happens over and over, there is no such thing as once. which is just true within our lifetimes, we still live inside our decisions, our trajectories, and the trajectories of other people worn on us.

but I'd be surprised if rust believed in a "first time" like that. it's like if you roll a marble on a looping track; an elastic collision got it going, but it's already on a loop. you're born without preexistence, but does this mean that first life is a byproduct of your decisions? in the same way gravity dictated you'd move kinetic, a certain shape, slowing and speeding up at this part and that part, can the same be said for how time dictates you move through your life?

but this is what it feels like when your life is completely devastated by something random. it's the aimless inattention of a couple people at the same time; it's positions in space and speed and impact, gravity; it's an accident. you can't cope with the scope of that. you'll lose everything, but of course the world doesn't change, and the giant devouring mystery is no closer to sated or understood or whatever you believe it seeks. it's in the same way a pandemic wipes through your life and leaves you injured and ill. a plague doesn't really care about anything but living, it was never about you; lives in you but doesn't know what You are, in the same way you don't know what massive devouring mystery you live inside.

even in the murder of dora lang and marie fontenot, murders that are actually committed by men with malice and forethought, there's this thing looming above these women and children as though they're likewise devoured by something too large, incapable of seeing them. this is why it's important that dora lang and marie fontenot are easy targets, "chum in the water". it's impersonal, the accumulation of hundreds of other things that made it easy to pick them off. for some of them it was hurricanes. I love the use of hurricanes in true detective, great use of massive destroying mystery. anyway, it's why marie fontenot's disappearance is paired with the "cerebral event" that paralyzes her uncle. all of these are acts of horror too large to perceive, and why this horror is cosmic depends on where you are in the narrative. is it because evil is a design of nature (or god)? is it because you were propelled into this motion, and gravity will bring you back here, to the moment you're devoured? is it because the only closeness to this mystery is in it's silence around you, incapable of speaking to something like you, so small it could never know you were there at all? that one comes at our half way point with joel theriot -- "all my life I wanted to be nearer to god. the only nearness, silence."

the men doing the killing believe they're feeding this cosmic mystery, that it's a mouth and gut and gets hungry for the people they already view as consumable. they make it into a god that demands sacrifices. rust seems to believe it doesn't need to be fed, it will always eat. his relationship to it is hard to pin down, it clearly guides him, but when he speaks of it it's more like it's coming for him. "it's like something's got your name on it, like a bullet or a long nail in the road."

I do relate to this instinct to embrace "there was never another version". whatever I've lost to encephalitis and it's autoimmune consequences, I have this feeling in my gut there's no version of life where it doesn't happen. there's no trajectory for the me before this except becoming the me in this and after this. I think that's why rust's version of grief does resonate so much, because there's nothing he can do about how random it is, so he turns it into a bullet with his name on it. what he embraces here is the morbid version of "it was fate".

so he's mystified his experience of grief, rightfully so, because grief is inherently mysterious, and that is quite literally the process of engaging your capacity for illusion. and ultimately the story isn't telling you what's eating you, it's saying you'd know it much better by it's silence than by anything definable, present.

[thekillingmoonmoon]

guys my age

Pairing: Kishibe x Fem! Reader Warnings: NSFW, age gap (Kishibe is however old he is – 50? Reader is late twenties), smoking, alcohol,  reader goes through a breakup but it’s not a bad one Length: 4k Song: Guys My Age – Hey Violet

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you read your phone’s screen again and cussed, throwing yourself down on the hotel bed with a thump. “Trouble in paradise?” Kishibe looked over from the windowsill, the smoke swirling around his head in a sunlit halo. “More like, good riddance to bad rubbish,” you groaned, dropping your phone to the mattress beside you. “At least one of my problems has the good grace to sort itself out,” you grumbled, leaning back and pinching the bridge of your nose. “Which one of your problems was it? Rent? The boyfriend? Makima?” you peered at Kishibe from where you lay, squinting at him in confusion. Since when did he care?

“If it was Makima, I think we’d be in a very different position right now,” You answered, gesturing to the rundown hotel you were currently staying in. Kishibe scoffed out a chuckle and took a sip from his flask, offering it to you when you eyed the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he drank. You took the flask with thanks and threw it back, relishing the honeyed burn of the whiskey as it spilt down your supple throat. You missed how Kishibe watched you drink, how his dark eyes narrowed when a drop of liquor slipped past your lips and down your chin, trickling in its cinnamon sweetness down your silken neck. You cleared your throat.

 “It’s the boyfriend,” you chuckled drily, “The trash took itself out this time.” Kishibe raised a brow. “Tsunada broke up with you?” once more, you squinted at Kishibe, wondering when he had ever bothered learning the name of the third division hunter you were dating for the last six months. Emphasis on “were”, as the man in question had just broken up with you for being ‘too serious’. “Yep,” You flopped back on the bed, a blood spatter of red and white on the navy sheets.

“You should wash,” Kishibe instructed, and you groaned, wanting to throw yourself on the bed and sleep for the next ten years. But Kishibe had drinking plans, and as his partner, it was expected that you join him. You rolled yourself upward and grabbed your bag from the end of the bed, leaving Kishibe to seat himself on the twin bed on the other side of the room. You threw his towel at him as you closed the bathroom door, muttering about ‘old men getting sick’ and you not wanting to play nursemaid if he got ill from leaving his hair wet. You barely heard his reply but knew it had something to do with what you’d look like in a nurse’s uniform. You flushed at the thought, and slapping your cheeks at your embarrassment, stepped into the shower. The room still smelled of him, of heady musk and light pine, of cinnamon cigarettes and expensive aftershave, and as you breathed him in, you realised how truly fucked you were.

You were in love with Kishibe. Undoubtedly, irrevocably in love.  After three years as his rookie partner, you’d fallen into a neat rhythm with the older man, quickly becoming the most efficient pair of hunters in Public Safety. The rumours swirled in your wake, the young pup to charm the old war dog, the only partner to last through Kishibe’s rough training and still come out of it semi-sane on the other side. Not that you’d claim to be sane. Not after all the things you had seen. Not after falling for a man nearly twice your age and as emotionally unavailable as a stray black cat. Tsunada had been a distraction, as had the three guys before him. All young and bright-eyed boys whose reckless charm and careless caresses had only barely filled the aching gap in your heart, so empty of cynicism and bitter whiskey.  You undid your hair, grimacing at the flicker of dried blood that fell from your tresses. You plunged in to wash your hair, scrubbing your skull so hard, hoping that you could scrub yourself clean of Kishibe.

Today had been another successful hunt, way out in the boondocks of some country town, where a Corruption Devil had settled in. It had taken you more than half a day to get to the town, but less than two hours to get rid of the devil, and now you were stuck halfway home, forced to stay the night in a hotel. It wasn’t the first time you had been forced to share a hotel room with Kishibe, but it was the first time neither had been so mortally wounded to require around-the-clock nursing. You wondered if the same easy silence that filled your sunlit hours would pervade the darkness as well. You hoped it would, and the warm uneasiness that had been building up in your lower stomach over the last year or so would disappear into the night, along with the sounds of Kishibe’s chainsaw snoring.

You shook your hair out, happy only once the water ran clean and stepped out of the shower. You needed a distraction. From your ex-boyfriend. From Kishibe. For whatever feelings you had for Kishibe.  You rinsed yourself off and rummaged in your bag, pulling out a fresh white shirt. You thought to the night of drinking ahead and wondered if Kishibe would let you get some company for yourself this evening. You needed it. Needed the rush of playing cat-and-mouse, of fumbling hands in the dark, of losing yourself in someone else’s body for the first time in months. You left a few buttons undone, showing off a tasteful sliver of cleavage as you huffed and puffed back into your trousers. You did your hair and face, sure to put on a lipstick that screamed ‘fuck me,’ and stepped out of the bathroom.

Kishibe choked on his flask, hacking up what sounded like half a lung when he saw you exit the bathroom.

 “What?” was all you said, raising your eyebrow as the man, “did you forget I was a woman?” Kishibe could only cough in response. You grabbed your jacket,

“Let’s go.”

…

You weren’t drunk enough for this. Not for this drivelling conversation and certainly not for the slimy pickup lines slithering from the hunter across the table. Kishibe was lost in a conversation, nodding and hemming along to whatever was being said by the senior hunters. You needed a smoke. You scrambled to your feet, meeting Kishibe’s eyes as he looked across at your movement. You motioned that you were going for a smoke and he nodded in understanding.

You broke free into the darkness, breathing in the heady scent of wet asphalt and city lights. You rounded a corner into an alley and fiddled around in your jacket pocket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and a light. You flickered the flame to life, thinking of all the times you had lit Kishibe’s smokes, leaning in between gaps in the rain, sharing breaths in the muggy air. Smoke trickled from your mouth in a dark dragon of grey and blue, the clouds catching the reflection of the neon sign of the bar above your head.

 “Hey baby,” came a dark coo, and you tilted your head to peer into the dark.  “Kishibe?” you asked, despite knowing it wasn’t him. You would know his voice anywhere, that deep soft rasp that stirred your lower stomach into a fluttering of iron butterflies. “Aw, darling, you wound me. As if I would ever come close to that gross old bastard.” It was the hunter from before, the one whose pickup lines were worse than any of the drivel Tsunada had fed you. “I’m not interested,” you gave a polite smile and prepared to go back inside. “Really, because you were giving me bedroom eyes back there,” he approached you, coming closer and closer, tainting the air with the bitter tang of beer and old cigarettes  “You made an incorrect assumption then,” you corrected him, straightening out and preparing to throw your cigarette out onto the damp concrete. A pity, you wanted to savour it. He crowded up to you, using his height against you, casting a shadow over your shorter form. You looked up at him, tilting your head and squinting. “Aw, don’t be so frigid, baby,” he leaned his hand above your head, effectively pinning you between the wall and his body. You sighed. You really didn’t want to start a fight, especially not with another hunter. “She isn’t being frigid, boy, she’s being polite,” oh, that smoke-saturated voice soothed you, getting you to drop your guard as you saw Kishibe flicker into view. “Get lost, punk,” he said, motioning for the guy to walk, and the idiot listened, suddenly aware that he was between the two toughest devil hunters in the agency.  Kishibe came to stand beside you, cigarette already clenched between his teeth. You lit up for him, relishing the way he leaned in close, the scent of his aftershave rolling down your spine. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall next to you.

“Did I ever tell you that you have shit taste in men?” he asked, and you snorted. “No, but I believe you,” you answered, shaking your head. “Why do you go for punks like him?” “I don’t know,” you huffed, “their boyish charm,” you lied. Kishibe tsked. "Clearly you need a real man,” he said, and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. What was he playing at? You shrugged.  “Unfortunately, those are hard to come by, unless you know any takers?” you jibed, a little gutsy, now that you weren’t looking Kishibe in the dark, depthless eyes. “I could name a few,” he grunted, and this time you properly turned and looked at him. He took a step toward you, moving closer than ever before, a mere breath away. He looked down at you, all rippling muscles and rugged scars. “And would your name be on that list?” You closed your eyes as you asked, hating to see the reaction in his eyes. You could feel him, almost sense his body around you, surrounding you. “Well, you’d never have to go out dressed like this again,” a single calloused finger traced the low fit of your shirt, almost brushing your breasts. “Or mess around with those boys again,” he rumbled, his finger trailing up your throat, where he gripped your chin.

“Tell me, princess,” he rumbled, “did that bastard even make you cum?” You were sure he could feel the blush radiating off your cheeks, but you bit your lower lip and shook your head. The noise that left Kishibe’s throat was dark and deep as it vibrated through you, sending shivers down your spine as he leaned down. He was just a whiskey’s breath away, all cinnamon and sinful musk, his dark eyes watching your face as he drew closer.

 “Tell me to stop,” he said, and you threw all caution to the wind. You grabbed his tie and pulled him down, crashing your lips to his, tasting the bitter tang of beer on his lips. For a moment, Kishibe paused, his eyes wide open, before he was kissing you, driving you back into the wall, stealing every gasp of air from your desperate lips.

 “Fuck,” he cursed as he pinned you to the cold bricks behind you, pressing his tongue past your teeth and flooding you with the taste of him. His hands seemed reluctant to touch you, so you grabbed them from the wall behind you and settled his hands on your waist and hips. His thick hands were eager, filling you with warmth as he gripped and groped at your flesh. His hips found yours, pressing you even deeper into the wall, his thigh coming in between your legs to push at the apex of your legs. You whine, feeling him rub his thigh over your needy cunt and his hips stutter against yours.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he gripped your hips, rocking them over his thigh, fucking you on his leg. You moan his name, and he groans, stopping and grabbing your hands as they explore his toned chest.

For a moment you think he wants to stop, that he’s rejecting you, and you feel like you could curl up and disappear, but he reads the bright fear in your eyes and leans in, pressing a single chaste kiss to your swollen lips.

 “Relax doll, I’m only taking you somewhere else,” he rumbled, “somewhere no one can interrupt us.”

You blindly followed him through the dark, stumbling behind him as he makes the short trip back to your dingy hotel room. He held your hand the whole time, large and warm and engulfing yours in its calloused grip. Once in the elevator, he turned to you, dark eyes suddenly serious, despite the hunter’s light that shone deep in their murky depths.

 “This is your last chance, sweetheart,” He stepped closer, crowding you into the corner of the lift, his trench coat shielding you from view, “Tell this dirty old man to stop.”

“Why would I?” you answered, grabbing at the lapels of his jacket, reaching up on your tiptoes to lay a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, where his scar severed his face. He groaned at your featherlight touch, his hand coming up behind your head to meld your lips to his, holding you tight to his body, so that you could feel his muscles ripple against your tender touch. He only tore away when the elevator dinged your sudden arrival and then he was gone again, practically dragging you through the door and pressing you up against the cool wood, his mouth meeting yours once again. He pushed your jacket from your shoulders, gripping your upper arms tight as he laid a trail of sloppy kisses down your jaw. He sucked your skin into his mouth, nipping and suckling at the skin until he was sure he had left his mark on you. You shucked his jacket off as well, throwing the heavy canvas aside and fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He was quick to do the same, exposing your tits to his hungry mouth as he cupped you beneath your bra.

 “Fuck, look at these tits,” he cooed, squeezing and groping at the soft flesh, “So fucking beautiful, better than I ever imagined,” he groaned, biting and teasing your nipple through the fabric of your bra. He scraped his teeth up your chest, slithering his hands down the slope of your stomach until he reached the waistband of your pants. He made quick work of the belt and zipper, sending your pants to your knees as he teased your clit through the fabric. Your hips bucked, unused to any decent touch and you blushed, flushed hot by the sudden attention after being neglected for so long. Kishibe kissed you harshly again, biting your lower lip back with a pop before skimming down your body. He nipped at your stomach, lathing his love over your belly, pulling down your panties. He watched a thin string of your arousal cling to the fabric and he hummed, helping you step out of your clothes. He knelt before you, reverent in his worship, fumbling prayer from his scarred lips as he licked and sucked at the skin around your cunt. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder and sunk his tongue into your cunt, his huge hands engulfing your hips to stop you from bucking onto his face. He licked a slow stripe up your pussy, finding your clit and swirling his tongue around it until you could feel your cunt clench around nothing.

“You’re gonna cum on my face, princess,” Kishibe told you, murmuring into your slick silken skin, “and then you’re gonna cum on my cock, yeah?”, he lapped at you before you could respond, pulling a low keen from your pouty lips before your voice broke into shattered pants. His tongue worked wonders, pressing the hot wet muscle up and into your pussy, effectively fucking you with his tongue. His one hand left your hips, trailing down your thigh and coming up below his chin. The first finger felt like heaven, pushing past your soft velvet walls into your pulsing pussy, reaching, searching until he found the spot that had you shuddering, hips shaking in his grip. He slowly pumped his finger inside you, pushing and pressing as you whined and moaned above him, his mouth never leaving your clit as he traced the kanji of his name over the bundle of nerves. The second finger had your knees buckling, his fingers thicker and heavier than your own, stretching your cunt out to take his cock. He kept sucking at your clit, sending shivers down your spine as he worked you toward climax. His third finger was a surprise, welcomed with a hushed gasp and whimper from your swollen lips as he pushed his knuckles past your puffy folds.

“That’s it, doll,” he encouraged, “take them all.” You could feel pressure pulsing in your lower stomach, sending strawberry starbursts up your spine. You felt dizzy, drowning in the sound of Kishibe lapping and slurping at your cunt. You could feel your climax build, and by the clench of your cunt, Kishibe knew you were close too. He renewed his pumping into your cunt and sucked hard on your clit, tossing you over the edge into a starstruck spiral of static pleasure. He groaned as you came, sucking and lapping up all that seeped from your pretty pussy.

“That’s my girl,” he rumbled, rising from a crouch and kissing you hard. He gripped your hips to his, holding you up against the wall as your knees shook. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning at the saccharine tartness as his tongue slipped into your mouth. He stepped back with you stumbling after, holding you upright and pushing you softly down onto the nearest mattress. You bounced on the springy softness, looking up at Kishibe with wide doe-eyes, already fucked out on the orgasm wrought by his tongue and fingers. You stared at him through dreamy eyes, sitting up and reaching for his belt buckle.

 “Easy there, sweetheart,” Kishibe’s hands cover yours, “are you sure you want this?” he asked. You blinked up at him and grabbed his tie, tugging him further down to reach your eye level.

 “I want you, Kishibe,” you soothed, “show me how a real man fucks.” He swore then, unhooking his belt and dropping his pants quickly as he crawled over you on the bed.  You reached down to palm him through his boxers, revelling in the hissed breath that caught low in his throat as you gripped his thick length. He was big, thick and heavy in your hand as you slipped your fingers below his waistband. You smoothed your fingers over his velvet head, smearing pre down his shaft as you pumped him in your hands. He groaned, a restrained grunt spilling past clenched teeth as he moved your hands away and shifted his boxers down and away. You were now bare to each other, your glistening pussy to his twitching length, chest to chest, skin to skin. He leaned down to kiss you again, this time softly as he ran his cock through your soaked folds. You moaned as his cockhead hit your clit, feeling waves of static ripple down your spine. He pressed his cockhead at your entrance.

“You ready, princess?” he gravelled, and you nodded eagerly, your soft silken folds leaving trails of slick on his pulsing skin.

 “Yes,” You panted, “please, Kishibe,” you huffed, the breath pushed from your lungs as he began to ease his cock into your cunt. You groaned at the tight strawberry stretch, sending sparks through your limbs. He filled you slowly, surely, stretching you out until you felt split by his heavy cock.

 “Fuck, doll,” Kishibe paused, slinging your leg up onto his shoulder, “you’re so fucking tight, hah?” He pressed you into the mattress, leaning down and folding you in two as his cock sunk in to the hilt. You gasped, feeling him in the pit of your stomach, twitching in impatience. He paused for a brief moment, as the pair of you caught your breath, you reaching up to him to pull his head down for a kiss, all teeth and tongue and spit as he sucked on your lower lip. He moved languidly, rolling his hips back and out of your plush cunt, and back in with a muted hiss. He set a slow pace, making you feel every inch of him as he ebbed and flowed over your trembling body. His cock reached the deepest part of you, brushing up and over the points that had your eyes rolling back and jaw clenching. You muffled your whines with your hand, reaching up to bite your fist as Kishibe’s hips made contact with yours. He grabbed your wrists and held them above your head.

 “Let me hear those noises, pretty girl, else I won’t be so gentle,” Kishibe warned, nipping the supple skin of your throat.

 “I never asked you to be gentle,” you pouted and prompted a low groan to trickle from Kishibe’s throat.

 “Why?” he snarled, “You want it rough, doll?” he asked, slamming his hips into you with a sudden rush. You scrambled, fingers white-knuckled as your fisted the sheets above your head, your back arching deep as he pressed the pressure point in your cunt.

 “Yes!” you exclaimed, pressing your tits up into his chest. He gripped your hips, hard enough to leave a mark there come tomorrow, and pulled you onto his cock, stopping slightly before setting off at a brutal pace. The sounds of skin on skin surrounded you, wet and sticky and soaked with sweat as Kishibe pounded mercilessly into your pussy, a string of grunts and growls spilling from his lips to your chest. You mewled, releasing your wrists to sink your fingers deep into the muscles of his back, feeling the muscles shift and ripple beneath your clawing nails. You were sure you drew blood, but couldn’t tell as pressure bloomed deep inside your core, burning through your limbs with the fury of a forest fire. Kishibe could feel you clench around him, so soft and strong as his cock pumped into your plush pussy. He stopped, grabbing you by the back of your knees and pushing your legs to your chest. He pistoned into your cunt with speed, his one hand coming down to rub quick circles around your clit. You quickly drew close to climax, feeling each press of his cock deep in your cunt and every swipe of his thumb sending you closer and closer.

“I’m gonna – “ You panted, “I’m gonna cum!” you breathed, keening as the first shudders of your body shook you to your core.

 “Then cum, sweetheart, cum for me,” he groaned in your ear, increasing pressure on your clit until you were shaking in the cage of his arms, limbs twitching and trembling as he fucked you through your high. His name was the only word to fall from your lips, slurred out slowly as he spilt himself deep into your cunt.

 “Fuck,” he grunted, holding himself over you as his hips stilled against yours. You whined when he pulled out, already missing the warmth of his hale body as he withdrew from you. He stepped into the bathroom briefly, exiting only when he saw you shakily try to get off the bed. He tipped you back onto the mattress, a warm washcloth in hand.

 “Don’t run away so fast,” he scolded, gently, rubbing at your battered thighs and leaking cunt.

 “I’m not running,” you said and he looked at you. He crouched before you and reached up to cup your jaw.

“You can run, I won’t stop you. But know that I’ll be coming for you,” he kissed your cheek, “You’re mine now, princess.”

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[iwanthermidnightz]

“Anyone considering the whole of Ms. Swift’s artistry — the way that her brilliantly calculated celebrity mixes with her soul-baring art — can find discrepancies between the story that underpins her celebrity and the one captured by her songs. One such gap can be found in her “Lover” era. Others appear alongside “dropped hairpins,” or the covert ways someone can signal queer identity to those in the know while leaving others comfortable in their ignorance. Ms. Swift dropped hairpins before “Lover” and has continued to do so since.

Sometimes, Ms. Swift communicates through explicit sartorial choices — hair the colors of the bisexual pride flag or a recurring motif of rainbow dresses. She frequently depicts herself as trapped in glass closets or, well, in regular closets. She drops hairpins on tour as well, paying tribute to the Serpentine Dance of the lesbian artist Loie Fuller during the Reputation Tour or referencing “The Ladder,” one of the earliest lesbian publications in the United States, in her Eras Tour visuals.

Dropped hairpins also appear in Ms. Swift’s songwriting. Sometimes, the description of a muse — the subject of her song, or to whom she sings — seems to fit only a woman, as it does in “It’s Nice to Have a Friend,” “Maroon” or “Hits Different.” Sometimes she suggests a female muse through unfulfilled rhyme schemes, as she does in “The Very First Night,” when she sings “didn’t read the note on the Polaroid picture / they don’t know how much I miss you” (“her,” instead of that pesky little “you,” would rhyme). Her songwriting also noticeably alludes to poets whose muses the historical record incorrectly cast as men — Emily Dickinson chief among them — as if to suggest the same fate awaits her art. Stunningly, she even explicitly refers to dropping hairpins, not once, but twice, on two separate albums.

In isolation, a single dropped hairpin is perhaps meaningless or accidental, but considered together, they’re the unfurling of a ballerina bun after a long performance. Those dropped hairpins began to appear in Ms. Swift’s artistry long before queer identity was undeniably marketable to mainstream America. They suggest to queer people that she is one of us. They also suggest that her art may be far more complex than the eclipsing nature of her celebrity may allow, even now.

Since at least her “Lover” era, Ms. Swift has explicitly encouraged her fans to read into the coded messages (which she calls “Easter eggs”) she leaves in music videos, social media posts and interviews with traditional media outlets, but a majority of those fans largely ignore or discount the dropped hairpins that might hint at queer identity. For them, acknowledging even the possibility that Ms. Swift could be queer would irrevocably alter the way they connect with her celebrity, the true product they’re consuming.

There is such public devotion to the traditional narrative Ms. Swift embodies because American culture enshrines male power. In her sweeping essay, “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence,” the lesbian feminist poet Adrienne Rich identified the way that male power cramps, hinders or devalues women’s creativity. All of the sexist undertones with which Ms. Swift’s work can be discussed (often, even, by fans) flow from compulsory heterosexuality, or the way patriarchy draws power from the presumption that women naturally desire men. She must write about men she surely loves or be unbankable; she must marry and bear children or remain a child herself; she must look like, in her words, a “sexy baby” or be undesirable, “a monster on the hill.”

A woman who loves women is most certainly a monster to a society that prizes male power. She can fulfill none of the functions that a traditional culture imagines — wife, mother, maid, mistress, whore — so she has few places in the historical record. The Sapphic possibility of her work is ignored, censored or lost to time. If there is queerness earnestly implied in Ms. Swift’s work, then it’s no wonder that it, like that of so many other artists before her, is so often rendered invisible in the public imagination.”

— NYT OPINION: Look What We Made Taylor Swift Do