#might write a fanfic on it be idk yet

[loafbud]

I WAS POSSESSED TO DRAW THIS FROM THE DREAM I HAD THIS MORNING 💀💀💀

[read-write-thrive]

part 1

“Waiting for the other shoe to drop”, while pessimistic, seemed to be a running theme in Charles Rowland’s life. It wasn’t really a phrase he heard when he was alive, to be fair, but at some point he’d come across it (probably hanging out with too many Americans, but can’t remember for sure) and it felt a little too much accurate. His dad’s come home angry again? Time to wait for the fallout. He’d gotten written up at school for not paying attention? Just a disaster waiting to happen. He goes against his best mate’s advice? There he goes, literally torn from Charles’s arms and back to hell, just as he’d said. Maybe the last one was a little dramatic, but that’s the gist.

The looming anxiety of it all usually slid off of him for the minor stuff, and was otherwise bottled up and shoved far away for the heavier stuff, but regardless he didn’t let it show. Have to keep up appearances and all. He’d only had one real instance of all those emotions blowing up (and he still blames the Night Nurse for all that mess) so he thought he was doing a bang-up job keeping himself together.

That was until his dad died. Yeah, it was rough, and he ended up berating the old man on his death bed, which probably was a shitty thing to do. And yeah, he’d needed a bit of a cry afterwards. So what? Blokes cried sometimes, and he was man enough to admit to his emotions and all that. The girls had done a good job of emphasising that he (and, mostly, Edwin) needed to express their emotions more. That it was healthier to let it out than bottle it all up. Not sure if they still needed healthy habits as ghosts, but it wasn’t hurting anyone. Just a little uncomfortable.

All that to say, it felt like his friends had been treading on eggshells around him ever since his dad died. Which was infuriating, yeah, but also didn’t make sense to him. Especially after he’d already cried—did they expect him to get angry again? To blow up over a dead man? He thought he’d gotten it out of his system just fine, so getting these weird vibes was starting to stress him out more than anything. He’d resolved to bring it up on their next movie night and ask why they were acting funny—didn’t want to mess up a case, after all.

However, he didn’t get the chance before it all came crashing down on his head. Ultimately, Edwin was the messenger.

“Charles, I—“ he took an unnecessary breath, “Have you checked on your mother lately?”

His undead heart went cold, but his default smiley ways were still stuck on, “Not really, why?”

Edwin’s eyes were sad, which was never good. He didn’t emote unless it was serious, “I think you need to visit her. She’s not faring well.”

And so they went. Turns out everyone hadn’t been waiting for Charles to blow up, but rather for his mother to pass and then for him to break down all over again. Edwin had been checking on her daily since his father’s passing, deducing correctly that Charles would be too swept up in the emotions around his dad dying to remember that his mum wasn’t getting any younger.

The girls weren’t free until the evening, but they promised to stay in touch and maybe visit later if they could (particularly if they could figure out how to visit the Hospice without rousing suspicion). And so Edwin and Charles were on their own.

Charles had rushed into the room, as if running at the issue would evade the emotions of it, or as if getting there quickly would reveal it was all a lie—neither of which were true.

Instead, he was face to face with a dying woman with some resemblance to the photo on the mantle in the house he grew up in—his grandmother, or maybe his great grandmother, or some favourite aunt, he couldn’t remember anymore— hair gone fully white, pulled back into a tight bun so as to keep her curls controlled, keeping her gaunt, sleeping face exposed. Unlike that photo, this woman was in a hospital gown, tucked into sterile sheets, with a tube under her nose to help her breathe. Gone were her usually loud and ornate earrings, her bare fingernails stained from years of colour. There was a singular blanket laid across her lap, on top of the sheets, that almost looked more familiar than the woman it covered. It was her, but apparently he hadn’t stopped to just look at her any time recently, if ever. It felt too much like looking at a ghost, as ironic as that felt.

She was awake, but halfway to dozing. There was someone at her side, adjusting the blanket and murmuring reassurances in what was definitely Punjabi. It had been so long since he’d heard it, added to having never properly learned anything besides English under the threat of his father, that he couldn’t make out the words. That realisation left a stinging feeling in his chest.

“A relation of yours?” Edwin asked at a whisper, coming up to stand beside Charles, almost entirely copying his position from that fateful hospital room. It didn’t seem as if either of the room’s living occupants had noticed them.

Charles blindly reached for Edwin’s hand for comfort, not looking away from the scene in front of him and matching his partner’s volume, “No idea. Don’t think I’ve seen them before.”

Edwin hummed, “Perhaps a little too young to have met you. Or someone your mother reconnected with recently—“

“I’m not really in the mood for deductions, love.” Charles said, not unkindly. Everything felt too fragile to be picked apart like that.

“Right. Apologies.” Edwin squeezed his hand and went quiet.

Charles squeezed his hand back in forgiveness, joining in the silence. He kept going back to what the stranger was saying, familiar consonants both soothing and devastating. What kind of a son was he, failing to comfort his dying mother, unable to speak her mother tongue, a stranger to his relatives? His tears were thankfully silent.

It took much longer for his mother to see them than his father. Several days passed, with the mystery relative coming and going more days than not, and the usual nurses and caregivers administering various care. Over time, the boys (the girls couldn’t figure out how to enter the space, but were supportive from their distance) had learned that the stranger’s name was Sangeeta, and she was a niece of his mother’s who’d noticed her steady decline and was the one to take her to hospital and then to hospice care. Charles’s mother had apparently stopped taking care of herself after her husband’s death, and she had refused other care, so at this point all they could do was make her comfortable. Charles spent a whole morning ranting to Edwin about it, how unfair it was that her life was so tied up in his asshole father’s that she wasn’t even trying to live after he was gone. Edwin, the deeply kind person he was, had let Charles rant until he ran out of steam, then gently pointed out that she’d been under the thumb of his father for far longer than Charles was, and that she’d now had to mourn her husband and her only child, which presumably takes a toll. Charles had started crying before Edwin had even finished talking, and Edwin had held him close on the plush sofa for the rest of the day.

It was hard to tell if it was a comfort or not when she finally saw them, but Charles decided that wasn’t important to think about right now, if ever. Right now, his mother could see him for the first time in forty years, and they didn’t know for how much longer. And yet, with all this time to prepare, he still found himself speechless when the time finally came.

“Mere laal,” She beat him to the punch, eyes glazed over but clearly locked on Charles, “I am glad to see you again, beta. It’s been so long.”

Charles let out a shakey breath, “Hi, mum. It’s—well— it’s been longer for you. I’ve visited a few times, over the years.”

She reached out a sinewy hand on a bone-thin arm, and Charles flew to the seat by her side, keeping his focus to make sure his hand stayed solid in her grasp. He vaguely noticed Edwin taking the seat beside him.

“Such a handsome boy. You were so young.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Charles, all anxious energy and nerves, tears of his own threatening to spill, was quick to respond, “It’s alright, mum, I’m alright. No need to cry over me.”

She huffed, “Nonsense. You were the light of my life. Who else should I cry over?”

They were both crying at this point, tears streaming as they sniffled in turns. Edwin laid a careful hand on Charles’s back in a show of comfort.

However, that seemed to give Charles an idea, “No, really mum, it’s okay! See the bloke next to me? His name’s Edwin, and he’s been by my side all these years! He’s the one who first found me, and we’ve been helping people ever since. It’s been aces. Not sad one bit.”

Edwin stiffened at the mention, then all but froze when her eyes turned to him. He knew he looked night and day from Charles, and if he started talking she was bound to find him as abrasive as everyone always did, so why had Charles pointed him out!? If ghosts could sweat, Edwin would be drowning in his nerves.

Her gaze stayed on him for a long moment before she broke the silence, “He’s been good to you? Not like those other boys.”

Edwin wasn’t sure what to do with that, but thankfully Charles was quick on the uptake, “Not like them at all. He’s— he’s the best, mum. None of those tossers could even compare.”

“Because the boys— the ones who—“

Charles gripped her hand, “I know, I know. He’s a genuinely good person, Edwin. I was bad at picking friends in life, but thankfully I chose well with this one.”

His attempt at joking was overlooked completely by her, “Those boys, how could they do that? I knew their families, John Parish’s mother went to your funeral… Such cruel boys…”

“I’m alright, mum, I’m okay.” Charles kept going, smiling even as the tears continued, “It’s all in the past.”

“I should’ve fought harder for you… kept you close… mere laal, taken from me…” She was sobbing, her whole frame shaking with hiccoughs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Charles took a steadying breath, “You know I couldn’t have stayed in that house, mum. And no one could’ve known those lads would go that far…”

Her sobs were worse for a moment, then stilled suddenly as she fought for oxygen. She coughed weakly.

At that, Charles’s crying intensified, despite all he did to keep himself together. He could tell. He knew what was coming. It was still devastating to see. Edwin pulled him in for a proper side hug, taking care not to jostle his grip on his mum.

This did not go unnoticed, and the dying woman suddenly smiled, as if the devastation was forgotten with the oxygen. She looked back to her son, “I am glad you have been happy, beta. You deserved happiness.”

“I’m happy, I’ve been so happy mum, I promise,” Charles tried to calm himself down, stuck in his reassuring her.

“Mere laal, light of my life, darling boy,” She breathed with difficulty, smile dropping, “Can you forgive me? I failed you…”

Charles’s frame shook with his vigorous nodding, “I forgive you, mum, you did the best you could, I love you so much—“

Her weak smile returned, glinting in the lamplight of the evening room, “Thank you, beta. You were too good for me, for this world…”

“All because of you, I swear it, all thanks to you—“

“Charles.”

“I love you, I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son, I’m could’ve been better, gotten you out of that house—“

“Charles, darling.”

“You deserved better, I love you, I forgive you—“

“My love, the light—“

Edwin was right, a deep blue light had filled the space, illuminating the still body of his mother. Her face was pulled into a slight smile, eyes closed, as if she was having a pleasant dream, even as the tear tracks dried on her cheeks.

“No, no I’m not ready—“ Charles immediately started to protest, gripping onto her hand like a lifeline.

“Charles—“

“I only just got to see her! She only just got free of him! No, no, I won’t—“

Edwin gently but solidly grabbed under Charles’s arms, “I’m sorry my love but we should go—“

Charles was nothing but hysterics by this point, head thudding onto the sheets for a moment before Edwin fully pulled him away. He said more, but Charles was too overwhelmed to process it properly, buzzing in his ears and headache behind his eyes making him feel alive in all the worst ways. Maybe it was just the first time he had cried this hard in his afterlife, or maybe being this close to an active death did something to their physiology—

Everything was a blur as they returned to the flat, Edwin all but carrying him through the mirror so that he wouldn’t get lost on the way. They collapsed onto the sofa, extra large cushions taken up by their ghostly presences. The girls were already there, and joined into the cuddle pile without another word (or perhaps with a few, Charles still wasn’t all there yet). Edwin jostled them all slightly to better position everyone before settling in again, making sure Charles was properly surrounded.

Charles sobbed for a while longer. He wasn’t quite sure for how long, or what day it was, or if he was bothering his friends by taking up their time and space like this. His devastation had seemed to take over his entire being. But, when he did breathe a little easier, when he was finally able to sit up, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. His mom was dead, yes, but so was he, and dying had granted them both freedom from that man, from that house, from the cruelties of the world. And in his death he was surrounded by people who loved him, people who were there for him when he needed them and would still be there for him tomorrow, and the next, and the next. The other shoe had dropped, and it certainly hurt, but thankfully he had people around him to help him through it. He was truly lucky to have them.

~

hope you enjoyed this impromptu series exploring Charles and his parents and grief and loss and all those lovely things. this was inspired by the complicated emotions I have / had after my grandparents passing, and I heavily encourage you to do something similar if you’re ever struggling with these big emotions—therapists and such will say that journaling is where it’s at, but sometimes it’s easier to project onto fictional characters and that’s ok !!! and, just to drive the point home, I want to reiterate that you are loved, and there are people around you who are there to support you, I promise ❤️

also, just to make it abundantly clear, I’m a v white midwestern american and as such have vvv limited knowledge of cultural aspects of Charles’s mom—I did research and tried my best, but if I screwed anything up PLEASE let me know so I can fix it!!!!! same goes for Britishisms ig but mostly looking for feedback on her Punjabi and her various cultural elements :)

[konigbabe]

the fruits (of my labor)

DAY 4 ⇢ Power Dynamic Pairing: deity!Satoru Gojo x fem!acolyte!reader Word count: 2.5k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; deity/acolyte dynamic; deepthroat; throatfucking; riding Gojo’s knee; p-in-v; orgasm denial; creampie; dacryphilia; japanese terminology and mythology; religious imaginery; allusions to manipulation and toxicity; inaccurate historical descriptions Summary: He's a deity, yet he's faithless. The only belief he invests in is between your thighs. Satoru Gojo enjoys the fruits of your labor that you've offering him of late. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023.]

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

You look upon him, his tranquil eyes already on you as he lies on his back; the corner of his lip turned upwards. Legs spread for your naked body to nestle between, your own bloody and bruised knees digging into the soft, plush yaedatami; offering a momentary relief from the pain. Lips bruised and swollen from the stretch, trying to accommodate his girth. Almost cracking at the corners.

If you were told to describe him, only one word springs to mind – Kami.

Divine.

His gestures – possessing an elegance that rivals the dance of willow branches in a gentle breeze. His voice; a melodious biwa ballad. The way blue hues of his eyes resemble the heavens melting into the boundless sea and the moon's reflection on tranquil waters, a sight that both soothes and enchants –

Satoru Gojo was considered an enigmatic legend in your eyes; among the people from your village. A young boy of mysterious lineage, his parentage shrouded in uncertainty. Some deemed him a yōkai, an unsettling otherworldly presence, while others gravitated towards yūrei, a spectral spirit.

He stands tall and slender, a figure exuding undeniable firmness in every line of his body. Hair the shade of soft grey; it reminds you of the moonlight filtering through the forest's canopy near your mother's okiya house, a teahouse adjacent to the gate of your village. Soft and fluffy; as the memory itself. His locks beckoned, inviting you to run your fingers through them, much like those stolen moments when he allowed you to do so – aware of limb-loosing consequences if any other maiden caught wind of your affiliation with Gojo.

Eyes mostly hidden underneath a woven silken cloth. Only allowed to see the day's sun when all others have been blinded; only a selected few made aware of Gojo's countenance.

("It's in the interest of my own well-being," he mumbles against the tender curve of your neck. Teeth grazing the marks there.

His cloth mask's fastened over the bridge of your nose, denying you eyesight. Hands sliding beneath the scarlet hakama, altered into a flowing skirt, enabling him to grasp your bare thighs with a grip so tight it threatens to leave lingering imprints. He's wrenching his pelvis up, engorged cock sliding against the sensitive walls of your drenched core as he moves you up and down his lap.

Robe shamelessly untied and disheveled but still hanging from his shoulders; with your arms clinging to the garment for dear life, a lifeline that anchors you as he delves so deeply that it elicits a desperate mewl from your lips, pushing aside any lingering questions.

"I cannot allow commoners to pose threats to my safety. After all, I am but a Kami." His hand raises one of yours, placing your palm flat against his. In that instant, you feel it—the non-existent space between your palms expanding, pushing your hand away from his. An invisible barrier materializing and separating your limb from his. It makes your fingers tingle.

"Who would–umph–desire to hurt you, my honored one."

A forceful push surges from behind you — or at least it feels that way — propelling your body towards Gojo's body. Lips colliding with his, all tenderness vanishing from his actions. His strong arm encircles your waist, lifting you up and creating the sensation of flying through the air. In one fluid motion, he turns you both around, deepening the kiss when his tongue plunges between your gasping lips.

"No one would dare, angel.")

– His taste. Briny yet the pearlescent droplets of his prespend sweet. With your cheeks hollowed, nails digging into the meat of his thighs, you savor the saline tang of him on your tongue. Tears teetering on the edge of your waterline, threatening to spill down your cheeks; eyelashes fluttering as he thrusts his hips upwards. Hand on the crown of your head pushing down simultaneously.

The swollen tip of his leaking cock plunges into your throat, scratching the sensitive back of it, and causing an involuntary gag reflex, throat instinctively closing.

"Just like that," Gojo groans in response to the sensation of your tight throat suffocating his cock, his arm positioned behind his head while the other moves to cup your cheek. His thumb tenderly wipes away a tear tracing a path down your face.

You look upon him, his tranquil eyes already on you as he lies on his back; the corner of his lip turned upwards. Legs spread for your naked body to nestle between, your own bloody and bruised knees digging into the soft, plush yaedatami; offering a momentary relief from the pain. Lips bruised and swollen from the stretch, trying to accommodate his girth. Almost cracking at the corners.

Leaving only his tip inside, you suck; draw him in, the tip of your tongue swirling over his slit as you let all the saliva gathered in your mouth coat his head, letting it dribble from the corners of your mouth onto his cock. Using your hand to spread the slick, covering his entire length in the mixture with your tongue concentrating on the spongy spot under his tip, slowly moving down until your lips meet your fingers wrapped around his hilt.

With bated breath, you ease your throat open wider, feeling the mushy head breach the gateway to your trachea; the friction growing more intense as he pushes past your tonsil area. Swallowing carefully, you take him in until his pelvis presses flush against your nose. You add a low hum to the mix, your fingernails lightly grazing the taut muscles of his abdomen, feeling it tighten as he twitches inside you. Something swells in your chest, expands and tightens over the feeling. Pride? More like a fervent devotion that borders on reverence.

"You little akuma–" he lets out a breath, fingers tracing the bulging curve of your throat before you pop him out with a wet sound. You repeat after – take him fully down your throat, keep him there and humming; vibrations shooting up his every nerve ending.

And the sounds he makes – the groan he lets out is drawn-out and echoing. You kiss his cock one more time before nipping at his sensitive area just below his abdomen, muscles hardened and shaped into a v. A place stained by the nips of your teeth, nicks of your nails; a teasing breeze caressing the shoreline.

Face moving upwards, your lips ache to meld with his. Yet as his breath mingles with yours, his fingers snake around your throat, tightening their grip.

Gojo holds your face intimately close to his that you can discern the white sparkles seemingly dancing within his eyes.

So close that you can distinguish myriad shades of blue within his iris, reminiscent of the Pleiades, or the very hue of the sky on a day when wisteria blooms swell.

"What are you doing," his head tilts to the side, lips tracing the corner of your lip until moving to your jaw. Soft gentle nibbles in contrast with the tight grip on your throat as you remain on all fours above his body that's still adorned in his night robe but completely untied.

A light breath escapes your yearning lips, eyes searching his face for any imperfections, any blemish in his otherwise divine visage – but finding none. Heart pounding in rhythm with the intensity of the moment, you believe that he's capable of hearing the beats. Thump, thump.

"Akami," you mumble, eyes falling to his lips when the tip of his tongue peaks out to slide over them, "kiss."

You remain motionless, almost paralyzed by the heated tension in the air, afraid to make a move or even swallow. Your cunt drenched, folds glistening with need to be filled. It pulsates, thumping steadily as if your heart dropped between your legs.

Gojo's eyes, once filled with desire, now appear almost bored, as if he's testing your resolve.

"Do you believe you are deserving of a kiss from Akami?"

Your head sways from side to side instinctively before you even fully process his question. Thighs failing to press together to relieve some of the tension as his wide frame blocks your attempts.

"I would not pose such queries without belief in their pertinence, correct?"

You nod. His face contours, creases between his brows. Bending one leg, he brings his knee to your cunt. Pressing onto the pulsating nerve on top, making you mewl and moan from finally getting some release. Your hips shamelessly grind onto his offering knee, painting it in your juices.

"Speak," he corrects you, putting his knee higher — forcing your calves to strain in order to remain on the soft cushion.

"You are—mmph—," Gojo's eyes flick down to see the way your pussy parts for his knee, circling it and disturbing your chain of thoughts, "—you are correct, Go—gojo."

"Good," his thumb presses against your lower lip, forcing your mouth to part more before he pushes the digit flat against your tongue, "then undertake a deserving act."

Satoru Gojo refuses to allow your lips contact with his. Even after what feels like hours – when he's already painted your body in his pearlescent spent, now slickening your gummy walls and sticking to his cock like honey – he's continuing to pound into you with relentless strength.

And yet he still doesn't let you reach the sweet high. Unable to tumble into the abyss of ecstasy. Your body his canvas, on which he paints strokes of desire – a merciless dance on the edge of rapture; where you can feel the waves building and receding like a capricious ocean tide.

("Patience, my angel. You're too pure to be stained. My forsaken tenshi.")

Robe finally discarded, he has you positioned to bend over the side of the yaedatami; high enough for your back to arch forcibly. The stretch across your abdomen feels like a taut bowstring. Ass up, held aloft and elbows pressed against the floor. Your hands grope desperately for purchase – yet finding nothing in this empty sleeping chamber – as Gojo looms over you, one arm bracing his weight beside your head, the other cradling your cheek as he spreads you wide for his cock to plunge insanely deep into your leaking cunt.

His thrusts are relentless, each one driving his cock impossibly deep. So deep it makes you feel as if the tip of his cock grazes your cervix, a blunt pressure inside building with each pivot of his hips. It builds steadily inside you, like a dam about to burst. And the loudness of your moans only assures the man in your body's response to him – his body, his heat. His cock. All of him.

"Just like that–," Gojo's voice's raspy, throat strained from the sounds of pleasure he's given you, "stay down—ugh–"

His words cause your back to arch more; prideful in his praise. The pleasure profound, toe-curling and spiraling through your body.

"Gojoo–," you try to meet the aggressive roll of his hips, even if the position doesn't let you move too much, "please–'m so close–please…"

You're begging, whining for him to never stop. To – for once – listen to his acolyte's pleas for release. And just as he senses your cunt quivering, throbbing with the impending orgasm, he draws a sharp thrust. Body heavy against your bottom, bottoming out before pulling out.

His response is a single word, "No" escaping his lips. Sitting back on his legs, his eyes lock onto the sight of your cunt – spread open, his own cum trickling from the fluttering, empty hole, glistening as it strains your inner thighs; pussy puffy and swollen from overstimulation. Chest puffing out, he basks in the tableau before him.

"I shall have a painter immortalize such image," he muses, leaning closer. Fingers tracing the curve of your calves, gliding over the skin of your thighs, bathing in the slickness of your inner thighs. He swipes the blend of his cum and juices from your cunt, collects them on his fingers.

In a commanding gesture, he raises you up, positioning you to sit atop your legs, mirroring his own stance. His wet fingers dance along your parted lips as you grow more desperate.

"Please–," you beg more, licking the saline sweetness off your lips, throat parched, "please–."

Gojo doesn't respond – not immediately. Instead, he turns you to face him with your back. Pulling your body onto his sitting lap and thrusting his cock into your abused cunt without any resistance. Your body strains as your back arches, head falling back to rest against his neck as his hands grasp both of your biceps, securing you to his chest as he thrusts upwards.

"You reach your release only when I deem it," his lips trace your neck, biting the sensitive flesh as he moves you up and down his lap. You can feel his cock scratching that insatiable itch deep inside you, each punishing thrust pushing you closer to the edge. The emptiness that follows only stokes the fervor building within you, a desire that only HE can satiate.

And does he take his time…

Legs pushed against your chest, his body weighs down on you – folded almost in half. Tears of exhaustion and bliss course down your cheeks, his name on your lips. Moaning, gasping, arching your back as you lose yourself to the euphoria that builds inside. His cock pushes against your clenched walls, swelling and so close to releasing and coating your walls with his sore.

But Gojo holds tight to his resolution; muscles taut under your trembling body; your fragile body. You're his to do with as he pleases, after all.

"Ahh–close, Gojo–please," you plead, feeling his cock plunge into your core, and the stretch of your cunt swallowing him to the root, "I want to–ugh–I can't–"

He cuts you off with a rather painful thrust, the head of his cock bruising your cervix, it seems. Making you gasp at the suddenness and pain. It's afterward that he slows down, rapid thrusts becoming languid rolls of his hips. He moans, gruff and low in his throat as he pushes himself deeper inside of you with each movement.

"You cannot what?" His eyes gleam even as he gives you a momentary reprieve. The thrumming pleasure from being so completely filled subsides, but not entirely leaving altogether – just enough to remind you that Gojo's presence is still there.

"I can't–," you whimper in his ear as he moves onto his elbows, straining your hamstrings until you feel as if he's gonna tear your legs apart, "I can't…"

"You cannot what?" Gojo demands, his cock stilling inside you, only to resume as he leans you forward, "tell me, my faithful one."

"No more–please," your lips search for his; to which his head fives to your clavicles, nibbling the tender and sensitive skin there, "I need the release, please," you beg with a strained voice.

His eyes flutter shut, teeth catching hold on your shoulder, harder than they should, "beg one more time. Let me hear your prayers."

He's waiting for a particular syllable and sounds; the first syllable of his name. For it to flow out of your lips.

"Please–," your voice becomes but a mere exhale, body spent; falling to his mercy. Shaking as you beg for this man to take whatever he wants. The only reason you're even able to speak is to plead for release, having nothing else to offer but yourself freely to him. A twisted, filth-covered shinsen.

In the end, Gojo eventually does take your offering, grants you your release.

Being that way for several moons.

[aloonaram]

Here’s an edited wip of my Birdflash oneshot.

Fair warning, this will probably change in the final product as I try to figure out at what point in the timeline I want this fic to take place.

—

“You look like shit, Dickie.”

“Gee, thanks, Walls. You’re such a loving boyfriend,” Dick retorted. He tried for a smile, but Wally watched sadly as it twitched and fell before it could become what it once was–what Dick’s smile used to be.

Dick opened his door wider in invitation and Wally rushed in and examined the place. Gotham wasn’t ever known for its beauty, but even with that in mind, Dick’s apartment looked pretty rough. Empty containers of takeout and miscellaneous trash littered the floor and countertops. His couch was sprinkled with brown spots that he almost assumed were polka dots before he realized they were most definitely patches of dried blood. Clothes were strewn across every surface, their musk permeating his senses. Dick brushed past his side and made his way to the kitchen, opening his rickety fridge to expose the meager amount of food he had. Wally would bet his life savings that each of the five items had gone bad too, based on the state of the place.

Dick turned to toss Wally a water, “So…what, uh, brings you here?” Dick’s awkward tone hangs heavy between the two. Now that Wally could get a good look, his lover was in rough shape. Even worse than his apartment; which was a feat, his mind whispered. His hair laid limp and greasy along his neck and his bags seemed to have bags of their own. A couple of dark bruises peeked through the collar of his shirt, some leading down to his left arm if the strange way he seemed to carry it was anything to go by. Dick clutched his own water bottle, doing his best to look anywhere but at him.

“You haven’t been responding to my messages,” Wally started, “I texted the other Robin, uh Tim, I think? But he never got back to me either, so I got worried, you know? Figured I’d take matters into my own hands. I don’t have super speed for nothing.” He waved his hands around, doing his best to lighten the mood. “It’s been a long time since we’ve gotten to talk, let alone seen each other in person, but, you know, if this isn’t the best time, I can totally leave. I know this is kinda spur of the moment.” Wally wished he could slap himself the moment his lips stopped moving. Some of the younger heroes had started calling him a professional yapper and he wished it didn’t fit so damn well.

Wally watched as Dick took a breath and rubbed his temple as if he had a headache. He winced. Yeah, this probably wasn’t the best time to show up out of the blue.

“No, I…You don’t need to leave, “ Dick sighed. “I’m sorry I haven’t been responding, Walls. Everything’s just been… a lot, to put it simply. I’ve been so busy trying to balance my day job, Bludhaven, and…and being Batman. I just haven’t had much time to myself lately, if you can’t tell by the state of my apartment.” Dick laughed pitifully and winced when it shook his aching arm.

He couldn’t help moving forward into the kitchen and enveloping Dick in a hug, something he definitely should’ve done the moment he’d arrived. His partner sighed shakily and moved to wrap his arms around Wally’s middle. He felt Dick’s face pressed against his chest and hooked his chin to the top of his greasy head. Dick had always been one for physical comfort, a miracle considering who he’d grown up with and the environment he’d been forced into at the ripe age of nine. Wally would be lying if he didn’t say Dick’s need for physical affection didn’t bring him relief and make him feel needed. Sometimes, he felt powerless amidst his lover's strife–Batman’s rule against metas in Gotham limiting his ability to help. Providing Dick a simple hug; feeling the tense muscles in his shoulders loosen and his breath hit Wally’s neck as he sighed in relief, was Wally’s respite from his perpetual guilt.

Wally knew about Batman’s…death. He’d been there when Dick hosted Bruce’s funeral, letting Dick squeeze the life from his hand as he listened to the speech from Alfred. With Bruce gone, the natural order of Dick’s family had seemed to fall apart. Dick had taken the mantle of Batman, a title Wally knew he had never wanted–never felt right for him. He’d be lying if he said he fully understood the magnitude of such a change–that he knew how large the chasms carved by trauma had grown to separate Dick and his siblings. And yet despite that, he knew one thing for a fact. Dick, his lover and the man he’s known for well over a decade now was not the type of person to let others shoulder pain on their own. He took and took and took until he knew only he carried the weight of the sky on his shoulders, letting his muscles feel relief only when his family no longer felt pain. And he’d continue to carry that weight with a smile as long as he knew his family would smile back, unaware of the sky creeping in on Dick’s tense shoulders.

Wally squeezed his arms tighter around Dick’s back, supporting him as his breaths became ragged in their silent embrace. As Wally did so, a sick thought entered his mind, fueled by the anger and pain he felt for his partner; a small part of him–microscopic even–was glad Bruce wasn’t here. Not because he reveled in the effects his passing had on Dick, nor because he wanted Dick to be forced into the role of Batman, but because despite his struggles, Bruce had never been good for Dick. Yes, he played the parental figure Dick needed when he was younger and yes, he provided the necessities for Dick to survive, but he never provided what Wally knew Dick needed most.

“Do you wanna move to the couch, babe?” Wally whispered, cheek pressed against Dick’s head. He feels Dick nod silently and Wally zipped them to the couch in less than half a second. Wally sat and patted the spot next to him, watching as Dick laid his head on his lap, pressing his cheek to Wally’s stomach while letting his legs hang off the side of the couch.

Never one comfortable with silence, Wally broke it first. “If you don’t wanna talk, I won’t push. We can chill, watch the Office, eat popcorn–whatever you want. I just worry…you know? Not being able to be here to help and hearing on the news, Batman and Robin this and Joker and Two-Face that…I just wish I could do more for you.”

Wally looks down to meet Dick’s pained stare and internally winces as Dick opens and closes his mouth, struggling to respond.

“Me and the bats have it handled over here, okay?” Dick starts quietly, aimlessly running his hand over Wally’s knuckles. “You don’t need to worry about me, honey. I know you have more than enough to deal with back at Central and I don’t want to stress you out with problems I have handled.”

Wally lets his free hand run through Dick’s hair, quickly relishing in the way Dick warms to his touch. “I can’t lie and say I wouldn’t be stressed, you know me too well for that, but I’m here to support you, Dick. To be your listener when you’re stressed.” He paused for only a moment before speaking again, “I know you, Dick. I’ve known you for almost every era of your life as you have, mine. I knew you when you were my scrawny, baby leader-”

“Hey-” Dick tried to interject, but Wally kept going.

“I knew you when you wore that god awful blue and yellow disco Nightwing suit-”

“It really wasn’t that bad-”

“And I know what it looks like when you don’t have things handled. You don’t need to soften the blow for me Dickie and you don’t need to play the perfect soldier.” Wally paused. Let it be known even the Flash is out of breath from time to time. “You were always there for me during rough times, so please let me be there for you.”

[leviscolwill]

soleil pluvieux

pairing: rúben dias x reader

summary: you never thought you'd be grateful for manchester's shitty weather, but that was before you met rúben at your usual bus stop [wc: ~680]

contents: strangers to ??? (🤭), just fluffy stuff

note: i should be writing the 16839 wips i've started but this idea was too irresistible not to write... also i'm aware ruben would not take the bus but he's doing it for the plot 🙄

now playing: soleil pluvieux by yvnnis (novae)

your friends would describe you as a control freak, but it wasn't totally true. you just liked to have your life together and fully organised.

but one of the very few things you couldn't control in your life was the weather. for example, you couldn't predict that this sunny day would be darkened by rainy clouds. because that was the weatherman's job, something he couldn't do properly, it seemed. so here you were, in your pretty sundress, getting rained on, on what was supposed to be a perfectly sunny day.

you mentally cursed the weatherman as you arrived at your bus stop, noticing your next bus to be in 12 minutes. enough time to get completely soaked by the time you get home, you thought.

you sensed someone stilling next to you, and the rain suddenly stops. you look up, only to meet eyes with the stranger. a tall man, with brunette hair and charming brown eyes, sharing half of his umbrella with you.

"i thought you might appreciate a break from the rain." he told you looking deep into your eyes.

for some reason, you were taken aback by his voice and his accent. you weren't one to lose your bearings often, but something about him made you stumble on your words.

"you would be right... i guess. i mean you would be right about that, getting rained on is never nice so..." it felt like the words were tripping out of your mouth and lost all their meanings.

the stranger chuckled, a beautiful sound, one you would want to listen to forever you thought.

"i'm rúben, and you are..?"

you gave him your name in something that resembled a whisper, but somehow rúben understood you, saying your name back, mostly to himself.

"pretty name." you felt your cheeks heat up at his comment.

"do you usually carry an umbrella everywhere you go ?" you were taken aback by his flirty manners and the way his eyes looked so intently into yours, tracing their way to your lips once in a while. so you tried to put him on the spot as well.

but rúben simply laughed, a loud and hearty laugh that surprised you more than your question surprised him.

"it's manchester, you should always have your umbrella ready."

he was right, manchester's weather was unpredictable. and you carried your umbrella with you whenever you felt the day was about to turn rainy, but today was supposed to be a sunny day, in your mind at least.

"i suppose you're right..." you grumbled, if there was one thing you hated, aside from untrustworthy weathermen, it was being wrong.

"my bus should be here soon... can i give you my phone number ?"

once again, you were confused by the brunette. usually, people would ask for your number, not the other way. this time, rúben put you out of your misery and explained himself.

"in case you need someone to share their umbrella with you one day, and maybe we could get a coffee or whatever you like really."

for the first time since rúben spoke to you, he seemed a little flustered. his cheeks were reddening by the second and his eyes left yours to look at his shoes.

you handed him your phone with a smile as he quickly wrote his name and number in your contacts as he saw his bus coming.

he gave you a quick smile, handing back your phone. he got on the bus and that's when you realised he also gave you his umbrella.

when you looked over at him in surprise, you were met by his pretty smile and a cute wave.

you had a smile glued to your face on your way home thinking about today's funny and unexpected encounter.

once you were finally home you snapped a quick photo of the umbrella and sent it to rúben with a text.

i guess i'm the one who has to share the umbrella now.

[blush-and-books]

guys my big darvey au™ is 12,000+ words rn and I'm not even near like. the middle of it. my temptation to start publishing it soon is killing me but im going to be travelling soon so i know i won't have time to be continuing it while that happens....

[sugarsnappeases]

thank you for the tag @fxreflyes this is so cute, except the format is trying to hinder my propensity to ramble, so i’ve rectified this in the tags lmao

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

no pressure tags for @static-radio-ao3 @inevitablestars @itsjaywalkers @carniferous @orbitfalls @transsexualpriest @futurequibblerjournalist <333

[lewkwoodnco]

srry one last thing before my regularly scheduled l&c posting resumes:

if you'd like context (ie what even is the mediator series) you can browse my #mediator posting tag on my blog or read this post which summarises the synopsis!

to elaborate on the third option - I've started translating some qualities of a character from the mediator series, jesse de silva, onto lockwood (as seen in my late night fics here). I wrote it that way cuz I can still see lockwood, or at least an older version of him, acting that way but it might be a little ooc as per the canon material

[theirwolfbicanthrope]

I think one of the biggest drawbacks of being the primary writer for a ship/fandom is you can get so caught up in your own interpretations and headcanons. and it's not even that those are bad or wrong but having other people's takes on what you love is healthy and can even help your own grow and evolve. it opens up new avenues, things you might never have thought of on your own. that is truly my biggest frustration with some of my niche pairings and fandoms.

[peachbun03]

Now after finding out that Jackson was my "brother", I didn't exactly care too much about being half normie, at least that was until the incident.

Yeah there was a party after it, one that they forced asked me to Dj for (gotta love a good party). And yeah it was all fun I guess, everyone and their mom was happy and going stupid to my amazing skills, But eventually the other shoe had to drop. And eventually the music had to stop.

This finally meant I had time to think.

I didn't like having time to think.

Like I just don't get it, not too long ago my life was gonna be thrown away like some moldy wet rag for something I didn't even do, but no one listened.

When Frankie left me behind and ran I thought they didn't believe me either. Because why would they I'm always an impulsive dumbass.

So now I may or may not be flinching away from my mom(s) when she comes too close... and I think she notices... I wonder if the school told my family what actually happened?

Brushing my teeth has also a gotten a bit harder, cause I can't help but cringe whenever I align Jackson's features with mine. We don't look as different as I thought we would. A part of me wishes I could tear my face off for a few seconds. (There may have a new crack in our mirror, but our mom(s) does not need to know about that.)

No one talks about it.

No one mentions it.

Everyone just merrily goes on with their lives while I'm stuck in the same exact place, all the time. It's like a part of me never left, and whenever I close my eyes I see that awful pumpkin and that cruel man's face.

And of course Jackson doesn't know, and that's because I don't want him to know. Because I can handle all of this on my own thank you very much.

Our relationship is already messed up as it is.

[everydaymj]

In the spirit (lol I think I'm hilarious) of posting more, here's a fragment of an au that I discovered in drafts. @davidbowierose this one's for you as I honestly haven't felt so inspired to write in a long time! Thanks babe! 💕

Tiny Dancer - Ghost AU

In a thousand realities, hundreds of worlds, and dozens of scenarios, it was never supposed to be like this.

Anna Harrison should have been doing warm up stretches for the mateine performance of La Sylphide—in which she played the title character—she should have been helping the youngest dancers tie up their pointe shoes while she calmed their fears, and she should have been smiling at the sight of the pink roses that were sent to her dressing room before curtain.

But instead she was sitting in the back of a taxi on the way to a strange address in Brooklyn. Not wanting to feel the pity of the taxi-driver in the rearview mirror, she shifted as best she could with the bulky cast on her left leg to face the door. Grimacing at the dull pain, Anna tried to silence the sound of snapping bone that never seemed stop echoing in her mind. Broken in three places, it would be a miracle if she recovered fully, much less danced again. Sucking in a breath as the unearthly sound she had made reverberated inside her head, Anna dug her nails into her palm letting the pain bring her back to reality.

Watching the raindrops race across the window, she sighed trying her best to hold back another onslaught of tears. Maybe it was true what people said, when it rains it pours and if this wasn’t the deluge of her lifetime then she dreaded to think how anything could get worse.

“We’re here miss, you sure this is the place?”

Glancing up at the sound of the driver’s voice, she nodded.

“This is the address, thank you,” she said, struggling for a moment to get her crutches out of the cab.

Looking at the dilapidated house for a moment, she spotted the rest of her luggage that she had had delivered on the front porch. Knowing without a doubt that this was the right place she took a deep breath as she started up the faded path.

The old tarnished key weighed heavily in her pocket as she hopped up the front steps, somehow managing not to fall as she pulled it out.

“Some inheritance,” she muttered, creaking open the door and stepping inside

Surprised that the entry hall was dry and not full of puddles from the rain, Anna reached for the yellowed light switch.

It was almost as if she’d stepped into a dusty old photograph, the lights slowly flickering to life on to a monochrome of aged blue wallpaper. Cobwebs hung from ever corner, it was clear no one had been here in a very long time. Just how long the house had been sitting empty she didn’t know but it was now her property.

In a very strange turn of events the day after her accident, a lawyer had contacted her saying that a distant relative of hers had passed and willed her the majority of their estate. It worked out well as there was no way she could bear to continue staying with her fellow dancers and needed to get as far away from Phillip as possible.

Phillip, her boyfriend of two years that had dumped her without reservation when he found out she couldn’t dance in the next season of shows. A broken ballerina didn’t look good on the arm of the producer’s son, so he’d brushed away her shattered pieces and moved on.

“And I need to do the same,” Anna said, pushing the darker thoughts away as she started to pull all of her things inside, determined to find a way to make this place hers.

“Hey Steve, you notice all the noise from the studio?”

Of course he had noticed it, the look he sent his best friend more than said that.

Rolling his eyes, Steve said, “Y’know Buck I really hadn’t. It’s not like I spend a lot of time in there.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bucky bumped him playfully as he said, “Okay smartass, I see you’re in good mood. It just seems like it’s gotten louder lately, you think it’s a…”

Trailing off, they both looked up as a particularly loud bump came from the celling where the studio was.

“I’m not sure, but from everything we know about them it’s highly likely,” Steve said, glancing back to the ceiling for a moment before looking back at his coffee. “There’s been activity all over the house, but it’s been loudest there. If anything else happens we’re going to have to register it, you know that right?”

Sighing, Bucky nodded as the noise lessened.

“I know, that’s just so much paperwork. But you have to admit it’s a bit exciting to think there’s finally something reaching out. A Link in our house of all places!”

Shrugging Steve sipped at his coffee before saying, “I guess, I can’t say I’m not curious but we both decided not to cross over a long time ago, so you have to wonder why now.”

Turning a chair around to sit in it backwards, Bucky smiled at his friend.

“I’m not sure punk, but I for one am pretty damm excited about having contact with the world of the living again. Being dead has it’s perks but this would shake things up for sure. I’ll be back in a bit, Sam wanted to meet up at the gym this afternoon.”

Watching Bucky leave, a thump from the floor above prompted Steve to think about what it could mean.

A Link wasn’t at all uncommon, but some ghosts went decades if not longer without one showing up, if one ever did that is. It was funny, everything people thought about death was right in a way, just as it was also completely wrong at the same time. When you died you were given two choices, cross over or live in the Inverse. There were all kinds of speculations of what was on the other side, some thought whatever belief system you subscribed to in life would determine it, others thought it was a vast nothingness, and even still some believed that it was where true rest and peace lied. No one was certain though, and while about half chose to cross, the ones that didn’t usually never did.

There was just as much fulfillment to be found in the Inverse, or at least Steve thought so. All his dream of art school and spending time on his drawings were a reality now, Bucky was the athletic trainer he’d always wanted to be before the war, so death wasn’t actually so bad. The afterlife was treating them well and from how it had been explained to the two of them, Steve gathered that the afterlife was simply a reverse of the living world, not opposite but reversed. Once you got used to things being a bit different it was almost like being alive again. There were days when he wondered what it would be like to cross over, if there was something better there, but he was never so tempted to actually do it and he wouldn’t go anywhere without Bucky.

Looking up as one more bump came from the room above him, Steve stood and took his mug to the sink.

“He’s not wrong, it would certainly be interesting to see what the world’s been up to,” he said to himself.

Of course, if it was a Link they would need to go to the External Choice and History Office, better known as ECHO, to officially register it in. Every Link that was discovered was documented, both for record purposes but also in the ongoing search to understand what might be on the other side. Link’s only appeared when a soul had something in the living world calling to them, no one could really explain it. Some researchers devoted their afterlives to studying it, trying to find the reason why they kept showing up, but no one had been able to figure it out after thousands of years. So having one turn up in their home was both intriguing and concerning, neither of them had any plans of crossing over but Links often ended in just that.

Shaking his head as he washed and put away his coffee cup, Steve headed upstairs to see if there was anything noteworthy to report to ECHO.

Upon entering the room, nothing looked out of place, but something felt off. Walking over to the far wall, Steve put his hand against it and was surprised at how cold it felt.

“That’s odd,” he muttered.

Dragging his hand across the wall, he confirmed that the entire wall felt the same, cool to the touch and harder than he remembered. Knocking softly on the wall he was met with the same sort of sound as if he was knocking on a window. Frowning at the wall, Steve searched for any sign of what might be causing it but couldn’t find anything different. Deciding to ignore it for now, he went to the corner of the room where his desk sat beneath the window.

“Might as well make good use of the quiet and finish these sketches.”

Now with the goal of finishing this latest set of drawings before Bucky got home, Steve lost himself in soft graphite, the wall all but forgotten.

It had been a long six months of contractors in and out, inconsistent time estimates, and strenuous physical therapy appointments but Anna was finally starting to feel more like herself again. The cast was off and even with the doubtful prognosis of her dancing again, she took the recommendation of keeping up with at home therapy as well as some beginner stretches to get back in the mindset of a dancer.

Having the house nearly finished helped a lot too, her decision to keep it instead of selling for property value having been one of the best she’d made in years. Much to the chagrin of the contractor she had hired, Anna had chosen to keep all of the original wood floors and built-ins, trying to preserve as much of the vintage feel of it as she could and she couldn’t have been happier with the result.

But her favorite room had to be the studio. No matter what anyone said, she was going to dance again and every dancer needed a place to practice. And as of today it was all finished, the mirrored wall completing it.

The loud blaring of car horns only served to remind Anna that she wasn’t used to living in such a large city, it was very different from her small hometown. Living out her dream as an editor at a publishing house was worth it, she’d take any amount of noise to do this for the rest of her life.

Catching a taxi was her only option to be on time at this point, so she reached her hand up to call one at the same time a sharp whistle pierced the air behind her.

“You two go on, I’ll catch the next one,” he said,

In a thousand realities, hundreds of worlds, and dozens of scenarios, it was always supposed to be like this.

[forcebookish]

wrote that new topmew fic very quickly and now i'm not really happy with it (there's an inaccuracy that i don't actually want to get rid of dfslkdjf) but now i don't know what to work on >:(

[speedydestinydream]

I think "countdown to his final show" and its direct continuation, "and i'll be in denial for atleast a little while" by drewsterling on ao3 are the only fics to send me on the verge of tears. Not like. Full on crying but I teared up a lot. I don't cry over books, let alone fanfiction, but these fics have DESTROYED me mentally I cannot stop thinking about them

This is a recommendation if you love heavy angst and pain and suffering and misery because that's the only thing you'll find. no happiness. no joy. only sadness and grief and it's written beautifully

I could talk about these fics all day they have hurt me SO MUCH and I LOVE THEM

[velaraffricate]

why doesnt every language have a 3rd person proximate-obviate distinction

[crying-tears-for-dc]

This might be a controversial opinion, but I'm not always the biggest fan when people write Cass as the Perfect Child™ while also writing her as someone who uses her skill in reading people against what they say they don't want and telling everyone when they are lying.

For example, if she knows someone is lying, she just tells everyone around that they are. I don't enjoy reading that all the time if it isn't written in a way that is useful to the plot because it's just intrusive and non-consensual. People lie for a lot of reasons. If she's always written as someone who constantly outs someone, it's eventually going to build resentment and be detrimental in relationships. Also, it's just rude? Idk I get that it's fanfics but it just makes me feel weird, and why wouldn't anyone around her teach her not to do that?

Also, using her ability to read peoples body language in fanfics often lead to her convincing people to do what they "actually want" and that just puts me off sometimes too. Again, that's non-consensual. If someone says they don't want to do something verbally, even if their body language is telling her they want to do something she shouldn't be trying to force them. They have reasons for saying no and even if those reasons aren't always good or healthy, no still means no and she shouldn't be trying to force that? I often see her written as pushing by asking over and over, using puppy dog eyes, acting cute, calling them out on the lie, etcetera and it's just off putting from the consent thing sometimes.

I see this a lot and it's just a whole problem for consent and being rude, in my opinion. Also baffling how no one calls her out on it.